japhet, in search of a father by captain marryat london j.m. dent and co. boston: little, brown and co. mdcccxcvi contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi chapter xxii chapter xxiii chapter xxiv chapter xxv chapter xxvi chapter xxvii chapter xxviii chapter xxix chapter xxx chapter xxxi chapter xxxii chapter xxxiii chapter xxxiv chapter xxxv chapter xxxvi chapter xxxvii chapter xxxviii chapter xxxix chapter xl chapter xli chapter xlii chapter xliii chapter xliv chapter xlv chapter xlvi chapter xlvii chapter xlviii chapter xlix chapter l chapter li chapter lii chapter liii chapter liv chapter lv chapter lvi chapter lvii chapter lviii chapter lix chapter lx chapter lxi chapter lxii chapter lxiii chapter lxiv chapter lxv chapter lxvi chapter lxvii chapter lxviii chapter lxix chapter lxx chapter lxxi chapter lxxii chapter lxxiii chapter lxxiv chapter lxxv chapter lxxvi chapter lxxvii chapter lxxviii chapter lxxix prefatory note in the _metropolitan magazine_, where this novel originally appeared (sep. -jan. ), marryat prepared his readers for its reception in the following words:-- "and having now completed 'jacob faithful,' we trust to the satisfaction of our readers, we will make a few remarks. we commenced writing on our own profession, and having completed four tales, novels, or whatever you may please to call them" (viz., frank mildmay, the king's own, newton forster, peter simple), "in 'jacob faithful' we quitted the _salt_ water for the _fresh_. from the wherry we shall now step on shore, and in our next number we shall introduce to our readers 'the adventures of _japhet_, in search of his father.'" the promise was faithfully kept, and japhet, with all his varied experience, never went to sea. there were indeed few companies on land to which he did not penetrate. reared in a foundling hospital, and apprenticed to a smithfield apothecary, his good looks, impulsive self-confidence, and unbounded talent for lying, carried him with éclat through the professions of quack doctor, juggler, and mountebank, gentleman about town, tramp, and quaker: to emerge triumphantly at last as the only son of a wealthy anglo-indian general, or "bengal tiger," as his friends preferred to call him. japhet's "adventures," of course, are shared by a faithful friend and ally, timothy oldmixon, the sancho to his quixote, originally an orphan pauper like himself, composed of two qualities--fun and affection. he encounters villains, lawyers, kind-hearted peers, "rooks" and "pigeons," gipsies, leaders of fashion, fair maidens--enough and to spare. in a word, marryat here makes use of well-worn material, and uses it well. he has constructed a tale of private adventure on the old familiar lines, in which the local colour--acquired from other books--is admirably laid on, and the interest sustained to the end. the story is well told, enlivened by humour, and very respectably constructed. the reader will find _japhet_ thoroughly exciting, and will have no difficulty in believing that, while it was running in the pages of the _metropolitan_, "an american vessel meeting an english one in the broad atlantic, instead of a demand for water or supplies, ran up the question to her mast-head, 'has japhet found his father yet?'" _japhet, in search of a father_, is here re-printed, with a few corrections, from the first edition in vols. saunders & otley, . on page a few words, enclosed in square brackets, have been inserted from the magazine version, as the abbreviated sentence, always hitherto reproduced from the first edition, is unintelligible. r.b.j. * * * * * japhet, in search of a father chapter i like most other children, who should be my godfather is decided by mammon--so precocious as to make some noise in the world and be hung a few days after i was born--cut down in time and produce a scene of bloodshed--my early propensities fully developed by the choice of my profession those who may be pleased to honour these pages with a perusal, will not be detained with a long introductory history of my birth, parentage, and education. the very title implies that, at this period of my memoirs, i was ignorant of the two first; and it will be necessary for the due development of my narrative, that i allow them to remain in the same state of bliss; for in the perusal of a tale, as well as in the pilgrimage of life, ignorance of the future may truly be considered as the greatest source of happiness. the little that was known of me at this time i will however narrate as concisely, and as correctly, as i am able. it was on the--i really forget the date, and must rise from my chair, look for a key, open a closet, and then open an iron safe to hunt over a pile of papers--it will detain you too long--it will be sufficient to say that it was on _a_ night--but whether the night was dark or moonlit, or rainy or foggy, or cloudy or fine, or starlight, i really cannot tell; but it is of no very great consequence. well, it was on a night about the hour--there again i'm puzzled, it might have been ten, or eleven, or twelve, or between any of these hours; nay it might have been past midnight, and far advancing to the morning, for what i know to the contrary. the reader must excuse an infant of--there again i am at a nonplus; but we will assume of some days old--if, when wrapped up in flannel and in a covered basket, and, moreover, fast asleep at the time, he does not exactly observe the state of the weather, and the time by the church clock. i never before was aware of the great importance of dates in telling a story; but it is now too late to recover these facts, which have been swept away into oblivion by the broad wing of time. i must therefore just tell the little i do know, trusting to the reader's good nature, and to blanks. it is as follows:--that, at the hour--of the night--the state of the weather being also--i, an infant of a certain age--was suspended by somebody or somebodies--at the knocker of the foundling hospital. having made me fast, the said somebody or somebodies rang a peal upon the bell which made the old porter start up in so great a hurry, that, with the back of his hand he hit his better half a blow on the nose, occasioning a great suffusion of blood from that organ, and a still greater pouring forth of invectives from the organ immediately below it. all this having been effected by the said peal on the bell, the said somebody or somebodies did incontinently take to their heels, and disappear long before the old porter could pull his legs through his nether garments and obey the rude summons. at last the old man swung open the gate, and the basket swung across his nose; he went in again for a knife and cut me down, for it was cruel to hang a baby of a few days old; carried me into the lodge, lighted a candle, and opened the basket. thus did i metaphorically first come to light. when he opened the basket i opened my eyes, and although i did not observe it, the old woman was standing at the table in very light attire, sponging her nose over a basin. "verily, a pretty babe with black eyes!" exclaimed the old man in a tremulous voice. "black eyes indeed," muttered the old woman. "i shall have two to-morrow." "beautiful black eyes indeed!" continued the old man. "terrible black eyes, for sartain," continued the old woman, as she sponged away. "poor thing, it must be cold," murmured the old porter. "warrant i catch my death a-cold," muttered the wife. "but, dear me, here's a paper!" exclaimed the old man. "vinegar and brown paper," echoed the old woman. "addressed to the governors of the hospital," continued the porter. "apply to the dispenser of the hospital," continued his wife. "and sealed," said he. "get it healed," said she. "the linen is good; it must be the child of no poor people. who knows?"--soliloquised the old man. "my poor nose!" exclaimed the old woman. "i must take it to the nurses, and the letter i will give to-morrow," said the old porter, winding up his portion of this double soliloquy, and tottering away with the basket and your humble servant across the courtyard. "there, it will do now," said the old wife, wiping her face on a towel, and regaining her bed, in which she was soon joined by her husband, and they finished their nap without any further interruption during that night. the next morning i was reported and examined, and the letter addressed to the governors was opened and read. it was laconic, but still, as most things laconic are, very much to the point. "this child was born in wedlock--he is to be named japhet. when circumstances permit, he will be reclaimed." but there was a postscript by abraham newlands, esq., promising to pay the bearer, on demand, the sum of fifty pounds. in plainer terms, there was a bank note to that amount inclosed in the letter. as in general, the parties who suspend children in baskets, have long before suspended cash payments, or, at all events, forget to suspend them with the baskets, my arrival created no little noise, to which i added my share, until i obtained a share of the breast of a young woman, who, like charity, suckled two or three babies at one time. we have preparatory schools all over the kingdom; for young gentlemen, from three to five years of age, under ladies, and from four to seven, under either, or both sexes, as it may happen; but the most preparatory of all preparatory schools, is certainly the foundling hospital, which takes in its pupils, if they are sent, from one to three days old, or even hours, if the parents are in such extreme anxiety about their education. here it commences with their weaning, when they are instructed in the mystery of devouring pap; next, they are taught to walk--and as soon as they can walk--to sit still; to talk--and as soon as they can talk--to hold their tongues; thus are they instructed and passed on from one part of the establishment to another, until they finally are passed out of its gates, to get on in the world, with the advantages of some education, and the still further advantage of having no father or mother to provide for, or relatives to pester them with their necessities. it was so with me: i arrived at the age of fourteen, and notwithstanding the promise contained in the letter, it appeared that circumstances did _not_ permit of my being reclaimed. but i had a great advantage over the other inmates of the hospital; the fifty pounds sent with me were not added to the funds of the establishment, but generously employed for my benefit by the governors, who were pleased with my conduct, and thought highly of my abilities. instead of being bound 'prentice to a cordwainer or some other mechanic, by the influence of the governors, added to the fifty pounds and interest, as a premium, i was taken by an apothecary, who engaged to bring me up to the profession. and now, that i am out of the foundling, we must not travel quite so fast. the practitioner who thus took me by the hand was a mr phineas cophagus, whose house was most conveniently situated for business, one side of the shop looking upon smithfield market, the other presenting a surface of glass to the principal street leading out of the same market. it was a _corner_ house, but not in a _corner_. on each side of the shop were two gin establishments, and next to them were two public-houses and then two eating-houses, frequented by graziers, butchers, and drovers. did the men drink so much as to quarrel in their cups, who was so handy to plaister up the broken heads as mr cophagus? did a fat grazier eat himself into an apoplexy, how very convenient was the ready lancet of mr cophagus. did a bull gore a man, mr cophagus appeared with his diachylon and lint. did an ox frighten a lady, it was in the back parlour of mr cophagus that she was recovered from her syncope. market days were a sure market to my master; and if an overdriven beast knocked down others, it only helped to set him on his legs. our windows suffered occasionally; but whether it were broken heads, or broken limbs, or broken windows, they were well paid for. every one suffered but mr phineas cophagus, who never suffered a patient to escape him. the shop had the usual allowance of green, yellow, and blue bottles; and in hot weather, from our vicinity, we were visited by no small proportion of bluebottle flies. we had a white horse in one window, and a brown horse in the other, to announce to the drovers that we supplied horse-medicines. and we had all the patent medicines in the known world, even to the "all-sufficient medicine for mankind" of mr enouy; having which, i wondered, on my first arrival, why we troubled ourselves about any others. the shop was large, and at the back part there was a most capacious iron mortar, with a pestle to correspond. the first floor was tenanted by mr cophagus, who was a bachelor; the second floor was let; the others were appropriated to the housekeeper, and to those who formed the establishment. in this well-situated tenement, mr cophagus got on swimmingly. i will therefore, for the present, sink the shop, that my master may rise in the estimation of the reader, when i describe his person and his qualifications. mr phineas cophagus might have been about forty-five years of age when i first had the honour of an introduction to him in the receiving room of the foundling hospital. he was of the middle height, his face was thin, his nose very much hooked, his eyes small and peering, with a good-humoured twinkle in them, his mouth large, and drawn down at one corner. he was stout in his body, and carried a considerable protuberance before him, which he was in the habit of patting with his left hand very complacently; but although stout in his body, his legs were mere spindles, so that, in his appearance, he reminded you of some bird of the crane genus. indeed, i may say, that his whole figure gave you just such an impression as an orange might do, had it taken to itself a couple of pieces of tobacco pipes as vehicles of locomotion. he was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, white cravat and high collar to his shirt, blue cotton net pantaloons and hessian boots, both fitting so tight, that it appeared as if he was proud of his spindle shanks. his hat was broad-brimmed and low, and he carried a stout black cane with a gold top in his right hand, almost always raising the gold top to his nose when he spoke, just as we see doctors represented at a consultation in the caricature prints. but if his figure was strange, his language and manners were still more so. he spoke, as some birds fly, in jerks, intermixing his words, for he never completed a whole sentence, with _um--um--_and ending it with "_so on,_" leaving his hearers to supply the context from the heads of his discourse. almost always in motion, he generally changed his position as soon as he had finished speaking, walking to any other part of the room, with his cane to his nose, and his head cocked on one side, with a self-sufficient tiptoe gait. when i was ushered into his presence, he was standing with two of the governors. "this is the lad," said one of them, "his name is _japhet_." "japhet," replied mr cophagus; "um, scriptural--shem, ham, _um_--and so on. boy reads?" "very well, and writes a very good hand. he is a very good boy, mr cophagus." "read--write--spell--good, and _so on_. bring him up--rudiments--spatula--write labels--um--m.d. one of these days--make a man of him--and so on," said this strange personage, walking round and round me with his cane to his nose, and scrutinising my person with his twinkling eyes. i was dismissed after this examination and approval, and the next day, dressed in a plain suit of clothes, was delivered by the porter at the shop of mr phineas cophagus, who was not at home when i arrived. chapter ii like all tyros, i find the rudiments of learning extremely difficult and laborious, but advance so rapidly than i can do without my master. a tall, fresh-coloured, but hectic looking young man, stood behind the counter, making up prescriptions, and a dirty lad, about thirteen years old, was standing near with his basket to deliver the medicines to the several addresses, as soon as they were ready. the young man behind the counter, whose name was brookes, was within eighteen months of serving his time, when his friends intended to establish him on his own account, and this was the reason which induced mr cophagus to take me, that i might learn the business, and supply his place when he left. mr brookes was a very quiet, amiable person, kind to me and the other boy who carried out the medicines, and who had been taken by mr cophagus, for his food and raiment. the porter told mr brookes who i was, and left me. "do you think that you will like to be an apothecary?" said mr brookes to me, with a benevolent smile. "yes; i do not see why i should not," replied i. "stop a moment," said the lad who was waiting with the basket, lookly archly at me, "you hav'n't got through your _rudimans_ yet." "hold your tongue, timothy," said mr brookes. "that you are not very fond of the rudiments, as mr cophagus calls them, is very clear. now walk off as fast as you can with these medicines, sir-- , spring street; , cleaver street, as before; and then to john street, , mrs smith's. do you understand?" "to be sure i do--can't i read? i reads all the directions, and all your latin stuff into the bargain--all your summen dusses, horez, dìez, cockly hairy. i mean to set up for myself one of these days." "i'll knock you down one of these days, mr timothy, if you stay so long as you do, looking at the print shops; that you may depend upon." "i keep up all my learning that way," replied timothy, walking off with his load, turning his head round and laughing at me, as he quitted the shop. mr brookes smiled, but said nothing. as timothy went out, in came mr cophagus. "heh! japhet--i see," said he, putting up his cane, "nothing to do--bad--must work--um--and so on. mr brookes--boy learn rudiments--good--and so on." hereupon mr cophagus took his cane from his nose, pointed to the large iron mortar, and then walked away into the back parlour. mr brookes understood his master, if i did not. he wiped out the mortar, threw in some drugs, and, showing me how to use the pestle, left me to my work. in half an hour i discovered why it was that timothy had such an objection to what mr cophagus facetiously termed the _rudiments_ of the profession. it was dreadful hard work for a boy; the perspiration ran down me in streams, and i could hardly lift my arms. when mr cophagus passed through the shop and looked at me, as i continued to thump away with the heavy iron pestle. "good,"--said he, "by-and-bye--m.d.--and so on." i thought it was a very rough road to such preferment, and i stopped to take a little breath. "by-the-by--japhet--christian name--and so on--sirname--heh!" "mr cophagus wishes to know your other name," said mr brookes, interpreting. i have omitted to acquaint the reader that sirnames as well as christian names, are always given to the children at the foundling, and in consequence of the bank note found in my basket, i had been named after the celebrated personage whose signature it bore. "newland is my other name, sir," replied i. "newland--heh!--very good name--every body likes to see that name--and have plenty of them in his pockets too--um--very comfortable--and so on," replied mr cophagus, leaving the shop. i resumed my thumping occupation, when timothy returned with his empty basket. he laughed when he saw me at work. "well, how do you like the rudimans?--and so on--heh?" said he, mimicking mr cophagus. "not overmuch," replied i, wiping my face. "that was my job before you came. i have been more than a year, and never have got out of those rudimans yet, and i suppose i never shall." mr brookes, perceiving that i was tired, desired me to leave off, an order which i gladly obeyed, and i took my seat in a corner of the shop. "there," said timothy, laying down his basket; "no more work for me _hanty prandium,_ is there, mr brookes?" "no, tim; but _post prandium,_ you'll _post_ off again." dinner being ready, and mr cophagus having returned, he and mr brookes went into the back parlour, leaving timothy and me in the shop to announce customers. and i shall take this opportunity of introducing mr timothy more particularly, as he will play a very conspicuous part in this narrative. timothy was short in stature for his age, but very strongly built. he had an oval face, with a very dark complexion, grey eyes flashing from under their long eyelashes, and eyebrows nearly meeting each other. he was marked with the small-pox, not so much as to disfigure him, but still it was very perceptible when near to him. his countenance was always lighted up with merriment; there was such a happy, devil-may-care expression in his face, that you liked him the first minute that you were in his company, and i was intimate with him immediately. "i say, japhet," said he, "where did you come from?" "the foundling," replied i. "then you have no friends or relations." "if i have, i do not know where to find them," replied i, very gravely. "pooh! don't be grave upon it. i haven't any either. i was brought up by the parish, in the workhouse. i was found at the door of a gentleman's house, who sent me to the overseers--i was about a year old then. they call me a foundling, but i don't care what they call me, so long as they don't call me too late for dinner. father and mother, whoever they were, when they ran away from me, didn't run away with my appetite. i wonder how long master means to play with his knife and fork. as for mr brookes, what he eats wouldn't physic a snipe. what's your other name, japhet?" "newland." "newland--now you shall have mine in exchange: timothy oldmixon at your service. they christened me after the workhouse pump, which had 'timothy oldmixon fecit' on it; and the overseers thought it as good a name to give me as any other; so i was christened after the pump-maker with some of the pump water. as soon as i was big enough, they employed me to pump all the water for the use of the workhouse. i worked at my _papa_, as i called the pump, all day long. few sons worked their father more, or disliked him so much: and now, japhet, you see, from habit, i'm pumping you." "you'll soon pump dry, then, for i've very little to tell you," replied i; "but, tell me, what sort of a person is our master?" "he's just what you see him, never alters, hardly ever out of humour, and when he is, he is just as odd as ever. he very often threatens me, but i have never had a blow yet, although mr brookes has complained once or twice." "but surely mr brookes is not cross?" "no, he is a very good gentleman; but sometimes i carry on my rigs a little too far, i must say that. for as mr brookes says, people may die for want of the medicines, because i put down my basket to play. it's very true; but i can't give up 'peg in the ring' on that account. but then i only get a box of the ear from mr brookes, and that goes for nothing. mr cophagus shakes his stick, and says, 'bad boy--big stick--_um_--won't forget--next time--and so on,'" continued timothy, laughing; "and it is _so on_, to the end of the chapter." by this time mr cophagus and his assistant had finished their dinner, and came into the shop. the former looked at me, put his stick to his nose, "little boys--always hungry--um--like good dinner--roast beef--yorkshire pudding--and so on," and he pointed with the stick to the back parlour. timothy and i understood him very well this time: we went into the parlour, when the housekeeper sat down with us and helped us. she was a terribly cross, little old woman, but as honest as she was cross, which is all that i shall say in her favour. timothy was no favourite, because he had such a good appetite; and it appeared that i was not very likely to stand well in her good opinion, for i also ate a great deal, and every extra mouthful i took i sank in her estimation, till i was nearly at the zero, where timothy had long been for the same offence; but mr cophagus would not allow her to stint him, saying, "little boys must eat--or won't grow--and so on." i soon found out that we were not only well fed, but in every other point well treated, and i was very comfortable and happy. mr brookes instructed me in the art of labelling and tying up, and in a very short time i was very expert; and as timothy predicted, the rudiments were once more handed over to him. mr cophagus supplied me with good clothes, but never gave me any pocket-money, and timothy and i often lamented that we had not even a halfpenny to spend. before i had been many months in the shop mr brookes was able to leave when any exigence required his immediate attendance. i made up the pills, but he weighed out the quantities in the prescriptions; if, therefore, any one came in for medicines, i desired them to wait the return of mr brookes, who would be in very soon. one day, when mr brookes was out, and i was sitting behind the counter, timothy sitting on it, and swinging his legs to and fro, both lamenting that we had no pocket-money, timothy said, "japhet, i've been puzzling my brains how we can get some money, and i've hit it at last; let you and i turn doctors; we won't send all the people away who come when mr brookes is out, but we'll physic them ourselves." i jumped at the idea, and he had hardly proposed it, when an old woman came in, and addressing timothy, said, "that she wanted something for her poor grandchild's sore throat." "i don't mix up the medicines, ma'am," replied timothy; "you must apply to that gentleman, mr newland, who is behind the counter--he understands what is good for every body's complaints." "bless his handsome face--and so young too! why, be you a doctor, sir?" "i should hope so," replied i; "what is it you require--a lotion, or an embrocation?" "i don't understand those hard words, but i want some doctor's stuff." "very well, my good woman; i know what is proper," replied i, assuming an important air. "here, timothy, wash out this vial very clean." "yes, sir," replied timothy, very respectfully. i took one of the measures, and putting in a little green, a little blue, and a little white liquid from the medicine bottles generally used by mr brookes, filled it up with water, poured the mixture into the vial, corked, and labelled it, _haustus statim sumendus_, and handed it over the counter to the old woman. "is the poor child to take it, or is it to rub outside?" inquired the old woman. "the directions are on the label;--but you don't read latin?" "deary me, no! latin! and do you understand latin? what a nice clever boy!" "i should not be a good doctor if i did not," replied i. on second thoughts, i considered it advisable and safer, that the application should be _external_, so i translated the label to her--_haustus_, rub it in--_statim_, on the throat--_sumendus_, with the palm of the hand. "deary me! and does it mean all that? how much have i to pay, sir?" "embrocation is a very dear medicine, my good woman; it ought to be eighteen-pence, but as you are a poor woman, i shall only charge you nine-pence." "i'm sure i thank you kindly," replied the old woman, putting down the money, and wishing me a good morning as she left the shop. "bravo!" cried timothy, rubbing his hands; "it's halves, japhet, is it not?" "yes," i replied; "but first we must be honest, and not cheat mr cophagus; the vial is sold, you know, for one penny, and i suppose the stuff i have taken is not worth a penny more. now, if we put aside two-pence for mr cophagus, we don't cheat him, or steal his property; the other seven-pence is of course our own--being the _profits of the profession_." "but how shall we account for receiving the two-pence?" said timothy. "selling two vials instead of one: they are never reckoned, you know." "that will do capitally," cried timothy; "and now for halves." but this could not be managed until timothy had run out and changed the sixpence; we then each had our three-pence halfpenny, and for once in our lives could say that we had money in our pockets. chapter iii i perform a wonderful cure upon st john long's principle, having little or no principle of my own--i begin to puzzle my head with a problem; of all others most difficult to solve. the success of our first attempt encouraged us to proceed; but afraid that i might do some mischief, i asked of mr brookes the nature and qualities of the various medicines, as he was mixing the prescriptions, that i might avoid taking any of those which were poisonous. mr brookes, pleased with my continual inquiries, gave me all the information i could desire, and thus i gained, not only a great deal of information, but also a great deal of credit with mr cophagus, to whom mr brookes had made known my diligence and thirst for knowledge. "good--very good," said mr cophagus; "fine boy--learns his business--m.d. one of these days--ride in his coach--um, and so on." nevertheless, at my second attempt, i made an awkward mistake, which very nearly led to detection. an irish labourer, more than half tipsy, came in one evening, and asked whether we had such a thing as was called "_a poor man's plaister_. by the powers, it will be a poor man's plaister when it belongs to me; but they tell me that it is a sure and sartain cure for the thumbago, as they call it, which i've at the small of my back, and which is a hinder to my mounting up the ladder; so as it's saturday night, and i've just got the money, i'll buy the plaister first, and then try what a little whiskey inside will do, the devil's in it if it won't be driven out of me between the two." we had not that plaister in the shop, but we had blister plaister, and timothy, handing one to me, i proffered it to him. "and what may you be after asking for this same?" inquired he. the blister plaisters were sold at a shilling each, when spread on paper, so i asked him eighteen-pence, that we might pocket the extra sixpence. "by the powers, one would think that you had made a mistake, and handed me the rich man's plaister, instead of the poor one's. it's less whiskey i'll have to drink, anyhow; but here's the money, and the top of the morning to ye, seeing as how it's jist getting late." timothy and i laughed as we divided the sixpence. it appeared that after taking his allowance of whiskey, the poor fellow fixed the plaister on his back when he went to bed, and the next morning found himself in a condition not be envied. it was a week before we saw him again, and much to the horror of timothy and myself, he walked into the shop when mr brookes was employed behind the counter. timothy perceived him before he saw us, and pulling me behind the large mortar, we contrived to make our escape into the back parlour, the door of which we held ajar to hear what would take place. "murder and turf!" cried the man, "but that was the devil's own plaister that you gave me here for my back, and it left me as raw as a turnip, taking every bit of my skin off me entirely, foreby my lying in bed for a whole week, and losing my day's work." "i really do not recollect supplying you with a plaister, my good man," replied mr brookes. "then by the piper that played before moses, if you don't recollect it, i've an idea that i shall never forget it. sure enough, it cured me, but wasn't i quite kilt before i was cured?" "it must have been some other shop," observed mr brookes. "you have made a mistake." "devil a bit of a mistake, except in selling me the plaister. didn't i get it of a lad in this same shop?" "nobody sells things out of this shop without my knowledge." the irishman was puzzled--he looked round the shop. "well, then, if this a'n't the shop, it was own sister to it." "timothy," called mr brookes. "and sure enough there was a timothy in the other shop, for i heard the boy call the other by the name; however, it's no matter, if it took off the skin, it also took away the thumbago, so the morning to you, mr pottykarry." when the irishman departed, we made our appearance. "japhet, did you sell a plaister to an irishman?" "yes--don't you recollect, last saturday? and i gave you the shilling." "very true; but what did he ask for?" "he asked for a plaister, but he was very tipsy. i showed him a blister, and he took it;" and then i looked at timothy and laughed. "you must not play such tricks," said mr brookes. "i see what you have been about--it was a joke to you, but not to him." mr brookes, who imagined we had sold it to the irishman out of fun, then gave us a very severe lecture, and threatened to acquaint mr cophagus, if ever we played such tricks again. thus the affair blew over, and it made me very careful; and, as every day i knew more about medicines, i was soon able to mix them, so as to be of service to those who applied, and before eighteen months had expired, i was trusted with the mixing up all the prescriptions. at the end of that period mr brookes left us, and i took the whole of his department upon myself, giving great satisfaction to mr cophagus. and now that i have announced my promotion, it will perhaps be as well that i give the reader some idea of my personal appearance, upon which i have hitherto been silent. i was thin, between fifteen and sixteen years old, very tall for my age, and of my figure i had no reason to be ashamed; a large beaming eye, with a slightly aquiline nose, a high forehead, fair in complexion, but with very dark hair. i was always what may be termed a remarkably clean-looking boy, from the peculiarity of my skin and complexion; my teeth were small, but were transparent, and i had a very deep dimple in my chin. like all embryo apothecaries, i carried in my appearance, if not the look of wisdom, most certainly that of self-sufficiency, which does equally well with the world in general. my forehead was smooth, and very white, and my dark locks were combed back systematically, and with a regularity that said, as plainly as hair could do, "the owner of this does everything by prescription, measurement, and rule." with my long fingers i folded up the little packets, with an air as thoughtful and imposing as that of a minister who has just presented a protocol as interminable as unintelligible: and the look of solemn sagacity with which i poured out the contents of one vial into the other, would have well become the king's physician, when he watched the "lord's anointed" in _articulo mortis_. as i followed up my saturnine avocation, i generally had an open book on the counter beside me; not a marble-covered dirty volume, from the minerva press, or a half-bound, half-guinea's worth of fashionable trash, but a good, honest, heavy-looking, wisdom-implying book, horribly stuffed with epithet of drug; a book in which latin words were redundant, and here and there were to be observed the crabbed characters of greek. altogether, with my book and my look, i cut such a truly medical appearance, that even the most guarded would not have hesitated to allow me the sole conduct of a whitlow, from inflammation to suppuration, and from suppuration to cure, or have refused to have confided to me the entire suppression of a gumboil. such were my personal qualifications at the time that i was raised to the important office of dispenser of, i may say, life and death. it will not surprise the reader when i tell him that i was much noticed by those who came to consult, or talk with, mr cophagus. "a very fine looking lad that, mr cophagus," an acquaintance would say. "where did you get him--who is his father?" "father!" mr cophagus would reply, when they had gained the back parlour, but i could overhear him, "father, um--can't tell--love--concealment--child born--foundling hospital--put out--and so on." this was constantly occurring, and the constant occurrence made me often reflect upon my condition, which otherwise i might, from the happy and even tenor of my life, have forgotten. when i retired to my bed i would revolve in my mind all that i had gained from the governors of the hospital relative to myself.--the paper found in the basket had been given to me. i was born in wedlock--at least, so said that paper. the sum left with me also proved that my parents could not, at my birth, have been paupers. the very peculiar circumstances attending my case, only made me more anxious to know my parentage. i was now old enough to be aware of the value of birth, and i was also just entering the age of romance, and many were the strange and absurd reveries in which i indulged. at one time i would cherish the idea that i was of a noble, if not princely birth, and frame reasons for concealment. at others--but it is useless to repeat the absurdities and castle buildings which were generated in my brain from mystery. my airy fabrics would at last disappear, and leave me in all the misery of doubt and abandoned hope. mr cophagus, when the question was sometimes put to him, would say, "good boy--very good boy--don't want a father." but he was wrong, i did want a father; and every day the want became more pressing, and i found myself continually repeating the question, "_who is my father?_" chapter iv very much puzzled with a new patient, nevertheless take my degree at fifteen as an m.d.; and what is still more acceptable, i pocket the fees. the departure of mr brookes, of course, rendered me more able to follow up with timothy my little professional attempts to procure pocket-money; but independent of these pillages by the aid of pills, and making drafts upon our master's legitimate profits, by the assistance of draughts from his shop, accident shortly enabled me to raise the ways and means in a more rapid manner. but of this directly. in the meantime i was fast gaining knowledge; every evening i read surgical and medical books, put into my hands by mr cophagus, who explained whenever i applied to him, and i soon obtained a very fair smattering of my profession. he also taught me how to bleed, by making me, in the first instance, puncture very scientifically, all the larger veins of a cabbage-leaf, until well satisfied with the delicacy of my hand, and the precision of my eye, he wound up his instructions by permitting me to breathe a vein in his own arm. "well," said timothy, when he first saw me practising, "i have often heard it said, there's no getting blood out of a turnip; but it seems there is more chance with a cabbage. i tell you what, japhet, you may try your hand upon me as much as you please, for two-pence a go." i consented to this arrangement, and by dint of practising on timothy over and over again, i became quite perfect. i should here observe, that my anxiety relative to my birth increased every day, and that in one of the books lent me by mr cophagus, there was a dissertation upon the human frame, sympathies, antipathies, and also on those features and peculiarities most likely to descend from one generation to another. it was there asserted, that the _nose_ was the facial feature most likely to be transmitted from father to son. as i before have mentioned, my nose was rather aquiline; and after i had read this book, it was surprising with what eagerness i examined the faces of those whom i met; and if i saw a nose upon any man's face, at all resembling my own, i immediately would wonder and surmise whether that person could be my father. the constant dwelling upon the subject at last created a species of monomania, and a hundred times a day i would mutter to myself, _"who is my father?"_ indeed, the very bells, when they rung a peal, seemed, as in the case of whittington, to chime the question, and at last i talked so much on the subject to timothy, who was my _fidus achates,_ and bosom friend, that i really believe, partial as he was to me, he wished my father at the devil. our shop was well appointed with all that glare and glitter with which we decorate the "_house of call_" of disease and death. being situated in such a thoroughfare, passengers would stop to look in, and ragged-vested, and in other garments still more ragged, little boys would stand to stare at the variety of colours, and the 'pottecary gentleman, your humble servant, who presided over so many labelled-in-gold phalanxes which decorated the sides of the shop. among those who always stopped and gazed as she passed by, which was generally three or four times a day, was a well-dressed female, apparently about forty years of age, straight as an arrow, with an elasticity of step, and a decision in her manner of walking, which was almost masculine, although her form, notwithstanding that it was tall and thin, was extremely feminine and graceful. sometimes she would fix her eyes upon me, and there was a wildness in her looks, which certainly gave a painful impression, and at the same time so fascinated me, that when i met her gaze, the paper which contained the powder remained unfolded, and the arm which was pouring out the liquid suspended. she was often remarked by timothy, as well as me; and we further observed, that her step was not equal throughout the day. in her latter peregrinations, towards the evening, her gait was more vigorous, but unequal, at the same time that her gaze was more stedfast. she usually passed the shop for the last time each day, about five o'clock in the afternoon. one evening, after we had watched her past, as we supposed, to return no more till the ensuing morning, for this peeping in, on her part, had become an expected occurrence, and afforded much amusement to timothy, who designated her as the "mad woman," to our great surprise, and to the alarm of timothy, who sprang over the counter, and took a position by my side, she walked into the shop. her eye appeared wild, as usual, but i could not make out that it was insanity. i recovered my self-possession, and desired timothy to hand the lady a chair, begging to know in what way i could be useful. timothy walked round by the end of the counter, pushed a chair near to her, and then made a hasty retreat to his former position. she declined the chair with a motion of her hand, in which there was much dignity, as well as grace, and placing upon the counter her hands, which were small and beautifully white, she bent forwards towards me, and said, in a sweet, low voice, which actually startled me by its depth of melody, "i am very ill." my astonishment increased. why, i know not, because the exceptions are certainly as many as the general rule, we always form an estimate of the voice before we hear it, from the outward appearance of the speaker; and when i looked up in her face, which was now exposed to the glare of the argand lamp, and witnessed the cadaverous, pale, chalky expression on it, and the crow's feet near the eyes, and wrinkles on her forehead, i should have sooner expected to have heard a burst of heavenly symphony from a thunder-cloud, than such music as issued from her parted lips. "good heavens, madam!" said i eagerly and respectfully, "allow me to send for mr cophagus." "by no means," replied she. "i come to you. i am aware," continued she in an undertone, "that you dispense medicines, give advice, and receive money yourself." i felt very much agitated, and the blush of detection mounted up to my forehead. timothy, who heard what she said, showed his uneasiness in a variety of grotesque ways. he drew up his legs alternately, as if he were dancing on hot plates; he slapped his pockets, grinned, clenched his fists, ground his teeth, and bit his lips till he made the blood come. at last he sidled up to me, "she has been peeping and screwing those eyes of her's into this shop for something. it's all up with both of us, unless you can buy her off." "i have, madam," said i, at last, "ventured to prescribe in some trivial cases, and, as you say, received money when my master is not here; but i am entrusted with the till." "i know--i know--you need not fear me. you are too modest. what i would request is, that you would prescribe for me, as i have no great opinion of your master's talents." "if you wish it, madam," said i, bowing respectfully. "you have camphor julep ready made up, have you not?" "yes, madam," replied i. "then do me the favour to send the boy with a bottle to my house directly." i handed down the bottle, she paid for it, and putting it into timothy's hands, desired him to take it to the direction which she gave him. timothy put on his hat, cocked his eye at me, and left us alone. "what is your name?" said she, in the same melodious voice. "japhet newland, madam," replied i. "japhet--it is a good, a scriptural name," said the lady, musirg in half soliloquy. "newland--that sounds of mammon." "this mystery is unravelled," thought i, and i was right in my conjectures. "she is some fanatical methodist;" but i looked at her again, and her dress disclaimed the idea, for in it there was much taste displayed. "who gave you that name?" said she, after a pause. the question was simple enough, but it stirred up a host of annoying recollections; but not wishing to make a confidant of her, i gently replied, as i used to do in the foundling hospital on sunday morning--"my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, ma'am." "my dear sir, i am very ill," said she, after a pause, "will you feel my pulse?" i touched a wrist, and looked at a hand that was worthy of being admired. what a pity, thought i, that she should be old, ugly, and half crazy! "do you not think that this pulse of mine exhibits considerable nervous excitement? i reckoned it this morning, it was at a hundred and twenty." "it certainly beats quick," replied i, "but perhaps the camphor julep may prove beneficial." "i thank you for your advice, mr newland," said she, laying down a guinea, "and if i am not better, i will call again, or send for you. good-night." she walked out of the shop, leaving me in no small astonishment. what could she mean? i was lost in reverie, when timothy returned. the guinea remained on the counter. "i met her going home," said he. "bless me--a guinea--why, japhet!" i recounted all that had passed. "well, then, it has turned out well for us instead of ill, as i expected." the _us_ reminded me that we shared profits on these occasions, and i offered timothy his half; but tim, with all his _espièglerie_ was not selfish, and he stoutly refused to take his share. he dubbed me an m.d., and said i had beat mr cophagus already, for he had never taken a physician's fee. "i cannot understand it, timothy," said i, after a few minutes' thought. "i can," replied timothy. "she has looked in at the window until she has fallen in love with your handsome face; that's it, depend upon it." as i could find no other cause, and tim's opinion was backed by my own vanity, i imagined that such must be the case. "yes, 'tis so," continued timothy, "as the saying is, there's money bid for you." "i wish that it had not been by so ill-favoured a person, at all events, tim," replied i; "i cannot return her affection." "never mind that, so long as you don't return the money." the next evening she made her appearance, bought, as before, a bottle of camphor julep--sent timothy home with it, and asking my advice, paid me another guinea. "really, madam," said i, putting it back towards her, "i am not entitled to it." "yes, you are," replied she. "i know you have no friends, and i also know that you deserve them. you must purchase books, you must study, or you never will be a great man." she then sat down, entered into conversation, and i was struck with the fire and vigour of the remarks, which were uttered in such a melodious tone. her visits, during a month, were frequent, and every time did she press upon me a fee. although not in love with her person, i certainly felt very grateful, and moreover was charmed with the superiority of her mind. we were now on the most friendly and confiding terms. one evening she said to me, "japhet, we have now been friends some time. can i trust you?" "with your life, if it were necessary," replied i. "i believe it," said she. "then can you leave the shop and come to me to-morrow evening?" "yes, if you will send your maid for me, saying that you are not well." "i will, at eight o'clock. farewell, then, till to-morrow." chapter v my vanity receives a desperate wound, but my heart remains unscathed--an anomaly in woman, one who despises beauty. the next evening i left timothy in charge, and repaired to her house; it was very respectable in outward appearance, as well as its furniture. i was not, however, shown up into the first floor, but into the room below. "miss judd will come directly, sir," said a tall, meagre, puritanical-looking maid, shutting the door upon me. in a few minutes, during which my pulse beat quick (for i could not but expect some disclosure; whether it was to be one of love or murder, i hardly knew which), miss aramathea judd, for such was her christian name, made her appearance, and sitting down on the sofa, requested me to take a seat by her. "mr newland," said she, "i wish to--and i think i can entrust you with a secret most important to me. why i am obliged to do it, you will perfectly comprehend when you have heard my story. tell me, are you attached to me?" this was a home question to a forward lad of sixteen. i took her by the hand, and when i looked down on it, i felt as if i was. i looked up into her face, and felt that i was not. and, as i now was close to her, i perceived that she must have some aromatic drug in her mouth, as it smelt strongly--this gave me the supposition that the breath which drew such melodious tones, was not equally sweet, and i felt a certain increased degree of disgust. "i am very grateful, miss judd," replied i; "i hope i shall prove that i am attached when you confide in me." "swear then, by all that's sacred, you will not reveal what i do confide." "by all that's sacred i will not," replied i, kissing her hand with more fervour than i expected from myself. "do me then the favour to excuse me one minute." she left the room, and in a very short time, there returned, in the same dress, and, in every other point the same person, but with a young and lively face of not more, apparently, than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. i started as if i had seen an apparation. "yes," said she, smiling, "you now see aramathea judd without disguise; and you are the first who has seen that face for more than two years. before i proceed further, again i say, may i trust you--swear!" "i do swear," replied i, and took her hand for the book, which this time i kissed with pleasure, over and over again. like a young jackass as i was, i still retained her hand, throwing as much persuasion as i possibly could in my eyes. in fact, i did enough to have softened the hearts of three bonnet-makers. i began to feel most dreadfully in love, and thought of marriage, and making my fortune, and i don't know what; but all this was put an end to by one simple short sentence, delivered in a very decided but soft voice, "japhet, don't be silly." i was crushed, and all my hopes crushed with me. i dropped her hand, and sat like a fool. "and now hear me. i am, as you must have already found out, an impostor; that is, i am what is called a religious adventuress--a new term, i grant, and perhaps only applicable to a very few. my aunt was considered, by a certain sect, to be a great prophetess, which i hardly need tell you, was all nonsense; nevertheless, there are hundreds who believed in her, and do so now. brought up with my aunt, i soon found out what fools and dupes may be made of mankind by taking advantage of their credulity. she had her religious inspirations, her trances, and her convulsions, and i was always behind the scenes: she confided in me, and i may say that i was her only confidant. you cannot, therefore, wonder at my practising that deceit to which i have been brought up from almost my infancy. in person i am the exact counterpart of what my aunt was at my age, equally so in figure, although my figure is now disguised to resemble that of a woman of her age. i often had dressed myself in my aunt's clothes, put on her cap and front, and then the resemblance was very striking. my aunt fell sick and died, but she promised the disciples that she would re-appear to them, and they believed her. i did not. she was buried, and by many her return was anxiously expected. it occurred to me about a week afterwards that i might contrive to deceive them. i dressed in my aunt's clothes, i painted and disguised my face as you have seen, and the deception was complete, even to myself, as i surveyed my countenance in the glass. i boldly set off in the evening to the tabernacle, which i knew they still frequented--came into the midst of them, and they fell down and worshipped me as a prophetess risen from the dead; deceived, indeed, by my appearance, but still more deceived by their own credulity. for two years i have been omnipotent with them; but there is one difficulty which shakes the faith of the new converts, and new converts i must have, japhet, as the old ones die, or i should not be able to fee my physician. it is this: by habit i can almost throw myself into a stupor or a convulsion, but to do that effectually, to be able to carry on the deception for so long a time, and to undergo the severe fatigue attending such violent exertion, it is necessary that i have recourse to stimulants--do you understand?" "i do," replied i; "i have more than once thought you under the influence of them towards the evening. i'm afraid that you take more than is good for your health." "not more than i require for what i have to undergo to keep up the faith of my disciples; but there are many who waver, some who doubt, and i find that my movements are watched. i cannot trust the woman in this house. i think she is a spy set upon me, but i cannot remove her, as this house, and all which it contains, are not mine, but belong to the disciples in general. there is another woman, not far off, who is my rival; she calls me an impostor, and says that she is the true prophetess, and that i am not one. this will be rather difficult for her to prove," continued she, with a mocking smile. "beset as i am, i require your assistance, for you must be aware that it is rather discreditable to a prophetess, who has risen from the dead, to be seen all day at the gin-shop, yet without stimulants now, i could not exist." "and how can i assist you?" "by sending me, as medicine, that which i dare no longer procure in any other way, and keeping the secret which i have imparted." "i will do both with pleasure; but yet," said i, "is it not a pity, a thousand pities, that one so young--and if you will allow me to add, so lovely, should give herself up to ardent spirits? why," continued i, taking her small white hand, "why should you carry on the deception; why sacrifice your health, and i may say your happiness--" what more i might have said i know not, probably it might have been an offer of marriage, but she cut me short. "why does everybody sacrifice their health, their happiness, their all, but for ambition and the love of power? it is true, as long as this little beauty lasts, i might be courted as a woman, but never should i be worshipped as--i may say--a god.--no, no, there is something too delightful in that adoration, something too pleasant in witnessing a crowd of fools stare, and men of three times my age, falling down and kissing the hem of my garment. this is, indeed, adoration! the delight arising from it is so great, that all other passions are crushed by it--it absorbs all other feelings, and has closed my heart even against love, japhet. i could not, i would not debase myself, sink so low in my own estimation, as to allow so paltry a passion to have dominion over me; and, indeed, now that i am so wedded to stimulants, even if i were no longer a prophetess, it never could." "but is not intoxication one of the most debasing of all habits?" "i grant you, in itself, but with me and in my situation it is different. i fall to rise again, and higher. i cannot be what i am without i simulate--i cannot simulate without stimulants, therefore it is but a means to a great and glorious ambition." i had more conversation with her before i left, but nothing appeared to move her resolution, and i left her lamenting, in the first place, that she had abjured love, because, notwithstanding the orris root, which she kept in her mouth to take away the smell of the spirits, i found myself very much taken with such beauty of person, combined with so much vigour of mind; and in the second, that one so young should carry on a system of deceit and self-destruction. when i rose to go away she put five guineas in my hand, to enable me to purchase what she required. "add to this one small favour," said i, "aramathea--allow me a kiss." "a kiss," replied she, with scorn; "no, japhet, look upon me, for it is the last time you will behold my youth; look upon me as a sepulchre, fair without but unsavoury and rottenness within. let me do you a greater kindness, let me awaken your dormant energies, and plant that ambition in your soul, which may lead to all that is great and good--a better path and more worthy of a man than the one which i have partly chosen, and partly destiny has decided for me. look upon me as your friend; although perhaps, you truly say, no friend unto myself. farewell--remember that to-morrow you will send the medicine which i require." i left her, and returned home: it was late. i went to bed, and having disclosed as much to timothy as i could safely venture to do, i fell fast asleep, but her figure and her voice haunted me in my dreams. at one time, she appeared before me in her painted, enamelled face, and then the mask fell off, and i fell at her feet to worship her extreme beauty; then her beauty would vanish, and she would appear an image of loathsomeness and deformity, and i felt suffocated with the atmosphere impregnated with the smell of liquor. i would wake and compose myself again, glad to be rid of the horrid dream, but again would she appear, with a hydra's tail, like sin in milton's paradise lost, wind herself round me, her beautiful face gradually changing into that of a skeleton. i cried out with terror, and awoke to sleep no more, and effectually cured by my dream of the penchant which i felt towards miss aramathea judd. chapter vi my prescriptions very effective and palatable, but i lose my patient--the feud equal to that of the montagues and the capulets--results different--mercutio comes off unhurt. the next day i sent timothy to purchase some highly rectified white brandy, which i coloured with a blue tincture, and added to it a small proportion of the essence of cinnamon, to disguise the smell; a dozen large vials, carefully tied up and sealed, were despatched to her abode. she now seldom called unless it was early in the morning; i made repeated visits to her house to receive money, but no longer to make love. one day i requested permission to be present at their meeting, and to this she gave immediate consent; indeed we were on the most intimate terms, and when she perceived that i no longer attempted to play the fool, i was permitted to remain for hours with her in conversation. she had, as she told me she intended, re-enamelled and painted her face, but knowing what beauty was concealed underneath, i no longer felt any disgust. timothy was very much pleased at his share of this arrangement, as he seldom brought her the medicine without pocketing half-a-crown. for two or three months every thing went on very satisfactorily; but one evening, timothy, who had been sent with the basket of vials for miss judd's assistance, returned in great consternation, informing me that the house was empty. he had inquired of the neighbours, and from the accounts given, which were very contradictory, it appeared that the rival prophetess had marched up at the head of her proselytes the evening before, had obtained entrance, and that a desperate contention had been the result. that the police had been called in, and all parties had been lodged in the watch-house; that the whole affair was being investigated by the magistrates, and that it was said that miss judd and all her coadjutors would be sent to the penitentiary. this was quite enough to frighten two boys like us; for days afterwards we trembled when people came into the shop, expecting to be summoned and imprisoned. gradually, however, our fears were dismissed, but i never from that time heard any thing more of miss aramathea judd. after this affair, i adhered steadily to my business, and profiting by the advice given me by that young person, improved rapidly in my profession, as well as in general knowledge; but my thoughts, as usual, were upon one subject--my parentage, and the mystery hanging over it. my eternal reveries became at last so painful, that i had recourse to reading to drive them away, and subscribing to a good circulating library, i was seldom without a book in my hand. by this time i had been nearly two years and a half with mr cophagus, when an adventure occurred which i must attempt to describe with all the dignity with which it ought to be invested. this is a world of ambition, competition, and rivalry. nation rivals nation, and flies to arms, cutting the throats of a few thousands on each side till one finds that it has the worst of it. man rivals man, and hence detraction, duels, and individual death. woman rivals woman, and hence loss of reputation and position in high, and loss of hair, and fighting with pattens in low, life. are we then to be surprised that this universal passion, undeterred by the smell of drugs and poisonous compounds, should enter into apothecaries' shops? but two streets--two very short streets from our own--was situated the single-fronted shop of mr ebenezer pleggit. thank heaven, it was only single-fronted; there, at least, we had the ascendancy over them. upon other points, our advantages were more equally balanced. mr pleggit had two large coloured bottles in his windows more than we had; but then we had two horses, and he had only one. he tied over the corks of his bottles with red-coloured paper; we covered up the lips of our vials with delicate blue. it certainly was the case--for though an enemy, i'll do him justice--that, after mr brookes had left us, mr pleggit had two shopmen, and mr cophagus only one; but then that one was mr japhet newland; besides, one of his assistants had only one eye, and the other squinted horribly, so if we measured by eyes, i think the advantage was actually on our side; and, as far as ornament went, most decidedly; for who would not prefer putting on his chimney-piece one handsome, elegant vase, than two damaged, ill-looking pieces of crockery? mr pleggit had certainly a gilt mortar and pestle over his door, which mr cophagus had omitted when he furnished his shop; but then the mortar had a great crack down the middle, and the pestle had lost its knob. and let me ask those who have been accustomed to handle it, what is a pestle without a knob? on the whole, i think, with the advantage of having two fronts, like janus, we certainly had the best of the comparison; but i shall leave the impartial to decide. all i can say is, that the feuds of the rival houses were most bitter--the hate intense--the mutual scorn unmeasurable. did mr ebenezer pleggit meet mr phineas cophagus in the street, the former immediately began to spit as if he had swallowed some of his own vile adulterated drugs; and in rejoinder, mr cophagus immediately raised the cane from his nose high above his forehead in so threatening an attitude as almost to warrant the other swearing the peace against him, muttering, "ugly puppy--knows nothing--um--patients die--and so on." it may be well supposed that this spirit of enmity extended through the lower branches of the rival houses--the assistants and i were at deadly feud; and this feud was even more deadly between the boys who carried out the medicines, and whose baskets might, in some measure, have been looked upon as the rival ensigns of the parties, they themselves occupying the dangerous and honourable post of standard bearers. timothy, although the kindest-hearted fellow in the world, was as good a hater as dr johnson himself could have wished to meet with; and when sometimes his basket was not so well filled as usual, he would fill up with empty bottles below, rather than that the credit of the house should be suspected, and his deficiencies create a smile of scorn in the mouth of his red-haired antagonist, when they happened to meet going their rounds. as yet, no actual collision had taken place between either the principals or the subordinates of the hostile factions; but it was fated that this state of quiescence should no longer remain. homer has sung the battles of gods, demigods, and heroes; milton the strife of angels. swift has been great in his battle of the books; but i am not aware that the battle of the vials has as yet been sung; and it requires a greater genius than was to be found in those who portrayed the conflicts of heroes, demigods, gods, angels, or books, to do adequate justice to the mortal strife which took place between the lotions, potions, draughts, pills, and embrocations. i must tell the story as well as i can, leaving it as an outline for a future epic. burning with all the hate which infuriated the breasts of the two houses of capulet and montague, hate each day increasing from years of "biting thumbs" at each other, and yet no excuse presenting itself for an affray, timothy oldmixon--for on such an occasion it would be a sin to omit his whole designation--timothy oldmixon, i say, burning with hate and eager with haste, turning a corner of the street with his basket well filled with medicines hanging on his left arm, encountered, equally eager in his haste, and equally burning in his hate, the red-haired mercury of mr ebenezer pleggit. great was the concussion of the opposing baskets, dire was the crash of many of the vials, and dreadful was the mingled odour of the abominations which escaped, and poured through the wicker interstices. two ladies from billingsgate, who were near, indulging their rhetorical powers, stopped short. two tom cats, who were on an adjacent roof, just fixing their eyes of enmity, and about to fix their claws, turned their eyes to the scene below. two political antagonists stopped their noisy arguments. two dustmen ceased to ring their bells; and two little urchins eating cherries from the crowns of their hats, lost sight of their fruit, and stood aghast with fear. they met, and met with such violence, that they each rebounded many paces; but like stalwart knights, each kept his basket and his feet. a few seconds to recover breath; one withering, fiery look from timothy, returned by his antagonist, one flash of the memory in each to tell them that they each had the _la_ on their side, and "take that!" was roared by timothy, planting a well-directed blow with his dexter and dexterous hand upon the sinister and sinisterous eye of his opponent. "take that!" continued he, as his adversary reeled back; "take that, and be d----d to you, for running against a _gentleman_." he of the rubicund hair had retreated, because so violent was the blow he could not help so doing, and we all must yield to fate. but it was not from fear. seizing a vile potation that was labelled "to be taken immediately," and hurling it with demoniacal force right on the chops of the courageous timothy, "take that!" cried he, with a rancorous yell. this missile, well directed as the spears of homer's heroes, came full upon the bridge of timothy's nose, and the fragile glass shivering, inflicted divers wounds upon his physiognomy, and at the same time poured forth a dark burnt-sienna coloured balsam, to heal them, giving pain unutterable. timothy, disdaining to lament the agony of his wounds, followed the example of his antagonist, and hastily seizing a similar bottle of much larger dimensions, threw it with such force that it split between the eyes of his opponent. thus with these dreadful weapons did they commence the mortal strife. the lovers of _good order_, or at least of fair play, gathered round the combatants, forming an almost impregnable ring, yet of sufficient dimensions to avoid the missiles. _"go it, red-head!" "bravo! white apron!"_ resounded on every side. draughts now met draughts in their passage through the circumambient air, and exploded like shells over a besieged town. bolusses were fired with the precision of cannon shot, pill-boxes were thrown with such force that they burst like grape and canister, while acids and alkalies hissed, as they neutralised each other's power, with all the venom of expiring snakes, "bravo! white apron!" "red-head for ever!" resounded on every side as the conflict continued with unabated vigour. the ammunition was fast expending on both sides, when mr ebenezer pleggit, hearing the noise, and perhaps smelling his own drugs, was so unfortunately rash and so unwisely foolhardy, as to break through the sacred ring, advancing from behind with uplifted cane to fell the redoubtable timothy, when a mixture of his own, hurled by his own red-haired champion, caught him in his open mouth, breaking against his only two remaining front teeth, extracting them as the discharged liquid ran down his throat, and turning him as sick as a dog. he fell, was taken away on a shutter, and it was some days before he was again to be seen in his shop, dispensing those medicines which, on this fatal occasion, he would but too gladly have dispensed with. reader, have you not elsewhere read in the mortal fray between knights, when the casque has been beaten off, the shield lost, and the sword shivered, how they have resorted to closer and more deadly strife with their daggers raised on high? thus it was with timothy: his means had failed, and disdaining any longer to wage a distant combat, he closed vigorously with his panting enemy, overthrew him in the first struggle, seizing from his basket the only weapons which remained, one single vial, and one single box of pills. as he sat upon his prostrate foe, first he forced the box of pills into his gasping mouth, and then with the lower end of the vial he drove it down his throat, as a gunner rams home the wad and shot into a thirty-two pound carronade. choked with the box, the fallen knight held up his hands for quarter; but timothy continued until the end of the vial breaking out the top and bottom of the pasteboard receptacle, forty-and-eight of antibilious pills rolled in haste down red-head's throat. timothy then seized his basket, and amid the shouts of triumph, walked away. his fallen-crested adversary coughed up the remnants of the pasteboard, once more breathed, and was led disconsolate to the neighbouring pump; while timothy regained our shop with his blushing honours thick upon him. but i must drop the vein heroical. mr cophagus, who was at home when timothy returned, was at first very much inclined to be wroth at the loss of so much medicine; but when he heard the story, and the finale, he was so pleased at tim's double victory over mr pleggit and his messenger, that he actually put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out half-a-crown. mr pleggit, on the contrary, was any thing but pleased; he went to a lawyer, and commenced an action for assault and battery, and all the neighbourhood did nothing but talk about the affray which had taken place, and the action at law which it was said would take place in the ensuing term. but with the exception of this fracas, which ended in the action not holding good, whereby the animosity was increased, i have little to recount during the remainder of the time i served under mr cophagus. i had been more than three years with him when my confinement became insupportable. i had but one idea, which performed an everlasting cycle in my brain--who was my father? and i should have abandoned the profession to search the world in the hope of finding my progenitor, had it not been that i was without the means. latterly, i had hoarded up all i could collect; but the sum was small, much too small for the proposed expedition. i became melancholy, indifferent to the business, and slovenly in my appearance, when a circumstance occurred which put an end to my further dispensing medicines, and left me a free agent. chapter vii looking out for business not exactly minding your own business--the loss of the scales occasions the loss of place to timothy and me, who when weighed in other scales were found wanting--we bundle off with our bundles on. it happened one market-day that there was an overdriven, infuriated beast, which was making sad havoc. crowds of people were running past our shop in one direction, and the cries of "mad bull!" were re-echoed in every quarter. mr cophagus, who was in the shop, and to whom, as i have before observed, a mad bull was a source of great profit, very naturally looked out of the shop to ascertain whether the animal was near to us. in most other countries, when people hear of any danger, they generally avoid it by increasing their distance; but in england, it is too often the case, that they are so fond of indulging their curiosity, that they run to the danger. mr cophagus, who perceived the people running one way, naturally supposed, not being aware of the extreme proximity of the animal, that the people were running to see what was the matter, and turned his eyes in that direction, walking out on the pavement that he might have a fairer view. he was just observing, "can't say--fear--um--rascal pleggit--close to him--get all the custom--wounds--contusions--and"--when the animal came suddenly round the corner upon mr cophagus, who had his eyes the other way, and before he could escape, tossed him through his own shop windows, and landed him on the counter. not satisfied with this, the beast followed him into the shop. timothy and i pulled mr cophagus over towards us, and he dropped inside the counter, where we also crouched, frightened out of our wits. to our great horror the bull made one or two attempts to leap the counter; but not succeeding, and being now attacked by the dogs and butcher boys, he charged at them through the door, carrying away our best scales on his horns as a trophy, as he galloped out of the shop in pursuit of his persecutors. when the shouts and hallooes were at some little distance, timothy and i raised our heads and looked round us; and perceiving that all was safe, we proceeded to help mr cophagus, who remained on the floor bleeding, and in a state of insensibility. we carried him into the back parlour and laid him on the sofa. i desired timothy to run for surgical aid as fast as he could, while i opened a vein; and in a few minutes he returned with our opponent, mr ebenezer pleggit. we stripped mr cophagus, and proceeded to examine him. "bad case this--very bad case indeed, mr newland--dislocation of the os humeri--severe contusion on the os frontis--and i'm very much afraid there is some intercostal injury. very sorry, very sorry, indeed, for my brother cophagus." but mr pleggit did not appear to be sorry; on the contrary, he appeared to perform his surgical duties with the greatest glee. we reduced the dislocation, and then carried mr cophagus up to his bed. in an hour he was sensible, and mr pleggit took his departure, shaking hands with mr cophagus, and wishing him joy of his providential escape. "bad job, japhet," said mr cophagus to me. "very bad indeed, sir; but it might have been worse." "worse--um--no, nothing worse--not possible." "why, sir, you might have been killed." "pooh!--didn't mean that--mean pleggit--rascal--um--kill me if he can--sha'n't though--soon get rid of him--and so on." "you will not require his further attendance now that your shoulder is reduced. i can very well attend upon you." "very true, japhet;--but won't go--sure of that--damned rascal--quite pleased--i saw it--um--eyes twinkled--smile checked--and so on." that evening mr pleggit called in as mr cophagus said that he would, and the latter showed a great deal of impatience; but mr pleggit repeated his visits over and over again, and i observed that mr cophagus no longer made any objection; on the contrary, seemed anxious for his coming, and still more so, after he was convalescent, and able to sit at his table. but the mystery was soon divulged. it appeared that mr cophagus, although he was very glad that other people should suffer from mad bulls, and come to be cured, viewed the case in a very different light when the bull thought proper to toss him, and having now realised a comfortable independence, he had resolved to retire from business, and from a site attended with so much danger. a hint of this escaping him when mr pleggit was attending him on the third day after his accident, the latter, who knew the value of the _locale_, also hinted that if mr cophagus was inclined so to do, that he would be most happy to enter into an arrangement with him. self-interest will not only change friendship into enmity, in this rascally world, but also turn enmity into friendship. all mr pleggit's enormities, and all mr cophagus' shameful conduct, were mutually forgotten. in less than ten minutes it was, "_my dear mr pleggit_, and so on," and "_my dear brother cophagus_." in three weeks every thing had been arranged between them, and the shop, fixtures, stock in trade, and good will, were all the property of our ancient antagonist. but although mr pleggit could shake hands with mr cophagus for his fixtures and _good will_, yet as timothy and i were not included in the _good will_, neither were we included among the _fixtures_, and mr cophagus could not, of course, interfere with mr pleggit's private arrangements. he did all he could do in the way of recommendation, but mr pleggit had not forgotten my occasional impertinences or the battle of the bottles. i really believe that his _ill will_ against timothy was one reason for purchasing the _good will_ of mr cophagus, and we were very gently told by mr pleggit that he would have no occasion for our services. mr cophagus offered to procure me another situation as soon as he could, and at the same time presented me with twenty guineas, as a proof of his regard and appreciation of my conduct--but this sum put in my hand decided me: i thanked him, and told him i had other views at present, but hoped he would let me know where i might find him hereafter, as i should be glad to see him again. he told me he would leave his address for me at the foundling hospital, and shaking me heartily by the hand, we parted. timothy was then summoned. mr cophagus gave him five guineas, and wished him good fortune. "and now, japhet, what are you about to do?" said timothy, as he descended into the shop. "to do," replied i; "i am about to leave you, which is the only thing i am sorry for. i am going, timothy, in search of my father." "well," replied timothy, "i feel as you do, japhet, that it will be hard to part; and there is another thing on my mind--which is, i am very sorry that the bull did not break the rudimans (pointing to the iron mortar and pestle); had he had but half the spite i have against it, he would not have left a piece as big as a thimble. i've a great mind to have a smack at it before i go." "you will only injure mr cophagus, for the mortar will not then be paid for." "very true; and as he has just given me five guineas, i will refrain from my just indignation. but now, japhet, let me speak to you. i don't know how you feel, but i feel as if i could not part with you. i do not want to go in search of my father particularly. they say it's a wise child that knows its own father--but as there can be no doubt of my other parent--if i can only hit upon her, i have a strong inclination to go in search of my mother, and if you like my company, why i will go with you--always, my dear japhet," continued tim, "keeping in my mind the great difference between a person who has been feed as an m.d., and a lad who only carries out his prescriptions." "do you really mean to say, tim, that you will go with me?" "yes, to the end of the world, japhet, as your companion, your friend, and your servant, if you require it. i love you, japhet, and i will serve you faithfully." "my dear tim, i am delighted; now i am really happy: we will have but one purse, and but one interest; if i find good fortune, you shall share it." "and if you meet with ill luck, i will share that too--so the affair is settled--and as here come mr pleggit's assistants with only one pair of eyes between them, the sooner we pack up the better." in half an hour all was ready; a bundle each, contained our wardrobes. we descended from our attic, walked proudly through the shop without making any observation, or taking any notice of our successors; all the notice taken was by timothy, who turned round and shook his fist at his old enemies, the iron mortar and pestle; and there we were, standing on the pavement, with the wide world before us, and quite undecided which way we should go. "is it to be east, west, north, or south, japhet?" said timothy. "the wise men came from the east," replied i. "then they must have travelled west," said tim; "let us show our wisdom by doing the same." "agreed." passing by a small shop, we purchased two good sticks, as defenders, as well as to hang our bundles on--and off we set upon our pilgrimage. chapter viii we take a coach, but the driver does not like his fare and hits us foul--we change our mode of travelling upon the principle of slow and sure, and fall in with a very learned man. i believe it to be a very general custom, when people set off upon a journey, to reckon up their means--that is, to count the money which they may have in their pockets. at all events, this was done by timothy and me, and i found that my stock amounted to twenty-two pounds eighteen shillings, and timothy's to the five guineas presented by mr cophagus, and three halfpence which were in the corner of his waistcoat pocket--sum total, twenty-eight pounds three shillings and three halfpence; a very handsome sum, as we thought, with which to commence our peregrinations, and, as i observed to timothy, sufficient to last us for a considerable time, if husbanded with care. "yes," replied he, "but we must husband our legs also, japhet, or we shall soon be tired, and very soon wear out our shoes. i vote we take a hackney coach." "take a hackney coach, tim! we mustn't think of it; we cannot afford such a luxury; you can't be tired yet, we are now only just clear of hyde park corner." "still i think we had better take a coach, japhet, and here is one coming. i always do take one when i carry out medicines, to make up for the time i lose looking at the shops, and playing peg in the ring." i now understood what timothy meant, which was, to get behind and have a ride for nothing. i consented to this arrangement, and we got up behind one which was already well filled inside. "the only difference between an inside and outside passenger in a hackney coach, is that one pays, and the other does not," said i, to timothy, as we rolled along at the act of parliament speed of four miles per hour. "that depends upon circumstances: if we are found out, in all probability we shall not only have our ride, but be _paid_ into the bargain." "with the coachman's whip, i presume?" "exactly." and timothy had hardly time to get the word out of his mouth, when flac, flac, came the whip across our eyes--a little envious wretch, with his shirt hanging out of his trousers, having called out, _cut behind!_ not wishing to have our faces, or our behinds cut any more, we hastily descended, and reached the footpath, after having gained about three miles on the road before we were discovered. "that wasn't a bad lift, japhet, and as for the whip i never mind that with _corduroys_. and now, japhet, i'll tell you something; we must get into a wagon, if we can find one going down the road, as soon as it is dark." "but that will cost money, tim." "it's economy, i tell you; for a shilling, if you bargain, you may ride the whole night, and if we stop at a public-house to sleep, we shall have to pay for our beds, as well as be obliged to order something to eat, and pay dearer for it than if we buy what we want at cooks' shops." "there is sense in what you say, timothy; we will look out for a wagon." "oh! it's no use now--wagons are like black beetles, not only in shape but in habits, they only travel by night--at least most of them do. we are now coming into long dirty brentford, and i don't know how you feel, japhet, but i find that walking wonderfully increases the appetite--that's another reason why you should not walk when you can ride--for nothing." "well, i'm rather hungry myself; and dear me, how very good that piece of roast pork looks in that window!" "i agree with you--let's go in and make a bargain!" we bought a good allowance for a shilling, and after sticking out for a greater proportion of mustard than the woman said we were entitled to, and some salt, we wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and continued our course, till we arrived at a baker's, where we purchased our bread, and then taking up a position on a bench outside a public-house, called for a pot of beer, and putting our provisions down before us, made a hearty, and, what made us more enjoy it, an independent meal. having finished our pork and our porter, and refreshed ourselves, we again started and walked till it was quite dark, when we felt so tired that we agreed to sit down on our bundles and wait for the first wagon which passed. we soon heard the jingling of bells, and shortly afterwards its enormous towering bulk appeared between us and the sky. we went up to the wagoner, who was mounted on a little pony, and asked him if he could give two poor lads a lift, and how much he would charge us for the ride. "how much can you afford to give, measters? for there be others as poor as ye." we replied that we could give a shilling. "well, then, get up in god's name, and ride as long as you will. get in behind." "are there many people in there already?" said i, as i climbed up, and timothy handed me the bundles. "noa," replied the wagoner, "there be nobody but a mighty clever poticary or doctor, i can't tell which; but he wear an uncommon queer hat, and he talk all sort of doctor stuff--and there be his odd man and his odd boy; that be all, and there be plenty of room, and plenty o' clean _stra_'." after this intimation we climbed up, and gained a situation in the rear of the wagon under the cloth. as the wagoner said, there was plenty of room, and we nestled into the straw without coming into contact with the other travellers. not feeling any inclination to sleep, timothy and i entered into conversation, _sotto voce_, and had continued for more than half an hour, supposing by their silence that the other occupants of the wagon were asleep, when we were interrupted by a voice clear and sonorous as a bell. "it would appear that you are wanderers, young men, and journey you know not whither. birds seek their nests when the night falls--beasts hasten to their lairs--man bolts his door. '_propria quæ maribus_,' as herodotus hath it; which, when translated, means, that 'such is the nature of mankind.' '_tribuuntur mascula dicas_' 'tell me your troubles,' as homer says." i was very much surprised at this address--my knowledge of the language told me immediately that the quotations were out of the latin grammar, and that all his learning was pretence; still there was a novelty of style which amused me, and at the same time gave me an idea that the speaker was an uncommon personage. i gave timothy a nudge, and then replied, "you have guessed right, most learned sir; we are, as you say, wanderers seeking our fortunes, and trust yet to find them--still we have a weary journey before us, '_haustus horâ somni sumendum_,' as aristotle hath it; which i need not translate to so learned a person as yourself." "nay, indeed, there is no occasion; yet am i pleased to meet with one who hath scholarship," replied the other. "have you also a knowledge of the greek?" "no, i pretend not to greek." "it is a pity that thou hast it not, for thou wouldst delight to commune with the ancients. esculapius hath these words--'a_shol_der--offmotton--_acca_pon--pasti--venison,'--which i will translate for thee--'we often find what we seek, when we least expect it.' may it be so with you, my friend. where have you been educated? and what has been your profession?" i thought i risked little in telling, so i replied, that i had been brought up as a surgeon and apothecary, and had been educated at a foundation school. "'tis well," replied he; "you have then commenced your studies in my glorious profession; still, have you much to learn; years of toil, under a great master, can only enable you to benefit mankind as i have done, and years of hardship and of danger must be added thereunto, to afford you the means. there are many hidden secrets. '_ut sunt divorum, mars, bacchus, apollo, virorum_,'--many parts of the globe to traverse, '_ut cato, virgilius, fluviorum, ut tibris, orontes._' all these have i visited, and many more. even now do i journey to obtain more of my invaluable medicine, gathered on the highest andes, when the moon is in her perigee. there i shall remain for months among the clouds, looking down upon the great plain of mexico, which shall appear no larger than the head of a pin, where the voice of man is heard not. '_vocito, vocitas vocitavi_,' bending for months towards the earth. '_as in presenti_,' suffering with the cold--'_frico quod fricui dat_,' as eusebius hath it. soon shall i be borne away by the howling winds towards the new world, where i can obtain more of the wonderful medicine, which i may say never yet hath failed me, and which nothing but love towards my race induces me to gather at such pains and risk." "indeed, sir," replied i, amused with his imposition, "i should like to accompany you--for, as josephus says most truly, '_capiat pillulæ duæ post prandium_.' travel is, indeed, a most delightful occupation, and i would like to run over the whole world." "and i would like to follow you," interrupted timothy. "i suspect we have commenced our _grand tour_ already--three miles behind a hackney-coach--ten on foot, and about two, i should think, in this wagon. but as cophagus says, _cochlearija crash many summendush_,' which means, 'there are ups and downs in this world.'" "hah!" exclaimed our companion. "he, also, has the rudiments." "nay, i hope i've done with the _rudimans_," replied timothy. "is he your follower?" inquired the man. "that very much depends upon who walks first," replied timothy, "but whether or no--we hunt in couples." "i understand--you are companions. '_concordat cum nominativo numero et persona_.' tell me, can you roll pills, can you use the pestle and the mortar, handle the scapula, and mix ingredients?" i replied that of course i knew my profession. "well, then, as we have still some hours of night, let us now obtain some rest. in the morning, when the sun hath introduced us to each other, i may then judge from your countenances whether it is likely that we may be better acquainted. night is the time for repose, as quintus curtius says, '_custos, bos, fur atque sacerdos_. sleep was made for all--my friends, good-night." chapter ix in which the adventures in the wagon are continued, and we become more puzzled with our new companions--we leave off talking latin, and enter into an engagement. timothy and i took his advice, and were soon fast asleep. i was awakened the next morning by feeling a hand in my trouser's pocket. i seized it, and held it fast. "now just let go my hand, will you?" cried a lachrymal voice. i jumped up--it was broad daylight, and looked at the human frame to which the hand was an appendix. it was a very spare, awkwardly-built form of a young man, apparently about twenty years old, but without the least sign of manhood on his chin. his face was cadaverous, with large goggling eyes, high cheek bones, hair long and ragged, reminding me of a rat's nest, thin lips, and ears large almost as an elephant's. a more woe-begone wretch in appearance i never beheld, and i continued to look at him with surprise. he repeated his words with an idiotical expression, "just let go my hand, can't you?" "what business had your hand in my pocket?" replied i, angrily. "i was feeling for my pocket-handkerchief," replied the young man. "i always keeps it in my breeches' pocket." "but not in your neighbour's, i presume?" "my neighbour's!" replied he, with a vacant stare. "well, so it is, i see now--i thought it was my own." i released his hand; he immediately put it into his own pocket, and drew out his handkerchief, if the rag deserved the appellation. "there," said he, "i told you i put it in that pocket--i always do." "and pray who are you?" said i, as i looked at his dress, which was a pair of loose white turkish trousers, and an old spangled jacket. "me! why, i'm the fool." "more knave than fool, i expect," replied i, still much puzzled with his strange appearance and dress. "nay, there you mistake," said the voice of last night. "he is not only a fool by profession, but one by nature. it is a half-witted creature, who serves me when i would attract the people. strange in this world, that wisdom may cry in the streets without being noticed, yet folly will always command a crowd." during this address i turned my eyes upon the speaker. he was an elderly-looking person, with white hair, dressed in a suit of black, ruffles and frill. his eyes were brilliant, but the remainder of his face it was difficult to decipher, as it was evidently painted, and the night's jumbling in the wagon had so smeared it, that it appeared of almost every colour in the rainbow. on one side of him lay a large three-cornered cocked hat, on the other, a little lump of a boy, rolled up in the straw like a marmot, and still sound asleep. timothy looked at me, and when he caught my eye, burst out into a laugh. "you laugh at my appearance, i presume," said the old man, mildly. "i do in truth," replied timothy. "i never saw one like you before, and i dare say never shall again." "that is possible; yet probably if you meet me again, you would not know me." "among a hundred thousand," replied timothy, with increased mirth. "we shall see, perhaps," replied the quack doctor, for such the reader must have already ascertained to be his profession; "but the wagon has stopped, and the driver will bait his horses. if inclined to eat, now is your time. come, jumbo, get up; philotas, waken him, and follow me." philotas, for so was the fool styled by his master, twisted up some straw, and stuffed the end of it into jumbo's mouth. "now, jumbo will think he has got something to eat. i always wake him that way," observed the fool, grinning at us. it certainly, as might be expected, did waken jumbo, who uncoiled himself, rubbed his eyes, stared at the tilt of the wagon, then at us, and without saying a word, rolled himself out after the fool. timothy and i followed. we found the doctor bargaining for some bread and bacon, his strange appearance exciting much amusement, and inducing the people to let him have a better bargain than perhaps otherwise they would have done. he gave a part of the refreshment to the boy and the fool, and walked out of the tap-room with his own share. timothy and i went to the pump, and had a good refreshing wash, and then for a shilling were permitted to make a very hearty breakfast. the wagon having remained about an hour, the driver gave us notice of his departure; but the doctor was no where to be found. after a little delay, the wagoner drove off, cursing him for a _bilk_, and vowing that he'd never have any more to do with a "lamed man." in the mean time, timothy and i had taken our seats in the wagon, in company with the fool, and master jumbo. we commenced a conversation with the former, and soon found out, as the doctor had asserted, that he really was an idiot, so much so, that it was painful to converse with him. as for the latter, he had coiled himself away to take a little more sleep. i forgot to mention, that the boy was dressed much in the same way as the fool, in an old spangled jacket, and dirty white trousers. for about an hour timothy and i conversed, remarking upon the strange disappearance of the doctor, especially as he had given us hopes of employing us; in accepting which offer, if ever it should be made, we had not made up our minds, when we were interrupted with a voice crying out, "hillo, my man, can you give a chap a lift as far as reading, for a shilling?" "ay, get up, and welcome," replied the wagoner. the wagon did not stop, but in a moment or two the new passenger climbed in. he was dressed in a clean smock frock, neatly worked up the front, leather gaiters, and stout shoes; a bundle and a stick were in his hand. he smiled as he looked round upon the company, and showed a beautiful set of teeth. his face was dark, and sun-burnt, but very handsome, and his eyes as black as coals, and as brilliant as gas. "heh! player folk--i've a notion," said he, as he sat down, looking at the doctor's attendants, and laughing at us. "have you come far, gentlemen?" continued he. "from london," was my reply. "how do the crops look up above, for down here the turnips seem to have failed altogether? dry seasons won't do for turnips." i replied that i really could not satisfy him on that point, as it was dark when we passed. "very true--i had forgotten that," replied he. "however, the barleys look well; but perhaps you don't understand farming?" i replied in the negative, and the conversation was kept up for two or three hours, in the course of which i mentioned the quack doctor, and his strange departure. "that is the fellow who cured so many people at ----," replied he; and the conversation then turned upon his profession and mode of life, which timothy and i agreed must be very amusing. "we shall meet him again, i dare say," replied the man. "would you know him?" "i think so, indeed," replied timothy, laughing. "yes, and so you would think that you would know a guinea from a halfpenny, if i put it into your hands," replied the man. "i do not wish to lay a bet, and win your money; but i tell you, that i will put either the one or the other into each of your hands, and if you hold it fast for one minute, and shut your eyes during that time, you will not be able to tell me which it is that you have in it." "that i am sure i would," replied tim; and i made the same assertion. "well, i was taken in that way at a fair, and lost ten shillings by the wager; now, we'll try whether you can tell or not." he took out some money from his pocket, which he selected without our seeing it, put a coin into the hand of each of us, closing our fists over it, "and now," said he, "keep your eyes shut for a minute." we did so, and a second or two afterwards we heard a voice which we instantly recognised. "nay, but it was wrong to leave me on the way side thus, having agreed to pay the sum demanded. at my age one walketh not without fatigue, _excipenda tamen quædam sunt urbium_, as philostratus says, meaning, 'that old limbs lose their activity, and seek the help of a crutch.'" "there's the doctor," cried timothy, with his eyes still shut. "now open your eyes," said the man, "and tell me, before you open your hand, what there is in it." "a halfpenny in mine," said tim. "a guinea in mine," replied i. we opened our hands, and they were _empty_. "where the devil is it?" exclaimed i, looking at tim. "and where the devil's the doctor?" replied he, looking round. "the money is in the doctor's pocket," replied the man, smiling. "then where is the doctor's pocket?" "here," replied he, slapping his pocket, and looking significantly at us. "i thought you were certain of knowing him again. about as certain as you were of telling the money in your hand." he then, to our astonishment, imitated the doctor's voice, and quoted _prosody syntax, and latin_. timothy and i were still in astonishment, when he continued, "if i had not found out that you were in want of employ, and further, that your services would be useful to me, i should not have made this discovery. do you now think that you know enough to enter into my service? it is light work, and not bad pay; and now you may choose." "i trust," said i, "that there is no dishonesty?" "none that you need practise, if you are so scrupulous; perhaps your scruples may some day be removed. i make the most of my wares--every merchant does the same. i practise upon the folly of mankind--it is on that, that wise men live." timothy gave me a push, and nodded his head for me to give my consent. i reflected a few seconds, and at last i extended my hand. "i consent," replied i, "with the reservation i have made." "you will not repent," said he; "and i will take your companion, not that i want him particularly, but i do want you. the fact is, i want a lad of gentlemanly address, and handsome appearance--with the very knowledge you possess--and now we will say no more for the present. by-the-bye, was that real latin of yours?" "no," replied i, laughing; "you quoted the grammar, and i replied with medical prescriptions. one was as good as the other." "quite--nay, better; for the school-boys may find me out, but not you. but now observe, when we come to the next cross road, we must get down--at least, i expect so; but we shall know in a minute." in about the time he mentioned, a dark, gipsy-looking man looked into the wagon, and spoke to our acquaintance in an unknown language. he replied in the same, and the man disappeared. we continued our route for about a quarter of an hour, when he got out, asked us to follow him, and speaking a few words to the fool, which i did not hear, left him and the boy in the wagon. we paid our fare, took possession of our bundles, and followed our new companion for a few minutes on the cross road, when he stopped, and said, "i must now leave you, to prepare for your reception into our fraternity; continue straight on this road until you arrive at a lime-kiln, and wait there till i come." he sprang over a stile, and took a direction verging at an angle from the road, forced his way through a hedge, and disappeared from our sight. "upon my word, timothy," said i, "i hardly know what to say to this. have we done right in trusting to this man, who, i am afraid! is a great rogue? i do not much like mixing with these gipsy people, for such i am sure he belongs to." "i really do not see how we can do better," replied timothy. "the world is all before us, and we must force our own way through it. as for his being a quack doctor, i see no great harm in that. people put their faith in nostrums more than they do in regular medicines; and it is well known that quack medicines, as they call them, cure as often as others, merely for that very reason." "very true, timothy; the mind once at ease, the body soon recovers, and faith, even in quack medicines, will often make people whole; but do you think that he does no more than impose upon people in that way?" "he may, or he may not; at all events, we need do no more, i suppose." "i am not sure of that; however, we shall see. he says we may be useful to him, and i suppose we shall be, or he would not have engaged us--we shall soon find out." chapter x in which the reader is introduced to several new acquaintances, and all connected with them, except birth and parentage, which appears to be the one thing wanting throughout the whole of this work. by this time we had arrived at the lime-kiln to which we had been directed, and we sat down on our bundles, chatting for about five minutes, when our new acquaintance made his appearance, with something in his hand, tied up in a handkerchief. "you may as well put your coats into your bundles, and put on these frocks," said he, "you will appear better among us, and be better received, for there is a _gathering_ now, and some of them are queer customers. however, you have nothing to fear; when once you are with my wife and me, you are quite safe; her little finger would protect you from five hundred." "your wife! who, then, is she?" inquired i, as i put my head through the smock frock. "she is a great personage among the gipsies. she is, by descent, one of the heads of the tribe, and none dare to disobey her." "and you--are you a gipsy?" "no, and yes. by birth i am not, but by choice, and marriage, i am admitted; but i was not born under a hedge, i can assure you, although i very often pass a night there now--that is, when i am domestic; but do not think that you are to remain long here; we shall leave in a few days, and may not meet the tribe again for months, although you may see my own family occasionally. i did not ask you to join me to pass a gipsy's life--no, no, we must be stirring and active. come, we are now close to them. do not speak as you pass the huts, until you have entered mine. then you may do as you please." we turned short round, passed through a gap in the hedge, and found ourselves on a small retired piece of common, which was studded with about twenty or thirty low gipsy huts. the fires were alight and provisions apparently cooking. we passed by nine or ten, and obeyed our guide's injunctions, to keep silence. at last we stopped, and perceived ourselves to be standing by the fool, who was dressed like us, in a smock frock, and mr jumbo, who was very busy making the pot boil, blowing at the sticks underneath till he was black in the face. several of the men passed near us, and examined us with no very pleasant expression of countenance; and we were not sorry to see our conductor, who had gone into the hut, return, followed by a woman, to whom he was speaking in the language of the tribe. "nattée bids you welcome," said he, as she approached. never in my life will the remembrance of the first appearance of nattée, and the effect it had upon me, be erased from my memory. she was tall, too tall, had it not been for the perfect symmetry of her form. her face of a clear olive, and oval in shape; her eyes jetty black; nose straight, and beautifully formed; mouth small, thin lips, with a slight curl of disdain, and pearly teeth. i never beheld a woman of so commanding a presence. her feet were bare, but very small, as well as her hands. on her fingers she wore many rings, of a curious old setting, and a piece of gold hung on her forehead, where the hair was parted. she looked at us, touched her high forehead with the ends of her fingers, and waving her hand gracefully, said, in a soft voice, "you are welcome," and then turned to her husband, speaking to him in her own language, until by degrees they separated from us in earnest conversation. she returned to us after a short time, without her husband, and said, in a voice, the notes of which were indeed soft, but the delivery of the words was most determined; "i have said that you are welcome; sit down, therefore, and share with us--fear nothing, you have no cause to fear. be faithful, then, while you serve him, and when you would quit us, say so, and receive your leave to depart; but if you attempt to desert us without permission, then we shall suspect that you are our enemies, and treat you accordingly. there is your lodging while here," continued she, pointing to another hut. "there is but one child with you, this boy (pointing to jumbo), who can lay at your feet. and now join us as friends. fleta, where are you?" a soft voice answered from the tent of nattée, and soon afterwards came out a little girl, of about eleven years old. the appearance of this child was a new source of interest. she was a little fairy figure, with a skin as white as the driven snow--light auburn hair, and large blue eyes; her dress was scanty, and showed a large portion of her taper legs. she hastened to nattée, and folding her arms across her breast, stood still, saying meekly, "i am here." "know these as friends, fleta. send that lazy num (this was philotas, the fool), for more wood, and see that jumbo tends the fire." nattée smiled, and left us. i observed she went to where forty or fifty of the tribe were assembled, in earnest discourse. she took her seat with them, and marked deference was paid to her. in the meantime jumbo had blown up a brisk fire; we were employed by fleta in shredding vegetables, which she threw into the boiling kettle. num appeared with more fuel, and at last there was nothing more to do. fleta sat down by us, and parting her long hair, which had fallen over her eyes, looked us both in the face. "who gave you that name, fleta?" inquired i. "they gave it me," replied she. "and who are they?" "nattée, and melchior, her husband." "but you are not their daughter?" "no, i am not--that is, i believe not." the little girl stopped short, as if assured that she had said too much, cast her eyes down on the ground, and folded her arms, so that her hands rested on each opposite shoulder. timothy whispered to me, "she must have been stolen, depend upon it." "silence," said i. the little girl overheard him, and looking at him, put her finger across her mouth, looking to where num and jumbo were sitting. i felt an interest for this child before i had been an hour in her company; she was so graceful, so feminine, so mournful in the expression of her countenance. that she was under restraint was evident; but still she did not appear to be actuated by fear. nattée was very kind to her, and the child did not seem to be more reserved towards her than to others; her mournful pensive look, was perhaps inherent to her nature. it was not until long after our first acquaintance that i ever saw a smile upon her features. shortly after this little conversation nattée returned, walking with all the grace and dignity of a queen. her husband, or melchior, as i shall in future call him, soon joined us, and we sat down to our repast, which was excellent. it was composed of almost every thing; sometimes i found myself busy with the wing of a fowl, at another the leg of a rabbit--then a piece of mutton, or other flesh and fowl, which i could hardly distinguish. to these were added every sort of vegetable, among which potatoes predominated, forming a sort of stew, which an epicure might have praised. i had a long conversation with melchior in the evening, and, not to weary the reader, i shall now proceed to state all that i then and subsequently gathered from him and others, relative to the parties with whom we were associating. melchior would not state who and what he was previous to his having joined the fraternity of gipsies; that he was not of humble birth, and that he had, when young, quitted his friends out of love for nattée, or from some other causes not to be revealed, he led me to surmise. he had been many years in company with the tribe, and although, as one received into it, he did not stand so high in rank and estimation as his wife, still, from his marriage with nattée, and his own peculiar qualifications and dexterity, he was almost as absolute as she was. melchior and nattée were supposed to be the most wealthy of all the gipsies, and, at the same time, they were the most liberal of their wealth. melchior, it appeared, gained money in three different characters; as a quack doctor, the character in which we first saw him; secondly, as a juggler, in which art he was most expert; and thirdly, as a fortune-teller, and _wise man_. nattée, as i before mentioned, was of very high rank, or caste, in her tribe. at her first espousal of melchior she lost much of her influence, as it was considered a degradation; but she was then very young, and must have been most beautiful. the talents of melchior, and her own spirit, however, soon enabled her to regain, and even add still more to, her power and consideration among the tribe, and it was incredible to what extent, with the means which she possessed, this power was augmented. melchior had no children by his marriage, and, as far as i could judge from the few words which would escape from the lips of nattée, she did not wish for any, as the race would not be considered pure. the subdivision of the tribe which followed nattée, consisted of about forty, men, women, and children. these were ruled by her during the absence of her husband, who alternately assumed different characters, as suited his purpose; but in whatever town melchior might happen to be, nattée and her tribe were never far off, and always encamped within communication. i ventured to question melchior about the little fleta; and he stated that she was the child of a soldier's wife, who had been brought to bed, and died a few hours afterwards; that, at the time, she was on her way to join her husband, and had been taken ill on the road--had been assisted by nattée and her companions, as far as they were able--had been buried by them, and that the child had been reared in the camp. in time, the little girl became very intimate, and very partial to me. i questioned her as to her birth, telling her what melchior had stated; for a long while she would not answer; the poor child had learned caution even at that early age; but after we were more intimate, she said, that which melchior had stated was _not true_. she could recollect very well living in a great house, with everything very fine about her; but still it appeared as if it were a dream. she recollected two white ponies--and a lady who was her mamma--and a mulberry-tree, where she stained her frock; sometimes other things came to her memory, and then she forgot them again. from this it was evident that she had been stolen, and was probably of good parentage; certainly, if elegance and symmetry of person and form, could prove blood, it never was more marked than in this interesting child. her abode with the gipsies, and their peculiar mode of life and manners, had rendered her astonishingly precocious in intellect; but of education she had none, except what was instilled into her by melchior, whom she always accompanied when he assumed his character as a juggler. she then danced on the slack wire, at the same time performing several feats in balancing, throwing of oranges, &c. when melchior was under other disguises, she remained in the camp with nattée. of num, or philotas, as melchior thought proper to call him, i have already spoken. he was a half-witted idiot, picked up in one of melchior's excursions, and as he stated to me, so did it prove to be the fact, that when on the stage, and questioned as a fool, his natural folly, and idiotical vacancy of countenance, were applauded by the spectators as admirably assumed. even at the alehouses and taverns where we stopped, every one imagined that all his folly was pretence, and looked upon him as a very clever fellow. there never was, perhaps, such a lachrymose countenance as this poor lad's, and this added still more to the mirth of others, being also considered as put on for the occasion. stephen kemble played falstaff without stuffing--num played the fool without any effort or preparation. jumbo was also "picked up;" this was not done by melchior, who stated, that any body might have him who claimed him; he tumbled with the fool upon the stage, and he also ate pudding to amuse the spectators--the only part of the performance which was suited to jumbo's taste, for he was a terrible little glutton, and never lost any opportunity of eating, as well as of sleeping. and now, having described all our new companions, i must narrate what passed between melchior and me, the day after our joining the camp. he first ran through his various professions, pointing out to me that as juggler he required a confederate, in which capacity i might be very useful, as he would soon instruct me in all his tricks. as a quack doctor he wanted the services of both tim and myself in mixing up, making pills, &c., and also in assisting him in persuading the public of his great skill. as a fortune-teller, i should also be of great service, as he would explain to me hereafter. in short, he wanted a person of good personal appearance and education, in whom he might confide in every way. as to tim, he might be made useful if he chose, in various ways; amongst others, he wished him to learn tumbling and playing the fool, when, at times, the fool was required to give a shrewd answer on any point on which he would wish the public to be made acquainted. i agreed to my own part of the performance, and then had some conversation with timothy, who immediately consented to do his best in what was allotted as his share. thus was the matter quickly arranged, melchior observing, that he had said nothing about remuneration, as i should find that trusting to him was far preferable to stipulated wages. chapter xi whatever may be the opinion of the reader, he cannot assert that we are _no conjurers_--we suit our wares to our customers, and our profits are considerable. we had been three days in the camp when the gathering was broken up, each gang taking their own way. what the meeting was about i could not exactly discover; one occasion of it was to make arrangements relative to the different counties in which the subdivisions were to sojourn during the next year, so that they might know where to communicate with each other, and, at the same time, not interfere by being too near; but there were many other points discussed, of which, as a stranger, i was kept in ignorance. melchior answered all my questions with apparent candour, but his habitual deceit was such, that whether he told the truth or not was impossible to be ascertained by his countenance. when the gathering dispersed we packed up, and located ourselves about two miles from the common, on the borders of a forest of oak and ash. our food was chiefly game, for we had some excellent poachers among us; and as for fish, it appeared to be at their command; there was not a pond nor a pit but they could tell in a moment if it were tenanted, and if tenanted, in half an hour every fish would be floating on the top of the water, by the throwing in of some intoxicating sort of berry; other articles of food occasionally were found in the caldron; indeed, it was impossible to fare better than we did, or at less expense. our tents were generally pitched not far from a pool of water, and to avoid any unpleasant search, which sometimes would take place, everything liable to detection was sunk under the water until it was required for cooking; once in the pot, it was considered as safe. but with the foraging, timothy and i had nothing to do; we participated in the eating, without asking any questions as to how it was procured. my time was chiefly spent in company with melchior, who initiated me into all the mysteries of cups and balls--juggling of every description--feats with cards, and made me acquainted with all his apparatus for prepared tricks. for hours and hours was i employed by his directions in what is called "making the pass" with a pack of cards, as almost all tricks on cards depend upon your dexterity in this manoeuvre. in about a month i was considered as a very fair adept; in the meantime, timothy had to undergo his career of gymnastics, and was to be seen all day tumbling and retumbling, until he could tumble on his feet again. light and active, he soon became a very dexterous performer, and could throw a somerset either backwards or forwards, walk on his hands, eat fire, pull out ribbons, and do fifty other tricks to amuse a gaping audience. jumbo also was worked hard, to bring down his fat, and never was allowed his dinner until he had given satisfaction to melchior. even little fleta had to practise occasionally, as we were preparing for an expedition. melchior, who appeared determined to create an effect, left us for three days, and returned with not only dresses for timothy and me, but also new dresses for the rest of the company; and shortly afterwards, bidding farewell to nattée and the rest of the gipsies, we all set out--that is, melchior, i, timothy, fleta, num, and jumbo. late in the evening we arrived at the little town of ----, and took up our quarters at a public-house, with the landlord of which melchior had already made arrangements. "well, timothy," said i, as soon as we were in bed, "how do you like our new life and prospects?" "i like it better than mr cophagus's _rudimans_, and carrying out physic, at all events. but how does your dignity like turning merry andrew, japhet?" "to tell you the truth, i do not dislike it. there is a wildness and a devil-may-care feeling connected with it which is grateful to me at present. how long it may last i cannot tell; but for a year or two it appears to me that we may be very happy. at all events, we shall see the world, and have more than one profession to fall back upon." "that is true; but there is one thing that annoys me, japhet, which is, we may have difficulty in leaving these people when we wish. besides, you forget that you are losing sight of the principal object you had in view, that is, of 'finding out your father.'" "i certainly never expect to find him among the gipsies," replied i, "for children are at a premium with them. they steal from others, and are not very likely therefore to leave them at the foundling. but i do not know whether i have not as good a chance in our present employment as in any other. i have often been thinking that as fortune-tellers, we may get hold of many strange secrets; however, we shall see. melchior says, that he intends to appear in that character as soon as he has made a harvest in his present one." "what do you think of melchior, now that you have been so much with him?" "i think him an unprincipled man, but still with many good qualities. he appears to have a pleasure in deceit, and to have waged war with the world in general. still he is generous, and, to a certain degree, confiding; kind in his disposition, and apparently a very good husband. there is something on his mind which weighs him down occasionally, and checks him in the height of his mirth. it comes over him like a dark cloud over a bright summer sun; and he is all gloom for a few minutes. i do not think that he would now commit any great crime; but i have a suspicion that he has done something which is a constant cause of remorse." "you are a very good judge of character, japhet. but what a dear little child is that fleta! she may exclaim with you--'who is my father?'" "yes, we are both in much the same predicament, and that it is which i believe has so much increased my attachment to her. we are brother and sister in misfortune, and a sister she ever shall be to me, if such is the will of heaven. but we must rise early to-morrow, tim; so good-night." "yes, to-morrow it will be juggle and tumble--eat fire--um--and so on, as mr cophagus would have said; so good-night, japhet." the next morning we arrayed ourselves in our new habiliments; mine were silk stockings, shoes, and white kerseymere kneed breeches, a blue silk waistcoat loaded with tinsel, and a short jacket to correspond of blue velvet, a sash round my waist, a hat and a plume of feathers. timothy declared i looked very handsome, and as the glass said the same as plain as it could speak, i believed him. timothy's dress was a pair of wide turkish trousers and red jacket, with spangles. the others were much the same. fleta was attired in small, white satin, turkish trousers, blue muslin and silver embroidered frock, worked sandals, and her hair braided and plaited in long tails behind, and she looked like a little sylph. melchior's dress was precisely the same as mine, and a more respectable company was seldom seen. some musicians had been hired, and handbills were now circulated all over the town, stating that signor eugenio velotti, with his company, would have the honour of performing before the nobility and gentry. the bill contained the fare which was to be provided, and intimated the hour of the performance, and the prices to be paid for the seats. the performance was to take place in a very large room attached to the inn, which, previous to the decadence of the town, had been used as an assembly-room. a platform was erected on the outside, on which were placed the musicians, and where we all occasionally made our appearance in our splendid dresses to attract the wonder of the people. there we strutted up and down, all but poor little fleta, who appeared to shrink at the display from intuitive modesty. when the music ceased, a smart parley between melchior and me, and philotas, and timothy, as the two fools, would take place; and melchior declared, after the performance was over, that we conducted ourselves to admiration. "pray, mr philotas, do me the favour to tell me how many people you think are now present?" said melchior to num, in an imperative voice. "i don't know," said num, looking up with his idiotical, melancholy face. "ha! ha! ha'" roared the crowd at num's stupid answer. "the fellow's a fool'" said melchior, to the gaping audience. "well, then, if he can't tell, perhaps you may, mr dionysius," said i, addressing tim. "how many, sir? do you want to know exactly and directly?" "yes, sir, immediately." "without counting, sir?" "yes, sir, without counting." "well then, sir, i will tell, and make no mistake; there's _exactly as many again as half_." "ha! ha! ha!" from the crowd. "that won't do, sir. how many may be the half?" "how many may be the half? do you know yourself, sir?" "yes, sir, to be sure i do." "then there's no occasion for me to tell you." "ha! ha! ha!" "well then, sir," continued melchior to philotas, "perhaps you'll tell how many ladies and gentlemen we may expect to honour us with their company to-night." "how many, sir?" "yes, sir, how many." "i'm sure i don't know," said num, after a pause. "positively you are the greatest fool i ever met with," said melchior. "well, he does act the fool as natural as life," observed the crowd. "what a stupid face he does put on!" "perhaps you will be able to answer that question, mr dionysius," said i to tim. "yes, sir, i know exactly." "well, sir, let's hear." "in the first place, all the pretty women will come, and all the ugly ones stay away; and as for the men, all those who have got any money will be certain to come; those who haven't, poor devils, must stay outside." "suppose, sir, you make a bow to the ladies." "a very low one, sir?" "yes, very low indeed." tim bent his body to the ground, and threw a somerset forward. "there, sir; i bowed so low, that i came up on the other side." "ha! ha! capital!" from the crowd. "i've got a round turn in my back, sir," continued tim, rubbing himself. "hadn't i better take it out again?" "by all means." tim threw a somerset backwards. "there, sir, all's right now. one good turn deserves another. now i'll be off." "where are you going to, sir?" "going, sir!! why, i left my lollipop in the tinder-box, and i'm going to fetch it." "ha! ha! ha!" "strike up, music!" and master jumbo commenced tumbling. such was the elegant wit with which we amused and attracted the audience. perhaps, had we been more refined, we should not have been so successful. that evening we had the room as full as it could hold. signor velotti _alias_ melchior astonished them. the cards appeared to obey his commands--rings were discovered in lady's shoes--watches were beat to a powder and made whole--canary birds flew out of eggs. the audience were delighted. the entertainment closed with fleta's performance on the slack wire; and certainly never was there anything more beautiful and graceful. balanced on the wire in a continual, waving motion, her eyes fixed upon a point to enable her to maintain her position, she performed several feats, such as the playing with five oranges, balancing swords, &c. her extreme beauty--her very picturesque and becoming dress--her mournful expression and downcast eyes--her gentle manner, appeared to win the hearts of the audience; and when she was assisted off from her perilous situation by melchior and me, and made her graceful courtesy, the plaudits were unanimous. when the company dispersed i went to her, intending to praise her, but i found her in tears. "what is the matter, my dear fleta?" "o nothing! don't say i have been crying--but i cannot bear it--so many people looking at me. don't say a word to melchior--i won't cry any more." chapter xii it is very easy to humbug those who are so eager to be humbugged as people are in this world of humbug--we show ourselves excessively disinterested, which astonishes everybody. i kissed and consoled her; she threw her arm round my neck, and remained there with her face hid for some time. we then joined the others at supper. melchior was much pleased with our success, and highly praised the conduct of timothy and myself, which he pronounced was, for the first attempt, far beyond his expectations. we continued to astonish all the good people of ---- for five days, when we discovered the indubitable fact, that there was no more money to be extracted from their pockets, upon which we resumed our usual clothes and smock frocks, and with our bundles in our hands, set off for another market town, about fifteen miles distant. there we were equally successful, and melchior was delighted with our having proved such a powerful acquisition to his troop: but not to dwell too long upon one subject, i shall inform the reader that, after a trip of six weeks, during which we were very well received, we once more returned to the camp, which had located within five miles of our last scene of action. every one was content--we were all glad to get back and rest from our labours. melchior was pleased with his profits, poor little fleta overjoyed to be once more in the seclusion of her tent, and nattée very glad to hear of our good fortune, and to see her husband. timothy and i had already proved ourselves so useful, that melchior treated us with the greatest friendship and confidence--and he made us a present out of the gains, for our exertions; to me he gave ten, and to timothy five, pounds. "there, japhet, had you hired yourself i should not have paid you more than seven shillings per week, finding you in food; but you must acknowledge that for six weeks that is not bad pay. however, your earnings will depend upon our success, and i rather think that we shall make a much better thing of it when next we start, which will be in about a fortnight; but we have some arrangements to make. has timothy a good memory?" "i think he has." "that is well. i told you before that we are to try the 'wise man,'--but first we must have nattée in play. to-morrow we will start for ----," mentioning a small quiet town about four miles off. we did so, early the next morning, and arrived about noon, pitching our tents on the common, not far from the town; but in this instance we left all the rest of our gang behind. melchior's own party and his two tents were all that were brought by the donkeys. melchior and i, dressed as countrymen, went into the town at dusk, and entered a respectable sort of inn, taking our seats at one of the tables in the tap-room, and, as we had already planned, after we had called for beer, commenced a conversation in the hearing of the others who were sitting drinking and smoking. "well, i never will believe it--it's all cheat and trickery," said melchior, "and they only do it to pick your pocket. tell your fortune, indeed! i suppose she promised you a rich wife and half-a-dozen children." "no, she did not," replied i, "for i am too young to marry; but she told me what i know has happened." "well, what was that?" "why, she told me that my mother had married again, and turned me out of doors to work for my bread." "but she might have heard that." "how could she? no, that's not possible; but she told me i had a mole on my knee, which was a sign of luck. now how could she know that?" "well, i grant that was odd--and pray what else did she promise you?" "why, she said, that i should meet with my dearest friend to-night. now that does puzzle me, for i have but one in the world, and he is a long way off." "well, if you do meet your friend, then i'll believe her; but if not, it has been all guess-work; and pray what did you pay for all this--was it a shilling, or did she pick your pocket?" "that's what puzzles me,--she refused to take anything. i offered it again and again, and she said,'no; that she would have no money--that her gift was not to be sold.'" "well, that is odd. do you hear what this young man says," said melchior, addressing the others, who had swallowed every word. "yes," replied one; "but who is this person?" "the queen of the gipsies, i am told. i never saw such a wonderful woman in my life--her eye goes right through you. i met her on the common, and, as she passed, she dropped a handkerchief. i ran back to give it her, and then she thanked me, and said, 'open your hand and let me see the palm. here are great lines, and you will be fortunate;' and then she told me a great deal more, and bid god bless me." "then if she said that, she cannot have dealings with the _devil_," observed melchior. "very odd--very strange--take no money--queen of the gipsies," was echoed from all sides. the landlady and the barmaid listened with wonder, when who should come in, as previously agreed, but timothy. i pretended not to see him, but he came up to me, seizing me by the hand, and shaking it with apparent delight, and crying, "wilson, have you forgot smith?" "smith!" cried i, looking earnestly in his face. "why, so it is. how came you here?" "i left dublin three days ago," replied he, "but how i came here into this house, is one of the strangest things that ever occurred. i was walking over the common, when a tall handsome woman looked at me, and said, 'young man, if you will go into the third public-house you pass, you will meet an old friend, who expects you.' i thought she was laughing at me, but as it mattered very little in which house i passed the night, i thought, for the fun of the thing i might as well take her advice." "how strange!" cried melchior, "and she told him the same--that is, he would meet a friend." "strange--very strange--wonderful--astonishing!" was echoed from all quarters, and the fame of the gipsy was already established. timothy and i sat down together, conversing as old friends, and melchior went about from one to the other, narrating the wonderful occurrence till past midnight, when we all three took beds at the inn, as if we were travellers. the report which we had circulated that evening induced many people to go out to see nattée, who appeared to take no notice of them; and when asked to tell fortunes, waved them away with her hand. but, although this plan of melchior's was, for the first two or three days very expedient, yet, as it was not intended to last, timothy, who remained with me at the inn, became very intimate with the barmaid, and obtained from her most of the particulars of her life. i, also, from repeated conversations with the landlady, received information very important, relative to herself, and many of the families in the town, but as the employment of nattée was for an ulterior object, we contented ourselves with gaining all the information we could before we proceeded further. after we had been there a week, and the fame of the gipsy woman had been marvellously increased--many things having been asserted of her which were indeed truly improbable--melchior agreed that timothy should persuade the barmaid to try if the gipsy woman would tell her fortune: the girl, with some trepidation, agreed, but at the same time, expecting to be refused, consented to walk with him over the common. timothy advised her to pretend to pick up a sixpence when near to nattée, and ask her if it did not belong to her, and the barmaid acted upon his suggestions, having just before that quitted the arm of timothy, who had conducted her. "did you drop a sixpence? i have picked up one," said the girl, trembling with fear as she addressed nattée. "child," replied nattée, who was prepared, "i have neither dropped a sixpence nor have you found one--but never mind that, i know that which you wish, and i know who you are. now what would you with me? is it to inquire whether the landlord and landlady of the golden lion intend to keep you in their service?" "no," replied the girl, frightened at what she heard; "not to inquire that, but to ask what my fortune will be?" "open your palm, pretty maid, and i will tell you. hah! i see that you were born in the west--your father is dead--your mother is in service--and let me see,--you have a brother at sea--now in the west indies." at this intelligence, all of which, as may be supposed, had been gathered by us, the poor girl was so frightened that she fell down in a swoon, and timothy carried her off. when she was taken home to the inn, she was so ill that she was put into bed, and what she did say was so incoherent, that, added to timothy's narrative, the astonishment of the landlady and others was beyond all bounds. i tried very hard to bring the landlady, but she would not consent; and now nattée was pestered by people of higher condition, who wished to hear what she would say. here nattée's powers were brought into play. she would not refuse to see them, but would not give answers till she had asked questions, and, as from us she had gleaned much general information, so by making this knowledge appear in her questions to them, she made them believe she knew more. if a young person came to her, she would immediately ask the name--of that name she had all the references acquired from us, as to family and connections. bearing upon them, she would ask a few more, and then give them an abrupt dismissal. this behaviour was put up with from one of her commanding presence, who refused money, and treated those who accosted her, as if she was their superior. many came again and again, telling her all they knew, and acquainting her with every transaction of their life, to induce her to prophesy, for such, she informed them, was the surest way to call the spirit upon her. by these means we obtained the secret history of the major part, that is, the wealthier part of the town of ----; and although the predictions of nattée were seldom given, yet when given, they were given with such perfect and apparent knowledge of the parties, that when she left, which she did about six weeks after her first appearance, the whole town rang with accounts of her wonderful powers. it will appear strange that melchior would not permit nattée to reap a harvest, which might have been great; but the fact was, that he only allowed the seed to be sown that a greater harvest might be gathered hereafter. nattée disappeared, the gipsie's tent was no longer on the common, and the grass, which had been beaten down into a road by the feet of the frequent applicants to her, was again permitted to spring up. we also took our departure, and rejoined the camp with nattée, where we remained for a fortnight, to permit the remembrance of her to subside a little--knowing that the appetite was alive, and would not be satisfied until it was appeased. after that time, melchior, timothy, and i, again set off for the town of ----, and stopping at a superior inn in another part of the town, dressed as travellers, that is, people who go about the country for orders from the manufacturers, ordered our beds and supper in the coffee-room. the conversation was soon turned upon the wonderful powers of nattée, the gipsy. "nonsense," said melchior, "she knows nothing. i have heard of her. but there is a man coming this way (should he happen to pass through this town) who will surprise and frighten you. no one knows who he is. he is named the great aristodemus. he knows the past, the present, and the future. he never looks at people's hands--he only looks you in the face, and _woe be to them who tell him a lie_. otherwise, he is good-tempered and obliging, and will tell what will come to pass, and his predictions never have been known to fail. they say that he is hundreds of years old, and his hair is white as silver." at this information many expressed their doubts, and many others vaunted the powers of the gipsy. melchior replied, "that all he knew was, that for the sum of two guineas paid down, he had told him of a legacy left him of six hundred pounds, which otherwise he would never have known of or received." all the town of ---- being quite alive for fortune-telling, this new report gained wind, and after a week's sojourn, melchior thought that the attempt should be made. chapter xiii the seed having been carefully sown, we now reap a golden harvest--we tell every body what they knew before, and we are looked upon as most marvellous by most marvellous fools. we accordingly packed up, and departed to another market town. timothy, dressed in a sombre suit of black, very much like an undertaker, was provided with a horse, with the following directions: to proceed leisurely until he was within half a mile of the town of ----, and then to gallop in as fast as he could, stop at the best inn in the place, and order apartments for the great aristodemus, who might be expected in half an hour. every thing in this world depends upon appearances, that is, when you intend to gull it; and as every one in the town had heard of the great aristodemus, so every one was anxious to know something about him, and timothy was pestered with all manner of questions; but he declared that he was only his courier, and could only tell what other people said; but then what other people said, by timothy's account, was very marvellous indeed. timothy had hardly time to secure the best rooms in the hotel, when melchior, dressed in a long flowing silk gown, with a wig of long white hair, a square cap, and two or three gold chains hanging from his neck, certainly most admirably disguised, and attended by me in the dress of a german student, a wig of long brown locks hanging down my shoulders, made our appearance in a post-chaise and four, and drove up to the door of the inn, at a pace which shook every house in the street, and occasioned every window to be tenanted with one or more heads to ascertain the cause of this unusual occurrence, for it was not a very great town, although once of importance; but the manufactures had been removed, and it was occupied by those who had become independent by their own exertions, or by those of their forefathers. the door of the chaise was opened by the obsequious timothy, who pushed away the ostlers and waiters, as if unworthy to approach his master, and the great aristodemus made his appearance. as he ascended the steps of the door, his passage was for a moment barred by one whose profession melchior well knew. "stand aside, exciseman!" said he, in a commanding voice. "no one crosses my path with impunity." astonished at hearing his profession thus mentioned, the exciseman, who was the greatest bully in the town, slipped on one side with consternation, and all those present lifted up their eyes and hands with astonishment. the great aristodemus gained his room, and shut his door; and i went out to pay for the chaise and order supper, while timothy and the porters were busy with our luggage, which was very considerable. "my master will not see any one," said i to the landlord; "he quits this town to-morrow, if the letters arrive which he expects by the post; therefore, pray get rid of this crowd, and let him be quiet, for he is very tired, having travelled one hundred and fifty miles since the dawn of day." when tim and i had performed this duty, we joined melchior in his room, leaving the news to be circulated. "this promises well," observed melchior; "up to the present we have expended much time and money; now we must see if we cannot recover it tenfold. japhet, you must take an opportunity of going out again after supper, and make inquiries of the landlord what poor people they have in the town, as i am very generous, and like to relieve them; you may observe, that all the money offered to me for practising my art, i give away to the poor, having no occasion for it." this i did, and we then sat down to supper, and having unpacked our baggage, went to bed, after locking the door of the room, and taking out the key. the next morning we had every thing in readiness, and as the letters, as the reader may suppose, did not arrive by the post, we were obliged to remain, and the landlord ventured to hint to me, that several people were anxious to consult my master. i replied, that i would speak to him, but it was necessary to caution those who came, that they must either offer gold--or nothing at all. i brought his consent to see one or two, but no more. now, although we had various apparatus to use when required, it was thought that the effect would be greater, if, in the first instance, every thing was simple. melchior, therefore, remained sitting at the table, which was covered with a black cloth, worked with curious devices, and a book of hieroglyphics before him, and an ivory wand, tipped with gold, lying by the book. timothy standing at the door, with a short roman sword buckled round his belt, and i, in a respectful attitude, behind the great aristodemus. the first person who was admitted was the lady of the mayor of the town; nothing could be more fortunate, as we had every information relative to her and her spouse, for people in high places are always talked of. aristodemus waved his hand, and i brought forward a chair in silence, and motioned that she should be seated. aristodemus looked her in her face, and then turned over several leaves, until he fixed upon a page, which he considered attentively. "mayoress of ----, what wouldst thou with me?" she started, and turned pale. "i would ask--" "i know; thou wouldst ask many things, perhaps, had i time to listen. amongst others thou wouldst ask if there is any chance of thy giving an heir to thy husband. is it not so?" "yes, it is," replied the lady, fetching her breath. "so do i perceive by this book; but let me put one question to thee. wouldst thou have blessings showered on thee, yet do no good? thou art wealthy--yet what dost thou and thy husband do with these riches? are ye liberal? no. give, and it shall be given. i have said." aristodemus waved his hand, and the lady rose to withdraw. a guinea was in her fingers, and her purse in her hand; she took out four more, and added them to the other, and laid them on the table. "'tis well, lady; charity shall plead for thee. artolphe, let that money be distributed among the poor." i bowed in silence, and the lady retired. "who will say that i do no good," observed melchior, smiling, as soon as she was gone, "her avarice and that of her husband are as notorious as their anxiety for children. now, if i persuade them to be liberal, i do service." "but you have given her hopes." "i have, and the very hope will do more to further their wishes than anything else. it is despair which too often prevents those who have no children, from having any. how often do you see a couple, who, after years waiting for children, have at last given up their hope, and resigned themselves to the dispensations of providence, and then, when their anxiety has subsided, have obtained a family? japhet, i am a shrewd observer of human nature." "that i believe," replied i; "but i do not believe your last remark to be correct--but timothy raps at the door." another lady entered the room, and then started back, as if she would retreat, so surprised was she at the appearance of the great aristodemus; but as timothy had turned the key, her escape was impossible. she was unknown to us, which was rather awkward; but melchior raised his eyes from his book, and waved his hand as before, that she should be seated. with some trepidation she stated, that she was a widow, whose dependence was upon an only son now at sea; that she had not heard of him for a long while, and was afraid that some accident had happened; that she was in the greatest distress--"and," continued she, "i have nothing to offer but this ring. can you tell me if he is yet alive?" cried she, bursting into tears; "but if you have not the art you pretend to, o do not rob a poor, friendless creature, but let me depart!" "when did you receive your last letter from him?" said melchior. "it is now seven months--dated from bahia," replied she, pulling it out of her reticule, and covering her face with her handkerchief. melchior caught the address, and then turned the letter over on the other side, as it lay on the table. "mrs watson," said he. "heavens! do you know my name?" cried the woman. "mrs watson, i do not require to read your son's letter--i know its contents." he then turned over his book, and studied for a few seconds. "your son is alive." "thank god!" cried she, clasping her hands, and dropping her reticule. "but you must not expect his return too soon--he is well employed." "oh! i care not--he is alive--he is alive! god bless you--god bless you!" melchior made a sign to me, pointing to the five guineas and the reticule; and i contrived to slip them into her reticule, while she sobbed in her handkerchief. "enough, madam; you must go, for others require my aid." the poor woman rose, and offered the ring. "nay, nay, i want not thy money; i take from the rich, that i may distribute to the poor--but not from the widow in affliction. open thy bag." the widow took up her bag, and opened it. melchior dropped in the ring, taking his wand from the table, waved it, and touched the bag. "as thou art honest, so may thy present wants be relieved. seek, and thou shalt find." the widow left the room with tears of gratitude; and i must say, that i was affected with the same. when she had gone, i observed to melchior, that up to the present he had toiled for nothing. "very true, japhet; but depend upon it, if i assisted that poor woman from no other feelings than interested motives, i did well; but i tell thee candidly, i did it from compassion. we are odd mixtures of good and evil. i wage war with fools and knaves, but not with all the world. i gave that money freely--she required it; and it may be put as a set-off against my usual system of fraud, or it may not--at all events, i pleased myself." "but you told her that her son was alive." "very true, and he may be dead; but is it not well to comfort her--even for a short time, to relieve that suspense which is worse than the actual knowledge of his death? sufficient for the day is the evil thereof." it would almost have appeared that this good action of melchior met with its reward, for the astonishment of the widow at finding the gold in her reticule--her narrative of what passed, and her assertion (which she firmly believed to be true), that she had never left her reticule out of her hand, and that melchior had only touched it with his wand, raised his reputation to that degree, that nothing else was talked about throughout the town, and, to crown all, the next day's post brought her a letter and remittances from her son; and the grateful woman returned, and laid ten guineas on the black cloth, showering a thousand blessings upon melchior, and almost worshipped him as a supernatural being. this was a most fortunate occurrence, and as melchior prophesied, the harvest did now commence. in four days we had received upwards of £ , and we then thought it time that we should depart. the letters arrived, which were expected, and when we set off in a chaise and four, the crowd to see us was so great, that it was with difficulty we could pass through it. chapter xiv in which melchior talks very much like an astrologer, and tim and i return to our old trade of making up innocent prescriptions. we had taken our horses for the next town; but as soon as we were fairly on the road, i stopped the boys, and told them that the great aristodemus intended to observe the planets and stars that night, and that they were to proceed to a common which i mentioned. the post-boys, who were well aware of his fame, and as fully persuaded of it as everybody else, drove to the common; we descended, took off the luggage, and received directions from melchior in their presence about the instruments, to which the boys listened with open mouths and wonderment. i paid them well, and told them they might return, which they appeared very glad to do. they reported what had occurred, and this simple method of regaining our camp, added to the astonishment of the good town of ----. when they were out of sight we resumed our usual clothes, packed all up, carried away most of our effects, and hid the others in the furze to be sent for the next night, not being more than two miles from the camp. we soon arrived, and were joyfully received by fleta and nattée. as we walked across the common, i observed to melchior, "i wonder if these stars have any influence upon mortals, as it was formerly supposed?" "most assuredly they have," rejoined melchior. "i cannot read them, but i firmly believe in them." i made the above remark, as i had often thought that such was melchior's idea. "yes," continued he, "every man has his destiny--such must be the case. it is known beforehand what is to happen to us by an omniscient being, and being known, what is it but destiny which cannot be changed? it is _fate_," continued he, surveying the stars with his hand raised up, "and that fate is as surely written there as the sun shines upon us; but the great book is sealed, because it would not add to our happiness." "if, then, all is destiny, or fate, what inducement is there to do well or ill?" replied i. "we may commit all acts of evil, and say, that as it was predestined, we could not help it. besides would it be just that the omniscient being should punish us for those crimes which we cannot prevent, and which are allotted to us by destiny?" "japhet, you argue well; but you are in error, because, like most of those of the christian church, you understand not the sacred writings, nor did i until i knew my wife. her creed is, i believe, correct; and what is more, adds weight to the truths of the bible." "i thought that gipsies had no religion." "you are not the only one who supposes so. it is true that the majority of the tribe are held by the higher castes as serfs, and are not instructed; but with--if i may use the expression--the aristocracy of them it is very different, and their creed i have adopted." "i should wish to hear their creed," replied i. "hear it then. original sin commenced in heaven--when the angels rebelled against their god--not on earth." "i will grant that sin originated first in heaven." "do you think that a great, a good god, ever created any being for its destruction and eternal misery, much less an angel? did he not foresee their rebellion?" "i grant it." "this world was not peopled with the image of god until after the fall of the angels: it had its living beings, its monsters perhaps, but not a race of men with eternal souls. but it was peopled, as we see it now is, to enable the legions of angels who fell to return to their former happy state--as a pilgrimage by which they might obtain their pardons, and resume their seats in heaven. not a child is born, but the soul of some fallen cherub enters into the body to work out its salvation. many do, many do not, and then they have their task to recommence anew; for the spirit once created is immortal, and cannot be destroyed; and the almighty is all goodness, and would ever pardon." "then you suppose there is no such thing as eternal punishment?" "eternal!--no. punishment there is, but not eternal. when the legions of angels fell, some were not so perverse as others: they soon re-obtained their seats, even when, as children, having passed through the slight ordeal, they have been summoned back to heaven; but others who, from their infancy, show how bad were their natures, have many pilgrimages to perform before they can be purified. this is, in itself, a punishment. what other punishment they incur between their pilgrimages we know not; but this is certain, that no one was created to be punished eternally." "but all this is but assertion," replied i; "where are your proofs?" "in the bible; some day or other i will show them to you; but now we are at the camp, and i am anxious to embrace nattée." i thought for some time upon this singular creed; one, in itself, not militating against religion, but at the same time i could not call to mind any passages by which it could be supported. still the idea was beautiful, and i dwelt upon it with pleasure. i have before observed, and indeed the reader must have gathered from my narative, that melchior was no common personage. every day did i become more partial to him, and more pleased with our erratic life. what scruples i had at first, gradually wore away; the time passed quickly, and although i would occasionally call to mind the original object of my setting forth, i would satisfy myself by the reflection, that there was yet sufficient time. little fleta was now my constant companion when in the camp, and i amused myself with teaching her to write and read. "japhet," said timothy to me one day as we were cutting hazel broach wood in the forest, "i don't see that you get on very fast in your search after your father." "no, tim, i do not; but i am gaining a knowledge of the world which will be very useful to me when i recommence the search; and what is more, i am saving a great deal of money to enable me to prosecute it." "what did melchior give you after we left?" "twenty guineas, which, with what i had before, make more than fifty." "and he gave me ten, which makes twenty, with what i had before. seventy pounds is a large sum." "yes, but soon spent, tim. we must work a little longer. besides, i cannot leave that little girl--she was never intended for a rope-dancer." "i am glad to hear you say that, japhet, for i feel as you do--she shall share our fortunes." "a glorious prospect truly," replied i, laughing; "but never mind, it would be better than her remaining here. but how are we to manage that?" "aye! that's the rub; but there is time enough to think about it when we intend to quit our present occupation." "well, i understand from melchior that we are to start in a few days." "what is it to be, japhet?" "oh! we shall be at home--we are to cure all diseases under the sun. to-morrow we commence making pills, so we may think ourselves with mr cophagus again." "well, i do think we shall have some fun; but i hope melchior won't make me take my own pills to prove their good qualities--that will be no joke." "o no, num is kept on purpose for that. what else is the fool good for?" the next week was employed as we anticipated. boxes of pills of every size, neatly labelled, bottles of various mixtures, chiefly stimulants, were corked and packed up. powders of _anything_ were put in papers; but, at all events, there was nothing hurtful in them. all was ready, and accompanied by num (jumbo and fleta being left at home) we set off, melchior assuming the dress in which we had first met him in the wagon, and altering his appearance so completely, that he would have been taken for at least sixty years old. we now travelled on foot with our dresses in bundles, each carrying his own, except num, who was loaded like a pack-horse, and made sore lamentations: "can't you carry some of this?" "no," replied i, "it is your own luggage; every one must carry his own." "well, i never felt my spangled dress so heavy before. where are we going?" "only a little way," replied timothy, "and then you will have nothing more to do." "i don't know that. when master puts on that dress, i have to swallow little things till i'm sick." "it's all good for your health, num." "i'm very well, i thank'e," replied the poor fellow; "but i'm very hot and very tired." chapter xv in which timothy makes a grand speech, quite as true as those delivered from the hustings--melchior, like the candidate, states his pretentions for public favour, and the public, as usual, swallow the bait. fortunately for poor num, we were not far from the market town at which we intended to open our campaign, which we did the next morning by num and timothy sallying forth, the former with a large trumpet in his hand, and the latter riding on a donkey. on their arrival at the market-place, num commenced blowing it with all his might, while timothy, in his spangled dress, as soon as they had collected a crowd, stood upon his saddle, and harangued the people as follows:-- "gentlemen and ladies--i have the honour to announce to you the arrival in this town of the celebrated doctor appallacheosmocommetico, who has travelled farther than the sun and faster than a comet. he hath visited every part of the globe. he has smoked the calumet with the indians of north america--he has hunted with the araucas in the south--galloped on wild horses over the plains of mexico, and rubbed noses with the esquimaux. he hath used the chopsticks with the chinese, swung the cherok pooga with the hindoos, and put a new nose on the great cham of tartary. he hath visited and been received in every court of europe: danced on the ice of the neva with the russians--led the mazurka with the poles--waltzed with the germans--tarantulaed with the italians--fandangoed with the spanish--and quadrilled with the french. he hath explored every mine in the universe, walked through every town on the continent, examined every mountain in the world, ascended mont blanc, walked down the andes, and run up the pyrenees. he has been into every volcano in the globe, and descending by vesuvius has been thrown up by stromboli. he has lived more than a thousand years, and is still in the flower of his youth. he has had one hundred and forty sets of teeth one after another, and expects a new set next christmas. his whole life has been spent in the service of mankind, and in doing good to his fellow-creatures; and having the experience of more than a thousand years, he cures more than a thousand diseases. gentlemen, the wonderful doctor will present himself before you this evening, and will then tell you what his remedies are good for, so that you may pick and choose according to your several complaints. ladies, the wonderful doctor can greatly assist you: he has secrets by which you may have a family if you should so wish--philters to make husbands constant, and salve to make them blind--cosmetics to remove pimples and restore to youth and beauty, and powders to keep children from squalling. sound the trumpet, philotas; sound, and let every body know that the wonderful doctor appallacheosmocommetico has vouchsafed to stop here and confer his blessings upon the inhabitants of this town." hereupon num again blew the trumpet till he was black in the face; and timothy, dropping on his donkey, rode away to other parts of the town, where he repeated his grandiloquent announcement, followed, as may be supposed, by a numerous cortege of little ragged boys. about four o'clock in the afternoon, melchior made his appearance in the market-place, attended by me, dressed as a german student, timothy and num in their costumes. a stage had been already prepared, and the populace had crowded round it more with the intention of laughing than of making purchases. the various packets were opened and arranged in front of the platform, i standing on one side of melchior, timothy on the other, and num with his trumpet, holding on by one of the scaffold poles at the corner. "sound the trumpet, philotas," said melchior, taking off his three-cornered hat, and making a low bow to the audience, at every blast. "pray, mr fool, do you know why you sound the trumpet?" "i'm sure i don't know," replied num, opening his goggle eyes. "do you know, mr dionysius?" "yes, sir, i can guess." "explain, then, to the gentlemen and ladies who have honoured us with their presence." "because, sir, trumpets are always sounded before great conquerors." "very true, sir-, but how am i a great conqueror?" "you have conquered death, sir; and he's a very rum customer to have to deal with." "dionysius, you have answered well, and shall have some bullock's liver for your supper--don't forget to remind me, in case i forget it." "no, that i won't, sir," replied timothy, rubbing his stomach, as if delighted with the idea. "ladies and gentlemen," said melchior to the audience, who were on the broad grin, "i see your mouths are all open, and are waiting for the pills; but be not too impatient--i cannot part with my medicines unless you have diseases which require their aid; and i should, indeed, be a sorry doctor, if i prescribed without knowing your complaints. _est neutrale genus signans rem non animatam_, says herodotus, which in english means, what is one man's meat is another man's poison; and further, he adds, _ut jecur, ut onus, put ut occiput_, which is as much as to say, that what agrees with one temperament, will be injurious to another. caution, therefore, becomes very necessary in the use of medicine; and my reputation depends upon my not permitting any one to take what is not good for him. and now, my very dear friends, i will first beg you to observe the peculiar qualities of the contents of this little phial. you observe, that there is not more than sixty drops in it, yet will these sixty drops add ten years to a man's life--for it will cure him of almost as many diseases. in the first place, are any of you troubled with the _ascites_, or dropsy, which, as the celebrated galen hath declared, may be divided into three parts, the _ascites_, the _anasarca_, and the _tympanites_. the diagnostics of this disease are, swelling of the abdomen or stomach, difficulty of breathing, want of appetite, and a teasing cough. i say, have any of you this disease? none. then i thank heaven that you are not so afflicted. "the next disease it is good for, is the _peripneumonia_, or inflammation on the lungs--the diagnostics or symptoms of which are, a small pulse, swelling of the eyes, and redness of the face. say, have any of you these symptoms--if so, you have the disease. no one. i thank heaven that you are none of you so afflicted. "it is also a sovereign remedy for the _diarrhoea_, the diagnostics of which are, faintness, frequent gripings, rumbling in the bowels, cold sweats, and spasm." here one man came forward and complained of frequent gripings--another of rumbling in the bowels, and two or three more of cold sweats. "it is well. o i thank heaven that i am here to administer to you myself! for what says hippocrates? _relativum cum antecedente concordat_, which means, that remedies quickly applied, kill the disease in its birth. here, my friends, take it--take it--pay me only one shilling and be thankful. when you go to rest, fail not to offer up your prayers. it is also a sovereign remedy for the dreadful _chiragra_ or gout. i cured the whole corporation of city aldermen last week, by their taking three bottles each, and they presented me with the freedom of the city of london, in a gold box, which i am sorry that i have forgotten to bring with me. now the _chiragra_ may be divided into several varieties. _gonagra_, when it attacks the knees--_chiragra_, if in the hands--_onagra_, if in the elbow--_omagra_, if in the shoulder, and _lumbago_, if in the back. all these are varieties of gout, and for all these the contents of this little bottle is a sovereign remedy; and, observe, it will keep for ever. twenty years hence, when afflicted in your old age--and the time will come, my good people--you may take down this little phial from the shelf, and bless the hour in which you spent your shilling; for as eusebius declares, '_verbum personale concordat cum nominativo_, which is as much as to say, the active will grow old, and suffer from pains in their limbs. who, then, has pains in his limbs, or lumbago? who, indeed, can say that he will not have them?" after this appeal, the number of those who had pains in their limbs, or who wished to provide against such a disease, proved so great, that all our phials were disposed of, and the doctor was obliged to promise that in a few days he would have some more of this invaluable medicine ready. "ladies and gentlemen, i shall now offer to your notice a valuable plaister, the effects of which are miraculous. dionysius, come hither, you have felt the benefit of this plaister; tell your case to those who are present, and mind you tell the truth." hereupon timothy stepped forward. "ladies and gentlemen, _upon my honour_, about three weeks back i fell off the scaffold, broke my back bone into three pieces, and was carried off to a surgeon, who looked at me, and told the people to take measure for my coffin. the great doctor was not there at the time, having been sent for to consult with the king's physicians upon the queen's case, of _cophagus_, or intermitting mortification of the great toe; but fortunately, just as they were putting me into a shell, my master came back, and immediately applying his sovereign plaister to my back, in five days i was able to sit up, and in ten days i returned to my duty." "are you quite well now, dionysius?" "quite well, sir, and my back is like whale-bone." "try it." hereupon dionysius threw two somersets forward, two backward, walked across the stage on his hands, and tumbled in every direction. "you see, gentlemen, i'm quite well now, and what i have said, i assure you, _on my honour_, to be a fact." "i hope you'll allow that to be a very pretty cure," said the doctor, appealing to the audience; "and i hardly need say, that for sprains, bruises, contusions, wrenches, and dislocations, this plaister is infallible; and i will surprise you more by telling you, that i can sell it for eight-pence a sheet." the plaister went off rapidly, and was soon expended. the doctor went on describing his other valuable articles, and when he came to his cosmetics, &c., for women, we could not hand them out fast enough. "and now," said the doctor, "i must bid you farewell for this evening." "i'm glad of that," said timothy, "for now i mean to sell my own medicine." "your medicine, mr dionysius! what do you mean by that?" "mean, sir; i mean to say that i've got a powder of my own contriving, which is a sovereign remedy." "remedy, sir, for what?" "why, it's a powder to kill fleas, and what's more, it's just as infallible as your own." "have you, indeed; and pray, sir, how did you hit upon the invention?" "sir, i discovered it in my sleep by accident; but i have proved it, and i will say, if properly administered, it is quite as infallible as any of yours. ladies and gentlemen, i pledge you my honour that it will have the effect desired, and all i ask is sixpence a powder." "but how is it to be used, sir?" "used--why, like all other powders; but i won't give the directions till i have sold some; promising, however, if my method does not succeed, to return the money." "well, that is fair, mr dionysius; and i will take care that you keep your bargain. will anybody purchase the fool's powder for killing fleas." "yes, i will," replied a man on the broad grin, "here's sixpence. now, then, fool, how am i to use it?" "use it," said timothy, putting the sixpence in his pocket; "i'll explain to you. you must first catch the flea, hold him so tight between the forefinger and thumb as to force him to open his mouth; when his mouth is open you must put a very little of this powder into it, and it will kill him directly." "why, when i have the flea as tight as you state, i may as well kill him myself." "very true, so you may, if you prefer it; but if you do not, you may use this powder, which upon my honour is infallible." this occasioned a great deal of mirth among the bystanders. timothy kept his sixpence, and our exhibition for this day ended, very much to the satisfaction of melchior, who declared he had taken more than ever he had done before in a whole week. indeed, the whole sum amounted to £ , s., all taken in shillings and sixpences, for articles hardly worth the odd shillings in the account; so we sat down to supper with anticipations of a good harvest, and so it proved. we stayed four days at this town, and then proceeded onwards, when the like success attended us, timothy and i being obliged to sit up nearly the whole night to label and roll up pills, and mix medicines, which we did in a very scientific manner. nor was it always that melchior presided; he would very often tell his audience that business required his attendance elsewhere, to visit the sick, and that he left the explanation of his medicines and their properties to his pupil, who was far advanced in knowledge. with my prepossessing appearance, i made a great effect, more especially among the ladies, and timothy exerted himself so much when with me, that we never failed to bring home to melchior a great addition to his earnings--so much so, that at last he only showed himself, pretended that he was so importuned to visit sick persons, that he could stay no longer, and then left us, after the first half hour, to carry on the business for him. after six weeks of uninterrupted success, we returned to the camp, which, as usual, was not very far off. chapter xvi important news, but not communicated--a dissolution of partnership takes place. melchior's profits had been much more than he anticipated, and he was very liberal to timothy and myself; indeed, he looked upon me as his right hand, and became more intimate and attached every day. we were, of course, delighted to return to the camp, after our excursion. there was so much continued bustle and excitement in our peculiar profession, that a little quiet was delightful; and i never felt more happy than when fleta threw herself into my arms, and nattée came forward with her usual dignity and grace, but with more than usual condescendence and kindness, bidding me welcome _home_. home--alas! it was never meant for my home, or poor fleta's--and that i felt. it was our sojourn for a time, and no more. we had been more than a year exercising our talents in this lucrative manner, when one day, as i was sitting at the entrance to the tent, with a book in my hand, out of which fleta was reading to me, a gipsy not belonging to our gang made his appearance. he was covered with dust, and the dew drops hanging on his dark forehead, proved that he had travelled fast. he addressed nattée, who was standing by, in their own language, which i did not understand; but i perceived that he asked for melchior. after an exchange of a few sentences, nattée expressed astonishment and alarm, put her hands over her face, and removed them as quickly, as if derogatory in her to show emotion, and then remained in deep thought. perceiving melchior approaching, the gipsy hastened to him, and they were soon in animated conversation. in ten minutes it was over: the gipsy went to the running brook, washed his face, took a large draught of water, and then hastened away and was soon out of sight. melchior, who had watched the departure of the gipsy, slowly approached us. i observed him and nattée, as they met, as i was certain that something important had taken place. melchior fixed his eyes upon nattée--she looked at him mournfully--folded her arms, and made a slight bow as if in submission, and in a low voice, quoted from the scriptures, "whither thou goest, i will go--thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god." he then walked away with her: they sat down apart, and were in earnest conversation for more than an hour. "japhet," said melchior to me, after he had quitted his wife, "what i am about to tell you will surprise you. i have trusted you with all i dare trust any one, but there are some secrets in every man's life which had better be reserved for himself and her who is bound to him by solemn ties. we must now part. in a few days this camp will be broken up, and these people will join some other division of the tribe. for me, you will see me no more. ask me not to explain, for i cannot." "and nattée," said i. "will follow my fortunes, whatever they may be--you will see her no more." "for myself i care not, melchior; the world is before me, and remain with the gipsies without you i will not; but answer me one question--what is to become of little fleta? is she to remain with the tribe, to which she does not belong, or does she go with you?" melchior hesitated. "i hardly can answer, but what consequence can the welfare of a soldier's brat be to you?" "allowing her to be what you assert, melchior, i am devotedly attached to that child, and could not bear that she should remain here. i am sure that you deceived me in what you stated, for the child remembers, and has told me, anecdotes of her infancy, which proves that she is of no mean family, and that she has been stolen from her friends." "indeed, is her memory so good?" replied melchior, firmly closing his teeth. "to nattée or to me she has never hinted so much." "that is very probable; but a stolen child she is, melchior, and she must not remain here." "must not." "yes; must not, melchior; when you quit the tribe, you will no longer have any power, nor can you have any interest about her. she shall then choose--if she will come with me, i _will_ take her, and nothing shall prevent me; and in so doing i do you no injustice, nor do i swerve in my fidelity." "how do you know that? i may have my secret reasons against it." "surely you can have no interest in a soldier's brat, melchior?" melchior appeared confused and annoyed. "she is no soldier's brat; i acknowledge, japhet, that the child was stolen; but you must not, therefore, imply that the child was stolen by me or by my wife." "i never accused you, or thought you capable of it; and that is the reason why i am now surprised at the interest you take in her. if she prefers to go with you, i have no more to say, but if not, i claim her; and if she consents, will resist your interference." "japhet," replied melchior, after a pause, "we must not quarrel now that we are about to part. i will give you an answer in half an hour." melchior returned to nattée, and re-commenced a conversation with her, while i hastened to fleta. "fleta, do you know that the camp is to be broken up, and melchior and nattée leave it together?" "indeed!" replied she, with surprise. "then what is to become of you and timothy?" "we must of course seek our fortunes where we can." "and of me?" continued she, looking me earnestly in the face with her large blue eyes. "am i to stay here?" continued she, with alarm in her countenance. "not if you do not wish it, fleta; as long as i can support you i will--that is, if you would like to live with me in preference to melchior." "if i would like, japhet; you must know i would like--who has been so kind to me as you? don't leave me, japhet." "i will not, fleta; but on condition that you promise to be guided by me, and to do all i wish." "to do what you wish is the greatest pleasure that i have, japhet--so i may safely promise that. what has happened?" "that i do not know more than yourself; but melchior tells me that he and nattée quit the gipsy tents for ever." fleta looked round to ascertain if any one was near us, and then in a low tone said, "i understand their language, japhet, that is, a great deal of it, although they do not think so, and i overheard what the gipsy said in part, although he was at some distance. he asked for melchior; and when nattée wanted to know what he wanted, he answered that, '_he_ was dead;' then nattée covered up her face. i could not hear all the rest, but there was something about a _horse_." _he_ was _dead_. had then melchior committed murder, and was obliged to fly the country? this appeared to me to be the most probable, when i collected the facts in my possession; and yet i could not believe it, for except that system of deceit necessary to carry on his various professions, i never found anything in melchior's conduct which could be considered as criminal. on the contrary, he was kind, generous, and upright in his private dealings, and in many points, proved that he had a good heart. he was a riddle of inconsistency it was certain; professionally he would cheat anybody, and disregard all truth and honesty; but, in his private character, he was scrupulously honest, and, with the exception of the assertion relative to fleta's birth and parentage, he had never told me a lie, that i could discover. i was summing up all these reflections in my mind, when melchior again came up to me, and desiring the little girl to go away, he said, "japhet, i have resolved to grant your request with respect to fleta, but it must be on conditions." "let me hear them." "first, then, japhet, as you always have been honest and confiding with me, tell me now what are your intentions. do you mean to follow up the profession which you learnt under me, or what do you intend to do?" "honestly, then, melchior, i do not intend to follow up that profession, unless driven to it by necessity. i intend to seek my father." "and if driven to it by necessity, do you intend that fleta shall aid you by her acquirements? in short, do you mean to take her with you as a speculation, to make the most of her, to let her sink, when she arrives at the age of woman, into vice and misery?" "i wonder at your asking me that question, melchior; it is the first act of injustice i have received at your hands. no; if obliged to follow up the profession, i will not allow fleta so to do. i would sooner that she were in her grave. it is to rescue her from that very vice and misery, to take her out of a society in which she never ought to have been placed, that i take her with me." "and this upon your honour?" "yes, upon my honour. i love her as my sister, and cannot help indulging in the hope that in seeking my father, i may chance to stumble upon her's." melchior bit his lips. "there is another promise i must exact from you, japhet, which is, that to a direction which i will give you, every six months you will inclose an address where you may be heard of, and also intelligence as to fleta's welfare and health." "to that i gave my cheerful promise: but, melchior, you appear to have taken, all at once, a strange interest in this little girl." "i wish you now to think that i do take an interest in her, provided you seek not to inquire the why and the wherefore. will you accept of funds for her maintenance?" "not without necessity compels me; and then i should be glad to find, when i can no longer help her, that you are still her friend." "recollect, that you will always find what is requisite by writing to the address which i shall give you before we part. that point is now settled, and on the whole i think the arrangement is good." timothy had been absent during the events of the morning--when he returned, i communicated to him what had passed, and was about to take place. "well, japhet, i don't know--i do not dislike our present life, yet i am not sorry to change it; but what are we to do?" "that remains to be considered; we have a good stock of money, fortunately, and we must husband it till we find what can be done." we took our suppers all together for the last time, melchior telling us that he had determined to set off the next day. nattée looked very melancholy, but resigned; on the contrary, little fleta was so overjoyed, that her face, generally so mournful, was illuminated with smiles whenever our eyes met. it was delightful to see her so happy. the whole of the people in the camp had retired, and melchior was busy making his arrangements in the tent. i did not feel inclined to sleep; i was thinking and revolving in my mind my prospects for the future; sitting, or rather lying down, for i was leaning on my elbow, at a short distance from the tents. the night was dark but clear, and the stars were brilliant. i had been watching them, and i thought upon melchior's ideas of destiny, and dwelling on the futile wish that i could read mine, when i perceived the approach of nattée. "japhet," said she, "you are to take the little girl with you, i find--will you be careful of her? for it would be on my conscience if she were left to the mercy of the world. she departs rejoicing, let not her joy end in tears. i depart sorrowing. i leave my people, my kin, my habits, and customs, my influence, all--but it must be so, it is my destiny. she is a good child, japhet--promise me that you will be a friend to her--and give her this to wear in remembrance of me, but--not yet--not till we are gone--." she hesitated. "japhet, do not let melchior see it in your possession; he may not like me having given it away." i took the piece of paper containing the present, and having promised all she required, "this is the last--yes--the very last time that i may behold this scene," continued nattée, surveying the common, the tents, and the animals browsing. "be it so; japhet, good-night, may you prosper!" she then turned away and entered her tent; and soon afterwards i followed her example. the next day, melchior was all ready. what he had packed up was contained in two small bundles. he addressed the people belonging to the gang, in their own language. nattée did the same, and the whole of them kissed her hand. the tents, furniture, and the greatest part of his other property, were distributed among them. jumbo and num were made over to two of the principal men. timothy, fleta, and i, were also ready, and intended to quit at the same time as melchior and his wife. "japhet," said melchior, "there is yet some money due to you for our last excursion--(this was true,)--here it is --you and timothy keep but one purse, i am aware. good-bye, and may you prosper!" we shook hands with nattée and melchior. fleta went up to the former, and crossing her arms, bent her head. nattée kissed the child, and led her to melchior. he stooped down, kissed her on the forehead, and i perceived a sign of strongly suppressed emotion as he did so. our intended routes lay in a different direction, and when both parties had arrived to either verge of the common, we waved our hands as a last farewell, and resumed our paths again. fleta burst into tears as she turned away from her former guardians. chapter xvii a cabinet council--i resolve to set up as a gentleman, having as legitimate pretensions to the rank of one as many others. i led the little sobbing girl by the hand, and we proceeded for some time in silence. it was not until we gained the high road that timothy interrupted my reverie, by observing, "japhet, have you at all made up your mind what you shall do?" "i have been reflecting, timothy. we have lost a great deal of time. the original intention with which i left london has been almost forgotten; but it must be so no longer. i now have resolved that as soon as i have placed this poor little girl in safety, that i will prosecute my search, and never be diverted from it." "i cannot agree with you that we have lost time, japhet; we had very little money when we started upon our expedition, and now we have sufficient to enable you to prosecute your plans for a long time. the question is, in what direction? we quitted london, and travelled west, in imitation, as we thought, of the _wise men_. with all deference, in my opinion, it was like _two fools_." "i have been thinking upon that point also, tim, and i agree with you. i expect, from several causes, which you know as well as i do, to find my father among the higher classes of society; and the path we took when we started has led us into the very lowest. it appears to me that we cannot do better than retrace our steps. we have the means now to appear as gentlemen, and to mix in good company, and london is the very best place for us to repair to." "that is precisely my opinion, japhet, with one single exception, which i will mention to you; but first tell me, have you calculated what our joint purses may amount to? it must be a very considerable sum." i had not examined the packet in which was the money which melchior had given me at parting. i now opened it, and found, to my surprise, that there were bank notes to the amount of one hundred pounds. i felt that he had given me this large sum that it might assist me in fleta's expenses. "with this sum," said i, "i cannot have much less than two hundred and fifty pounds." "and i have more than sixty," said timothy. "really, the profession was not unprofitable." "no," replied i, laughing; "but recollect, tim, that we had no outlay. the public provided us with food, our lodging cost us nothing. we have had no taxes to pay; and at the same time have taxed folly and credulity to a great extent." "that's true, japhet; and although i am glad to have the money, i am not sorry that we have abandoned the profession." "nor am i, tim; if you please, we will forget it altogether. but tell me, what was the exception you were about to make?" "simply this. although upwards of three hundred pounds may be a great deal of money, yet, if we are to support the character and appearance of gentlemen, it will not last for ever. for instance, we must have our _valets_. what an expense that will be! our clothes too--we shall soon lose our rank and station in society, without we obtain a situation under government." "we must make it last as long as we can, timothy; and trust to good fortune to assist us." "that's all very well, japhet; but i had rather trust to our own prudence. now hear what i have to say. you will be as much assisted by a _trusty_ valet as by any other means. i shall, as a gentleman, be only an expense and an incumbrance; but as a valet i shall be able to play into your hands, at the same time more than one half the expense will be avoided. with your leave, therefore, i will take my proper situation, put on your livery, and thereby make myself of the greatest use." i could not help acknowledging the advantages to be derived from this proposal of timothy's; but i did not like to accept it. "it is very kind of you, timothy," replied i; "but i can only look upon you as a friend and an equal." "there you are right and are wrong in the same breath. you are right in looking upon me as a friend, japhet; and you would be still more right in allowing me to prove my friendship as i propose; but you are wrong in looking upon me as an equal, for i am not so either in personal appearance, education, or anything else. we are both foundlings, it is true; but you were christened after abraham newland, and i after the workhouse pump. you were a gentleman foundling, presenting yourself with a fifty pound note, and good clothes. i made my appearance in rags and misery. if you find your parents, you will rise in the world; if i find mine, i shall, in all probability, have no reason to be proud of them. i therefore must insist upon having my own choice in the part i am to play in the drama, and i will prove to you that it is my right to choose. you forget that, when we started, your object was to search after your father, and i told you mine should be to look after my mother. you have selected high life as the expected sphere in which he is to be found, and i select low life as that in which i am most likely to discover the object of my search. so you perceive," continued tim, laughing, "that we must arrange so as to suit the views of both without parting company. do you hunt among bag-wigs, amber-headed canes, silks and satins--i will burrow among tags and tassels, dimity and mob caps; and probably we shall both succeed in the object of our search. i leave you to hunt in the drawing-rooms, while i ferret in the kitchen. you may throw yourself on a sofa and exclaim--'who is my father?' while i will sit in the cook's lap, and ask her if she may happen to be my mother." this sally of timothy's made even fleta laugh; and after a little more remonstrance, i consented that he should perform the part of my valet. indeed, the more i reflected upon it, the greater appeared the advantages which might accrue from the arrangement. by the time that this point had been settled, we had arrived at the town to which we directed our steps, and took up our quarters at an inn of moderate pretensions, but of very great external cleanliness. my first object was to find out some fitting asylum for little fleta. the landlady was a buxom, good-tempered young woman, and i gave the little girl into her charge, while timothy and i went out on a survey. i had made up my mind to put her to some good, but not very expensive, school, if such were to be found in the vicinity. i should have preferred taking her with me to london, but i was aware how much more expensive it would be to provide for her there; and as the distance from the metropolis was but twenty miles, i could easily run down to see her occasionally. i desired the little girl to call me her brother, as such i intended to be to her in future, and not to answer every question they might put to her. there was, however, little occasion for this caution; for fleta was, as i before observed, very unlike children in general. i then went out with timothy to look for a tailor, that i might order our clothes, as what we had on were not either of the very best taste, or in the very best condition. we walked up the main street, and soon fell in with a tailor's shop, over which was written in large letters--"feodor shneider, tailor to his royal highness the prince of darmstadt." "will that do, japhet?" said timothy, pointing to the announcement. "why yes," replied i; "but how the deuce the prince of darmstadt should have employed a man in a small country town as his tailor, is to me rather a puzzle." "perhaps he made his clothes when he was in germany," replied tim. "perhaps he did; but, however, he shall have the honour of making mine." we entered the shop, and i ordered a suit of the most fashionable clothes, choosing my colours, and being very minute in my directions to the foreman, who measured me; but as i was leaving the shop the master, judging by my appearance, which was certainly not exactly that of a gentleman, ventured to observe that it was customary with _gentlemen_, whom they had not the honour of knowing, to leave a deposit. although the very proposal was an attack upon my gentility, i made no reply; but pulling out a handful of guineas, laid down two on the counter, and walked away, that i might find another shop at which we might order the livery of timothy; but this was only as a reconnoitre, as i did not intend to order his liveries until i could appear in my own clothes, which were promised on the afternoon of the next day. there were, however, several other articles to be purchased, such as a trunk, portmanteau, hat, gloves, &c., all which we procured, and then went back to the inn. on my return i ordered dinner. fleta was certainly clad in her best frock, but bad was the best; and the landlady, who could extract little from the child, could not imagine who we could be. i had, however, allowed her to see more than sufficient money to warrant our expenses; and so far her scruples were, although her curiosity was not, removed. that evening i had a long conversation with fleta. i told her that we were to part, that she must go to school, and that i would very often come down to see her. at first, she was inconsolable at the idea; but i reasoned with her, and the gentle, intelligent creature acknowledged that it was right. the next day my clothes came home, and i dressed myself. "without flattery, japhet," said timothy, "you do look very much like a gentleman." fleta smiled, and said the same. i thought so too, but said nothing. putting on my hat and gloves, and accompanied by timothy, i descended to go out and order tim's liveries, as well as a fit-out for fleta. after i was out in the street i discovered that i had left my handkerchief, and returned to fetch it. the landlady, seeing a gentleman about to enter the inn, made a very low courtesy, and it was not until i looked hard at her that she recognised me. then i was satisfied; it was an involuntary tribute to my appearance, worth all the flattering assertions in the world. we now proceeded to the other tailor's in the main street. i entered the shop with a flourishing, important air, and was received with many bows. "i wish," said i, "to have a suit of livery made for this young man, who is about to enter into my service. i cannot take him up to town this figure." the livery was chosen, and as i expressed my wish to be off the next evening, it was promised to be ready by an hour appointed. i then went to a milliner's, and desired that she would call at the inn to fit out a little girl for school, whose wardrobe had been left behind by mistake. on the fourth day all was ready. i had made inquiries, and found out a very respectable school, kept by a widow lady. i asked for references, which were given, and i was satisfied. the terms were low--twenty pounds per annum. i paid the first half year in advance, and lodged fifty guineas more in the hands of a banker, taking a receipt for it, and giving directions that it was to be paid to the schoolmistress as it became due. i took this precaution, that should i be in poverty myself, at all events fleta might be provided in clothes and schooling for three years at least. the poor child wept bitterly at the separation, and i could with difficulty detach her little arms from my neck, and i felt when i left her as if i had parted with the only valuable object to me on earth. all was now ready; but timothy did not, as yet, assume his new clothes. it would have appeared strange that one who sat at my table should afterwards put on my livery; and as, in a small town there is always plenty of scandal, for fleta's sake, if for no other reason, it was deferred until our arrival in london. wishing the landlady good-bye, who i really believed would have given up her bill to have known who we could possibly be, we got on the outside of the stage-coach, and in the evening arrived in the metropolis. i have been particular in describing all these little circumstances, as it proves how very awkward it is to jump, without observation, from one station in society to another. chapter xviii i receive a letter from my uncle by which i naturally expect to find out who is my father--like other outcasts, i am warned by a dream. but i have omitted to mention a circumstance of great importance, which occurred at the inn the night before i placed fleta at the boarding-school. in looking over my portmanteau, i perceived the present of nattée to fleta, which i had quite forgotten. i took it to fleta, and told her from whom it came. on opening the paper, it proved to contain a long chain of round coral and gold beads, strung alternately; the gold beads were not so large as the coral, but still the number of them, and the purity of the metal, made them of considerable value. fleta passed the beads through her fingers, and then threw it round her neck, and sat in deep thought for some minutes. "japhet," said she at last, "i have seen this--i have worn this before--i recollect that i have; it rushes into my memory as an old friend, and i think that before morning it will bring to my mind something that i shall recollect about it." "try all you can, fleta, and let me know to-morrow." "it's no use trying; if i try, i never can recollect anything. i must wear it to-night, and then i shall have something come into my mind all of a sudden; or perhaps i may dream something. good-night." it immediately occurred to me that it was most probable that the chain had been on fleta's neck at the time that she was stolen from her parents, and might prove the means of her being identified. it was no common chain--apparently had been wrought by people in a state of semi-refinement. there was too little show for its value--too much sterling gold for the simple effect produced; and i very much doubted whether another like it could be found. the next morning fleta was too much affected at parting with me, to enter into much conversation. i asked whether she had recollected anything, and she replied, "no; that she had cried all night at the thoughts of our separation." i cautioned her to be very careful of the chain, and i gave the same caution to the schoolmistress; and after i had left the town, i regretted that i had not taken it away, and deposited it in some place of security. i resolved to do so when i next saw fleta; in the meantime, she would be able, perhaps, by association, to call up some passage of her infancy connected with it. i had inquired of a gentleman who sat near me on the coach, which was the best hotel for a young man of fashion. he recommended the piazza, in covent garden, and to that we accordingly repaired. i selected handsome apartments, and ordered a light supper. when the table was laid, timothy made his appearance, in his livery, and cut a very smart, dashing figure. i dismissed the waiter, and as soon as we were alone, i burst into a fit of laughter. "really, timothy, this is a good farce; come, sit down, and help me to finish this bottle of wine." "no, sir," replied timothy; "with your permission, i prefer doing as the rest of my fraternity. you only leave the bottle on the sideboard, and i will steal as much as i want; but as for sitting down, that will be making too free, and if we were seen, would be, moreover, very dangerous. we must both keep up our characters. they have been plying me with all manner of questions below, as to who you were--your name, &c. i resolved that i would give you a lift in the world, and i stated that you had just arrived from making a grand tour--which is not a fib, after all--and as for your name, i said that you were at present _incog_." "but why did you make me _incog._?" "because it may suit you so to be; and it certainly is the truth, for you don't know your real name." we were here interrupted by the waiter bringing in a letter upon a salver. "here is a letter addressed to 'i, or j.n., on his return from his tour,' sir," said he; "i presume it is for you?" "you may leave it," said i, with nonchalance. the waiter laid the letter on the table, and retired. "how very odd, timothy--this letter cannot be for me; and yet they are my initials. it is as much like a j as an i. depend upon it, it is some fellow who has just gained this intelligence below, and has written to ask for a subscription to his charity list, imagining that i am flush of money, and liberal." "i suppose so," replied tim; "however, you may just as well see what he says." "but if i open it he will expect something. i had better refuse it." "o no, leave that to me; i know how to put people off." "after all, it is a fine thing to be a gentleman, and be petitioned." i broke open the seal, and found that the letter contained an inclosure addressed to another person. the letter was as follows:-- "my dear nephew,--['bravo, sir,' said timothy; 'you've found an uncle already--you'll soon find a father.'] from the great uncertainty of the post, i have not ventured to do more than hint at what has come to light during this last year, but as it is necessary that you should be acquainted with the whole transaction; and as you had not decided when you last wrote, whether you would prosecute your intended three months trip to sicily, or return from milan, you may probably arrive when i am out of town; i therefore enclose you a letter to mr masterton, directing him to surrender to you a sealed packet, lodged in his hands, containing all the particulars, the letters which bear upon them, and what has been proposed to avoid exposure; which you may peruse at your leisure, should you arrive before my return to town. there is no doubt but that the affair may be hushed up, and we trust that you will see the prudence of the measure; as, once known, it will be very discreditable to the family escutcheon. ('i always had an idea you were of good family,' interrupted tim.) i wish you had followed my advice, and had not returned; but as you were positive on that point, i beg you will now consider the propriety of remaining incognito, as reports are already abroad, and your sudden return will cause a great deal of surmise. your long absence at the gottingen university, and your subsequent completion of your grand tour, will have effaced all remembrance of your person, and you can easily be passed off as a particular friend of mine, and i can introduce you everywhere as such. take, then, any name you may please, provided it be not smith or brown, or such vulgarisms; and on the receipt of this letter, write a note, and send it to my house in portman square, just saying, '_so and so_ is arrived.' this will prevent the servants from obtaining any information by their prying curiosity; and as i have directed all my letters to be forwarded to my seat in worcestershire, i shall come up immediately that i receive it, and by your putting the name which you mean to assume, i shall know whom to ask for when i call at the hotel. "your affectionate uncle, "windermear." "one thing is very clear, timothy," said i, laying the letter on the table, "that it cannot be intended for me." "how do you know, sir, that this lord is not your uncle? at all events, you must do as he bids you." "what--go for the papers! most certainly i shall not." "then how in the name of fortune do you expect to find your father, when you will not take advantage of such an opportunity of getting into society? it is by getting possession of other people's secrets, that you will worm out your own." "but it is dishonest, timothy." "a letter is addressed to you, in which you have certain directions; you break the seal with confidence, and you read what you find is possibly not for you; but, depend upon it, japhet, that a secret obtained is one of the surest roads to promotion. recollect your position; cut off from the world, you have to re-unite yourself with it, to recover your footing, and create an interest. you have not those who love you to help you--you must not scruple to obtain your object by fear." "that is a melancholy truth, tim," replied i; "and i believe i must put my strict morality in my pocket." "do, sir, pray, until you can afford to be moral; it's a very expensive virtue that; a deficiency of it made you an outcast from the world, you must not scruple at a slight deficiency on your own part, to regain your position." there was so much shrewdness, so much of the wisdom of the serpent in the remarks of timothy, that, added to my ardent desire to discover my father, which since my quitting the gipsy camp had returned upon me with two-fold force, my scruples were overcome, and i resolved that i would not lose such an opportunity. still i hesitated, and went up into my room, that i might reflect upon what i should do. i went to bed, revolving the matter in my mind, and turning over from one position to the other, at one time deciding that i would not take advantage of the mistake, at another quite as resolved that i would not throw away such an opening for the prosecution of my search; at last i fell into an uneasy slumber, and had a strange dream. i thought that i was standing upon an isolated rock, with the waters raging around me; the tide was rising, and at last the waves were roaring at my feet. i was in a state of agony, and expected that, in a short time, i should be swallowed up. the main land was not far off, and i perceived well-dressed people in crowds, who were enjoying themselves, feasting, dancing, and laughing in merry peals. i held out my hands--i shouted to them--they saw, and heard me, but heeded me not. my horror at being swept away by the tide was dreadful. i shrieked as the water rose. at last i perceived something unroll itself from the main land, and gradually advancing to the inland, form a bridge by which i could walk over and be saved. i was about to hasten over, when "private, and no thoroughfare," appeared at the end nearest me, in large letters of fire. i started back with amazement, and would not, dared not pass them. when all of a sudden, a figure in white appeared by my side, and said to me, pointing to the bridge, "self-preservation is the first law of nature." i looked at the person who addressed me; gradually the figure became darker and darker, until it changed to mr cophagus, with his stick up to his nose. "japhet, all nonsense--very good bridge--um--walk over--find father--and so on." i dashed over the bridge, which appeared to float on the water, and to be composed of paper, gained the other side, and was received with shouts of congratulation, and the embraces of the crowd. i perceived an elderly gentleman come forward; i knew it was my father, and i threw myself into his arms. i awoke, and found myself rolling on the floor, embracing the bolster with all my might. such was the vivid impression of this dream, that i could not turn my thoughts away from it, and at last i considered that it was a divine interposition. all my scruples vanished, and before the day had dawned i determined that i would follow the advice of timothy. an enthusiast is easily led to believe what he wishes, and he mistakes his own feelings for warnings; the dreams arising from his daily contemplations for the interference of heaven. he thinks himself armed by supernatural assistance, and warranted by the almighty to pursue his course, even if that course should be contrary to the almighty's precepts. thus was i led away by my own imaginings, and thus was my _monomania_ increased to an impetus which forced before it all consideration of what was right or wrong. chapter xix _an important chapter--i make some important acquaintances, obtain some important papers which i am importunate to read through._ the next morning i told my dream to timothy, who laughed very heartily at my idea of the finger of providence. at last, perceiving that i was angry with him, he pretended to be convinced. when i had finished my breakfast, i sent to inquire the number in the square of lord windermear's town house, and wrote the following simple note to his lordship, "_japhet newland_ has arrived from his tour at the piazza, covent garden." this was confided to timothy, and i then set off with the other letter to mr masterton, which was addressed to lincoln's inn. by reading the addresses of the several legal gentlemen, i found out that mr masterton was located on the first floor. i rang the bell, which had the effect of "open, sesame," as the door appeared to swing to admit me without any assistance. i entered an ante-room, and from thence found myself in the presence of mr masterton--a little old man, with spectacles on his nose, sitting at a table covered with papers. he offered me a chair, and i presented the letter. "i see that i am addressing mr neville," said he, after he had perused the letter. "i congratulate you on your return. you may not, perhaps, remember me?" "indeed, sir, i cannot say that i do, exactly." "i could not expect it, my dear sir, you have been so long away. you have very much improved in person, i must say; yet still, i recollect your features as a mere boy. without compliment, i had no idea that you would ever have made so handsome a man." i bowed to the compliment. "have you heard from your uncle?" "i had a few lines from lord windermear, enclosing your letter." "he is well, i hope?" "quite well, i believe." mr masterton then rose, went to an iron safe, and brought out a packet of papers, which he put into my hands. "you will read these with interest, mr neville. i am a party to the whole transaction, and must venture to advise you not to appear in england under your own name, until all is settled. your uncle, i perceive, has begged the same." "and i have assented, sir. i have taken a name instead of my real one." "may i ask what it is?" "i call myself mr japhet newland." "well, it is singular, but perhaps as good as any other. i will take it down, in case i have to write to you. your address is--" "piazza--covent garden." mr masterton took my name and address, i took the papers, and then we both took leave of one another, with many expressions of pleasure and good-will. i returned to the hotel, where i found timothy waiting for me, with impatience. "japhet," said he, "lord windermear has not yet left town. i have seen him, for i was called back after i left the house, by the footman, who ran after me--he will be here immediately." "indeed," replied i. "pray what sort of person is he, and what did he say to you?" "he sent for me in the dining-parlour, where he was at breakfast, asked when you arrived, whether you were well, and how long i had been in your service. i replied that i had not been more than two days, and had just put on my liveries. he then desired me to tell mr newland that he would call upon him in about two hours. then, my lord," replied i, "i had better go and tell him to get out of bed." "the lazy dog!" said he, "nearly one o'clock, and not out of bed; well, go then, and get him dressed as fast as you can." shortly afterwards a handsome carriage with greys drew up to the door. his lordship sent in his footman to ask whether mr newland was at home. the reply of the waiter was, that there was a young gentleman who had been there two or three days, who had come from making a tour, and his name did begin with an _n_. "that will do, james; let down the steps." his lordship alighted, was ushered up stairs, and into my room. there we stood, staring at each other. "lord windermear, i believe," said i, extending my hand. "you have recognised me first, john," said he, taking my hand, and looking earnestly in my face. "good heavens! is it possible that an awkward boy should have grown up into so handsome a fellow? i shall be proud of my nephew. did you remember me when i entered the room?" "to tell the truth, my lord, i did not; but expecting you, i took it for granted that it must be you." "nine years make a great difference, john;--but i forget, i must now call you japhet. have you been reading the bible lately, that you fixed upon that strange name?" "no, my lord, but this hotel is such a noah's ark, that it's no wonder i thought of it." "you're an undutiful dog, not to ask after your mother, sir." "i was about--" "i see--i see," interrupted his lordship; "but recollect, john, that she still is _your mother_. by-the-by, have you read the papers yet?" "no, sir," replied i, "there they are," pointing to them on the side table. "i really do not like to break the seals." "that they will not contain pleasant intelligence, i admit," replied his lordship; "but until you have read them, i do not wish to converse with you on the subject, therefore," said he, taking up the packet, and breaking the seals, "i must now insist that you employ this forenoon in reading them through. you will dine with me at seven, and then we will talk the matter over." "certainly, sir, if you wish it, i will read them." "i must _insist_ upon it, john; and am rather surprised at your objecting, when they concern you so particularly." "i shall obey your orders, sir." "well, then, my boy, i shall wish you good morning, that you may complete your task before you come to dinner. to-morrow, if you wish it--but recollect, i never press young men on these points, as i am aware that they sometimes feel it a restraint--if you wish it, i say, you may bring your portmanteaus, and take up your quarters with me. by-the-bye," continued his lordship, taking hold of my coat, "who made this?" "the tailor to his serene highness the prince of darmsradt had that honour, my lord," replied i. "humph! i thought they fitted better in germany; it's not quite the thing--we must consult stulz, for with that figure and face, the coat ought to be quite correct. adieu, my dear fellow, till seven." his lordship shook hands with me, and i was left alone. timothy came in as soon as his lordship's carriage had driven off. "well, sir," said he, "was your uncle glad to see you?" "yes," replied i; "and look, he has broken open the seals, and has insisted upon my reading the papers." "it would be very undutiful in you to refuse, so i had better leave you to your task," said timothy, smiling, as he quitted the room. chapter xx i open an account with my bankers, draw largely upon credulity, and am prosperous without a _check_. i sat down and took up the papers. i was immediately and strangely interested in all that i read. a secret!--it was, indeed, a secret, involving the honour and reputation of the most distinguished families. one that, if known, the trumpet of scandal would have blazoned forth to the disgrace of the aristocracy. it would have occasioned bitter tears to some, gratified the petty malice of many, satisfied the revenge of the vindictive, and bowed with shame the innocent as well as the guilty. it is not necessary, nor, indeed, would i, on any account, state any more. i finished the last paper, and then fell into a reverie. this is, indeed, a secret, thought i; one that i would i never had possessed. in a despotic country my life would be sacrificed to the fatal knowledge--here, thank god, my life as well as my liberty are safe. the contents of the papers told me all that was necessary to enable me to support the character which i had assumed. the reason why the party, whom i was supposed to be, was intrusted with it, was, that he was in a direct line, eventually heir, and the question was whether he would waive his claim with the others, and allow death to bury crime in oblivion. i felt that were i in his position i should so do--and therefore was prepared to give an answer to his lordship. i sealed up the papers, dressed myself, and went to dinner; and after the cloth was removed, lord windermear, first rising and turning the key in the door, said to me, in a low voice, "you have read the papers, and what those, nearly as much interested as you are in this lamentable business, have decided upon. tell me, what is your opinion?" "my opinion, my lord, is, that i wish i had never known what has come to light this day--that it will be most advisable never to recur to the subject, and that the proposals made are, in my opinion, most judicious, and should be acted upon." "that is well," replied his lordship; "then all are agreed, and i am proud to find you possessed of such honour and good feeling. we now drop the subject for ever. are you inclined to leave town with me, or what do you intend to do?" "i prefer remaining in town, if your lordship will introduce me to some of the families of your acquaintance. of course i know no one now." "very true; i will introduce you, as agreed, as mr newland. it may be as well that you do not know any of our relations, whom i have made to suppose, that you are still abroad--and it would be awkward, when you take your right name by-and-bye. do you mean to see your mother?" "impossible, my lord, at present; by-and-bye i hope to be able." "perhaps it's all for the best. i will now write one note to major carbonnell, introducing you as my particular friend, and requesting that he will make london agreeable. he knows everybody, and will take you everywhere." "when does your lordship start for the country?" "to-morrow; so we may as well part to-night. by-the-by, you have credit at drummond's, in the name of newland, for a thousand pounds; the longer you make it last you the better." his lordship gave me the letter of introduction. i returned to him the sealed packet, shook hands with him, and took my departure. "well, sir," said timothy, rubbing his hands, as he stood before me, "what is the news; for i am dying to hear it--and what is this secret?" "with regard to the secret, tim, a secret it must remain. i dare not tell it even to you." timothy looked rather grave at this reply. "no, timothy, as a man of honour, i cannot." my conscience smote me when i made use of the term; for, as a man of honour, i had no business to be in possession of it. "my dear timothy, i have done wrong already, do not ask me to do worse." "i will not, japhet; but only tell me what has passed, and what you intend to do?" "that i will, timothy, with pleasure;" and i then stated all that had passed between his lordship and me. "and now, you observe, timothy, i have gained what i desired, an introduction into the best society." "and the means of keeping up your appearance," echoed timothy, rubbing his hands. "a thousand pounds will last a long while." "it will last a very long while, tim, for i never will touch it; it would be swindling." "so it would," replied tim, his countenance falling; "well, i never thought of that." "i have thought of much more, tim; recollect i must, in a very short time, be exposed to lord windermear, for the real mr neville will soon come home." "good heavens! what will become of us?" replied timothy, with alarm in his countenance. "nothing can hurt you, tim, the anger will be all upon me; but i am prepared to face it, and i would face twice as much for the distant hope of finding my father. whatever lord windermear may feel inclined to do, he can do nothing; and my possession of the secret will ensure even more than my safety; it will afford me his protection, if i demand it." "i hope it may prove so," replied timothy, "but i feel a little frightened." "i do not; to-morrow i shall give my letter of introduction, and then i will prosecute my search. so now, my dear tim, good-night." the next morning, i lost no time in presenting my letter of introduction to major carbonnell. he lived in apartments on the first floor in st james's street, and i found him at breakfast, in a silk dressing gown. i had made up my mind that a little independence always carries with it an air of fashion. when i entered, therefore, i looked at him with a knowing air, and dropping the letter down on the table before him, said, "there's something for you to read, major; and, in the meantime, i'll refresh myself on this chair;" suiting the action to the word, i threw myself on a chair, amusing myself with tapping the sides of my boots with a small cane which i carried in my hand. major carbonnell, upon whom i cast a furtive eye more than once during the time that he was reading the letter, was a person of about thirty-five years of age, well-looking, but disfigured by the size of his whiskers, which advanced to the corners of his mouth, and met under his throat. he was tall and well made, and with an air of fashion about him that was undeniable. his linen was beautifully, clean and carefully arranged, and he had as many rings on his fingers, and, when he was dressed, chains and trinkets, as ever were put on by a lady. "my dear sir, allow me the honour of making at once your most intimate acquaintance," said he, rising from his chair, and offering his hand, as soon as he had perused the letter. "any friend of lord windermear's would be welcome, but when he brings such an extra recommendation in his own appearance, he becomes doubly so." "major carbonnell," replied i, "i have seen you but two minutes, and i have taken a particular fancy to you, in which i, no doubt, have proved my discrimination. of course, you know that i have just returned from making a tour?" "so i understand from his lordship's letter. mr newland, my time is at your service. where are you staying?" "at the piazza." "very good; i will dine with you to-day; order some mulligatawny, they are famous for it. after dinner we will go to the theatre." i was rather surprised at his cool manner of asking himself to dine with me and ordering my dinner, but a moment's reflection made me feel what sort of person i had to deal with. "major, i take that as almost an affront. you will dine with me _to-day!_ i beg to state that you _must_ dine with me every day that we are not invited elsewhere; and what's more, sir, i shall be most seriously displeased, if you do not order the dinner every time that you do dine with me, and ask whoever you may think worthy of putting their legs under our table, let's have no doing things by halves, major; i know you now as well as if we had been intimate for ten years." the major seized me by the hand. "my dear newland, i only wish we _had known_ one another ten years, as you say--the loss has been mine; but now--you have breakfasted, i presume?" "yes; having nothing to do, and not knowing a soul after my long absence, i advanced my breakfast about two hours, that i might find you at home; and now i'm at your service." "say rather i am at yours. i presume you will walk. in ten minutes i shall be ready. either take up the paper, or whistle an air or two, or anything else you like, just to kill ten minutes--and i shall be at your command." chapter xxi i come out under a first-rate chaperon, and at once am established into the regions of fashion--prove that i am deserving of my promotion. "i beg your pardon, newland," said the major, returning from his dressing-room, resplendent with chains and bijouterie; "but i must have your christian name." "it's rather a strange one," replied i; "it is japhet." "japhet! by the immortal powers, i'd bring an action against my godfathers and godmothers; you ought to recover _heavy damages_." "then i presume you would not have the name," replied i, with a knowing look, "for a clear ten thousand a year." "whew! that alters the case--it's astonishing how well any name looks in large _gold_ letters. well, as the old gentleman, whoever he might have been, made you compensation, you must forgive and forget. now where shall we go?" "with your permission, as i came to town in these clothes, made by a german tailor--darmstadt's tailor by-the-bye--but still if tailor to a prince, not the prince of tailors--i would wish you to take me to your own: your dress appears very correct." "you show your judgment, newland, it _is_ correct; stulz will be delighted to have your name on his books, and to do justice to that figure. _allons donc_." we sauntered up st james's street, and before i had arrived at stulz's, i had been introduced to at least twenty of the young men about town. the major was most particular in his directions about the clothes, all of which he ordered; and as i knew that he was well acquainted with the fashion, i gave him carte blanche. when we left the shop, he said, "now, my dear newland, i have given you a proof of friendship, which no other man in england has had. your dress will be the ne plus ultra. there are little secrets only known to the initiated, and stulz is aware that this time i am in earnest. i am often asked to do the same for others, and i pretend so to do; but a wink from me is sufficient, and stulz dares not dress them. don't you want some bijouterie? or have you any at home?" "i may as well have a few trifles," replied i. we entered a celebrated jeweller's, and he selected for me to the amount of about forty pounds. "that will do--never buy much; for it is necessary to change every three months at least. what is the price of this chain?" "it is only fifteen guineas, major." "well, i shall take it; but recollect," continued the major; "i tell you honestly, i never shall pay you." the jeweller smiled, bowed, and laughed; the major threw the chain round his neck, and we quitted the shop. "at all events, major, they appear not to believe your word in that shop." "my dear fellow, that's their own fault, not mine. i tell them honestly i never will pay them; and you may depend upon it, i intend most sacredly to keep my word. i never do pay anybody, for the best of all possible reasons, i have no money; but then i do them a service--i make them fashionable, and they know it." "what debts do you pay then, major?" "let me think--that requires consideration. oh! i pay my washer-woman." "don't you pay your debts of honour?" "debts of honour! why i'll tell _you_ the truth; for i know that we shall hunt in couples. if i win i take the money: but if i lose--why then i forget to pay; and i always tell them so before i set down to the table. if they won't believe me, it's not my fault. but what's the hour? come, i must make a few calls, and will introduce you." we sauntered on to grosvenor square, knocked, and were admitted into a large, elegantly-furnished mansion. the footman announced us--"my dear lady maelstrom, allow me the honour of introducing to you my very particular friend, mr newland, consigned to my charge by my lord windermear during his absence. he has just arrived from the continent, where he has been making the grand tour." her ladyship honoured me with a smile. "by-the-bye, major, that reminds me--do me the favour to come to the window. excuse us one moment, mr newland." the major and lady maelstrom walked to the window, and exchanged a few sentences, and then returned. her ladyship holding up her finger, and saying to him as they came towards me, "promise me now that you won't forget." "your ladyship's slightest wishes are to me imperative commands," replied the major, with a graceful bow. in a quarter of an hour, during which the conversation was animated, we rose to take our leave, when her ladyship came up to me, and offering her hand, said, "mr newland, the friendship of lord windermear, and the introduction of major carbonnell, are more than sufficient to induce me to put your name down on my visiting list. i trust i shall see a great deal of you, and that we shall be great friends." i bowed to this handsome announcement, and we retired. as soon as we were out in the square, the major observed, "you saw her take me on one side--it was to _pump_. she has no daughters, but about fifty nieces, and match-making is her delight. i told her that i would stake my honour upon your possessing ten thousand a year; how much more i could not say. i was not far wrong, was i?" i laughed. "what i may be worth, major, i really cannot say; but i trust that the event will prove that you are not far wrong. say no more, my dear fellow." "i understand--you are not yet of age--of course, have not yet come into possession of your fortune." "that is exactly the case, major. i am now but little more than nineteen." "you look older; but there is no getting over baptismal registries with the executors. newland, you must content yourself for the two next years in playing moses, and only peep at the promised land." we made two or three more calls, and then returned to st james's street. "where shall we go now? by-the-bye, don't you want to go to your banker's?" "i will just stroll down with you, and see if they have paid any money in," replied i, carelessly. we called at drummond's, and i asked them if there was any money paid in to the credit of mr newland. "yes, sir," replied one of the clerks: "there is one thousand pounds paid in yesterday." "very good," replied i. "how much do you wish to draw for?" inquired the major. "i don't want any," replied i. "i have more money than i ought to have in my desk at this moment." "well, then, let us go and order dinner; or perhaps you would like to stroll about a little more; if so, i will go and order the dinner. here's harcourt, that's lucky. harcourt my dear fellow, know mr newland, my very particular friend. i must leave you now; take his arm, harcourt, for half an hour, and then join us at dinner at the piazza." mr harcourt was an elegant young man of about five-and-twenty. equally pleased with each other's externals, we were soon familiar: he was witty, sarcastic, and wellbred. after half an hour's conversation he asked me what i thought of the major. i looked him in the face and smiled. "that look tells me that you will not be his dupe, otherwise i had warned you: he is a strange character: but if you have money enough to afford to _keep him_, you cannot do better, as he is acquainted with, and received by, everybody. his connections are good; and he once had a very handsome fortune, but it was soon run out, and he was obliged to sell his commission in the guards. now he lives upon the world; which as shakespeare says, is his oyster; and he has wit and sharpness enough to open it. moreover, he has some chance of falling into a peerage; that prospect, and his amusing qualities, added to his being the most fashionable man about town, keeps his head above water. i believe lord windermear, who is his cousin, very often helps him." "it was lord windermear who introduced me to him," observed i. "then he will not venture to play any tricks upon you, further than eating your dinners, borrowing your money, and forgetting to pay it." "you must acknowledge," said i, "he always tells you beforehand that he never will pay you." "and that is the only point in which he adheres to his word," replied harcourt, laughing; "but, tell me, am i to be _your_ guest to-day?" "if you will do me that honour." "i assure you i am delighted to come, as i shall have a further opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance." "then we had better bend our steps towards the hotel, for it is late," replied i; and we did so accordingly. chapter xxii the real simon pure proves the worse of the two--i am found guilty, but not condemned; convicted, yet convince; and after having behaved the very contrary to, prove that i am, a gentleman. on our arrival, we found the table spread, champagne in ice under the sideboard, and apparently everything prepared for a sumptuous dinner, the major on the sofa giving directions to the waiter, and timothy looking all astonishment. "major," said i, "i cannot tell you how much i am obliged to you for your kindness in taking all this trouble off my hands, that i might follow up the agreeable introduction you have given me to mr harcourt." "my dear newland, say no more; you will, i dare say, do the same for me if i require it, when i give a dinner. (harcourt caught my eye, as if to say, "you may safely promise that.") but, newland, do you know that the nephew of lord windermear has just arrived? did you meet abroad?" "no," replied i, somewhat confused; but i soon recovered myself. as for tim, he bolted out of the room. "what sort of a person is he?" "that you may judge for yourself, my dear fellow, for i asked him to join us, i must say, more out of compliment to lord windermear than anything else; for i am afraid that, even i could never make a gentleman of him. but take harcourt with you to your room, and by the time you have washed your hands, i will have dinner on the table. i took the liberty of desiring your valet to show me in about ten minutes ago. he's a shrewd fellow that of your's--where did you pick him up?" "by mere accident," replied i; "come, mr harcourt." on our return, we found the real simon pure, mr estcourt, sitting with the major, who introduced us, and dinner being served, we sat down to table. mr estcourt was a young man, about my own age, but not so tall by two or three inches. his features were prominent, but harsh; and when i saw him, i was not at all surprised at lord windermear's expressions of satisfaction, when he suppossd that i was his nephew. his countenance was dogged and sullen, and he spoke little; he appeared to place an immense value upon birth, and hardly deigned to listen, except the aristocracy were the subject of discourse. i treated him with marked deference, that i might form an acquaintance, and found before we parted that night, that i had succeeded. our dinner was excellent, and we were all, except mr estcourt, in high good humour. we sat late--too late to go to the theatre, and promising to meet the next day at noon, harcourt and the major took their leave. mr estcourt had indulged rather too much, and, after their departure, became communicative. i plied the bottle and we sat up for more than an hour; he talked of nothing but his family and his expectations. i took this opportunity of discovering what his feelings were likely to be when he was made acquainted with the important secret which was in my possession. i put a case somewhat similar, and asked him whether in such circumstances he would waive his right for a time, to save the honour of his family. "no, by g--d!" replied he, "i never would. what! give up even for a day my right--conceal my true rank for the sake of relatives? never--nothing would induce me." i was satisfied, and then casually asked him if he had written to lord windermear to inform him of his arrival. "no," replied he; "i shall write to-morrow." he soon after retired to his own apartment, and i rang for timothy. "good heavens, sir!" cried timothy, "what is all this--and what are you about? i am frightened out of my wits. why, sir, our money will not last two months." "i do not expect it will last much longer, tim; but it cannot be helped. into society i must get--and to do so, must pay for it." "but, sir, putting the expense aside, what are we to do about this mr estcourt? all must be found out." "i intend that it shall be found out, tim," replied i; "but not yet. he will write to his uncle to-morrow; you must obtain the letter, for it must not go. i must first have time to establish myself, and then lord windermear may find out his error as soon as he pleases." "upon my honour, japhet, you appear to be afraid of nothing." "i fear nothing, tim, when i am following up the object of my wishes. i will allow no obstacles to stand in my way, in my search after my father." "really, you seem to be quite mad on that point, japhet." "perhaps i may be, tim," replied i, thoughtfully. "at all events, let us go to bed now, and i will tell you to-morrow morning, all the events of this day." mr estcourt wrote his letter, which tim very officiously offered to put into the post, instead of which we put it between the bars of the grate. i must now pass over about three weeks, during which i became very intimate with the major and mr harcourt, and was introduced by them to the clubs, and almost every person of fashion. the idea of my wealth, and my very handsome person and figure, ensured me a warm reception, and i soon became one of the stars of the day. during this time, i also gained the entire confidence of mr estcourt, who put letter after letter into the hands of timothy, who of course put them into the usual place. i pacified him as long as i could, by expressing my opinion, that his lordship was on a visit to some friends in the neighbourhood of his seat; but at last, he would remain in town no longer. you may go now, thought i, i feel quite safe. it was about five days after his departure, as i was sauntering, arm in arm with the major, who generally dined with me about five days in the week, that i perceived the carriage of lord windermear, with his lordship in it. he saw us, and pulling his check-string, alighted, and coming up to us, with the colour mounting to his forehead with emotion, returned the salute of the major and me. "major," said he, "you will excuse me, but i am anxious to have some conversation with mr newland; perhaps," continued his lordship, addressing me, "you will do me the favour to take a seat in my carriage?" fully prepared, i lost none of my self-possession, but, thanking his lordship, i bowed to him, and stepped in. his lordship followed, and, saying to the footman, "home--drive fast," fell back in the carriage, and never uttered one word until we had arrived, and had entered the dining-parlour. he then took a few steps up and down, before he said, "mr newland, or whatever your name may be, i perceive that you consider the possession of an important secret to be your safeguard. to state my opinion of your conduct is needless; who you are, and what you are, i know not; but," continued he, no longer controlling his anger; "you certainly can have no pretensions to the character of a gentleman." "perhaps your lordship," replied i, calmly, "will inform me upon what you may ground your inference." "did you not, in the first place, open a letter addressed to another?" "my lord, i opened a letter brought to me with the initials of my name, and at the time i opened it i fully believed that it was intended for me." "we will grant that, sir; but after you had opened it you must have known that it was for some other person." "i will not deny that, my lord." "notwithstanding which, you apply to my lawyer, representing yourself as another person, to obtain sealed papers." "i did, my lord; but allow me to say, that i never should have done so, had i not been warned by a dream." "by a dream?" "yes, my lord. i had determined not to go for them, when in a dream i was ordered so to do." "paltry excuse! and then you break private seals." "nay, my lord, although i did go for the papers, i could not, even with the idea of supernatural interposition, make up my mind to break the seals. if your lordship will recollect, it was you who broke the seals, and insisted upon my reading the papers." "yes, sir, under your false name." "it is the name by which i go at present, although i acknowledge it is false; but that is not my fault--i have no other at present." "it is very true, sir, that in all i have now mentioned, the law will not reach you; but recollect, that by assuming another person's name--" "i never did, my lord," interrupted i. "well, i may say, by inducing me to believe that you were my nephew, you have obtained money under false pretences; and for that i now have you in my power." "my lord, i never asked you for the money; you yourself paid it into the banker's hands to my credit, and to my own name. i appeal to you now, whether, if you so deceived yourself, the law can reach me?" "mr newland, i will say, that much as i regret what has passed, i regret more than all the rest, that one so young, so prepossessing, so candid in appearance, should prove such an adept in deceit. thinking you were my nephew, my heart warmed towards you, and i must confess, that since i have seen my real nephew, the mortification has been very great." "my lord, i thank you; but allow me to observe, that i am no swindler. your thousand pounds you will find safe in the bank, for penury would not have induced me to touch it. but now that your lordship appears more cool, will you do me the favour to listen to me? when you have heard my life up to the present, and my motives for what i have done, you will then decide how far i am to blame." his lordship took a chair, and motioned to me to take another. i narrated what had occurred when i was left at the foundling, and gave him a succinct account of my adventures subsequently--my determination to find my father--the dream which induced me to go for the papers--and all that the reader has already been acquainted with. his lordship evidently perceived the monomania which controlled me, and heard me with great attention. "you certainly, mr newland, do not stand so low in my opinion as you did before this explanation, and i must make allowances for the excitement under which i perceive you to labour on one subject; but now, sir, allow me to put one question, and i beg that you will answer candidly. what price do you demand for your secrecy on this important subject?" "my lord!" replied i, rising with dignity; "this is the greatest affront you have put upon me yet; still i will name the price by which i will solemnly bind myself, by all my future hopes of finding my father in this world, and of finding an eternal father in the next, and that price, my lord, is a return of your good opinion." his lordship also rose, and walked up and down the room with much agitation in his manner. "what am i to make of you, mr newland?" "my lord, if i were a swindler, i should have taken your money; if i had wished to avail myself of the secret, i might have escaped with all the documents, and made my own terms. i am, my lord, nothing more than an abandoned child, trying all he can to find his father" my feelings overpowered me, and i burst into tears. as soon as i could recover myself, i addressed his lordship, who had been watching me in silence, and not without emotion. "i have one thing more to say to you, my lord." i then mentioned the conversation between mr estcourt and myself, and pointed out the propriety of not making him a party to the important secret. his lordship allowed me to proceed without interruption, and after a few moments' thought said, "i believe that you are right, mr newland; and i now begin to think that it was better that this secret should have been entrusted to you than to him. you have now conferred an obligation on me, and may command me. i believe you to be honest, but a little mad, and i beg your pardon for the pain which i have occasioned you." "my lord, i am more than satisfied." "can i be of any assistance to you, mr newland?" "if, my lord, you could at all assist me, or direct me in my search--" "there i am afraid i can be of little use; but i will give you the means of prosecuting your search, and in so doing, i am doing but an act of justice, for in introducing you to major carbonnell, i am aware that i must have very much increased your expenses. it was an error which must be repaired, and therefore, mr newland, i beg you will consider the money at the bank as yours, and make use of it to enable you to obtain your ardent wish." "my lord--" "i will not be denied, mr newland; and if you feel any delicacy on the subject, you may take it as a loan, to be repaid when you find it convenient. do not, for a moment, consider that it is given to you because you possess an important secret, for i will trust entirely to your honour on that score." "indeed, my lord," replied i, "your kindness overwhelms me, and i feel as if, in you, i had already _almost_ found a father. excuse me, my lord, but did your lordship ever--ever--" "i know what you would say, my poor fellow: no, i never did. i never was blessed with children. had i been, i should not have felt that i was disgraced by having one resembling you. allow me to entreat you, mr newland, that you do not suffer the mystery of your birth to weigh so heavily on your mind; and now i wish you good morning, and if you think i can be useful to you, i beg that you will not fail to let me know." "may heaven pour down blessings on your head," replied i, kissing respectfully his lordship's hand; "and may my father, when i find him, be as like unto you as possible." i made my obeisance, and quitted the house. chapter xxiii the major prevents the landlord from imposing on me, but i gain nothing by his interference--for economical reasons i agree to live with him that he may live on me. i returned to the hotel, for my mind had been much agitated, and i wished for quiet, and the friendship of timothy. as soon as i arrived i told him all that had passed. "indeed," replied timothy, "things do now wear a pleasant aspect; for i am afraid, that without that thousand, we could not have carried on for a fortnight longer. the bill here is very heavy, and i'm sure the landlord wishes to see the colour of his money." "how much do you think we have left? it is high time, timothy, that we now make up our accounts, and arrange some plans for the future," replied i. "i have paid the jeweller and the tailor, by the advice of the major, who says, that you should always pay your _first bills_ as soon as possible, and all your subsequent bills as late as possible; and if put off _sine die_, so much the better. in fact, i owe very little now, but the bill here, i will send for it to-night." here we were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord. "o mr wallace, you are the very person i wished to see; let me have my bill, if you please." "it's not of the least consequence, sir," replied he; "but if you wish it, i have posted down to yesterday," and the landlord left the room. "you were both of one mind, at all events," said timothy, laughing; "for he had the bill in his hand, and concealed it the moment you asked for it." in about ten minutes the landlord re-appeared, and presenting the bill upon a salver, made his bow and retired. i looked it over, it amounted to £ , which, for little more than three weeks, was pretty well. timothy shrugged up his shoulders, while i ran over the items. "i do not see that there is anything to complain of, tim," observed i, when i came to the bottom of it; "but i do see that living here, with the major keeping me an open house, will never do. let us see how much money we have left." tim brought the dressing-case in which our cash was deposited, and we found, that after paying the waiters, and a few small bills not yet liquidated, our whole stock was reduced to fifty shillings. "merciful heaven! what an escape," cried timothy; "if it had not been for this new supply, what should we have done?" "very badly, timothy; but the money is well spent, after all. i have now entrance into the first circles. i can do without major carbonnell; at all events, i shall quit this hotel, and take furnished apartments, and live at the clubs. i know how to put him off." i laid the money on the salver, and desired timothy to ring for the landlord, when who should come up but the major and harcourt. "why, newland! what are you going to do with that money?" said the major. "i am paying my bill, major." "paying your bill, indeed; let us see--£ . o this is a confounded imposition. you mustn't pay this." at this moment the landlord entered. "mr wallace," said the major, "my friend mr newland was about, as you may see, to pay you the whole of your demand; but allow me to observe, that being my very particular friend, and the piazza having been particularly recommended by me, i do think that your charges are somewhat exorbitant. i shall certainly advise mr newland to leave the house to-morrow, if you are not more reasonable." "allow me to observe, major, that my reason for sending for my bill, was to pay it before i went into the country, which i must do to-morrow, for a few days." "then i shall certainly recommend mr newland not to come here when he returns, mr wallace, for i hold myself, to a certain degree, after the many dinners we have ordered here, and of which i have partaken, as i may say, _particeps criminis_, or in other words, as having been a party to this extortion. indeed, mr wallace, some reduction must be made, or you will greatly hurt the credit of your house." mr wallace declared, that really he had made nothing but the usual charges; that he would look over the bill again, and see what he could do. "my dear newland," said the major, "i have ordered your dinners, allow me to settle your bill. now, mr wallace, suppose we take off _one-third_?" "one-_third_, major carbonnell! i should be a loser." "i am not exactly of your opinion; but let me see--now take your choice. take off £ , or you lose my patronage, and that of all my friends. yes or no?" the landlord, with some expostulation, at last consented, he receipted the bill, and leaving £ of the money on the salver, made his bow, and retired. "rather fortunate that i supped in, my dear newland; now there are £ saved. by-the-bye, i'm short of cash. you've no objection to let me have this? i shall never pay you, you know." "i do know you _never_ will pay me, major; nevertheless, as i should have paid it to the landlord had you not interfered, i will lend it to you." "you are a good fellow, newland," said the major, pocketing the money. "if i had borrowed it, and you had thought you would have had it repaid, i should not have thanked you; but as you lend it me with your eyes open, it is nothing more than a very delicate manner of obliging me, and i tell you candidly, that i will not forget it. so you really are off to-morrow?" "yes," replied i, "i must go, for i find that i am not to make ducks and drakes of my money, until i come into possession of my property." "i see, my dear fellow. executors are the very devil; they have no feeling. never mind; there's a way of getting to windward of them. i dine with harcourt, and he has come to ask you to join us." "with pleasure." "i shall expect you at seven, newland," said harcourt, as he quitted the room with the major. "dear me, sir, how could you let that gentleman walk off with your money?" cried timothy. "i was just rubbing my hands with the idea that we were £ better off than we thought, and away it went, like smoke." "and will never come back again, tim; but never mind that, it is important that i make a friend of him, and his friendship is only to be bought. i shall have value received. and now, tim, we must pack up, for i leave this to-morrow morning. i shall go down to ----, and see little fleta." i dined with harcourt. the major was rather curious to know what it was which appeared to flurry lord windermear, and what had passed between us. i told him that his lordship was displeased on money matters, but that all was right, only that i must be more careful for the future. "indeed, major, i think i shall take lodgings. i shall be more comfortable, and better able to receive my friends." harcourt agreed with me, that it was a much better plan, when the major observed, "why, newland, i have a room quite at your service; suppose you come and live with me?" "i am afraid i shall not save by that," replied i, laughing, "for you will not pay your share of the bills." "no, upon my honour i will not; so i give you fair warning; but as i always dine with you when i do not dine elsewhere, it will be a saving to you--for you will _have your lodgings_, newland; and you know the house is my own, and i let off the rest of it; so as far as that bill is concerned, you will be safe." "make the best bargain you can, newland," said harcourt; "accept his offer, for depend upon it, it will be a saving in the end." "it certainly deserves consideration," replied i; "and the major's company must be allowed to have its due weight in the scale; if carbonnell will promise to be a little more economical--" "i will, my dear fellow--i will act as your steward, and make your money last as long as i can, for my _own sake_, as well as yours. is it a bargain? i have plenty of room for your servant, and if he will assist me a little, i will discharge my own." i then consented to the arrangement. chapter xxiv the major teaches me how to play whist, so as never to lose, which is by playing against each other, and into each other's hands. the next day i went to the banker's, drew out £ , and set off with timothy for ----. fleta threw herself into my arms, and sobbed with joy. when i told her timothy was outside, and wished to see her, she asked why he did not come in; and, to show how much she had been accustomed to see, without making remarks, when he made his appearance in his livery, she did not, by her countenance, express the least surprise, nor, indeed, did she put any questions to me on the subject. the lady who kept the school praised her very much for docility and attention, and shortly after left the room. fleta then took the chain from around her neck into her hand, and told me that she did recollect something about it, which was, that the lady whom she remembered, wore a long pair of ear-rings, of the same make and materials. she could not, however, call to mind anything else. i remained with the little girl for three hours, and then returned to london--taking my luggage from the hotel, and installed myself into the apartments of major carbonnell. the major adhered to his promise; we certainly lived well, for he could not live otherwise; but in every other point, he was very careful not to add to expense. the season was now over, and everybody of consequence quitted the metropolis. to remain in town would be to lose caste, and we had a conference where we should proceed. "newland," said the major, "you have created a sensation this season, which has done great honour to my patronage; but i trust, next spring, that i shall see you form a good alliance; for, believe me, out of the many heartless beings we have mingled with, there are still not only daughters, but mothers, who are not influenced by base and sordid views." "why, carbonnell, i never heard you venture upon so long a moral speech before." "true, newland, and it may be a long while before i do so again; the world is my oyster, which i must open, that i may live; but recollect, i am only trying to recover my own, which the world has swindled me out of. there was a time when i was even more disinterested, more confiding, and more innocent than you were when i first took you in hand. i suffered, and was ruined by my good qualities; and i now live and do well by having discarded them. we must fight the world with its own weapons; but still, as i said before, there is some good in it, some pure ore amongst the dross; and it is possible to find high rank and large fortune, and at the same time an innocent mind. if you do marry, i will try hard but you shall possess both; not that fortune can be of much consequence to you." "depend upon it, carbonnell, i never will marry without fortune." "i did not know that i had schooled you so well; be it so--it is but fair that you should expect it; and it shall be an item in the match, if i have anything to do with it." "but why are you so anxious that i should marry, carbonnell?" "because i think you will, in all probability, avoid the gaming-table, which i should have taken you to myself had you been in possession of your fortune when i first knew you, and have had my share of your plucking; but now i do know you, i have that affection for you that i think it better you should not lose your all; for observe, newland, my share of your spoliation would not be more than what i have, and may still receive, from you; and if you marry and settle down, there will always be a good house and a good table for me, as long as i find favour with your wife; and, at all events, a friend in need, that i feel convinced of. so now you have my reasons; some smack of the disinterestedness of former days, others of my present worldliness; you may believe which you please." and the major laughed as he finished his speech. "carbonnell," replied i, "i will believe that the better feelings predominate--that the world has made you what you are; and that had you not been ruined by the world, you would have been disinterested and generous; even now, your real nature often gains the ascendency, and i am sure that in all that you have done, which is not defensible, your poverty, and not your will, has consented. now, blunted by habit and time, the suggestion of conscience do not often give you any uneasiness." "you are very right, my dear fellow," replied the major; "and in having a better opinion of me than the world in general, you do me, i trust, no more than justice. i will not squander your fortune, when you come to it, if i can help it; and you'll allow that's a very handsome promise on my part." "i'll defy you to squander my fortune," replied i, laughing. "nay, don't defy me, newland, for if you do, you'll put me on my mettle. above all, don't lay me a bet, for that will be still more dangerous. we have only spent about four hundred of the thousand since we have lived together, which i consider highly economical. what do you say, shall we go to cheltenham? you will find plenty of irish girls, looking out for husbands, who will give you a warm reception." "i hate your fortune and establishment hunters," replied i. "i grant that they are looking out for a good match, so are all the world; but let me do them justice. although, if you proposed, in three days they would accept you; yet once married, they make the very best wives in the world. but recollect we must go somewhere; and i think cheltenham is as good a place as any other. i do not mean for a wife, but--it will suit my own views." this last observation decided me, and in a few days we were at cheltenham; and having made our appearance at the rooms, were soon in the vortex of society. "newland," said carbonnell, "i dare say you find time hang rather heavy in this monotonous place." "not at all," replied i; "what with dining out, dancing, and promenading, i do very well." "but we must do better. tell me, are you a good hand at whist?" "not by any means. indeed, i hardly know the game." "it is a fashionable and necessary accomplishment. i must make you master of it, and our mornings shall be dedicated to the work." "agreed," replied i; and from that day, every morning after breakfast till four o'clock, the major and i were shut up, playing two dummies under his instruction. adept as he was, i very soon learnt all the finesse and beauty of the game. "you will do now, newland," said the major one morning, tossing the cards away. "recollect, if you are asked to play, and i have agreed, do not refuse; but we must always play against each other." "i don't see what we shall gain by that," replied i; "for if i win, you'll lose." "never do you mind that; only follow my injunctions, and play as high as they choose. we only stay here three weeks longer, and must make the most of our time." i confess i was quite puzzled at what might be the major's intentions; but that night we sauntered into the club. not having made our appearance before, we were considered as new hands by those who did not know the major, and were immediately requested to make up a game. "upon my word, gentlemen, in the first place, i play very badly," replied the major; "and in the next," continued he, laughing, "if i lose, i never shall pay you, for i'm cleaned out." the way in which the major said this only excited a smile; he was not believed, and i was also requested to take a hand. "i'll not play with the major," observed i, "for he plays badly, and has bad luck into the bargain; i might as well lay my money down on the table." this was agreed to by the other parties, and we sat down. the first rubber of short whist was won by the major and his partner; with the bets it amounted to eighteen pounds. i pulled out my purse to pay the major; but he refused, saying, "no, newland, pay my partner; and with you, sir," said he, addressing my partner, "i will allow the debt to remain until we rise from the table. newland, we are not going to let you off yet, i can tell you." i paid my eighteen pounds, and we recommenced. although his partner did not perhaps observe it, for he was but an indifferent player, or if he did observe it, had the politeness not to say anything, the major now played very badly. he lost three rubbers one after another, and, with bets and stakes, they amounted to one hundred and forty pounds. at the end of the last rubber he threw up the cards, exclaiming against his luck, and declaring that he would play no more. "how are we now, sir?" said he to my partner. "you owed me, i think, eighteen pounds." "eighteen from one hundred and forty, leaves one hundred and twenty-two pounds, which i now owe you. you must, i'm afraid, allow me to be your debtor," continued the major, in a most insinuating manner. "i did not come here with the intention of playing. i presume i shall find you here to-morrow night." the gentleman bowed, and appeared quite satisfied. major carbonnell's partner paid me one hundred and forty pounds, which i put in my pocket-book, and we quitted the club. chapter xxv we fund our winnings, and consider to refund, a work of supererogation--in looking after my father, i obey the old adage, "follow your nose." as soon as we were in the street, i commenced an inquiry as to the major's motives. "not one word, my dear fellow, until we are at home," replied he. as soon as we arrived, he threw himself in a chair, and crossing his legs, commenced: "you observe, newland, that i am very careful that you should do nothing to injure your character. as for my own, all the honesty in the world will not redeem it; nothing but a peerage will ever set me right again in this world, and a coronet will cover a multitude of sins. i have thought it my duty to add something to our finances, and intend to add very considerably to them before we leave cheltenham. you have won one hundred and twenty-eight pounds." "yes," replied i; "but you have lost it." "granted; but, as in most cases, i never mean _to pay_ my losses, you see that it must be a winning speculation as long as we play against each other." "i perceive," replied i; "but am not i a confederate?" "no; you paid when you lost, and took your money when you won. leave me to settle my own debts of honour." "but you will meet him again to-morrow night." "yes, and i will tell you why. i never thought it possible that we could have met two such bad players at the club. we must now play against them, and we must win in the long run: by which means i shall pay off the debt i owe him, and you will win and pocket money." "ah," replied i, "if you mean to allow him a chance for his money, i have no objection--that will be all fair." "depend upon it, newland, when i know that people play as badly as they do, i will not refuse them; but when we sit down with others, it must be as it was before--we must play against each other, and i shall owe the money. i told the fellow that i never would pay him." "yes; but he thought you were only joking." "that is his fault--i was in earnest. i could not have managed this had it not been that you are known to be a young man of ten thousand pounds per annum, and supposed to be my dupe. i tell you so candidly; and now good-night." i turned the affair over in my mind as i undressed--it was not honest--but i paid when i lost, and i only took the money when i won,--still i did not like it; but the bank notes caught my eye as they lay on the table, and--i was satisfied. alas! how easy are scruples removed when we want money! how many are there who, when in a state of prosperity and affluence, when not tried by temptation, would have blushed at the bare idea of a dishonest action, have raised and held up their hands in abhorrence, when they have heard that others have been found guilty; and yet, when in adversity, have themselves committed the very acts which before they so loudly condemned! how many of the other sex, who have expressed their indignation and contempt at those who have fallen, when tempted, have fallen themselves! let us therefore be charitable; none of us can tell to what we may be reduced by circumstances; and when we acknowledge that the error is great, let us feel sorrow and pity rather than indignation, and pray that we also may not be "_led into temptation_" as agreed upon, the next evening we repaired to the club, and found the two gentlemen ready to receive us. this time the major refused to play unless it was with me, as i had such good fortune, and no difficulty was made by our opponents. we sat down and played till four o'clock in the morning. at first, notwithstanding our good play, fortune favoured our adversaries; but the luck soon changed, and the result of the evening was, that the major had a balance in his favour of forty pounds, and i rose a winner of one hundred and seventy-one pounds, so that in two nights we had won three hundred and forty-two pounds. for nearly three weeks this continued, the major not paying when not convenient, and we quitted cheltenham with about eight hundred pounds in our pockets; the major having paid about one hundred and twenty pounds to different people who frequented the club; but they were irishmen, who were not to be trifled with. i proposed to the major that we should pay those debts, as there still would be a large surplus: he replied, "give me the money." i did so. "now," continued he, "so far your scruples are removed, as you will have been strictly honest; but, my dear fellow, if you know how many debts of this sort are due to me, of which i never did touch one farthing, you would feel as i do--that it is excessively foolish to _part with money_. i have them all booked here, and may some day pay--when convenient; but, at present, most decidedly it is not so." the major put the notes into his pocket, and the conversation was dropped. the next morning we had ordered our horses, when timothy came up to me, and made a sign, as we were at breakfast, for me to come out. i followed him. "oh! sir, i could not help telling you, but there is a gentleman with--" "with what?" replied i, hastily. "with your nose, sir, exactly--and in other respects very like you--just about the age your father should be." "where is he, timothy?" replied i, all my feelings in 'search of my father,' rushing into my mind. "down below, sir, about to set off in a post-chaise and four, now waiting at the door." i ran down with my breakfast napkin in my hand, and hastened to the portico of the hotel--he was in his carriage, and the porter was then shutting the door. i looked at him. he was, as timothy said, _very like_ me indeed, the _nose_ exact. i was breathless, and i continued to gaze. "all right," cried the ostler. "i beg your pardon, sir,--" said i, addressing the gentleman in the carriage, who perceiving a napkin in my hand, probably took me for one of the waiters, for he replied very abruptly, 'i have remembered you;' and pulling up the glass, away whirled the chariot, the nave of the hind wheel striking me a blow on the thigh which numbed it so, that it was with difficulty i could limp up to our apartments, when i threw myself on the sofa in a state of madness and despair. "good heavens, newland, what is the matter?" cried the major. "matter," replied i, faintly. "i have seen my father." "your father, newland? you must be mad. he was dead before you could recollect him--at least so you told me. how then, even if it were his ghost, could you have recognised him?" the major's remarks reminded me of the imprudence i had been guilty of. "major," replied i, "i believe i am very absurd; but he was so like me, and i have so often longed after my father, so long wished to see him face to face--that--that--i'm a great fool, that's the fact." "you must go to the next world, my good fellow, to meet him face to face, that's clear; and i presume, upon a little consideration, you will feel inclined to postpone your journey. very often in your sleep i have heard you talk about your father, and wondered why you should think so much about him." "i cannot help it," replied i. "from my earliest days my father has ever been in my thoughts." "i can only say, that very few sons are half so dutiful to their fathers' memories--but finish your breakfast, and then we start for london." i complied with his request as well as i could, and we were soon on our road. i fell into a reverie--my object was to again find out this person, and i quietly directed timothy to ascertain from the post-boys the directions he gave at the last stage. the major perceiving me not inclined to talk, made but few observations; one, however struck me. "windermear," said he, "i recollect one day, when i was praising you, said carelessly, 'that you were a fine young man, but a _little tête montée_ upon one point.' i see now it must have been upon this." i made no reply, but it certainly was a strange circumstance that the major never had any suspicions on this point--yet he certainly never had. we had once or twice talked over my affairs. i had led him to suppose that my father and mother died in my infancy, and that i should have had a large fortune when i came of age; but this had been entirely by indirect replies, not by positive assertions; the fact was, that the major, who was an adept in all deceit, never had an idea that he could have been deceived by one so young, so prepossessing, and apparently so ingenuous as myself. he had, in fact, deceived himself. his ideas of my fortune arose entirely from my asking him, whether he would have refused the name of _japhet_ for ten thousand pounds per annum. lord windermear, after having introduced me, did not consider it at all necessary to acquaint the major with my real history, as it was imparted to him in confidence. he allowed matters to take their course, and me to work my own way in the world. thus do the most cunning overreach themselves, and with their eyes open to any deceit on the part of others, prove quite blind when they deceive themselves. timothy could not obtain any intelligence from the people of the inn at the last stage, except that the chariot had proceeded to london. we arrived late at night, and, much exhausted, i was glad to go to bed. chapter xxvi in following my nose, i narrowly escaped being _nosed_ by a beak. and as i lay in my bed, thinking that i was now nearly twenty years old, and had not yet made any discovery, my heart sank within me. my monomania returned with redoubled force, and i resolved to renew my search with vigour. so i told timothy the next morning, when he came into my room, but from him i received little consolation; he advised me to look out for a good match in a rich wife, and leave time to develop the mystery of my birth; pointing out the little chance i ever had of success. town was not full, the season had hardly commenced, and we had few invitations or visits to distract my thoughts from their object. my leg became so painful, that for a week i was on the sofa, timothy every day going out to ascertain if he could find the person whom we had seen resembling me, and every evening returning without success, i became melancholy and nervous. carbonnell could not imagine what was the matter with me. at last i was able to walk, and i sallied forth, perambulating, or rather running through street after street, looking into every carriage, so as to occasion surprise to the occupants, who believed me mad; my dress and person were disordered, for i had become indifferent to it, and timothy himself believed that i was going out of my senses. at last, after we had been in town about five weeks, i saw the very object of my search, seated in a carriage, of a dark brown colour, arms painted in shades, so as not to be distinguishable but at a near approach; his hat was off, and he sat upright and formally. "that is he!" ejaculated i, and away i ran after the carriage. "it is the nose," cried i, as i ran down the street, knocking every one to the right and left. i lost my hat, but fearful of losing sight of the carriage, i hastened on, when i heard a cry of "stop him, stop him!" "stop him," cried i, also, referring to the gentleman in black in the carriage. "that won't do," cried a man, seizing me by the collar; "i know a trick worth two of that." "let me go," roared i, struggling; but he only held me the faster. i tussled with the man until my coat and shirt were torn, but in vain; the crowd now assembled, and i was fast. the fact was, that a pickpocket had been exercising his vocation at the time that i was running past, and from my haste, and loss of my hat, i was supposed to be the criminal. the police took charge of me--i pleaded innocence in vain, and i was dragged before the magistrate, at marlborough street. my appearance, the disorder of my dress, my coat and shirt in ribbons, with no hat, were certainly not at all in my favour, when i made my appearance, led in by two bow street officers. "whom have we here?" inquired the magistrate. "a pickpocket, sir," replied they. "ah! one of the swell mob," replied he. "are there any witnesses?" "yes, sir," replied a young man, coming forward. "i was walking up bond street, when i felt a tug at my pocket, and when i turned round, this chap was running away." "can you swear to his person?" there were plenty to swear that i was the person who ran away. "now, sir, have you anything to offer in your defence?" said the magistrate. "yes, sir," replied i; "i certainly was running down the street; and it may be, for all i know or care, that this person's pocket may have been picked--but i did not pick it. i am a gentleman." "all your fraternity lay claim to gentility," replied the magistrate; "perhaps you will state why you were running down the street." "i was running after a carriage, sir, that i might speak to the person inside of it." "pray who was the person inside?" "i do not know, sir." "why should you run after a person you do not know." "it was because of his _nose_." "his _nose_?" replied the magistrate, angrily. "do you think to trifle with me, sir? you shall now follow your own nose to prison. make out his committal." "as you please, sir," replied i; "but still i have told you the truth; if you will allow any one to take a note, i will soon prove my respectability. i ask it in common justice." "be it so," replied the magistrate; "let him sit down within the bar till the answer comes." in less than an hour, my note to major carbonnell was answered by his appearance in person, followed by timothy. carbonnell walked up to the magistrate, while timothy asked the officers in an angry tone, what they had been doing to his _master_. this rather startled them, but both they and the magistrate were much surprised when the major asserted that i was his most particular friend, mr newland, who possessed ten thousand pounds per annum, and who was as well known in fashionable society, as any young man of fortune about town. the magistrate explained what had passed, and asked the major if i was not a little deranged; but the major, who perceived what was the cause of my strange behaviour, told him that somebody had insulted me, and that i was very anxious to lay hold of the person, who had avoided me, and who must have been in that carriage. "i am afraid, that after your explanation, major carbonnell, i must, as a magistrate, bind over your friend, mr newland, to keep the peace." to this i consented, the major and timothy being taken as recognisances, and then i was permitted to depart. the major sent for a hackney coach, and when we were going home he pointed out to me the folly of my conduct, and received my promise to be more careful for the future. thus did this affair end, and for a short time i was more careful in my appearance, and not so very anxious to look into carriages; still, however, the idea haunted me, and i was often very melancholy. it was about a month afterwards, that i was sauntering with the major, who now considered me to be insane upon that point, and who would seldom allow me to go out without him, when i again perceived the same carriage, with the gentleman inside as before. "there he is, major," cried i. "there is who?" replied he. "the man so like my father." "what, in that carriage? that is the bishop of e----, my good fellow. what a strange idea you have in your head, newland; it almost amounts to madness. do not be staring in that way--come along." still my head was turned quite round, looking at the carriage after it had passed, till it was out of sight; but i knew who the party was, and for the time i was satisfied, as i determined to find out his address, and call upon him. i narrated to timothy what had occurred, and referring to the red book, i looked out the bishop's town address, and the next day, after breakfast, having arranged my toilet with the utmost precision, i made an excuse to the major, and set off to portland place. chapter xxvii a chapter of mistakes--no benefit of clergy--i attack a bishop, and am beaten off--the major hedges upon the filly stakes. my hand trembled as i knocked at the door. it was opened. i sent in my card, requesting the honour of an audience with his lordship. after waiting a few minutes in an ante-room, i was ushered in. "my lord," said i, in a flurried manner, "will you allow me to have a few minutes' conversation with you alone?" "this gentleman is my secretary, sir, but if you wish it, certainly, for although he is my confidant, i have no right to insist that he shall be yours. mr temple, will you oblige me by going up stairs for a little while." the secretary quitted the room, the bishop pointed to a chair, and i sat down. i looked him earnestly in the face--the nose was exact, and i imagined that even in the other features i could distinguish a resemblance. i was satisfied that i had a last gained the object of my search. "i believe, sir," observed i, "that you will acknowledge, that in the heat and impetuosity of youth, we often rush into hasty and improvident connections." i paused, with my eyes fixed upon his. "very true, my young sir; and when we do we are ashamed, and repent of them afterwards," replied the bishop, rather astonished. "i grant that, sir," replied i, "but at the same time, we must feel that we must abide by the results, however unpleasant." "when we do wrong, mr newland," replied the bishop, first looking at my card, and then upon me, "we find that we are not only to be punished in the next world, but suffer for it also in this. i trust you have no reason for such suffering?" "unfortunately, the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, and, in that view, i may say that i have suffered." "my dear sir," replied the bishop, "i trust you will excuse me, when i say, that my time is rather valuable; if you have anything of importance to communicate--anything upon which you would ask my advice--for assistance you do not appear to require, do me the favour to proceed at once to the point." "i will, sir, be as concise as the matter will admit of. allow me, then, to ask you a few questions, and i trust to your honour, and the dignity of your profession, for a candid answer. did you not marry a young woman early in life? and were you not very much pressed in your circumstances?" the bishop stared. "really, mr newland, it is a strange question, and i cannot imagine to what it may lead, but still i will answer it. i did marry early in life, and i was, at that time, not in very affluent circumstances." "you had a child by that marriage--your eldest born--a boy!" "that is also true, mr newland," replied the bishop, gravely. "how long is it since you have seen him?" "it is many years," replied the bishop, putting his handkerchief up to his eyes. "answer me, now, sir;--did you not desert him?" "no, no!" replied the bishop. "it is strange that you should appear to know so much about the matter, mr newland, as you could have hardly been born. i was poor then--very poor; but although i could ill afford it, he had fifty pounds from me." "but, sir," replied i, much agitated; "why have you not reclaimed him?" "i would have reclaimed him, mr newland--but what could i do--he was not to be reclaimed; and now--he is lost for ever." "surely, sir, in your present affluence, you must wish to see him again?" "he died, and i trust he has gone to heaven," replied the bishop, covering up his face. "no, sir," replied i, throwing myself on my knees before him, "he did not die, here he is at your feet, to ask your blessing." the bishop sprang from his chair. "what does this mean, sir?" said he, with astonishment. "you my son!" "yes, reverend father--your son; who, with fifty pounds you left--" "on the top of the portsmouth coach!" "no, sir, in the _basket_." "my son! sir,--impossible; he died in the hospital." "no, sir, he has come out of the _hospital_," replied i; "and as you perceive, safe and well." "either, sir, this must be some strange mistake, or you must be trifling with me," replied his lordship; "for, sir, i was at his death-bed, and followed him to his grave." "are you sure of that, sir?" replied i, starting up with amazement. "i wish that i was not, sir--for i am now childless; but pray, sir, who, and what are you, who know so much of my former life, and who would have thus imposed upon me?" "imposed upon you, sir!" replied i, perceiving that i was in error. "alas! i would do no such thing. who am i? i am a young man who is in search of his father. your face, and especially your nose, so resembled mine, that i made sure that i had succeeded. pity me, sir--pity me," continued i, covering up my face with my hands. the bishop, perceiving that there was little of the impostor in my appearance, and that i was much affected, allowed a short time for me to recover myself, and then entered into an explanation. when a curate, he had had an only son, very wild, who would go to sea in spite of his remonstrances. he saw him depart by the portsmouth coach, and gave him the sum mentioned. his son received a mortal wound in action, and was sent to the plymouth hospital, where he died. i then entered into my explanation in a few concise sentences, and with a heart beating with disappointment, took my leave. the bishop shook hands with me as i quitted the room, and wished me better success at my next application. i went home almost in despair. timothy consoled me as well as he could, and advised me to go as much as possible into society, as the most likely chance of obtaining my wish, not that he considered there was any chance, but he thought that amusement would restore me to my usual spirits. "i will go and visit little fleta," replied i, "for a few days; the sight of her will do me more good than anything else." and the next day i set off for the town of ----, where i found the dear little girl, much grown, and much improved. i remained with her for a week, walking with her in the country, amusing her, and amused myself with our conversation. at the close of the week i bade her farewell, and returned to the major's lodgings. i was astonished to find him in deep mourning. "my dear carbonnell," said i, inquiringly, "i hope no severe loss?" "nay, my dear newland, i should be a hypocrite if i said so; for there never was a more merry mourner, and that's the truth of it. mr m----, who, you know, stood between me and the peerage, has been drowned in the rhone; i now have a squeak for it. his wife has one daughter, and is _enceinte_. should the child prove a boy, i am done for, but if a girl, i must then come in to the barony, and fifteen thousand pounds per annum. however, i've hedged pretty handsomely." "how do you mean?" "why they say that when a woman commences with girls, she generally goes on, and the odds are two to one that mrs m---- has a girl. i have taken the odds at the clubs to the amount of fifteen thousand pounds; so if it be a girl i shall have to pay that out of my fifteen thousand pounds per annum, as soon as i fall into it; if it be a boy, and i am floored, i shall pocket thirty thousand pounds by way of consolation for the disappointment. they are all good men." "yes, but they know you never pay." "they know i never do now, because i have no money; but they know i will pay if i come into the estate; and so i will, most honourably, besides a few more thousands that i have in my book." "i congratulate you, with all my heart, major. how old is the present lord b----?" "i have just been examining the peerage--he is sixtytwo; but he is very fresh and hearty, and may live a long while yet. by-the-bye, newland, i committed a great error last night at the club. i played pretty high, and lost a great deal of money." "that is unfortunate." "that was not the error; i actually paid all my losings, newland, and it has reduced the stock amazingly. i lost seven hundred and fifty pounds. i know i ought not to have paid away your money, but the fact was, as i was hedging, it would not do not to have paid, as i could not have made up my book as i wished. it is, however, only waiting a few weeks, till mrs m---- decides my fate, and then, either one way or the other, i shall have money enough. if your people won't give you any more till you are of age, why we must send to a little friend of mine, that's all, and you shall borrow for both of us." "borrow!" replied i, not much liking the idea; "they will never lend me money." "won't they?" replied the major; "no fear of that. your signature, and my introduction, will be quite sufficient." "we had better try to do without it, major; i do not much like it." "well, if we can, we will; but i have not fifty pounds left in my desk; how much have you?" "about twenty," replied i, in despair at this intelligence; "but i think there is a small sum left at the banker's; i will go and see." i took up my hat and set off, to ascertain what funds we might have in store. chapter xxviii i am over head and ears in trouble about a lady's ear-rings; commit myself sadly, and am very nearly committed. i must say, that i was much annoyed at this intelligence. the money-lenders would not be satisfied unless they knew where my estates were, and had examined the will at doctors' commons; then all would be exposed to the major, and i should be considered by him as an impostor. i walked down pall mall in a very unhappy mood, so deep in thought, that i ran against a lady, who was stepping out of her carriage at a fashionable shop. she turned round, and i was making my best apologies to a very handsome woman when her ear-rings caught my attention. they were of alternate coral and gold, and the fac-simile in make to the chain given by nattée to fleta. during my last visit, i had often had the chain in my hand, and particularly marked the workmanship. to make more sure, i followed into the shop, and stood behind her, carefully examining them, as she looked over a quantity of laces. there could be no doubt. i waited till the lady rose to go away, and then addressed the shopman, asking the lady's name. he did not know--she was a stranger; but perhaps mr h----, the master, did, and he went back to answer the question. mr h---- being at that moment busy, the man stayed so long, that i heard the carriage drive off. fearful of losing sight of the lady, i took to my heels, and ran out of the shop. my sudden flight from the counter, covered with lace, made them imagine that i had stolen some, and they cried out, "stop thief," as loud as they could, springing over the counter, and pursuing me as i pursued the carriage, which was driven at a rapid pace. a man perceiving me running, and others, without their hats, following, with the cries of "stop thief," put out his leg, and i fell on the pavement, the blood rushing in torrents from my nose. i was seized, roughly handled, and again handed over to the police, who carried me before the same magistrate in marlborough street. "what is this?" demanded the magistrate. "a shoplifter, your worship." "i am not, sir," replied i; "you know me well enough, i am mr newland." "mr newland!" replied the magistrate, suspiciously; "this is strange, a second time to appear before me upon such a charge." "and just as innocent as before, sir." "you'll excuse me, sir, but i must have my suspicions this time. where is the evidence?" the people of the shop then came forward, and stated what had occurred. "let him be searched," said the magistrate. i was searched, but nothing was found upon me. "are you satisfied now, sir?" inquired i. "by no means. let the people go back and look over their laces, and see if any are missing; in the meantime i shall detain you, for it is very easy to get rid of a small article, such as lace, when you are caught." the men went away, and i wrote a note to major carbonnell, requesting his attendance. he arrived at the same time as the shopman, and i told him what had happened. the shopman declared that the stock was not correct; as far as they could judge, there were two pieces of lace missing. "if so, i did not take them," replied i. "upon my honour, mr b----," said the major, to the magistrate, "it is very hard for a gentleman to be treated in this manner. this is the second time that i have been sent for to vouch for his respectability." "very true, sir," replied the magistrate; "but allow me to ask mr newland, as he calls himself, what induced him to follow a lady into the shop?" "her ear-rings," replied i. "her ear-rings! why, sir, the last time you were brought before me, you said it was after a gentleman's nose--now it appears you were attracted by a lady's ears; and pray, sir, what induced you to run out of the shop?" "because i wanted particularly to inquire about her ear-rings, sir." "i cannot understand these paltry excuses; there are, it appears, two pieces of lace missing. i must remand you for further examination, sir; and you also, sir," said the magistrate, to major carbonnell; "for if he is a swindler, you must be an accomplice." "sir," replied major carbonnell, sneeringly, "you are certainly a very good judge of a gentleman, when you happen by accident to be in his company. with your leave, i will send a note to another confederate." the major then wrote a note to lord windermear, which he despatched by timothy, who, hearing i was in trouble, had accompanied the major. and while he was away, the major and i sat down, he giving himself all manner of airs, much to the annoyance of the magistrate, who at last threatened to commit him immediately. "you'll repent this," replied the major, who perceived lord windermear coming in. "you shall repent it, sir, by god," cried the magistrate, in a great passion. "put five shillings in the box for swearing, mr b----. you fine other people," said the major. "here is my other confederate, lord windermear." "carbonnell," said lord windermear, "what is all this?" "nothing, my lord, except that our friend newland is taken up for shoplifting, because he thought proper to run after a pretty woman's carriage; and i am accused by his worship of being his confederate. i could forgive his suspicions of mr newland in that plight; but as for his taking me for one of the swell mob, it proves a great deficiency of judgment; perhaps he will commit your lordship also, as he may not be aware that your lordship's person is above caption." "i can assure you, sir," said lord windermear, proudly, "that this is my relative, major carbonnell, and the other is my friend, mr newland. i will bail them for any sum you please." the magistrate felt astonished and annoyed, for, after all, he had only done his duty. before he could reply, a man came from the shop to say that the laces had been found all right. lord windermear then took me aside, and i narrated what had happened. he recollected the story of fleta in my narrative of my life, and felt that i was right in trying to find out who the lady was. the magistrate now apologised for the detention, but explained to his lordship how i had before made my appearance upon another charge, and with a low bow we were dismissed. "my dear mr newland," said his lordship, "i trust that this will be a warning to you, not to run after other people's noses and ear-rings; at the same time, i will certainly keep a look-out for those very ear-rings myself. major, i wish you a good morning." his lordship then shook us both by the hand, and saying that he should be glad to see more of me than he latterly had done, stepped into his carriage and drove off. "what the devil did his lordship mean about ear-rings, newland?" inquired the major. "i told him that i was examining the lady's ear-rings, as very remarkable," replied i. "you appear to be able to deceive everybody but me, my good fellow. i know that you were examining the lady herself." i left the major in his error, by making no reply. chapter xxix i borrow money upon my estate, and upon very favourable terms. when i came down to breakfast the next morning, the major said, "my dear newland, i have taken the liberty of requesting a very old friend of mine to come and meet you this morning. i will not disguise from you that it is emmanuel, the money-lender. money you must have until my affairs are decided, one way or the other; and, in this instance, i will most faithfully repay the sum borrowed, as soon as i receive the amount of my bets, or am certain of succeeding to the title, which is one and the same thing." i bit my lips, for i was not a little annoyed; but what could be done? i must have either confessed my real situation to the major, or have appeared to raise scruples, which, as the supposed heir to a large fortune, would have appeared to him to be very frivolous. i thought it better to let the affair take its chance. "well," replied i, "if it must be, it must be: but it shall be on my own terms." "nay," observed the major, "there is no fear but that he will consent, and without any trouble." after a moment's reflection i went up stairs and rang for timothy. "tim," said i, "hear me; i now make you a solemn promise, on my honour as a gentleman, that i will never borrow money upon interest, and until you release me from it, i shall adhere to my word." "very well, sir," replied timothy; "i guess your reason for so doing, and i expect you will keep your word. is that all?" "yes; now you may take up the urn." we had finished our breakfast, when timothy announced mr emmanuel, who followed him into the room. "well, old cent per cent, how are you?" said the major. "allow me to introduce my most particular friend, mr newland." "auh! master major," replied the descendant of abraham, a little puny creature, bent double with infirmity, and carrying one hand behind his back, as if to counterbalance the projection of his head and shoulders. "you vash please to call me shent per shent. i wish i vash able to make de monies pay that. mr newland, can i be of any little shervice to you?" "sit down, sit down, emmanuel. you have my warrant for mr newland's respectability, and the sooner we get over the business the better." "auh, mr major, it ish true, you was recommend many good--no, not always good--customers to me, and i was very much obliged. vat can i do for your handsome young friend? de young gentlemen always vant money; and it is de youth which is de time for de pleasure and enjoyment." "he wants a thousand pounds, emmanuel." "dat is a large sum--one tousand pounds' he does not vant any more?" "no," replied i, "that will be sufficient." "vel, den, i have de monish in my pocket. i will just beg de young gentleman to sign a little memorandum, dat i may von day receive my monish." "but what is that to be?" interrupted i. "it will be to promise to pay me my monish and only fifteen per shent, when you come into your own." "that will not do," replied i; "i have pledged my solemn word of honour, that i will not borrow money on interest." "and you have given de pledge, but you did not swear upon de book?" "no, but my word has been given, and that is enough; if i would forfeit my word with those to whom i have given it, i would also forfeit my word with you. my keeping my promise, ought to be a pledge to you that i will keep my promise to you." "dat is veil said--very veil said; but den we must manage some oder way. suppose--let me shee--how old are you, my young sir?" "past twenty." "auh, dat is a very pleasant age, dat twenty. veil, den, you shall shign a leetle bit of paper, that you pay me £ ven you come into your properties, on condition dat i pay now one tousand. dat is very fair--ish it not, mr major?" "rather too hard, emmanuel." "but de rishque--de rishque, mr major." "i will not agree to those terms," replied i; "you must take your money away, mr emmanuel." "veil, den--vat vill you pay me?" "i will sign an agreement to pay you £ for the thousand, if you please; if that will not suit you, i will try elsewhere." "dat is very bad bargain. how old, you shay?" "twenty." "vell, i shuppose i must oblige you, and my very goot friend, de major." mr emmanuel drew out his spectacles, pen, and inkhorn, filled up a bond, and handed it to me to sign. i read it carefully over, and signed it; he then paid down the money, and took his leave. it may appear strange to the reader that the money was obtained so easily, but he must remember that the major was considered a person who universally attached himself to young men of large fortune; he had already been the means of throwing many profitable speculations into the hands of emmanuel, and the latter put implicit confidence in him. the money-lenders also are always on the look out for young men with large fortunes, and have their names registered. emmanuel had long expected me to come to him, and although it was his intention to have examined more particularly, and not to have had the money prepared, yet my refusal to sign the bond, bearing interest, and my disputing the terms of the second proposal, blinded him completely, and put him off his usual guard. "upon my word, newland, you obtained better terms than i could have expected from the old hunks." "much better than i expected also, major," replied i; "but now, how much of the money would you like to have?" "my dear fellow, this is very handsome of you; but, i thank heaven, i shall be soon able to repay it: but what pleases me, newland, is your perfect confidence in one whom the rest of the world would not trust with a shilling. i will accept your offer as freely as it is made, and take £ , just to make a show for the few weeks that i am in suspense, and then you will find, that with all my faults, i am rot deficient in gratitude." i divided the money with the major, and he shortly afterwards went out. "well, sir," said timothy, entering, full of curiosity, "what have you done?" "i have borrowed a thousand to pay fifteen hundred when i come into my property." "you are safe then. excellent, and the jew will be bit." "no, timothy, i intend to repay it as soon as i can." "i should like to know when that will be." "so should i, tim, for it must depend upon my finding out my parentage." heigho, thought i, when shall i ever find out who is my father? chapter xxx the major is very fortunate and very unfortunate--he receives a large sum in gold and one ounce of lead. i dressed and went out, met harcourt, dined with him, and on my return the major had not come home. it was then past midnight, and feeling little inclination to sleep, i remained in the drawing-room, waiting for his arrival. about three o'clock he came in, flushed in the face, and apparently in high good humour. "newland," said he, throwing his pocket-book on the table, "just open that, and then you will open your eyes." i obeyed him, and to my surprise took out a bundle of bank-notes; i counted up their value, and they amounted to £ . "you have been fortunate, indeed." "yes," replied the major; "knowing that in a short time i shall be certain of cash, one way or the other, i had resolved to try my luck with the £ . i went to the hazard table, and threw in seventeen times--hedged upon the deuce ace, and threw out with it--_voila_. they won't catch me there again in a hurry--luck like that only comes once in a man's life; but, japhet, there is a little drawback to all this. i shall require your kind attendance in two or three hours." "why, what's the matter?" "merely an affair of honour. i was insulted by a vagabond, and we meet at six o'clock." "a vagabond--but surely, carbonnell, you will not condescend--" "my dear fellow, although as great a vagabond as there is on the face of the earth, yet he is a peer of the realm, and his title warrants the meeting--but, after all, what is it?" "i trust it will be nothing, carbonnell, but still it may prove otherwise." "granted; and what then, my dear newland? we all owe heaven a death, and if i am floored, why then i shall no longer be anxious about title or fortune." "it's a bad way of settling a dispute," replied i, gravely. "there is no other, newland. how would society be held in check if it were not for duelling? we should all be a set of bears living in a bear-garden. i presume you have never been out?" "never," replied i, "and had hoped that i never should have." "then you must have better fortune, or better temper than most others, if you pass through life without an affair of this kind on your hands. i mean as principal, not as second. but, my dear fellow, i must give you a little advice, relative to your behaviour as a second; for i'm very particular on these occasions, and like that things should be done very correctly. it will never do, my dear newland, that you appear on the ground with that melancholy face. i do not mean that you should laugh, or even smile, that would be equally out of character, but you should show yourself perfectly calm and indifferent. in your behaviour towards the other second, you must be most scrupulously polite, but, at the same time, never give up a point of dispute, in which my interest may be concerned. even in your walk be slow, and move, as much as the ground will allow you, as if you were in a drawing-room. never remain silent; offer even trivial remarks, rather than appear distract. there is one point of great importance--i refer to choosing the ground, in which, perhaps, you will require my unperceived assistance. any decided line behind me would be very advantageous to my adversary, such as the trunk of a tree, post, &c.; even an elevated light or dark ground behind me is unadvisable. choose, if you can, a broken light, as it affects the correctness of the aim; but as you will not probably be able to manage this satisfactorily, i will assist you. when on the ground, after having divided the sun fairly between us, i will walk about unconcernedly, and when i perceive a judicious spot, i will take a pinch of snuff and use my handkerchief, turning at the same time in the direction in which i wish my adversary to be placed. take your cue from that, and with all suavity of manner, insist as much as you can upon our being so placed. that must be left to your own persuasive powers. i believe i have now stated all that is necessary, and i must prepare my instruments." the major then went into his own room, and i never felt more nervous or more unhinged than after this conversation. i had a melancholy foreboding--but that i believe every one has, when he, for the first time, has to assist at a mortal rencontre. i was in a deep musing when he returned with his pistols and all the necessary apparatus; and when the major pointed out to me, and made me once or twice practice the setting of the hair triggers, which is the duty of the second, an involuntary shudder came over me. "why, newland, what is the matter with you? i thought that you had more nerve." "i probably should show more, carbonnell, were i the principal instead of the second, but i cannot bear the reflection that some accident should happen to you. you are the only one with whom i have been on terms of friendship, and the idea of losing you, is very, very painful." "newland, you really quite unman me, and you may now see a miracle," continued carbonnell, as he pressed his hand to his eye, "the moisture of a tear on the cheek of a london _roué_, a man of the world, who has long lived for himself and for this world only. it never would be credited if asserted. newland, there was a time when i was like yourself--the world took advantage of my ingenuousness and inexperience; my good feelings were the cause of my ruin, and then, by degrees, i became as callous and as hardened as the world itself. my dear fellow, i thought all affection, all sentiment, dried up within me, but it is not the case. you have made me feel that i have still a heart, and that i can love you. but this is all romance, and not fitted for the present time. it is now five o'clock, let us be on the ground early--it will give us an advantage." "i do not much like speaking to you on the subject, carbonnell; but is there nothing that you might wish done in case of accident?" "nothing--why yes. i may as well. give me a sheet of paper." the major sat down and wrote for a few minutes. "now, send timothy and another here. timothy, and you, sir, see me sign this paper, and put my seal to it. i deliver this as my act and deed. put your names as witnesses." they complied with his request, and then the major desired timothy to call a hackney-coach. "newland," said the major, putting the paper, folded up, in my pocket, along with the bank notes, "take care of this for me till we come back." "the coach is at the door, sir," said timothy, looking at me, as if to say, "what can all this be about?" "you may come with us and see," said the major, observing tim's countenance, "and put that case into the coach." tim, who knew that it was the major's case of pistols, appeared still more alarmed, and stood still without obeying the order. "never mind, tim, your master is not the one who is to use them," said the major, patting him on the shoulder. timothy, relieved by this intelligence, went down stairs with the pistols; we followed him. tim mounted on the box, and we drove to chalk farm. "shall the coach wait?" inquired timothy. "yes, by all means," replied i, in a low voice. we arrived at the usual ground, where disputes of this kind were generally settled; and the major took a survey of it with great composure. "now observe, japhet," said he, "if you can contrive--; but here they are. i will give you the notice agreed upon." the peer, whose title was lord tineholme, now came up with his second, whom he introduced to me as mr osborn. "mr newland," replied the major, saluting mr osborn in return. we both took off our hats, bowed, and then proceeded to our duty. i must do my adversary's second the justice to say, that his politeness was fully equal to mine. there was no mention, on either side, of explanations and retractions--the insult was too gross, and the character of his lordship, as well as that of major carbonnell, was too well known. twelve paces were proposed by mr osborn, and agreed to by me--the pistols of major carbonnell were gained by drawing lots--we had nothing more to do but to place our principals. the major took out his snuff-box, took a pinch, and blew his nose, turning towards a copse of beech trees. "with your permission, i will mark out the ground, mr osborn," said i, walking up to the major, and intending to pace twelve paces in the direction towards which he faced. "allow me to observe that i think a little more in this direction, would be more fair for both parties," said mr osborn. "it would so, my dear sir," replied i, "but, submitting to your superior judgment, perhaps it may not have struck you that my principal will have rather too much of the sun. i am incapable of taking any advantage, but i should not do my duty if i did not see every justice done to the major, who has confided to me in this unpleasant affair. i put it to you, sir, as a gentleman and man of honour, whether i am claiming too much?" a little amicable altercation took place on this point, but finding that i would not yield, and that at every reply i was more and more polite and bland in my deportment, mr osborn gave up the point. i walked the twelve paces, and mr osborn placed his principal. i observed that lord tineholme did not appear pleased; he expostulated with him, but it was then too late. the pistols had been already loaded--the choice was given to his lordship, and major carbonnell received the other from my hand, which actually trembled, while his was firm. i requested mr osborn to drop the handkerchief, as i could not make up my mind to give a signal which might be fatal to the major. they fired--lord tineholme fell immediately--the major remained on his feet for a second or two, and then sank down on the ground. i hastened up to him. "where are you hurt?" the major put his hand to his hip--"i am hit hard, newland, but not so hard as he is. run and see." i left the major, and went up to where lord tineholme lay, his head raised on the knee of his second. "it is all over with him, mr newland, the ball has passed through his brain." chapter xxxi the major pays the only debt of consequence he ever did pay, and i find myself a man of property. i hastened back to the major, to examine his wound, and, with the assistance of timothy, i stripped him sufficiently to ascertain that the ball had entered his hip, and probing the wound with my finger, it appeared that it had glanced off in the direction of the intestines; the suffusion of blood was very trifling, which alarmed me still more. "could you bear removal, major, in the coach?" "i cannot tell, but we must try; the sooner i am home the better, japhet," replied he faintly. with the assistance of timothy, i put him into the hackney-coach, and we drove off, after i had taken off my hat and made my obeisance to mr osborn, an effort of politeness which i certainly should have neglected, had i not been reminded of it by my principal. we set off, and the major bore his journey very well, making no complaint, but, on our arrival he fainted as we lifted him out. as soon as he was on the bed, i despatched timothy for a surgeon. on his arrival he examined the wound, and shook his head. taking me into the next room, he declared his opinion, that the ball had passed into the intestines, which were severed, and that there was no hope. i sat down and covered up my face--the tears rolled down and trickled through my fingers--it was the first heavy blow i had yet received. without kindred or connections, i felt that i was about to lose one who was dear to me. to another, not in my situation, it might have only produced a temporary grief at the near loss of a friend; but to me, who was almost alone in the world, the loss was heavy in the extreme. whom had i to fly to for solace?--there were timothy and fleta--one who performed the duty of a servant to me, and a child. i felt that they were not sufficient, and my heart was chilled. the surgeon had, in the meantime, returned to the major, and dressed the wound. the major, who had recovered from his weakness, asked him his candid opinion. "we must hope for the best, sir," replied the surgeon. "that is to say, there is no hope," replied the major; "and i feel that you are right. how long do you think that i may live?" "if the wound does not take a favourable turn, about forty-eight hours, sir," replied the surgeon; "but we must hope for a more fortunate issue." "in a death-bed case you medical men are like lawyers," replied the major, "there is no getting a straightforward answer from you. where is mr newland?" "here i am, carbonnell," said i, taking his hand. "my dear fellow, i know it is all over with me, and you, of course, know it as well as i do. do not think that it is a source of much regret to me to leave this rascally world--indeed it is not; but i do feel sorry, very sorry, to leave you. the doctor tells me i shall live forty-eight hours; but i have an idea that i shall not live so many minutes. i feel my strength gradually failing me. depend upon it, my dear newland, there is an internal hemorrhage. my dear fellow, i shall not be able to speak soon. i have left you my executor and sole heir. i wish there was more for you--it will last you, however, till you come of age. that was a lucky hit last night, but a very unlucky one this morning. bury me like a gentleman." "my dear carbonnell," said i, "would you not like to see somebody--a clergyman?" "newland, excuse me. i do not refuse it out of disrespect, or because i do not believe in the tenets of christianity; but i cannot believe that my repentance at this late hour can be of any avail. if i have not been sorry for the life i have lived--if i have not had my moments of remorse--if i have not promised to amend, and intended to have so done, and i trust i have--what avails my repentance now? no, no, japhet, as i have sown so must i reap, and trust to the mercy of heaven. god only knows all our hearts, and i would fain believe that i may find more favour in the eyes of the almighty, than i have in this world from those who--but we must not judge. give me to drink, japhet--i am sinking fast. god bless you, my dear fellow." the major sank on his pillow, after he had moistened his lips, and spoke no more. with his hand clasped in mine he gradually sank, and in a quarter of an hour his eyes were fixed, and all was over. he was right in his conjectures--an artery had been divided, and he had bled to death. the surgeon came again just before he was dead, for i had sent for him. "it is better as it is," said he to me. "had he not bled to death, he would have suffered forty-eight hours of extreme agony from the mortification which must have ensued." he closed the major's eyes and took his leave, and i hastened into the drawing-room and sent for timothy, with whom i sate in a long conversation on this unfortunate occurrence, and my future prospects. my grief for the death of the major was sincere; much may indeed be ascribed to habit, from our long residence and companionship; but more to the knowledge that the major, with all his faults, had redeeming qualities, and that the world had driven him to become what he had been. i had the further conviction, that he was attached to me, and, in my situation, anything like affection was most precious. his funeral was handsome, without being ostentatious, and i paid every demand upon him which i knew to be just--many, indeed, that were not sent in, from a supposition that any claim made would be useless. his debts were not much above £ , and these debts had never been expected to be liquidated by those who had given him credit. the paper he had written, and had been witnessed by timothy and another, was a short will, in which he left me his sole heir and executor. the whole of his property consisted of his house in st james's street, the contents of his pocket-book entrusted to my care, and his personal effects, which, especially in bijouterie, were valuable. the house was worth about £ , as he had told me. in his pocket-book were notes to the amount of £ , and his other effects might be valued at £ . with all his debts and funeral expenses liquidated, and with my own money, i found myself in possession of about £ ,--a sum which never could have been credited, for it was generally supposed that he died worth less than nothing, having lived for a long while upon a capital of a similar value. "i cannot but say," observed timothy, "but that this is very fortunate. had the major not persuaded you to borrow money, he never would have won so large a sum. had he lived he would have squandered it away; but just in the nick of time he is killed, and makes you his heir." "there is truth in your observation, timothy; but now you must go to mr emmanuel, that i may pay him off. i will repay the £ lent me by lord windermear into his banker's, and then i must execute one part of the poor major's will. he left his diamond solitaire as a memento to his lordship. bring it to me, and i will call and present it." chapter xxxii a chapter full of morality, which ends in a jew refusing upwards of £ , proving the millenium to be nearly at hand. this conversation took place the day after the funeral, and, attired in deep mourning, i called upon his lordship, and was admitted. his lordship had sent his carriage to attend the funeral, and was also in mourning when he received me. i executed my commission, and after a long conversation with his lordship, in which i confided to him the contents of the will, and the amount of property of the deceased, i rose to take my leave. "excuse me, mr newland," said he, "but what do you now propose to do? i confess i feel a strong interest about you, and had wished that you had come to me oftener without an invitation. i perceive that you never will. have you no intention of following up any pursuit?" "yes, my lord, i intend to search after my father; and i trust that, by husbanding my unexpected resources, i shall now be able." "you have the credit, in the fashionable world, of possessing a large fortune." "that is not my fault, my lord: it is through major carbonnell's mistake that the world is deceived. still i must acknowledge myself so far participator, that i have never contradicted the report." "meaning, i presume, by some good match, to reap the advantage of the supposition." "not so, my lord, i assure you. people may deceive themselves, but i will not deceive them." "nor undeceive them, mr newland?" "undeceive them i will not; nay, if i did make the attempt, i should not be believed. they never would believe it possible that i could have lived so long with your relative, without having had a large supply of money. they might believe that i had run through my money, but not that i never had any." "there is a knowledge of the world in that remark," replied his lordship; "but i interrupted you, so proceed." "i mean to observe, my lord, and you, by your knowledge of my previous history, can best judge how far i am warranted in saying so; that i have as yet steered the middle course between that which is dishonest and honest. if the world deceives itself, you would say that, in strict honesty, i ought to undeceive it. so i would, my lord, if it were not for my peculiar situation; but at the same time i never will, if possible, be guilty of direct deceit; that is to say, i would not take advantage of my supposed wealth, to marry a young person of large fortune. i would state myself a beggar, and gain her affections as a beggar. a woman can have little confidence in a man who deceives her before marriage." "your secret will always be safe with me, mr newland; you have a right to demand it. i am glad to hear the sentiments which you have expressed; they are not founded, perhaps, upon the strictest code of morality; but there are many who profess more who do not act up to so much. still, i wish you would think in what way i may be able to serve you, for your life at present is useless and unprofitable, and may tend to warp still more, ideas which are not quite so strict as they ought to be." "my lord, i have but one object in allowing the world to continue in their error relative to my means, which is, that it procures for me an entrance into that society in which i have a moral conviction that i shall find my father. i have but one pursuit, one end to attain, which is, to succeed in that search. i return you a thousand thanks for your kind expressions and good-will; but i cannot, at present, avail myself of them. i beg your lordship's pardon, but did you ever meet the lady with the ear-rings?" lord windermear smiled. "really, mr newland, you are a very strange person; not content with finding out your own parents, you must also be searching after other people's; not that i do not commend your conduct in this instance; but i'm afraid, in running after shadows, you are too indifferent to the substance." "ah, my lord! it is very well for you to argue who have had a father and mother, and never felt the want of them; but if you knew how my heart yearns after my parents, you would not be surprised at my perseverance." "i am surprised at nothing in this world, mr newland; every one pursues happiness in his own way; your happiness appears to be centred in one feeling, and you are only acting as the world does in general; but recollect that the search after happiness ends in disappointment." "i grant it but too often does, my lord; but there is pleasure in the chase," replied i. "well, go, and may you prosper. all i can say is this, mr newland, do not have that false pride not to apply to me when you need assistance. recollect, it is much better to be under an obligation, if such you will consider it, than to do that which is wrong; and that it is a very false pride which would blush to accept a favour, and yet not blush to do what it ought to be ashamed of. promise me, mr newland, that upon any reverse or exigence, you will apply to me." "i candidly acknowledge to your lordship, that i would rather be under an obligation to anyone but you; and i trust you will clearly appreciate my feelings. i have taken the liberty of refunding the one thousand pounds you were so kind as to place at my disposal as a loan. at the same time i will promise, that, if at any time i should require your assistance, i will again request leave to become your debtor." i rose again to depart. "farewell, newland; when i thought you had behaved ill, and i offered to better you, you only demanded my good opinion; you have it, and have it so firmly, that it will not easily be shaken." his lordship then shook hands with me, and i took my leave. on my return i found emmanuel, the money-lender, who had accompanied timothy, fancying that i was in want of more assistance, and but too willing to give it. his surprise was very great when i told him that i wished to repay the money i had borrowed. "vell, dis is very strange! i have lent my monish a tousand times, and never once they did offer it me back. vell, i will take it, sar." "but how much must i give you, mr emmanuel, for the ten days' loan?" "how moch--vy you remember, you vill give de bond money--de fifteen hundred." "what! five hundred pounds interest for ten days, mr emmanuel; no, no, that's rather too bad. i will, if you please, pay you back eleven hundred pounds, and that i think is very handsome." "i don't want my monish, my good sar. i lend you one tousand pounds, on de condition that you pay me fifteen hundred when you come into your properties, which will be in very short time. you send for me, and tell me you vish to pay back de monish directly; i never refuse monish--if you wish to pay, i will take, but i will not take von farding less dan de monish on de bond." "very well, mr emmanuel, just as you please; i offer you your money back, in presence of my servant, and one hundred pounds for the loan of it for ten days. refuse it if you choose, but i earnestly recommend you to take it." "i will not have de monish, sar; dis is de child's play," replied the jew. "i must have my fifteen hundred--all in goot time, sar--i am in no hurry--i vish you a very good morning, mr newland. ven you vish for more monish to borrow, i shall be happy to pay my respects." so saying, the jew walked out of the room, with his arm behind his back as usual. chapter xxxiii _i decide upon honesty as the best policy, and what is more strange, receive legal advice upon this important point_. timothy and i burst into laughter. "really, timothy," observed i, "it appears that very little art is necessary to deceive the world, for in every instance they will deceive themselves. the jew is off my conscience, at all events, and now he never will be paid, until--" "until when, japhet?" "until i find out my father," replied i. "everything is put off till that time arrives, i observe," said timothy. "other people will soon be as interested in the search as yourself." "i wish they were, unfortunately it is a secret, which cannot be divulged." a ring at the bell called timothy down stairs; he returned with a letter, it was from lord windermear, and ran as follows:-- "my dear newland,--i have been thinking about you ever since you left me this morning, and as you appear resolved to prosecute your search, it has occurred to me that you should go about it in a more systematic way. i do not mean to say that what i now propose will prove of any advantage to you, but still it may, as you will have a very old, and very clever head to advise with. i refer to mr masterton, my legal adviser, from whom you had the papers which led to our first acquaintance. he is aware that you were (i beg your pardon) an impostor, as he has since seen mr estcourt. the letter enclosed is for him, and with that in your hand you may face him boldly, and i have no doubt but that he will assist you all in his power, and put you to no expense. narrate your whole history to him, and then you will hear what he may propose. he has many secrets, much more important than yours. wishing you every success that your perseverance deserves, "believe me, "yours very truly, "windermear." "i believe the advice to be good," said i, after reading the letter. "i am myself at fault, and hardly know how to proceed. i think i will go at once to the old gentleman, timothy." "it can do no harm, if it does no good. two heads are better than one," replied timothy. "some secrets are too well kept, and deserting a child is one of those which is confided but to few." "by-the-bye, timothy, here have i been, more than so many years out of the foundling hospital, and have never yet inquired if any one has ever been to reclaim me." "very true; and i think i'll step myself to the workhouse, at st bridget's, and ask whether any one has asked about me," replied timothy, with a grin. "there is another thing that i have neglected," observed i, "which is, to inquire at the address in coleman street, if there is any letter from melchior." "i have often thought of him," replied timothy. "i wonder who he can be--there is another mystery there. i wonder whether we shall ever fall in with him again--and nattée, too?" "there's no saying, timothy. i wonder where that poor fool, philotas, and our friend jumbo, are now?" the remembrance of the two last personages made us both burst out a laughing. "timothy, i've been reflecting that my intimacy with poor carbonnell has rather hindered than assisted me in my search. he found me with a good appearance, and he has moulded me into a gentleman, so far as manners and appearance are concerned; but the constant vortex in which i have been whirled in his company, has prevented me from doing anything. his melancholy death has perhaps been fortunate for me. it has left me more independent in circumstances, and more free. i must now really set to in earnest." "i beg your pardon, japhet, but did not you say the same when we first set off on our travels, and yet remain more than a year with the gipsies? did not you make the same resolution when we arrived in town, with our pockets full of money, and yet, once into fashionable society, think but little, and occasionally, of it? now you make the same resolution, and how long will you keep it?" "nay, timothy, that remark is hardly fair; you know that the subject is ever in my thoughts." "in your thoughts, i grant, very frequently; but you have still been led away from the search." "i grant it, but i presume that arises from not knowing how to proceed. i have a skein to unravel, and cannot find out an end to commence with." "i always thought people commenced with the beginning," replied tim, laughing. "at all events, i will now try back, and face the old lawyer. do you call at coleman street, tim, and at st bridget's also, if you please." "as for st bridget's, i'm in no particular hurry about my mother; if i stumble upon her i may pick her up, but i never make diligent search after what, in every probability, will not be worth the finding." leaving timothy to go his way, i walked to the house at lincoln's inn, which i had before entered upon the memorable occasion of the papers of estcourt. as before, i rang the bell, the door swang open, and i was once more in the presence of mr masterton. "i have a letter, sir," said i, bowing, and presenting the letter from lord windermear. the old gentleman peered at me through his spectacles. "why! we have met before--bless me--why you're the rogue that--" "you are perfectly right, sir," interrupted i. "i am the rogue who presented the letter from lord windermear, and who presents you with another from the same person; do me the favour to read it, while i take a chair." "upon my soul--you impudent--handsome dog, i must say--great pity--come for money, i suppose. well, it's a sad world," muttered the lawyer as he broke open the letter of lord windermear. i made no reply, but watched his countenance, which changed to that of an expression of surprise. "had his lordship sent me a request to have you hanged if possible," said mr masterton, "i should have felt no surprise, but in this letter he praises you, and desires me to render you all the service in my power. i can't understand it." "no, sir; but if you have leisure to listen to me, you will then find that, in this world, we may be deceived by appearances." "well, and so i was, when i first saw you; i never could have believed you to be--but never mind." "perhaps, sir, in an hour or two you will again alter your opinion. are you at leisure, or will you make an appointment for some future day?" "mr newland, i am not at leisure--i never was more busy; and if you had come on any legal business, i should have put you off for three or four days, at least; but my curiosity is so raised, that i am determined that i will indulge it at the expense of my interest. i will turn the key, and then you will oblige me by unravelling, what, at present, is to me as curious as it is wholly incomprehensible." chapter xxxiv i attempt to profit by intelligence i receive, and throw a lady into hysterics. in about three hours i had narrated the history of my life, up to the very day, almost as much detailed as it has been to the reader. "and now, mr masterton," said i, as i wound up my narrative, "do you think that i deserve the title of rogue, which you applied to me when i came in?" "upon my word, mr newland, i hardly know what to say; but i like to tell the truth. to say that you have been quite honest, would not be correct--a rogue, to a certain degree, you have been, but you have been the rogue of circumstances. i can only say this, that there are greater rogues than you, whose characters are unblemished in the world--that most people in your peculiar situation would have been much greater rogues; and lastly, that rogue or not rogue, i have great pleasure in taking you by the hand, and will do all i possibly can to serve you--and that for your own sake. your search after your parents i consider almost tantamount to a wild-goose chase; but still, as your happiness depends upon it, i suppose it must be carried on; but you must allow me time for reflection. i will consider what may be the most judicious method of proceeding. can you dine _tête-à-tête_ with me here on friday, and we then will talk over the matter?" "on friday, sir; i am afraid that i am engaged to lady maelstrom; but that is of no consequence--i will write an excuse to her ladyship." "lady maelstrom! how very odd that you should bring up her name after our conversation." "why so, my dear sir?" "why!" replied mr masterton, chuckling; "because--recollect, it is a secret, mr newland--i remember some twenty years ago, when she was a girl of eighteen, before she married, she had a little _faux pas_, and i was called in about a settlement, for the maintenance of the child." "is it possible, sir?" replied i, anxiously. "yes, she was violently attached to a young officer, without money, but of good family; some say it was a private marriage, others, that he was--a _rascal_. it was all hushed up, but he was obliged by the friends, before he left for the west indies, to sign a deed of maintenance, and i was the party called in. i never heard any more about it. the officer's name was warrender; he died of the yellow fever, i believe, and after his death she married lord maelstrom." "he is dead, then?" replied i mournfully. "well, that cannot affect you, my good fellow. on friday, then, at six o'clock precisely. good afternoon, mr newland." i shook hands with the old gentleman, and returned home, but my brain whirled with the fear of a confirmation, of that which mr masterton had so carelessly conveyed. anything like a possibility, immediately was swelled to a certainty in my imagination, so ardent and heated on the one subject; and as soon as i regained my room, i threw myself on the sofa, and fell into a deep reverie. i tried to approximate the features of lady maelstrom to mine, but all the ingenuity in the world could not effect that; but still, i might be like my father--but my father was dead, and that threw a chill over the whole glowing picture which i had, as usual, conjured up; besides, it was asserted that i was born in wedlock, and there was a doubt relative to the marriage of her ladyship. after a long cogitation i jumped up, seized my hat, and set off for grosvenor square, determining to ask a private interview with her ladyship, and at once end my harassing doubts and surmises. i think there could not be a greater proof of my madness than my venturing to attack a lady of forty upon the irregularities of her youth, and to question her upon a subject which had been confided but to two or three, and she imagined had been long forgotten: but this never struck me; all considerations were levelled in my ardent pursuit. i walked through the streets at a rapid pace, the crowd passed by me as shadows, i neither saw nor distinguished them; i was deep in reverie as to the best way of breaking the subject to her ladyship, for, notwithstanding my monomania, i perceived it to be a point of great delicacy. after having overturned about twenty people in my mad career, i arrived at the door and knocked. my heart beat almost as hard against my ribs with excitement. "is her ladyship at home?" "yes, sir." i was ushered into the drawing-room, and found her sitting with two of her nieces, the misses fairfax. "mr newland, you have been quite a stranger," said her ladyship, as i walked up to her and made my obeisance. "i did intend to scold you well; but i suppose that sad affair of poor major carbonnell's has been a heavy blow to you--you were so intimate--lived together, i believe, did you not? however, you have not so much cause to regret, for he was not a very proper companion for young men like you: to tell you the truth, i consider it as a fortunate circumstance that he was removed, for he would, by degrees, have led you into all manner of mischief, and have persuaded you to squander your fortune. i did at one time think of giving you a hint, but it was a delicate point. now that he is gone, i tell you very candidly that you have had an escape. a young man like you, mr newland, who could command an alliance into the highest, yes, the very highest families--and let me tell you, mr newland, that there is nothing like connection--money is of no consequence to you, but connection, mr newland, is what you should look for--connection with some high family, and then you will do well. i should like to see you settled--well settled, i mean, mr newland. now that you are rid of the major, who has ruined many young men in his time, i trust you will seriously think of settling down into a married man. cecilia, my dear, show your tambour work to mr newland, and ask him his opinion. is it not beautiful, mr newland?" "extremely beautiful, indeed, ma'am," replied i, glad at last that her ladyship allowed me to speak a word. "emma, my dear, you look pale, you must go out into the air. go, children, put your bonnets on and take a turn in the garden, when the carriage comes round i will send for you." the young ladies quitted the room. "nice innocent girls, mr newland; but you are not partial to blondes, i believe?" "indeed, lady maelstrom, i infinitely prefer the blonde to the brunette." "that proves your taste, mr newland. the fairfaxes are of a very old family--saxon, mr newland. fair-fax is saxon for light hair. is it not remarkable that they should be blondes to this day? pure blood, mr newland. you, of course, have heard of general fairfax, in the time of cromwell. he was their direct ancestor--an excellent family and highly connected, mr newland. you are aware that they are my nieces. my sister married mr fairfax." i paid the misses fairfax the compliments which i thought they really deserved, for they were very pretty amiable girls, and required no puffing on the part of her ladyship; and then i commenced. "your ladyship has expressed such kind wishes towards me, that i cannot be sufficiently grateful, but, perhaps, your ladyship may think me romantic, i am resolved never to marry, except for love." "a very excellent resolve, mr newland; there are few young men who care about love now-a-days, but i consider that love is a great security for happiness in the wedded state." "true, madam, and what can be more delightful than a first attachment? i appeal to your ladyship, was not your first attachment the most delightful--are not the reminiscences most lasting--do you not, even now, call to mind those halcyon days when love was all and every thing?" "my days of romance are long past, mr newland," replied her ladyship; "indeed i never had much romance in my composition. i married lord maelstrom for the connection, and i loved him pretty well, that is, soberly, mr newland. i mean, i loved him quite enough to marry him, and to obey my parents, that is all." "but, my dear lady maelstrom, i did not refer to your marriage with his lordship; i referred to your first love." "my first love, mr newland; pray what do you mean?" replied her ladyship, looking very hard at me. "your ladyship need not be ashamed of it. our hearts are not in our own keeping, nor can we always control our passions. i have but to mention the name of warrender." "warrender!" shrieked her ladyship. "pray, mr newland," continued her ladyship, recovering herself, "who gave you that piece of information?" "my dear lady maelstrom, pray do not be displeased with me, but i am very particularly interested in this affair. your love for mr warrender, long before your marriage, is well known to me; and it is to that love, to which i referred, when i asked you if it was not most delightful." "well, mr newland," replied her ladyship, "how you have obtained the knowledge i know not, but there was, i acknowledge, a trifling flirtation with edward warrender and me--but i was young, very young at that time." "i grant it, and do not, for a moment, imagine that i intend to blame your ladyship; but, as i before said, madam, i am much interested in the business." "what interest you can have with a little flirtation of mine, which took place before you were born, i cannot imagine, mr newland." "it is because it took place before i was born, that i feel so much interest." "i cannnot understand you, mr newland, and i think we had better change the subject." "excuse me, madam, but i must request to continue it a little longer. is mr warrender dead, or not? did he die in the west indies?" "you appear to be very curious on this subject, mr newland; i hardly can tell. yes, now i recollect, he did die of the yellow fever, i think--but i have quite forgotten all about it--and i shall answer no more questions; if you were not a favourite of mine, mr newland, i should say that you were very impertinent." "then, your ladyship, i will put but one more question, and that one i must put, with your permission." "i should think, after what i have said, mr newland, that you might drop the subject." "i will, your ladyship, immediately; but, pardon me, the question--" "well, mr newland--?" "do not be angry with me--" "well?" exclaimed her ladyship, who appeared alarmed. "nothing but the most important and imperative reasons could induce me to ask the question" (her ladyship gasped for breath, and could not speak), i stammered, but at last i brought it out. "what has become of--of--of the sweet pledge of your love, lady maelstrom?" her ladyship coloured up with rage, raised up her clenched hand, and then fell back in violent hysterics. chapter xxxv i repair the damage, and make things worse--plot and counterplot--tim gains a watch by setting watch upon his tongue. i hardly knew how to act--if i called the servants, my interview would be at an end, and i was resolved to find out the truth--for the same reason, i did not like to ring for water. some vases with flowers were on the table; i took out the flowers, and threw the water in her face, but they had been in the water some time, and had discoloured it green. her ladyship's dress was a high silk gown, of a bright slate colour, and was immediately spoiled; but this was no time to stand upon trifles. i seized hold of a glass bottle, fancying, in my hurry, it was _eau de cologne_, or some essence, and poured a little into her mouth; unfortunately, it was a bottle of marking ink, which her ladyship, who was very economical, had on the table in disguise. i perceived my error, and had recourse to another vase of flowers, pouring a large quantity of the green water down her throat. whether the unusual remedies had an effect or not, i cannot tell, but her ladyship gradually revived, and, as she leant back on the sofa, sobbing, every now and then, convulsively, i poured into her ear a thousand apologies, until i thought she was composed enough to listen to me. "your ladyship's maternal feelings," said i. "it's all a calumny! a base lie, sir!" shrieked she. "nay, nay, why be ashamed of a youthful passion; why deny what was in itself creditable to your unsophisticated mind. does not your heart, even now, yearn to embrace your son--will not you bless me, if i bring him to your feet--will not you bless your son, and receive him with delight?" "it was a girl," screamed her ladyship, forgetting herself, and again falling into hysterics. "a girl!" replied i, "then i have lost my time, and it is no use my remaining here." mortified at the intelligence which overthrew my hopes and castle buildings, i seized my hat, descended the stairs, and quitted the house; in my hurry and confusion quite forgetting to call the servants to her ladyship's assistance. fortunately, i perceived the misses fairfax close to the iron railing of the garden. i crossed the road, wished them good-bye, and told them that i thought lady maelstrom looked very ill, and they had better go in to her. i then threw myself into the first hackney-coach, and drove home. i found timothy had arrived before me, and i narrated all that had passed. "you will never be able to go there again," observed timothy, "and depend upon it, she will be your enemy through life. i wish you had not said anything to her. "what is done cannot be undone; but recollect, that if she can talk, i can talk also." "will she not be afraid?" "yes, openly, she will; and open attacks can be parried." "very true." "but it will be as well to pacify her, if i can. i will write to her." i sat down and wrote as follows:-- "my dear lady maelstrom,--i am so astonished and alarmed at the situation i put you in, by my impertinence and folly, that i hardly know how to apologise. the fact is, that looking over some of my father's old letters, i found many from warrender, in which he spoke of an affair with a young lady, and i read the name as your maiden name, and also discovered where the offspring was to be found. on re-examination, for your innocence was too evident at our meeting to admit of a doubt, i find that the name, although something like yours, is spelt very differently, and that i must have been led into an unpardonable error. what can i say, except that i throw myself on your mercy? i dare not appear before you again. i leave town to-morrow, but if you can pardon my folly and impertinence, and allow me to pay my respects when london is full again, and time shall have softened down your just anger, write me one line to that effect, and you will relieve the burdened conscience of "yours most truly, "j. newland." "there, tim," said i, as i finished reading it over, "take that as a sop to the old cerberus. she may think it prudent, as i have talked of letters, to believe me and make friends. i will not trust her, nevertheless." tim went away, and very soon returned with an answer. "you are a foolish mad-cap, and i ought to shut my doors against you; you have half-killed me--spoilt my gown, and i am obliged to keep my bed. remember, in future, to be sure of the right name before you make an assertion. as for forgiving you, i shall think of it, and when you return to town, you may call and receive my sentence. cecilia was quite frightened, poor dear girl, what a dear affectionate child she is--she is a treasure to me, and i don't think i ever could part with her. she sends her regards. "yours, "c. maelstrom." "come, timothy, at all events this is better than i expected--but now i'll tell you what i propose to do. harcourt was with me yesterday, and he wishes me to go down with him to ----. there will be the assizes, and the county ball, and a great deal of gaiety, and i have an idea that it is just as well to beat the country as the town. i dine with mr masterton on friday. on saturday i will go down and see fleta, and on tuesday or wednesday i will start with harcourt to his father's, where he has promised me a hearty welcome. was there anything at coleman street?" "yes, sir; mr iving said that he had just received a letter from your correspondent, and that he wished to know if the little girl was well; i told him that she was. mr iving laid the letter down on the desk, and i read the postmark, dublin." "dublin," replied i. "i should like to find out who melchior is--and so i will as soon as i can." "well, sir, i have not finished my story. mr iving said, 'my correspondent wishes to know whether the education of the little girl is attended to?' 'yes,' replied i, 'it is.' 'is she at school?' 'yes, she has been at school ever since we have been in london.' 'where is she at school?' inquired he. now, sir, as i never was asked that question by him before, i did not know whether i ought to give an answer, so i replied, 'that i did not know.' 'you know whether she is in london or not, do you not?' 'how should i?' replied i, 'master had put her to school before i put on his liveries.' 'does he never go to see her?' inquired he. 'i suppose so,' said i. 'then you really know nothing about it?--then look you, my lad, i am anxious to find out where she is at school, and the name of the people, and if you will find out the direction for me, it will be money in your pocket, that's all.' 'um,' replied i, 'but how much?' 'why, more than you think for, my man, it will be a ten-pound note.' 'that alters the case,' replied i; 'now i think again, i have an idea that i do remember seeing her address on a letter my master wrote to her.' 'ay,' replied mr iving, 'it's astonishing how money sharpens the memory. i'll keep to my bargain; give me the address, and here's the ten-pound note.' 'i'm afraid that my master will be angry,' said i, as if i did not much like to tell him. 'your master will never know anything about it, and you may serve a long time before he gives you a ten-pound note above your wages.' 'that's very true,' said i, 'sarvice is no inheritance. well, then, give me the money, and i'll write it down.'" "and did you give it?" interrupted i. "stop a moment, sir, and you shall hear. i wrote down the address of that large school at kensington, which we pass when we go to mr aubrey white's." "what, that tremendous large board with yellow letters--mrs let--what is it?" "mrs lipscombe's seminary--i always read the board every time i go up and down. i gave him the address, miss johnson, at mrs lipscombe's seminary, kensington. well--and here's the ten-pound note, sir, which i have fairly earned." "fairly earned, tim?" "yes, fairly earned; for it's all fair to cheat those who would cheat you.' "i cannot altogether agree with you on that point, tim, but it certainly is no more than they deserve; but this is matter for reflection. why should melchior wish to find out her address without my knowledge?--depend upon it, there is something wrong." "that's what i said to myself coming home; and i made up my mind, that, for some reason or another, he wishes to regain possession of her." "i entertain the same idea, timothy, and i am glad you have disappointed him. i will take care that they shall not find her out, now that i am upon my guard." "but, sir, i wish to draw one good moral from this circumstance; which is, that if you had been served by any common footman, your interest would, in all probability, have been sacrificed to the ten-pound note; and that not only in this instance, but in many others, i did a very wise thing in taking my present situation." "i am but too well aware of that, tim, my dear fellow," said i, extending my hand, "and depend upon it, that if i rise, you do. you know me well enough by this time." "yes, i do, japhet, and had rather serve you than the first nobleman in the land. i'm going to purchase a watch with this ten-pound note, and i never shall look at it without remembering the advantage of keeping a watch over my tongue." chapter xxxvi i fall very much in love with honesty because i find that it is well received in the world--and to prove my honesty, inform the whole world that honest i have never been. i proved the will of major carbonnell, in which there was no difficulty; and then i sat down to consider in what way i might best husband my resources. the house was in good repair, and well furnished. at the time that i lived with the major, we had our drawing-room, and his bedroom, and another room equally large, used as his dressing-room, on the first floor. the second floor was appropriated to me, and the sitting-room was used as a dining-room when we dined at home, which was but seldom. the basement was let as a shop, at one hundred pounds per annum, but we had a private door for entrance, and the kitchens and attics. i resolved to retain only the first floor, and let the remainder of the house; and i very soon got a tenant at sixty pounds per annum. the attics were appropriated to timothy and the servants belonging to the lodger. after having disposed of what was of no service to me, i found that, deducting the thousand pounds paid into the banker's, for lord windermear, i had a little above three thousand pounds in ready money, and what to do with this i could not well decide. i applied to mr masterton, stating the exact amount of my finances, on the day that i dined with him, and he replied, "you have two good tenants, bringing you in one hundred and sixty pounds per annum--if this money is put out on mortgage, i can procure you five per cent., which will be one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. now, the question is, do you think that you can live upon three hundred and ten pounds per annum? you have no rent to pay, and i should think that, as you are not at any great expense for a servant, you might, with economy, do very well. recollect, that if your money is lent on mortgage, you will not be able to obtain it at a moment's warning. so reflect well before you decide." i consulted with timothy, and agreed to lend the money, reserving about two hundred pounds to go on with, until i should receive my rents and interest. on the friday i went to dine with mr masterton, and narrated what had passed between me and lady maelstrom. he was very much diverted, and laughed immoderately. "upon my faith, mr newland, but you have a singular species of madness; you first attack lord windermear, then a bishop, and, to crown all, you attack a dowager peeress. i must acknowledge, that if you do not find out your parents, it will not be for want of inquiry. altogether, you are a most singular character; your history is most singular, and your good fortune is equally so. you have made more friends before you have come to age, than most people do in their whole lives. you commence the world with nothing, and here you are, with almost a competence--have paid off a loan of one thousand pounds, which was not required--and are moving in the best society. now the only drawback i perceive in all this is, that you are in society under false colours, having made people suppose that you are possessed of a large fortune." "it was not exactly my assertion, sir." "no, i grant, not exactly; but you have been a party to it, and i cannot allow that there is any difference. now, do you mean to allow this supposition to remain uncontradicted?" "i hardly know what to say, sir; if i were to state that i have nothing but a bare competence, it will be only injurious to the memory of major carbonnell. all the world will suppose that he has ruined me, and that i had the fortune, whereas, on the contrary, it is to him that i am indebted for my present favourable position." "that may be very true, mr newland; but if i am to consider you as my protege, and i may add the protege of lord windermear, i must make you _quite honest_--i will be no party to fraud in any shape. are you prepared to resign your borrowed plumes, and appear before the world as you really are?" "there is but one inducement, sir, for me to wish that the world may still deceive themselves. i may be thrown out of society, and lose the opportunity of discovering my parents." "and pray, mr newland, which do you think is more likely to tend to the discovery, a general knowledge that you are a foundling in search of your parents, or your present method, of taxing everybody upon suspicion. if your parents wish to reclaim you, they will then have their eyes directed towards you, from your position being known; and i will add, there are few parents who will not be proud of you as a son. you will have the patronage of lord windermear, which will always secure you a position in society, and the good wishes of all, although, i grant, that such worldly people as lady maelstrom may strike your name off their porter's list. you will, moreover, have the satisfaction of knowing that the friends which you make have not been made under false colours and appearances, and a still further satisfaction, arising from a good conscience." "i am convinced, sir, and i thank you for your advice. i will now be guided by you in everything." "give me your hand, my good lad, i now will be your friend to the utmost of my power." "i only wish, sir," replied i, much affected, "that you were also my father." "thank you for the wish, as it implies that you have a good opinion of me. what do you mean to do?" "i have promised my friend mr harcourt to go down with him to his father's." "well?" "and before i go i will undeceive him." "you are right; you will then find whether he is a friend to you or to your supposed ten thousand pounds per annum. i have been reflecting, and i am not aware that anything else can be done at present than acknowledging to the world who you really are, which is more likely to tend to the discovery of your parents than any other means, but at the same time i shall not be idle. all we lawyers have among us strange secrets, and among my fraternity, to whom i shall speak openly, i think it possible that something may be found out which may serve as a clue. do not be annoyed at being cut by many, when your history is known; those who cut you are those whose acquaintance and friendship are not worth having; it will unmask your flatterers from your friends, and you will not repent of your having been honest; in the end, it is the best policy, even in a worldly point of view. come to me as often as you please; i am always at home to you, and always your friend." such was the result of my dinner with mr masterton, which i narrated to timothy as soon as i returned home. "well, japhet, i think you have found a real friend in mr masterton, and i am glad that you have decided upon following his advice. as for me, i am not under false colours, i am in my right situation, and wish no more." in pursuance of my promise to mr masterton, i called upon harcourt the next morning, and after stating my intention to go down for a day or two into the country to see a little girl who was under my care, i said to him, "harcourt, as long as we were only town acquaintances, mixing in society, and under no peculiar obligation to each other, i did not think it worth while to undeceive you on a point in which major carbonnell was deceived himself, and has deceived others; but now that you have offered to introduce me into the bosom of your family, i cannot allow you to remain in error. it is generally supposed that i am about to enter into a large property when i come of age; now, so far from that being the case, i have nothing in the world but a bare competence, and the friendship of lord windermear. in fact, i am a deserted child, ignorant of my parents, and most anxious to discover them, as i have every reason to suppose that i am of no mean birth. i tell you this candidly, and unless you renew the invitation, shall consider that it has not been given." harcourt remained a short time without answering. "you really have astonished me, newland; but," continued he, extending his hand, "i admire--i respect you, and i feel that i shall like you better. with ten thousand pounds a-year, you were above me--now we are but equals. i, as a younger brother, have but a bare competence, as well as you; and as for parents--for the benefit i now derive from them, i might as well have none. not but my father is a worthy, fine old gentleman, but the estates are entailed; he is obliged to keep up his position in society, and he has a large family to provide for, and he can do no more. you have indeed an uncommon moral courage to have made this confession. do you wish it to be kept a secret?" "on the contrary, i wish the truth to be known." "i am glad that you say so, as i have mentioned you as a young man of large fortune to my father, but i feel convinced, when i tell him this conversation, he will be much more pleased in taking you by the hand, than if you were to come down and propose to one of my sisters. i repeat the invitation with double the pleasure that i gave it at first." "i thank you, harcourt," replied i; "some day i will tell you more. i must not expect, however, that everybody will prove themselves as noble in ideas as yourself." "perhaps not, but never mind that. on friday next then, we start." "agreed." i shook hands and left him. chapter xxxvii i try back to recover the lost scent, and discover to my astonishment, that i have been transported for forgery. the behaviour of harcourt was certainly a good encouragement, and had i been wavering in my promise to mr masterton, would have encouraged me to proceed. i returned home with a light heart and a pleasing satisfaction, from the conviction that i had done right. the next morning i set off for ----, and, as it was a long while since i had seen fleta, our meeting was a source of delight on both sides. i found her very much grown and improved. she was approaching her fifteenth year, as nearly as we could guess--of course her exact age was a mystery. her mind was equally expanded. her mistress praised her docility and application, and wished to know whether i intended that she should be taught music and drawing, for both of which she had shown a decided taste. to this i immediately consented, and fleta hung on my shoulder and embraced me for the indulgence. she was now fast approaching to womanhood, and my feelings towards her were more intense than ever. i took the chain of coral and gold beads from her neck, telling her that i must put it into a secure place, as much depended upon them. she was curious to know why, but i would not enter into the subject at that time. one caution i gave her, in case, by any chance, her retreat should be discovered by the companions of melchior, which was, that without i myself came, she was, on no account, to leave the school, even if a letter from me was produced, requesting her to come, unless that letter was delivered by timothy. i gave the same directions to her mistress, paid up her schooling and expenses, and then left her, promising not to be so long before i saw her again. on my return to town i deposited the necklace with mr masterton, who locked it up carefully in his iron safe. on the friday, as agreed, harcourt and i, accompanied by timothy and harcourt's servant, started on the outside of the coach, as younger brothers usually convey themselves, for his father's seat in ----shire, and arrived there in time for dinner. i was kindly received by old mr harcourt and his family, consisting of his wife and three amiable and beautiful girls. but on the second day, during which interval i presume harcourt had an opportunity of undeceiving his father, i was delighted to perceive that the old gentleman's warmth of behaviour towards me was increased. i remained there for a fortnight, and never was so happy. i was soon on the most intimate terms with the whole family, and was treated as if i belonged to it. yet when i went to bed every night, i became more and more melancholy. i felt what a delight it must be to have parents, sisters, and friends--the bosom of a family to retire into, to share with it your pleasures and your pains; and the tears often ran down my cheeks, and moistened my pillow, when i had, not an hour before, been the happiest of the happy, and the gayest of the gay. in a family party, there is nothing so amusing as any little talent out of the general way, and my performances and tricks on cards, &c., in which melchior had made me such an adept, were now brought forward as a source of innocent gratification. when i quitted, i had a general and hearty welcome to the house from the parents; and the eyes of the amiable girls, as well as mine, were not exactly dry, as we bade each other farewell. "you told your father, harcourt, did you not?" "yes, and the whole of them, japhet; and you must acknowledge, that in their estimation you did not suffer. my father is pleased with our intimacy, and advises me to cultivate it. to prove to you that i am anxious so to do, i have a proposal to make. i know your house as well as you do, and that you have reserved only the first floor for yourself; but there are two good rooms on the first floor, and you can dispense with a dressing-room. suppose we club together. it will be a saving to us both, as poor carbonnell said, when he took you in." "with all my heart: i am delighted with the proposal." harcourt then stated what it was his intention to offer for his share of the apartment; the other expenses to be divided, and his servant dismissed. i hardly need say, that we did not disagree, and before i had been a week in town, we were living together. my interview with mr masterton, and subsequent events, had made me forget to call on the governors of the foundling hospital, to ascertain whether there had been any inquiries after me. on my return to town i went there, and finding that there was a meeting to be held on the next day, i presented myself. i was introduced into the room where they were assembled. "you wish to speak with the governors of the hospital, i understand," said the presiding governor. "yes, sir," replied i; "i have come to ask whether an inquiry has been made after one of the inmates of this charity, of the name of japhet newland." "japhet newland!" "if you recollect, sir, he was bound to an apothecary of the name of cophagus, in consequence of some money which was left with him as an infant, enclosed in a letter, in which it was said that he would be reclaimed if circumstances permitted." "i recollect it perfectly well--it is now about six years back. i think there was some inquiry, was there not, mr g----?" "i think that there was, about a year and a half ago; but we will send for the secretary, and refer to the minutes." my heart beat quick, and the perspiration bedewed my forehead, when i heard this intelligence. at last, my emotion was so great, that i felt faint. "you are ill, sir," said one of the gentlemen; "quick--a glass of water." the attendant brought a glass of water, which i drank, and recovered myself. "you appear to be much interested in this young man's welfare." "i am, sir," replied i; "no one can be more so." the secretary now made his appearance with the register, and after turning over the leaves, read as follows: "august the th--, a gentleman came to inquire after an infant left here, of the name of japhet, with whom money had been deposited--japhet, christened by order of the governors, japhet newland--referred to the shop of mr cophagus, smithfield market. he returned the next day, saying that mr cophagus had retired from business--that the parties in the shop knew nothing for certain, but believed that the said japhet newland had been transported for life for forgery, about a year before." "good heavens! what an infamous assertion!" exclaimed i, clasping my hands. "on reference back to the calendar, we observed that one j. newland was transported for such an offence. query?" "it must have been some other person; but this has arisen from the vindictive feeling of those two scoundrels who served under pleggit," cried i. "how can you possibly tell, sir?" mildly observed one of the governors. "how can i tell, sir?" replied i, starting from my chair. "why, i am _japhet newland_ myself, sir." "you, sir," replied the governor, surveying my fashionable exterior, my chains, and bijouterie. "yes, sir, i am the japhet newland brought up in this asylum, and who was apprenticed to mr cophagus." "probably, then, sir," replied the president, "you are the mr newland whose name appears at all the fashionable parties in high life?" "i believe that i am the same person, sir." "i wish you joy upon your success in the world, sir. it would not appear that it can be very important to you to discover your parents." "sir," replied i, "you have never known what it is to feel the want of parents and friends. fortunate as you may consider me to be--and i acknowledge i have every reason to be grateful for my unexpected rise in life--i would, at this moment, give up all that i am worth, resume my foundling dress, and be turned out a beggar, if i could but discover the authors of my existence."--i then bowed low to the governors, and quitted the room. chapter xxxviii mischief brewing--timothy and i set our wits to work, and he resumes his old profession of a gipsy. i hastened home with feelings too painful to be described. i had a soreness at my heart, an oppression on my spirits, which weighed me down. i had but one wish--that i was dead. i had already imparted to harcourt the history of my life, and when i came in, i threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and relieved my agonised heart with a flood of tears. as soon as i could compose myself, i stated what had occurred. "my dear newland, although it has been an unfortunate occurrence in itself, i do not see that you have so much cause to grieve, for you have this satisfaction, that it appears there has been a wish to reclaim you." "yes," replied i, "i grant that, but have they not been told, and have they not believed, that i have been ignominiously punished for a capital crime? will they ever seek me more?" "probably not; you must now seek them. what i should recommend is, that you repair to-morrow to the apothecary's shop, and interrogate relative to the person who called to make inquiries after you. if you will allow me, i will go with you." "and be insulted by those malignant scoundrels?" "they dare not insult you. as an apothecary's apprentice they would, but as a gentleman they will quail; and if they do not, their master will most certainly be civil, and give you all the information which he can. we may as well, however, not do things by halves; i will borrow my aunt's carriage for the morning, and we will go in style." "i think i will call this evening upon mr masterton, and ask his advice." "ask him to accompany us, newland, and he will frighten them with libel, and defamation of character." i called upon mr masterton, that evening, and told my story. "it is indeed very provoking, newland; but keep your courage up, i will go with you to-morrow, and will see what we can make of it. at what time do you propose to start?" "will it suit you, sir, if we call at one o'clock?" "yes; so good-night, my boy, for i have something here which i must contrive to get through before that time." harcourt had procured the carriage, and we picked up mr masterton at the hour agreed, and proceeded to smithfield. when we drove up to the door of mr pleggit's shop, the assistants at first imagined that it was a mistake; few handsome carriages are to be seen stopping in this quarter of the metropolis. we descended and entered the shop, mr masterton inquiring if mr pleggit was at home. the shopmen, who had not recognised me, bowed to the ground in their awkward way; and one ran to call mr pleggit, who was up stairs. mr pleggit descended, and we walked into the back parlour. mr masterton then told him the object of our calling, and requested to know why the gentleman, who had inquired after me, had been sent away with the infamous fabrication that i had been transported for forgery. mr pleggit protested innocence--recollected, however, that a person had called--would make every inquiry of his shopmen. the head man was called in and interrogated--at first he appeared to make a joke of it, but when threatened by mr masterton became humble--acknowledged that they had said that i was transported, for they had read it in the newspapers--was sorry for the mistake; said that the gentleman was a very tall person, very well dressed, very much of a gentleman--could not recollect his exact dress--was a large built man, with a stern face--but seemed very much agitated when he heard that i had been transported. called twice, mr pleggit was not in at first--left his name--thinks the name was put down on the day book--when he called a second time, mr pleggit was at home, and referred him to them, not knowing what had become of me. the other shopman was examined, and his evidence proved similar to that of the first. the day-book was sent for, and the day in august ---- referred to; there was a name written down on the side of the page, which the shopman said he had no doubt, indeed he could almost swear, was the gentleman's name, as there was no other name put down on that day. the name, as taken down, was _derbennon_. this was all the information we could obtain, and we then quitted the shop, and drove off without there being any recognition of me on the part of mr pleggit and his assistants. "i never heard that name before," observed harcourt to mr masterton. "it is, in all probability, de benyon," replied the lawyer; "we must make allowances for their ignorance. at all events, this is a sort of clue to follow up. the de benyons are irish." "then i will set off for ireland to-morrow morning, sir," said i. "you will do no such thing," replied the lawyer; "but you will call upon me to-morrow evening, and perhaps i may have something to say to you." i did not fail to attend mr masterton, who stated that he had made every inquiry relative to the de benyons; as he had said, they were an irish family of the highest rank, and holding the peerage of de beauvoir, but that he had written to his agent in dublin, giving him directions to obtain for him every possible information in his power relative to all the individuals composing it. till this had been received, all that i could do was to remain quiet. i then narrated to him the behaviour of the agent, mr iving, to timothy. "there is some mystery there, most assuredly," observed mr masterton; "when do you go again to ----?" i replied, that it was not my intention to go there for some time, unless he would wish to see the little girl. "i do, newland. i think i must take her under my protection as well as you. we will go down to-morrow. sunday is the only day i can spare; but it must be put down as a work of charity." the next day we went down to ----. fleta was surprised to see me so soon, and mr masterton was much struck with the elegance and classical features of my little protégée. he asked her many questions, and with his legal tact, contrived to draw from her many little points relative to her infant days, which she had, till he put his probing questions, quite forgotten. as we returned to town, he observed, "you are right, japhet, that is no child of humble origin. her very appearance contradicts it; but we have, i think, a chance of discovering who she is--a better one, i'm afraid, than at present we have for your identification. but never mind, let us trust to perseverance." for three weeks i continued to live with harcourt, but i did not go out much. such was the state of my affairs, when timothy came to my room one morning, and said, "i do not know whether you have observed it, sir; but there is a man constantly lurking about here, watching the house, i believe. i think, but still i'm not quite sure, that i have seen his face before; but where i cannot recollect." "indeed, what sort of a person may he be?" "he is a very dark man, stout, and well made; and is dressed in a sort of half-sailor, half-gentleman's dress; such as you see put on by those who belong to the funny clubs on the river; but he is not at all a gentleman himself--quite the contrary. it is now about a week that i have seen him, every day; and i have watched him, and perceive that he generally follows you as soon as you go out." "well," replied i, "we must find out what he wants--if we can. point him out to me; i will soon see if he is tracing my steps." timothy pointed him out to me after breakfast; i could not recollect the face, and yet it appeared that i had seen it before. i went out, and after passing half a dozen streets, i turned round and perceived that the man was dodging me. i took no notice, but being resolved to try him again, i walked to the white horse cellar, and took a seat inside a brentford coach about to start. on my arrival at brentford i got out, and perceived that the man was on the roof. of a sudden it flashed on my memory--it was the gipsy who had come to the camp with the communication to melchior, which induced him to quit it. i recollected him--and his kneeling down by the stream and washing his face. the mystery was solved--melchior had employed him to find out the residence of fleta. in all probability they had applied to the false address given by timothy, and in consequence were trying, by watching my motions, to find out the true one. "you shall be deceived, at all events," thought i, as i walked on through brentford until i came to a ladies' seminary. i rang the bell, and was admitted, stating my wish to know the terms of the school for a young lady, and contrived to make as long a stay as i could, promising to call again, if the relatives of the young lady were as satisfied as i professed to be. on my quitting the house, i perceived that my gipsy attendant was not far off. i took the first stage back, and returned to my lodgings. when i had told all that had occurred to timothy, he replied, "i think, sir, that if you could replace me for a week or two, i could now be of great service. he does not know me, and if i were to darken my face, and put on a proper dress, i think i should have no difficulty in passing myself off as one of the tribe, knowing their slang, and having been so much with them." "but what good do you anticipate, timothy?" "my object is to find out where he puts up, and to take the same quarters--make his acquaintance, and find out who melchior is, and where he lives. my knowledge of him and nattée may perhaps assist me." "you must be careful then, timothy; for he may know sufficient of our history to suspect you." "let me alone, sir. do you like my proposal?" "yes, i do; you may commence your arrangements immediately." chapter xxxix i set off on a wild goose chase--and fall in with an old friend. the next morning timothy had procured me another valet, and throwing off his liveries, made his appearance in the evening, sending up to say a man wished to speak to me. he was dressed in highlow boots, worsted stockings, greasy leather small clothes, a shag waistcoat, and a blue frock overall. his face was stained of a dark olive, and when he was ushered in, harcourt, who was sitting at table with me, had not the slightest recognition of him. as harcourt knew all my secrets, i had confided this; i had not told him what timothy's intentions were, as i wished to ascertain whether his disguise was complete. i had merely said i had given timothy leave for a few days. "perhaps you may wish me away for a short time," said harcourt, looking at tim. "not at all, my dear harcourt, why should i? there's nobody here but you and timothy." "timothy! excellent--upon my word, i never should have known him." "he is going forth on his adventures." "and if you please, sir, i will lose no time. it is now dark, and i know where the gipsy hangs out." "success attend you then; but be careful, tim. you had better write to me, instead of calling." "i had the same idea; and now i wish you a good evening." when timothy quitted the room, i explained our intentions to harcourt. "yours is a strange adventurous sort of life, newland; you are constantly plotted against, and plotting in your turn--mines and counter-mines. i have an idea that you will turn out some grand personage after all; for if not, why should there be all this trouble about you?" "the trouble, in the present case, is all about fleta; who must, by your argument, turn out some grand personage." "well, perhaps she may. i should like to see that little girl, newland." "that cannot be just now, for reasons you well know; but some other time it will give me great pleasure." on the second day after tim's departure, i received a letter from him by the twopenny post. he had made the acquaintance of the gipsy, but had not extracted any information, being as yet afraid to venture any questions. he further stated that his new companion had no objection to a glass or two, and that he had no doubt but that if he could contrive to make him tipsy, in a few days he would have some important intelligence to communicate. i was in a state of great mental agitation during this time. i went to mr masterton, and narrated to him all that had passed. he was surprised and amused, and desired me not to fail to let him have the earliest intelligence of what came to light. he had not received any answer as yet from his agent in dublin. it was not until eight days afterwards that i received further communication from timothy; and i was in a state of great impatience, combined with anxiety, lest any accident should have happened. his communication was important. he was on the most intimate footing with the man, who had proposed that he should assist him to carry off a little girl, who was at a school at brentford. they had been consulting how this should be done, and timothy had proposed forging a letter, desiring her to come up to town, and his carrying it as a livery servant. the man had also other plans, one of which was to obtain an entrance into the house by making acquaintance with the servants; another, by calling to his aid some of the women of his fraternity to tell fortunes: nothing was as yet decided, but that he was resolved to obtain possession of the little girl, even if he were obliged to resort to force. in either case timothy was engaged to assist. when i read this, i more than congratulated myself upon the man's being on the wrong scent, and that timothy had hit upon his scheme. timothy continued:--that they had indulged in very deep potations last night, and that the man had not scrupled to say that he was employed by a person of large fortune, who paid well, and whom it might not be advisable to refuse, as he had great power. after some difficulty, he asked timothy if he had ever heard the name of melchior in his tribe. timothy replied that he had, and that at the gathering he had seen him and his wife. timothy at one time thought that the man was about to reveal everything, but of a sudden he stopped short, and gave evasive answers. to a question put by timothy, as to where they were to take the child if they obtained possession of her, the man had replied, that she would go over the water. such were the contents of the letter, and i eagerly awaited a further communication. the next day i called at long's hotel upon a gentleman with whom i was upon intimate terms. after remaining a short time with him, i was leaving the hotel, when i was attracted by some trunks in the entrance hall. i started when i read the address of--"a. de benyon, esq., to be left at f----t hotel, dublin." i asked the waiter who was by, whether mr de benyon had left the hotel. he replied that he had left it in his own carriage that morning, and having more luggage than he could take with him, had desired these trunks to be forwarded by the coach. i had by that time resumed my serenity. i took out a memorandum-book, wrote down the address on the trunks, saying that i was sorry not to have seen mr de benyon, and that i would write to him. but if i composed myself before the waiter, how did my heart throb as i hastily passed through bond street to my home! i had made up my mind, upon what very slight grounds the reader must be aware, that this mr de benyon either must be my father, or, if not, was able to tell me who was. had not mr masterton said that there was a clue--had he not written to dublin? the case was to my excited imagination as clear as the noon-day, and before i arrived at home, i had made up my mind in what manner i should proceed. it was then about four o'clock. i hastily packed up my portmanteau--took with me all my ready money, about sixty pounds, and sent the servant to secure a place in the mail to holyhead. he returned, stating that there was a seat taken for me. i waited till half-past five to see harcourt, but he did not come home. i then wrote him a short note, telling him where i was going, and promising to write as soon as i arrived. "ireland is to be the ground of my future adventures, my dear harcourt. call upon mr masterton, and tell him what i have done, which he surely will approve. open timothy's letters, and let me have their contents. i leave you to arrange and act for me in every respect until i return. in the meantime believe me, "ever yours, "j. newland." i gave the letter to the valet, and calling a coach drove to the office, and in less than five minutes afterwards was rolling away to holyhead, felicitating myself upon my promptitude and decision, little imagining to what the step i had taken was to lead. it was a very dark night in november when i started on my expedition. there were three other passengers in the mail, none of whom had yet spoken a word, although we had made several miles of our journey. muffled up in my cloak, i indulged in my own reveries as usual, building up castles which toppled over one after another as i built and rebuilt again. at last one of the passengers blew his nose, as if to give warning that he was about to speak; and then inquired of the gentleman next him if he had seen the evening newspapers. the other replied in the negative. "it would appear that ireland is not in a very quiet state, sir," observed the first. "did you ever read the history of ireland?" inquired the other. "not very particularly." "then, sir, if you were to take that trouble, you will find that ireland, since it was first peopled, never has been in a quiet state, nor perhaps ever will. it is a species of human volcano--always either smoking, burning, or breaking out into eruptions and fire." "very true, sir," replied the other. "i am told the white boys are mustering in large numbers, and that some of the districts are quite impassable." "sir, if you had travelled much in ireland, you would have found out that many of the districts are quite impassable, without the impediment of the white boys." "you have been a great deal in ireland then, sir," replied the other. "yes, sir," said the other with a consequential air, "i believe i may venture to say that i am in charge of some of the most considerable properties in ireland." "lawyer--agent--five per cent.--and so on," muttered the third party, who sate by me, and had not yet spoken. there was no mistaking him--it was my former master, mr cophagus; and i cannot say that i was very well pleased at this intimation of his presence, as i took it for granted that he would recognise me as soon as it was daylight. the conversation continued, without any remarks being made upon this interruption on the part of mr cophagus. the agent, it appeared, had been called to london on business, and was returning. the other was a professor of music bound to dublin on speculation. what called mr cophagus in that direction i could not comprehend; but i thought i would try and find out, i therefore, while the two others were engaged in conversation, addressed him in a low tone of voice. "can you tell me, sir, if the college at dublin is considered good for the instruction of surgical pupils?" "country good, at all events plenty of practice--broken heads--and so on." "have you ever been in ireland, sir?" "ireland!--never--don't wish to go--must go--old women will die--executor--botheration--and so on." "i hope she has left you a good legacy, sir," replied i. "legacy--humph--can't tell--silver tea-pot--suit of black, and so on. long journey--won't pay--can't be helped--old women always troublesome alive or dead--bury her, come back--and so on." chapter xl i deny my master. although mr cophagus was very communicative in his own way, he had no curiosity with regard to others, and the conversation dropped. the other two had also asked all the questions which they wished, and we all, as if by one agreement, fell back in our seats, and shut our eyes, to court sleep. i was the only one who wooed it in vain. day broke, my companions were all in repose, and i discontinued my reveries, and examined their physiognomies. mr cophagus was the first to whom i directed my attention. he was much the same in face as when i had left him, but considerably thinner in person. his head was covered with a white night-cap, and he snored with emphasis. the professor of music was a very small man, with mustachios; his mouth was wide open, and one would have thought that he was in the full execution of a bravura. the third person, who had stated himself to be an agent, was a heavy, full-faced, coarse-looking personage, with his hat over his eyes, and his head bent down on his chest, and i observed that he had a small packet in one of his hands, with his forefinger twisted through the string. i should not have taken further notice, had not the name of _t. iving_, in the corner of the side on which was the direction, attracted my attention. it was the name of melchior's london correspondent, who had attempted to bribe timothy. this induced me to look down and read the direction of the packet, and i clearly deciphered, sir henry de clare, bart., mount castle, connemara. i took out my tablets, and wrote down the address. i certainly had no reason for so doing, except that nothing should he neglected, as there was no saying what might turn out. i had hardly replaced my tablets when the party awoke, made a sort of snatch at the packet, as if recollecting it, and wishing to ascertain if it were safe, looked at it, took off his hat, let down the window, and then looked round upon the other parties. "fine morning, sir," said he to me, perceiving that i was the only person awake. "very," replied i, "very fine; but i had rather be walking over the mountains of connemara, than be shut up in this close and confined conveyance." "hah! you know connemara, then? i'm going there; perhaps you are also bound to that part of the country? but you are not irish." "i was not born or bred in ireland, certainly," replied i. "so i should say. irish blood in your veins, i presume." "i believe such to be the case," replied i, with a smile, implying certainty. "do you know sir henry de clare?" "sir henry de clare--of mount castle--is he not?" "the same; i am going over to him. i am agent for his estates, among others. a very remarkable man. have you ever seen his wife?" "i really cannot tell," replied i; "let me call to mind." i had somehow or another formed an idea, that sir henry de clare and melchior might be one and the same person; nothing was too absurd or improbable for my imagination, and i had now means of bringing home my suspicions. "i think," continued i, "i recollect her--that is, she is a very tall, handsome woman, dark eyes and complexion." "the very same," replied he. my heart bounded at the information; it certainly was not any clue to my own parentage, but it was an object of my solicitude, and connected with the welfare of fleta. "if i recollect right," observed i, "there are some curious passages in the life of sir henry?" "nothing very particular," observed the agent, looking out of the window. "i thought that he had disappeared for some time." "disappeared! he certainly did not live in ireland, because he had quarrelled with his brother. he lived in england until his brother's death." "how did his brother die, sir?" "killed by a fall when hunting," replied the agent. "he was attempting to clear a stone wall, the horse fell back on him, and dislocated his spine. i was on the spot when the accident happened." i recollected the imperfect communication of fleta, who had heard the gipsy say that "he was dead;" and also the word _horse_ made use of, and i now felt convinced that i had found out melchior. "sir henry, if i recollect right, has no family," observed i. "no; and i am afraid there is but little chance." "had the late baronet, his elder brother, any family?" "what, sir william? no; or sir henry would not have come into the title." "he might have had daughters," replied i. "very true; now i think of it, there was a girl, who died when young." "is the widow of sir william alive?" "yes; and a very fine woman she is; but she has left ireland since her husband's death." i did not venture to ask any more questions. our conversation had roused mr cophagus and the other passenger; and as i had reflected how i should behave in case of recognition, i wished to be prepared for him. "you have had a good nap, sir," said i, turning to him. "nap--yes--coach nap, bad--head sore--and so on. why--bless me--japhet--japhet new--yes--it is." "do you speak to me, sir?" inquired i, with a quiet air. "speak to you--yes--bad memory--hip! quite forgot--old master--shop in smithfield--mad bull--and so on." "really, sir," replied i, "i am afraid you mistake me for some other person." mr cophagus looked very hard at me, and perceiving that there was no alteration in my countenance, exclaimed, "very odd--same nose--same face--same age too--very odd--like as two pills--beg pardon--made a mistake--and so on." satisfied with the discomfiture of mr cophagus, i turned round, when i perceived the irish agent, with whom i had been in conversation, eyeing me most attentively. as i said before, he was a hard-featured man, and his small grey eye was now fixed upon me, as if it would have pierced me through. i felt confused for a moment, as the scrutiny was unexpected from that quarter; but a few moments' reflection told me, that if sir henry de clare and melchior were the same person, and this man his agent, in all probability he had not been sent to england for nothing; that if he was in search of fleta, he must have heard of my name, and perhaps something of my history. "i appear to have a great likeness to many people," observed i, to the agent, smiling. "it was but the other day i was stopped in bond street as a mr rawlinson" "not a very common face either, sir," observed the agent; "if once seen not easily forgotten, nor easily mistaken for another." "still such appears to be the case," replied i, carelessly. we now stopped to take refreshment. i had risen from the table, and was going into the passage, when i perceived the agent looking over the way-bill with the guard. as soon as he perceived me, he walked out in front of the inn. before the guard had put up the bill, i requested to look at it, wishing to ascertain if i had been booked in my own name. it was so. the four names were, newland, cophagus, baltzi, m'dermott. i was much annoyed at this circumstance. m'dermott was, of course, the name of the agent; and that was all the information i received in return for my own exposure, which i now considered certain; i determined, however, to put a good face on the matter, and when we returned to the coach, again entered into conversation with mr m'dermott, but i found him particularly guarded in his replies whenever i spoke about sir henry or his family, and i could not obtain any further information. mr cophagus could not keep his eyes off me--he peered into my face--then he would fall back in the coach. "odd--very odd--must be--no--says not--um." in about another half hour, he would repeat his examination, and mutter to himself. at last, as if tormented with his doubts, he exclaimed, "beg pardon--but--you have a name?" "yes," replied i, "i have a name." "well, then--not ashamed. what is it?" "my name, sir," replied i, "is newland;" for i had resolved to acknowledge to my name, and fall back upon a new line of defence. "thought so--don't know me--don't recollect shop--mr brookes's--tim--rudiments--and so on." "i have not the least objection to tell you my name; but i am afraid you have the advantage in your recollection of me. where may i have had the honour of meeting you?" "meeting--what, quite forgot--smithfield?" "and pray, sir, where may smithfield be?" "very odd--can't comprehend--same name, same face--don't recollect me, don't recollect smithfield?" "it may be very odd, sir; but, as i am very well known in london, at the west end, perhaps we have met there. lord windermear's perhaps--lady maelstrom's?"--and i continued mentioning about a dozen of the most fashionable names. "at all events, you appear to have the advantage of me; but i trust you will excuse my want of memory, as my acquaintance is very extensive." "i see--quite a mistake--same name, not same person--beg pardon, sir--apologies--and so on," replied the apothecary, drawing in a long sigh. chapter xli i turn lawyer. i watched the countenance of the agent, who appeared at last to be satisfied that there had been some mistake; at least he became more communicative, and as i no longer put any questions to him relative to sir henry, we had a long conversation. i spoke to him about the de benyons, making every inquiry that i could think of. he informed me that the deceased earl, the father of the present, had many sons, who were some of them married, and that the family was extensive. he appeared to know them all, the professions which they had been brought up to, and their careers in life. i treasured up his information, and, as soon as i had an opportunity, wrote down all which he had told me. on our arrival at holyhead, the weather was very boisterous, and the packet was to depart immediately. mr m'dermott stated his intentions to go over, but mr cophagus and the professor declined, and, anxious as i was to proceed, i did not wish to be any longer in company with the agent, and, therefore, also declined going on board. mr m'dermott called for a glass of brandy and water, drank it off in haste, and then, followed by the porter, with his luggage, went down to embark. as soon as he was gone, i burst into a fit of laughter. "well, mr cophagus, acknowledge that it is possible to persuade a man out of his senses. you knew me, and you were perfectly right in asserting that i was japhet, yet did i persuade you at last that you were mistaken. but i will explain to you why i did so." "all right," said the apothecary, taking my proffered hand, "thought so--no mistake--handsome fellow--so you are--japhet newland--my apprentice--and so on." "yes, sir," replied i, laughing, "i am japhet newland." (i turned round, hearing a noise, the door had been opened, and mr m'dermott had just stepped in; he had returned for an umbrella, which he had forgotten; he looked at me, at mr cophagus, who still held my hand in his, turned short round, said nothing, and walked out.) "this is unfortunate," observed i, "my reason for not avowing myself, was to deceive that very person, and now i have made the avowal to his face; however, it cannot be helped." i sat down with my old master, and as i knew that i could confide in him, gave him an outline of my life, and stated my present intentions. "i see, japhet, i see--done mischief--sorry for it--can't be help'd--do all i can--um--what's to be done?--be your friend--always like you--help all i can--and so on." "but what would you advise, sir?" "advice--bad as physic--nobody takes it--ireland--wild place--no law--better go back--leave all to me--find out--and so on." this advice i certainly could not consent to follow. we argued the matter over for some time, and then it was agreed that we should proceed together. i was informed by mr cophagus that he had retired with a very handsome fortune, and was living in the country, about ten miles from the metropolis; that he had been summoned to attend the funeral of a maiden aunt in dublin, who had left him executor and residuary legatee, but that he knew nothing of her circumstances. he was still a bachelor, and amused himself in giving advice and medicines gratis to the poor people of the village in which he resided, there being no resident practitioner within some distance. he liked the country very much, but there was one objection to it--the cattle. he had not forgotten the _mad bull_. at a very late hour we retired to our beds: the next morning the weather had moderated, and, on the arrival of the mail we embarked, and had a very good passage over. on my arrival at dublin i directed my steps to the f----t hotel, as the best place to make inquiries relative to mr de benyon. mr cophagus also put up at the same hotel, and we agreed to share a sitting-room. "waiter," said i, "do you know a mr de benyon?" "yes, sir," replied he; "there is one of the de benyons at the hotel at this moment." "is he a married man?" "yes--with a large family." "what is his christian name?" "i really cannot tell, sir; but i'll find out for you by to-morrow morning." "when does he leave?" "to-morrow, i believe." "do you know where he goes?" "yes, sir, to his own seat." the waiter left the room. "won't do, japhet," said cophagus. "large family--don't want more--hard times, and so on." "no," replied i, "it does not exactly answer; but i may from him obtain further intelligence." "won't do, japhet--try another way--large family--want all uncle's money--um--never tell--good night." this remark of mr cophagus gave me an idea, upon which i proceeded the next morning. i sent in my card, requesting the honour of speaking to mr de benyon, stating that i had come over to ireland on business of importance, but that, as i must be back if possible by _term_ time, it would perhaps save much expense and trouble. the waiter took in the message. "back by term time--it must be some legal gentleman. show him up," said mr de benyon. i walked in with a business-like air. "mr de benyon, i believe?" "yes, sir; will you do me the favour to take a chair?" i seated myself, and drew out my memorandum-book. "my object, mr de benyon, in troubling you, is to ascertain a few particulars relative to your family, which we cannot so easily find out in england. there is a _property_ which it is supposed may be claimed by one of the de benyons, but which we cannot ascertain until we have a little search into the genealogical tree." "is the property large?" inquired mr de benyon. "not very large," replied i; "but still a very handsome property, i am told." the reader may surmise that the property referred to was my own pretty self. "may i ask you a few particulars relative to the present earl and his brothers?" "most certainly, sir," replied mr de benyon; "any information i can give you will be at your service. the earl has four brothers. the eldest maurice." "is he married?" "yes, and has two children. the next is william." "is he married?" "no; nor has he ever been. he is a general in the army. the third is myself, henry." "you are married, i believe, sir?" "yes, with a large family." "may i request you will proceed, sir?" "arthur is the fourth brother. he is lately married, and has two children." "sir, i feel much obliged to you; it is a curious and intricate affair. as i am here, i may as well ask one question, although not of great consequence. the earl is married, i perceive, by the peerage, but i do not find that he has any children." "on the contrary, he has two--and prospects of more. may i now request the particulars connected with this property?" "the exact particulars, sir, i cannot well tell you, as i am not acquainted with them myself; but the property in question, i rather think, depends upon a _name_. may i venture to ask the names of all your children?" mr de benyon gave me a list _seriatim_, which i put down with great gravity. "of course, there is no doubt of your second brother not being married. i believe we ought to have a certificate. do you know his address?" "he has been in the east indies for many years. he returned home on furlough, and has now just sailed again for calcutta." "that is unfortunate; we must forward a letter through the india board. may i also be favoured with your address, as in all probability it may be advisable?" mr de benyon gave me his address. i rose, promised to give him all the particulars as soon as they were known to me, bowed, and made my exit. to one who was in his sober senses, there certainly was not any important information gained; but to me, it was evident that the mr de benyon who was a general in the army was to be interrogated, and i had almost made up my mind to set off for calcutta. chapter xlii i affront an irish gentleman, and make a handsome apology, which is accepted. before i had gained my own room, i informed mr cophagus, who had just returned from a visit to his maiden aunt's house, of what had passed. "can't see anything in it, japhet--wild goose chase?--who told you?--oh! pleggit's men--sad liars--de benyon not name, depend upon it--all stuff, and so on." and when i reflected, i could but acknowledge that the worthy apothecary might be right, and, that i was running after shadows; but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency. i soon rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. undecided how to proceed, and annoyed by what cophagus had said, i quitted the hotel, to walk out, in no very good humour. as i went out, i perceived the agent m'dermott speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of what, for a moment, i had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether melchior and sir henry de clare were one and the same person. as i passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, i walked on. he followed me, pestering me so much, that i gave him a tap with the cane in my hand, saying to him, "be off, you scoundrel." "oh! very well. be off, is it you mane? by the blood of the o'rourkes but you'll answer for that same, anyhow." i passed on, and having perambulated the city of dublin for some time, returned to the hotel. a few minutes afterwards, i was told by the waiter that a mr o'donaghan wished to speak to me. "i have not the honour of his acquaintance," replied i, "but you may show him up." mr o'donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a shabby--genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of white cotton gloves, and a small stick. "i believe that i have the honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street about two hours ago?" "upon my word, sir," replied i, "that is so uncertain a definition, that i can hardly pretend to say whether i am the person you mean; indeed, from not having the pleasure of any one's acquaintance in dublin, i rather think there must be some mistake." "the devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there's the little bit of cane with which you paid my friend, mr o'rourke, the compliment over his shoulders." "i really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will you favour me with an explanation?" "with all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right understanding. you were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon of that same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a slight taste." "what do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate when i crossed over the road?" "then, by the powers, you've just hit it, as you did him. that's my particular friend, thaddeus o'rourke, gentleman." "gentleman!" exclaimed i. "and with as good and as true milesian blood as any in ireland. if you think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to be struck like a hound, it's a slight mistake, that's all; and here, sir, is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours with whom i may settle all the little points necessary before the meeting of two gentlemen." i could hardly refrain from laughing at this irish gentleman and his friend, but i thought it advisable to retain my countenance. "my dear sir," replied i, "it grieves me to the heart that i should have committed such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had i not been so careless, i certainly should have requested him to do me the honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult. i hope it is not now too late?" "by the powers, i'm not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there's no occasion for it, and as your 'haviour is that of a gentleman, i think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. suppose, now, we'll consider that it was all a mistake? you give the shilling, as you intended to do, i'll swear, only you were in so great a hurry--and then, perhaps, you'll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if i charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen." "on the contrary, mr o'donaghan, i think all your demands are reasonable. here is the money." mr o'donaghan took the three shillings. "then, sir, and many thanks to you, i'll wish you a good evening, and mr o'rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another." so saying, mr o'donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure. i had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when mr cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. "good--warm old lady. no--dead and cold? but left some thousands--only one legacy--old tom cat--physic him to-morrow--soon die, and so on." on a more full explanation, i found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to mr cophagus. i congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. he stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them. as my only object in ireland was to find out sir henry de clare, and identify him (but, really, why i could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all), i willingly consented to devote a day to assist mr cophagus in his examination. the next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been maitland, as mr cophagus informed me. her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. i can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady's life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. there were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. we looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames. after we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. there was one packet of letters which caught my eye, it was from a miss de benyon. i seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to mr cophagus. "pooh--nothing at all--her mother was a de benyon." "have you any objection to my looking at these letters?" "no--read--nothing in them." i laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search, when mr cophagus took up a sealed packet. "heh! what's this--de benyon again? japhet, look here." i took the packet; it was sealed, and tied with red tape. "papers belonging to lieutenant william de benyon, to be returned to him at my decease." "alice maitland, _with great_ care," was written at the bottom of the envelope. "this is it, my dear sir," cried i, jumping up and embracing mr cophagus "these are the papers which i require. may i keep them?" "mad--quite mad--go to bedlam--strait waistcoat--head shaved, and so on." chapter xliii i am not content with minding my own business, but must have a hand in that of others, by which means i put my foot in it. he then, after his own fashion, told me, that as executor, he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of de benyon did call at the foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. when he had finished, i threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that i had never been born. still hope again rose uppermost, and i would have given all i possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. at one moment i was so frantic, that i was debating whether i should not take them from mr cophagus by force, and run off with them. at last i rose, and commenced reading the letters which i had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties. when we had finished, mr cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. the next day mr cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to england. i walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which i could not help imagining were to discover the secret which i was so eager in pursuit of. a night's sleep made me more rational, and i now resolved to ascertain where sir henry de clare, or melchior, as i felt certain he must be, was to be found. i sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. he immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, mount castle, connemara, asking me when i intended to set out. it did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. i took the address, and desired that i might have horses ready very early the next morning. i then sat down and wrote a letter to harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to mr masterton much more explicit, lastly to timothy, to the care of harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. after dinner, i packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, i was not sorry to retire to my bed. at daylight i was, as i requested, called by the waiter, and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, i set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. i was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as i threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, i could not help asking myself the question--what was the purport of my journey? as the reader will perceive, i was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. "what have i to do?" replied i to myself; "to find out if melchior and sir henry de clare be not one and the same person. and what then?" what then?--why then i may find out something relative to fleta's parentage. nay, but is that likely--if, as you suppose, melchior is sir henry de clare--if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off fleta--is it probable that you will gain any information from him? i have an idea that fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. why so? what interest could melchior have in stealing his own niece? that i cannot tell. why did nattée give me the necklace? i cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. at all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and i may learn something by meeting melchior, whereas, i shall learn nothing by remaining quiet. this last idea satisfied me, and for many hours i remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage. it was now past twelve o'clock, when i found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. the country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. it was nearly dark when i arrived at the last post, from whence i was to take horses to mount castle. as usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and i could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. still i had travelled very fairly, for an irish postillion knows how to make an irish horse go a very fair pace. i descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. to this there was no reply, except, "wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little." presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, i walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom i could hardly distinguish for smoke. i paid the chaise and postillion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. after a few minutes i inquired if the chaise was getting ready. "is it the chaise your honour means?" said the landlady. "yes," replied i, "a chaise on to mount castle." "then i am sorry that your honour must wait a little; for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won't be back till long after the moon is up. what will your honour please to take?" "not back till moonlight," replied i; "why did you not say so? and i would have gone on with the other." "is it with the other you mane, your honour? then if teddy driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may i never have a soul to be saved. will your honour please to sit in the little room kathleen shall light a fire." vexed as i was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it: so i took up my portmanteau and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. ceiling there was none, it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles over head. i took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when i heard the girl say, "and why don't you let him go on to the castle? sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable." "there's orders 'gainst it, kathleen," replied the landlady. "mr m'dermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?" "who is he then?" replied the girl. "an attorney with a warrant against sir henry; and, moreover, they say that he's coming to'strain upon the cattle of jerry o'toole for the tithes." "he's a bould young chap, at all events," replied the girl, "to come here all by himself." "oh! but it's not till to-morrow morning, and then we'll have the troops here to assist him." "and does jerry o'toole know of this?" "sure enough he does; and i hope there'll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. but what can a poor widow do when m'dermott holds up his finger? now, go light the fire, kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it's a burning pity that he shouldn't have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him." kathleen made no reply. the horror that i felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. that it was intended that i should meet with foul play was certain, and i knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. that i had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, i felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. how to undeceive them was the difficulty. chapter xliv no hopes of rising next morning alive, as a last chance--i get into bed. kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon, busy blowing up the turf. she was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout and well made. "what is your name?" said i. "kathleen, at your service, sir." "listen to me, kathleen," said i, in a low voice. "you are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. i have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that m'dermott has stated that i am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. i am no such thing. i am a gentleman who wishes to speak to sir henry de clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to show you what i say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. i am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and m'dermott have spread this report that i may come to harm." "is she alive, then?" replied kathleen, looking up to me with wonder. "yes; and i will not tell sir henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity." "but i saw her body," replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me. "it was not hers, depend upon it," replied i, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion. "at all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. well, i knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. i was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after sir william was killed; then we were all sent away." "kathleen! kathleen!" cried the landlady. "call for everything you can think of one after another," whispered kathleen, leaving the room. "i cannot make the peat burn," said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; "and the gentleman wants some whisky." "go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. there's the o'tooles all come in, and your own corny is with them." "my corny, indeed!" replied kathleen; "he's not quite so sure of that." in a short time kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. "if what you say is true," said kathleen, "and sure enough you're no irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. the o'tooles are here, and i've an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides." "tell me, kathleen, was the daughter of sir william a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?" "to be sure she was," replied kathleen, "and like a little mountain fairy." "now, kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold." "yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child's neck when it was lost, and when the body was found, it was not with it. well i recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads." "then you have proved all i wished, kathleen; and now i tell you that this little girl is alive, and that i can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by sir henry himself." "merciful jesus!" replied kathleen; "the dear little child that we cried over so much." "but now, kathleen, i have told you this, to prove to you that i am not what m'dermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night." "and so they will, sure enough," replied kathleen, "if you do not escape." "but how am i to escape? and will you assist me?" and i laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse, "take that, kathleen, and it will help you and corny. now will you assist me?" "it's corny that will be the first to knock your brains out," replied kathleen, "unless i can stop him. i must go now, and i'll see what can be done." kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but i caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand. "that's not like a tithe proctor, at all events," replied kathleen; "but my heart aches, and my head swims, and what's to be done i know not." so saying, kathleen quitted the room. "well," thought i, after she had left the room, "at all events, i have not been on a wrong scent this time. kathleen has proved to me that fleta is the daughter of the late sir william; and if i escape this snare, melchior shall do her justice." pleased with my having so identified melchior and fleta, i fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation; but i was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from kathleen. "no, no, corny, nor any of ye--not now--and mother and me to witness it--it shall not be. corny, hear me, as sure as blood's drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does corny o'toole never touch this hand of mine." a pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. i unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible. it was more than half an hour before kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. "keep quiet, and do not think of resistance," said she, "it is useless. i have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others." she then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she was accompanied by her mother. "kathleen has told me all, young sir," said she, "and do what we can, we will; but we hardly know what to do. to go to the castle would be madness." "yes," replied i; "but cannot you give me one of your horses to return the way i came?" "that was our intention; but i find that the o'tooles have taken them all out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. they will come at midnight and attack us, that i fully expect, and how to conceal you puzzles my poor head." "if they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped," replied kathleen; "they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have some chance." "there is but one chance," replied the mother, who took kathleen aside, and whispered to her. kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no reply. "if your mother bids you, kathleen, there can be no harm." "yes; but if corny was--" "he dare not," replied the mother; "and now put this light out, and do you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on." they led me to a small bedroom, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered respectable. "lie down there," said the mother, "and wait till we call you." they took the light away, and left me to myself and my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant. i lay awake, it might be for two hours, when i heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door, which they were attempting to burst open. every moment i expected that it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and desired me to follow her. i did so, and before she left my room, she threw the window wide open. she led me up a sort of half-stairs, half-ladder, to a small room, where i found kathleen sitting up in her bed, and half-dressed. "o mother! mother!" cried kathleen. "i bid ye do it, child," replied the mother, desiring me to creep into her daughter's bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall. "let me put on more clothes, mother." "no, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search. your mother bids you." the poor girl was burning with shame and confusion. "nay," replied i, "if kathleen does not wish it, i will not buy my safety at the expense of her feelings." "yes, yes," replied kathleen, "i don't mind now; those words of yours are sufficient. come in, quick." chapter xlv petticoat interest prevails, and i escape; but i put my head into the lion's den. there was no time for apology, and stepping over kathleen, i buried myself under the clothes by her side. the mother then hastened downstairs, and arrived at the door just as they had succeeded in forcing it open, when in pounced a dozen men armed, with their faces blackened. "holy jesus! what is it that you want?" screamed the landlady. "the blood of the tithe proctor, and that's what we'll have," replied the o'tooles. "not in my house--not in my house!" cried she. "take him away, at all events; promise me to take him away." "so we will, honey darlint; we'll take him out of your sight, and out of your hearing too, only show us where he may be." "he's sleeping," replied the mother, pointing to the door of the bedroom, where i had been lying down. the party took the light from her hand, and went into the room, where they perceived the bed empty and the window open. "devil a bit of a proctor here, anyhow," cried one of them, "and the window open. he's off--hurrah! my lads, he can't be far." "by the powers! it's just my opinion, mrs m'shane," replied the elder o'toole, "that he's not quite so far off; so with your lave, or by your lave, or without your lave, we'll just have a look over the premises." "o! and welcome, mister jerry o'toole; if you think i'm the woman to hide a proctor, look everywhere just as you please." the party, headed by jerry o'toole, who had taken the light out of mrs m'shane's hand, now ascended the ladder to the upper storey, and as i lay by kathleen, i felt that she trembled with fear. after examining every nook and cranny they could think of, they came to mrs m'shane's room, "o! go in--go in and look, mr o'toole; it's a very likely thing to insinuate that i should have a tithe proctor in my bed. search, pray," and mrs m'shane led the way into her own room. every part had been examined, except the small sleeping-room of kathleen; and the party paused before the door. "we must search," observed o'toole doggedly. "search my daughter's! very well, search if you please; it's a fine story you'll have to tell, how six great men pulled a poor girl out of her bed to look for a tithe proctor. it will be a credit to you anyhow; and you, corny o'toole, you'll stand well in her good graces, when you come to talk about the wedding day; and your wife that is to be, pulled out of her bed by a dozen men. what will ye say to kathleen, when you affront her by supposing that a maiden girl has a tithe proctor in bed with her? d'ye think that ye'll ever have the mother's consent or blessing?" "no one goes into kathleen's room," cried corny o'toole, roused by the sarcasms of mrs m'shane. "yes, corny," replied mrs m'shane, "it's not for a woman like me to be suspected, at all events; so you, and you only, shall go into the room, if that will content ye, mr jerry o'toole." "yes!" replied the party, and mrs m'shane opened the door. kathleen rose up on her elbow, holding the bed clothes up to her throat, and looking at them, as they entered, said, "o corny! corny! this to me?" corny never thought of looking for anybody, his eyes were rivetted upon his sweetheart. "murder, kathleen, is it my fault? jerry will have it." "are you satisfied, corny?" said mrs m'shane. "sure enough i was satisfied before i came in, that kathleen would not have any one in her bedroom," replied corny. "then good-night, corny, and it's to-morrow that i'll talk with ye," replied kathleen. mrs m'shane then walked out of the room, expecting corny to follow; but he could not restrain himself, and he came to the bedside. fearful that if he put his arms round her, he would feel me, kathleen raised herself, and allowed him to embrace her. fortunately the light was not in the room, or i should have been discovered, as in so doing she threw the clothes off my head and shoulders. she then pushed back corny from her, and he left the room, shutting the door after him. the party descended the ladder, and as soon as kathleen perceived that they were all down, she sprang out of bed and ran into her mother's room. soon after i heard them depart. mrs m'shane made fast the door, and came up stairs. she first went to her own room, where poor kathleen was crying bitterly from shame and excitement. i had got up when she came into kathleen's room for her clothes, and, in about five minutes, they returned together. i was sitting on the side of the bed when they came in: the poor girl coloured up when our eyes met. "kathleen," said i, "you have, in all probability, saved my life, and i cannot express my thanks. i am only sorry that your modesty has been put to so severe a trial." "if corny was to find it out," replied kathleen, sobbing again. "how could i do such a thing!" "your mother bid you," replied mrs m'shane, "and that is sufficient." "but what must you think of me, sir?" continued kathleen. "i think that you have behaved most nobly. you have saved an innocent man at the risk of your reputation, and the loss of your lover. it is not now that i can prove my gratitude." "yes, yes, promise me by all that's sacred, that you'll never mention it. surely you would not ruin one who has tried to serve you." "i promise you that, and i hope to perform a great deal more," replied i. "but now, mrs m'shane, what is to be done? remain here i cannot." "no; you must leave, and that very soon. wait about ten minutes more, and then they will give up their search and go home. the road to e----" (the post i had lately come from) "is the best you can take; and you must travel as fast as you can, for there is no safety for you here." "i am convinced that rascal m'dermott will not leave me till he has rid himself of me." i then took out my purse, in which i still had nearly twenty guineas. i took ten of them. "mrs m'shane, i must leave you in charge of my portmanteau, which you may forward by-and-bye, when you hear of my safety. if i should not be so fortunate, the money is better in your hands than in the hands of those who will murder me. kathleen, god bless you! you are a good girl, and corny o'toole will be a happy man if he knows your value." i then wished kathleen good-bye, and she allowed me to kiss her without any resistance; but the tears were coursing down her cheeks as i left the room with her mother. mrs m'shane looked carefully out of the windows, holding the light to ascertain if there was anybody near, and, satisfied with her scrutiny, she then opened the door, and calling down the saints to protect me, shook hands with me, and i quitted the house. it was a dark, cloudy night, and when i first went out, i was obliged to grope, for i could distinguish nothing. i walked along with a pistol loaded in each hand, and gained, as i thought, the high road to e----, but i made a sad mistake; and puzzled by the utter darkness and turnings, i took, on the contrary, the road to mount castle. as soon as i was clear of the houses and the enclosure, there was more light, and i could distinguish the road. i had proceeded about four or five miles, when i heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and shortly afterwards two men rode by me. i inquired if that was the way to e----. a pause ensued, and a whisper. "all's right!" replied a deep voice. i continued my way, glad to find that i had not mistaken it, and cogitating as to what must be the purpose of two men being out at such an hour. about ten minutes afterwards i thought i again heard the sound of horses' feet, and it then occurred to me that they must be highwaymen, who had returned to rob me. i cocked my pistols, determined to sell my life as dearly as i could, and awaited their coming up with anxiety; but they appeared to keep at the same distance, as the sound did not increase. after half an hour i came to two roads, and was undecided which to take. i stopped and listened--the steps of the horses were no longer to be heard. i looked round me to ascertain if i could recognise any object so as to decide me, but i could not. i took the road to the left, and proceeded, until i arrived at a brook which crossed the road. there was no bridge, and it was too dark to perceive the stepping stones. i had just waded about half way across, when i received a blow on the head from behind, which staggered me. i turned round, but before i could see my assailant, a second blow laid me senseless in the water. chapter xlvi under ground but not yet dead and buried--the prospect anything but pleasant. when my recollection returned i found myself in the dark, but where, i knew not. my head ached, and my brain reeled. i sat up for a moment to collect my senses, but the effort was too painful, i fell back, and remained in a state of half stupor. gradually i recovered, and again sat up. i perceived that i had been lying on a bed of straw, composed of two or three trusses apparently. i felt with my extended arms on each side of me, but touched nothing. i opened my eyes, which i had closed again, and tried to pierce through the obscurity, but in vain--all was dark as erebus. i then rose on my feet, and extending my hands before me, walked five or six steps on one side, till i was clear of the straw, and came to a wall. i followed the wall about twenty feet, and then touched wood; groping about, i found it was a door. i then made the circuit of the walls, and discovered that the other side was built with bins for wine, which were empty, and i then found myself again at the straw upon which i had been laid. it was in a cellar no longer used--but where? again i lay down upon the straw, and, as it may be imagined, my reflections were anything but pleasing. "was i in the power of m'dermott or melchior?" i felt convinced that i was; but my head was too painful for long thought, and after half an hour's reflection, i gave way to a sullen state of half-dreaming, half-stupor, in which the forms of m'dermott, kathleen, melchior, and fleta, passed in succession before me. how long i remained in this second species of trance i cannot say, but i was roused by the light of a candle, which flashed in my eyes. i started up, and beheld melchior in his gipsy's dress, just as when i had taken leave of him. "it is to you, then, that i am indebted for this treatment?" replied i. "no; not to me," replied melchior. "i do not command here; but i knew you when they brought you in insensible, and being employed in the castle, i have taken upon myself the office of your gaoler, that i might, if possible, serve you." i felt, i knew this to be false, but a moment's reflection told me that it was better at present to temporise. "who then does the castle belong to, melchior?" "to sir henry de clare." "and what can be his object in treating me thus?" "that i can tell you, because i am a party concerned. you remember the little girl, fleta, who left the gipsy camp with you--she is now somewhere under your care?" "well, i grant it; but i was answerable only to you about her." "very true, but i was answerable to sir henry; and when i could only say that she was well, he was not satisfied, for family reasons now make him very anxious that she should return to him; and, indeed, it will be for her advantage, as she will in all probability be his heir, for he has satisfactorily proved that she is a near relative." "grant all that, melchior; but why did not sir henry de clare write to me on the subject, and state his wishes, and his right to demand his relative? and why does he treat me in this way? another question--how is it that he has recognised me to be the party who has charge of the little girl? answer me those questions, melchior, and then i may talk over the matter." "i will answer the last question first. he knew your name from me, and it so happened, that a friend of his met you in the coach as you were coming to ireland: the same person also saw you at the post-house, and gave information. sir henry, who is a violent man, and here has almost regal sway, determined to detain you till you surrendered up the child. you recollect, that you refused to tell his agent, the person whose address i gave you, where she was to be found, and, vexed at this, he has taken the law into his own hands." "for which he shall smart, one of these days," replied i, "if there is law in this country." "there is a law in england, but very little, and none that will harm sir henry in this part of the country. no officer would venture within five miles of the castle, i can assure you; for he knows very well that it would cost him his life; and sir henry never quits it from one year's end to the other. you are in his power, and all that he requires is information where the child may be found, and an order for her being delivered to him. you cannot object to this, as he is her nearest relative. if you comply, i do not doubt but sir henry will make you full amends for this harsh treatment, and prove a sincere friend ever afterwards." "it requires consideration," replied i; "at present, i am too much hurt to talk." "i was afraid so," replied melchior, "that was one reason why i obtained leave to speak to you. wait a moment." melchior then put the candle down on the ground, and went out, and turned the key. i found, on looking round, that i was right in my conjectures. i was in a cellar, which, apparently, had long been in disuse. melchior soon returned, followed by an old crone, who carried a basket and a can of water. she washed the blood off my head, put some alve upon the wounds, and bound them up. she then went away, leaving the basket. "there is something to eat and drink in that basket," observed melchior; "but i think, japhet, you will agree with me, that it will be better to yield to the wishes of sir henry, and not remain in this horrid hole." "very true, melchior," replied i; "but allow me to ask you a question or two. how came you here? where is nattée, and how is it, that after leaving the camp, i find you so reduced in circumstances, as to be serving such a man as sir henry de clare?" "a few words will explain that," replied he. "in my early days i was wild, and i am, to tell you the truth, in the power of this man; nay, i will tell you honestly, my life is in his power; he ordered me to come, and i dare not disobey him--and he retains me here." "and nattée?" "is quite well, and with me, but not very happy in her present situation; but he is a dangerous, violent, implacable man, and i dare not disobey him. i advise you as a friend, to consent to his wishes." "that requires some deliberation," replied i, "and i am not one of those who are to be driven. my feelings towards sir henry, after this treatment, are not the most amicable; besides, how am i to know that fleta is his relative?" "well, i can say no more, japhet. i wish you well out of his hands." "you have the power to help me, if that is the case," said i. "i dare not." "then you are not the melchior that you used to be," replied i. "we must submit to fate. i must not stay longer; you will find all that you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in the dark. i do not think i shall be permitted to come again, till to-morrow." melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and i was left to my meditations. chapter xlvii a friend in need is a friend in deed--the tables are turned and so is the key--the issue in deep tragedy. was it possible that which melchior said was true? a little reflection told me that it was all false, and that he was himself sir henry de clare. i was in his power, and what might be the result? he might detain me, but he dare not murder me. dare not! my heart sank when i considered where i was, and how easy would it be for him to despatch me, if so inclined, without any one ever being aware of my fate. i lighted a whole candle, that i might not find myself in the dark when i rose, and exhausted in body and mind, was soon fast asleep. i must have slept many hours, for when i awoke i was in darkness--the candle had burnt out. i groped for the basket, and examined the contents with my hands, and found a tinder-box. i struck a light, and then feeling hungry and weak, refreshed myself with the eatables it contained, which were excellent, as well as the wine. i had replaced the remainder, when the key again turned in the door, and melchior made his appearance. "how do you feel, japhet, to-day?" "to-day!" replied i; "day and night are the same to me." "that is your own fault," replied he. "have you considered what i proposed to you yesterday?" "yes," replied i; "and i will agree to this. let sir henry give me my liberty, come over to england, prove his relationship to fleta, and i will give her up. what can he ask for more?" "he will hardly consent to that," replied melchior; "for, once in england, you will take a warrant out against him." "no; on my honour i will not, melchior." "he will not trust to that." "then he must judge of others by himself," replied i. "have you no other terms to propose," replied melchior. "none." "then i will carry your message, and give you his answer to-morrow." melchior then brought in another basket, and took away the former, and did not make his appearance till the next day. i now had recovered my strength, and determined to take some decided measures, but how to act i knew not. i reflected all night, and the next morning (that is, according to my supposition) i attacked the basket. whether it was that ennui or weakness occasioned it, i cannot tell, but either way, i drank too much wine, and was ready for any daring deed, when melchior again the door. "sir henry will not accept of your terms. i thought not," said melchior, "i am sorry--very sorry." "melchior," replied i, starting up; "let us have no more of this duplicity. i am not quite so ignorant as you suppose. i know who fleta is, and who you are." "indeed," replied melchior; "perhaps you will explain?" "i will. you, melchior, are sir henry de clare; you succeeded to your estates by the death of your elder brother, from a fall when hunting." melchior appeared astonished. "indeed!" replied he; "pray go on. you have made a gentleman of me." "no; rather a scoundrel." "as you please; now will you make a lady of fleta?" "yes, i will. she is your niece." melchior started back. "your agent, m'dermott, who was sent over to find out fleta's abode, met me in the coach, and he has tracked me here, and risked my life, by telling the people that i was a tithe proctor." "your information is very important," replied melchior, "you will find some difficulty to prove all you say." "not the least," replied i, flushed with anger and with wine, "i have proof positive. i have seen her mother, and i can identify the child by the necklace which was on her neck when you stole her." "necklace!" cried melchior. "yes, the necklace put into my hands by your own wife when we parted." "damn her!" replied melchior. "do not damn her; damn yourself for your villany, and its being brought to light. have i said enough, or shall i tell you more?" "pray tell me more." "no, i will not, for i must commit others, and that will not do," replied i; for i felt i had already said too much. "you have committed yourself, at all events," replied melchior; "and now i tell you, that until--never mind," and melchior hastened away. the door was again locked, and i was once more alone. i had time to reflect upon my imprudence. the countenance of melchior, when he left me, was that of a demon. something told me to prepare for death; and i was not wrong. the next day melchior came not, nor the next; my provisions were all gone. i had nothing but a little wine and water left. the idea struck me, that i was to die of starvation. was there no means of escape? none; i had no weapon, no tool, not even a knife. i had expended all my candles. at last, it occurred to me, that, although i was in a cellar, my voice might be heard, and i resolved, as a last effort, to attempt it. i went to the door of the cellar, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "murder--murder!" i shouted again and again as loud as i could, until i was exhausted. as it afterwards appeared, this plan did prevent my being starved to death, for such was melchior's villanous intention. about an hour afterwards i repeated my cries of "murder--murder!" and they were heard by the household, who stated to melchior, that there was some one shouting murder in the vaults below. that night, and all the next day, i repeated my cries occasionally. i was now quite exhausted, i had been nearly two days without food, and my wine and water had all been drunk. i sat down with a parched mouth and heated brain, waiting till i could sufficiently recover my voice to repeat my cries, when i heard footsteps approaching. the key was again turned in the door, and a light appeared, carried by one of two men armed with large sledge hammers. "it is then all over with me," cried i; "and i never shall find out who is my father. come on, murderers, and do your work. do it quickly." the two men advanced without speaking a word; the foremost, who carried the lantern, laid it down at his feet, and raised his hammer with both hands, when the other behind him raised his weapon--and the foremost fell dead at his feet. chapter xlviii is full of perilous adventures, and in which, the reader may be assured, there is much more than meets the eye. "silence," said a voice that i well knew, although his face was completely disguised. it was _timothy!_ "silence, japhet," again whispered timothy; "there is yet much danger, but i will save you, or die. take the hammer. melchior is waiting outside." timothy put the lantern in the bin, so as to render it more dark, and led me towards the door, whispering, "when he comes in, we will secure him." melchior soon made his appearance, and as he entered the cellar, "is it all right?" said he, going up to timothy, and passing me. with one blow i felled him to the ground, and he lay insensible. "that will do," replied timothy; "now we must be off." "not till he takes my place," replied i, as i shut the door, and locked it. "now he may learn what it is to starve to death." i then followed timothy, by a passage which led outside of the castle, through which he and his companion had been admitted. "our horses are close by," said timothy; "for we stipulated upon leaving the country after it was done." it was just dark when we were safe out of the castle. we mounted our horses, and set off with all speed. we followed the high road to the post town to which i had been conveyed, and i determined to pull up at mrs m'shane's, for i was so exhausted that i could go no further. this was a measure which required precaution, and as there was moonlight, i turned off the road before i entered the town, or village, as it ought to have been called, so that we dismounted at the back of mrs m'shane's house. i went to the window of the bedroom where i had lain down, and tapped gently, again and again, and no answer. at last, kathleen made her appearance. "can i come in, kathleen?" said i; "i am almost dead with fatigue and exhaustion." "yes," replied she, "i will open the back-door; there is no one here to-night--it is too early for them." i entered, followed by timothy, and, as i stepped over the threshold, i fainted. as soon as i recovered, mrs m'shane led me up stairs into her room for security, and i was soon able to take the refreshment i so much required. i stated what had passed to mrs m'shane and kathleen, who were much shocked at the account. "you had better wait till it is late, before you go on," said mrs m'shane, "it will be more safe; it is now nine o'clock, and the people will all be moving till eleven. i will give your horses some corn, and when you are five miles from here, you may consider yourselves as safe. holy saints! what an escape!" the advice was too good not to be followed, and i was so exhausted, that i was glad that prudence was on the side of repose. i lay down on mrs m'shane's bed, while timothy watched over me. i had a short slumber, and then was awakened by the good landlady, who told me that it was time for us to quit. kathleen then came up to me, and said, "i would ask a favour of you, sir, and i hope you will not refuse it." "kathleen, you may ask anything of me, and depend upon it, i will not refuse it, if i can grant it." "then, sir," replied the good girl, "you know how i overcame my feelings to serve you, will you overcome yours for me? i cannot bear the idea that anyone, bad as he may be, of the family who have reared me, should perish in so miserable a manner; and i cannot bear that any man, bad as he is, even if i did not feel obliged to him, should die so full of guilt, and without absolution. will you let me have the key, that sir henry de clare may be released after you are safe and away? i know he does not deserve any kindness from you; but it is a horrid death, and a horrid thing to die so loaded with crime." "kathleen," replied i, "i will keep my word with you. here is the key; take it up to-morrow morning, and give it to lady de clare; tell her japhet newland sent it." "i will, and god bless you, sir." "good-bye, sir," said mrs m'shane, "you have no time to lose." "god bless you, sir," said kathleen, who now put her arms round me and kissed me. we mounted our horses and set off. we pressed our horses, or rather ponies, for they were very small, till we had gained about six miles, when we considered that we were, comparatively speaking, safe, and then drew up, to allow them to recover their wind. i was very much exhausted myself, and hardly spoke one word until we arrived at the next post town, when we found everybody in bed. we contrived, however, to knock them up, and timothy having seen that our horses were put into the stable, we lay down till the next morning upon a bed which happened to be unoccupied. sorry as were the accommodations, i never slept so soundly, and woke quite refreshed. the next morning i stated my intention of posting to dublin, and asked tim what we should do with the horses. "they belong to the castle," replied he. "then in god's name, let the castle have them, for i wish for nothing from that horrid place." we stated to the landlord that the horses were to be sent back, and that the man who took them would be paid for his trouble; and then it occurred to me, that it would be a good opportunity of writing to melchior, _alias_ sir henry. i do not know why, but certainly my animosity against him had subsided, and i did not think of taking legal measures against him. i thought it, however, right to frighten him. i wrote, therefore, as follows:-- sir henry,--i send you back your horses with thanks, as they have enabled timothy and me to escape from your clutches. your reputation and your life now are in my power, and i will have ample revenge. the fact of your intending murder, will be fully proved by my friend timothy, who was employed by you in disguise, and accompanied your gipsy. you cannot escape the sentence of the law. prepare yourself, then, for the worst, as it is not my intention that you shall escape the disgraceful punishment due to your crimes. yours, japhet newland. having sealed this, and given it to the lad who was to return with the horses, we finished our breakfast, and took a post-chaise on for dublin, where we arrived late in the evening. during our journey i requested timothy to narrate what had passed, and by what fortunate chance he had been able to come so opportunely to my rescue. "if you recollect, japhet," replied timothy, "you had received one or two letters from me, relative to the movements of the gipsy, and stating his intention to carry off the little girl from the boarding-school. my last letter, in which i had informed you that he had succeeded in gaining an entrance into the ladies' school at brentford, could not have reached you, as i found by your note that you had set off the same evening. the gipsy, whom i only knew by the name of _will_, inquired of me the name by which the little girl was known, and my answer was, smith; as i took it for granted that, in a large seminary, there must be one, if not more, of that name. acting upon this, he made inquiries of the maid-servant to whom he paid his addresses, and made very handsome presents, if there was a miss smith in the school; she replied, that there were two, one a young lady of sixteen, and the other about twelve years old. of course the one selected was the younger. will had seen me in my livery, and his plan was to obtain a similar one, hire a chariot, and go down to brentford, with a request that miss smith might be sent up with him immediately, as you were so ill that you were not expected to live; but previous to his taking this step, he wrote to melchior, requesting his orders as to how he was to proceed when he had obtained the child. the answer from melchior arrived. by this time, he had discovered that you were in ireland, and intended to visit him; perhaps he had you in confinement, for i do not know how long you were there, but the answer desired will to come over immediately, as there would be in all probability work for him, that would be well paid for. he had now become so intimate with me, that he disguised nothing; he showed me the letter, and i asked him what it meant; he replied that there was somebody to put out of the way, that was clear. it immediately struck me, that you must be the person if such was the case, and i volunteered to go with him, to which, after some difficulty, he consented. we travelled outside the mail, and in four days we arrived at the castle. will went up to melchior, who told him what it was that he required. will consented, and then stated he had another hand with him, which might be necessary, vouching for my doing anything that was required. melchior sent for me, and i certainly was afraid that he would discover me, but my disguise was too good. i had prepared for it still further, by wearing a wig of light hair, he asked me some questions, and i replied in a surly, dogged tone, which satisfied him. the reward was two hundred pounds, to be shared between us; and, as it was considered advisable that we should not be seen after the affair was over, by the people about the place, we had the horses provided for us. the rest you well know. i was willing to make sure that it was you before i struck the scoundrel, and the first glimpse from the lantern, and your voice, convinced me." "thank god, japhet, but i have been of some use to you, at all events." "my dear tim, you have indeed, and you know me too well to think i shall ever forget it; but now i must first ascertain where the will of the late sir william is to be found. we can read it for a shilling, and then i may discover what are the grounds of melchior's conduct, for, to me, it is still inexplicable." "are wills made in ireland registered here, or at doctor's commons in london?" "in dublin, i should imagine." but on my arrival at dublin i felt so ill, that i was obliged to retire to bed, and before morning i was in a violent fever. medical assistance was sent for, and i was nursed by timothy with the greatest care, but it was ten days before i could quit my bed. for the first time, i was sitting in an easy chair by the fire, when timothy came in with the little portmanteau i had left in the care of mrs m'shane. "open it, timothy," said i, "and see if there be anything in the way of a note from them." timothy opened the portmanteau, and produced one, which was lying on the top. it was from kathleen, and as follows:-- dear sir,--they say there is terrible work at the castle, and that sir henry has blown out his brains, or cut his throat, i don't know which. mr m'dermott passed in a great hurry, but said nothing to anybody here. i will send you word of what has taken place as soon as i can. the morning after you went away, i walked up to the castle and gave the key to the lady, who appeared in a great fright at sir henry not having been seen for so long a while. they wished to detain me after they had found him in the cellar with the dead man, but after two hours i was desired to go away, and hold my tongue. it was after the horses went back that sir henry is said to have destroyed himself. i went up to the castle, but m'dermott had given orders for no one to be let in on any account. yours kathleen m'shane. "this is news indeed," said i, handing the letter to timothy. "it must have been my threatening letter which has driven him to this mad act." "very likely," replied timothy; "but it was the best thing the scoundrel could do, after all." "the letter was not, however, written, with that intention. i wished to frighten him, and have justice done to little fleta--poor child! how glad i shall be to see her!" chapter xlix another investigation relative to a child which in the same way as the former one, ends by the lady going off in a fit. the next day the newspapers contained a paragraph, in which sir henry de clare was stated to have committed suicide. no reason could be assigned for this rash act, was the winding up of the intelligence. i also received another letter from kathleen m'shane, confirming the previous accounts; her mother had been sent for to assist in laying out the body. there was now no further doubt, and as soon as i could venture out, i hastened to the proper office, where i read the will of the late sir william. it was very short, merely disposing of his personal property to his wife, and a few legacies; for, as i discovered, only a small portion of the estates were entailed with the title, and the remainder was not only to the heirs male, but the eldest female, should there be no male heir, with the proviso, that should she marry, the husband was to take upon himself the name of de clare. here, then, was the mystery explained, and why melchior had stolen away his brother's child. satisfied with my discovery, i determined to leave for england immediately, find out the dowager lady de clare, and put the whole case into the hands of mr masterton. fortunately, timothy had money with him sufficient to pay all expenses, and take us to london, or i should have been obliged to wait for remittances, as mine was all expended before i arrived at dublin. we arrived safe, and i immediately proceeded to my house, where i found harcourt, who had been in great anxiety about me. the next morning i went to my old legal friend, to whom i communicated all that had happened. "well done, newland," replied he, after i had finished. "i'll bet ten to one that you find out your father. your life already would not make a bad novel. if you continue your hair-breadth adventures in this way, it will be quite interesting." although satisfied in my own mind that i had discovered fleta's parentage, and anxious to impart the joyful intelligence, i resolved not to see her until everything should be satisfactorily arranged. the residence of the dowager lady de clare was soon discovered by mr masterton; it was at richmond, and thither he and i proceeded. we were ushered into the drawing-room, and, to my delight, upon her entrance, i perceived that it was the same beautiful person in whose ears i had seen the coral and gold ear-rings matching the necklace belonging to fleta. i considered it better to allow mr masterton to break the subject. "you are, madam, the widow of the late sir william de clare." the lady bowed. "you will excuse me, madam, but i have most important reasons for asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive. are you aware of the death of his brother, sir henry de clare?" "indeed i was not," replied she. "i seldom look at a paper, and i have long ceased to correspond with any one in ireland. may i ask you what occasioned his death?" "he fell by his own hands, madam." lady de clare covered up her face. "god forgive him!" said she, in a low voice. "lady de clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late sir henry? it is important to know." "not on the very best, sir. indeed, latterly, for years, they never met or spoke: we did not know what had become of him." "were there any grounds for ill-will?" "many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of sir henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he--" lady de clare stopped--"until he behaved very ill to him." as we afterwards discovered, henry de clare had squandered away the small portion left him by his father, and had ever after that been liberally supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce lady de clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever. "and now, madam, i must revert to a painful subject. you had a daughter by your marriage?" "yes," replied the lady, with a deep sigh. "how did you lose her? pray do not think i am creating this distress on your part without strong reasons." "she was playing in the garden, and the nurse, who thought it rather cold, ran in for a minute to get a handkerchief to tie round her neck. when the nurse returned, the child had disappeared." lady de clare put her handkerchief up to her eyes. "where did you find her afterwards?" "it was not until three weeks afterwards that her body was found in a pond about a quarter of a mile off." "did the nurse not seek her when she discovered that she was not in the garden?" "she did, and immediately ran in that direction. it is quite strange that the child could have got so far without the nurse perceiving her." "how long is it ago?" "it is now nine years." "and the age of the child at the time?" "about six years old." "i think, newland, you may now speak to lady de clare." "lady de clare, have you not a pair of ear-rings of coral and gold of very remarkable workmanship?" "i have, sir," replied she, with surprise. "had you not a necklace of the same? and if so, will you do me the favour to examine this?" i presented the necklace. "merciful heaven!" cried lady de clare, "it is the very necklace!--it was on my poor cecilia when she was drowned, and it was not found with the body. how came it into your possession, sir? at one time," continued lady de clare, weeping, "i thought that it was possible that the temptation of the necklace, which has a great deal of gold in it, must, as it was not found on her corpse, have been an inducement for the gipsies, who were in the neighbourhood, to drown her; but sir william would not believe it, rather supposing that in her struggles in the water she must have broken it, and that it had thus been detached from her neck. is it to return this unfortunate necklace that you have come here?" "no, madam, not altogether. had you two white ponies at the time?" "yes, sir." "was there a mulberry tree in the garden?" "yes, sir," replied the astonished lady. "will you do me the favour to describe the appearance of your child as she was, at the time that you lost her?" "she was--but all mothers are partial, and perhaps i may also be so--a very fair, lovely little girl." "with light hair, i presume?" "yes, sir. but why these questions? surely you cannot ask them for nothing," continued she hurriedly. "tell me, sir, why all these questions?" mr masterton replied, "because, madam, we have some hopes that you have been deceived, and that it is possible that your daughter was not drowned." lady de clare, breathless, and her mouth open, fixed her eyes upon mr masterton, and exclaimed, "not drowned! o my god! my head!" and then she fell back insensible. "i have been too precipitate," said mr masterton, going to her assistance; "but joy does not kill. ring for some water, japhet." chapter l in which, if the reader does not sympathise with the parties, he had better shut the book. in a few minutes lady de clare was sufficiently recovered to hear the outline of our history; and as soon as it was over, she insisted upon immediately going with us to the school where fleta was domiciled, as she could ascertain, by several marks known but to a nurse or mother, if more evidence was required, whether fleta was her child or not. to allow her to remain in such a state of anxiety was impossible, mr masterton agreed, and we posted to ----, where we arrived in the evening. "now, gentlemen, leave me but one minute with the child, and when i ring the bell, you may enter." lady de clare was in so nervous and agitated a state, that she could not walk into the parlour without assistance. we led her to a chair, and in a minute fleta was called down. perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. "stop, my dear fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you." "a lady, japhet?" "yes, my dear, go in." fleta obeyed, and in a minute we heard a scream, and fleta hastily opened the door, "quick! quick! the lady has fallen down." we ran in and found lady de clare on the floor, and it was some time before she returned to her senses. as soon as she did, she fell down on her knees, holding up her hands as in prayer, and then stretched her arms out to fleta. "my child! my long-lost child! it is--it is indeed!" a flood of tears poured forth on fleta's neck relieved her, and we then left them together; old masterton observing, as we took our seats in the back parlour, "by g--, japhet, you deserve to find your own father!" in about an hour lady de clare requested to see us. fleta rushed into my arms and sobbed, while her mother apologised to mr masterton for the delay and excusable neglect towards him. "mr newland, madam, is the person to whom you are indebted for your present happiness. i will now, if you please, take my leave, and will call upon you to-morrow." "i will not detain you, mr masterton; but mr newland will, i trust, come home with cecilia and me; i have much to ask of him." i consented, and mr masterton went back to town; i went to the principal hotel to order a chaise and horses, while fleta packed up her wardrobe. in half an hour we set off, and it was midnight before we arrived at richmond. during my journey i narrated to lady de clare every particular of our meeting with fleta. we were all glad to go to bed, and the kind manner in which lady de clare wished me good-night, with "god bless you, mr newland!" brought the tears into my eyes. i breakfasted alone the next morning, lady de clare and her daughter remaining up stairs. it was nearly twelve o'clock when they made their appearance, both so apparently happy, that i could not help thinking, "when shall i have such pleasure--when shall i find out who is my father?" my brow was clouded as the thought entered my mind, when lady de clare requested that i would inform her who it was to whom she and her daughter were under such eternal obligations. i had then to relate my own eventful history, most of which was as new to cecilia (as she now must be called) as it was to her mother. i had just terminated the escape from the castle, when mr masterton's carriage drove up to the door. as soon as he had bowed to lady de clare, he said to me, "japhet, here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from ireland, which i have brought for you." "it is from kathleen m'shane, sir," replied i, and requesting leave, i broke the seal. it contained another. i read kathleen's, and then hastily opened the other. it was from nattée, or lady h. de clare, and ran as follows:-- "japhet newland,--fleta is the daughter of sir william de clare. dearly has my husband paid for his act of folly and wickedness, and to which you must know i never was a party. yours, nattée." the letter from kathleen added more strange information. lady de clare, after the funeral of her husband, had sent for the steward, made every necessary arrangement, discharged the servants, and then had herself disappeared, no one knew whither; but it was reported that somebody very much resembling her had been seen travelling south in company with a gang of gipsies. i handed both letters over to lady de clare and mr masterton. "poor lady de clare!" observed the mother. "nattée will never leave her tribe," observed cecilia quietly. "you are right, my dear," replied i. "she will be happier with her tribe where she commands as a queen, than ever she was at the castle." mr masterton then entered into a detail with lady de clare as to what steps ought immediately to be taken, as the heirs-at-law would otherwise give some trouble; and having obtained her acquiescence, it was time to withdraw. "mr newland, i trust you will consider us as your warmest friends. i am so much in your debt, that i never can repay you; but i am also in your debt in a pecuniary way--that, at least, you must permit me to refund." "when i require it, lady de clare, i will accept it. do not, pray, vex me by the proposition. i have not much happiness as it is, although i am rejoiced at yours and that of your daughter." "come, lady de clare, i must not allow you to tease my protege, you do not know how sensitive he is. we will now take our leave." "you will come soon," said cecilia, looking anxiously at me. "you have your mother, cecilia," replied i; "what can you wish for more? i am a--nobody--without a parent." cecilia burst into tears; i embraced her, and mr masterton and i left the room. chapter li i return to the gay world, but am not well received; i am quite disgusted with it and honesty, and everything else. how strange, now that i had succeeded in the next dearest object of my wishes, after ascertaining my own parentage, that i should have felt so miserable; but it was the fact, and i cannot deny it. i could hardly answer mr masterton during our journey to town; and when i threw myself on the sofa in my own room, i felt as if i was desolate and deserted. i did not repine at cecilia's happiness; so far from it, i would have sacrificed my life for her; but she was a creature of my own--one of the objects in this world to which i was endeared--one that had been dependent on me and loved me. now that she was restored to her parent, she rose above me, and i was left still more desolate. i do not know that i ever passed a week of such misery as the one which followed a _denouement_ productive of so much happiness to others, and which had been sought with so much eagerness, and at so much risk, by myself. it was no feeling of envy, god knows; but it appeared to me as if everyone in the world was to be made happy except myself. but i had more to bear up against. when i had quitted for ireland, it was still supposed that i was a young man of large fortune--the truth had not been told. i had acceded to mr masterton's suggestions, that i was no longer to appear under false colours, and had requested harcourt, to whom i made known my real condition, that he would everywhere state the truth. news like this flies like wildfire; there were too many whom, perhaps, when under the patronage of major carbonnell, and the universal rapture from my supposed wealth, i had treated with hauteur, glad to receive the intelligence, and spread it far and wide. my _imposition_, as they pleased to term it, was the theme of every party, and many were the indignant remarks of the dowagers who had so often indirectly proposed to me their daughters; and if there was anyone more virulent than the rest, i hardly need say that it was lady maelstrom, who nearly killed her job horses in driving about from one acquaintance to another, to represent my unheard-of atrocity in presuming to deceive my betters. harcourt, who had agreed to live with me--harcourt, who had praised my magnanimity in making the disclosure--even harcourt fell off; and about a fortnight after i had arrived in town, told me that not finding the lodgings so convenient as his former abode, he intended to return to it. he took a friendly leave; but i perceived that if we happened to meet in the streets, he often contrived to be looking another way; and at last, a slight recognition was all that i received. satisfied that it was intended, i no longer noticed him; he followed but the example of others. so great was the outcry raised by those who had hoped to have secured me as a good match, that any young man of fashion who was seen with me, had, by many, his name erased from their visiting lists. this decided my fate, and i was alone. for some time i bore up proudly; i returned a glance of defiance, but this could not last. the treatment of others received a slight check from the kindness of lord windermear, who repeatedly asked me to his table; but i perceived that even there, although suffered as a proteg of his lordship, anything more than common civility was studiously avoided, in order that no intimacy might result. mr masterton, upon whom i occasionally called, saw that i was unwell and unhappy. he encouraged me; but, alas! a man must be more than mortal, who, with fine feelings, can endure the scorn of the world. timothy, poor fellow, who witnessed more of my unhappy state of mind than anybody else, offered in vain his consolation. "and this," thought i, "is the reward of virtue and honesty. truly, virtue is its own reward, for it obtains no other. as long as i was under false colours, allowing the world to deceive themselves, i was courted and flattered. now that i have thrown off the mask, and put on the raiment of truth, i am a despised, miserable being. yes; but is not this my own fault? did i not, by my own deception, bring all this upon myself? whether unmasked by others, or by myself, is it not equally true that i have been playing false, and am now punished for it? what do the world care for your having returned to truth? you have offended by deceiving them, and that is an offence which your repentance will not extenuate." it was but too true, i had brought it all on myself, and this reflection increased my misery. for my dishonesty, i had been justly and severely punished: whether i was ever to be rewarded for my subsequent honesty still remained to be proved; but i knew very well that most people would have written off such a reward as a bad debt. once i consulted with mr masterton as to the chance of there being any information relative to my birth in the packet left in the charge of mr cophagus. "i have been thinking over it, my dear newland," said he, "and i wish i could give you any hopes, but i cannot. having succeeded with regard to your little protege, you are now so sanguine with respect to yourself, that a trifle light as air is magnified, as the poet says, 'into confirmation strong as holy writ.' now, consider, somebody calls at the foundling to ask after you--which i acknowledge to be a satisfactory point--his name is taken down by an illiterate brute, as derbennon; but how you can decide upon the real name, and assume it is de benyon, is really more than i can imagine, allowing every scope to fancy. it is in the first instance, therefore, you are at fault, as there are many other names which may have been given by the party who called; nay, more, is it at all certain that the party, in a case like this, would give his real name? let us follow it up. allowing the name to have been de benyon, you discover that one brother is not married, and that there are some papers belonging to him in the possession of an old woman who dies; and upon these slight grounds what would you attempt to establish? that because that person was known not to have married, therefore _he was married_ (for you are stated to have been born in wedlock): and because there is a packet of papers belonging to him in the possession of another party, that this packet of papers _must refer_ to you. do you not perceive how you are led away by your excited feelings on the subject?" i could not deny that mr masterton's arguments had demolished the whole fabric which i had built up. "you are right, sir," replied i mournfully, "i wish i were dead." "never speak in that way, mr newland, before me," replied the old lawyer in an angry tone, "without you wish to forfeit my good opinion." "i beg your pardon, sir; but i am most miserable. i am avoided by all who know me--thrown out of all society--i have not a parent or a relative. isolated being as i am, what have i to live for?" "my dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age," replied mr masterton, "and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their own way. i mean lord windermear and myself; and you have had the pleasure of making others happy. believe me, that is much to have accomplished at so early an age. you have much to live for--live to gain more friends--live to gain reputation--live to do good--to be grateful for the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by providence. you have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness is to be found. since you are so much out of spirits, go down to lady de clare's, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have lived in vain." i was too much overpowered to speak. after a pause, mr masterton continued, "when did you see them last?" "i have never seen them, sir, since i was with you at their meeting." "what! have you not called--now nearly two months? japhet, you are wrong; they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. have you written or heard from them?" "i have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but i have not been in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness." "politeness! you are wrong--all wrong, japhet. your mind is cankered, or you never would have used that term. i thought you were composed of better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. because you are no longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like many others, you have quarrelled with the world. is it not so?" "perhaps you are right, sir." "i know that i am right, and that you are wrong. now i shall be seriously displeased if you do not go down and see lady de clare and her daughter, as soon as you can." "i will obey your orders, sir." "my wishes, japhet, not my orders. let me see you when you return. you must no longer be idle. consider, that you are about to recommence your career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from which you have nobly returned. you must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to god and a good conscience. lord windermear and i had a long conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back, i will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage." chapter lii a new character appears, but not a very amiable one; but i attach myself to him, as drowning men catch at straws. i took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day i went down to lady de clare's. i was kindly received, more than kindly, i was affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by cecilia as a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. as i had already made lady de clare acquainted with my previous history, i had no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them. lord windermear was too much above me--mr masterton was too matter-of-fact--timothy was too inferior--and they were all men; but the kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of three days, i took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when i arrived. on my return, i called upon mr masterton, who stated to me that lord windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to india; or, if i preferred it, i might study the law under the auspices of mr masterton. if none of these propositions suited me, i might state what would be preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance could avail, i might depend upon it. "so now, japhet, you may go home and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know." i returned my thanks to mr masterton, and begged that he would convey my grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. as i walked home, i met a captain atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice of carbonnell, i had always kept at a distance. he had lost a large fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended by becoming a _rook_. he was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary to hold his position by main force. he was a noted duellist, had killed his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him, sufficient grounds for sending a friend. everybody was civil to him, because no one wished to quarrel with him. "my dear mr newland," said he, offering his hand, "i am delighted to see you; i have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were some free remarks made by some. i have great pleasure in saying that i put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were repeated in my presence, i should consider it as a personal quarrel." three months before, had i met captain atkinson, i should have returned his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were my feelings! i took his hand, and shook it warmly. "my dear sir," replied i, "i am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend." "and always will be in this world, mr newland; but i have a fellow feeling. i recollect how i was received and flattered when i was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how i was deserted and neglected when i was cleaned out. i know now _why_ they are so civil to me, and i value their civility at just as much as it is worth. will you accept my arm:--i am going your way" i could not refuse; but i coloured when i took it, for i felt that i was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still i felt, that although not adding to my reputation, i was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. "be it so," thought i, "i will, if possible, _extort_ politeness." we were strolling down bond street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. atkinson faced him. "good morning, mr oxberry." "good morning, captain atkinson," replied mr oxberry. "i thought you knew my friend mr newland?" observed atkinson, rather fiercely. "oh! really--i quite--i beg pardon. good morning, mr newland; you have been long absent. i did not see you at lady maelstrom's last night." "no," replied i, carelessly, "nor will you ever. when you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit." "i shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, mr newland--good morning." "that fool," observed atkinson, "will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence." we met one or two others, and to them atkinson put the same question, "i thought you knew my friend mr newland?" at last, just as we arrived at my own house in st james's street, who should we meet but harcourt. harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on, so that his bow would have served for both; but atkinson stopped. "i must beg your pardon, harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the vestris colt for the derby?" "upon my word, captain atkinson, i was told, but i have forgotten." "your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, mr newland." "i beg your pardon, mr newland." "there is no occasion to beg my pardon, mr harcourt," interrupted i; "for i tell you plainly, that i despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. you will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me." harcourt coloured, and started back. "such language, mr newland--" "is what you deserve; ask your own conscience. leave us, sir;" and i walked on with captain atkinson. "you have done well, newland," observed atkinson; "he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that i have heard it. a meeting you will of course have no objection to. it will be of immense advantage to you." "none whatever," replied i; "for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is harcourt. will you come up, captain atkinson; and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?" our conversation during dinner was desultory, but after the first bottle, atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as carbonnell's, how often it is that those who would have done well, are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. the cases, however, had this difference, that carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of atkinson was gone, and never to be re-established. we had just finished our wine when a note was brought from harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. i handed it over to atkinson. "my dear sir, i am at your service," replied he, "without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer." "thank you," replied i, "captain atkinson; it cannot be in better hands." "that is settled, then; and now where shall we go?" "wherever you please." "then i shall try if i can win a little money to-night; if you come you need not play--you can look on. it will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events." i felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that i immediately accepted his offer, and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the _rouge et noir_ table, covered with gold and bank notes. atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. after half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. i could no longer withstand the temptation, and i backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably. "that is enough," said he to me, sweeping up his money; "we must not try the slippery dame too long." i followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. "i will walk home with you, newland; never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone." going home, i asked atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. "i know mine," replied he, "within twenty pounds, for i always leave off at a certain point. i have three hundred pounds, and something more." he had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. i had won ninety pounds. as we sat over a glass of brandy and water, i inquired whether he was always fortunate. "no, of course i am not," replied atkinson; "but on the whole, in the course of the year i am a winner of sufficient to support myself." "is there any rule by which people are guided who play? i observed many of those who were seated, pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals." "_rouge et noir_ i believe to be the fairest of all games," replied atkinson; "but where there is a per centage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. if a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. as for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. i have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler?" "not a gambler?" "no; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. you must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out." "but you say that you win on the whole; have you no rule to guide you?" "yes, i have; strange as the chances are, i have been so accustomed to them, that i generally put down my stake right; when i am once in a run of luck, i have a method of my own, but what it is i cannot tell; only this i know, that if i depart from it, i always lose my money. but that is what you may call good luck, or what you please--it is not a rule." "where, then, are your rules?" "simply these two. the first it is not difficult to adhere to: i make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if i am unlucky when i commence--say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. this rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and i am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. the second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. i make a rule always to leave off when i have won a certain sum--or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. there is the difficulty; it appears very foolish not to follow up luck, but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. this is my mode of play, and with me it answers; but it does not follow that it would answer with another. but it is very late, or rather, very early--i wish you a good-night." chapter liii i become principal instead of second in a duel, and risk my own and another's life, my own and others' happiness and peace of mind, because i have been punished as i deserved. after captain atkinson had left me, i stated to timothy what had passed. "and do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?" cried timothy with alarm. "there is no doubt of it," replied i. "you never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way," said timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose. "not in this world, perhaps, tim; perhaps i may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next." "do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?" "i hope so, timothy." "then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?" "that is what you call a poser, my dear timothy, but i cannot help myself; this i can safely say, that i have no animosity against mr harcourt--at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life." "well, that's something, to be sure; but do you know, japhet, i'm not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman." "no, timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives; i have been all wrong; and i am afraid i am going from worse to worse: but i cannot moralise, i must go to sleep, and forget everything if i can." the next morning, about eleven o'clock, a mr cotgrave called upon me on the part of harcourt. i referred him to captain atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. captain atkinson soon called; he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. he stayed with me the whole day; the major's pistols were examined and approved of; we dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that i should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. this i refused, as i had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone i sent for timothy. "tim," said i, "if i should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. my will was made when in dublin, and is in the charge of mr cophagus." "japhet, i hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. i had rather be there than remain here in suspense." "of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it," replied i; "but i must go to bed, as i am to be called at four o'clock--so let's have no sentimentalising or sermonising. good-night, god bless you." i was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which i received, mad with the world's contumely, i was desperate. true it was, as mr masterton said, i had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. timothy did not go to bed, and at four o'clock was at my side. i rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by captain atkinson. we then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which i had, but a few months before, driven with poor carbonnell. his memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. i cared little for life. harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. we fired, and harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. i went up to him, and he extended his hand. "newland," said he, "i have deserved this. i was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as i did--and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom i had injured. gentlemen," continued he, appealing to the seconds, "recollect, i, before you, acquit mr newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him." harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. without any answer i examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that an artery had been divided. my professional knowledge saved his life. i compressed the artery, while i gave directions to the others. a handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound--a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. i removed my thumbs, found that the hemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for. "you appear to understand these things, sir," said mr cotgrave. "tell me, is there any danger?" "he must suffer amputation," replied i, in a low voice, so that harcourt could not hear me. "pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal." i then bowed to mr cotgrave, and, followed by captain atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. "i will leave you now, newland," said captain atkinson; "it is necessary that i talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained." i thanked captain atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for i had sent timothy to ascertain if harcourt had arrived safe at his lodgings. never did i feel more miserable; my anxiety for harcourt was indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but i thought of his venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when i left his hospitable roof--of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. i thought of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance at his father's house, mutilated; and were he to die--good god! i was maddened at the idea. i had now undone the little good i had been able to do. if i had made fleta and her mother happy, had i not plunged another family into misery? chapter liv this is a strange world; i am cut by a man of no character, because he is fearful that i should injure his character. timothy returned, and brought me consolation--the bleeding had not re-commenced, and harcourt was in tolerable spirits. an eminent surgeon had been sent for. "go again, my dear timothy, and as you are intimate with harcourt's servant, you will be able to find out what they are about." timothy departed, and was absent about an hour, during which i lay on the sofa, and groaned with anguish. when he returned, i knew by his face that his intelligence was favourable. "all's right," cried timothy; "no amputation after all. it was only one of the smaller arteries which was severed, and they have taken it up." i sprang up from the sofa and embraced timothy, so happy was i with the intelligence, and then i sat down again, and cried like a child. at last i became more composed. i had asked captain atkinson to dine with me, and was very glad when he came. he confirmed timothy's report, and i was so overjoyed, that i sat late at dinner, drinking very freely, and when he again proposed that we should go to the _rouge et noir_ table, i did not refuse--on the contrary, flushed with wine, i was anxious to go, and took all the money that i had with me. on our arrival atkinson played, but finding that he was not fortunate, he very soon left off. as i had followed his game, i also had lost considerably, and he entreated me not to play any more--but i was a gamester it appeared, and i would not pay attention to him, and did not quit the table until i had lost every shilling in my pocket. i left the house in no very good humour, and atkinson, who had waited for me, accompanied me home. "newland," said he, "i don't know what you may think of me--you may have heard that i'm a _roué_, &c. &c. &c., but this i always do, which is, caution those who are gamesters from their hearts. i have watched you to-night, and i tell you, that you will be ruined if you continue to frequent that table. you have no command over yourself. i do not know what your means may be, but this i do know, that if you were a croesus, you would be a beggar. i cared nothing for you while you were the mr newland, the admired, and leader of the fashion, but i felt for you when i heard that you were scouted from society, merely because it was found out that you were not so rich as you were supposed to be. i had a fellow-feeling, as i told you. i did not make your acquaintance to win your money--i can win as much as i wish from the scoundrels who keep the tables, or from those who would not scruple to plunder others; and i now entreat you not to return to that place--and am sorry, very sorry, that ever i took you there. to me, the excitement is nothing--to you, it is overpowering. you are a gamester, or rather, you have it in your disposition. take, therefore, the advice of a friend, if i may so call myself, and do not go there again. i hope you are not seriously inconvenienced by what you have lost to-night." "not the least," replied i. "it was ready money. i thank you for your advice, and will follow it. i have been a fool to-night, and one folly is sufficient." atkinson then left me. i had lost about two hundred and fifty pounds, which included my winnings of the night before. i was annoyed at it, but i thought of harcourt's safety, and felt indifferent. the reader may recollect, that i had three thousand pounds, which mr masterton had offered to put out at mortgage for me, but until he could find an opportunity, by his advice i had bought stock in the three per cents. since that he had not succeeded, as mortgages in general are for larger sums, and it had therefore remained. my rents were not yet due, and i was obliged to have recourse to this money. i therefore went into the city, ordered the broker to sell out two hundred pounds, intending to replace it as soon as i could--for i would not have liked that mr masterton should have known that i had lost money by gambling. when i returned from the city, i found captain atkinson in my apartments waiting for me. "harcourt is doing well, and you are not doing badly. i have let all the world know that you intend to call out whoever presumes to treat you with indifference." "the devil you have! but that is a threat which may easier be made than followed up by deeds." "shoot two or three more," replied atkinson, coolly, "and then, depend upon it, you'll have it all your own way. as it is, i acknowledge there has been some show of resistance, and they talk of making a resolution not to meet you, on the score of your being an impostor." "and a very plausible reason, too," replied i; "nor do i think i have any right--i am sure i have no intention of doing as you propose. surely, people have a right to choose their acquaintance, and to cut me, if they think i have done wrong. i am afraid, captain atkinson, you have mistaken me; i have punished harcourt for his conduct towards me--deserved punishment. i had claims on him; but i have not upon the hundreds, whom, when in the zenith of my popularity, i myself, perhaps, was not over courteous to. i cannot _run the muck_ which you propose, nor do i consider that i shall help my character by so doing. i may become notorious, but certainly, i shall not obtain that species of notoriety which will be of service to me. no, no; i have done too much, i may say, already; and, although not so much to blame as the world imagines, yet my own conscience tells me, that by allowing it to suppose that i was what i was not, i have, to say the least, been a party to the fraud, and must take the consequence. my situation now is very unpleasant, and i ought to retire, and, if possible, re-appear with real claims upon the public favour. i have still friends, thank god! and influential friends. i am offered a writership in india--a commission in the army--or to study the law. will you favour me with your opinion?" "you pay me a compliment by asking my advice. a writership in india is fourteen years' transportation, returning with plenty to live on but no health to enjoy it. in the army you might do well, and moreover, as an officer in the army, none dare refuse to go out with you. at the same time, under your peculiar circumstances, i think if you were in a crack regiment you would, in all probability, have to fight one half the mess, and be put in coventry by the other. you must then exchange on half-pay, and your commission would be a great help to you. as for the law--i'd sooner see a brother of mine in his coffin. there, you have my opinion." "not a very encouraging one, at all events," replied i, laughing; "but there is much truth in your observations. to india i will not go, as it will interfere with the great object of my existence." "and pray, if it be no secret, may i ask what that is?" "to find out _who is my father._" captain atkinson looked very hard at me. "i more than once," said he, "have thought you a little cracked, but now i perceive you are _mad_--downright _mad_; don't be angry, i couldn't help saying so, and if you wish me to give you satisfaction, i shall most unwillingly be obliged." "no, no, atkinson, i believe you are not very far wrong, and i forgive you--but to proceed. the army, as you say, will give me a position in society, from my profession being that of a gentleman, but as i do not wish to take the advantage which you have suggested from the position, i shrink from putting myself into one which may lead to much mortification. as for the law, although i do not exactly agree with you in your abhorrence of the profession, yet i must say, that i do not like the idea. i have been rendered unfit for it by my life up to the present. but i am permitted to select any other." "without wishing to pry into your affairs, have you sufficient to live upon?" "yes, in a moderate way; about a younger brother's portion, which will just keep me in gloves, cigars, and eau de cologne." "then take my advice and be _nothing._ the only difference i can see between a gentleman and anybody else, is that one is idle and the other works hard. one is a useless, and the other a useful, member of society. such is the absurdity of the opinions of the world." "yes, i agree with you, and would prefer being a gentleman in that respect, and do nothing, if they would admit me in every other; but that they will not do. i am in an unfortunate position." "and will be until your feelings become blunted as mine have been," replied atkinson. "had you acquiesced in my proposal, you would have done better. as it is, i can be of no use to you; nay, without intending an affront, i do not know if we ought to be seen together, for your decision not to _fight_ your way is rather awkward, as i cannot back one with my _support_ who will not do credit to it. do not be angry at what i say; you are your own master, and have a right to decide for yourself,--if you think yourself not so wholly lost as to be able eventually to recover yourself by other means, i do not blame you, as i know it is only from an error in judgment, and not from want of courage." "at present i am, i acknowledge, lost, captain atkinson; but if i succeed in _finding my father_--" "good morning, newland, good morning," replied he, hastily. "i see how it is; of course we shall be civil to each other when we meet, for i wish you well, but we must not be seen together, or you may injure my character." "injure _your_ character, captain atkinson?" "yes, mr newland, injure my character. i do not mean to say but that there are characters more respectable, but i have _a_ character which suits me, and it has the merit of consistency. as you are not prepared, as the americans say, _to go the whole hog_, we will part good friends, and if i have said anything to annoy you, i beg your pardon." "good-bye, then, captain atkinson; for the kindness you have shown me i am grateful." he shook my hand, and walked out of the room. "and for having thus broken up our acquaintance, more grateful still," thought i, as he went down stairs. chapter lv i cut my new acquaintance, but his company, even in so short a time, proves my ruin--notwithstanding i part with all my property, i retain my honesty. in the meantime, the particulars of the duel had found their way into the papers, with various comments, but none of them very flattering to me, and i received a note from mr masterton, who, deceived by the representations of that class of people who cater for newspapers, and who are but too glad to pull, if they possibly can, every one to their own level, strongly animadverted upon my conduct, and pointed out the folly of it; adding, that lord windermear wholly coincided with him in opinion, and had desired him to express his displeasure. he concluded by observing, "i consider this to be the most serious false step which you have hitherto made. because you have been a party to deceiving the public, and because one individual, who had no objection to be intimate with a young man of fashion, station, and affluence, does not wish to continue the acquaintance with one of unknown birth and no fortune, you consider yourself justified in taking his life. upon this principle, all society is at an end, all distinctions levelled, and the rule of the gladiator will only be overthrown by the stiletto of the assassin." i was but ill prepared to receive this letter. i had been deeply thinking upon the kind offers of lord windermear, and had felt that they would interfere with the _primum mobile_ of my existence, and i was reflecting by what means i could evade their kind intentions, and be at liberty to follow my own inclinations, when this note arrived. to me it appeared to be the height of injustice. i had been arraigned and found guilty upon an _ex parte_ statement. i forgot, at the time, that it was my duty to have immediately proceeded to mr masterton, and have fully explained the facts of the case; and that, by not having so done, i left the natural impression that i had no defence to offer. i forgot all this, still i was myself to blame--i only saw that the letter in itself was unkind and unjust--and my feelings were those of resentment. what right have lord windermear and mr masterton thus to school and to insult me? the right of obligations conferred. but is not lord windermear under obligations to me? have i not preserved his secret? yes; but how did i obtain possession of it? by so doing, i was only making reparation for an act of treachery. well, then, at all events, i have a right to be independent of them, if i please--any one has a right to assert his independence if he chooses. their offers of service only would shackle me, if i accepted of their assistance. i will have none of them. such were my reflections; and the reader must perceive that i was influenced by a state of morbid irritability--a sense of abandonment which prostrated me. i felt that i was an isolated being without a tie in the whole world. i determined to spurn the world as it had spurned me. to timothy i would hardly speak a word. i lay with an aching head, aching from increased circulation. i was mad, or nearly so. i opened the case of pistols, and thought of suicide--reflection alone restrained me. i could not abandon the search after my father. feverish and impatient, i wished to walk out, but i dared not meet the public eye. i waited till dark, and then i sallied forth, hardly knowing where i went. i passed the gaming house--i did pass it, but i returned and lost every shilling; not, however, till the fluctuations of the game had persuaded me, that had i had more money to carry it on, i should have won. i went to bed, but not to sleep; i thought of how i had been caressed and admired, when i was supposed to be rich. of what use then was the money i possessed? little or none. i made up my mind that i would either gain a fortune, or lose that which i had. the next morning i went into the city, and sold out all the remaining stock. to timothy i had not communicated my intentions. i studiously avoided speaking to him; he felt hurt at my conduct, i perceived, but i was afraid of his advice and expostulation. at night-fall i returned to the hell--played with various success; at one time was a winner of three times my capital, and i ended at last with my pockets being empty. i was indifferent when it was all gone, although in the highest state of excitement while the chances were turning up. the next day i went to a house agent, and stated my wish to sell my house, for i was resolved to try fortune to the last. the agent undertook to find a ready purchaser, and i begged an advance, which he made, and continued to make, until he had advanced nearly half the value. he then found a purchaser (himself, as i believe) at two-thirds of its value. i did not hesitate, i had lost every advance, one after another, and was anxious to retrieve my fortune or be a beggar. i signed the conveyance and received the balance, fifteen hundred and fifty pounds, and returned to the apartments, no longer mine, about an hour before dinner. i called timothy, and ascertaining the amount of bills due, gave him fifty pounds, which left him about fifteen pounds as a residue. i then sat down to my solitary meal, but just as i commenced i heard a dispute in the passage. "what is that, timothy?" cried i, for i was nervous to a degree. "it's that fellow emmanuel, sir, who says that he will come up." "yesh, i vill go up, sar." "let him come, timothy," replied i. accordingly mr emmanuel ascended. "well, emmanuel, what do you want with me?" said i, looking with contempt at the miserable creature who entered as before, with his body bent double, and his hand lying over his back. "i vash a little out of breath, mr newland--i vash come to say dat de monish is very scarce--dat i vill accept your offer, and vill take de hundred pounds, and my tousand which i have lent you. you too mush gentleman not to help a poor old man, ven he ish in distress." "rather say, mr emmanuel, that you have heard that i have not ten thousand pounds per annum, and that you are afraid that you have lost your money." "loshe my monish!--no--loshe my tousand pound! did you not say, dat you would pay it back to me, and give me hundred pounds for my trouble; dat vash de last arrangement." "yes, but you refused to take it, so it is not my fault. you must now stick to the first, which is to receive fifteen hundred pounds when i come into my fortune." "your fortune, but you av no fortune." "i am afraid not; and recollect, mr emmanuel, that i never told you that i had." "vill you pay me my monish, mr newland, or vill you go to prison?" "you can't put me in prison for an agreement," replied i. "no; but i can prosecute you for a swindler." "no, you confounded old rascal, you cannot; try, and do your worst," cried i, enraged at the word swindler. "veil, mr newland, if you have not de ten tousand a year, you have de house and de monish; you vill not cheat a poor man like me." "i have sold my house." "you have sold de house--den you have neither de house nor de monish. oh! my monish, my monish! sare, mr newland, you are one d----d rascal;" and the old wretch's frame quivered with emotion; his hand behind his back shaking as much as the other which, in his rage, he shook in my face. enraged myself at being called such an opprobrious term, i opened the door, twisted him round, and applying my foot to a nameless part, he flew out and fell down the stairs, at the turning of which he lay, groaning in pain. "mine got, mine got, i am murdered!" cried he. "fader abraham, receive me." my rage was appeased, and i turned pale at the idea of having killed the poor wretch. with the assistance of timothy, whom i summoned, we dragged the old man upstairs, and placed him in a chair, and found that he was not very much hurt. a glass of wine was given to him, and then, as soon as he could speak, his ruling passion broke out again. "mishter newland--ah, mish-ter new-land, cannot you give me my monish--cannot you give me de tousand pound, without de interest? you are very welcome to de interest. i only lend it to oblige you." "how can you expect a d----d rascal to do any such thing?" replied i. "d----d rascal! ah! it vash i who vash a rascal, and vash a fool to say the word. mishter newland, you vash a gentleman, you vill pay me my monish. you vill pay me part of my monish. i have de agreement in my pocket, all ready to give up." "if i have not the money, how can i pay you?" "fader abraham, if you have not de monish--you must have some monish; den you will pay me a part. how much vill you pay me?" "will you take five hundred pounds, and return the agreement?" "five hundred pounds--lose half--oh! mr newland--it was all lent in monish, not in goods; you will not make me lose so much as dat?" "i'm not sure that i will give you five hundred pounds; your bond is not worth two-pence, and you know it." "your honour, mishter newland, is worth more dan ten tousand pounds: but if you have not de monish, den you shall pay me de five hundred pounds which you offer, and i will give up de paper." "i never offered five hundred pounds." "not offer; but you mention de sum, dat quite enough." "well then, for five hundred pounds, you will give up the paper?" "yes; i vash content to loshe all de rest, to please you." i went to my desk, and took out five hundred pounds in notes. "now, there is the money, which you may put your hands on when you give up the agreement." the old man pulled out the agreement and laid it on the table, catching up the notes. i looked at the paper to see if it was all right, and then tore it up. emmanuel put the notes, with a heavy sigh, into his inside coat pocket, and prepared to depart. "now, mr emmanuel, i will show that i have a little more honour than you think for. this is all the money i have in the world," said i, taking out of my desk the remaining thousand pounds, "and half of it i give to you, to pay you the whole money which you lent me. here is five hundred pounds more, and now we are quits." the eyes of the old man were fixed upon me in astonishment, and from my face they glanced upon the notes; he could, to use a common expression, neither believe his eyes nor his ears. at last he took the money, again unbuttoned and pulled out his pocket-book, and with a trembling hand stowed them away as before. "you vash a very odd gentleman, mishter newland," said he; "you kick me down stairs, and--but dat is noting." "good-bye, mr emmanuel," said i, "and let me eat my dinner." chapter lvi i resolve to begin the world again, and to seek my fortune in the next path--i take leave of all my old friends. the jew retired, and i commenced my meal, when the door again slowly opened, and mr emmanuel crawled up to me. "mishter newland, i vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de interest of de monish?" i started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. "begone, you old thief," cried i; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before mr emmanuel travelled out of the room, and i never saw him afterwards. i was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty, and for the first time for a long while, i ate my dinner with some zest. after i had finished, i took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the remainder of the five hundred pounds i put in my pocket, to try my last chance. in an hour i quitted the hell penniless. when i returned home i had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which i had been under. i felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. i knew my fate--there was no more suspense. i sat down to reflect upon what i should do. i was to commence the world again--to sink down at once into obscurity--into poverty--and i felt happy. i had severed the link between myself and my former condition--i was again a beggar, but i was independent--and i resolved so to be. i spoke kindly to timothy, went to bed, and having arranged in my own mind how i should act, i fell sound asleep. i never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. the next morning i packed up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, i abjured. when timothy came in, i told him that i was going down to lady de clare's, which i intended to do. poor timothy was overjoyed at the change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me--for, reader, i had made up my mind that i would try my fortunes alone; and, painful as i felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, i was determined that i would no longer have even his assistance or company. i was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world anew. i sat down while timothy went out to take a place in the richmond coach, and wrote to him the following letter:-- my dear timothy,--do not think that i undervalue your friendship, or shall ever forget your regard for me, when i tell you that we shall probably never meet again. should fortune favour me, i trust we shall--but of that there is little prospect. i have lost almost everything: my money is all gone, my house is sold, and all is gambled away. i leave you, with only my clothes in my portmanteau and twenty pounds. for yourself, there is the furniture, which you must sell, as well as every other article left behind. it is all yours, and i hope you will find means to establish yourself in some way. god bless you--and believe me always and gratefully yours, "japhet newland." this letter i reserved to put in the post when i quitted richmond. my next letter was to mr masterton. "sir,--your note i received, and i am afraid that, unwittingly, you have been the occasion of my present condition. that i did not deserve the language addressed to me, you may satisfy yourself by applying to mr harcourt. driven to desperation, i have lost all i had in the world, by adding gaming to my many follies. i now am about to seek my fortune, and prosecute my search after my father. you will, therefore, return my most sincere acknowledgments to lord windermear, for his kind offers and intentions, and assure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of gratitude and respect. for yourself, accept my warmest thanks for the friendly advice and kind interest which you have shown in my welfare, and believe me, when i say, that my earnest prayers shall be offered up for your happiness. if you can, in any way, assist my poor friend, timothy, who will, i have no doubt, call upon you in his distress, you will confer an additional favour on," "yours, ever gratefully," "japhet newland." i sealed this letter, and when timothy returned, i told him that i wished him, after my departure, to take it to mr masterton's, and not wait for an answer. i then, as i had an hour to spare, before the coach started, entered into a conversation with timothy. i pointed out to him the unfortunate condition in which i found myself, and my determination to quit the metropolis. timothy agreed with me. "i have seen you so unhappy of late--i may say, so miserable--that i have neither eaten nor slept. indeed, japhet, i have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours. go where you will, i am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as i see you comfortable, i care for nothing else." these words of timothy almost shook my resolution, and i was near telling him all; but when i recollected, i refrained. "my dear timothy," said i, "in this world we must expect to meet with a chequered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others. i owe my life to you, and i never shall forget you, wherever i may be." "no," replied timothy, "you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight." "very true, timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us." "i cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do i believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that. you have your money and your house; if you leave london, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find." my heart smote me when timothy said this, for i felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property i possessed, as myself. he had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit. "but the time may come, timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation." "well, sir, and let it come. i should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do." i mentally exclaimed, 'i have, i think i have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast. i will sow in sorrow, and may i reap a harvest in joy. i feel,' thought i (and i did feel), 'i feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.' "yes, tim," said i, in a loud voice, "all is right." "all's right, sir; i never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune." "very true; and tim, recollect that if mr masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after i am gone to richmond, you tell him that before i left, i paid that old scoundrel emmanuel every farthing that i had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does mr masterton), how it was borrowed." "well, sir, i will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me." "but he may, perhaps, tim; and i wish him to know that i have paid every debt i owe in the world." "one would think that you were going to the east indies, instead of to richmond, by the way you talk." "no, tim; i was offered a situation in the east indies, and i refused it; but mr masterton and i have not been on good terms lately, and i wish him to know that i am out of debt. you know, for i told you all that passed between emmanuel and myself, how he accepted five hundred pounds, and i paid him the thousand; and i wish mr masterton should know it too, and he will then be better pleased with me." "never fear, sir," said tim, "i can tell the whole story with flourishes." "no, tim, nothing but the truth; but it is time i should go. farewell, my dear fellow. may god bless you and preserve you." and, overcome by my feelings, i dropped my face on timothy's shoulder, and wept. "what is the matter? what do you mean, japhet? mr newland--pray, sir, what is the matter?" "timothy--it is nothing," replied i, recovering myself, "but i have been ill; nervous lately, as you well know, and even leaving the last and only friend i have, i may say for a few days, annoys and overcomes me." "oh! sir--dear japhet, do let us leave this house, and sell your furniture, and be off." "i mean that it shall be so, tim. god bless you, and farewell." i went downstairs, the hackney-coach was at the door. timothy put in my portmanteau, and mounted the box. i wept bitterly. my readers may despise me, but they ought not; let them be in my situation, and feel that they have one sincere faithful friend, and then they will know the bitterness of parting. i recovered myself before i arrived at the coach, and shaking hands with timothy, i lost sight of him; for how long, the reader will find out in the sequel of my adventures. i arrived at lady de clare's, and hardly need say that i was well received. they expressed their delight at my so soon coming again, and made a hundred inquiries--but i was unhappy and melancholy, not at my prospects, for in my infatuation i rejoiced at my anticipated beggary--but i wished to communicate with fleta, for so i still call her. fleta had known my history, for she had been present when i had related it to her mother, up to the time that i arrived in london; further than that she knew little. i was determined that before i quitted she should know all. i dared not trust the last part to her when i was present, but i resolved that i would do it in writing. lady de clare made no difficulty whatever of leaving me with fleta. she was now a beautiful creature, of between fifteen, and sixteen, bursting into womanhood, and lovely as the bud of the moss-rose; and she was precocious beyond her years in _intellect_. i stayed there three days, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with her; i told her that i wished her to be acquainted with my whole life, and interrogated her as to what she knew: i carefully filled up the chasms, until i brought it down to the time at which i placed her in the arms of her mother. "and now, fleta," said i, "you have much more to learn--you will learn that much at my departure. i have dedicated hours every night in writing it out; and, as you will find, have analysed my feelings, and have pointed out to you where i have been wrong. i have done it for my amusement, as it may be of service even to a female." on the third day i took my leave, and requesting the pony chaise of lady de clare, to take me over to ----, that i might catch the first coach that went westward, for i did not care which; i put into fleta's hands the packet which i had written, containing all that had passed, and i bid her farewell. "lady de clare, may you be happy," said i. "fleta--cecilia, i should say, may god bless and preserve you, and sometimes think of your sincere friend, japhet newland." "really, mr newland," said lady de clare, "one would think we were never to see you again." "i hope that will not be the case, lady de clare, for i know nobody to whom i am more devoted." "then, sir, recollect we are to see you very soon." i pressed her ladyship's hand, and left the house. thus did i commence my second pilgrimage. chapter lvii my new career is not very prosperous at its commencement--i am robbed, and accused of being a robber--i bind up wounds, and am accused of having inflicted them--i get into a horse-pond, and out of it into gaol. i had proceeded half a mile from the house, when i desired the servant to turn into a cross-road so as to gain brentford; and, so soon as i arrived, the distance being only four miles, i ordered him to stop at a public-house, saying that i would wait till the coach should pass by. i then gave him half-a-crown, and ordered him to go home. i went into the inn with my portmanteau, and was shown into a small back parlour; there i remained about half an hour reflecting upon the best plan that i could adopt. leaving the ale that i had called for untasted, i paid for it, and, with the portmanteau on my shoulder, i walked away until i arrived at an old clothes' shop. i told the jew who kept it, that i required some clothes, and also wanted to dispose of my own portmanteau and all my effects. i had a great rogue to deal with; but after much chaffering, for i now felt the value of money, i purchased from him two pair of corduroy trousers, two waistcoats, four common shirts, four pairs of stockings, a smock frock, a pair of high-lows, and a common hat. for these i gave up all my portmanteau, with the exception of six silk handkerchiefs, and received fifty shillings, when i ought to have received, at least, ten pounds; but i could not well help myself, and i submitted to the extortion. i dressed myself in my more humble garments, securing my money in the pocket of my trousers unobserved by the jew, made up a bundle of the rest, and procured a stick from the jew to carry it on, however not without paying him three-pence for it, he observing that the stick "wash not in de bargain." thus attired, i had the appearance of a countryman well to do, and i set off through the long dirty main street of brentford, quite undecided and indifferent as to the direction i should take. i walked about a mile, when i thought that it was better to come to some decision previous to my going farther; and perceiving a bench in front of a public-house, i went to it and sat down. i looked around, and it immediately came to my recollection that i was sitting on the very bench on which timothy and i had stopped to eat our meal of pork, at our first outset upon our travels. yes, it was the very same! here sat i, and there sat timothy, two heedless boys, with the paper containing the meat, the loaf of bread, and the pot of beer between us. poor timothy! i conjured up his unhappiness when he had received my note acquainting him with our future separation. i remembered his fidelity, his courage in defence, and his preservation of my life in ireland, and a tear or two coursed down my cheek. i remained some time in a deep reverie, during which the various circumstances and adventures of my life were passed in a rapid panorama before me. i felt that i had little to plead in my own favour, much to condemn--that i had passed a life of fraud and deceit. i also could not forget that when i had returned to honesty, i had been scouted by the world. "and here i am," thought i, "once more with the world before me; and it is just that i should commence again, for i started in a wrong path. at least, now i can satisfactorily assert that i am deceiving nobody, and can deservedly receive no contumely. i am japhet newland, and not in disguise." i felt happy with this reflection, and made a determination, whatever my future lot might be, that, at least, i would pursue the path of honesty. i then began to reflect upon another point, which was, whither i should bend my steps, and what i should do to gain my livelihood. alas! that was a subject of no little difficulty to me. a person who has been brought up to a profession naturally reverts to that profession--but to what had i been brought up? as an apothecary--true; but i well knew the difficulty of obtaining employment in what is termed a liberal profession, without interest or recommendation; neither did i wish for close confinement, as the very idea was irksome. as a mountebank, a juggler, a quack doctor--i spurned the very idea. it was a system of fraud and deceit. what then could i do? i could not dig, to beg i was ashamed. i must trust to the chapter of accidents, and considering how helpless i was, such trust was but a broken reed. at all events, i had a sufficient sum of money, upwards of twenty pounds, to exist upon with economy for some time. i was interrupted by a voice calling out, "hilloa! my lad, come and hold this horse a moment." i looked up and perceived a person on horseback looking at me. "do you hear, or are you stupid?" cried the man. my first feeling was to knock him down for his impertinence, but my bundle lying beside, reminded me of my situation and appearance, and i rose and walked towards the horse. the gentleman, for such he was in appearance, dismounted, and throwing the rein on the horse's neck, told me to stand by him for half a minute. he went into a respectable-looking house opposite the inn, and remained nearly half an hour, during which i was becoming very impatient, and kept an anxious eye upon my bundle, which lay on the seat. at last he came out, and mounting his horse looked in my face with some degree of surprise. "why, what are you?" said he, as he pulled out a sixpence, and tendered it to me. i was again nearly forgetting myself, affronted at the idea of sixpence being offered to me; but i recovered myself, saying, as i took it, "a poor labouring man, sir." "what, with those hands?" said he, looking at them as i took the money; and then looking at my face, he continued, "i think we have met before, my lad--i cannot be sure; you know best--i am a bow street magistrate." in a moment, i remembered that he was the very magistrate before whom i had twice made my appearance. i coloured deeply, and made no reply. "well, my lad, i'm not on my bench now, and this sixpence you have earned honestly. i trust you will continue in the right path. be careful--i have sharp eyes." so saying, he rode off. i never felt more mortified. it was evident that he considered me as one who was acting a part for unworthy purposes; perhaps one of the swell mob or a flash pickpocket rusticating until some hue and cry was over. "well, well," thought i, as i took up a lump of dirt and rubbed over my then white hands, "it is my fate to be believed when i deceive, and to be mistrusted when i am acting honestly;" and i returned to the bench for my bundle, which--was gone. i stared with astonishment. "is it possible?" thought i. "how dishonest people are! well, i will not carry another for the present. they might as well have left me my stick." so thinking, and without any great degree of annoyance at the loss, i turned from the bench and walked away, i knew not whither. it was now getting dark, but i quite forgot that it was necessary to look out for a lodging; the fact is, that i had been completely upset by the observations of the magistrate, and the theft of my bundle; and, in a sort of brown study, from which i was occasionally recalled for a moment by stumbling over various obstructions, i continued my walk on the pathway until i was two or three miles away from brentford. i was within a mile of hounslow, when i was roused by the groans of some person, and it being now dark i looked round, trying to catch by the ear the direction in which to offer my assistance. they proceeded from the other side of a hedge, and i crawled through, where i found a man lying on the ground, covered with blood about the head, and breathing heavily. i untied his _neckcloth_, and, as well as i could, examined his condition. i bound his handkerchief round his head, and perceiving that the position in which he was lying was very unfavourable, his head and shoulders being much lower than his body, i was dragging the body round so as to raise those parts, when i heard footsteps and voices. shortly after, four people burst through the hedge and surrounded me. "that is him, i'll swear to it," cried an immense stout man, seizing me; "that is the other fellow who attacked me, and ran away. he has come to get off his accomplice, and now we've just nicked them both." "you are very much mistaken," replied i, "and you have no need to hold me so tight. i heard the man groan, and i came to his assistance." "that gammon won't do," replied one of them, who was a constable; "you'll come along with us, and we may as well put on the _darbies_," continued he, producing a pair of handcuffs. indignant at the insult, i suddenly broke from him who held me, and darting at the constable, knocked him down, and then took to my heels across the ploughed field. the whole four pursued, but i rather gained upon them, and was in hopes to make my escape. i ran for a gap i perceived in the hedge, and sprang over it, without minding the old adage, of "look before you leap;" for, when on the other side, i found myself in a deep and stagnant pit of water and mud. i sank over head, and with difficulty extricated myself from the mud at the bottom, and when at the surface i was equally embarrassed with the weeds at the top, among which i floundered. in the meantime my pursuers, warned by the loud splash, had paused when they came to the hedge, and perceiving my situation, were at the brink of the pit watching for my coming out. all resistance was useless. i was numbed with cold and exhausted by my struggles, and when i gained the bank i surrendered at discretion. chapter lviii worse and worse--if out of gaol, it will be to go out of the world--i am resolved to take my secret with me. the handcuffs were now put on without resistance on my part, and i was led away to hounslow by the two constables, while the others returned to secure the wounded man. on my arrival i was thrust into the clink, or lock-up house, as the magistrates would not meet that evening, and there i was left to my reflections. previously, however, to this, i was searched, and my money, amounting, as i before stated, to upwards of twenty pounds, taken from me by the constables, and what i had quite forgotten, a diamond solitaire ring, which i had intended to have left with my other bijouterie for timothy, but in my hurry, when i left london, i had allowed to remain upon my finger. the gaol was a square building, with two unglazed windows secured with thick iron bars, and the rain having beat in, it was more like a pound for cattle, for it was not even paved, and the ground was three or four inches deep in mud. there was no seat in it, and there i was the whole of the night walking up and down shivering in my wet clothes, in a state of mind almost bordering upon insanity. reflect upon what was likely to happen, i could not. i only ran over the past. i remembered what i had been, and felt cruelly the situation i then was in. had i deserved it? i thought not. "oh! father--father!" exclaimed i, bitterly, "see to what your son is brought--handcuffed as a felon! god have mercy on my brain, for i feel that it is wandering. father, father--alas, i have none!--had you left me at the asylum, without any clue, or hopes of a clue, to my hereafter being reclaimed, it would have been a kindness; i should then have been happy and contented in some obscure situation; but you raised hopes only to prostrate them--and imaginings which have led to my destruction. sacred is the duty of a parent, and heavy must be the account of those who desert their children, and are required by heaven to render up an account of the important trust. couldst thou, oh! father, but now behold thy son! god almighty!--but i will not curse you, father! no, no"--and i burst into tears, as i leant against the damp walls of the prison. the day at last broke, and the sun rose, and poured his beaming rays through the barred windows. i looked at myself, and was shocked at my appearance; my smock-frock was covered with black mud, my clothes were equally disfigured. i had lost my hat when in the water, and i felt the dry mud cracking on my cheeks. i put my hands up to my head, and i pulled a quantity of duck-weed out of my matted and tangled hair. i thought of the appearance i should make when summoned before the magistrates, and how much it would go against me. "good god!" thought i, "who, of all the world of fashion--who, of all those who once caught my salutation so eagerly--who, of all those worldly-minded girls, who smiled upon me but one short twelve months since, would imagine, or believe, that japhet newland could ever have sunk so low--and how has he so fallen? alas! because he would be honest, and had strength of mind enough to adhere to his resolution. well, well, god's will be done; i care not for life; but still an ignominious death--to go out of the world like a dog, and that too without finding out who is my father." and i put my fettered hands up and pressed my burning brow, and remained in a sort of apathetic sullen mood, until i was startled by the opening of the door, and the appearance of the constables. they led me out among a crowd, through which, with difficulty, they could force their way, and followed by the majority of the population of hounslow, who made their complimentary remarks upon the _footpad_, i was brought before the magistrates. the large stout man was then called up to give his evidence, and deposed as follows:-- "that he was walking to hounslow from brentford, whither he had been to purchase some clothes, when he was accosted by two fellows in smock-frocks, one of whom carried a bundle in his left hand. they asked him what o'clock it was; and he took out his watch to tell them, when he received a blow from the one with the bundle (this one, sir, said he, pointing to me), on the back of his head; at the same time the other (the wounded man who was now in custody) snatched his watch.--that at the time he had purchased his clothes at brentford, he had also bought a bag of shot, fourteen pounds weight, which he had, for the convenience of carrying, tied up with the clothes in the bundle, and perceiving that he was about to be robbed, he had swung his bundle round his head, and with the weight of the shot, had knocked down the man who had snatched at his watch. he then turned to the other (me) who backed from him, and struck at him with his stick. (the stick was here produced, and when i cast my eye on it, i was horrified to perceive that it was the very stick which i had bought of the jew, for three-pence, to carry my bundle on.) he had closed in with me, and was wresting the stick out of my hand, when the other man, who had recovered his legs, again attacked him with another stick. in the scuffle he had obtained my stick, and i had wrested from him his bundle, with which, as soon as he had knocked down my partner, i ran off. that he beat my partner until he was insensible, and then found that i had left my own bundle, which in the affray i had thrown on one side." he then made the best of his way to hounslow to give the information. his return and finding me with the other man is already known to the readers. the next evidence who came forward was the jew, from whom i had bought the clothes and sold my own. he narrated all that had occurred, and swore to the clothes in the bundle left by the footpad, and to the stick which he had sold to me. the constable then produced the money found about my person and the diamond solitaire ring, stating my attempt to escape when i was seized. the magistrate then asked me whether i had anything to say in my defence, cautioning me not to commit myself. i replied, that i was innocent; that it was true that i had sold my own clothes, and had purchased those of the jew, as well as the stick: that i had been asked to hold the horse of a gentleman when sitting on a bench opposite a public-house, and that some one had stolen my bundle and my stick. that i had walked on towards hounslow, and, in assisting a fellow-creature, whom i certainly had considered as having been attacked by others, i had merely yielded to the common feelings of humanity--that i was seized when performing that duty, and should willingly have accompanied them to the magistrate's, had not they attempted to put on handcuffs, at which my feelings were roused, and i knocked the constable down, and made my attempt to escape. "certainly, a very ingenious defence," observed one of the magistrates; "pray where--!" at this moment the door opened, and in came the very gentleman, the magistrate at bow street, whose horse i had held. "good morning, mr norman, you have just come in time to render us your assistance. we have a very deep hand to deal with here, or else a very injured person, i cannot tell which. do us the favour to look over these informations and the defence of the prisoner, previous to our asking him any more questions." the bow street magistrate complied, and then turned to me, but i was so disguised with mud, that he could not recognise me. "you are the gentleman, sir, who asked me to hold your horse," said i. "i call you to witness, that that part of my assertion is true." "i do now recollect that you are the person," replied he, "and you may recollect the observation i made, relative to your hands, when you stated that you were a poor countryman." "i do, sir, perfectly," replied i. "perhaps then you will inform us by what means a diamond ring and twenty pounds in money came into your possession?" "honestly, sir," replied i. "will you state, as you are a poor countryman, with whom you worked last--what parish you belong to--and whom you can bring forward in proof of good character?" "i certainly shall not answer those questions," replied i; "if i chose i might so do, and satisfactorily." "what is your name?" "i cannot answer that question either, sir," replied i. "i told you yesterday that we had met before; was it not at bow street?" "i am surprised at your asking a question, sir, from the bench, to which, if i answered, the reply might affect me considerably. i am here in a false position, and cannot well help myself. i have no friends that i choose to call, for i should blush that they should see me in such a state, and under such imputations." "your relations, young man, would certainly not be backward. who is your father?" "my father!" exclaimed i, raising up my hands and eyes. "my father! merciful god!--if he could only see me here--see to what he has reduced his unhappy son," and i covered my face, and sobbed convulsively. chapter lix by the committing of magisterial mistakes i am personally and penally committed--i prepare for my trial by calling in the assistance of the tailor and the perfumer--i am resolved to die like a gentleman. "it is indeed a pity, a great pity," observed one of the magistrates, "such a fine young man, and evidently, by his demeanour and language, well brought up; but i believe," said he turning to the others, "we have but one course; what say you, mr norman?" "i am afraid that my opinion coincides with yours, and that the grand jury will not hesitate to find a bill, as the case stands at present. let us, however, ask the witness armstrong one question. do you positively swear to this young man being one of the persons who attacked you?" "it was not very light at the time, sir, and both the men had their faces _smutted;_ but it was a person just his size, and dressed in the ame way, as near as i can recollect." "you cannot, therefore, swear to his identity?" "no, sir; but to the best of my knowledge and belief, he is the man." "take that evidence down as important," said mr norman, "it will assist him at his trial." the evidence was taken down, and then my commitment to the county gaol was made out. i was placed in a cart, between two constables, and driven off. on my arrival i was put into a cell, and my money returned to me, but the ring was detained, that it might be advertised. at last, i was freed from the manacles, and when the prison dress was brought to me to put on, in lieu of my own clothes, i requested leave from the gaoler to wash myself, which was granted; and, strange to say, so unaccustomed had i been to such a state of filth, that i felt a degree of happiness, as i returned from the pump in the prison-yard, and i put on the prison dress almost with pleasure; for degrading as it was, at all events, it was new and clean. i then returned to my cell and was left to my meditations. now that my examination and committal were over, i became much more composed, and was able to reflect coolly. i perceived the great danger of my situation--how strong the evidence was against me--and how little chance i had of escape. as for sending to lord windermear, mr masterton, or those who formerly were acquainted with me, my pride forbade it--i would sooner have perished on the scaffold. besides, their evidence as to my former situation in life, although it would perhaps satisfactorily account for my possession of the money and the ring, and for my disposing of my portmanteau--all strong presumptive evidence against me--would not destroy the evidence brought forward as to the robbery, which appeared to be so very conclusive to the bench of magistrates. my only chance appeared to be in the footpad, who had not escaped, acknowledging that i was not his accomplice, and i felt how much i was interested in his recovery, as well as in his candour. the assizes i knew were near at hand, and i anxiously awaited the return of the gaoler, to make a few inquiries. at night he looked through the small square cut out of the top of the door of the cell, for it was his duty to go his rounds and ascertain if all his prisoners were safe. i then asked him if i might be allowed to make a few purchases, such as pens, ink, and paper, &c. as i was not committed to prison in punishment, but on suspicion, this was not denied, although it would have been to those who were condemned to imprisonment and hard labour for their offences; and he volunteered to procure them for me the next morning. i then wished him a good-night, and threw myself on my mattress. worn out with fatigue and distress of mind, i slept soundly, without dreaming, until daylight the next morning. as i awoke, and my scattered senses were returning, i had a confused idea that there was something which weighed heavily on my mind, which sleep had banished from my memory. "what is it?" thought i; and as i opened my eyes, so did i remember that i, japhet newland, who but two nights before was pressing the down of luxury in the same habitation as lady de clare and her lovely child, was now on a mattress in the cell of a prison, under a charge which threatened me with an ignominious death. i rose, and sat on the bed, for i had not thrown off my clothes. my first thoughts were directed to timothy. should i write to him? no, no! why should i make him miserable? if i was to suffer, it should be under an assumed name. but what name? here i was interrupted by the gaoler, who opened the door, and desired me to roll up my mattress and bed-clothes, that they might, as was the custom, be taken out of the cell during the day. my first inquiry was, if the man who had been so much hurt was in the gaol. "you mean your 'complice," replied the gaoler. "yes, he is here, and has recovered his senses. the doctor says he will do very well." "has he made any confession?" inquired i. the gaoler made no reply. "i ask that question," continued i, "because if he acknowledges who was his accomplice, i shall be set at liberty." "very likely," replied the man, sarcastically; "the fact is, there is no occasion for king's evidence in this case, or you might get off by crossing the water; so you must trust to your luck. the grand jury meet to-day, and i will let you know whether a true bill is found against you or not." "what is the name of the other man?" inquired i. "well, you are a good un to put a face upon a matter, i will say. you would almost persuade me, with that innocent look of yours, that you know nothing about the business." "nor do i," replied i. "you will be fortunate if you can prove as much, that's all." "still, you have not answered my question; what is the other man's name?" "well," replied the gaoler, laughing, "since you are determined i shall tell you, i will. it must be news to you, with a vengeance. his name is bill ogle, _alias_ swamping bill. i suppose you never heard that name before?" "i certainly never did," replied i. "perhaps you do not know your own name? yet i can tell it you, for bill ogle has blown upon you so far." "indeed," replied i; "and what name has he given to me?" "why, to do him justice, it wasn't until he saw a copy of the depositions before the magistrates, and heard how you were nabbed in trying to help him off, that he did tell it; and then he said, 'well, phil maddox always was a true un, and i'm mortal sorry that he's in for't, by looking a'ter me.' now do you know your own name?" "i certainly do not," replied i. "well, did you ever hear of one who went by the name of phil maddox?" "i never did," replied i; "and i am glad that ogle has disclosed so much." "well, i never before met with a man who didn't know his own name, or had the face to say so, and expect to be believed; but never mind, you are right to be cautious, with the halter looking you in the face." "o god! o god!" exclaimed i, throwing myself on the bedstead, and covering up my face, "give me strength to bear even that, if so it must be." the gaoler looked at me for a time. "i don't know what to make of him--he puzzles me quite, certainly. yet it's no mistake." "it is a mistake," replied i, rising; "but whether the mistake will be found out until too late, is another point. however, it is of little consequence. what have i to live for,--unless to find out who is my father?" "find out your father! what's in the wind now? well, it beats my comprehension altogether. but did not you say you wished me to get you something?" "yes," replied i; and i gave him some money, with directions to purchase me implements for writing, some scented wax, a tooth-brush, and tooth-powder, eau de cologne, hair-brush and comb, razors, small looking-glass, and various implements for my toilet. "this is a rum world," said the man, repeating what i asked for, as i put two guineas in his hand. "i've purchased many a article for a prisoner, but never heard of such rattletraps afore; however, that be all the same. you will have them, though what _ho de colum_ is i can't tell, nor dang me if i shall recollect--not poison, be it, for that is not allowed in the prison?" "no, no," replied i, indulging in momentary mirth at the idea; "you may inquire, and you will find that it's only taken by ladies who are troubled with the vapours." "now i should ha' thought that you'd have spent your money in the cookshop, which is so much more natural. however, we all have our fancies;" so saying, he quitted the cell, and locked the door. chapter lx i am condemned to be hung by the neck until i am dead, and to go out of the world without finding out who is my father--afterwards my innocence is made manifest and i am turned adrift a maniac in the high road. it may appear strange to the reader that i sent for the above-mentioned articles, but habit is second nature, and although two days before, when i set out on my pilgrimage, i had resolved to discard these superfluities, yet now in my distress i felt as if they would comfort me. that evening, after rectifying a few mistakes on the part of the good-tempered gaoler, by writing down what i wanted on the paper which he had procured me, i obtained all that i required. the next morning, he informed me that the grand jury had found a true bill against me, and that on the saturday next, the assizes would be held. he also brought me the list of trials, and i found that mine would be one of the last, and would not probably come on until monday or tuesday. i requested him to send for a good tailor, as i wished to be dressed in a proper manner, previous to appearing in court. as a prisoner is allowed to go into court in his own clothes instead of the gaol dress, this was consented to, and when the man came, i was very particular in my directions, so much so, that it surprised him. he also procured me the other articles i required to complete my dress, and on saturday night i had them all ready, for i was resolved that i would at least die as a gentleman. sunday passed away, not as it ought to have passed, certainly. i attended prayers, but my thoughts were elsewhere--how, indeed, could it be otherwise? who can control his thoughts? he may attempt so to do, but the attempt is all that can be made. he cannot command them. i heard nothing, my mind was in a state of gyration, whirling round from one thing to the other, until i was giddy from intensity of feeling. on monday morning the gaoler came and asked me whether i would have legal advice. i replied in the negative. "you will be called about twelve o'clock, i hear," continued he; "it is now ten, and there is only one more trial before yours, about the stealing of four geese and half a dozen fowls." "good god!" thought i, "and am i mixed up with such deeds as these?" i dressed myself with the utmost care and precision, and never was more successful. my clothes were black, and fitted well. about one o'clock i was summoned by the gaoler, and led between him and another to the court-house, and placed in the dock. at first my eyes swam, and i could distinguish nothing, but gradually i recovered. i looked round, for i had called up my courage. my eyes wandered from the judge to the row of legal gentlemen below him; from them to the well-dressed ladies who sat in the gallery above; behind me i did not look. i had seen enough, and my cheeks burned with shame. at last i looked at my fellow-culprit, who stood beside me, and his eyes at the same time met mine. he was dressed in the gaol clothes, of pepper and salt coarse cloth. he was a rough, vulgar, brutal looking man, but his eye was brilliant, his complexion was dark, and his face was covered with whiskers. "good heavens," thought i, "who will ever imagine or credit that we have been associates?" the man stared at me, bit his lip, and smiled with contempt, but made no further remark. the indictment having been read, the clerk of the court cried out, "you, benjamin ogle, having heard the charge, say, guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty," replied the man, to my astonishment. "you, philip maddox, guilty or not guilty?" i did not answer. "prisoner," observed the judge in a mild voice, "you must answer, guilty or not guilty. it is merely a form." "my lord," replied i, "my name is not philip maddox." "that is the name given in the indictment by the evidence of your fellow-prisoner," observed the judge; "your real name we cannot pretend to know. it is sufficient that you answer to the question of whether you, the prisoner, are guilty or not guilty." "not guilty, my lord, most certainly," replied i, placing my hand to my heart, and bowing to him. the trial proceeded; armstrong was the principal evidence. to my person he would not swear. the jew proved my selling my clothes, purchasing those found in the bundle, and the stick, of which armstrong possessed himself. the clothes i had on at the time of my capture were produced in court. as for ogle, his case was decisive. we were then called upon for our defence. ogle's was very short. "he had been accustomed to fits all his life--was walking to hounslow, and had fallen down in a fit. it must have been somebody else who had committed the robbery and had made off, and he had been picked up in a mistake." this defence appeared to make no other impression than ridicule, and indignation at the barefaced assertion. i was then called on for mine. "my lord," said i, "i have no defence to make except that which i asserted before the magistrates, that i was performing an act of charity towards a fellow-creature, and was, through that, supposed to be an accomplice." "arraigned before so many upon a charge, at the bare accusation of which my blood revolts, i cannot and will not allow those who might prove what my life has been, and the circumstances which induced me to take up the disguise in which i was taken, to appear in my behalf. i am unfortunate, but not guilty. one only chance appears to be open to me, which is, in the candour of the party who now stands by me. if he will say to the court that he ever saw me before, i will submit without murmur to my sentence." "i'm sorry that you've put that question, my boy," replied the man, "for i have seen you before;" and the wretch chuckled with repressed laughter. i was so astonished, so thunderstruck with this assertion, that i held own my head, and made no reply. the judge then summed up the evidence to the jury, pointing out to them, that of ogle's guilt there could be no doubt, and of mine, he was sorry to say, but little. still they must bear in mind that the witness armstrong could not swear to my person. the jury, without leaving the box, consulted together a short time, and brought in a verdict of guilty against benjamin ogle and philip maddox. i heard no more--the judge sentenced us both to execution: he lamented that so young and prepossessing a person as myself should be about to suffer for such an offence: he pointed out the necessity of condign punishment, and gave us no hopes of pardon or clemency. but i heard him not--i did not fall, but i was in a state of stupor. at last, he wound up his sentence by praying us to prepare ourselves for the awful change, by an appeal to that heavenly father--"father!" exclaimed i, in a voice which electrified the court, "did you say my father? o god! where is he?" and i fell down in a fit. the handkerchiefs of the ladies were applied to their faces, the whole court were moved, for i had, by my appearance, excited considerable interest, and the judge, with a faltering, subdued voice, desired that the prisoners might be removed. "stop one minute, my good fellow," said ogle, to the gaoler, while others were taking me out of court. "my lord, i've something rather important to say. why i did not say it before, you shall hear. you are a judge, to condemn the guilty, and release the innocent. we are told that there is no trial like an english jury, but this i say, that many a man is hung for what he never has been guilty of. you have condemned that poor young man to death. i could have prevented it if i had chosen to speak before, but i would not, that i might prove how little there is of justice. he had nothing to do with the robbery--phil maddox was the man, and he is not philip maddox. he said that he never saw me before, nor do i believe that he ever did. as sure as i shall hang, he is innocent." "it was but now, that when appealed to by him, you stated that you had seen him before." "so i did, and i told the truth--i had seen him before. i saw him go to hold the gentleman's horse, but he did not see me. i stole his bundle and his stick, which he left on the bench, and that's how they were found in our possession. now you have the truth, and you may either acknowledge that there is little justice, by eating your own words, and letting him free, or you may hang him, rather than acknowledge that you are wrong. at all events, his blood will now be on your hands, and not mine. if phil maddox had not turned tail, like a coward, i should not have been here; so i tell the truth to save him who was doing me a kind act, and to let him swing who left me in the lurch." the judge desired that this statement might be taken down, that further inquiry might be made, intimating to the jury, that i should be respited for the present; but of all this i was ignorant. as there was no placing confidence in the assertions of such a man as ogle, it was considered necessary that he should repeat his assertions at the last hour of his existence, and the gaoler was ordered not to state what had passed to me, as he might excite false hopes. when i recovered from my fit, i found myself in the gaoler's parlour, and as soon as i was able to walk, i was locked up in a condemned cell. the execution had been ordered to take place on the thursday, and i had two days to prepare. in the meantime, the greatest interest had been excited with regard to me. my whole appearance so evidently belied the charge, that everyone was in my favour. ogle was requestioned, and immediately gave a clue for the apprehension of maddox, who, he said, he hoped would swing by his side. the gaoler came to me the next day, saying, that some of the magistrates wished to speak with me; but as i had made up my mind not to reveal my former life, my only reply was, "that i begged they would allow me to have my last moments to myself." i recollected melchior's idea of destiny, and imagined that he was right. "it was my destiny," thought i: and i remained in a state of stupor. the fact was, that i was very ill, my head was heavy, my brain was on fire, and the throbbing of my heart could have been perceived without touching my breast. i remained on the mattress all day, and all the next night, with my face buried in the clothes! i was too ill to raise my head. on wednesday morning i felt myself gently pushed on the shoulder by some one; i opened my eyes; it was a clergyman. i turned away my head, and remained as before. i was then in a violent fever. he spoke for some time: occasionally i heard a word, and then relapsed into a state of mental imbecility. he sighed, and went away. thursday came, and the hour of death,--but time was by me unheeded, as well as eternity. in the meantime maddox had been taken, and the contents of armstrong's bundle found in his possession; and when he discovered that ogle had been evidence against him, he confessed to the robbery. whether it was on thursday or friday, i knew not then, but i was lifted off the bed, and taken before somebody--something passed, but the fever had mounted up to my head, and i was in a state of stupid delirium. strange to say, they did not perceive my condition, but ascribed it all to abject fear of death. i was led away--i had made no answer--but i was free. chapter lxi when at the lowest spoke of fortune's wheel, one is sure to rise as it turns round--i recover my senses and find myself amongst _friends._ i think some people shook me by the hand, and others shouted as i walked in the open air, but i recollect no more. i afterwards was informed that i had been reprieved, that i had been sent for, and a long exhortation delivered to me, for it was considered that my life must have been one of error, or i should have applied to my friends, and have given my name. my not answering was attributed to shame and confusion--my glassy eye had not been noticed--my tottering step when led in by the gaolers attributed to other causes; and the magistrates shook their heads as i was led out of their presence. the gaoler had asked me several times where i intended to go. at last, i had told him, _to seek my father,_ and darting away from him, i had run like a madman down the street. of course he had no longer any power over me: but he muttered, as i fled from him, "i've a notion he'll soon be locked up again, poor fellow! it's turned his brain for certain." as i tottered along, my unsteady step naturally attracted the attention of the passers-by; but they attributed it to intoxication. thus was i allowed to wander away in a state of madness, and before night i was far from the town. what passed, and whither i had bent my steps, i cannot tell. all i know is, that after running like a maniac, seizing everybody by the arm that i met, staring at them with wild and flashing eyes; and sometimes in a solemn voice, at others in a loud, threatening tone, startling them with the interrogatory, "are you my father?" and then darting away, or sobbing like a child, as the humour took me, i had crossed the country, and three days afterwards i was picked up at the door of a house in the town of reading, exhausted with fatigue and exposure, and nearly dead. when i recovered, i found myself in bed, my head shaved, my arm bound up, after repeated bleedings, and a female figure sitting by me. "god in heaven! where am i?" exclaimed i, faintly. "thou hast called often upon thy earthly father during the time of thy illness, friend," replied a soft voice. "it rejoiceth me much to hear thee call upon thy father which is in heaven. be comforted, thou art in the hands of those who will be mindful of thee. offer up thy thanks in one short prayer, for thy return to reason, and then sink again into repose, for thou must need it much." i opened my eyes wide, and perceived that a young person in a quaker's dress was sitting by the bed working with her needle; an open bible was on a little table before her. i perceived also a cup, and parched with thirst, i merely said, "give me to drink." she arose, and put a teaspoon to my lips; but i raised my hand, took the cup from her, and emptied it. o how delightful was that draught! i sank down on my pillow, for even that slight exertion had overpowered me, and muttering, "god, i thank thee!" i was immediately in a sound sleep, from which i did not awake for many hours. when i did, it was not daylight. a lamp was on the table, and an old man in a quaker's dress was snoring very comfortably in the arm-chair. i felt quite refreshed with my long sleep, and was now able to recall what had passed. i remembered the condemned cell, and the mattress upon which i lay, but all after was in a state of confusion. here and there a fact or supposition was strong in my memory; but the intervals between were total blanks. i was, at all events, free, that i felt convinced of, and that i was in the hands of the sect who denominate themselves quakers: but where was i? and how did i come here? i remained thinking on the past, and wondering, until the day broke, and with the daylight roused up my watchful attendant. he yawned, stretched his arms, and rising from the chair, came to the side of my bed. i looked him in the face. "hast thou slept well, friend?" said he. "i have slept as much as i wish, and would not disturb _you,"_ replied i, "for i wanted nothing." "peradventure i did sleep," replied the man; "watching long agreeth not with the flesh, although the spirit is most willing. requirest thou anything?" "yes," replied i, "i wish to know where i am?" "verily, thou art in the town of reading in berkshire, and in the house of phineas cophagus." "cophagus!" exclaimed i; "mr cophagus, the surgeon and apothecary?" "phineas cophagus is his name; he hath been admitted into our sect, and hath married a daughter of our persuasion. he hath attended thee in thy fever and thy frenzy, without calling in the aid of the physician, therefore do i believe that he must be the man of whom thou speakest; yet doth he not follow up the healing art for the lucre of gain." "and the young person who was at my bedside, is she his wife?" "nay, friend, she is half-sister to the wife of phineas cophagus by a second marriage, and a maiden, who was named susannah temple at the baptismal font; but i will go to phineas cophagus and acquaint him of your waking, for such were his directions." the man then quitted the room, leaving me quite astonished with the information he had imparted. cophagus turned quaker! and attending me in the town of reading. in a short time mr cophagus himself entered in his dressing-gown. "japhet!" said he, seizing my hand with eagerness, and then, as if recollecting, he checked himself, and commenced in a slow tone, "japhet newland--truly glad am i--hum--verily do i rejoice--you, ephraim--get out of the room--and so on." "yea, i will depart, since it is thy bidding," replied the man, quitting the room. mr cophagus then greeted me in his usual way--told me that he had found me insensible at the door of a house a little way off, and had immediately recognised me. he had brought me to his own home, but without much hope of my recovery. he then begged to know by what strange chance i had been found in such a desolate condition. i replied, "that although i was able to listen, i did not feel myself equal to the exertion of telling so long a story, and that i should infinitely prefer that he should narrate to me what had passed since we had parted at dublin, and how it was that i now found that he had joined the sect of quakers." "peradventure--long word that--um--queer people--very good--and so on," commenced mr cophagus; but as the reader will not understand his phraseology quite so well as i did, i shall give mr cophagus's history in my own version. mr cophagus had returned to the small town at which he resided, and, on his arrival, he had been called upon by a gentleman who was of the society of friends, requesting that he would prescribe for a niece of his, who was on a visit at his house, and had been taken dangerously ill. cophagus, with his usual kindness of heart, immediately consented, and found that mr temple's report was true. for six weeks he attended the young quakeress, and recovered her from an imminent and painful disease, in which she showed such fortitude and resignation, and such unconquerable good temper, that when mr cophagus returned to his bachelor's establishment, he could not help reflecting upon what an invaluable wife she would make, and how much more cheerful his house would be with such a domestic partner. in short, mr cophagus fell in love, and like all elderly gentlemen who have so long bottled up their affections, he became most desperately enamoured; and if he loved miss judith temple when he witnessed her patience and resignation under suffering, how much more did he love her when he found that she was playful, merry, and cheerful, without being boisterous, when restored to her health. mr cophagus's attentions could not be misunderstood. he told her uncle that he had thought seriously of wedding cake--white favours--marriage--family--and so on; and to the young lady he had put his cane up to his nose and prescribed, "a dose of matrimony--to be taken immediately." to mr cophagus there was no objection raised by the lady, who was not in her teens, or by the uncle, who had always respected him as a worthy man, and a good christian; but to marry one who was not of her persuasion, was not to be thought of. her friends would not consent to it. mr cophagus was therefore dismissed, with a full assurance that the only objection which offered was, that he was not of their society. mr cophagus walked home discomforted. he sat down on his easy chair, and found it excessively uneasy--he sat down to his solitary meal, and found that his own company was unbearable--he went to bed, but found that it was impossible to go to sleep. the next morning, therefore, mr cophagus returned to mr temple, and stated his wish to be made acquainted with the difference between the tenets of the quaker persuasion and those of the established church. mr temple gave him an outline, which appeared to mr cophagus to be very satisfactory, and then referred him to his niece for fuller particulars. when a man enters into an argument with a full desire to be convinced, and with his future happiness perhaps depending upon that conviction; and when, further, those arguments are brought forward by one of the prettiest voices, and backed by the sweetest of smiles, it is not to be wondered at his soon becoming a proselyte. thus it was with mr cophagus, who in a week, discovered that the peace, humility, and good-will, upon which the quaker tenets are founded, were much more congenial to the true spirit of the christian revelation than the athanasian creed, to be sung or said in our established churches; and with this conviction, mr cophagus requested admission into the fraternity, and shortly after his admission, it was thought advisable by the friends that his faith should be confirmed and strengthened by his espousal of miss judith temple, with whom, at her request--and he could refuse her nothing--he had repaired to the town of reading, in which her relations all resided; and phineas cophagus, of the society of friends, declared himself to be as happy as a man could be. "good people, japhet--um--honest people, japhet--don't fight--little stiff--spirit moves--and so on," said mr cophagus, as he concluded his narrative, and then shaking me by the hand, retired to shave and dress. chapter lxii i fall in love with religion when preached by one who has the form of an angel. in half an hour afterwards ephraim came in with a draught, which i was desired to take by mr cophagus, and then to try and sleep. this was good advice, and i followed it. i awoke after a long, refreshing sleep, and found mr and mrs cophagus sitting in the room, she at work and he occupied with a book. when i opened my eyes, and perceived a female, i looked to ascertain if it was the young person whom ephraim had stated to be susannah temple; not that i recollected her features exactly, but i did the contour of her person. mrs cophagus was taller, and i had a fair scrutiny of her before they perceived that i was awake. her face was very pleasing, features small and regular. she appeared to be about thirty years of age, and was studiously neat and clean in her person. her quaker's dress was not without some little departure from the strict fashion and form, sufficient to assist, without deviating from, its simplicity. if i might use the term, it was a little coquettish, and evinced that the wearer, had she not belonged to that sect, would have shown great taste in the adornment of her person. mr cophagus, although he did not think so himself, as i afterwards found out, was certainly much improved by his change of costume. his spindle-shanks, which, as i have before observed, were peculiarly at variance with his little orbicular, orange-shaped stomach, were now concealed in loose trousers, which took off from the protuberance of the latter, and added dignity to the former, blending the two together, so that his roundness became fine by degrees, and beautifully less as it descended. altogether, the quaker dress added very much to the substantiability of his appearance, and was a manifest improvement, especially when he wore his broad-brimmed hat. having satisfied my curiosity, i moved the curtain so as to attract their attention, and cophagus came to my bedside, and felt my pulse. "good--very good--all right--little broth--throw in bark--on his legs--well as ever--and so on." "i am indeed much better this afternoon," replied i; "indeed, so well, that i feel as if i could get up." "pooh:--tumble down--never do--lie a bed--get strong--wife--mrs cophagus--japhet--old friend." mrs cophagus had risen from her chair, and come towards the bed, when her husband introduced her in his own fashion. "i am afraid that i have been a great trouble, madam," said i. "japhet newland, we have done but our duty, even if thou wert not, as it appears that thou art, a friend of my husband. consider me, therefore, as thy sister, and i will regard thee as a brother; and if thou wouldst wish it, thou shalt sojourn with us, for so hath my husband communicated his wishes unto me." i thanked her for her kind expressions, and took the fair hand which was offered in such amity. cophagus then asked me if i was well enough to inform him of what had passed since our last meeting, and telling me that his wife knew my whole history, and that i might speak before her, he took his seat by the side of the bed, his wife also drew her chair nearer, and i commenced the narrative of what had passed since we parted in ireland. when i had finished, mr cophagus commenced as usual, "um--very odd--lose money--bad--grow honest--good--run away from friends--bad--not hung-- good--brain fever--bad--come here--good--stay with us--quite comfortable--and so on." "thou hast suffered much, friend japhet," said mrs cophagus, wiping her eyes; "and i would almost venture to say, hast been chastised too severely, were it not that those whom he loveth, he chastiseth. still thou art saved, and now out of danger; peradventure thou wilt now quit a vain world, and be content to live with us; nay, as thou hast the example of thy former master, it may perhaps please the lord to advise thee to become one of us, and to join us as a friend. my husband was persuaded to the right path by me," continued she, looking fondly at him; "who knoweth but some of our maidens may also persuade thee to eschew a vain, unrighteous world, and follow thy redeemer in humility?" "very true--um--very true," observed cophagus, putting more quakerism than usual in his style, and drawing out his ums to treble their usual length; "happy life--japhet--um--all at peace--quiet amusements--think about it--um--no hurry--never swear--by-and-bye heh!--spirit may move--um--not now--talk about it--get well--set up shop--and so on." i was tired with talking so much, and having taken some nourishment, gain fell asleep. when i awoke in the evening, friend cophagus and his wife were not in the room; but susannah temple, whom i had first seen, and of whom i had made inquiry of ephraim, who was cophagus's servant. she was sitting close to the light and reading, and long did i continue to gaze upon her, fearful of interrupting her. she was the most beautiful specimen of clear and transparent white that i ever had beheld--her complexion was unrivalled--her eyes were large, but i could not ascertain their colour, as they were cast down upon her book, and hid by her long fringed eyelashes--her eyebrows arched and regular, as if drawn by a pair of compasses, and their soft hair in beautiful contrast with her snowy forehead--her hair was auburn, but mostly concealed within her cap--her nose was very straight but not very large, and her mouth was perfection. she appeared to be between seventeen and eighteen years old, as far as i could ascertain, her figure was symmetrically perfect. dressed as she was in the modest, simple garb worn by the females of the society of friends, she gave an idea of neatness, cleanliness, and propriety, upon which i could have gazed for ever. she was, indeed, most beautiful. i felt her beauty, her purity, and i could have worshipped her as an angel. while i still had my eyes fixed upon her exquisite features, she closed her book, and rising from her chair, came to the side of the bed. that she might not be startled at the idea of my having been watching her, i closed my eyes, and pretended to slumber. she resumed her seat, and then i changed my position and spoke, "is any one there?" "yes, friend newland, what is it that thou requirest?" said she, advancing. "wouldst thou see cophagus or ephraim? i will summon them." "o no," replied i; "why should i disturb them from their amusements or employments? i have slept a long while, and i would like to read a little i think, if my eyes are not too weak." "thou must not read, but i may read unto thee," replied susannah. "tell me, what is it that thou wouldest have me read? i have no vain books; but surely thou thinkest not of them, after thy escape from death." "i care not what is read, provided that you read to me," replied i. "nay, but thou shouldest care; and be not wroth if i say to thee, that there is but one book to which thou shouldest now listen. thou hast been saved from deadly peril--thou hast been rescued from the jaws of death. art thou not thankful? and to whom is gratitude most due, but to thy heavenly father, who hath been pleased to spare thee?" "you are right," replied i; "then i pray you to read to me from the bible." susannah made no reply, but resumed her seat, and selecting those chapters most appropriate to my situation, read them in a beautiful and impressive tone. chapter lxiii pride and love at issue--the latter is victorious--i turn quaker and recommence my old profession. if the reader will recall my narrative to his recollection, he must observe, that religion had had hitherto but little of my thoughts. i had lived the life of most who live in this world; perhaps not quite so correct in morals as many people, for my code of morality was suited to circumstances; as to religion, i had none. i had lived in the world, and for the world. i had certainly been well instructed in the tenets of our faith when i was at the asylum, but there, as in most other schools, it is made irksome, as a task, and is looked upon with almost a feeling of aversion. no proper religious sentiments are, or can be, inculcated to a large number of scholars; it is the parent alone who can instil, by precept and example, that true sense of religion, which may serve as a guide through life. i had not read the bible from the time that i quitted the foundling hospital. it was new to me, and when i now heard read, by that beautiful creature, passages equally beautiful, and so applicable to my situation, weakened with disease, and humbled in adversity, i was moved, even unto tears. susannah closed the book and came to the bedside. i thanked her: she perceived my emotion, and when i held out my hand she did not refuse hers. i kissed it, and it was immediately withdrawn, and she left the room. shortly afterwards ephraim made his appearance. cophagus and his wife also came that evening, but i saw no more of susannah temple until the following day, when i again requested her to read to me. i will not detain the reader by an account of my recovery. in three weeks i was able to leave the room; during that time, i had become very intimate with the whole family, and was treated as if i belonged to it. during my illness i had certainly shown more sense of religion than i had ever done before, but i do not mean to say that i was really religious. i liked to hear the bible read by susannah, and i liked to talk with her upon religious subjects; but had susannah been an ugly old woman, i very much doubt if i should have been so attentive. it was her extreme beauty--her modesty and fervour, which so became her, which enchanted me. i felt the beauty of religion, but it was through an earthly object; it was beautiful in her. she looked an angel, and i listened to her precepts as delivered by one. still, whatever may be the cause by which a person's attention can be directed to so important a subject, so generally neglected, whether by fear of death, or by love towards an earthly object, the advantages are the same; and although very far from what i ought to have been, i certainly was, through my admiration of her, a better man. as soon as i was on the sofa, wrapped up in one of the dressing-gowns of mr cophagus, he told me that the clothes in which i had been picked up were all in tatters, and asked me whether i would like to have others made according to the usual fashion, or like those with whom i should, he trusted, in future reside. i had already debated this matter in my mind. return to the world i had resolved not to do; to follow up the object of my search appeared to me only to involve me in difficulties; and what were the intentions of cophagus with regard to me, i knew not. i was hesitating, for i knew not what answer to give, when i perceived the pensive, deep blue eye of susannah fixed upon me, watching attentively, if not eagerly, for my response. it decided the point. "if," replied i, "you do not think that i should disgrace you, i should wish to wear the dress of the society of friends, although not yet one of your body." "but soon to be, i trust," replied mrs cophagus. "alas!" replied i, "i am an outcast;" and i looked at susannah temple. "not so, japhet newland," replied she, mildly; "i am pleased that thou hast of thy own accord rejected vain attire. i trust that thou wilt not find that thou art without friends." "while i am with you," replied i, addressing myself to them all, "i consider it my duty to conform to your manners in every way, but by-and-bye, when i resume my search--" "and why shouldst thou resume a search which must prove unavailing, and but leads thee into error and misfortune? i am but young, japhet newland, and not perhaps so able to advise, yet doth it appear to me, that the search can only be availing when made by those who left thee. when they wish for you, they will seek thee, but thy seeking them is vain and fruitless." "but," replied i, "recollect that inquiries have already been made at the foundling, and those who inquired have been sent away disappointed--they will enquire no more." "and is a parent's love so trifling, that one disappointment will drive him from seeking of his child? no, no, japhet; if thou art yearned for, thou wilt be found, and fresh inquiries will be made; but thy search is unavailing, and already hast thou lost much time." "true, susannah, thy advice is good," replied mrs cophagus; "in following a shadow japhet hath much neglected the substance; it is time that thou shouldst settle thyself, and earn thy livelihood." "and do thy duty in that path of life to which it hath pleased god to call thee," continued susannah, who with mrs cophagus walked out of the room. cophagus then took up the conversation, and pointing out the uselessness of my roving about, and the propriety of my settling in life, proposed that i should take an apothecary's shop, for which he would furnish the means, and that he could ensure me the custom of the whole society of friends in reading, which was very large, as there was not one of the sect in that line of business. "become one of us, japhet--good business--marry by-and-bye--happy life--little children--and so on." i thought of susannah, and was silent. cophagus then said, i had better reflect upon his offer, and make up my determination. if that did not suit me, he would still give me all the assistance in his power. i did reflect long before i could make up my mind. i was still worldly inclined; still my fancy would revel in the idea of finding out my father in high life, and, as once more appearing as a star of fashion, of returning with interest the contumely i had lately received, and re-assuming as a right that position in society which i had held under false colours. i could not bear the idea of sinking at once into a tradesman, and probably ending my days in obscurity. pride was still my ruling passion. such were my first impulses, and then i looked upon the other side of the picture. i was without the means necessary to support myself; i could not return to high life without i discovered my parents in the first place, and in the second, found them to be such as my warm imagination had depicted. i had no chance of finding them. i had already been long seeking in vain. i had been twice taken up to bow street--nearly lost my life in ireland--had been sentenced to death--had been insane, and recovered by a miracle, and all in prosecuting this useless search. all this had much contributed to cure me of the monomania. i agreed with susannah that the search must be made by the other parties, and not by me. i recalled the treatment i had received from the world--the contempt with which i had been treated--the heartlessness of high life, and the little chance of my ever again being admitted into fashionable society. i placed all this in juxtaposition with the kindness of those with whom i now resided--what they had done already for me, and what they now offered, which was to make me independent by my own exertions. i weighed all in my mind; was still undecided, for my pride still carried its weight; when i thought of the pure, beautiful susannah temple, and--my decision was made. i would not lose the substance by running after shadows. that evening, with many thanks, i accepted the kind offers of mr cophagus, and expressed my determination of entering into the society of friends. "thou hast chosen wisely," said mrs cophagus, extending her hand to me, "and it is with pleasure that we shall receive thee." "i welcome thee, japhet newland," said susannah, also offering her hand, "and i trust that thou wilt find more happiness among those with whom thou art about to sojourn, than in the world of vanity and deceit, in which thou hast hitherto played thy part. no longer seek an earthly father, who hath deserted thee, but a heavenly father, who will not desert thee in thy afflictions." "you shall direct me into the right path, susannah," replied i. "i am too young to be a guide, japhet," replied she, smiling; "but not too young, i hope, to be a friend." the next day my clothes came home, and i put them on. i looked at myself in the glass, and was anything but pleased; but as my head was shaved, it was of little consequence what i wore; so i consoled myself. mr cophagus sent for a barber and ordered me a wig, which was to be ready in a few days; when it was ready i put it on, and altogether did not dislike my appearance. i flattered myself that if i was a quaker, at all events i was a very good looking and a very smart one; and when, a day or two afterwards, a reunion of friends took place at mr cophagus's house to introduce me to them, i perceived, with much satisfaction, that there was no young man who could compete with me. after this, i was much more reconciled to my transformation. chapter lxiv i prosper in every way, and become reconciled to my situation. mr cophagus was not idle. in a few weeks he had rented a shop for me, and furnished it much better than his own in smithfield; the upper part of the house was let off, as i was to reside with the family. when it was ready, i went over it with him, and was satisfied; all i wished for was timothy as an assistant, but that wish was unavailing, as i knew not where to find him. that evening i observed to mr cophagus, that i did not much like putting my name over the shop. the fact was, that my pride forbade it, and i could not bear the idea, that japhet newland, at whose knock every aristocratic door had flown open, should appear in gold letters above a shop-window. "there are many reasons against it," observed i. "one is, that it is not my real name--i should like to take the name of cophagus; another is, that the name, being so well known, may attract those who formerly knew me, and i should not wish that they should come in and mock me; another is--" "japhet newland," interrupted susannah, with more severity than i ever had seen in her sweet countenance, "do not trouble thyself with giving thy reasons, seeing thou hast given every reason but the right one, which is, that thy pride revolts at it." "i was about to observe," replied i, "that it was a name that sounded of mammon, and not fitting for one of our persuasion. but, susannah, you have accused me of pride, and i will now raise no further objections. japhet newland it shall be, and let us speak no more upon the subject." "if i have wronged thee, japhet, much do i crave thy forgiveness," replied susannah. "but it is god alone who knoweth the secrets of our hearts. i was presumptuous, and you must pardon me." "susannah, it is i who ought to plead for pardon; you know me better than i know myself. it was pride, and nothing but pride--but you have cured me." "truly have i hopes of thee now, japhet," replied susannah, smiling. "those who confess their faults will soon amend them; yet i do think there is some reason in thy observation, for who knoweth, but meeting with thy former associates, thou mayst not be tempted into falling away? thou mayst spell thy name as thou listest; and, peradventure, it would be better to disguise it." so agreed mr and mrs cophagus, and i therefore had it written _gnow_-land; and having engaged a person of the society, strongly recommended to me, as an assistant, i took possession of my shop, and was very soon busy in making up prescriptions, and dispensing my medicines in all quarters of the good town of reading. and i was happy. i had enjoyment during the day; my profession was, at all events, liberal. i was dressed and lived as a gentleman, or rather i should say respectably. i was earning my own livelihood. i was a useful member of society, and when i retired home to meals, and late at night, i found, that if cophagus and his wife had retired, susannah temple always waited up, and remained with me a few minutes. i had never been in love until i had fallen in with this perfect creature; but my love for her was not the love of the world; i could not so depreciate her--i loved her as a superior being--i loved her with fear and trembling. i felt that she was too pure, too holy, too good for a vain worldly creature like myself. i felt as if my destiny depended upon her and her fiat; that if she favoured me, my happiness in this world and in the next were secured; that if she rejected me, i was cast away for ever. such was my feeling for susannah temple, who, perfect as she was, was still a woman, and perceived her power over me; but unlike the many of her sex, exerted that power only to lead to what was right. insensibly almost, my pride was quelled, and i became humble and religiously inclined. even the peculiarities of the sect, their meeting at their places of worship, their drawling, and their quaint manner of talking, became no longer a subject of dislike. i found out causes and good reasons for everything which before appeared strange--sermons in stones, and good in everything. months passed away--my business prospered--i had nearly repaid the money advanced by mr cophagus. i was in heart and soul a quaker, and i entered into the fraternity with a feeling that i could act up to what i had promised. i was happy, quite happy, and yet i had never received from susannah temple any further than the proofs of sincere friendship. but i had much of her society, and we were now very, very intimate. i found out what warm, what devoted feelings were concealed under her modest, quiet exterior--how well her mind was stored, and how right was that mind. often when i talked over past events, did i listen to her remarks, all tending to one point, morality and virtue; often did i receive from her at first a severe, but latterly a kind rebuke, when my discourse was light and frivolous; but when i talked of merry subjects which were innocent, what could be more joyous or more exhilarating than her laugh--what more intoxicating than her sweet smile, when she approved of my sentiments! and when animated by the subject, what could be more musical or more impassioned than her bursts of eloquence, which were invariably followed by a deep blush, when she recollected how she had been carried away by excitement? there was one point upon which i congratulated myself, which was, that she had received two or three unexceptionable offers of marriage during the six months that i had been in her company, and refused them. at the end of that period, thanks to the assistance i received from the friends, i had paid mr cophagus all the money which he had advanced, and found myself in possession of a flourishing business, and independent. i then requested that i might be allowed to pay an annual stipend for my board and lodging, commencing from the time i first came to his house. mr cophagus said i was right--the terms were easily arranged, and i was independent. still my advances with susannah were slow, but if slow, they were sure. one day i observed to her, how happy mr cophagus appeared to be as a married man; her reply was, "he is, japhet; he has worked hard for his independence, and he now is reaping the fruits of his industry." that is as much as to say that i must do the same, thought i, and that i have no business to propose for a wife, until i am certain that i am able to provide for her. i have as yet laid up nothing, and an income is not a capital. i felt that whether a party interested or not, she was right, and i redoubled my diligence. chapter lxv a variety of the quaker tribe--who had a curious disintegration of mind and body. i was not yet weaned from the world, but i was fast advancing to that state, when a very smart young quaker came on a visit to reading. he was introduced to mr and mrs cophagus, and was soon, as might be expected, an admirer of susannah, but he received no encouragement. he was an idle person, and passed much of his time sitting in my shop, and talking with me, and being much less reserved and guarded than the generality of the young men of the sect, i gradually became intimate with him. one day when my assistant was out he said to me, "friend gnow-land, tell me candidly, hast thou ever seen my face before?" "not that i can recollect, friend talbot." "then my recollection is better than yours, and now having obtained thy friendship as one of the society, i will remind thee of our former acquaintance. when thou wert mr n-e-w-land, walking about town with major carbonnell, i was lieutenant talbot, of the--dragoon guards." i was dumb with astonishment, and i stared him in the face. "yes," continued he, bursting into laughter, "such is the fact. you have thought, perhaps, that you were the only man of fashion who had ever been transformed into a quaker; now you behold another, so no longer imagine yourself the phoenix of your tribe." "i do certainly recollect that name," replied i; "but although, as you must be acquainted with my history, it is very easy to conceive why i have joined the society, yet, upon what grounds you can have so done, is to me inexplicable." "newland, it certainly does require explanation; it has been, i assert, my misfortune, and not my fault. not that i am not happy. on the contrary, i feel that i am now in my proper situation. i ought to have been born of quaker parents--at all events, i was born a quaker in disposition; but i will come to-morrow early, and then, if you will give your man something to do out of the way, i will tell you my history. i know that you will keep my secret." the next morning he came, and as soon as we were alone he imparted to me what follows. "i recollect well, newland, when you were one of the leaders of fashion, i was then in the dragoon guards, and although not very intimate with you, had the honour of a recognition when we met at parties. i cannot help laughing, upon my soul, when i look at us both now; but never mind. i was of course a great deal with my regiment, and at the club. my father, as you may not perhaps be aware, was highly connected, and all the family have been brought up in the army; the question of profession has never been mooted by us, and every talbot has turned out a soldier as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. well, i entered the army, admired my uniform, and was admired by the young ladies. before i received my lieutenant's commission, my father, the old gentleman, died, and left me a younger brother's fortune of four hundred per annum; but, as my uncle said, 'it was quite enough for a talbot, who would push himself forward in his profession, as the talbots had ever done before him.' i soon found out that my income was not sufficient to enable me to continue in the guards, and my uncle was very anxious that i should exchange into a regiment on service. i therefore, by purchase, obtained a company in the rd, ordered out to reduce the french colonies in the west indies, and i sailed with all the expectation of covering myself with as much glory as the talbots had done from time immemorial. we landed, and in a short time the bullets and grape were flying in all directions, and then i discovered, what i declare never for a moment came into my head before, to wit--that i had mistaken my profession." "how do you mean, talbot?" "mean why, that i was deficient in a certain qualification, which never was before denied to a talbot--courage." "and you never knew that before?" "never, upon my honour; my mind was always full of courage. in my mind's eye i built castles of feats of bravery, which should eclipse all the talbots, from him who burnt joan of arc, down to the present day. i assure you, that surprised as other people were, no one was more surprised than myself. our regiment was ordered to advance, and i led on my company, the bullets flew like hail. i tried to go on, but i could not; at last, notwithstanding all my endeavours to the contrary, i fairly took to my heels. i was met by the commanding officer--in fact, i ran right against him. he ordered me back, and i returned to my regiment, not feeling at all afraid. again i was in the fire, again i resisted the impulse, but it was of no use, and at last, just before the assault took place, i ran away as if the devil was after me. wasn't it odd?" "very odd, indeed," replied i, laughing. "yes, but you do not exactly understand why it was odd. you know what philosophers tell you about volition; and that the body is governed by the mind, consequently obeys it; now, you see, in my case, it was exactly reversed. i tell you, that it is a fact, that in mind i am as brave as any man in existence; but i had a cowardly carcass, and what is still worse, it proved the master of my mind, and ran away with it. i had no mind to run away; on the contrary, i wished to have been of the forlorn hope, and had volunteered, but was refused. surely, if i had not courage i should have avoided such a post of danger. is it not so?" "it certainly appears strange, that you should volunteer for the forlorn hope, and then run away." "that's just what i say. i have the soul of the talbots, but a body which don't belong to the family, and too powerful for the soul." "so it appears. well, go on." "it was go off, instead of going on. i tried again that day to mount the breach, and as the fire was over, i succeeded; but there was a mark against me, and it was intimated that i should have an opportunity of redeeming my character." "well?" "there was a fort to be stormed the next day, and i requested to lead my company in advance. surely that was no proof of want of courage? permission was granted. we were warmly received, and i felt that my legs refused to advance; so what did i do--i tied my sash round my thigh, and telling the men that i was wounded, requested they would carry me to the attack. surely that was courage?" "most undoubtedly so. it was like a talbot." "we were at the foot of the breach; when the shot flew about me, i kicked and wrestled so, that the two men who carried me were obliged to let me go, and my rascally body was at liberty. i say unfortunately, for only conceive, if they had carried me wounded up the breach, what an heroic act it would have been considered on my part; but fate decided it otherwise. if i had lain still when they dropped me, i should have done well, but i was anxious to get up the breach, that is, my mind was so bent; but as soon as i got on my legs, confound them if they didn't run away with me, and then i was found half a mile from the fort with a pretended wound. that was enough; i had a hint that the sooner i went home the better. on account of the family i was permitted to sell out, and i then walked the streets as a private gentleman, but no one would speak to me. i argued the point with several, but they were obstinate, and would not be convinced; they said that it was no use talking about being brave, if i ran away." "they were not philosophers, talbot." "no; they could not comprehend how the mind and the body could be at variance. it was no use arguing--they would have it that the movements of the body depended upon the mind, and that i had made a mistake--and that i was a coward in soul as well as body." "well, what did you do?" "oh, i did nothing! i had a great mind to knock them down, but as i knew my body would not assist me, i thought it better to leave it alone. however, they taunted me so, by calling me fighting tom, that my uncle shut his door upon me as a disgrace to the family, saying, he wished the first bullet had laid me dead--very kind of him;--at last my patience was worn out, and i looked about to find whether there were not some people who did not consider courage as a _sine quæ non_. i found that the quakers' tenets were against fighting, and therefore courage could not be necessary, so i have joined them, and i find that, if not a good soldier, i am, at all events, a very respectable quaker; and now you have the whole of my story--and tell me if you are of my opinion." "why, really it's a very difficult point to decide. i never heard such a case of disintegration before. i must think upon it." "of course, you will not say a word about it, newland." "never fear, i will keep your secret, talbot. how long have you worn the dress?" "oh, more than a year. by-the-bye, what a nice young person that susannah temple is. i've a great mind to propose for her." "but you must first ascertain what your body says to it, talbot," replied i, sternly. "i allow no one to interfere with me, quaker or not." "my dear fellow, i beg your pardon, i shall think no more about her," said talbot, rising up, as he observed that i looked very fierce. "i wish you a good morning. i leave reading to-morrow. i will call on you, and say good-bye, if i can;" and i saw no more of friend talbot, whose mind was all courage, but whose body was so renegade. chapter lxvi i fall in with timothy. about a month after this, i heard a sailor with one leg, and a handful of ballads, singing in a most lachrymal tone, "why, what's that to you if my eyes i'm a wiping? a tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way"-- "bless your honour, shy a copper to poor jack, who's lost his leg in the sarvice. thanky, your honour," and he continued, "it's nonsense for trifles, i own, to be piping, but they who can't pity--why i pities they. says the captain, says he; i shall never forget it, of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham," "back your maintopsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars--"'tis a furious lion.' long life to your honour--'in battle so let it--' "'tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; but duty appeased--but duty appeased-- "buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on his knee in the dog-watch-- "but duty appeased'tis the heart of a lamb." i believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the english sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country. i always have, and as i heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, i pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him. when i caught his eye i beckoned to him, and he entered the shop. "here, my good fellow," said i, "although a man of peace myself, yet i feel for those who suffer in the wars;" and i put the money to him. "may your honour never know a banyan day," replied the sailor; "and a sickly season for you, into the bargain." "nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others," replied i. the sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until i had answered, he had not looked at me particularly. "what are you looking at?" said i. "good heavens!" exclaimed he. "it is--yet it cannot be!" "cannot be! what, friend?" he ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter. "japhet--i have found you at last!" exclaimed he, faintly. "good heaven! who are you?" he threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and i beheld timothy. in a moment i sprang over the counter, and was in his arms. "is it possible," exclaimed i, after a short silence on both sides, "that i find you, timothy, a disabled sailor?" "is it possible, japhet," replied timothy, "that i find you a broad-brimmed quaker?" "even so, timothy. i am really and truly one." "then you are less disguised than i am," replied timothy, kicking off his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trousers. "i am no more a sailor than you are, japhet, and since you left me have never yet seen the salt water, which i talk and sing so much about." "then thou hast been deceiving, timothy, which i regret much." "now i do perceive that you are a quaker," replied tim; "but do not blame me until you have heard my story. thank god, i have found you at last. but tell me, japhet, you will not send me away--will you? if your dress is changed, your heart is not. pray answer me, before i say nything more. you know i can be useful here." "indeed, timothy, i have often wished for you since i have been here, and it will be your own fault if i part with you. you shall assist me in the shop; but you must dress like me." "dress like you! have i not always dressed like you? when we started from cophagus's, were we not dressed much alike? did we not wear spangled jackets together? did i not wear your livery, and belong to you? i'll put on anything, japhet--but we must not part again." "my dear timothy, i trust we shall not; but i expect my assistant here soon, and do not wish that he should see you in that garb. go to a small public-house at the farther end of this street, and when you see me pass, come out to me, and we will walk out into the country, and consult together." "i have put up at a small house not far off, and have some clothes there; i will alter my dress and meet you. god bless you, japhet." timothy then picked up his ballads, which were scattered on the floor, put up his leg, and putting on his wooden stump, hastened away, after once more silently pressing my hand. in half an hour my assistant returned, and i desired him to remain in the shop, as i was going out on business. i then walked to the appointed rendezvous, and was soon joined by tim, who had discarded his sailor's disguise, and was in what is called a shabby genteel sort of dress. after the first renewed greeting, i requested tim to let me know what had occurred to him since our separation. "you cannot imagine, japhet, what my feelings were when i found, by your note, that you had left me. i had perceived how unhappy you had been for a long while, and i was equally distressed, although i knew not the cause. i had no idea until i got your letter, that you had lost all your money; and i felt it more unkind of you to leave me then, than if you had been comfortable and independent. as for looking after you, that i knew would be useless; and i immediately went to mr masterton, to take his advice as to how i should proceed. mr masterton had received your letter, and appeared to be very much annoyed. 'very foolish boy,' said he, 'but there is nothing that can be done now. he is mad, and that is all that can be said in his excuse. you must do as he tells you, i suppose, and try the best for yourself. i will help you in any way that i can, my poor fellow,' said he, 'so don't cry.' i went back to the house and collected together your papers, which i sealed up. i knew that the house was to be given up in a few days. i sold the furniture, and made the best i could of the remainder of your wardrobe, and other things of value that you had left; indeed, everything, with the exception of the dressing-case and pistols, which had belonged to major carbonnell, and i thought you might perhaps some day like to have them." "how very kind of you, timothy, to think of me in that way! i shall indeed be glad; but no--what have i to do with pistols or silver dressing-cases now? i must not have them, but still i thank you all the same." "the furniture and everything else fetched £ , after all expenses were paid." "i am glad of it, timothy, for your sake; but i am sorry, judging by your present plight, that it appears to have done you but little good." "because i did not make use of it, japhet. what could i do with all that money? i took it to mr masterton, with all your papers, and the dressing-case and pistols;--he has it now ready for you when you ask for it. he was very kind to me, and offered to do anything for me; but i resolved to go in search of you. i had more money in my pocket when you went away than i generally have, and with the surplus of what you left for the bills, i had twelve or fourteen pounds. so i wished mr masterton good-bye, and have ever since been on my adventures in search of my master." "not master, timothy, say rather of your friend." "well, of both if you please, japhet; and very pretty adventures i have had, i assure you, and some very hair-breadth escapes." "i think, when we compare notes, mine will be found most eventful, timothy; but we can talk of them, and compare notes another time. at present, whom do you think i am residing with?" "a quaker, i presume." "you have guessed right so far: but who do you think that quaker is?" "there i'm at fault." "mr cophagas." at this intelligence timothy gave a leap in the air, turned round on his heel, and tumbled on the grass in a fit of immoderate laughter. "cophagus!--a quaker!" cried he at last. "oh! i long to see him. snuffle, snuffle--broad brims--wide skirts--and so on. capital!" "it is very true, timothy, but you must not mock at the persuasion." "i did not intend it, japhet, but there is something to me so ridiculous in the idea. but," continued timothy, "is it not still stranger, that, after having separated so many years, we should all meet again--and that i should find mr cophagus--an apothecary's shop--you dispensing medicines--and i--as i hope to be--carrying them about as i did before. well, i will row in the same boat, and i will be a quaker as well as you both." "well, we will now return, and i will take you to mr cophagus, who will, i am sure, be glad to see you." "first, japhet, let me have some quaker's clothes--i should prefer it." "you shall have a suit of mine, timothy, since you wish it; but recollect it is not at all necessary, nor indeed will it be permitted that you enter into the sect without preparatory examination as to your fitness for admission." i then went to the shop, and sending out the assistant, walked home and took out a worn suit of clothes, with which i hastened to timothy. he put them on in the shop, and then walking behind the counter, said, "this is my place, and here i shall remain as long as you do." "i hope so, timothy; as for the one who is with me at present, i can easily procure him other employment, and he will not be sorry to go, for he is a married man, and does not like the confinement." "i have some money," said timothy, taking out of his old clothes a dirty rag, and producing nearly twenty pounds. "i am well off, you see." "you are, indeed," replied i. "yes, there is nothing like being a sailor with one leg, singing ballads. do you know, japhet, that sometimes i have taken more than a _pound_ a day since i have shammed the sailor?" "not very honestly, tim." "perhaps not, japhet; but it is very strange, and yet very true, that when honest i could make nothing, and when i deceived, i have done very well." chapter lxvii timothy commences his narrative of his search after japhet. i could not help calling to mind that the same consequences as timothy related in the last chapter had occurred to me during my eventful career; but i had long considered that there was no excuse for dishonesty, and that, in the end, it would only lead to exposure and disgrace. i went home early in the evening to introduce timothy to mr cophagus, who received him with great kindness, and agreed immediately that he ought to be with me in the shop. timothy paid his respects to the ladies, and then went down with ephraim, who took him under his protection. in a few days, he was as established with us as if he had been living with us for months. i had some trouble, at first, in checking his vivacity and turn for ridicule; but that was gradually effected, and i found him not only a great acquisition, but, as he always was, a cheerful and affectionate companion. i had, during the first days of our meeting, recounted my adventures, and made many inquiries of timothy relative to my few friends. he told me that from mr masterton he had learnt that lady de clare and fleta had called upon him very much afflicted with the contents of my letter--that lord windermear also had been very much vexed and annoyed--that mr masterton had advised him to obtain another situation as a valet, which he had refused, and, at the same time, told him his intention of searching for me. he had promised mr masterton to let him know if he found me, and then bade him farewell. "i used to lie in bed, japhet," continued timothy, "and think upon the best method of proceeding. at last, i agreed to myself, that to look for you as you looked after your father, would be a wild-goose chase, and that my money would soon be gone; so i reflected whether i might not take up some roving trade which would support me, and, at the same time, enable me to proceed from place to place. what do you think was my first speculation? why, i saw a man with a dog harnessed in a little cart, crying dog's meat and cat's meat, and i said to myself, 'now there's the very thing--there's a profession--i can travel and earn my livelihood.' i entered into conversation with him, as he stopped at a low public-house, treating him to a pot of beer; and having gained all i wanted as to the mysteries of the profession, i called for another pot, and proposed that i should purchase his whole concern, down to his knife and apron. the fellow agreed, and after a good deal of bargaining, i paid him three guineas for the _set out_ or _set up_, which you please. he asked me whether i meant to hawk in london or not, and i told him no, that i should travel the country. he advised the western road, as there were more populous towns in it. well, we had another pot to clench the bargain, and i paid down the money and took possession, quite delighted with my new occupation. away i went to brentford, selling a bit here and there by the way, and at last arrived at the very bench where we had sat down together and eaten our meal." "it is strange that i did the same, and a very unlucky bench it proved to me." "so it did to me, as you shall hear. i had taken up my quarters at that inn, and for three days had done very well in brentford. on the third evening i had just come back, it was nearly dusk, and i took my seat on the bench, thinking of you. my dog, rather tired, was lying down before the cart, when all of a sudden i heard a sharp whistle. the dog sprang on his legs immediately, and ran off several yards before i could prevent him. the whistle was repeated, and away went the dog and cart like lightning. i ran as fast as i could, but could not overtake him; and i perceived that his old master was running ahead of the dog as hard as he could, and this was the reason why the dog was off. still i should, i think, have overtaken him, but an old woman coming out of a door with a saucepan to pour the hot water into the gutter, i knocked her down and tumbled right over her into a cellar without steps. there i was, and before i could climb out again, man, dog, cart, cat's meat and dog's meat, had all vanished, and i have never seen them since. the rascal got clear off, and i was a bankrupt. so much for my first set up in business." "you forgot to purchase the _good-will_ when you made your bargain, timothy, for the stock in trade." "very true, japhet. however, after receiving a very fair share of abuse from the old woman, and a plaister of hot greens in my face--for she went supperless to bed, rather than not have her revenge--i walked back to the inn, and sat down in the tap. the two men next to me were hawkers; one carried a large pack of dimities and calicoes, and the other a box full of combs, needles, tapes, scissors, knives, and mock-gold trinkets. i entered into conversation with them, and, as i again stood treat, i soon was very intimate. they told me what their profits were, and how they contrived to get on, and i thought, for a rambling life, it was by no means an unpleasant one; so having obtained all the information i required, i went back to town, took out a hawker's licence, for which i paid two guineas, and purchasing at a shop, to which they gave me a direction, a pretty fair quantity of articles in the tape and scissor line, off i set once more on my travels. i took the north road this time, and picked up a very comfortable subsistence, selling my goods for a few halfpence here and a few halfpence there, at the cottages as i passed by; but i soon found out, that without a newspaper, i was not a confirmed hawker, and the more radical the newspaper the better. a newspaper will pay half the expenses of a hawker, if he can read. at every house, particularly every small hedge ale-house, he is received, and placed in the best corner of the chimney, and has his board and lodging, with the exception of what he drinks, gratis, if he will pull out the newspaper and read it to those around him who cannot read, particularly if he can explain what is unintelligible. now i became a great politician, and, moreover, a great radical, for such were the politics of all the lower classes. i lived well, slept well, and sold my wares very fast. i did not take more than three shillings in the day, yet, as two out of the three were clear profit, i did pretty well. however, a little accident happened which obliged me to change my profession, or at least, the nature of the articles which i dealt in." "what was that?" "a mere trifle. i had arrived late at a small ale-house, had put up my pack, which was in a painted deal box, on the table in the tap-room, and was very busy, after reading a paragraph in the newspaper, making a fine speech, which i always found was received with great applause, and many shakes of the hand, as a prime good fellow--a speech about community of rights, agrarian division, and the propriety of an equal distribution of property, proving that, as we were all born alike, no one had a right to have more property than his neighbour. the people had all gathered round me, applauding violently, when i thought i might as well look after my pack, which had been for some time hidden from my sight by the crowd, when, to my mortification, i found out that my earnest assertions on the propriety of community of property had had such an influence upon some of my listeners, that they had walked off with my pack and its contents. unfortunately, i had deposited in my boxes all my money, considering it safer there than in my pockets, and had nothing left but about seventeen shillings in silver, which i had received within the last three days. every one was very sorry, but no one knew anything about it; and when i challenged the landlord as answerable, he called me a radical blackguard, and turned me out of the door." "if you had looked a little more after your own property, and interfered less with that of other people, you would have done better, tim," observed i, laughing. "very true; but, at all events, i have never been a radical since," replied tim. "but to go on. i walked off to the nearest town, and i commenced in a more humble way. i purchased a basket, and then, with the remainder of my money, i bought the commonest crockery ware, such as basins, jugs, mugs, and putting them on my head, off i went again upon my new speculation. i wandered about with my crockery, but it was hard work. i could not reap the profits which i did as a hawker and pedlar. i averaged, however, from seven to nine shillings a week and that was about sufficient for my support. i went down into as many kitchens as would have sufficed to have found a dozen mothers, supposing mine to be a cook; but i did not see anyone who was at all like me. sometimes a cook replaced a basin she had broken, by giving me as much meat as had cost her mistress five shillings, and thus avoided a scolding, for an article which was worth only two-pence. at other times, a cottager would give me a lodging, and would consider himself rewarded with a mug that only cost me one penny. i was more than three months employed carrying crockery in every direction, and never, during the whole time, broke one article, until one day, as i passed through eton, there was a regular smash of the whole concern." "indeed, how was that?" "i met about a dozen of the eton boys, and they proposed a cockshy, as they called it; that is, i was to place my articles on the top of a post, and they were to throw stones at them at a certain distance, paying me a certain sum for each throw. well, this i thought a very good bargain, so i put up a mug (worth one penny) at one penny a throw. it was knocked down at the second shot, so it was just as well to put the full price upon them at once, they were such remarkably good aimers at anything. each boy had a stick, upon which i notched off their throws, and how much they would have to pay when all was over. one article after another was put on the post until my basket was empty, and then i wanted to settle with them; but as soon as i talked about that, they all burst out into a loud laugh, and took to their heels. i chased them, but one might as well have chased eels. if i got hold of one, the others pulled me behind until he escaped, and at last they were all off, and i had nothing left." "not your basket?" "no, not even that; for while i was busy after some that ran one way, the others kicked my basket before them like a football, until it was fairly out of sight. i had only eight-pence in my pocket, so you perceive, japhet, how i was going down in the world." "you were indeed, tim." chapter lxviii timothy finishes his narrative. "well, i walked away, cursing all the eton boys and all their tutors, who did not teach them honesty as well as latin and greek, and put up at a very humble sort of abode, where they sold small beer, and gave beds at two-pence per night, and i may add, with plenty of fleas in the bargain. there i fell in with some ballad singers and mumpers, who were making very merry, and who asked me what was the matter. i told them how i had been treated, and they laughed at me, but gave me some supper, so i forgave them. an old man, who governed the party, then asked me whether i had any money. i produced my enormous capital of eight-pence. 'quite enough if you are clever,' said he; 'quite enough--many a man with half that sum has ended in rolling in his carriage. a man with thousands has only the advance of you a few years. you will pay for your lodging and then spend this sixpence in matches, and hawk them about the town. if you are lucky, it will be a shilling by to-morrow night. besides, you go down into areas, and sometimes enter a kitchen, when the cook is above stairs. there are plenty of things to be picked up.' 'but i am not dishonest,' said i. 'well, then, every man to his liking; only if you were, you would ride in your own coach the sooner.' 'and suppose i should lose all this, or none would buy my matches, what then?' replied i, 'i shall starve.' 'starve--no, no--no one starves in this country; all you have to do is to get into gaol--committed for a month--you will live better perhaps than you ever did before. i have been in every gaol in england, and i know the good ones, for even in gaols there is a great difference. now the one in this town is one of the best in all england, and i patronises it during the winter.' i was much amused with the discourse of this mumper, who appeared to be one of the merriest old vagabonds in england. i took his advice, bought six pennyworth of matches, and commenced my new vagrant speculation. "the first day i picked up three-pence, for one quarter of my stock, and returned to the same place where i had slept the night before, but the fraternity had quitted on an expedition. i spent my two-pence in bread and cheese, and paid one penny for my lodging, and again i started the next morning, but i was very unsuccessful; nobody appeared to want matches that day, and after walking from seven o'clock in the morning, to past seven in the evening, without selling one farthing's worth, i sat down at the porch of a chapel, quite tired and worn out. at last, i fell asleep, and how do you think i was awoke? by a strong sense of suffocation, and up i sprang, coughing, and nearly choked, surrounded with smoke. some mischievous boys perceiving that i was fast asleep, had set fire to my matches, as i held them in my hand between my legs, and i did not wake until my fingers were severely burnt. there was an end of my speculation in matches, because there was an end of all my capital." "my poor timothy, i really feel for you." "not at all, my dear japhet; i never, in all my distress, was sentenced to execution--my miseries were trifles, to be laughed at. however, i felt very miserable at the time, and walked off, thinking about the propriety of getting into gaol as soon as i could, for the beggar had strongly recommended it. i was at the outskirts of the town, when i perceived two men tussling with one another, and i walked towards them. 'i says,' says one, who appeared to be a constable; 'you must come along with i. don't you see that ere board? all wagrants shall be taken up, and dealt with according to _la_.' 'now may the devil hold you in his claws, you old psalm-singing thief--an't i a sailor--and an't i a wagrant by profession, and all according to law?' 'that won't do,' says the other; 'i commands you in the king's name, to let me take you to prison, and i commands you also, young man,' says he--for i had walked up to them--'i commands you, as a lawful subject, to assist me.' 'what will you give the poor fellow for his trouble?' said the sailor. 'it's his duty, as a lawful subject, and i'll give him nothing; but i'll put him in prison if he don't.' 'then you old rhinoceros, i'll give him five shillings if he'll help me, and so now he may take his choice.' at all events, thought i, this will turn out lucky one way or the other; but i will support the man who is most generous; so i went up to the constable, who was a burly sort of a fellow, and tripped up his heels, and down he came on the back of his head. you know my old trick, japhet?" "yes; i never knew you fail at that." "'well,' the sailor says to me, 'i've a notion you've damaged his upper works, so let us start off, and clap on all sail for the next town. i know where to drop an anchor. come along with me, and as long as i've a shot in the locker, d--n me if i won't share it with one who has proved a friend in need.' the constable did not come to his senses; he was very much stunned, but we loosened his neckcloth, and left him there, and started off as fast as we could. my new companion, who had a wooden leg, stopped by a gate, and clambered over it. 'we must lose no time,' said he; 'and i may just as well have the benefit of both legs.' so saying, he took off his wooden stump, and let down his real leg, which was fixed up just as you saw mine. i made no comments, but off we set, and at a good round pace gained a village about five miles distant. 'here we will put up for the night; but they will look for us to-morrow at daylight, or a little after, therefore we must be starting early. i know the law-beggars well, they won't turn out afore sunrise. he stopped at a paltry ale-house, where we were admitted, and soon were busy with a much better supper than i had ever imagined they could have produced; but my new friend ordered right and left, with a tone of authority, and everybody in the house appeared at his beck and command. after a couple of glasses of grog, we retired to our beds. "the next morning we started before break of day, on our road to another town, where my companion said the constables would never take the trouble to come after him. on our way he questioned me as to my mode of getting my livelihood, and i narrated how unfortunate i had been. 'one good turn deserves another,' replied the sailor; 'and now i'll set you up in trade. can you sing? have you anything of a voice?' 'i can't say that i have,' replied i. 'i don't mean whether you can sing in tune, or have a good voice, that's no consequence; all i want to know is, have you a good loud one?' 'loud enough, if that's all.' 'that's all that's requisite; so long as you can make yourself heard--you may then howl like a jackal, or bellow like a mad buffalo, no matter which--as many pay us for to get rid of us, as out of charity; and so long as the money comes, what's the odds? why, i once knew an old chap, who could only play one tune on the clarionet, and that tune out of all tune, who made his fortune in six or seven streets, for every one gave him money, and told him to go away. when he found out that, he came every morning as regular as clock-work. now there was one of the streets which was chiefly occupied by music-sellers and italian singers--for them foreigners always herd together--and this tune, 'which the old cow died of,' as the saying is, used to be their horror, and out came the halfpence to send him away. there was a sort of club also in that street, of larking sort of young men, and when they perceived that the others gave the old man money to get rid of his squeaking, they sent him out money, with orders to stay and play to them, so then the others sent out more for him to go away, and between the two, the old fellow brought home more money than all the cadgers and mumpers in the district. now if you have a loud voice, i can provide you with all the rest.'--'do you gain your livelihood by that?'--' to be sure i do; and i can tell you, that of all the trades going, there is none equal to it. you see, my hearty, i have been on board of a man-of-war--not that i'm a sailor, or was ever bred to the sea--but i was shipped as a landsman, and did duty in the waist and afterguard. i know little or nothing of my duty as a seaman, nor was it required in the station i was in, so i never learnt, although i was four years on board; all i learnt was the lingo and slang--and that you must contrive to learn from me. i bolted, and made my way good to lunnun, but i should soon have been picked up and put on board the tender again, if i hadn't got this wooden stump made, which i now carry in my hand. i had plenty of songs, and i commenced my profession, and a real good un it is, i can tell you. why, do you know, that a'ter a good victory, i have sometimes picked up as much as two pounds a-day, for weeks running; as it is, i averages from fifteen shillings to a pound. now, as you helped me away from that land shark, who would soon have found out that i had two legs, and have put me into limbo as an impostor, i will teach you to arn your livelihood after my fashion. you shall work with me until you are fit to start alone, and then there's plenty of room in england for both of us; but mind, never tell any one what you pick up, or every mumper in the island will put on a suit of sailor's clothes, and the thing will be blown upon.' of course, this was too good an offer to be rejected, and i joyfully acceded. at first, i worked with him as having only one arm, the other being tied down to my side, and my jacket sleeve hanging loose and empty, and we roared away right and left, so as to bring down a shower of coppers wherever we went. in about three weeks my friend thought i was able to start by myself, and giving me half of the ballads, and five shillings to start with, i shook hands and parted with, next to you, the best friend that i certainly ever had. ever since i have been crossing the country in every direction, with plenty of money in my pocket, and always with one eye looking sharp out for you. my beautiful voice fortunately attracted your attention, and here i am, and at an end of my history; but if ever i am away from you, and in distress again, depend upon it i shall take to my wooden leg and ballads for my support." such were the adventures of timothy, who was metamorphosed into a precise quaker. "i do not like the idea of your taking up a system of deceit, timothy. it may so happen--for who knows what may occur?--that you may again be thrown upon your own resources. now, would it not be better that you should obtain a more intimate knowledge of the profession which we are now in, which is liberal, and equally profitable? by attention and study you will be able to dispense medicines and make up prescriptions as well as myself, and who knows but that some day you may be the owner of a shop like this?" "verily, verily, thy words do savour of much wisdom," replied tim, in a grave voice; "and i will even so follow thy advice." chapter lxix i am unsettled by unexpected intelligence, and again yearn after the world of fashion. i knew that he was mocking me in this reply, but i paid no attention to that; i was satisfied that he consented. i now made him assist me, and under my directions he made up the prescriptions. i explained to him the nature of every medicine; and i made him read many books of physic and surgery. in short, after two or three months, i could trust to timothy as well as if i were in the shop myself; and having an errand boy, i had much more leisure, and i left him in charge after dinner. the business prospered, and i was laying up money. my leisure time, i hardly need say was spent with mr cophagus and his family, and my attachment to susannah temple increased every day. indeed, both mr and mrs cophagus considered that it was to be a match, and often joked with me when susannah was not present. with respect to susannah, i could not perceive that i was farther advanced in her affections than after i had known her two months. she was always kind and considerate, evidently interested in my welfare, always checking in me anything like levity--frank and confiding in her opinions--and charitable to all, as i thought, except to me. but i made no advance that i could perceive. the fact was, that i dared not speak to her as i might have done to another who was not so perfect. and yet she smiled, as i thought, more kindly when i returned than at other times, and never appeared to be tired of my company. if i did sometimes mention the marriage of another, or attentions paid which would, in all probability, end in marriage, it would create no confusion or blushing on her part, she would talk over that subject as composedly as any other. i was puzzled, and i had been a year and nine months constantly in her company, and had never dared to tell her that i loved her. but one day mr cophagus brought up the subject when we were alone. he commenced by stating how happy he had been as a married man, that he had given up all hopes of a family, and that he should like to see susannah temple, his sister-in-law, well married, that he might leave his property to her children; and then he put the very pertinent question--"japhet-- verily--thou hast done well--good business--money coming in fast--settle, japhet--marry, have children--and so on. susannah--nice girl--good wife--pop question--all right--sly puss--won't say no--um--what d'ye say?--and so on." i replied that i was very much attached to susannah, but that i was afraid that the attachment was not mutual, and therefore hesitated to propose. cophagus then said that he would make his wife sound his sister, and let me know the result. this was in the morning just before i was about to walk over to the shop, and i left the house in a state of anxiety and suspense. when i arrived at the shop, i found tim there as usual; but the colour in his face was heightened as he said to me, "read this, japhet," and handed to me the "reading mercury." i read an advertisement as follows:-- "if japhet newland, who was left at the foundling asylum, and was afterwards for some time in london, will call at no. , throgmorton court, minories, he will hear of something very much to his advantage, and will discover that of which he has been so long in search. should this reach his eye, he is requested to write immediately to the above address, with full particulars of his situation. should anyone who reads this be able to give any information relative to the said j.n., he will be liberally rewarded." i sank down on the chair. "merciful heaven! this can be no mistake--'he will discover the object of his search.' timothy, my dear timothy, i have at last found out my father." "so i should imagine, my dear japhet," replied timothy, "and i trust it will not prove a disappointment." "they never would be so cruel, timothy," replied i. "but still it is evident that mr masterton is concerned in it," observed timothy. "why so?" inquired i. "how otherwise should it appear in the reading newspaper? he must have examined the postmark of my letter." to explain this, i must remind the reader that timothy had promised to write to mr masterton when he found me; and he requested my permission shortly after we had met again. i consented to his keeping his word, but restricted him to saying any more than "that he had found me, and that i was well and happy." there was no address in the letter as a clue to mr masterton as to where i might be, and it could only have been from the postmark that he could have formed any idea. timothy's surmise was therefore very probable; but i would not believe that mr masterton would consent to the insertion of that portion of the advertisement, if there was no foundation for it. "what will you do, japhet?" "do," replied i, recovering from my reverie, for the information had again roused up all my dormant feelings--"do," replied i, "why, i shall set off for town this very morning." "in that dress, japhet?" "i suppose i must," replied i, "for i have no time to procure another;" and all my former ideas of fashion and appearance were roused, and in full activity--my pride recovered its ascendency. "well," replied timothy, "i hope you will find your father all that you could wish." "i'm sure of it, tim--i'm sure of it," replied i; "you must run and take a place in the first coach." "but you are not going without seeing mr and mrs cophagus, and--miss temple," continued tim, laying an emphasis upon the latter name. "of course not," replied i, colouring deeply. "i will go at once. give me the newspaper, tim." i took the newspaper, and hastened to the house of mr cophagus. i found them all three sitting in the breakfast parlour, mr cophagus, as usual, reading, with his spectacles on his nose, and the ladies at work. "what is the matter, friend japhet?" exclaimed mr cophagus, as i burst into the room, my countenance lighted up with excitement. "read that, sir!" said i to mr cophagus. mr cophagus read it. "hum--bad news--lose japhet--man of fashion--and so on," said cophagus, pointing out the paragraph to his wife, as he handed over the paper. in the meantime i watched the countenance of susannah--a slight emotion, but instantly checked, was visible at mr cophagus's remark. she then remained quiet until her sister, who had read the paragraph, handed the paper to her. "i give thee joy, japhet, at the prospect of finding out thy parent," said mrs cophagus. "i trust thou wilt find in him one who is to be esteemed as a man. when departest thou?" "immediately," replied i. "i cannot blame thee--the ties of nature are ever powerful. i trust that thou wilt write to us, and that we soon shall see thee return." "yes, yes," said cophagus, "see father--shake hands--come back--heh!-- settle here--and so on." "i shall not be altogether my own master, perhaps," observed i. "if my father desires that i remain with him, must not i obey? but i know nothing at present. you shall hear from me. timothy can take my place in the--" i could not bear the idea of the word shop, and i stopped. susannah, for the first time, looked me earnestly in the face, but she said nothing. mr and mrs cophagus, who probably had been talking over the subject of our conversation, and thought this a good opportunity to allow me to have an _eclaircissement_ with susannah, left the room, saying they would look after my portmanteau and linen. "susannah," said i, "you do not appear to rejoice with me." "japhet newland, i will rejoice at everything that may tend to thy happiness, believe me; but i do not feel assured but that this trial may prove too great, and that thou mayst fall away. indeed, i perceive even now that thou art excited with new ideas, and visions of pride." "if i am wrong, forgive me. susannah, you must know that the whole object of my existence has been to find my father; and now that i have every reason to suppose that my wish is obtained, can you be surprised, or can you blame me, that i long to be pressed in his arms?" "nay, japhet, for that filial feeling i do commend thee; but ask thy own heart, is that the only feeling which now exciteth thee? dost thou not expect to find thy father one high in rank and power? dost thou not anticipate to join once more the world which thou hast quitted, yet still hast sighed for? dost thou not already feel contempt for thy honest profession:--nay, more, dost thou not only long to cast off the plain attire, and not only the attire, but the sect which in thy adversity thou didst embrace the tenets of? ask thy own heart, and reply if thou wilt, but i press thee not so to do; for the truth would be painful, and a lie, thou knowest, i do utterly abhor." i felt that susannah spoke the truth, and i would not deny it. i sat down by her. "susannah," said i, "it is not very easy to change at once. i have mixed for years in the world, with you i have not yet lived two. i will not deny but that the feelings you have expressed have risen in my heart, but i will try to repress them; at least, for your sake, susannah, i would try to repress them, for i value your opinion more than that of the whole world. you have the power to do with me as you please:--will you exert that power?" "japhet," replied susannah, "the faith which is not built upon a more solid foundation than to win the favour of an erring being like myself is but weak; that power over thee which thou expectest will fix thee in the right path, may soon be lost, and what is then to direct thee? if no purer motives than earthly affection are to be thy stay, most surely thou wilt fall. but no more of this; thou hast a duty to perform, which is to go to thy earthly father, and seek his blessing. nay, more, i would that thou shouldst once more enter into the world, there thou mayst decide. shouldst thou return to us, thy friends will rejoice, and not one of them will be more joyful than susannah temple. fare thee well, japhet, mayst thou prove superior to temptation. i will pray for thee--earnestly i will pray for thee, japhet," continued susannah, with a quivering of her lips and broken voice, and she left the room. chapter lxx i return to london, and meet with mr masterton. i went upstairs, and found that all was ready, and i took leave of mr and mrs cophagus, both of whom expressed their hopes that i would not leave them for ever. "oh, no," replied i, "i should indeed be base, if i did." i left them, and with ephraim following with my portmanteau, i quitted the house. i had gone about twenty yards, when i recollected that i had left on the table the newspaper with the advertisement containing the direction whom to apply to, and desiring ephraim to proceed, i returned. when i entered the parlour, susannah temple was resting her face in her hands and weeping. the opening of the door made her start up; she perceived that it was i, and she turned away. "i beg your pardon, i left the newspaper," said i, stammering. i was about to throw myself at her feet, declare my sincere affection, and give up all idea of finding my father until we were married, when she, without saying a word, passed quickly by me and hastened out of the room. "she loves me then," thought i; "thank god:--i will not go yet, i will speak to her first." i sat down, quite overpowered with contending feelings. the paper was in my hand, the paragraph was again read, i thought but of my father, and i left the house. in half an hour i had shaken hands with timothy and quitted the town of reading. how i arrived in london, that is to say, what passed, or what we passed, i know not; my mind was in such a state of excitement. i hardly know how to express the state that i was in. it was a sort of mental whirling which blinded me--round and round--from my father and the expected meeting, then to susannah, my departure, and her tears--castle building of every description. after the coach stopped, there i remained fixed on the top of it, not aware that we were in london until the coachman asked me whether the spirit did not move me to get down. i recollected myself, and calling a hackney-coach, gave orders to be driven to the piazza, covent garden. "piazza, common garden," said the waterman, "why that ban't an 'otel for the like o' you, master. they'll torment you to death, them young chaps." i had forgotten that i was dressed as a quaker. "tell the coachman to stop at the first cloth warehouse where they have ready-made cloaks," said i. the man did so; i went out and purchased a roquelaure, which enveloped my whole person. i then stopped at a hatter's, and purchased a hat according to the mode. "now drive to the piazza," said i, entering the coach. i know not why, but i was resolved to go to that hotel. it was the one i had stayed at when i first arrived in london, and i wished to see it again. when the hackney coach stopped, i asked the waiter who came out whether he had apartments, and answering me in the affirmative, i followed him, and was shown into the same rooms i had previously occupied. "these will do," said i, "now let me have something to eat, and send for a good tailor." the waiter offered to remove my cloak, but i refused, saying that i was cold. he left the room, and i threw myself on the sofa, running over all the scenes which had passed in that room with carbonnell, harcourt, and others. my thoughts were broken in upon by the arrival of the tailor. "stop a moment," said i, "and let him come in when i ring." so ashamed was i of my quaker's dress, that i threw off my coat and waistcoat, and put on my cloak again before i rang the bell for the tailor to come up. "mr--," said i, "i must have a suit of clothes ready by to-morrow at ten o'clock." "impossible, sir." "impossible!" said i, "and you pretend to be a fashionable tailor. leave the room." at this peremptory behaviour the tailor imagined that i must be somebody. "i will do my possible, sir, and if i can only get home in time to stop the workmen, i think it may be managed. of course, you are aware of the expense of night work." "i am only aware of this, that if i give an order i am accustomed to have it obeyed; i learnt that from my poor friend, major carbonnell." the tailor bowed low; there was magic in the name, although the man was dead. "here have i been masquerading in a quaker's dress, to please a puritanical young lady, and i am obliged to be off without any other clothes in my portmanteau; so take my measure, and i expect the clothes at ten precisely." so saying, i threw off my roquelaure, and desired him to proceed. this accomplished, the tradesman took his leave. shortly afterwards, the door opened, and as i lay wrapped up in my cloak on the sofa, in came the landlord and two waiters, each bearing a dish of my supper. i wished them at the devil; but i was still more surprised when the landlord made a low bow, saying, "happy to see you returned, mr newland; you've been away some time--another grand tour, i presume." "yes, mr ----, i have had a few adventures since i was last here," replied i, carelessly, "but i am not very well. you may leave the supper, and if i feel inclined, i will take a little by-and-bye,--no one need wait." the landlord and waiter bowed and went out of the room. i turned the key of the door, put on my quaker's coat, and made a hearty supper, for i had had nothing since breakfast. when i had finished, i returned to the sofa, and i could not help analysing my own conduct. "alas," thought i, "susannah, how rightly did you judge me! i am not away from you more than eighteen hours, and here i am ashamed of the dress which i have so long worn, and been satisfied with, in your society. truly did you say that i was full of pride, and would joyfully re-enter the world of vanity and vexation." and i thought of susannah, and her tears after my supposed departure, and i felt angry and annoyed at my want of strength of mind and my worldly feelings. i retired early to bed, and did not wake until late the next morning. when i rang the bell, the chambermaid brought in my clothes from the tailor's: i dressed, and i will not deny that i was pleased with the alteration. after breakfast i ordered a coach, and drove to no. , throgmorton court, minories. the house was dirty outside, and the windows had not been cleaned apparently for years, and it was with some difficulty when i went in that i could decipher a tall, haggard-looking man seated at the desk. "your pleasure, sir?" said he. "am i speaking to the principal?" replied i. "yes, sir, my name is chatfield." "i come to you, sir, relative to an advertisement which appeared in the papers. i refer to this," continued i, putting the newspaper down on the desk, and pointing to the advertisement. "oh, yes, very true: can you give us any information?" "yes, sir, i can, and the most satisfactory." "then, sir, i am sorry that you have had so much trouble, but you must call at lincoln's inn upon a lawyer of the name of masterton: the whole affair is now in his hands." "can you, sir, inform me who is the party that is inquiring after this young man?" "why, yes; it is a general de benyon, who has lately returned from the east indies." "good god! is it possible!" thought i; "how strange that my own wild fancy should have settled upon him as my father!" i hurried away, threw myself into the hackney-coach, and desired the man to drive to lincoln's inn. i hastened up to mr masterton's rooms: he was fortunately at home, although he stood at the table with his hat and his great coat on, ready to go out. "my dear sir, have you forgotten me?" said i, in a voice choked with emotion, taking his hand and squeezing it with rapture. "by heavens, you are determined that i shall not forget you for some minutes, at least," exclaimed he, wringing his hand with pain. "who the devil are you?" mr masterton could not see without his spectacles, and my subdued voice he had not recognised. he pulled them out, as i made no reply, and fixing them across his nose--"hah! why yes--it is japhet, is it not?" "it is indeed, sir," said i, again offering my hand, which he shook warmly. "not quite so hard, my dear fellow, this time," said the old lawyer; "i acknowledge your vigour, and that is sufficient. i am very glad to see you, japhet, i am indeed--you--you scamp--you ungrateful fellow. sit down--sit down--first help me off with my great coat: i presume the advertisement has brought you into existence again. well, it's all true; and you have at last found your father, or, rather, he has found you. and what's more strange, you hit upon the right person; that is strange--very strange indeed." "where is he, sir?" interrupted i, "where is he--take me to him." "no, rather be excused," replied mr masterton, "for he is gone to ireland, so you must wait." "wait, sir, oh no--i must follow him." "that will only do harm; for he is rather a queer sort of an old gentleman, and although he acknowledges that he left you as _japhet_ and has searched for you, yet he is so afraid of somebody else's brat being put upon him, that he insists upon most undeniable proofs. now, we cannot trace you from the hospital unless we can find that fellow cophagus, and we have made every search after him, and no one can tell where he is." "but i left him but yesterday morning, sir," replied i. "good--very good; we must send for him or go to him; besides, he has the packet intrusted to the care of miss maitland, to whom he was executor, which proves the marriage of your father. very strange--very strange indeed, that you should have hit upon it as you did--almost supernatural. however, all right now, my dear boy, and i congratulate you. your father is a very strange person: he has lived like a despot among slaves all his life, and will not be thwarted, i can tell you. if you say a word in contradiction he'll disinherit you:--terrible old tiger, i must say. if it had not been for your sake, i should have done with him long ago. he seems to think the world ought to be at his feet. depend upon it, japhet, there is no hurry about seeing him;--and see him you shall not, until we have every proof of your identity ready to produce to him. i hope you have the bump of veneration strong, japhet, and plenty of filial duty, or you will be kicked out of the house in a week. d--n me, if he didn't call me an old thief of a lawyer." "indeed, sir," replied i, laughing; "i must apologise to you for my father's conduct." "never mind, japhet; i don't care about a trifle; but why don't you ask after your friends?" "i have longed so to do, sir," replied i. "lord windermear--" "is quite well, and will be most happy to see you." "lady de clare, and her daughter--" "lady de clare has entered into society again, and her daughter, as you call her--your fleta, alias cecilia de clare--is the belle of the metropolis. but now, sir, as i have answered all your interrogatories, and satisfied you upon the most essential points, will you favour me with a narrative of your adventures (for adventures i am sure you must have had) since you ran away from us all in that ungrateful manner." "most certainly, sir, i will; and, as you say, i have had adventures. but it really will be a long story." "then we'll dine here, and pass the evening together--so that's settled." chapter lxxi in which i am let into more particulars relative to my father's history. i dismissed the coach, while mr masterton gave his orders for dinner, and we then turned the key of the door to avoid intrusion, and i commenced. it was nearly dinner-time before i had finished my story. "well, you really appear to be born for getting into scrapes, and getting out of them again in a miraculous way," observed mr masterton. "your life would make a novel." "it would indeed, sir," replied i. "i only hope, like all novels, it will wind up well." "so do i; but dinner's ready, japhet, and after dinner we'll talk the matter over again, for there are some points upon which i require some explanation." we sat down to dinner, and when we had finished, and the table had been cleared, we drew to the fire, with our bottle of wine. mr masterton tirred the fire, called for his slippers, and then crossing his legs over the fender, resumed the subject. "japhet, i consider it most fortunate that we have met, previous to our introduction to your father. you have so far to congratulate yourself, that your family is undeniably good, there being, as you know, an irish peerage in it; of which, however, you have no chance, as the present earl has a numerous offspring. you are also fortunate as far as money is concerned, as i have every reason to believe that your father is a very rich man, and, of course, you are his only child; but i must now prepare you to meet with a very different person than perhaps the fond anticipations of youth may have led you to expect. your father has no paternal feelings that i can discover; he has wealth, and he wishes to leave it--he has therefore sought you out. but he is despotic, violent, and absurd; the least opposition to his will makes him furious, and i am sorry to add, that i am afraid that he is very mean. he suffered severely when young from poverty, and his own father was almost as authoritative and unforgiving as himself. and now i will state how it was that you were left at the asylum when an infant. your grandfather had procured for your father a commission in the army, and soon afterwards procured him a lieutenancy. he ordered him to marry a young lady of large fortune, whom he had never seen, and sent for him for that purpose. i understand that she was very beautiful, and had your father seen her, it is probable he would have made no objection, but he very foolishly sent a peremptory refusal, for which he was dismissed for ever. in a short time afterwards your father fell in love with a young lady of great personal attractions, and supposed to possess a large fortune. to deceive her, he pretended to be the heir to the earldom, and, after a hasty courtship, they ran off, and were married. when they compared notes, which they soon did, it was discovered that, on his side, he had nothing but the pay of a subaltern, and on hers, that she had not one shilling. your father stormed, and called his wife an impostor; she recriminated, and the second morning after the marriage was passed in tears on her side, and oaths, curses, and revilings on his. the lady, however, appeared the more sensible party of the two. their marriage was not known, she had run away on a pretence to visit a relative, and it was actually supposed in the county town where she resided, that such was the case. 'why should we quarrel in this way?' observed she. 'you, edmund, wished to marry a fortune, and not me--i may plead guilty to the same duplicity. we have made a mistake; but it is not too late. it is supposed that i am on a visit to--, and that you are on furlough for a few days. did you confide your secret to any of your brother officers?' 'not one,' muttered your father. 'well, then, let us part as if nothing had happened, and nobody will be the wiser. we are equally interested in keeping the secret. is it agreed?'--your father immediately consented. he accompanied your mother to the house at ----, where she was expected, and she framed a story for her delay, by having met such a very polite young man. your father returned to his regiment, and thus did they, like two privateers, who when they meet and engage, as soon as they find out their mistake, hoist their colours, and sheer off by mutual consent." "i can't say much for my mother's affection or delicacy," observed i. "the less you say the better, japhet--however, that is your father's story. and now to proceed. it appears that, about two months afterwards, your father received a letter from your mother, acquainting him that their short intercourse had been productive of certain results, and requesting that he would take the necessary steps to provide for the child, and avoid exposure, or that she would be obliged to confess her marriage. by what means they contrived to avoid exposure until the period of her confinement, i know not, but your father states that the child was born in a house in london, and by agreement, was instantly put into his hands; that he, with the consent of his wife, left you at the door of the asylum, with the paper and the bank note, from which you received the name of newland. at the time, he had no idea of reclaiming you himself, but the mother had, for heartless as she appears to have been, yet a mother must feel for her child. your father's regiment was then ordered out to the east indies, and he was rapidly promoted for his gallantry and good conduct during the war in the mysore territory. once only has he returned home on furlough, and then he did make inquiries after you; not, it appears, with a view of finding you out on his own account, but from a promise which he made your mother." "my mother! what, have they met since?" "yes; your mother went out to india on speculation, passing off as a single girl, and was very well married there, i was going to say; however, she committed a very splendid bigamy." "good heavens! how totally destitute of principle!" "your father asserts that your mother was a freethinker, japhet; her father had made her one; without religion a woman has no stay. your father was in the up country during the time that your mother arrived, and was married to one of the council of calcutta. your father says that they met at a ball at government house. she was still a very handsome woman, and much admired. when your father recognised her, and was told that she was lately married to the honourable mr--, he was quite electrified, and would have quitted the room; but she had perceived him, and walking up to him with the greatest coolness, claimed him as an old acquaintance in england, and afterwards they often met, but she never adverted to what had passed between them, until the time for his departure to england on leave, and she then sent for him, and begged that he would make some enquiries after _you_, japhet. he did so, and you know the result. on his return to india he found that your mother had been carried off by the prevailing pestilence. at that period, your father was not rich, but he was then appointed to the chief command in the carnatic, and reaped a golden harvest in return for his success and bravery. it appears, as far as i could obtain it from him, that as long as your mother was alive, he felt no interest about you, but her death, and the subsequent wealth which poured upon him, have now induced him to find out an heir, to whom it may be bequeathed. "such, japhet, are the outlines of your father's history; and i must point out that he has no feelings of affection for you at present. the conduct of your mother is ever before him, and if it were not that he wishes an heir, i should almost say that his feelings are those of dislike. you may create an interest in his heart, it is true: and he may be gratified by your personal appearance; but you will have a very difficult task, as you will have to submit to his caprices and fancies, and i am afraid that, to a high spirit like yours, they will be almost unbearable." "really, sir, i begin to feel that the fondest anticipations are seldom realised, and almost to wish that i had not been sought for by my father. i was happy and contented, and now i do not see any chance of having to congratulate myself on the change." "on one or two points i also wish to question you. it appears that you have entered into the sect denominated quakers. tell me candidly, do you subscribe heartily and sincerely to their doctrines? and i was going to add, is it your intention to remain with them? i perceive much difficulty in all this." "the tenets of the sect i certainly do believe to be more in accordance with the christian religion than any other; and i have no hesitation in asserting, from my knowledge of those who belong to that sect, that they, generally speaking, lead better lives. there are some points connected with their worship, which, at first, i considered ridiculous: the feeling has, however, worn off. as to their quaint manner of speaking, that has been grossly exaggerated. their dress is a part of their religion." "why so, japhet?" "i can reply to you in the words of susannah temple, when i made the same interrogatory. 'you think the peculiarity of our dress is an outward form which is not required. it was put on to separate us from others, and as a proof that we had discarded vanity. i am aware that it is not a proof of our sincerity; but still, the discarding of the dress is a proof of insincerity. we consider, that to admire the person is vain, and our creed is humility. it is therefore an outward and visible sign, that we would act up to those tenets which we profess. it is not all who wear the dress who are quakers in heart or conduct; but we know that when it is put aside, the tenets of our persuasion are at the same time renounced, therefore do we consider it essential. i do not mean to say but that the heart may be as pure, and the faith continue as stedfast without such signs outwardly, but it is a part of our creed, and we must not choose, but either reject all or none.'" "very well argued by the little quakeress; and now, japhet, i should like to put another question to you. are you very much attached to this young puritan?" "i will not deny but that i am. i love her sincerely." "does your love carry you so far, that you would, for her sake, continue a quaker, and marry her?" "i have asked myself that question at least a hundred times during the last twenty-four hours, and i cannot decide. if she would dress as others do, and allow me to do the same, i would marry her to-morrow; whether i shall ever make up my mind to adhere to the persuasion, and live and die a quaker for her sake, is quite another matter--but i am afraid not--i am too worldly-minded. the fact is, i am in a very awkward position with respect to her. i have never acknowledged my affection, or asked for a return, but she knows i love her, and i know that she loves me." "like all vain boys, you flatter yourself." "i leave you to judge, sir," replied i, repeating to him our parting _tête-à-tête_, and how i had returned, and found her in tears. "all that certainly is very corroborative evidence; but tell me, japhet, do you think she loves you well enough to abandon all for your sake?" "no, nor ever will, sir, she is too high principled, too high-minded. she might suffer greatly, but she never would swerve from what she thought was right." "she must be a fine character, japhet, but you will be in a dilemma: indeed, it appears to me, that your troubles are now commencing instead of ending, and that you would have been much happier where you were, than you will be by being again brought out into the world. your prospect is not over cheerful. you have an awkward father to deal with: you will be under a strong check, i've a notion, and i am afraid you will find that, notwithstanding you will be once more received into society, all is vanity and vexation of spirit." "i am afraid you are right, sir," replied i, "but, at all events, it will be something gained, to be acknowledged to the world by a father of good family, whatever else i may have to submit to. i have been the sport of fortune all my life, and probably she has not yet done playing with me; but it is late, and i will now wish you good-night." "good-night, japhet; if i have any intelligence i will let you know. lady de clare's address is no. , park street. you will, of course, go there as soon as you can." "i will, sir, after i have written my letters to my friends at reading." chapter lxxii i am a little jealous, and, like the immortal william[a] bottom, inclined to enact more parts than one.--with a big effort my hankering after bigamy is mastered by mr masterton--and by my own good sense. [footnote a: or rather nick--ed.] i returned home to reflect upon what mr masterton had told me, and i must say that i was not very well pleased with his various information. his account of my mother, although she was no more, distressed me, and, from the character which he gave of my father, i felt convinced that my happiness would not be at all increased by my having finally attained the long-desired object of my wishes. strange to say, i had no sooner discovered my father, but i wished that he had never turned up; and when i compared the peaceful and happy state of existence which i had lately enjoyed, with the prospects of what i had in future to submit to, i bitterly repented that the advertisement had been seen by timothy; still, on one point, i was peculiarly anxious, without hardly daring to anatomise my feelings; it was relative to cecilia de clare, and what mr masterton had mentioned in the course of our conversation. the next morning i wrote to timothy and to mr cophagus, giving them a shortdetail of what i had been informed by mr masterton, and expressing a wish, which i then really did feel, that i had never been summoned away from them. having finished my letters, i set off to park street, to call upon lady de clare and cecilia. it was rather early, but the footman who opened the door recognised me, and i was admitted upon his own responsibility. it was now more than eighteen months since i had quitted their house at richmond, and i was very anxious to know what reception i might have. i followed the servant up stairs, and when he opened the door walked in, as my name was announced. lady de clare rose in haste, so did cecilia, and so did a third person, whom i had not expected to have met--harcourt. "mr newland," exclaimed lady de clare, "this is indeed unexpected." cecilia also came forward, blushing to the forehead. harcourt held back, as if waiting for the advances to be made on my side. on the whole, i never felt more awkwardly, and i believe my feelings were reciprocated by the whole party. i was evidently _de trop_. "do you know mr harcourt?" at last said lady de clare. "if it is the mr harcourt i once knew," replied i, "i certainly do." "believe me it is the same, newland," said harcourt, coming to me and offering his hand, which i took with pleasure. "it is a long while since we met," observed cecilia, who felt it necessary to say something, but, at the same time, did not like to enter upon my affairs before harcourt. "it is, miss de clare," replied i, for i was not exactly pleased at my reception; "but i have been fortunate since i had the pleasure of seeing you last." cecilia and her mother looked earnestly, as much as to say, "in what?"--but did not like to ask the question. "there is no one present who is not well acquainted with my history," observed i, "that is, until the time that i left you and lady de clare, and i have no wish to create mystery. i have at last discovered my father." "i hope we are to congratulate you, mr newland," said lady de clare. "as far as respectability and family are concerned, i certainly have no reason to be ashamed," replied i. "he is the brother of an earl, and a general in the army. his name i will not mention until i have seen him, and i am formally and openly acknowledged. i have also the advantage of being an only son, and if i am not disinherited, heir to considerable property," continued i, smiling sarcastically. "perhaps i may now be better _received_ than i have been as japhet newland the foundling: but, lady de clare, i am afraid that i have intruded unseasonably, and will now take my leave. good morning;" and without waiting for a reply, i made a hasty retreat, and gained the door. flushed with indignation, i had nearly gained the bottom of the stairs, when i heard a light footstep behind me, and my arm was caught by cecilia de clare. i turned round, and she looked me reproachfully in the face, as the tear stood in her eye. "what have we done, japhet, that you should treat us in this manner?" said she, with emotion. "miss de clare," replied i, "i have no reproaches to make. i perceived that my presence was not welcome, and i would no further intrude." "are you then so proud, now that you have found out that you are well born, japhet?" "i am much too proud to intrude where i am not wished for, miss de clare. as japhet newland, i came here to see the fleta of former days. when i assume my real name, i shall always be most happy of an introduction to the daughter of lady de clare." "oh! how changed," exclaimed she, fixing her large blue eyes upon me. "prosperity changes us all, miss de clare. i wish you a very good morning;" and i turned away, and crossed the hall to the door. as i went out i could not help looking back, and i perceived that cecilia's handkerchief was held to her eyes, as she slowly mounted the stairs. i walked home to the piazza in no very pleasant humour. i was angry and disgusted at the coolness of my reception. i thought myself ill used, and treated with ingratitude. "so much for the world," said i, as i sat down in my apartment, and spun my hat on the table. "she has been out two seasons, and is no longer the same person. yet how lovely she has grown! but why this change--and why was harcourt there? could he have prejudiced them against me? very possibly." while these ideas were running in my mind, and i was making comparisons between cecilia de clare and susannah temple--not much in favour of the former--and looking forward prospectively to the meeting with my father, the doubts as to my reception in society colouring everything with the most sombre tints, the door opened, and in walked harcourt, announced by the waiter. "a chair for mr harcourt," said i to the waiter, with formality. "newland," said harcourt, "i come for two reasons: in the first place, i am commissioned by the ladies, to assure you--" "i beg your pardon, mr harcourt, for interrupting you, but i require no ambassador from the ladies in question. they may make you their confidant if they please, but i am not at all inclined to do the same. explanation, after what i witnessed and felt this morning, is quite unnecessary. i surrender all claims upon either lady de clare or her daughter, if i ever was so foolhardy as to imagine that i had any. the first reason of your visit it is therefore useless to proceed with. may i ask the other reason which has procured me this honour?" "i hardly know, mr newland," replied harcourt, colouring deeply, "whether, after what you have now said, i ought to proceed with the second--it related to myself." "i am all attention, mr harcourt," replied i, bowing politely. "it was to say, mr newland, that i should have taken the earliest opportunity after my recovery, had you not disappeared so strangely, to have expressed my sorrow for my conduct towards you, and to have acknowledged that i had been deservedly punished: more perhaps by my own feelings of remorse, than by the dangerous wound i had received by your hand. i take even this opportunity, although not apparently a favourable one, of expressing what i consider it my duty, as a gentleman who has wronged another, to express. i certainly was going to add more, but there is so little chance of its being well received, that i had better defer it to some future opportunity. the time may come, and i certainly trust it will come, when i may be allowed to prove to you that i am not deserving of the coolness with which i am now received. mr newland, with every wish for your happiness, i will now take my leave; but i must say, it is with painful sentiments, as i feel that the result of this interview will be the cause of great distress to those who are bound to you, not only by gratitude, but sincere regard." harcourt then bowed, and quitted the room. "it's all very well," muttered i, "but i know the world, and am not to be soothed down by a few fine words. i trust that they will be sorry for their conduct, but see me again inside their doors they will not," and i sat down, trying to feel satisfied with myself--but i was not; i felt that i had acted harshly, to say no more. i ought to have listened to an explanation sent by cecilia and her mother, after her coming down stairs to expostulate. they were under great obligations to me, and by my quick resentment, i rendered the obligations more onerous. it was unkind of me--and i wished that harcourt had not left the room. as for his conduct, i tried to find fault with it, but could not. it was gentlemanly and feeling. the fact was, i was in a very bad humour, and could not, at the time, discover the reason, which was neither more nor less than that i was more jealous of finding harcourt so intimate at lady de clare's, than i was at the unpalatable reception which i had met with. the waiter came in, and brought me a note from mr masterton. "i have this morning received a summons from your father, who returned, it appears, two days ago, and is now at the adelphi hotel. i am sorry to say, that stepping out of his carriage when travelling, he missed his footing, and has snapped his tendon achilles. he is laid up on a couch, and, as you may suppose, his amiability is not increased by the accident, and the pain attending it. as he has requested me to bring forward immediate evidence as to your identity, and the presence of mr cophagus is necessary, i propose that we start for reading to-morrow at nine o'clock. i have a curiosity to go down there, and having a leisure day or two, it will be a relaxation. i wish to see my old acquaintance timothy, and your shop. answer by bearer. j. masterton." i wrote a few lines, informing mr masterton that i would be with him at the appointed hour, and then sat down to my solitary meal. how different from when i was last at this hotel! now i knew nobody. i had to regain my footing in society, and that could only be accomplished by being acknowledged by my father; and, as soon as that was done, i would call upon lord windermear, who would quickly effect what i desired. the next morning i was ready at nine o'clock, and set off with post horses, with mr masterton, in his own carriage. i told him what had occurred the day before, and how disgusted i was at my reception. "upon my word, japhet, i think you are wrong," replied the old gentleman; "and if you had not told me of your affection for miss temple, to see whom, by-the-bye, i confess to be one of the chief motives of my going down with you, i should almost suppose that you were blinded by jealousy. does it not occur to you, that, if mr harcourt was admitted to the ladies at such an early hour, there is preference shown him in that quarter? and now i recollect that i heard something about it. harcourt's elder brother died, and he's come into the property, and i heard somebody say that he would in all probability succeed in gaining the handsomest girl in london, with a large fortune--that it was said to be a match. now, if such be the case, and you broke in upon a quiet reunion between two young people about to be united, almost without announcement, and so unexpectedly, after a lapse of so long a time, surely you cannot be surprised at there being a degree of confusion and restraint--more especially after what had passed between harcourt and you. depend upon it, that was the cause of it. had lady de clare and her daughter been alone, your reception would have been very different; indeed, cecilia's following you down stairs, proves that it was not from coolness towards you; and harcourt calling upon you, and the conversation which took place, is another proof that you have been mistaken." "i never viewed it in that light, certainly, sir," observed i. "i merely perceived that i was considered intrusive, and finding in the company one who had treated me ill, and had been my antagonist in the field, i naturally supposed that he had prejudiced them against me. i hope i may be wrong; but i have seen so much of the world, young as i am, that i have become very suspicious." "then discard suspicion as fast as you can, it will only make you unhappy, and not prevent your being deceived. if you are suspicious, you will have the constant fear of deception hanging over you, which poisons existence." after these remarks i remained silent for some time; i was analysing my own feelings, and i felt that i had acted in a very absurd manner. the fact was, that one of my castle buildings had been, that i was to marry fleta as soon as i had found my own father, and this it was which had actuated me, almost without my knowing it. i felt jealous of harcourt, and that, without being in love with miss de clare, but actually passionately fond of another person; i felt as if i could have married her without loving her, and that i could give up susannah temple, whom i did love, rather than that a being whom i considered as almost of my own creation, should herself presume to fall in love, or that another should dare to love her, until i had made up my mind whether i should take her myself: and this after so long an absence, and their having given up all hopes of ever seeing me again. the reader may smile at the absurdity, still more at the selfishness of this feeling; so did i, when i had reflected upon it, and i despised myself for my vanity and folly. "what are you thinking of, japhet?" observed mr masterton, tired with my long abstraction. "that i have been making a most egregious fool of myself, sir," replied i, "with respect to the de clares." "i did not say so, japhet; but, to tell you the truth, i thought something very like it. now tell me, were you not jealous at finding her in company with harcourt?" "exactly so, sir." "i'll tell susannah temple when i see her, that she may form some idea of your constancy," replied mr masterton, smiling. "why, what a dog in the manger you must be--you can't marry them both. still, under the circumstances, i can analyse the feeling--it is natural, but all that is natural is not always creditable to human nature. let us talk a little about susannah, and then all these vagaries will be dispersed. how old is she?" mr masterton plied me with so many questions relative to susannah, that her image alone soon filled my mind, and i recovered my spirits. "i don't know what she will say, at my being in this dress, sir," observed i. "had i not better change it on my arrival?" "by no means; i'll fight your battle--i know her character pretty well, thanks to your raving about her." chapter lxxiii contains much learned argument upon broad-brims and garments of grey--i get the best of it--the one great wish of my life is granted--i meet my father, and a cold reception very indicative of much after-heat. we arrived in good time at reading, and, as soon as we alighted at the inn, we ordered dinner, and then walked down to the shop, where we found timothy very busy tying down and labelling. he was delighted to see mr masterton, and perceiving that i had laid aside the quaker's dress, made no scruple of indulging in his humour, making a long face, and _thee_-ing and _thou_-ing mr masterton in a very absurd manner. we desired him to go to mr cophagus, and beg that he would allow me to bring mr masterton to drink tea, and afterwards to call at the inn and give us the answer. we then returned to our dinner. "whether they will ever make a quaker of you, japhet, i am very doubtful," observed mr masterton, as we walked back; "but as for making one of that fellow timothy, i'll defy them." "he laughs at everything," replied i: "and views everything in a ridiculous light--at all events, they never will make him serious." in the evening, we adjourned to the house of mr cophagus, having received a message of welcome. i entered the room first. susannah came forward to welcome me, and then drew back, when she perceived the alteration in my apparel, colouring deeply. i passed her, and took the hand of mrs cophagus and her husband, and then introduced mr masterton. "we hardly knew thee, japhet," mildly observed mrs cophagus. "i did not think that outward garments would disguise me from my friends," replied i; "but so it appeareth, for your sister hath not even greeted me in welcome." "i greet thee in all kindness, and all sincerity, japhet newland," replied susannah, holding out her hand. "yet did i not imagine that, in so short a time, thou wouldst have dismissed the apparel of our persuasion, neither do i find it seemly." "miss temple," interposed mr masterton, "it is to oblige those who are his sincere friends, that mr newland has laid aside his dress. i quarrel with no creed--every one has a right to choose for himself, and mr newland has perhaps not chosen badly, in embracing your tenets. let him continue steadfast in them. but, fair young lady, there is no creed which is perfect, and, even in yours, we find imperfection. our religion preaches humility, and therefore we do object to his wearing the garb of pride." "of pride, sayest thou? hath he not rather put off the garb of humility, and now appeareth in the garb of pride?" "not so, young madam: when we dress as all the world dress, we wear not the garb of pride; but when we put on a dress different from others, that distinguishes us from others, then we show our pride, and the worst of pride, for it is the hypocritical pride which apes humility. it is the pharisee of the scriptures, who preaches in high places, and sounds forth his charity to the poor; not the humility of the publican, who says, 'lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.' your apparel of pretended humility is the garb of pride, and for that reason have we insisted that he discards it, when with us. his tenets we interfere not with. there can be no religion in dress; and that must indeed be weak in itself, which requires dress for its support." susannah was astonished at this new feature of the case, so aptly put by the old lawyer. mrs cophagus looked at her husband, and cophagus pinched my arm, evidently agreeing with him. when mr masterton had finished speaking, susannah waited a few seconds, and then replied, "it becomes not one so young and weak as i am, to argue with thee, who art so much my senior. i cannot cavil at opinions which, if not correct, at least are founded on the holy writings; but i have been otherwise instructed." "then let us drop the argument, miss susannah, and let me tell you, that japhet wished to resume his quaker's dress, and i would not permit him. if there is any blame, it is to be laid to me; and it's no use being angry with an old man like myself." "i have no right to be angry with anyone," replied susannah. "but you were angry with me, susannah," interrupted i. "i cannot say that it was anger, japhet newland: i hardly know what the feeling might have been; but i was wrong, and i must request thy forgiveness;" and susannah held out her hand. "now you must forgive me too, miss temple," said old masterton, and susannah laughed against her wishes. the conversation then became general. mr masterton explained to mr cophagus what he required of him, and mr cophagus immediately acceded. it was arranged that he should go to town by the mail the next day. mr masterton talked a great deal about my father, and gave his character in its true light, as he considered it would be advantageous to me so to do. he then entered into conversation upon a variety of topics, and was certainly very amusing. susannah laughed very heartily before the evening was over, and mr masterton retired to the hotel, for i had resolved to sleep in my own bed. i walked home with mr masterton: i then returned to the house, and found them all in the parlour. mrs cophagus was expressing her delight at the amusement she had received, when i entered with a grave face. "i wish that i had not left you," said i to mrs cophagus; "i am afraid to meet my father; he will exact the most implicit obedience. what am i to do. must not i obey him?" "in all things lawful," replied susannah, "most certainly, japhet." "in all things lawful, susannah! now tell me, in the very case of my apparel; mr masterton says, that he never will permit me to wear the dress. what am i to do?" "thou hast thy religion and thy bible for thy guide, japhet." "i have; and in the bible i find written on tablets of stone by the prophet of god, 'honour thy father and thy mother;' there is a positive commandment; but i find no commandment to wear this or that dress. what think you?" continued i, appealing to them all. "i should bid thee honour thy father, japhet," replied mrs cophagus, "and you, susannah--" "i shall bid thee good-night, japhet." at this reply we all laughed, and i perceived there was a smile on susannah's face as she walked away. mrs cophagus followed her, laughing as she went, and cophagus and i were alone. "well, japhet--see old gentleman--kiss--shake hands--and blessing--and so on." "yes, sir," replied i, "but if he treats me ill, i shall probably come down here again. i am afraid that susannah is not very well pleased with me." "pooh, nonsense--wife knows all--die for you--japhet, do as you please--dress yourself--dress her--any dress--no dress like eve--sly puss--won't lose you--all right--and so on." i pressed mr cophagus to tell me all he knew, and i found from him that his wife had questioned susannah soon after my departure, had found her weeping, and that she had gained from her the avowal of her ardent affection for me. this was all i wanted, and i wished him good-night, and went to bed happy. i had an interview with susannah temple before i left the next morning, and, although i never mentioned love, had every reason to be satisfied. she was kind and affectionate; spoke to me in her usual serious manner, warned me against the world, acknowledged that i should have great difficulties to surmount, and even made much allowance for my peculiar situation. she dared not advise, but she would pray for me. there was a greater show of interest and confidence towards me than i had ever yet received from her. when i parted from her i said, "dear susannah, whatever change may take place in my fortunes or in my dress, believe me, my heart shall not be changed, and i shall ever adhere to those principles which have been instilled into me since i have been in your company." this was a phrase which admitted of a double meaning, and she replied, "i should wish to see thee perfect, japhet; but there is no perfection now on earth; be therefore as perfect as you can." "god bless you, susannah." "may the blessing of the lord be on you always, japhet," replied she. i put my arm round her waist, and slightly pressed her to my bosom. she gently disengaged herself, and her large eyes glistened with tears as she left the room. in a quarter of an hour i was with mr masterton on the road to london. "japhet," said the old gentleman, "i will say that you have been very wise in your choice, and that your little quaker is a most lovely creature: i am in love with her myself, and i think that she is far superior in personal attractions to cecilia de clare." "indeed, sir!" "yes, indeed; her face is more classical, and her complexion is unrivalled; as far as my present knowledge and experience go, she is an emblem of purity." "her mind, sir, is as pure as her person." "i believe it; she has a strong mind, and will think for herself." "there, sir, is, i am afraid, the difficulty; she will not yield a point in which she thinks she is right, not even for her love for me." "i agree with you that she will not, and i admire her for it; but, japhet, she will yield to conviction, and, depend upon it, she will abandon the outward observances of her persuasion. did you observe what a spoke i put in your wheel last night, when i stated that outward forms were pride. leave that to work, and i'll answer for the consequences: she will not long wear that quaker's dress. how beautiful she would be if she dressed like other people! i think i see her now entering a ball-room." "but what occasions you to think she will abandon her persuasion?" "i do not say that she will abandon it, nor do i wish her to do it, nor do i wish you to do it, japhet. there is much beauty and much perfection in the quaker's creed. all that requires to be abandoned are the dress and the ceremonies of the meetings, which are both absurdities. recollect, that miss temple has been brought up as a quaker; she has, from the exclusiveness of the sect, known no other form of worship, and never heard any opposition to that which has been inculcated; but let her once or twice enter the established church, hear its beautiful ritual, and listen to a sound preacher. let her be persuaded to do that, which cannot be asking her to do wrong, and then let her think and act for herself, and my word for it, when she draws the comparison between what she has then heard and the nonsense occasionally uttered in the quakers' conventicle, by those who fancy themselves inspired, she will herself feel that, although the tenets of her persuasion may be more in accordance with true christianity than those of other sects, the outward forms and observances are imperfect. i trust to her own good sense." "you make me very happy by saying so." "well, that is my opinion of her, and if she proves me to be correct, hang me if i don't think i shall adopt her." "what do you think of mrs cophagus, sir?" "i think she is no more a quaker in her heart than i am. she is a lively, merry, kind-hearted creature, and would have no objection to appear in feathers and diamonds to-morrow." "well, sir, i can tell you that mr cophagus still sighs after his blue cotton-net pantaloons and hessian boots." "more fool he! but, however, i am glad of it, for it gives me an idea which i shall work upon by-and-bye; at present we have this eventful meeting between you and your father to occupy us." we arrived in town in time for dinner, which mr masterton had ordered at his chambers. as the old gentleman was rather tired with his two days' travelling, i wished him good-night at an early hour. "recollect, japhet, we are to be at the adelphi hotel to-morrow at one o'clock--come in time." i called upon mr masterton at the time appointed on the ensuing day, and we drove to the hotel in which my father had located himself. on our arrival, we were ushered into a room on the ground floor, where we found mr cophagus and two of the governors of the foundling hospital. "really, mr masterton," said one of the latter gentlemen, "one would think that we were about to have an audience with a sovereign prince, and, instead of conferring favours, were about to receive them. my time is precious; i ought to have been in the city this half hour, and here is this old nabob keeping us waiting as if we were petitioners." mr masterton laughed and said, "let us all go up stairs, and not wait to be sent for." he called one of the waiters, and desired him to announce them to general de benyon. they then followed the waiter, leaving me alone. i must say, that i was a little agitated; i heard the door open above, and then an angry growl like that of a wild beast; the door closed again, and all was quiet. "and this," thought i, "is the result of all my fond anticipations, of my ardent wishes, of my enthusiastic search. instead of expressing anxiety to receive his son, he litigiously requires proofs, and more proofs, when he has received every satisfactory proof, already. they say his temper is violent beyond control, and that submission irritates instead of appeasing him; what then if i resent? i have heard that people of that description are to be better met with their own weapons;--suppose i try it;--but no, i have no right;--i will however be firm and keep my temper under every circumstance; i will show him, at least, that his son has the spirit and the feelings of a gentleman." as these thoughts passed in my mind the door opened, and mr masterton requested me to follow him. i obeyed with a palpitating heart, and when i had gained the landing-place up stairs, mr masterton took my hand and led me into the presence of my long-sought-for and much-dreaded _parent_. i may as well describe him and the whole tableau. the room was long and narrow, and, at the farther end, was a large sofa, on which was seated my father with his injured leg reposing on it, his crutches propped against the wall. on each side of him were two large poles and stands each with a magnificent macaw. next to the macaws were two native servants, arrayed in their muslin dresses, with their arms folded. a hooka was in advance of the table before the sofa; it was magnificently wrought in silver, and the snake passed under the table, so that the tube was within my honoured father's reach. on one side of the room sat the two governors of the foundling hospital, on the other was seated mr cophagus in his quaker's dress; the empty chair next to him had been occupied by mr masterton. i looked at my father: he was a man of great size, apparently six feet three or four inches, and stout in proportion without being burthened with fat: he was gaunt, broad shouldered, and muscular, and i think, must have weighed seventeen or eighteen stone. his head was in proportion to his body and very large; so were all his features upon the same grand scale. his complexion was of a brownish-yellow, and his hair of a snowy white. he wore his whiskers very large and joined together under the throat, and these, which were also white, from the circle which they formed round his face, and contrasting with the colour of his skin, gave his _tout ensemble_ much more the appearance of a royal bengal tiger than a gentleman. general de benyon saw mr masterton leading me forward to within a pace or two of the table before the general.--"allow me the pleasure of introducing your son, japhet." there was no hand extended to welcome me. my father fixed his proud grey eyes upon me for a moment, and then turned to the governors of the hospital. "is this the person, gentlemen, whom you received as an infant and brought up as japhet newland?" the governors declared i was the same person; that they had bound me to mr cophagus, and had seen me more than once since i quitted the asylum. "is this the japhet newland whom you received from these gentlemen and brought up to your business?" "yea, and verily--i do affirm the same--smart lad--good boy, and so on." "i will not take a quaker's affirmation--will you take your oath, sir?" "yes," replied cophagus, forgetting his quakership; "take oath--bring bible--kiss book, and so on." "you then, as a quaker, have no objection to swear to the identity of this person?" "swear," cried cophagus, "yes, swear--swear now--not japhet!--i'm damned--go to hell, and so on." the other parties present could not help laughing at this explosion from cophagus, neither could i. mr masterton then asked the general if he required any more proofs. "no," replied the general discourteously; and speaking in hindostanee to his attendants, they walked to the door and opened it. the hint was taken, mr masterton saying to the others in an ironical tone, "after so long a separation, gentlemen, it must be natural that the general should wish to be left alone, that he may give vent to his paternal feelings." chapter lxxiv father and i grow warm in our argument--obliged to give him a little schooling to show my affection--takes it at last very kindly, and very dutifully owns himself a fool. in the meantime, i was left standing in the middle of the room; the gentlemen departed, and the two native servants resumed their stations on each side of the sofa. i felt humiliated and indignant, but waited in silence; at last, my honoured parent, who had eyed me for some time, commenced. "if you think, young man, to win my favour by your good looks, you are very much mistaken: you are too like your mother, whose memory is anything but agreeable." the blood mounted to my forehead at this cruel observation; i folded my arms and looked my father steadfastly in the face, but made no reply. the choler of the gentleman was raised. "it appears that i have found a most dutiful son." i was about to make an angry answer, when i recollected myself, and i courteously replied, "my dear general, depend upon it that your son will always be ready to pay duty to whom duty is due; but excuse me, in the agitation of this meeting you have forgotten those little attentions which courtesy demands; with your permission i will take a chair, and then we may converse more at our ease. i hope your leg is better." i said this with the blandest voice and the most studied politeness, and drawing a chair towards the table, i took my seat; as i expected, it put my honoured father in a tremendous rage. "if this is a specimen, sir, of your duty and respect, sir, i hope to see no more of them. to whom your duty is due, sir!--and pray to whom is it due, sir, if not to the author of your existence?" cried the general, striking the table before him with his enormous fist, so as to make the ink fly out of the stand some inches high and bespatter the papers near it. "my dear father, you are perfectly correct: duty, as you say, is due to the author of our existence. if i recollect right, the commandment says, 'honour your father and your mother;' but at the same time, if i may venture to offer an observation, are there not such things as reciprocal duties--some which are even more paramount in a father than the mere begetting of a son?" "what do you mean, sir, by these insolent remarks?" interrupted my father. "excuse me, my dear father, i may be wrong, but if so, i will bow to your superior judgment; but it does appear to me, that the mere hanging me in a basket at the gate of the foundling hospital, and leaving me a bank-note of fifty pounds to educate and maintain me until the age of twenty-four, are not exactly all the duties incumbent upon a parent. if you think that they are, i am afraid that the world, as well as myself, will be of a different opinion. not that i intend to make any complaint, as i feel assured that now circumstances have put it in your power, it is your intention to make me amends for leaving me so long in a state of destitution, and wholly dependent upon my own resources." "you do, do you, sir? well, now, i'll tell you my resolution, which is--there is the door--go out, and never let me see your face again." "my dear father, as i am convinced this is only a little pleasantry on your part, or perhaps a mere trial whether i am possessed of the spirit and determination of a de benyon, i shall, of course, please you by not complying with your humorous request." "won't you, by g--d!" roared my father; then turning to his two native servants, he spoke to them in hindostanee. they immediately walked to the door, threw it wide open, and then coming back to me, were about to take me by the arms. i certainly felt my blood boil, but i recollected how necessary it was to keep my temper. i rose from my chair, and advancing to the side of the sofa, i said. "my dear father, as i perceive that you do not require your crutches at this moment, you will not perhaps object to my taking one. these foreign scoundrels must not be permitted to insult _you_ through the person of your only son." "turn him out," roared my father. the natives advanced, but i whirled the crutch round my head, and in a moment they were both prostrate. as soon as they gained their feet, i attacked them again, until they made their escape out of the room; i then shut the door and turned the key. "thank you, my dear sir," said i, returning the crutch to where it was before. "many thanks for thus permitting me to chastise the insolence of these black scoundrels, whom i take it for granted, you will immediately discharge;" and i again took my seat in the chair, bringing it closer to him. the rage of the general was now beyond all bounds; the white foam was spluttered out of his mouth, as he in vain endeavoured to find words. once he actually rose from the sofa, to take the law in his own hands, but the effort seriously injured his leg, and he threw himself down in pain and disappointment. "my dear father, i am afraid that, in your anxiety to help me, you have hurt your leg again," said i, in a soothing voice. "sirrah, sirrah," exclaimed he at last; "if you think that this will do, you are very much mistaken. you don't know me. you may turn out a couple of cowardly blacks, but now i'll show you that i am not to be played with. i discard you for ever--i disinherit--i disacknowledge you. you may take your choice, either to quit this room, or be put into the hands of the police." "the police, my dear sir! what can the police do?" "i may call in the police for the assault just committed by your servants, and have them up to bow street, but you cannot charge me with an assault." "but i will, by g--d, sir, true or not true." "indeed you would not, my dear father. a de benyon would never be guilty of a lie. besides, if you were to call in the police;--i wish to argue this matter coolly, because i ascribe your present little burst of ill-humour to your sufferings from your unfortunate accident. allowing then, my dear father, that you were to charge me with an assault, i should immediately be under the necessity of charging you also, and then we must both go to bow street together. were you ever at bow street, general?" the general made no reply, and i proceeded. "besides, my dear sir, only imagine how very awkward it would be when the magistrate put you on your oath, and asked you to make your charge. what would you be obliged to declare? that you had married when young, and finding that your wife had no fortune, had deserted her the second day after your marriage. that you, an officer in the army, and the honourable captain de benyon, had hung up your child at the gates of the foundling hospital--that you had again met your wife, married to another, and had been an accomplice in concealing her capital offence of bigamy, and had had meetings with her, although she belonged to another. i say meetings, for you did meet her, to receive her directions about me. i am charitable and suspect nothing--others will not be so. then, after her death, you come home, and inquire about your son. his identity is established,--and what then? not only you do not take him by the hand, in common civility, i might say, but you first try to turn him out of the house, and to give him in charge of the police: and then you will have to state for what. perhaps you will answer me that question, for i really do not know." by this time, my honoured father's wrath had, to a certain degree, subsided; he heard all i had to say, and he felt how very ridiculous would have been his intended proceedings, and, as his wrath subsided, so did his pain increase; he had seriously injured his leg, and it was swelling rapidly--the bandages tightened in consequence, and he was suffering under the acutest pain, "oh, oh!" groaned he. "my dear father, can i assist you?" "ring the bell, sir." "there is no occasion to summon assistance while i am here, my dear general. i can attend you professionally, and if you will allow me, will soon relieve your pain. your leg has swollen from exertion, and the bandages must be loosened." he made no reply, but his features were distorted with extreme pain. i went to him, and proceeded to unloose the bandages, which gave him considerable relief. i then replaced them, _secundum artem_, and with great tenderness, and going to the sideboard, took the lotion which was standing there with the other bottles, and wetted the bandages. in a few minutes he was quite relieved. "perhaps, sir," said i, "you had better try to sleep a little. i will take a book, and shall have great pleasure in watching by your side." exhausted with pain and violence, the general made no reply; he fell back on the sofa, and, in a short time, he snored most comfortably. "i have conquered you," thought i, as i watched him as he lay asleep. "if i have not yet, i will, that i am resolved." i walked gently to the door, unlocked it, and opening it without waking him, ordered some broth to be brought up immediately, saying that the general was asleep, and that i would wait for it outside. i accomplished this little manoeuvre, and re-closed the door without waking my father, and then i took my seat in the chair, and resumed my book, having placed the broth on the side of the fire-grate to keep it warm. in about an hour he awoke, and looked around him. "do you want anything, my dearest father?" inquired i. the general appeared undecided as to whether to recommence hostilities, but at last he said, "i wish the attendance of my servants, sir." "the attendance of a servant can never be equal to that of your own son, general," replied i, going to the fire, and taking the basin of broth, which i replaced upon the tray containing the _et ceteras_ on a napkin. "i expected you would require your broth, and i have had it ready for you." "it was what i did require, sir, i must acknowledge," replied my father, and without further remark he finished the broth. i removed the tray, and then went for the lotion, and again wetted the bandages on his leg. "is there anything else i can do for you, sir?" said i. "nothing--i am very comfortable." "then, sir," replied i, "i will now take my leave. you have desired me to quit your presence for ever; and you attempted force. i resisted that, because i would not allow you to have the painful remembrance that you had injured one who had strong claims upon you, and had never injured you. i resented it also, because i wished to prove to you that i was a de benyon, and had spirit to resist an insult. but, general, if you imagine that i have come here with a determination of forcing myself upon you, you are much mistaken. i am too proud, and happily am independent by my own exertions, so as not to require your assistance. had you received me kindly, believe me, you would have found a grateful and affectionate heart to have met that kindness. you would have found a son, whose sole object through life has been to discover a father, after whom he has yearned, who would have been delighted to have administered to his wants, to have yielded to his wishes, to have soothed him in his pain, and to have watched him in his sickness. deserted as i have been for so many years, i trust that i have not disgraced you, general de benyon; and if ever i have done wrong, it has been from a wish to discover you. i can appeal to lord windermear for the truth of that assertion. allow me to say, that it is a very severe trial--an ordeal which few pass through with safety--to be thrown as i have been upon the world, with no friend, no parent to assist or to advise me, to have to bear up against the contingency of being of unacknowledged and perhaps disgraceful birth. it is harder still, when i expected to find my dearest wishes realised, that without any other cause than that of my features resembling those of my mother, i am to be again cast away. one thing, general de benyon, i request, and i trust it will not be denied, which is, that i may assume the name which i am entitled to. i pledge you that i never will disgrace it. and now, sir, asking and expecting no more, i take my leave, and you may be assured, that neither poverty, privation, nor affliction of any kind, will ever induce me to again intrude into your presence. general de benyon, farewell for ever." i made my father a profound bow, and was quitting the room. "stop, sir," said the general. "stop one moment, if you please." i obeyed. "why did you put me out of temper? answer me that." "allow me to observe, sir, that i did not put you out of temper; and what is more, that i never lost my own temper during the insult and injury which i so undeservedly and unexpectedly have received." "but that very keeping your temper made me more angry, sir." "that is very possible; but surely i was not to blame. the greatest proof of a perfect gentleman is, that he is able to command his temper, and i wished you to acknowledge that i was not without such pretensions." "that is as much as to say that your father is no gentleman; and this, i presume, is a specimen of your filial duty," replied the general, warmly. "far from it, sir; there are many gentlemen who, unfortunately, cannot command their tempers, and are more to be pitied than blamed for it; but, sir, when such happens to be the case, they invariably redeem their error, and amply so, by expressing their sorrow, and offering an apology." "that is as much as to say, that you expect me to apologise to you." "allow me, sir, to ask you, did you ever know a de benyon submit to an insult?" "no, sir, i trust not." "then, sir, those whose feelings of pride will not allow them to submit to an insult ought never to insult others. if, in the warmth of the moment, they have done so, that pride should immediately induce them to offer an apology, not only due to the party, but to their own characters. there is no disgrace in making an apology when we are in error, but there is a great disgrace in withholding such an act of common justice and reparation." "i presume i am to infer from all this, that you expect an apology from me?" "general de benyon, as far as i am concerned, that is now of little importance; we part, and shall probably never meet again; if you think that it would make you feel more comfortable, i am willing to receive it." "i must suppose by that observation, that you fully expect it, and otherwise will not stay?" "i never had a thought of staying, general; you have told me that you have disinherited and discarded me for ever; no one with the feelings of a man would ever think of remaining after such a declaration." "upon what terms, then, sir, am i to understand that you will consent to remain with me, and forget all that has passed?" "my terms are simple, general; you must say that you retract what you have said, and are very sorry for having insulted me." "and without i do that, you will never come here again?" "most decidedly not, sir. i shall always wish you well, pray for your happiness, be sorry at your death, and attend your funeral as chief mourner, although you disinherit me. that is my duty, in return for my having taken your name, and your having acknowledged that i am your son; but live with you, or even see you occasionally, i will not, after what has passed this day, without you make me an apology." "i was not aware that it was necessary for a father to apologise to his son." "if you wrong a stranger, you offer an apology; how much more is it due to a near relation?" "but a parent has claims upon his own son, sir, for which he is bound to tender his duty." "i grant it, in the ordinary course of things in this life; but, general de benyon, what claims have you as a parent upon me? a son in most cases is indebted to his parents for their care and attention in infancy--his education--his religious instruction--his choice of a profession, and his advancement in life, by their exertions and interest; and when they are called away, he has a reasonable expectation of their leaving him a portion of their substance. they have a heavy debt of gratitude to pay for what they have received, and they are further checked by the hopes of what they may hereafter receive. up to this time, sir, i have not received the first, and this day i am told that i need not expect the last. allow me to ask you, general de benyon, upon what grounds you claim from me a filial duty? certainly not for benefits received, or for benefits in expectation; but i feel that i am intruding, and therefore, sir, once more, with every wish for your happiness, i take my leave." i went out, and had half closed the door after me, when the general cried out, "stop--don't go--japhet--my son--i was in a passion--i beg your pardon--don't mind what i said--i'm a passionate old fool." as he uttered this in broken sentences, i returned to him. he held out his hand. "forgive me, boy--forgive your father." i knelt down and kissed his hand; he drew me towards him, and i wept upon his bosom. chapter lxxv father still dutifully submissive at home--abroad, i am splitting a straw in arguments with susannah about straw bonnets--the rest of the chapter contains coquetry, courting, and costumes. it was some time before we were sufficiently composed to enter into conversation, and then i tried my utmost to please him. still, there was naturally a restraint on both sides, but i was so particular and devoted in my attentions, so careful of giving offence, that when he complained of weariness, and a wish to retire, he stipulated that i should be with him to breakfast on the next morning. i hastened to mr masterton, although it was late, to communicate to him all that had passed; he heard me with great interest. "japhet," said he, "you have done well--it is the proudest day of your life. you have completely mastered him. the royal bengal tiger is tamed. i wish you joy, my dear fellow. now i trust that all will be well. but keep your own counsel, do not let this be known at reading. let them still imagine that your father is as passionate as ever, which he will be, by-the-bye, with everybody else. you have still to follow up your success, and leave me to help you in other matters." i returned home to the piazza, and, thankful to heaven for the events of the day, i soon fell fast asleep, and dreamt of susannah temple. the next morning i was early at the adelphi hotel; my father had not yet risen, but the native servants who passed in and out, attending upon him, and who took care to give me a wide berth, had informed him that "burra saib's" son was come, and he sent for me. his leg was very painful and uncomfortable, and the surgeon had not yet made his appearance. i arranged it as before, and he then dressed, and came out to breakfast. i had said nothing before the servants, but as soon as he was comfortable on the sofa i took his hand, and kissed it, saying, "good morning, my dear father; i hope you do not repent of your kindness to me yesterday." "no, no; god bless you, boy. i've been thinking of you all night." "all's right," thought i; "and i trust to be able to keep it so." i shall pass over a fortnight, during which i was in constant attendance upon my father. at times he would fly out in a most violent manner, but i invariably kept my temper, and when it was all over, would laugh at him, generally repeating and acting all which he had said and done during his paroxysm. i found this rather dangerous ground at first, but by degrees he became used to it, and it was wonderful how it acted as a check upon him. he would not at first believe but that i exaggerated, when the picture was held up to his view and he was again calm. my father was not naturally a bad-tempered man, but having been living among a servile race, and holding high command in the army, he had gradually acquired a habit of authority and an impatience of contradiction which was unbearable to all around. those who were high-spirited and sensitive shunned him; the servile and the base continued with him for their own interests, but trembled at his wrath. i had during this time narrated to my father the events of my life, and, i am happy to say, had, by attention and kindness joined with firmness and good temper, acquired a dominion over him. i had at his request removed to the hotel, and lived with him altogether. his leg was rapidly arriving to a state of convalescence, and he now talked of taking a house and setting up his establishment in london. i had seen but little of mr masterton during this time, as i had remained in-doors in attendance upon the general. i had written once to mr cophagus, stating how i was occupied, but saying nothing about our reconciliation. one morning, mr masterton called upon us, and after a little conversation with the general, he told me that he had persuaded mr cophagus and his wife to leave reading and come to london, and that susannah temple was to come with them. "on a visit?" inquired i. "no, not on a visit. i have seen cophagus, and he is determined to cut the quakers, and reside in london altogether." "what! does he intend to return to the pomps and vanities of this wicked world?" "yes, i believe so, and his wife will join him. she has no objection to decorate her pretty person." "i never thought that she had--but susannah temple--" "when susannah is away from her friends, when she finds that her sister and brother-in-law no longer wear the dress, and when she is constantly in your company, to all which please to add the effect i trust of my serious admonitions, she will soon do as others do, or she is no woman. this is all my plan, and leave it to me--only play your part by seeing as much of her as you can." "you need not fear that," replied i. "does your father know of your attachment?" inquired mr masterton. "no, i passed her over without mentioning her name," replied i. "it is too soon yet to talk to him about my marrying; in fact, the proposal must, if possible, come from him. could not you manage that?" "yes, i will if i can; but, as you say, wait awhile. here is their address--you must call to-morrow, if you can; and do you think you can dine with me on thursday?" "yes, if the general continues improving; if not, i will send you word." the next day i complained of a headache, and said, that i would walk out until dinner-time. i hastened to the address given me by mr masterton, and found that mr cophagus and his wife were out, but susannah remained at home. after our first questions, i inquired of her how she liked london. "i am almost afraid to say, japhet, at least to you; you would only laugh at me." "not so, susannah; i never laugh when i know people are sincere." "it appears to me, then, to be a vanity fair." "that there is more vanity in london than in any other city, i grant," replied i; "but recollect, that there are more people and more wealth. i do not think that there is more in proportion than in other towns in england, and if there is more vanity, susannah, recollect also that there is more industry, more talent, and i should hope a greater proportion of good and honest people among its multitudes; there is also, unfortunately, more misery and more crime." "i believe you are right, japhet. are you aware that mr cophagus has put off his plain attire?" "if it grieves you, susannah, it grieves me also; but i presume he finds it necessary not to be so remarkable." "for him, i could find some excuse; but what will you say, japhet, when i tell you that my own sister, born and bred up to our tenets, hath also deviated much from the dress of the females of our sect?" "in what hath she made an alteration?" "she has a bonnet of plaited straw with ribbons." "of what colour are the ribbons?" "nay, of the same as her dress--of grey." "your bonnet, susannah, is of grey silk; i do not see that there is vanity in descending to straw, which is a more homely commodity. but what reason has she given?" "that her husband wills it, as he does not like to walk out with her in her quaker's dress." "is it not her duty to obey her husband, even as i obey my father, susannah?--but i am not ashamed to walk out with you in your dress; so if you have no objection, let me show you a part of this great city." susannah consented; we had often walked together in the town of reading: she was evidently pleased at what i said. i soon escorted her to oxford street, from thence down bond street, and through all the most frequented parts of the metropolis. the dress naturally drew upon her the casual glance of the passengers, but her extreme beauty turned the glance to an ardent gaze, and long before we had finished our intended walk, susannah requested that i would go home. she was not only annoyed but almost alarmed at the constant and reiterated scrutiny which she underwent, ascribing it to her dress, and not to her lovely person. as soon as we returned i sat down with her. "so i understand that mr cophagus intends to reside altogether in london." "i have not heard so; i understood that it was business which called him hither for a few weeks. i trust not, for i shall be unhappy here." "may i ask why?" "the people are rude--it is not agreeable to walk out." "recollect, my dear susannah, that those of your sect are not so plentiful in london as elsewhere, and if you wear a dress so different from other people, you must expect that curiosity will be excited. you cannot blame them--it is you who make yourself conspicuous, almost saying to the people by your garment, 'come, and look at me.' i have been reflecting upon what mr masterton said to you at reading, and i do not know whether he was not right in calling it a garb of pride instead of a garb of humility." "if i thought so, japhet, even i would throw it off," replied susannah. "it certainly is not pleasant that every one should think that you walk out on purpose to be stared at, yet such is the ill-natured construction of the world, and they will never believe otherwise. it is possible, i should think, to dress with equal simplicity and neatness, to avoid gay colours, and yet to dress so as not to excite observation." "i hardly know what to say, but that you all appear against me, and that sometimes i feel that i am too presumptuous in thus judging for myself." "i am not against you, susannah; i know you will do what you think is right, and i shall respect you for that, even if i disagree with you; but i must say, that if my wife were to dress in such a way as to attract the public gaze, i should feel too jealous to approve of it. i do not, therefore, blame mr cophagus for inducing his pretty wife to make some alteration in her attire, neither do i blame but i commend her for obeying the wishes of her husband. her beauty is his, and not common property." susannah did not reply; she appeared very thoughtful. "you disagree with me, susannah," said i, after a pause; "i am sorry for it." "i cannot say that i do, japhet; i have learned a lesson this day, and, in future, i must think more humbly of myself, and be more ruled by the opinions and judgment of others." mr and mrs cophagus then came in. cophagus had resumed his medical coat and waistcoat, but not his pantaloons or hessians: his wife, who had a very good taste in dress, would not allow him. she was in her grey silk gown, but wore a large handsome shawl, which covered all but the skirts; on her head she had a leghorn bonnet, and certainly looked very pretty. as usual, she was all good-humour and smiles. i told them that we had been walking out, and that susannah had been much annoyed by the staring of the people. "always so," said cophagus, "never mind--girls like it--feel pleased--and so on." "you wrong me much, brother cophagus," replied susannah, "it pained me exceedingly." "all very well to say so--know better--sly puss--will wear dress--people say, pretty quaker--and so on." susannah hastily left the room after this attack, and i told them what had passed. "mrs cophagus," said i, "order a bonnet and shawl like yours for her, without telling her, and perhaps you will persuade her to put them on." mrs cophagus thought the idea excellent, and promised to procure them. susannah not making her re-appearance, i took leave and arrived at the hotel in good time for dinner. "japhet," said the general to me as we were at table, "you have mentioned lord windermear very often, have you called upon him lately?" "no, sir, it is now two years and more since i have seen him. when i was summoned to town to meet you, i was too much agitated to think of anything else, and since that i have had too much pleasure in your company." "say, rather, my good boy, that you have nursed me so carefully that you have neglected your friends and your health. take my carriage to-morrow, and call upon him, and after that, you had better drive about a little, for you have been looking pale these last few days. i hope to get out myself in a short time, and then we will have plenty of amusement together in setting up our establishment." chapter lxxvi i renew old ties of friendship, and seek new ones of love--obliged to take my father to task once more--he receives his lesson with proper obedience. i took the carriage the next day, and drove to lord windermear's. he was at home, and i gave my name to the servant as mr de benyon. it was the first time that i had made use of my own name. his lordship was alone when i entered. he bowed, as if not recognising me, and waved his hand to a chair. "my lord, i have given my true name, and you treat me as a perfect stranger. i will mention my former name, and i trust you will honour me with a recognition. i was japhet newland." "my dear mr newland, you must accept my apology; but it is so long since we met, and i did not expect to see you again." "i thought, my lord, that mr masterton had informed you of what had taken place." "no; i have just come from a visit to my sisters in westmoreland, and have received no letters from him." "i have, my lord, at last succeeded in finding out the object of my mad search, as you were truly pleased to call it, in the honourable general de benyon, lately arrived from the east indies." "where his services are well known," added his lordship. "mr de benyon, i congratulate you with all my heart. when you refused my offers of assistance, and left us all in that mad way, i certainly despaired of ever seeing you again. i am glad that you re-appear under such fortunate auspices. has your father any family?" "none, my lord, but myself; and my mother died in the east indies." "then i presume, from what i know at the board of control, that you may _now_ safely be introduced as a young gentleman of large fortune; allow me at least to assist your father in placing you in your proper sphere in society. where is your father?" "at present, my lord, he is staying at the adelphi hotel, confined to his room by an accident, but i trust that in a few days he will be able to come out." "will you offer my congratulations to him, and tell him, that if he will allow me, i will have the honour of paying my respects to him. will you dine with me on monday next?" i returned my thanks, accepted the invitation, and took my leave, his lordship saying as he shook hands with me, "you don't know how happy this intelligence has made me. i trust that your father and i shall be good friends." when i returned to the carriage, as my father had desired me to take an airing, i thought i might as well have a companion, so i directed them to drive to mr cophagus's. the servant knocked, and i went in as soon as the door was opened. susannah and mrs cophagus were sitting in the room. "susannah," said i, "i know you do not like to walk out, so i thought, perhaps, you would have no objection to take an airing in the carriage; my father has lent it to me. will you come?--it will do you good." "it is very kind of you, japhet, to think of me; but--" "but what?" replied mrs cophagus. "surely thou wilt not refuse, susannah. it would savour much of ingratitude on thy part." "i will not then be ungrateful," replied susannah, leaving the room; and in a short time she returned in a leghorn bonnet and shawl like her sister's. "do not i prove that i am not ungrateful, japhet, since to do credit to thy carriage, i am content to depart from the rules of our persuasion?" said susannah, smiling. "i feel the kindness and the sacrifice you are making to please me, susannah," replied i; "but let us lose no time." i handed her down to the carriage, and we drove to the park. it was a beautiful day, and the park was filled with pedestrians as well as carriages. susannah was much astonished, as well as pleased. "now, susannah," said i, "if you were to call this vanity fair, you would not be far wrong; but still, recollect that even all this is productive of much good. reflect how many industrious people find employment and provision for their families by the building of these gay vehicles, their painting and ornamenting. how many are employed at the loom, and at the needle, in making these costly dresses. this vanity is the cause of wealth not being hoarded, but finding its way through various channels, so as to produce comfort and happiness to thousands." "your observations are just, japhet, but you have lived in the world, and seen much of it. i am as one just burst from an egg-shell, all amazement. i have been living in a little world of my own thoughts, surrounded by a mist of ignorance, and not being able to penetrate farther, have considered myself wise when i was not." "my dear susannah, this is a chequered world, but not a very bad one--there is in it much of good as well as evil. the sect to which you belong avoid it--they know it not--and they are unjust towards it. during the time that i lived at reading, i will candidly state to you that i met with many who called themselves of the persuasion, who were wholly unworthy of it, but they made up in outward appearance and hypocrisy, what they wanted in their conduct to their fellow-creatures. believe me, susannah, there are pious and good, charitable and humane, conscientious and strictly honourable people among those who now pass before your view in such gay procession; but society requires that the rich should spend their money in superfluities, that the poor may be supported. be not deceived, therefore, in future, by the outward garments, which avail nothing." "you have induced me much to alter my opinions already, japhet; so has that pleasant friend of thine, mr masterton, who has twice called since we have been in london, but is it not time that we should return?" "it is indeed later than i thought it was, susannah," replied i, looking at my watch, "and i am afraid that my father will be impatient for my return. i will order them to drive home." as we drove along, leaning against the back of the carriage, my hand happened to touch that of susannah, which lay beside her on the cushion, i could not resist taking it in mine, and it was not withdrawn. what my thoughts were, the reader may imagine; susannah's i cannot acquaint him with; but in that position we remained in silence until the carriage stopped at cophagus's door. i handed susannah out of the carriage, and went up stairs for a few moments. mrs cophagus and her husband were out. "susannah, this is very kind of you, and i return you my thanks. i never felt more happy than when seated with you in that carriage." "i have received both amusement and instruction, japhet, and ought to thank you. do you know what passed in my mind at one time?" "no--tell me." "when i first knew you, and you came among us, i was, as it were, the guide, a presumptuous one perhaps to you, and you listened to me--now it is reversed--now that we are removed and in the world, it is you that are the guide, and it is i who listen and obey." "because, susannah, when we first met i was much in error, and had thought too little of serious things, and you were fit to be my guide: now we are mixing in the world, with which i am better acquainted than yourself. you then corrected me, when i was wrong: i now point out to you where you are not rightly informed: but, susannah, what you have learnt of me is as nought compared with the valuable precepts which i gained from your lips--precepts which, i trust, no collision with the world will ever make me forget." "oh! i love to hear you say that; i was fearful that the world would spoil you, japhet; but it will not--will it?" "not so long as i have you still with me, susannah: but if i am obliged to mix again with the world, tell me, susannah, will you reject me?--will you desert me?--will you return to your own people and leave me so exposed? susannah, dearest, you must know how long, how dearly i have loved you:--you know that, if i had not been sent for and obliged to obey the message, i would have lived and died content with you. will you not listen to me now, or do you reject me?" i put my arm round her waist, her head fell upon my shoulder, and she burst into tears. "speak, dearest, this suspense is torture to me," continued i. "i do love you, japhet," replied she at last, looking fondly at me through her tears; "but i know not whether this earthly love may not have weakened my affection towards heaven. if so, may god pardon me, for i cannot help it." after this avowal, for a few minutes, which appeared seconds, we were in each other's arms, when susannah disengaged herself. "dearest japhet, thy father will be much displeased." "i cannot help it," replied i, "i shall submit to his displeasure." "nay, but, japhet, why risk thy father's wrath?" "well, then," replied i, attempting to reach her lips, "i will go." "nay, nay--indeed, japhet, you exact too much--it is not seemly." "then i won't go." "recollect about thy father." "it is you who detain me, susannah." "i must not injure thee with thy father, japhet, it were no proof of my affection--but, indeed, you are self-willed." "god bless you, susannah," said i, as i gained the contested point, and hastened to the carriage. my father was a little out of humour when i returned, and questioned me rather sharply as to where i had been. i half pacified him by delivering lord windermear's polite message; but he continued his interrogations, and although i had pointed out to him that a de benyon would never be guilty of an untruth, i am afraid i told some half dozen on this occasion; but i consoled myself with the reflection, that, in the code of honour of a fashionable man, he is bound, if necessary, to tell falsehoods where a lady is concerned; so i said i had driven through the streets looking at the houses, and had twice stopped and had gone in to examine them. my father supposed that i had been looking out for a house for him, and was satisfied. fortunately they were job horses; had they been his own i should have been in a severe scrape. horses are the only part of an establishment for which the gentlemen have any consideration, and on which ladies have no mercy. i had promised the next day to dine with mr masterton. my father had taken a great aversion to this old gentleman until i had narrated the events of my life, in which he had played such a conspicuous and friendly part. then, to do my father justice, his heart warmed towards him. "my dear sir, i have promised to dine out to-day." "with whom, japhet?" "why, sir, to tell you the truth, with that 'old thief of a lawyer.'" "i am very much shocked at your using such an expression towards one who has been such a sincere friend, japhet; and you will oblige me, sir, by not doing so again in my presence." "i really beg your pardon, general," replied i, "but i thought to please you." "please me! what do you think of me? please me, sir, by showing yourself ungrateful?--i am ashamed of you, sir." "my dear father, i borrowed the expression from you. you called mr masterton 'an old thief of a lawyer' to his face: he complained to me of the language before i had the pleasure of meeting you. i feel, and always shall feel, the highest respect, love, and gratitude towards him. have i your permission to go?" "yes, japhet," replied my father, looking very grave, "and do me the favour to apologise for me to mr masterton for my having used such an expression in my unfortunate warmth of temper--i am ashamed of myself." "my dearest father, no man need be ashamed who is so ready to make honourable reparation:--we are all a little out of temper at times." "you have been a kind friend to me, japhet, as well as a good son," replied my father, with some emotion. "don't forget the apology at all events: i shall be unhappy until it be made." chapter lxxvii treats of apologies, and love coming from church--we finesse with the nabob to win me a wife--i am successful in my suit, yet the lawyer is still to play the cards to enable me to win the game. i arrived at mr masterton's, and walked into his room, when whom should i find in company with him but harcourt. "japhet, i'm glad to see you: allow me to introduce you to mr harcourt--mr de benyon," and the old gentleman grinned maliciously, but i was not to be taken aback. "harcourt," said i, extending my hand, "i have to apologise to you for a rude reception and for unjust suspicions, but i was vexed at the time--if you will admit that as an excuse." "my dear japhet," replied harcourt, taking my hand and shaking it warmly, "i have to apologise to you for much more unworthy behaviour, and it will be a great relief to my mind if you will once more enrol me in the list of your friends." "and now, mr masterton," said i, "as apologies appear to be the order of the day, i bring you one from the general, who has requested me to make one to you for having called you an old thief of a lawyer, of which he was totally ignorant until i reminded him of it to-day." harcourt burst into a laugh. "well, japhet, you may tell your old tiger, that i did not feel particularly affronted, as i took his expression professionally and not personally, and if he meant it in that sense, he was not far wrong. japhet, to-morrow is sunday; do you go to meeting or to church?" "i believe, sir, that i shall go to church." "well, then, come with me:--be here at half-past two--we will go to evening service at st james's." "i have received many invitations, but i never yet received an invitation to go to church," replied i. "you will hear an extra lesson of the day--a portion of susannah and the elders." i took the equivoque, which was incomprehensible to harcourt: i hardly need say, that the latter and i were on the best terms. when we separated, harcourt requested leave to call upon me the next morning, and mr masterton said that he should also pay his respects to the tiger, as he invariably called my most honoured parent. harcourt was with me very soon after breakfast, and after i had introduced him to my "governor," we retired to talk without interruption. "i have much to say to you, de benyon," commenced harcourt: "first let me tell you, that after i rose from my bed, and discovered that you had disappeared, i resolved, if possible, to find you out and induce you to come back. timothy, who looked very sly at me, would tell me nothing, but that the last that was heard of you was at lady de clare's, at richmond. having no other clue, i went down there, introduced myself, and, as they will tell you, candidly acknowledged that i had treated you ill. i then requested that they would give me any clue by which you might be found, for i had an opportunity of offering to you a situation which was at my father's disposal, and which any gentleman might have accepted, although it was not very lucrative." "it was very kind of you, harcourt." "do not say that, i beg. it was thus that i formed an acquaintance with lady de clare and her daughter, whose early history, as fleta, i had obtained from you, but who i little imagined to be the little girl that you had so generously protected; for it was not until after i had deserted you, that you had discovered her parentage. the extreme interest relative to you evinced by both the mother and the daughter surprised me. they had heard of my name from you, but not of our quarrel. they urged me, and thanked me for proposing, to follow you and find you out: i did make every attempt. i went to brentford, inquired at all the public-houses, and of all the coachmen who went down the road, but could obtain no information, except that at one public-house, a gentleman stopped with a portmanteau, and soon afterwards went away with it on his shoulders. i returned to richmond with the tidings of my ill-success about a week after i had first called there. cecilia was much affected and cried very bitterly. i could not help asking lady de clare why she took such a strong interest in your fortunes. 'who ought,' replied cecilia, 'if his poor fleta does not?' 'good heavens! miss de clare, are you the little fleta whom he found with the gipsies, and talked to me so much about?' 'did you not know it?' said lady de clare. i then explained to her all that had latterly passed between us, and they in return communicated your events and dangers in ireland. thus was an intimacy formed, and ever since i have been constantly welcome at their house. i did not, however, abandon my enquiries for many months, when i thought it was useless, and i had to console poor cecilia, who constantly mourned for you. and now, japhet, i must make my story short: i could not help admiring a young person who showed so much attachment and gratitude joined to such personal attractions, but she was an heiress and i was a younger brother. still lady de clare insisted upon my coming to the house, and i was undecided how to act when the unfortunate death of my elder brother put me in a situation to aspire to her hand. after that my visits were more frequent, and i was tacitly received as a suitor by lady de clare, and had no reason to complain of the treatment i received from cecilia. such was the position of affairs until the day on which you broke in upon us so unexpectedly, and at the very moment that you came in, i had, with the sanction of her mother, made an offer to cecilia, and was anxiously awaiting an answer from her own dear lips. can you therefore be surprised, japhet, at there being a degree of constraint on all sides at the interruption occasioned by the presence of one who had long been considered lost to us? or that a young person just deciding upon the most important step of her life should feel confused and agitated at the entrance of a third party, however dear he might be to her as a brother and benefactor?" "i am perfectly satisfied, harcourt," replied i: "and i will go there, and make my peace as soon as i can." "indeed, japhet, if you knew the distress of cecilia you would pity and love her more than ever. her mother is also much annoyed. as soon as you were gone, they desired me to hasten after you and bring you back. cecilia had not yet given her answer: i requested it before my departure, but, i presume to stimulate me, she declared that she would give me no answer, until i re-appeared with you. this is now three weeks ago, and i have not dared to go there. i have been trying all i can to see you again since you repulsed me at the piazza, but without success, until i went to mr masterton, and begged him to procure me an interview. i thank god it has succeeded." "well, harcourt, you shall see cecilia to-morrow morning, if you please." "japhet, what obligations i am under to you! had it not been for you i never should have known cecilia; and more, were it not for your kindness, i might perhaps lose her for ever." "not so, harcourt; it was your own good feeling prompting you to find me out, which introduced you to cecilia, and i wish you joy with all my heart. this is a strange world--who would have imagined that, in little fleta, i was picking up a wife for a man whose life i nearly took away? i will ask my governor for his carriage to-morrow, and will call and take you up at your lodgings at two o'clock, if that hour will suit you. i will tell you all that has passed since i absconded, when we are at lady de clare's; one story will do for all." harcourt then took his leave, and i returned to my father, with whom i found lord windermear. "de benyon, i am happy to see you again," said his lordship. "i have just been giving a very good character of you to the general; i hope you will continue to deserve it." "i hope so too, my lord; i should be ungrateful indeed, if i did not, after my father's kindness to me." mr masterton was then introduced: lord windermear shook hands with him, and after a short conversation took his leave. "japhet," said mr masterton aside, "i have a little business with your father; get out of the room any way you think best." "there are but two ways, my dear sir," replied i, "the door or the windows: with your permission, i will select the former, as most agreeable;" so saying, i went to my own room. what passed between the general and mr masterton i did not know until afterwards, but they were closeted upwards of an hour, when i was sent for by mr masterton. "japhet, you said you would go with me to hear the new preacher; we have no time to lose: so, general, i shall take my leave and run away with your son." i followed mr masterton into his carriage, and we drove to the lodging of mr cophagus. susannah was all ready, and mr masterton went up stairs and brought her down. a blush and a sweet smile illumined her features when she perceived me stowed away in the corner of the chariot. we drove off, and somehow or another our hands again met and did not separate until we arrived at the church door. susannah had the same dress on as when she had accompanied me in my father's carriage. i went through the responses with her, reading out of the same book, and i never felt more inclined to be devout, for i was happy, and grateful to heaven for my happiness. when the service was over, we were about to enter the carriage, when who should accost us but harcourt. "you are surprised to see me here," said he to mr masterton, "but i thought there must be something very attractive, that you should make an appointment with japhet to go to this church, and as i am very fond of a good sermon, i determined to come and hear it." harcourt's ironical look told me all he would say. "well," replied mr masterton, "i hope you have been edified--now get out of the way, and let us go into the carriage." "to-morrow at two, de benyon," said harcourt, taking another peep at susannah. "yes, punctually," replied i, as the carriage drove off. "and now, my dear child," said mr masterton to susannah, as the carriage rolled along, "tell me, have you been disappointed, or do you agree with me? you have attended a meeting of your own persuasion this morning--you have now, for the first time, listened to the ritual of the established church. to which do you give the preference?" "i will not deny, sir, that i think, in departing from the forms of worship, those of my persuasion did not do wisely. i would not venture thus much to say, but you support me in my judgment." "you have answered like a good, sensible girl, and have proved that you can think for yourself; but observe, my child, i have persuaded you for once, and once only, to enter our place of worship, that you might compare and judge for yourself; it now remains for you to decide as you please." "i would that some better qualified would decide for me," replied susannah, gravely. "your husband, susannah," whispered i, "must take that responsibility upon himself. is he not the proper person?" susannah slightly pressed my hand, which held hers, and said nothing. as soon as we had conveyed her home, mr masterton offered to do me the same kindness, which i accepted. "now, japhet, i dare say that you would like to know what it was i had so particular to say to the old general this morning." "of course i would, sir, if it concerned me." "it did concern you, for we had not been two minutes in conversation, before you were brought on the tapis; he spoke of you with tears in his eyes--of what a comfort you had been to him, and how happy you had made him; and that he could not bear you to be away from him for half an hour. on that hint i spake, and observed, that he must not expect you to continue in retirement long, neither must he blame you, that when he had set up his establishment, you would be as great a favourite as you were before, and be unable, without giving offence, to refuse the numerous invitations which you would receive. in short, that it was nothing but right you should resume your position in society, and it was his duty to submit to it. the old governor did not appear to like my observations, and said he expected otherwise from you. i replied 'that it was impossible to change our natures, and the other sex would naturally have attractions which you would not be able to resist, and that they would occupy a large portion of your time. the only way to ensure his company, my dear sir, is to marry him to a steady, amiable young woman, who, not having been thrown into the vortex of fashion, will find pleasure in domestic life. then her husband will become equally domestic, and you will be all very happy together.' your father agreed with me, and appeared very anxious that it should take place. i then very carefully introduced miss temple, saying, that i knew you had a slight partiality in that quarter, highly commending her beauty, prudence, &c. i stated, that feeling an interest about you, i had gone down into the country where she resided, and had made her acquaintance, and had been much pleased with her; that since she had come up to town with her relations, i had seen a great deal, and had formed so high an opinion of, and so strong an attachment to her, and had felt so convinced that she was the very person who would make you happy and domestic, that having no family myself, i had some idea of adopting her. at all events, that if she married you, i was determined to give her something very handsome on the day of the wedding." "but, my dear sir, why should you not have said that susannah temple was left an orphan at seven years old, and her fortune has accumulated ever since? it is by no means despicable, i understand, from mr cophagus; and moreover, mr cophagus intends to leave her all his property." "i am very glad to hear it, japhet, and will not fail to communicate all this to your father; but there is no reason why i may not do as i please with my own money--and i love that girl dearly. by-the-bye, have you ever said anything to her?" "o yes, sir, we are pledged to each other." "that's all right; i thought so, when i saw your fingers hooked together in the carriage. but now, japhet, i should recommend a little indifference--not exactly opposition, when your father proposes the subject to you. it will make him more anxious, and when you consent more obliged to you. i have promised to call upon him to-morrow, on that and other business, and you had better be out of the way." "i shall be out of the way, sir; i mean to go with harcourt to lady de clare's. i shall ask for the carriage." "he will certainly lend it to you, as he wishes to get rid of you; but here we are. god bless you, my boy." chapter lxxviii the bengal tiger taken in the toils, which promise a speedy end to mine--i kindly permit my father to insist upon the marriage that i have set my heart upon. i found my father, who had now completely recovered from his accident, walking up and down the room in a brown study. he did not speak to me until after dinner, when he commenced with asking some questions relative to cecilia de clare. i replied, "that i intended, if he did not want the carriage, to call there to-morrow with mr harcourt." "is she very handsome?" inquired he. "very much so, sir. i do not think i ever saw a handsomer young person. yes, i do recollect one." "who was that?" "a young lady with whom i was slightly acquainted, when living in the country." "i have been thinking, my dear boy, that with the competence which you will have, it is right that you should marry early; in so doing you will oblige your father, who is anxious to see his grandchildren before he dies. my health is not very good." i could not help smiling at this pathetic touch of the old governor's, who, if one could judge from appearances, was as strong as a lion, and likely to last almost as long as his dutiful son. moreover, his appetite was enormous, and he invariably finished his bottle every day. i did not therefore feel any serious alarm as to his health, but i nevertheless replied, "matrimony is a subject upon which i have never thought"--(ahem! a de benyon never tells an untruth!), "i am very young yet, and am too happy to remain with you." "but, my dear boy, i propose that you shall remain with me--we will all live together. i do not intend that we shall part. i really wish, japhet, you would think seriously of it." "my dear father, allow me to observe, that at present i am not in a situation to support a wife, and i should be sorry to be a tax upon you, at your age; you require many comforts and luxuries, and i presume that you live up to your income." "then, my dear fellow, you are under a great mistake. i can lay down one hundred thousand pounds on the day of your marriage, with any lady whom i approve of, and still not spend half my remaining income." "that, sir," replied i, "certainly removes one difficulty, at the same time that it proves what a generous and indulgent father i am blessed with; but, sir, with such a fortune, i have a right to expect that the lady will also bring a handsome addition. miss de clare is engaged, i believe, to mr harcourt, or i might have made strong interest in that quarter." "something, my dear boy; but a moderate fortune now-a-days is all that we expect with wives, and the best wives are those who are not born to too much wealth; still she should bring something; but tell me, japhet, who is that young lady whom you thought handsomer than miss de clare?" "a miss temple, sir." "temple--it is a very good name. i think girls brought up in the country make the best wives." "they do, sir, most certainly; they are more domestic, and make their husbands more content and happy at home." "well, my dear boy, i have mentioned the subject, and wish you would think of it. you will please me much." "my dear father, i shall be most happy to obey in everything else, but in so serious a point as uniting myself for life, i think you must allow that a little discretionary power should be given to a son. all i can say is this, show me a young person who is eligible, and if i find that i can love her, i will not refuse to obey your wishes." "well, sir, do as you please," replied my father, very angrily; "but i think, sir, when i desire you to fall in love, it is your duty to obey." "suppose i was to fall in love with a person you did not like, would you allow me to marry her?" "most certainly not, sir." "then, sir, is it reasonable to expect me to marry without being in love?" "i did not marry for love, sir." "no," replied i, forgetting myself a little; "and a pretty mess you made of it." "i did," rejoined my father in a rage, "by begetting an undutiful, good-for-nothing, graceless, insolent, ungrateful son." "my dear father, i was not aware that i had a brother." "i mean you, sir." "to prove to you how unjust you are, sir, and how little i deserve what you have called me, i now promise you to marry as soon as you wish." "thank you, my boy, that's kind of you; but i will say that you are a comfort and a treasure to me, and i bless the day that brought you to my arms. well, then, look about you." "no, sir, i leave it all to you; select the party, and i am willing to obey you." "my dear boy! well, then, i'll talk the matter over with mr masterton to-morrow," and the general shook me warmly by the hand. the next day i picked up harcourt, and proceeded to park street. a note from him had informed them of our intended visit, and other visitors had been denied. "all has been explained, cecilia," said i, after the first greeting: "i was very wrong, and very foolish." "and made me very miserable. i little thought that you, japhet, would have made me cry so much; but i forgive you for it, as i would a thousand times as much more. now sit down and tell us all that has happened since you left us." "not yet, my dear cecilia. you, as well as i, owe a reparation to poor harcourt, whom, i think, you have treated cruelly. you were about to answer a question of vital moment when i broke in upon you, and you have since kept him in a state of cruel suspense for more than three weeks, refusing him an answer until he brought me into your presence. an hour of such suspense must be dreadful, and before we sit down, i wish everyone should feel comfortable and happy." "it was not altogether to stimulate mr harcourt to bring you back, which induced me to refuse to answer his question, japhet. i considered that your return had rendered it necessary that it should be deferred until i saw you. i have not forgotten, japhet, and never shall forget, what i was when you rescued me; and when i think what i might have been had you not saved me, i shudder at the bare idea. i have not forgotten how you risked, and nearly lost your life in ireland for my sake--neither has my mother. we are beholden to you for all our present happiness, and i am eternally indebted to you for rescuing me from ignorance, poverty, and, perhaps, vice. you have been more, much more than a father to me--more, much more than a brother. i am, as it were, a creature of your own fashioning, and i owe to you that which i never can repay. when, then, you returned so unexpectedly, japhet, i felt that you had a paramount right in my disposal, and i was glad that i had not replied to mr harcourt, as i wished first for your sanction and approval. i know all that has passed between you, but i know not your real feelings towards mr harcourt; he acknowledges that he treated you very ill, and it was his sincere repentance of having so done, and his praise of you, which first won my favour. and now, japhet, if you have still animosity against mr harcourt--if you--" "stop, my dear fleta, i will answer all your questions at once." i took harcourt's hand, and placed it in her's. "may god bless you both, and may you be happy!" cecilia threw her arms round me and wept; so did everybody else, i believe. it was lucky for harcourt that i was in love with susannah temple. as soon as cecilia had recovered a little, i kissed her, and passed her over to her right owner, who led her to the sofa. lady de clare and i went out of the room on important business, and did not return for a quarter of an hour. when we returned, cecilia went to her mother and embraced her, while harcourt silently squeezed my hand. we then all sat down, and i gave them an account of all that had passed during my second excursion--how i had nearly been hanged--how i had gone mad--how i had turned quaker and apothecary--which they all agreed, with what had happened to me before, made up a very eventful history. "and, japhet, if it be a fair question about one so fair, was that miss temple who was at church with you yesterday?" "it was." "then, cecilia, if ever she appears in the same circle, except in my eyes, your beauty will stand in some danger of being eclipsed." "how can you say, except in your eyes, mr harcourt," replied cecilia, "the very observation proves that it is eclipsed in your eyes, whatever it may be in those of others. now, as a punishment, i have a great mind to order you away again, until you bring her face to face, that i may judge myself." "if i am again banished," replied harcourt, "i shall have a second time to appeal to de benyon to be able to come back again. he can produce her, i have no doubt." "and perhaps may, some of these days, cecilia." "oh! do, japhet. i will love her so." "you must wait a little first. i am not quite so far advanced as you and harcourt. i have not received the consent of all parties, as you have to-day. but i must now leave you. harcourt, i presume you will dine here. i must dine with my governor." on my return, i found that the table was laid for three, and that the general had asked mr masterton, from which i augured well. masterton could not speak to me when he arrived, but he gave me a wink and a smile, and i was satisfied. "japhet," said my father, "you have no engagement to-morrow, i hope, because i shall call at mr masterton's on business, and wish you to accompany me." i replied, that "i should be most happy," and the conversation became general. i accompanied my father the next day to lincoln's inn, and when we went up, we found mr masterton at the table with mr cophagus, and susannah sitting apart near the window. "the plot thickens," thought i. the fact was, as i was afterwards told by mr masterton, he had prevailed upon cophagus to pretend business, and to bring susannah with him, and appointed them a quarter of an hour before our time. this he had arranged, that the general might see miss temple, as if by accident; and also allow me, who, my father supposed, was not aware of miss temple being in town, to meet with her. what a deal of humbug there is in this world! nothing but plot and counterplot! i shook hands with cophagus, who, i perceived, had, notwithstanding his wife's veto, put on his blue cotton net pantaloons and hessian boots, and he appeared to be so tight in both, that he could hardly move. as far as i could judge, his legs had not improved since i had last seen them in this his favourite dress. "mr de benyon, i believe that you have met miss temple before," said mr masterton, winking at me. "in berkshire, was it not? miss temple, allow me to introduce general de benyon." i went up to susannah, who coloured and trembled at the sight of my father, as i expressed my hope that she had been well since we last met. she perceived that there was some planned scheme, and was so puzzled that she said nothing. my father then spoke to her, and after a short time took a chair, and seated himself close to her. i never knew her make herself so agreeable. he asked her where she was staying, and when he heard that it was with mr cophagus, he said that he should have the pleasure of calling upon mr cophagus, and thank him for his kind information relative to me. shortly afterwards cophagus took his leave, and susannah rose to accompany him, when my father, hearing that they had walked, insisted upon putting miss temple down in his carriage. so that mr cophagus had to walk home one way, and i the other. chapter lxxxi poor cophagus finds an end to his adventures by the means of a mad bull; i, of mine, by matrimony--father is prettily behaved, and my quaker wife the most fashionably dressed lady in town--verily! hum! alas! little did mr cophagus know how fatal to him would be the light cotton nets when he put them on that day. he had proceeded, as it appears, about two-thirds of his way home (he lived in welbeck street), when he perceived a rush from up a street leading into oxford street. he looked to ascertain the cause, when to his horror he perceived--what to him was the greatest of all horrors--a mad bull. if anything could make mr cophagus run, it was a sight like that, and he did run; but he could not run fast in his cotton nets and tight hessians, which crippled him altogether. as if out of pure spite, the bull singled him out from at least one hundred, who exerted their agility and again was poor mr cophagus tossed far behind the animal, fortunately breaking his fall by tumbling on a large dog who was in full chase. the dog, who was unable to crawl from beneath the unfortunate cophagus, was still in a condition to bite, which he did most furiously; and the butcher, who had an affection for his dog, when he perceived its condition, also vented his fury upon poor cophagus, by saluting him with several blows on his head with his cudgel. what between the bull, the dog, and the butcher, poor mr cophagus was taken into a shop in a very deplorable condition. after some time he recovered, and was able to name his residence, when he was taken home. it was late in the evening when i received a note from susannah, informing me of that unfortunate accident. my father had just finished a long story about filial duty, country girls, good wives, &c, and had wound up by saying, that he and mr masterton both considered that miss temple would be a very eligible match, and that as i had requested him to select, he had selected her accordingly. i had just proved how truly dutiful i was, by promising to do all i could to love her, and to fulfil his wishes, when the note was put in my hands. i read it, stated its contents to my father, and, with his permission, immediately jumped into a hackney-coach, and drove to welbeck street. on my arrival i found poor mrs cophagus in a state of syncope, and susannah attending her. i sent for the surgeon who had been called in, and then went up to mr cophagus. he was much better than i expected--calm, and quite sensible. his wounds had been dressed by the surgeon, but he did not appear to be aware of the extent of the injury he had received. when the surgeon came i questioned him. he informed me that although much hurt, he did not consider that there was any danger to be apprehended; there were no bones broken; the only fear that he had was, that there might be some internal injury; but at present that could not be ascertained. i thanked him, and consoled mrs cophagus with this information. i then returned to her husband, who shook his head, and muttered, as i put my ear down to hear him, "thought so--come to london--full of mad bulls--tossed--die--and so on." "o no!" replied i, "the surgeon says that there is no danger. you will be up in a week--but now you must keep very quiet. i will send mrs cophagus to you." i went out, and finding her composed, i desired her to go to her husband, who wished to see her, and i was left alone with susannah. i told her all that had passed, and after two delightful hours had escaped, i returned home to the hotel. my father had waited up for some time, and finding that i did not return, had retired. when i met him the next morning i mentioned what the surgeon had said, but stated that, in my opinion, there was great cause for alarm in a man of mr cophagus's advanced age. my father agreed with me, but could not help pointing out what a good opportunity this would afford for my paying my attentions to miss temple, as it was natural that i should be interested about so old a friend as mr cophagus. my filial duty inclined me to reply, that i should certainly avail myself of such a favourable opportunity. my adventures are now drawing to a close. i must pass over three months, during which my father had taken and furnished a house in grosvenor square; and i, whenever i could spare time, had, under the auspices of lord windermear, again been introduced into the world as mr de benyon. i found that the new name was considered highly respectable, my father's hall tables were loaded with cards, and i even received two dinner invitations from lady maelstrom, who told me how her dear nieces had wondered what had become of me, and that they were afraid that louisa would have fallen into a decline. and during these three months cecilia and susannah had been introduced, and had become as inseparable as most young ladies are, who have a lover a-piece, and no cause for jealousy. mr cophagus had so far recovered as to be able to go down into the country, vowing, much to the chagrin of his wife, that he never would put his foot in london again. he asked me whether i knew any place where there were no mad bulls, and i took some trouble to find out, but i could not; for even if he went to the north pole, although there were no bulls, yet there were bull bisons and musk bulls, which were even more savage. upon which he declared that this was not a world to live in, and to prove that he was sincere in his opinion, poor fellow, about three months after his retirement into the country, he died from a general decay, arising from the shock produced on his system. but before these three months had passed, it had been finally arranged that harcourt and i were to be united on the same day; and having renewed my acquaintance with the good bishop, whom i had taxed with being my father, he united us both to our respective partners. my father made over to me the sum which he had mentioned. mr masterton gave susannah ten thousand pounds, and her own fortune amounted to as much more, with the reversion of mr cophagus's property at the decease of his widow. timothy came up to the wedding, and i formally put him in the possession of my shop and stock in trade, and he has now a flourishing business. although he has not yet found his mother, he has found a very pretty wife, which he says does quite as well, if not better. let it not be supposed that i forgot the good services of kathleen--who was soon after married to corny. a small farm on fleta's estate was appropriated to them, at so low a rent, that in a few years they were able to purchase the property, and corny, from a leveller, as soon as he was comfortable, became one of the government's firmest supporters. i am now living in the same house with my father, who is very happy, and behaves pretty well. he is seldom in a passion more than twice a-week, which we consider as miraculous. now that i am writing this, he has his two grandchildren on his knees. mrs cophagus has married a captain in the life guards, and as far as fashion and dress are concerned, may be said to be "going the whole hog." and now, as i have no doubt that my readers will be curious to know whether my lovely wife adheres to her primitive style of dress, i shall only repeat a conversation of yesterday night, as she came down arrayed for a splendid ball given by mrs harcourt de clare. "tell me now, de benyon," said she, "is not this a pretty dress?" "yes, my dear," replied i, looking at her charming face and figure with all the admiration usual in the honeymoon, "it is indeed; but do you not think, my dear susan," said i, putting the tip of my white glove upon her snowy shoulder, "that it is cut down a little too low?" "too low, de benyon! why it's not half so low as mrs harcourt de clare or lady c---- wear their dresses." "well, my dear, i did not assert that it was. i only asked." "well, then, if you only asked for information, de benyon, i will tell you that it is not too low, and i think you will acknowledge that on this point my opinion ought to be decisive; for if i have no other merit, i have at least the merit of being the best-dressed woman in london." "verily thou persuadest me, susannah," replied i. "now, de benyon, hold your tongue." like a well-disciplined husband, i bowed, and said no more. and now, having no more to say, i shall also make my bow to my readers, and bid them farewell. the end. the waif of the "cynthia." by jules verne and andré laurie no. double number price cents the seaside library, pocket edition, issued tri-weekly. by subscription $ per annum. copyrighted by george munro-- entered at the post office at new york at second class rates-- jan. , rand mcnally edition, published feb. pages printed on fine paper beautifully illustrated with handsome illuminated and embossed covers. the waif of the "cynthia." chapter i. mr. malarius' friend. there is probably neither in europe nor anywhere else a scholar whose face is more universally known than that of dr. schwaryencrona, of stockholm. his portrait appears on the millions of bottles with green seals, which are sent to the confines of the globe. truth compels us to state that these bottles only contain cod liver oil, a good and useful medicine; which is sold to the inhabitants of norway for a "couronnes," which is worth one franc and thirty-nine centimes. formerly this oil was made by the fishermen, but now the process is a more scientific one, and the prince of this special industry is the celebrated dr. schwaryencrona. there is no one who has not seen his pointed beard, his spectacles, his hooked nose, and his cap of otter skin. the engraving, perhaps, is not very fine, but it is certainly a striking likeness. a proof of this is what happened one day in a primary school in noroe, on the western coast of norway, a few leagues from bergen. two o'clock had struck. the pupils were in their classes in the large, sanded hall--the girls on the left and the boys on the right--occupied in following the demonstration which their teacher, mr. malarius, was making on the black-board. suddenly the door opened, and a fur coat, fur boots, fur gloves, and a cap of otter, made their appearance on the threshold. the pupils immediately rose respectfully, as is usual when a stranger visits the class-room. none of them had ever seen the new arrival before, but they all whispered when they saw him, "doctor schwaryencrona," so much did the picture engraved on the bottles resemble the doctor. we must say that the pupils of mr. malarius had the bottles continually before their eyes, for one of the principal manufactories of the doctor was at noroe. but for many years the learned man had not visited that place, and none of the children consequently could have beheld him in the flesh. in imagination it was another matter, for they often spoke of him in noroe, and his ears must have often tingled, if the popular belief has any foundation. be this as it may, his recognition was unanimous, and a triumph for the unknown artist who had drawn his portrait--a triumph of which this modest artist might justly be proud, and of which more than one photographer in the world might well be jealous. but what astonished and disappointed the pupils a little was to discover that the doctor was a man below the ordinary height, and not the giant which they had imagined him to be. how could such an illustrious man be satisfied with a height of only five feet three inches? his gray head hardly reached the shoulder of mr. malarius, and he was already stooping with age. he was also much thinner than the doctor, which made him appear twice as tall. his large brown overcoat, to which long use had given a greenish tint, hung loosely around him; he wore short breeches and shoes with buckles, and from beneath his black silk cap a few gray locks had made their escape. his rosy cheeks and smiling countenance gave an expression of great sweetness to his face. he also wore spectacles, through which he did not cast piercing glances like the doctor, but through them his blue eyes shone with inexhaustible benevolence. in the memory of his pupils mr. malarius had never punished a scholar. but, nevertheless, they all respected him, and loved him. he had a brave soul, and all the world knew it very well. they were not ignorant of the fact that in his youth he had passed brilliant examinations, and that he had been offered a professorship in a great university, where he might have attained to honor and wealth. but he had a sister, poor kristina, who was always ill and suffering. she would not have left her native village for the world, for she felt sure that she would die if they removed to the city. so mr. malarius had submitted gently to her wishes, and sacrificed his own prospects. he had accepted the humble duty of the village school-master, and when twenty years afterward kristina had died, blessing him, he had become accustomed to his obscure and retired life, and did not care to change it. he was absorbed in his work, and forgot the world. he found a supreme pleasure in becoming a model instructor, and in having the best-conducted school in his country. above all, he liked to instruct his best pupils in the higher branches, to initiate them into scientific studies, and in ancient and modern literature, and give them the information which is usually the portion of the higher classes, and not bestowed upon the children of fishermen and peasants. "what is good for one class, is good for the other," he argued. "if the poor have not as many comforts, that is no reason why they should be denied an acquaintance with homer and shakespeare; the names of the stars which guide them across the ocean, or of the plants which grow on the earth. they will soon see them laid low by their ploughs, but in their infancy at least they will have drunk from pure sources, and participated in the common patrimony of mankind." in more than one country this system would have been thought imprudent, and calculated to disgust the lowly with their humble lot in life, and lead them to wander away in search of adventures. but in norway nobody thinks of these things. the patriarchal sweetness of their dispositions, the distance between the villages, and the laborious habits of the people, seem to remove all danger of this kind. this higher instruction is more frequent than a stranger would believe to be possible. nowhere is education more generally diffused, and nowhere is it carried so high; as well in the poorest rural schools, as in the colleges. therefore the scandinavian peninsula may flatter herself, that she has produced more learned and distinguished men in proportion to her population, than any other region of europe. the traveler is constantly astonished by the contrast between the wild and savage aspect of nature, and the manufactures, and works of art, which represent the most refined civilization. but perhaps it is time for us to return to noroe, and dr. schwaryencrona, whom we have left on the threshold of the school. if the pupils had been quick to recognize him, although they had never seen him before, it had been different with the instructor, whose acquaintance with him dated further back. "ah! good-day, my dear malarius!" said the visitor cordially, advancing with outstretched hands toward the school-master. "sir! you are very welcome," answered the latter, a little surprised, and somewhat timidly, as is customary with all men who have lived secluded lives; and are interrupted in the midst of their duties. "but excuse me if i ask whom i have the honor of--" "what! have i changed so much since we ran together over the snow, and smoked our long pipes at christiania; have you forgotten our krauss boarding-house, and must i name your comrade and friend?" "schwaryencrona!" cried mr. malarius. "is it possible.--is it really you.--is it the doctor?" "oh! i beg of you, omit all ceremony. i am your old friend roff, and you are my brave olaf, the best, the dearest friend of my youth. yes, i know you well. we have both changed a little in thirty years; but our hearts are still young, and we have always kept a little corner in them for those whom we learned to love, when we were students, and eat our dry bread side by side." the doctor laughed, and squeezed the hands of mr. malarius, whose eyes were moist. "my dear friend, my good excellent doctor, you must not stay here," said he; "i will give all these youngsters a holiday, for which they will not be sorry, i assure you, and then you must go home with me." "not at all!" declared the doctor, turning toward the pupils who were watching this scene with lively interest. "i must neither interfere with your work, nor the studies of these youths. if you wish to give me great pleasure, you will permit me to sit here near you, while you resume your teaching." "i would willingly do so," answered mr. malarius, "but to tell you the truth, i have no longer any heart for geometry; besides, having mentioned a holiday, i do not like to disappoint the children. there is one way of arranging the matter however. if doctor schwaryencrona would deign to do my pupils the honor of questioning them about their studies, and then i will dismiss them for the rest of the day." "an excellent idea. i shall be only too happy to do so. i will become their examiner." then taking the master's seat, he addressed the school: "tell me," asked the doctor, "who is the best pupil?" "erik hersebom!" answered fifty youthful voices unhesitatingly. "ah! erik hersebom. well, erik, will you come here?" a young boy, about twelve years of age, who was seated on the front row of benches, approached his chair. he was a grave, serious-looking child, whose pensive cast of countenance, and large deep set eyes, would have attracted attention anywhere, and he was the more remarkable, because of the blonde heads by which he was surrounded. while all his companions of both sexes had hair the color of flax, rosy complexions, and blue eyes, his hair was of deep chestnut color, like his eyes, and his skin was brown. he had not the prominent cheek bones, the short nose, and the stout frame of these scandinavian children. in a word, by his physical characteristics so plainly marked, it was evident that he did not belong to the race by whom he was surrounded. he was clothed like them in the coarse cloth of the country, made in the style common among the peasantry of bergen; but the delicacy of his limbs, the smallness of his head, the easy elegance of his poise, and the natural gracefulness of his movements and attitudes, all seemed to denote a foreign origin. no physiologist could have helped being struck at once by these peculiarities, and such was the case with dr. schwaryencrona. however, he had no motive for calling attention to these facts, and he simply proceeded to fulfill the duty which he had undertaken. "where shall we begin--with grammar?" he asked the young lad. "i am at the command of the doctor," answered erik, modestly. the doctor then gave him two or three simple questions, but was astonished to hear him answer them, not only in the swedish language, but also in french and english. it was the usual custom of mr. malarius, who contended that it was as easy to learn three languages at once as it was to learn only one. "you teach them french and english then?" said the doctor, turning toward his friend. "why not? also the elements of greek and latin. i do not see what harm it can do them." "nor i," said the doctor, laughing, and erik hersebom translated several sentences very correctly. in one of the sentences, reference was made to the hemlock drunk by socrates, and mr. malarius asked the doctor to question him as to the family which this plant belonged to. erik answered without hesitation "that it was one of the family of umbelliferous plants," and described them in detail. from botany they passed to geometry, and erik demonstrated clearly a theorem relative to the sum of the angles of a triangle. the doctor became every moment more and more surprised. "let us have a little talk about geography," he said. "what sea is it which bounds scandinavia, russia and siberia on the north?" "it is the arctic ocean." "and what waters does this ocean communicate with?" "the atlantic on the west, and the pacific on the east." "can you name two or three of the most important seaports on the pacific?" "i can mention yokohama, in japan; melbourne, in australia; san francisco, in the state of california." "well, since the arctic ocean communicates on one side with the atlantic, and on the other with the pacific, do you not think that the shortest route to yokohama or san francisco would be through this arctic ocean?" "assuredly," answered erik, "it would be the shortest way, if it were practicable, but all navigators who have attempted to follow it have been prevented by ice, and been compelled to renounce the enterprise, when they have escaped death." "have they often attempted to discover the north-east passage?" "at least fifty times during the last three centuries, but without success." "could you mention a few of the expeditions?" "the first was organized in , under the direction of franois sebastian cabot. it consisted of three vessels under the command of the unfortunate sir hugh willoughby, who perished in lapland, with all his crew. one of his lieutenants, chancellor, was at first successful, and opened a direct route through the polar sea. but he also, while making a second attempt, was shipwrecked, and perished. a captain, stephen borough, who was sent in search of him, succeeded in making his way through the strait which separates nova zembla from the island of waigate and in penetrating into the sea of kara. but the fog and ice prevented him from going any further. "two expeditions which were sent out in were equally unsuccessful. the project was nevertheless revived by the hollanders about fifteen years later, and they fitted out, successively, three expeditions, under the command of barentz. "in , barentz also perished, in the ice of nova zembla. "ten years later henry hudson was sent out, but also failed. "the danes were not more successful in . "in , captain john wood was also shipwrecked. since that period the north-east passage has been considered impracticable, and abandoned by the maritime powers." "has it never been attempted since that epoch?" "it has been by russia, to whom it would be of immense advantage, as well as to all the northern nations, to find a direct route between her shores and siberia. she has sent out during a century no less than eighteen expeditions to explore the coasts of nova zembla, the sea of kara, and the eastern and western coasts of siberia. but, although these expeditions have made these places better known, they have also demonstrated the impossibility of forcing a passage through the arctic ocean. the academician van baer, who made the last attempt in , after admiral lutke and pachtusow, declared emphatically that this ocean is simply a glacier, as impracticable for vessels as it would be if it were a continent." "must we, then, renounce all hopes of discovering a north-east passage?" "that seems to be the conclusion which we must arrive at, from the failure of these numerous attempts. it is said, however, that a great navigator, named nordenskiold, wishes to make another attempt, after he has prepared himself by first exploring portions of this polar sea. if he then considers it practicable, he may get up another expedition." dr. schwaryencrona was a warm admirer of nordenskiold, and this is why he had asked these questions about the north-east passage. he was charmed with the clearness of these answers. he fixed his eyes on erik hersebom, with an expression of the deepest interest. "where did you learn all this, my dear child?" he demanded, after a short silence. "here, sir," answered erik, surprised at the question. "you have never studied in any other school?" "certainly not." "mr. malarius may be proud of you, then," said the doctor, turning toward the master. "i am very well satisfied with erik," said the latter. "he has been my pupil for eight years. when i first took him he was very young, and he has always been at the head of his section." the doctor became silent. his piercing eyes were fixed upon erik, with a singular intensity. he seemed to be considering some problem, which it would not be wise to mention. "he could not have answered my question better and i think it useless to continue the examination," he said at last. "i will no longer delay your holiday, my children, and since mr. malarius desires it, we will stop for to-day." at these words, the master clapped his hands. all the pupils rose at once, collected their books, and arranged themselves in four lines, in the empty spaces between the benches. mr. malarias clapped his hands a second time. the column started, and marched out, keeping step with military precision. at a third signal they broke their ranks, and took to flight with joyous cries. in a few seconds they were scattered around the blue waters of the fiord, where might be seen also the turf roofs of the village of noroe. chapter ii. the home of a fisherman in noroe. the house of mr. hersebom was, like all others in noroe, covered by a turf roof, and built of enormous timbers of fir-trees, in the scandinavian fashion. the two large rooms were separated by a hall in the center, which led to the boat-house where the canoes were kept. here were also to be seen the fishing-tackle and the codfish, which they dry and sell. these two rooms were used both as living-rooms and bedrooms. they had a sort of wooden drawer let into the wall, with its mattress and skins, which serve for beds, and are only to be seen at night. this arrangement for sleeping, with the bright panels, and the large open fire-place, where a blazing fire of wood was always kept burning, gave to the interior of the most humble homes an appearance of neatness and domestic luxury unknown to the peasantry of southern europe. this evening all the family were gathered round the fire-place, where a huge kettle was boiling, containing "sillsallat," or smoked herring, salmon and potatoes. mr. hersebom, seated in a high wooden chair, was making a net, which was his usual occupation when he was not on the sea, or drying his fish. he was a hardy fisherman, whose skin had been bronzed by exposure to the arctic breezes, and his hair was gray, although he was still in the prime of life. his son otto, a great boy, fourteen years old, who bore a strong resemblance to him, and who was destined to also become famous as a fisherman, sat near him. at present he was occupied in solving the mysteries of the rule of three, covering a little slate with figures, although his large hands looked as if they would be much more at home handling the oars. erik, seated before the dining-table, was absorbed in a volume of history that mr. malarius had lent him. katrina, hersebom, the goodwife, was occupied peacefully with her spinning-wheel, while little vanda, a blonde of ten years, was seated on a stool, knitting a large stocking with red wool. at their feet a large dog of a yellowish-white color, with wool as thick as that of a sheep, lay curled up sound asleep. for more than one hour the silence had been unbroken, and the copper lamp suspended over their heads, and filled with fish oil, lighted softly this tranquil interior. to tell the truth, the silence became oppressive to dame katrina, who for some moments had betrayed the desire of unloosing her tongue. at last she could keep quiet no longer. "you have worked long enough for to-night," she said, "it is time to lay the cloth for supper." without a word of expostulation. erik lifted his large book, and seated himself nearer the fire-place, whilst vanda laid aside her knitting, and going to the buffet brought out the plates and spoons. "did you say, otto," asked the little girl, "that our erik answered the doctor very well?" "very well, indeed," said otto enthusiastically, "he talked like a book in fact. i do not know where he learned it all. the more questions the doctor asked the more he had to answer. the words came and came. mr. malarius was well satisfied with him." "i am also," said vanda, gravely. "oh, we were all well pleased. if you could have seen, mother, how the children all listened, with their mouths open. we were only afraid that our turn would come. but erik was not afraid, and answered the doctor as he would have answered the master." "stop. mr. malarius is as good as the doctor, and quite as learned," cried erik, whom their praises seemed to annoy. the old fisherman gave him an approving smile. "you are right, little boy," he said; "mr. malarius, if he chose, could be the superior of all the doctors in the town, and besides he does not make use of his scientific knowledge to ruin poor people." "has doctor schwaryencrona ruined any one?" asked erik with curiosity. "well--if he has not done so, it has not been his fault. do you think that i have taken any pleasure in the erection of his factory, which is sending forth its smoke on the borders of our fiord? your mother can tell you that formerly we manufactured our own oil, and that we sold it easily in bergen for a hundred and fifty to two hundred kroners a year. but that is all ended now--nobody will buy the brown oil, or, if they do, they pay so little for it, that it is not worth while to take the journey. we must be satisfied with selling the livers to the factory, and god only knows how this tiresome doctor has managed to get them for such a low price. i hardly realize forty-five kroners now, and i have to take twice as much trouble as formerly. ah, well. i say it is not just, and the doctor would do better to look after his patients in stockholm, instead of coming here to take away our trade by which we earn our bread." after these bitter words they were all silent. they heard nothing for some minutes except the clicking of the plates, as vanda arranged them, whilst her mother emptied the contents of the pot into a large dish. erik reflected deeply upon what mr. hersebom had said. numerous objections presented themselves to his mind, and as he was candor itself--he could not help speaking. "it seems to me that you have a right to regret your former profits, father," he said, "but is it just to accuse doctor schwaryencrona of having diminished them? is not his oil worth more than the home-made article?" "ah! it is clearer, that is all. it does not taste as strong as ours, they say; and that is the reason why all the fine ladies in the town prefer it, no doubt; but it does not do any more good to the lungs of sick people than our oil." "but for some reason or other they buy it in preference; and since it is a very useful medicine it is essential that the public should experience as little disgust as possible in taking it. therefore, if a doctor finds out a method of making it more palatable, is it not his duty to make use of his discovery?" master hersebom scratched his ear. "doubtless," he said, reluctantly, "it is his duty as a doctor, but that is no reason why he should prevent poor fishermen from getting their living." "i believe the doctor's factory gives employment to three hundred, whilst there were only twenty in noroe at the time of which you speak," objected erik, timidly. "you are right, and that is why the business is no longer worth anything," said hersebom. "come, supper is ready. seat yourselves at the table," said dame katrina, who saw that the discussion was in danger of becoming unpleasantly warm. erik understood that further opposition on his part would be out of place, and he did not answer the last argument of his father, but took his habitual seat beside vanda. "were the doctor and mr. malarius friends in childhood?" he asked, in order to give a turn to the conversation. "yes," answered the fisherman, as he seated himself at the table. "they were both born in noroe, and i can remember when they played around the school-house, although they are both ten years older than i am. mr. malarius was the son of the physician, and doctor schwaryencrona only the son of a simple fisherman. but he has risen in the world, and they say that he is now worth millions, and that his residence in stockholm is a perfect palace. oh, learning is a fine thing." after uttering this aphorism the brave man took a spoon to help the smoking fish and potatoes, when a knock at the door made him pause. "may i come in, master hersebom?" said a deep-toned voice. and without waiting for permission the person who had spoken entered, bringing with him a great blast of icy air. "doctor schwaryencrona!" cried the three children, while the father and mother rose quickly. "my dear hersebom," said the doctor, taking the fisherman's hand, "we have not seen each other for many years, but i have not forgotten your excellent father, and thought i might call and see a friend of my childhood!" the worthy man felt a little ashamed of the accusations which he had so recently made against his visitor, and he did not know what to say. he contented himself, therefore, with returning the doctor's shake of the hand cordially, and smiling a welcome, whilst his good wife was more demonstrative. "quick, otto, erik, help the doctor to take off his overcoat, and you, vanda, prepare another place at the table," she said, for, like all norwegian housekeepers, she was very hospitable. "will you do us the honor, doctor, of eating a morsel with us?" "indeed i would not refuse, you may be sure, if i had the least appetite; for i see you have a very tempting dish before you. but it is not an hour since i took supper with mr. malarius, and i certainly would not have called so early if i had thought you would be at the table. it would give me great pleasure if you would resume your seats and eat your supper." "oh, doctor!" implored the good wife, "at least you will not refuse some 'snorgas' and a cup of tea?" "i will gladly take a cup of tea, but on condition that, you eat your supper first," answered the doctor, seating himself in the large arm-chair. vanda immediately placed the tea-kettle on the fire, and disappeared in the neighboring room. the rest of the family understanding with native courtesy that it would annoy their guest if they did not do as he wished, began to eat their supper. in two minutes the doctor was quite at his ease. he stirred the fire, and warmed his legs in the blaze of the dry wood that katrina had thrown on before going to supper. he talked about old times, and old friends; those who had disappeared, and those who remained, about the changes that had taken place even in bergen. he made himself quite at home, and, what was more remarkable, he succeeded in making mr. hersebom eat his supper. vanda now entered carrying a large wooden dish, upon which was a saucer, which she offered so graciously to the doctor that he could not refuse it. it was the famous "snorgas" of norway, slices of smoked reindeer, and shreds of herring, and red pepper, minced up and laid between slices of black bread, spiced cheese, and other condiments; which they eat at any hour to produce an appetite. it succeeded so well in the doctor's case, that although he only took it out of politeness, he was soon able to do honor to some preserved mulberries which were dame katrina's special pride, and so thirsty that he drank seven or eight cups of tea. mr. hersebom brought out a bottle of "schiedam," which he had bought of a hollander. then supper being ended, the doctor accepted an enormous pipe which his host offered him, and smoked away to their general satisfaction. by this time all feeling of constraint had passed away, and it seemed as if the doctor had always been a member of the family. they joked and laughed, and were the best of friends in the world, until the old clock of varnished wood struck ten. "my good friends, it is growing late," said the doctor. "if you will send the children to bed, we will talk about more serious matters." upon a sign from dame katrina, otto, erik, and vanda bade them good-night and left the room. "you wonder why i have come," said the doctor, after a moments' silence, fixing his penetrating glance upon the fisherman. "my guests are always welcome," answered the fisherman, sententiously. "yes! i know that noroe is famous for hospitality. but you must certainly have asked yourself what motive could have induced me to leave the society of my old friend malarius and come to you. i am sure that dame hersebom has some suspicion of my motive." "we shall know when you tell us," replied the good woman, diplomatically. "well," said the doctor, with a sigh, "since you will not help me, i must face it alone. your son, erik, master hersebom, is a most remarkable child." "i do not complain of him," answered the fisherman. "he is singularly intelligent, and well informed for his age," continued the doctor. "i questioned him to-day, in school, and i was very much surprised by the extraordinary ability which his answers displayed. i was also astonished, when i learned his name, to see that he bore no resemblance to you, nor indeed to any of the natives of this country." the fisherman and his wife remained silent and motionless. "to be brief," continued the doctor, with visible impatience, "this child not only interests me--he puzzles me. i have talked with malarius, who told me that he was not your son, but that he had been cast on your shore by a shipwreck, and that you took him in and adopted him, bringing him up as your own, and bestowing your name upon him. this is true, is it not?" "yes, doctor," answered hersebom, gravely. "if he is not our son by birth, he is in love and affection," said katrina, with moist eyes and trembling hands. "between him, and otto, and vanda, we have made no difference--we have never thought of him only as our own child." "these sentiments do you both honor," said the doctor, moved by the emotion of the brave woman. "but i beg of you, my friends, relate to me the history of this child. i have come to hear it, and i assure you that i wish him well." the fisherman appeared to hesitate a moment. then seeing that the doctor was waiting impatiently for him to speak, he concluded to gratify him. "you have been told the truth," he said, regretfully; "the child is not our son. twelve years ago i was fishing near the island at the entrance of the fiord, near the open sea. you know it is surrounded by a sand bank, and that cod-fish are plentiful there. after a good day's work, i drew in my lines, and was going to hoist my sail, when something white moving upon the water, about a mile off, attracted my attention. the sea was calm, and there was nothing pressing to hurry me home, so i had the curiosity to go and see what this white object was. in ten minutes i had reached it. it was a little wicker cradle, enveloped in a woolen cloth, and strongly tied to a buoy. i drew it toward me; an emotion which i could not understand seized me; i beheld a sleeping infant, about seven or eight months old, whose little fists were tightly clinched. he looked a little pale and cold, but did not appear to have suffered much from his adventurous voyage, if one might judge by his lusty screams when he awoke, as he did immediately, when he no longer felt himself rocked by the waves. our little otto was over two years old, and i knew how to manage such little rogues. i rolled up a bit of rag, dipped it in some _eau de vie_ and water that i had with me, and gave it to him to suck. this quieted him at once, and he seemed to enjoy the cordial. but i knew that he would not be quiet long, therefore i made all haste to return to noroe. i had untied the cradle and placed it in the boat at my feet; and while i attended to my sail, i watched the poor little one, and asked myself where it could possibly have come from. doubtless from some shipwrecked vessel. a fierce tempest had been raging during the night, and there had been many disasters. but by what means had this infant escaped the fate of those who had had the charge of him? how had they thought of tying him to the buoy? how many hours had he been floating on the waves? where were his father and mother, those who loved him? but all these questions had to remain unanswered, the poor baby was unable to give us any information. in half an hour i was at home, and gave my new possession to katrina. we had a cow then, and she was immediately pressed into service as a nurse for the infant. he was so pretty, so smiling, so rosy, when he had been fed and warmed before the fire, that we fell in love with him at once; just the same as if he had been our own. and then, you see, we took care of him; we brought him up, and we have never made any difference between him and our own two children. is it not true, wife?" added mr. hersebom, turning toward katrina. "very true, the poor little one," answered the good dame, drying her eyes, which this recital had filled with tears. "and he is our child now, for we have adopted him. i do not know why mr. malarius should say anything to the contrary." "it is true," said hersebom, and i do not see that it concerns any one but ourselves." "that is so," said the doctor, in a conciliatory tone, "but you must not accuse mr. malarius of being indiscreet. i was struck with the physiognomy of the child, and i begged my friend confidentially to relate his history. he told me that erik believed himself to be your son, and that every one in noroe had forgotten how he had become yours. therefore, you see, i took care not to speak until the children had been sent to bed. you say that he was about seven or eight months old when you found him?" "about that; he had already four teeth, the little brigand, and i assure you that it was not long before he began to use them," said hersebom, laughing. "oh, he was a superb child," said katrinn, eagerly. "he was so white, and strong, and plump; and such arms and legs. you should have seen them!" "how was he dressed?" asked dr. schwaryencrona. hersebom did not answer, but his wife was less discreet. "like a little prince," she answered. "imagine a robe of piquè, trimmed all over with lace, a pelisse of quilted satin, a cloak of white velvet, and a little cap; the son of a king could not have more. everything he had was beautiful. but you can see for yourself, for i have kept them all just as they were. you may be sure that we did not dress the baby in them. oh, no; i put otto's little garments on him, which i had laid away, and which also served, later on, for vanda. but his outfit is here, and i will show it to you." while she was speaking, the worthy woman knelt down before a large oaken chest, with an antique lock, and after lifting the lid, began searching the compartments. she drew out, one by one, all the garments of which she had spoken, and displayed them with pride before the eyes of the doctor. she also showed the linen, which was exquisitely fine, a little quilt of silk, and a pair of white merino boots. all the articles were marked with the initials "e.d.," elegantly embroidered, as the doctor saw at a glance. "'e.d.;' is that why you named the child erik?" he asked. "precisely," answered katrina, who it was evident enjoyed this exhibition, while her husband's face grew more gloomy. "see," she said, "this is the most beautiful of all. he wore it around his neck." and she drew from its box a rattle of coral and gold, suspended from a little chain. the initials "e.d." were here surrounded by a latin motto, "semper idem." "we thought at first it was the baby's name, but mr. malarius told us it meant 'always the same,'" she continued, seeing that the doctor was trying to decipher the motto. "mr. malarius told you the truth," said the doctor. "it is evident the child belonged to a rich and distinguished family," he added, while katrina replaced the babe's outfit in the oaken chest. "have you any idea what country he came from?" "how could we know anything about it, since i found him on the sea?" replied hersebom. "yes, but the cradle was attached to a buoy, you said, and it is customary on all vessels to write on the buoy the name of the ship to which it belongs," answered the doctor, fixing his penetrating eyes upon those of the fisherman. "doubtless," said the latter, hanging his head. "well, this buoy, what name did it bear?" "doctor, i am not a _savant_. i can read my own language a little, but as for foreign tongues--and then it was so long ago." "however, you ought to be able to remember something about it--and doubtless you showed it to mr. malarius, with the rest of the articles--make a little effort, mr. hersebom. was not this name inscribed on the buoy, 'cynthia'?" "i believe it was something like that," answered the fisherman vaguely. "it is a strange name. to what country does it belong in your judgment, mr. hersebom?" "how should i know? have i ever been beyond the shores of noroe and bergen, except once or twice to fish off the coast of greenland and iceland?" answered the good man, in a tone which grew more and more morose. "i think it is either an english or a german name," said the doctor, taking no notice of his crossness. "it would be easy to decide on account of the shape of the letters, if i could see the buoy. have you preserved it?" "by my faith no. it was burnt up ages ago," answered hersebom, triumphantly. "as near as mr. malarius could remember, the letters were roman," said the doctor, as if he were talking to himself--"and the letters on the linen certainly are. it is therefore probable that the 'cynthia' was not a german vessel. i think it was an english one. is not this your opinion, mr. hersebom?" "well, i have thought little about it," replied the fisherman. "whether it was english, german, or russian, makes no difference to me. for many years according to all appearances, they have lain beneath the sea, which alone could tell the secret." "but you have doubtless made some effort to discover the family to whom the child belonged?" said the doctor, whose glasses seemed to shine with irony. "you doubtless wrote to the governor of bergen, and had him insert an advertisement in the journals?" "i!" cried the fisherman, "i did nothing of the kind. god knows where the baby came from; why should i trouble myself about it? can i afford to spend money to find his people, who perhaps care little for him? put yourself in my place, doctor. i am not a millionaire, and you may be sure if we had spent all we had, we should have discovered nothing. i have done the best i could; we have raised the little one as our own son, we have loved him and taken care of him." "even more than the two others, if it were possible," interrupted katrina, drying her eyes on the corner of her apron. "if we have anything to reproach ourselves for, it is for bestowing upon him too large a share of our tenderness." "dame hersebom, you must not do me the injustice to suppose that your kindness to the little shipwrecked child inspires me with any other feeling than the greatest admiration," said the doctor. "no, you must not think such a thing. but if you wish me to speak frankly--i must say that this tenderness has blinded you to your duty. you should have endeavored to discover the family of the infant, as far as your means permitted." there was perfect silence for a few minutes. "it is possible that we have done wrong," said mr. hersebom, who had hung his head under this reproach. "but what is done can not be altered. erik belongs to us now, and i do not wish any one to speak to him about these old reminiscences." "you need have no fear, i will not betray your confidence," answered the doctor, rising. "i must leave you, my good friends, and i wish you good-night--a night free from remorse," he added, gravely. then he put on his fur cloak, and shook hands cordially with his hosts, and being conducted to the door by hersebom, he took the road toward his factory. the fisherman stood for a moment on the threshold, watching his retreating figure in the moonlight. "what a devil of a man!" he murmured, as at last he closed his door. chapter iii. mr. hersebom's reflections. the next morning dr. schwaryencrona had just finished breakfast with his overseer, after having made a thorough inspection of his factory when he saw a person enter whom he did not at first recognize as mr. hersebom. he was clothed in his holiday suit: his embroidered waistcoat, his furred riding coat, and his high hat, and the fisherman looked very different to what he did in his working clothes. but what made the change more apparent, was the deep sadness and humility portrayed in his countenance. his eyes were red, and looked as if he had had no sleep all the night. this was in fact the case. mr. hersebom who up to this time had never felt his conscience trouble him, had passed hours of sad remorse, on his mattress of skins. toward morning he had exchanged confidences with dame katrina, who had also been unable to close her eyes. "wife, i have been thinking of what the doctor said to us," he said, after several hours of wakefulness. "i have been thinking of it also, ever since he left us," answered his worthy helpmate. "it is my opinion that there is some truth in what he said, and that we have perhaps acted more egotistically than we should have done. who knows but that the child may have a right to some great fortune, of which he is deprived by our negligence? who knows if his family have not mourned for him these twelve years, and they could justly accuse us of having made no attempt to restore him to them?" "this is precisely what i have been saying to myself," answered katrina, sighing. "if his mother is living what frightful anguish the poor woman must have endured, in believing that her infant was drowned. i put myself in her place, and imagine that we had lost otto in this manner. we would never have been consoled." "it is not thoughts of his mother that trouble me, for according to all appearances, she is dead," said hersebom, after a silence broken only by their sighs. "how can we suppose that an infant of that age would travel without her, or that it would have been tied to a buoy and left to take its chances on the ocean, if she had been living?" "that is true; but what do we know about it, after all. perhaps she also has had a miraculous escape." "perhaps some one has taken her infant from her--this idea has often occurred to me," answered hersebom. "some one might be interested in his disappearance. to expose so young a child to such a hazardous proceeding is so extraordinary that such conjectures are possible, and in this case we have become accomplices of a crime--we have contributed to its success. is it not horrible to think of?" "and we thought we were doing such a good and charitable work in adopting the poor little one." "oh, it is evident that we had no malicious intentions. we nourished it, and brought it up as well as we were able, but that does not prevent me from seeing that we have acted rashly, and the little one will have a right to reproach us some of these days." "we need not be afraid of that, i am sure. but it is too bad that we should feel at this late day that we have done anything for which we must reproach ourselves." "how strange it is that the same action regarded from a different point of view, can be judged so differently. i never would have thought of such a thing. and yet a few words from the doctor seems to have turned my brain." thus these good people talked during the night. the result of their nocturnal conversation was that mr. hersebom resolved to call upon the doctor, and ask him what they could do to make amends for the error of which they had been guilty. dr. schwaryencrona did not revert to the conversation which had taken place the previous evening. he appeared to regard the visit of the fisherman as simply an act of politeness, and received him cordially, and began talking about the weather and the price of fish. mr. hersebom tried to lead the conversation toward the subject which occupied his mind. he spoke of mr. malarius' school, and at last said plainly: "doctor, my wife and i have been thinking all night about what you said to us last evening about the boy. we never thought that we were doing him a wrong in educating him as our son. but you have changed our opinion, and we want to know what you would advise us to do, in order to repair our fault. do you think that we still ought to seek to find erik's family?" "it is never too late to do our duty," said the doctor, "although the task is certainly much more difficult now than it would have been at first." "will you interest yourself in the matter?" "i will, with pleasure," answered the doctor; "and i promise you to use every exertion to fulfill it, upon one condition: that is, that you let me take the boy to stockholm." if mr. hersebom had been struck on the head with a club, he would not have been more astonished than he was by this proposal. "intrust erik to you! send him to stockholm! why should i do this, doctor?" he asked, in an altered voice. "i will tell you. my attention was drawn to the child, not only on account of his physical appearance, which was so different to that of his companions, but by his great intelligence and his evident taste for study. before knowing the circumstances which had brought him to noroe, i said to myself that it was a shame to leave a boy so gifted in a village school--even under such a master as malarius; for here there is nothing to assist in the development of his exceptionally great faculties. there are no museums, nor scientific collections, nor libraries, nor competitors who are worthy of him. i felt a strong desire to give him the advantages of a complete education. you can understand that, after the confidence which you have bestowed upon me, i am more anxious to do so than before. you can see, mr. hersebom, that your adopted son belongs to some rich and distinguished family. if i succeed in finding them, would you wish to restore to them a child educated in a village, and deprived of this education, without which he will feel out of place among his kindred? it is not reasonable; and you are too sensible not to understand it." mr. hersebom hung his head: without his being aware of it, two large tears rolled down his cheeks. "but then," he said, "this would be an entire separation. before we ever know whether the child will find his relations, he must be taken from his home. it is asking too much, doctor--asking too much of my wife. the child is happy with us. why can he not be left alone, at least until he is sure of a better one?" "happy. how do you know that he will be so when he grows older? how can you tell whether he may not regret having been saved? intelligent and superior as he will be, perhaps he would be stifled with the life which you would offer him in noroe." "but, doctor, this life which you disdain, is good enough for us. why is it not good enough for him?" "i do not disdain it," said the doctor. "nobody admires and honors those who work more than i do. do you believe, mr. hersebom, that i forget my birth? my father and grandfather were fishermen like yourself, and it is just because they were so far-seeing as to educate me, that i appreciate the value of it, and i would assure it to a child who merits it. it is his interest alone which guides me, i beg of you to believe." "ah--what do i know about it? erik will be almost grown up when you have made a gentleman of him, and he will not know how to use his arms. then if you do not find his family, which is more than possible, since twelve years have passed since i found him, what a beautiful future we are preparing for him! do you not see, doctor, that a fisherman's life is a brave one--better than any other: with a good boat under his feet and four or five dozen of cod-fish at the end of his lines, a norwegian fisherman need have no fear, nor be indebted to any one. you say that erik would not be happy leading such a life. permit me to believe the contrary. i know the child well, he loves his books, but, above all, he loves the sea. it also almost seems as if he felt that he had been rocked upon it, and all the museums in the world would not console him for the loss of it." "but we have the sea around us also at stockholm," said the doctor, smiling--touched in spite of himself by this affectionate resistance. "well," said the fisherman, crossing his arms, "what do you wish to do? what do you propose, doctor?" "there, you see, after all, the necessity of doing something. well this is my proposition--erik is twelve years old, nearly thirteen, and he appears to be highly gifted. we will say nothing about his origin--he is worthy of being supplied with the means of developing and utilizing his faculties; that is all we need trouble ourselves about at present. i am rich, and i have no children. i will undertake to furnish the means, and give him the best masters, and all possible facilities for profiting by their instructions. i will do this for two years. during this time i will make inquiries, insert advertisements in the newspapers; make every possible exertion, move heaven and earth to discover his parents. if i do not find them in two years, we shall never do it. if his relatives are found, they will naturally decide his future career in life. if we do not find them, i will send erik back to you. he will then be fifteen years old--he will have seen something of the world. the hour will have arrived to tell him the truth about his birth. then aided by our advice, and the opinions of his teachers, he can choose what path he would prefer to follow. if he wishes to become a fisherman, i will not oppose it. if he wishes to continue his studies, i engage to furnish the means for him to follow any profession that he may choose. does this seem a reasonable proposition to you?" "more than reasonable. it is wisdom itself issuing from your lips, doctor," said mr. hersebom, overcome in spite of himself. "see what it is to have an education!" he continued, shaking his head. "the difficulty will be to repeat all you have said to my wife. when will you take the child away?" "to-morrow. i can not delay my return to stockholm any longer." mr. hersebom heaved a deep sigh, which was almost a sob. "to-morrow! so soon!" he said. "well, what must be, must be. i will go and talk to my wife about it." "yes, do so, and consult mr. malarius also; you will find that he is of my opinion." "i do not doubt it," answered the fisherman, with a sad smile. he shook the hand which dr. schwaryencrona held out to him, and went away looking very thoughtful. that evening before dinner the doctor again directed his steps toward the dwelling of mr. hersebom. he found the family assembled round the hearth, as they were the evening before, but not wearing the same appearance of peaceful happiness. the father was seated the furthest from the fire, silent, and with idle hands. katrina, with tears in her eyes, held erik's hands between her own, whose cheeks were reddened by the hope of the new destiny which seemed opening before him, but who looked sad at leaving all whom he loved, and who did not know what feeling he ought to yield to. little vanda's face was hidden in her father's knees, and nothing could be seen except her long braids of golden hair. otto, also greatly troubled at this proposed separation, sat motionless beside his brother. "how sad and disconsolate you look!" said the doctor, stopping on the threshold. "if erik were about to set out on a distant and most perilous expedition you could not show more grief. he is not going to do anything of the kind, i assure you, my good friends. stockholm is not at the antipodes, and the child is not going away forever. he can write to you, and i do not doubt that he will do so often. he is only going away to school, like so many other boys. in two years he will return tall, and well-informed, and accomplished, i hope. is this anything to feel sad about? seriously, it is not reasonable." katrina arose with the natural dignity of the peasant of the north. "doctor," she said, "god is my witness that i am profoundly grateful to you for what you propose to do for erik--but we can not help feeling sad because of his departure. mr. hersebom has explained to me that it is necessary, and i submit. do not think that i shall feel no regret." "mother," said erik, "i will not go, if it causes you such pain." "no, child," answered the worthy woman, taking him in her arms. "education is a benefit which we have no right to refuse you. go, my son, and thank the doctor who has provided it for you, and prove to him by constant application to your studies that you appreciate his kindness." "there, there," said the doctor, whose glasses were dimmed by a singular cloudiness, "let us rather speak of practical matters, that will be better. you know, do you not, that we must set out to-morrow very early, and that you must have everything ready. we will go by sleigh to bergen, and thence by railroad. erik only needs a change of linen, i will procure everything else that is necessary at stockholm." "everything shall be ready," answered dame hersebom. "vanda," she added, with norwegian hospitality, "the doctor is still standing." the little girl hurriedly pushed a large arm-chair toward him. "i can not stay," said the doctor. "i promised my friend malarius to dine with him, and he is waiting for me. little girl," he said, laying his hand gently upon vanda's blonde head, "i hope you do not wish me any harm because i am taking your brother away from you?" "no, doctor," she answered gravely. "erik will be happier with you--he was not intended to live in a village." "and you, little one, will you be very unhappy without him?" "the shore will seem deserted," she answered; "the seagulls will look for him without finding him, the little waves will be astonished because they no longer see him, and the house will seem empty, but erik will be contented, because he will have plenty of books, and he will become a learned man." "and his little sister will rejoice in his happiness--is it not so, my child?" said the doctor, kissing the forehead of the little girl. "and she will be proud of him when he returns--see we have arranged the whole matter--but i must hurry away. good-bye until to-morrow." "doctor," murmured vanda, timidly, "i wish to ask a favor of you!" "speak, child." "you are going in a sleigh, you said. i wish with my papa's and mamma's permission to drive you to the first relay." "ah, ah! but i have already arranged that. reguild, the daughter of my overseer, should do this." "yes, i know it, but she is willing that i should take her place, if you will authorize me to do so." "well, in that case you have only to obtain the permission of your father and mother." "i have done so." "then you have mine also, dear child," said the doctor, and he took his departure. the next morning when the sleigh stopped before the door of mr. hersebom little vanda held the reins according to her desire, seated upon the front seat. she was going to drive them to the next village, where the doctor would procure another horse and sleigh, and thus procure relays until he reached bergen. this new kind of coachman always astonishes a stranger, but it is the custom in norway and sweden. the men would think it a loss of time to pursue such a calling, and it is not rare to see children of ten or twelve years of age managing heavy equipages with perfect ease. the doctor was already installed in the back of the sleigh, nearly hidden by his furs. erik took his seat beside vanda, after having tenderly embraced his father and brother, who contented themselves by showing by their mute sadness the sorrow which his departure caused them; but the good katrina was more open in the expression of her feelings. "adieu, my son!" she said, in the midst of her tears. "never forget what you have learned from your poor parents--be honest, and brave, and never tell a lie. work as hard as you can--always protect those who are weaker than yourself--and if you do not find the happiness you merit come back and seek it with us." vanda touched the horse which set out at a trot, and made the bells ring. the air was cold, and the road as hard as glass. just above the horizon a pale sun began to throw his golden beams upon the snowy landscape. in a few minutes noroe was out of sight behind them. chapter iv. at stockholm. doctor schwaryencrona lived in a magnificent house in stockholm. it was in the oldest and most aristocratic quarter of the charming capital, which is one of the most pleasant and agreeable in europe. strangers would visit it much more frequently if it were better known and more fashionable. but tourists, unfortunately for themselves, plan their journeys much upon the same principle as they purchase their hats. situated between lake melar and the baltic, it is built upon eight small islands, connected by innumerable bridges, and bordered by splendid quays, enlivened by numerous steam-boats, which fulfill the duties of omnibuses. the population are hardworking, gay, and contented. they are the most hospitable, the most polite, and the best educated of any nation in europe. stockholm, with its libraries, its museums, its scientific establishments, is in fact the athens of the north, as well as a very important commercial center. erik, however, had not recovered from the sadness incident upon parting from vanda, who had left them at the first relay. their parting had been more sorrowful than would have been expected at their age, but they had not been able to conceal their emotion. when the carriage stopped before a large brick house, whose double windows shone resplendently with gaslight, erik was fairly dazzled. the copper knocker of the door appeared to him to be of fine gold. the vestibule, paved with marble and ornamented with statues, bronze torches, and large chinese-vases, completed his amazement. a footman in livery removed his master's furs, and inquired after his health with the affectionate cordiality which is habitual with swedish servants. erik looked around him with amazement. the sound of voices attracted his attention toward the broad oaken staircase, covered with heavy carpet. he turned, and saw two persons whose costumes appeared to him the height of elegance. one was a lady with gray hair, and of medium height, who wore a dress of black cloth, short enough to show her red stockings with yellow clock-work, and her buckled shoes. an enormous bunch of keys attached to a steel chain hung at her side. she carried her head high, and looked about her with piercing eyes. this was "fru," or madame greta--maria, the lady in charge of the doctor's house, and who was the undisputed autocrat of the mansion in everything that pertained to the culinary or domestic affairs. behind her came a little girl, eleven or twelve years old, who appeared to erik like a fairy princess. instead of the national costume, the only one which he had ever seen worn by a child of that age, she had on a dress of deep blue velvet, over which her yellow hair was allowed to fall loosely. she wore black stockings and satin shoes; a knot of cherry-colored ribbon was poised in her hair like a butterfly, and gave a little color to her pale cheeks, while her large eyes shone with a phosphorescent light. "how delightful, uncle, to have you back again! have you had a pleasant journey?" she cried, clasping the doctor around the neck. she hardly deigned to cast a glance at erik, who stood modestly aside. the doctor returned her caresses, and shook hands with his housekeeper, then he made a sign for erik to advance. "kajsa, and dame greta, i ask your friendship for erik hersebom, whom i have brought from norway with me!" he said, "and you, my boy, do not be afraid," he said kindly. "dame greta is not as severe as she looks, and you and my niece kajsa, will soon be the best of friends, is it not so, little girl?" he added, pinching gently the cheek of the little fairy. kajsa only responded by making a disdainful face. as for the housekeeper, she did not appear very enthusiastic over the new recruit thus presented to her notice. "if you please, doctor," she said, with a severe air, as they ascended the staircase, "may i ask who this child is?" "certainly, dame greta; i will tell you all about it before long. do not be afraid; but now, if you please, give us something to eat." in the "matsal," or dining-room, the table was beautifully laid with damask and crystal, and the "snorgas" was ready. poor erik had never seen a table covered with a white cloth, for they are unknown to the peasants of norway, who hardly use plates, as they have only recently been introduced, and many of them still eat their fish on rounds of black bread, and find it very good. therefore the doctor had to repeat his invitation several times before the boy took his seat at the table, and the awkwardness of his movements caused "froken," or miss kajsa, to cast upon him more than one ironical glance during the repast. however, his journey had sharpened his appetite, and this was of great assistance to him. the "snorgas" was followed by a dinner that would have frightened a frenchman by its massive solidity, and would have sufficed to appease the appetites of a battalion of infantry after a long march. soup, fish, home-made bread, goose stuffed with chestnuts, boiled beef, flanked with a mountain of vegetables, a pyramid of potatoes, hard-boiled eggs by the dozen, and a raisin pudding; all these were gallantly attacked and dismantled. this plentiful repast being ended, almost without a word having been spoken, they passed into the parlor, a large wainscoted room, with six windows draped with heavy curtains, large enough to have sufficed a parisian artist with hangings for the whole apartment. the doctor seated himself in a corner by the fire, in a large leather arm-chair, kajsa took her place at his feet upon a footstool, whilst erik, intimidated and ill at ease, approached one of the windows, and would have gladly hidden himself in its deep embrasure. but the doctor did not leave him alone long. "come and warm yourself, my boy!" he said, in his sonorous voice; "and tell us what you think of stockholm." "the streets are very black and very narrow, and the houses are very high," said erik. "yes, a little higher than they are in norway," answered the doctor, laughing. "they prevent one from seeing the stars!" said the young boy. "because we are in the quarter where the nobility live," said kajsa, piqued by his criticisms. "when you pass the bridges the streets are broader." "i saw that as we rode along; but the best of them are not as wide as that which borders the fiord of noroe," answered erik. "ah, ah!" said the doctor, "are you home-sick already?" "no," answered erik, resolutely. "i am too much obliged to you, dear doctor, for having brought me. but you asked me what i thought of stockholm, and i had to answer." "noroe must be a frightful little hole," said kajsa. "a frightful little hole!" repeated erik, indignantly. "those who say that must be without eyes. if you could only see our rocks of granite, our mountains, our glaciers, and our forests of pine, looking so black against the pale sky! and besides all this, the great sea; sometimes tumultuous and terrible, and sometimes so calm as scarcely to rock one; and then the flight of the sea-gulls, which are lost in infinitude, and then return, to fan you with their wings. oh, it is beautiful! yes, far more beautiful than a town." "i was not speaking of the country but of the houses," said kajsa, "they are only peasants' cabins--are they not, uncle?" "in these peasants' cabins, your father and grandfather as well as myself were born, my child," answered the doctor, gravely. kajsa blushed and remained silent. "they are only wooden houses, but they answer as well as any," said erik. "often in the evening while my father mends his nets, and my mother is busy with her spinning-wheel, we three sit on a little bench, otto, vanda, and i, and we repeat together the old sagas, while we watch the shadows that play upon the ceiling; and when the wind blows outside, and all the fishermen are safe at home, it does one good to gather around the blazing fire. we are just as happy as if we were in a beautiful room like this." "this is not the best room," said kajsa proudly. "i must show you the grand drawing-room, it is worth seeing!" "but there are so many books in this one," said erik, "are there as many in the drawing-room?" "books--who cares for them? there are velvet armchairs, and sofas, lace curtains, a splendid french clock, and carpets from turkey!" erik did not appear to be fascinated by this description, but cast envious glances toward the large oaken bookcase, which filled one side of the parlor! "you can go and examine the books, and take any you like," said the doctor. erik did not wait for him to repeat this permission. he chose a volume at once, and seating himself in a corner where there was a good light, he was soon completely absorbed in his reading. he hardly noticed the successive entrance of two old gentlemen, who were intimate friends of dr. schwaryencrona, and who came almost every evening to play a game of whist with him. the first who arrived was professor hochstedt, a large man with cold and stately manners, who expressed in polished terms the pleasure which he felt at the doctor's safe return. he was scarcely seated in the arm-chair which had long borne the name of the "professor's seat," when a sharp ring was heard. "it is bredejord," exclaimed the two friends simultaneously. the door soon opened to admit a thin sprightly little man, who entered like a gust of wind, seized both the doctor's hands, kissed kajsa on the forehead affectionately, greeted the professor, and cast a glance as keen as that of a mouse around the room. it was the advocate bredejord, one of the most illustrious lawyers of stockholm. "ha! who is this?" said he, suddenly, as he beheld erik. the doctor tried to explain in as few words as possible. "what--a young fisherman, or rather a boy from bergen--and who reads gibbon in english?" he asked. for he saw at a glance what the book was which so absorbed the little peasant. "does that interest you, my boy?" he asked. "yes, sir, it is a work that i have wanted to read for a long time, the first volume of the 'fall of the roman empire,'" answered erik, simply. "upon my word," exclaimed the lawyer, "it appears that the peasants of bergen are fond of serious reading. but are you from bergen?" he asked. "i am from noroe, which is not far from there," answered erik. "ah, have they usually eyes and hair as brown as yours at noroe?" "no, sir; my brother and sister, and all the others, are blondes like miss kajsa. but they are not dressed like her," he added, laughing; "therefore they do not look much like her." "no; i have no doubt of it," said mr. bredejord. "miss kajsa is a product of civilization. and what are you going to do at stockholm, my boy, if i am not too curious?" "the doctor has been kind enough to offer to send me to school," said erik. "ah, ah!" said mr. bredejord, tapping his snuff-box with the ends of his fingers. his glance seemed to question the doctor about this living problem; but the latter made a sign to him, which was almost imperceptible, not to pursue his investigations, and he changed the conversation. they then talked about court affairs, the city news, and all that had taken place since the departure of the doctor. then dame greta came, and opened the card-table, and laid out the cards. soon silence reigned, while the three friends were absorbed in the mysteries of whist. the doctor made pretension to being a great player, and had no mercy for the mistakes of his partners. he exulted loudly when their errors caused him to win, and scolded when they made him lose. after every rubber he took pleasure in showing the delinquent where he had erred; what card he should have led, and which he should have held back. it is generally the habit of whist-players, but it is not always conducive to amiability, particularly when the victims are the same every evening. happily for him, the doctor's two friends never lost their temper. the professor was habitually cool, and the lawyer severely skeptical. "you are right," the first would say gravely, in answer to the most severe reproaches. "my dear schwaryencrona, you know very well you are only losing your time lecturing me," mr. bredejord would say, laughing. "all my life i have made the greatest blunders whenever i play whist, and the worst of it is, i do not improve." what could any one do with two such hardened sinners? the doctor was compelled to discontinue his criticisms, but it was only to renew them a quarter of an hour later, for he was incorrigible. it happened, however, that this evening he lost every game, and his consequent ill-humor made his criticisms very severe upon his two companions, and even upon the "dummy." but the professor coolly acknowledged his faults, and the lawyer answered his most bitter reproaches by jokes. "why should i alter my play, when i win by playing badly, and you lose by following your correct rules?" he said to the doctor. they played until ten o'clock. then kajsa made the tea in a magnificent "samovar," and served it with pretty gracefulness; then she discreetly disappeared. soon dame greta appeared, and, calling erik, she conducted him to the apartment which had been prepared for him. it was a pretty little room, clean and well furnished, on the second floor. the three friends were now left alone. "now, at last, you can tell us who this young fisherman from noroe is, who reads gibbon in the original text?" said mr. bredejord, as he put some sugar into his second cup of tea. "or is it a forbidden subject, which it is indiscreet for me to mention?" "there is nothing mysterious about the matter, and i will willingly tell you erik's history, for i know that i can rely upon your discretion," answered dr. schwaryencrona. "ah! i knew that he had a history," said the lawyer, seating himself comfortably in his arm-chair. "we will listen, dear doctor. i assure you that your confidence will not be misplaced. i confess this youth arouses my curiosity like a problem." "he is, indeed, a living problem," answered the doctor, flattered by the curiosity of his friend. "a problem which i hope to be able to solve. but i must tell you all about it, and see if you think as i do." the doctor settled himself comfortably, and began by telling them that he had been struck by erik's appearance in the school at noroe, and by his unusual intelligence. he had made inquiries about him, and he related all that mr. malarius and mr. hersebom had told. he omitted none of the details. he spoke of the buoy, of the name of "cynthia," of the little garments which dame katrina had shown him, of the coral ornament, of the device upon it, and of the character of the letters. "you are now in possession of all the facts as far as i have been able to learn them," he said. "and you must bear in mind that the extraordinary ability of the child is only a secondary phenomenon, and largely due to the interest with which mr. malarius has always regarded him, and of which he has made the best use. it was his unusual acquirements which first drew my attention to him and led me to make inquiries about him. but in reality this has little connection with the questions which now occupy me, which are: where did this child come from, and what course would it be best for me to take in order to discover his family? we have only two facts to guide us in this search. first: the physical indications of the race to which the child belongs. second: the name 'cynthia,' which was engraved on the buoy. "as to the first fact, there can be no doubt; the child belongs to the celtic race. he presents the type of a celt in all its beauty and purity. "let us pass to the second fact: "'cynthia' is certainly the name of the vessel to which the buoy belonged. this name might have belonged to a german vessel, as well as to an english one; but it was written in the roman characters. therefore, the vessel was an english one--or we will say anglo-saxon to be more precise. besides, everything confirms the hypothesis, for more than one english vessel going and coming from inverness, or the orkneys, have been driven on the coast of norway by a tempest; and you must not forget that the little living waif could not have been floating for a long while, since he had resisted hunger, and all the dangers of his perilous journey. well, now you know all, and what is your conclusion my dear friends?" neither the professor nor the lawyer thought it prudent to utter a word. "you have not been able to arrive at any conclusion," said the doctor, in a tone which betrayed a secret triumph. "perhaps you even think there is a contradiction between the two facts--a child of the celtic race--an english vessel. but this is simply because you have failed to bear in mind the existence on the coast of great britain of a people of the celtic race, on her sister island, ireland. i did not think of it at first myself, and it prevented me from solving the problem. but when it occurred to me, i said to myself: the child is irish. is this your opinion, hochstedt?" if there was anything in the world the professor disliked, it was to give a positive opinion upon any subject. it must also be confessed that to give such an opinion in this case would have been premature. he therefore contented himself with nodding his head, and saying: "it is an incontestable fact that the irish belong to the celtic branch of the arian race." this was a sufficiently safe aphorism, but doctor schwaryencrona asked nothing more, and only saw in it the entire confirmation of his theory. "you think so, yourself," he said eagerly. "the irish were celts, and the child has all the characteristics of the race. the 'cynthia' having been an english vessel, it appears to me that we are in possession of the necessary links, in order to find the family of the poor child. it is in great britain that we must look for them. some advertisements in the 'times' will probably be sufficient to put us on their tracks." the doctor continued to enlarge upon his plan of proceeding, when he remarked the obstinate silence of the lawyer and the slightly ironical expression with which he listened to his conclusions. "if you are not of my opinion, bredejord, i wish you would say so. you know that i do not fear to discuss the matter," he said, stopping short. "i have nothing to say," answered mr. bredejord. "hochstedt can bear witness that i have said nothing." "no. but i see very well that you do not share my opinion; and i am curious to know why," said the doctor. "is cynthia an english name?" he asked, with vehemence. "yes! it was written in roman characters--it could not have been german. you have heard our eminent friend, hochstedt, affirm that the irish are celts. has the child all the characteristics of the celtic race? you can judge for yourself. you were struck by his appearance before i opened my mouth about the subject. i conclude, therefore, that it is a want of friendship for you to refuse to agree with me, and recognize the fact that the boy belongs to an irish family." "want of friendship is a strong charge," answered mr. bredejord, "if you apply it to me. i can only say that i have not, as yet, expressed the slightest opinion." "no; but i see that you do not spare mine." "have i not a right?" "but give some facts to support your theory." "i have not said that i have formed any." "then it is a systematic opposition, just for the sake of contradicting me, as you do in whist." "nothing is further from my thoughts, i assure you. your reasoning appeared to me to be too peremptory, that is all." "in what way, if you please, i am curious to know?" "it would take too long to tell you. eleven o'clock is striking. i will content myself with offering you a bet. your copy of pliny against my quintilian, that you have not judged rightly, and that the child is not irish." "you know that i do not like to bet," said the doctor, softened by his unconquerable good humor. "but i shall take so much pleasure in your discomfiture that i accept your offer." "well, then it is a settled affair. how much time do you expect to take for your researches?" "a few months will suffice, i hope, but i have said two years to hersebom, in order to be sure that no efforts were wanting." "ah! well--i give you two years. hochstedt shall be our witness; and there is no ill-feeling, i hope?" "assuredly not, but i see your quintilian in great danger of coming to keep company with my pliny," answered the doctor. then, after shaking hands with his two friends, he accompanied them to the door. chapter v. the thirteen days of christmas. the next day erik began his new life at school. dr. schwaryencrona first took him to his tailors, and fitted him out with some new suits of clothes; then he introduced him to the principal of one of the best schools in town. it was called in swedish "hogre elementar larovek." in this school were taught the ancient and modern languages, the elementary sciences, and all that it was necessary to learn before entering college. as in germany and italy, the students did not board in the college. they lived with their families in the town, with the professors, or wherever they could obtain comfortable accommodations. the charges are very moderate; in fact, they have been reduced almost to nothing. large gymnasiums are attached to each of the higher classes, and physical culture is as carefully attended to as the intellectual. erik at once gained the head of his division. he learned everything with such extreme facility that he had a great deal of time to himself. the doctor therefore thought that it would be better for him to utilize his evenings by taking a course at the "slodjskolan," the great industrial school of stockholm. it was an establishment especially devoted to the practice of the sciences, particularly to making experiments in physics and chemistry, and to geometrical constructions which are only taught theoretically in the schools. doctor schwaryencrona judged rightly that the teachings of this school, which was one of the wonders of stockholm, would give a new impetus to the rapid progress which erik was making, and he hoped for great results from this double training. his young _protégé_, proved worthy of the advantages which he procured for him. he penetrated the depths of the fundamental sciences, and instead of vague and superficial ideas, the ordinary lot of so many pupils, he stored up a provision of just, precise, and definite facts. the future development of these excellent principles could only be a question of time. hereafter he would be able to learn without difficulty the more elevated branches of these studies which would be required in college; in fact it would be only play to him. the same service which mr. malarius had rendered him, in teaching him languages, history, and botany, the "slodjskolan" now did for him by inculcating the a, b, c, of the industrial arts; without which the best teaching so often remains a dead letter. far from fatiguing erik's brain, the multiplicity and variety of his studies strengthened it much more than a special course of instruction could have done. besides, the gymnasium was always open to him to recruit his body when his studies were over; and here as well as in the school erik stood first. on holidays he never failed to pay a visit to the sea which he loved with filial tenderness. he talked with the sailors and fishermen, and often brought home a fine fish, which was well received by dame greta. this good woman had conceived a great affection for this new member of the household. erik was so gentle, and naturally so courteous and obliging, so studious and so brave, that it was impossible to know him and not to like him. in eight days he had become a favorite with mr. bredejord and mr. hochstedt, as he was already with doctor schwaryencrona. the only person who treated him with coldness was kajsa. whether the little fairy thought that her hitherto undisputed sovereignty in the house was in danger, or whether she bore erik a grudge, because of the sarcasms which her aristocratic air toward him inspired in the doctor, nobody knew. however, she persisted in treating him with a disdainful coldness, which no courtesy or politeness on his part could overcome. her opportunities of displaying her disdain were fortunately rare, for erik was always either out-of-doors, or else busy in his own little room. time passed in the most peaceful manner, and without any notable incidents. we will pass with our reader without further comment over the two years which erik spent at school and return to noroe. christmas had returned for the second time since erik's departure. it is in all central and northern europe the great annual festival; because it is coincident with the dull season in nearly all industries. in norway especially, they prolong the festival for thirteen days.--"tretten yule dage" (the thirteen days of christmas), and they make it a season of great rejoicings. it is a time for family reunions, for dinners, and even for weddings. provisions are abundant, even in the poorest dwellings. everywhere the greatest hospitality is the order of the day. the "yule ol," or christmas beer, is drunk freely. every visitor is offered a bumper in a wooden cup, mounted in gold, silver, or copper, which the poorest families possess, and which cups have been transmitted to them from time immemorial. the visitor must empty this cup, and exchange with his hosts the joyful wishes of the season, and for a happy new year. it is also at christmas that the servants receive their new clothes; which are often the best part of their wages--that the cows, and sheep, and even the birds of the air, receive a double ration, which is exceptionally large. they say in norway of a "poor man," that he is so poor that he can not even give the sparrows their dinner at christmas. of these thirteen traditional days, christmas-eve is the gayest. it is the custom for the young girls and boys to go around in bands on their "schnee-schuhe," or snow-shoes, and stop before the houses, and sing in chorus the old national melodies. the clear voices suddenly sounding through the fresh night air, in the lonely valleys, with their wintery surroundings, have an odd and charming effect. the doors are immediately opened, the singers are invited to enter, and they offer them cake, dried apples, and ale; and often make them dance. after this frugal supper the joyous band depart, like a flock of gulls, to perform the same ceremony further away. distances are regarded as nothing, for on their "schnee-schuhe," which are attached to their feet by leather straps, they glide over several miles with marvelous rapidity. the peasants of norway also use, with these show-shoes, a strong stick, to balance themselves, and help them along. this year the festival would be a joyous one for the herseboms. they were expecting erik. a letter from stockholm had announced that he would arrive that evening. therefore otto and vanda could not sit still. every moment they ran to the door, to see if he was coming. dame katrina, although she reproved them for their impatience, felt in the same way herself. mr. hersebom smoked his pipe silently, and was divided in his mind between a longing to see his adopted son, and the fear that he would not be able to keep him with them very long. for the fiftieth time, perhaps, otto had gone to the door, when he gave a shout and cried out: "mother! vanda! i believe it is he!" they all rushed to the door. in the distance, on the road which led from bergen, they saw a black object. it grew larger rapidly, and soon took the shape of a young man, clothed in gray cloth, wearing a fur cap, and carrying merrily over his shoulders a knapsack of green leather. he had on snow-shoes, and would soon be near enough to recognize. the traveler perceived those who were watching before the door, and taking off his cap, he waved it around his head. two minutes later erick was in the arms of katrina, otto, vanda, and even mr. hersebom, who had left his arm-chair and advanced to the door. they hugged him, and almost stifled him with caresses. they went into ecstasies over his improved appearance. dame katrina among them all could not get accustomed to it. "what--is this the dear babe that i nursed on my knees?" she cried. "this great boy, with such a frank and resolute air, with these strong shoulders, this elegant form, and on whose lip i can already see signs of a mustache. is it possible?" the brave woman was conscious of feeling a sort of respect for her former nursling. she was proud of him, above all for the tears of joy which she saw in his eyes. for he also was deeply affected. "mother, is it really you," he exclaimed. "i can hardly believe that i am with you all again. the two years have seemed so long to me. i have missed you all, as i know you have missed me." "yes," said mr. hersebom, gravely. "not a day has passed without our having spoken of you. morning and evening, and at meal times, it was your name that was constantly on our lips. but you, my boy, you have not forgotten us in the grand city? you are contented to return and see the old country and the old house?" "i am sure that you do not doubt it," said erik, as he embraced them all. "you were always in my thoughts. but above all when the wind blew a gale. i thought of you, father. i said to myself, where is he? has he returned home in safety? and in the evening i used to read the meteorological bulletin in the doctor's newspaper, to see what kind of weather you had had on the coast of norway; if it was the same as on the coast of sweden?--and i found that you have severe storms more often than we have in stockholm, which come from america, and beat on our mountains. ah! how often i have wished that i could be with you in your little boat to help you with the sail, and overcome all difficulties. and on the other hand when the weather was fine it seemed to me as if i was in prison in that great city, between the tall three-story houses. yes! i would have given all the world to be on the sea for one hour, and to feel as formerly free, and joyfully exhilarated by the fresh air!" a smile brightened the weather-beaten face of the fisherman. "his books have not spoiled him," he said. "a joyful season and a happy new-year to you, my child!" he added. "come, let us go to the table. dinner is only waiting for you." when he was once more seated in his old place on the right hand of katrina, erik was able to look around him, and mark the changes that two years had made in the family. otto was now a large, robust boy of sixteen years of age, and who looked twenty. as for vanda, two years had added wonderfully to her size and beauty. her countenance had become more refined. her magnificent blonde hair, which lay in heavy braids upon her shoulders, formed around her forehead a light silvery cloud. modest and sweet as usual, she busied herself, almost unconsciously, with seeing that no one wanted for anything. "vanda has grown to be a great girl!" said her mother, proudly. "and if you knew, erik, how learned she has become, how hard she has worked and studied since you left us! she is the best scholar in the school now, and mr. malarius says she is his only consolation for no longer having you among his pupils." "dear mr. malarius! how glad i shall be to see him again," said erik. "so our vanda has become so learned, has she?" he replied with interest, while the young girl blushed up to the roots of her hair at these maternal praises. "she has learned to play the organ also, and mr. malarius says that she has the sweetest voice of all the choir?" "oh, decidedly, it is a very accomplished young person whom i find on my return," erik said, laughing, to relieve the embarrassment of his sister. "we must make her display all her talents to-morrow." and without affectation he began to talk about all the good people of noroe, asking questions about each one; inquiring for his old school-mates, and about all that had happened since he went away. he asked about their fishing adventures, and all the details of their daily life. then on his part, he satisfied the curiosity of his family, by giving an account of his mode of life in stockholm; he told them about dame greta, about kajsa, and the doctor. "that reminds me that i have a letter for you, father," he said, drawing it out of the inside pocket of his vest. "i do not know what it contains, but the doctor told me to take good care of it, for it was about me." mr. hersebom took the letter, and laid it on the table by his side. "well!" said erik, "are you not going to read it?" "no," answered the fisherman, laconically. "but, since it concerns me?" persisted the young man. "it is addressed to me," said mr. hersebom, holding the letter before his eyes. "yes, i will read it at my leisure." filial obedience is the basis of family government in norway. erik bowed his head in acquiescence. when they rose from the table, the three children seated themselves on their little bench in the chimney-corner, as they had so often done before, and began one of those confidential conversations, where each one relates what the other is curious to know, and where they tell the same things a hundred times. katrina busied herself about the room, putting everything in order; insisting that vanda should for once "play the lady," as she said, and not trouble herself about household matters. as for mr. hersebom, he had seated himself in his favorite arm-chair, and was smoking his pipe in silence. it was only after he had finished this important operation that he decided to open the doctor's letter. he read it through without saying a single word; then he folded it up, put it in his pocket, and smoked a second pipe, like the first, without uttering a sound. he seemed to be absorbed in his own reflections. although he was never a talkative man, his silence appeared singular to dame katrina. after she had finished her work, she went and seated herself beside him, and made two or three attempts to draw him into conversation, but she only received the most brief replies. being thus repulsed, she became melancholy, and the children themselves, after talking breathlessly for some time, began to be affected by the evident sadness of their parents. twenty youthful voices singing in chorus before the door suddenly greeted their ears, and made a happy diversion. it was a merry band of erik's old classmates, who had conceived the pleasant idea of coming to give him a cordial welcome home. they hastened to invite them into the house, and offered them the customary feast, whilst they eagerly pressed around their old friend to express the great pleasure which they felt in seeing him again. erik was touched by the unexpected visit of the friends of his childhood, and was anxious to go with them on their christmas journey, and vanda and otto also were, naturally, eager to be of the party. dame katrina charged them not to go too far, but to bring their brother back early, as he needed rest after his journey. the door was hardly closed upon them, when she resumed her seat beside her husband. "well, has the doctor discovered anything?" she asked, anxiously. instead of answering, mr. hersebom took the letter from his pocket, and read it aloud, but not without hesitating over some words which were strange to him: "my dear hersebom," wrote the doctor, "it is now two years since you intrusted your dear child to my care, and every day i have had renewed pleasure in watching his progress in all the studies that he has undertaken. his intelligence is as remarkable as his heart is generous. erik is truly one of nature's nobleman, and the parents who have lost such a son, if they knew the extent of their misfortune, would be objects of pity. but it is very doubtful whether his parents are still living. as we agreed, i have spared no efforts to discover them. i have written to several persons in england who have an agency for making special researches. i have had advertisements inserted in twenty different newspapers, english, irish, and scotch. not the least ray of light has been thrown upon this mystery, and i have to confess that all the information which i have succeeded in procuring has rather tended to deepen the mystery. "the name 'cynthia,' i find in very common use in the english navy. from lloyd's office, they inform me, that there are seventeen ships, of different tonnage, bearing this name. some of these ships belong to english ports, and some to scotland and ireland. my supposition concerning the nationality of the child is therefore confirmed, and it becomes more and more evident to me that erik is of irish parentage. i do not know whether you agree with me on this point, but i have already mentioned it to two of my most intimate friends in stockholm, and everything seems to confirm it. "whether this irish family are all dead, or whether they have some interest in remaining unknown, i have not been able to discover any trace of them. "another singular circumstance, and which i also think looks still more suspicious, is the fact that no shipwreck registered at lloyd's, or at any of the marine insurance companies, corresponds with the date of the infant's arrival on your coast. two vessels named 'cynthia' have been lost, it is true, during this century; but one was in the indian ocean, thirty-two years ago, and the other was in sight of portsmouth eighteen years ago. "we are therefore obliged to conclude that the infant was not the victim of a shipwreck. "doubtless he was intentionally exposed to the mercy of the waves. this would explain why all my inquiries have been fruitless. "be this as it may, after having questioned successively all the proprietors of the vessels bearing the name of 'cynthia,' without obtaining any information, and after exhausting all known means of pursuing my investigations, i have been compelled to conclude that there is no hope of discovering erik's family. "the question that arises for us to decide, my dear hersebom, and particularly for you, is what we ought to say to the boy, and what we ought to do for him. "if i were in your place, i should now tell him all the facts about himself which affect him so nearly, and leave him free to choose his own path in life. you know we agreed to adopt this course if my efforts should prove unsuccessful. the time has come for you to keep your word. i have wished to leave it to you to relate all this to erik. he is returning to noroe still ignorant that he is not your son, and he does not know whether he is to return to stockholm or remain with you. it is for you to tell him. "remember, if you refuse to fulfill this duty, erik would have the right some day, perhaps, to be astonished at you. recall to mind also that he is a boy of too remarkable abilities to be condemned to an obscure and illiterate life. such a sentence would have been unmerited two years ago, and now, after his brilliant career at stockholm, it would be positively unjustifiable. "i therefore renew my offer: let him return to me and finish his studies, and take at upsal the degree of doctor of medicine. i will continue to provide for him as if he were my own son, and he has only to go on and win honors and a fortune. "i know that, in addressing you and the excellent adopted mother of erik, i leave his future in good hands. no personal consideration, i am sure, will prevent you from accepting my offer. take mr. malarius' advice in this matter. "while awaiting your reply, mr. hersebom, i greet you affectionately, and i beg you to remember me most kindly to your worthy wife and children. "r.w. schwaryencrona, m.d." when the fisherman had finished reading this letter, dame katrina, who had been silently weeping while she listened to it, asked him what he intended to do. "my duty is very clear," he said. "i shall tell the boy everything." "that is my opinion also; it must be done, or we should never have another peaceful moment," she murmured, as she dried her eyes. then they both relapsed into silence. it was past midnight when the three children returned from their expedition. their cheeks were rosy, and their eyes shone with pleasure from their walk in the fresh air. they seated themselves around the fire to finish gayly their christmas-eve by eating a last cake before the enormous log which looked like a burning cavern. chapter vi. erik's decision. the next day the fisherman called erik to him, and in the presence of katrina, otto, and vanda, spoke to him as follows: "erik, the letter of doctor schwaryencrona was about you. he writes that you have given entire satisfaction to your teachers, and the doctor offers to pay all the expenses of your education, if you wish to continue your studies. but this letter also requires you to decide for yourself, whether you will accept this offer, or remain with us at noroe, which we would like so much to have you do, as you no doubt know. but before you make up your mind, i must tell you a great secret, a secret that my wife and i would have preferred to keep to ourselves." at this moment dame katrina could not restrain her tears, and, sobbing, she took the hand of erik and pressed it to her heart, as if protesting against the information which the young man was now to hear. "this secret," continued mr. hersebom, in a strangely altered voice, "is that you are our son only by adoption. i found you on the sea, my child, and brought you home when you were only eight or nine months old. god is my witness that we never intended to tell you this, and neither my wife nor myself have ever made the least difference between you, and otto, and vanda. but doctor schwaryencrona requires us to do so. therefore, i wish you to read what he has written to me." erik had suddenly become deadly pale. otto and vanda, surprised at what they had heard, both uttered a cry of astonishment. then they put their arms around erik, and clung closely to him, one on the right, and the other on the left. then erik took the doctor's letter, and without trying to conceal his emotion, he read what he had written to mr. hersebom. the fisherman then told him all the facts about himself. he explained how dr. schwaryencrona had undertaken to try and discover the family to which he belonged; and, also, that he had been unsuccessful. how, that but for his advice and suggestions, they would never have thought of doing so. then dame katrina arose, and going to the oaken chest, brought out the garments that the baby had worn, and showed him also the coral which had been fastened around his neck. the story was naturally so full of dramatic interest to the children, that they forgot for a time, at least, how sad it was. they looked with wonder at the lace, and velvet, the golden setting of the coral, and the inscription. it almost seemed to them as if they were taking part in some fairy tale. the impossibility of obtaining any information, as reported by the doctor, only made them regard these articles as almost sacred. erik looked at them as if he were in a dream, and his thoughts flew to the unknown mother, who, without doubt, had herself dressed him in these little garments, and more than once shook the coral before the eyes of the baby to make him smile. it seemed to him when he touched them as if he held direct communion with her through time and space. but where was this mother? was she still living, or had she perished? was she weeping for her lost son, or must the son, on the contrary, think of her as forever lost to him? he remained for some minutes absorbed in these reflections, with his head bent, but a word from dame katrina recalled him to himself. "erik, you are always our child," she cried, disturbed by his silence. the eyes of the young man as he looked around him fell on all their loving countenances--the maternal look of the loving wife, the honest face of mr. hersebom, that of otto even more affectionate than usual, and that of vanda, serious and troubled. as he read the tenderness and disquietude displayed on all their faces, erik felt as if his heart was melting within him. in a moment he realized his situation, and saw vividly the scene which his father had described. the cradle abandoned to the mercy of the waves, rescued by the hardy fisherman, and carried to his wife; and these people, humble and poor as they were, had not hesitated to take care of the little stranger, to adopt and cherish him as their own son. they had not spoken of the matter for fourteen years, and now they were hanging on his words as if they were a matter of life and death to them. all this touched him so deeply that suddenly his tears came. an irresistible feeling of love and gratitude overwhelmed him. he felt eager on his part to repay by some devotion the tenderness which they had shown to him. he resolved to stay with them at noroe forever, and content himself with their humble lot, while he endeavored to do everything in his power to repay them. "mother," said he, throwing himself into katrina's arms, "do you think that i can hesitate, now that i know all? we will write to the doctor, and thank him for his kind offer, and tell him that i have chosen to remain with you. i will be a fisherman, like you, father, and like otto. since you have given me a place at your fireside, i would prefer to retain it. since you have nourished me by the labor of your hands, i ask to be allowed to repay you in your old age for your generosity toward me when i was a helpless infant." "god be praised!" cried dame katrina, pressing erik to her heart in a transport of joy and tenderness. "i knew that the child would prefer the sea to all their books," said mr. hersebom, not understanding the sacrifice that erik's decision would be to him. "come, the matter is settled. we will not talk about it any more, but only try to enjoy this good festival of christmas!" they all embraced each other, with eyes humid with happiness, and vowed they would never be separated. when erik was alone he could not help a stifled sigh, as he thought about all his former dreams of work, and of the career which he had renounced. but still he experienced at the same time a joy which he believed would repay him for the sacrifice. "since it is the wish of my adopted parents," he said to himself, "the rest does not signify. i ought to be willing to work for them in the sphere and condition where their devotion has placed me. if i have sometimes felt ambitious to take a higher position in the world, was it not that i might be able to assist them? since it makes them happy to have me with them, and as they desire nothing better than their present life, i must try to be contented, and endeavor by good conduct and hard work to give them satisfaction. adieu, then, to my books." thus he mused, and soon his thoughts returned to the time when the fisherman had found him floating in his little cradle on the waves. what country did he belong to? who were his parents? were they still alive? had he in some foreign country brothers and sisters whom he would never know? christmas had also been in dr. schwaryencrona's house in stockholm a season of great festivity. it was at this time, as the reader doubtless remembers, that they had agreed to decide the bet between him and mr. bredejord, and that professor hochstedt was to be the umpire. for two years not a word had been said by either of them about this bet. the doctor had been patiently pursuing his researches in england, writing to the maritime agencies, and multiplying his advertisements in the newspapers; but he had taken care not to confess that his efforts had been fruitless. as for mr. bredejord, he had had the good taste to avoid all allusion to the subject, and contented himself with occasionally admiring the beautiful binding of the pliny which was displayed in the doctor's book-case. but when he struck his snuff-box sharply with the ends of his fingers, while he looked at the book, the doctor correctly interpreted the pantomime, which was a shock to his nerves, and said to himself: "oh, yes; he is thinking how well the pliny will look beside his elegant editions of quintilian and horace." on these evenings he was more merciless than ever, if his unfortunate partner made any mistakes at whist. but time had taken its flight, and he was now obliged to submit the question to the impartial arbitration of professor hochstedt. dr. schwaryencrona approached the subject frankly. kajsa had hardly left him alone with his two friends when he confessed to them, as he had confessed in his letter to mr. hersebom, that his investigations had been without result. nothing had occurred to throw any light on the mystery which surrounded erik's origin, and the doctor in all sincerity declared that the problem was thought by him to be insolvable. "but," he continued, "i should be doing myself an injustice if i did not declare with equal sincerity that i do not believe that i have lost my bet. i have not discovered erik's family, it is true, but all the information that i have been able to obtain corroborates the conclusion which i had arrived at. the 'cynthia' was, no doubt, an english vessel, for there are at least seventeen ships bearing this name registered at lloyd's. as for ethnographical characteristics, they are clearly celtic. my hypothesis, therefore, as to the nationality of erik is victoriously confirmed. i am more than ever certain that he is of irish extraction as i at first surmised. but i can not compel his family to come forward and acknowledge him, if they have any reasons of their own for wishing him to continue lost to them. this is all i have to say, my dear hochstedt; and now you must be the judge as to whether the quintilian of our friend bredejord should not legitimately be transferred to my book-case!" at these words, which seemed to occasion a strong inclination to laugh, the lawyer fell back in his arm-chair, raised his hands as if in protestation, then he fixed his brilliant eyes upon professor hochstedt to see how he would regard the matter. the professor did not betray the embarrassment which might have been expected. he would have certainly felt miserable if the doctor had urged any incontrovertible argument, which would have compelled him to decide in favor of one or the other. his prudent character led him to speak in indefinite terms. he excelled in presenting, one after the other, both sides of a question, and he reveled in his vagaries, like a fish in water. therefore, this evening he felt quite equal to the situation. "the fact is incontestable," he said, shaking his head, "that there are seventeen english vessels bearing the name of 'cynthia,' and this seems to favor the conclusion arrived at by our eminent friend. the characteristic traits also have assuredly great weight, and i do not hesitate to say that they appear to me to be quite conclusive. i do not hesitate to confess that if i were called upon to give an opinion as to erik's nationality, i should say that he was irish. but to decide the bet in question we require something more than probabilities; we must have facts to guide us. the chances so far greatly favor the opinion of dr. schwaryencrona, but bredejord can allege that nothing has actually been proved. i see, therefore, no sufficient reason for declaring that the quintilian has been won by the doctor; neither can i say that the professor has lost his pliny. in my opinion, as the question remains undecided, it ought to be annulled, which is the best thing to do in such a case." the doctor's face clearly betrayed his dissatisfaction. as for mr. bredejord he leaped to his feet, saying: "your argument is a beautiful one, my dear hochstedt, but i think you are hasty in your conclusions. schwaryencrona, you say, has not verified his opinions sufficiently for you to say positively that he has won the bet, although you think that all the probabilities are in his favor. what will you say then, if i prove to you immediately that the 'cynthia' was not an english vessel at all?" "what would i say?" said the professor, somewhat troubled by this sudden attack. "upon my word i do not know. i would have to consider the question in a different aspect." "examine it then at your leisure," answered the advocate, thrusting his hand into the inner pocket of his coat, and taking out a case from which he selected a letter inclosed in one of those yellow envelopes, which betray at the first glance their american origin. "this is a document which you can not controvert," he added, placing the letter before the doctor's eyes, who read aloud: "_to mr. bredejord, stockholm._ "new york, october th. "sir,--in reply to your letter of the th instant, i hasten to write you the following facts:-- " st.--a vessel named 'cynthia,' commanded by captain barton, and the property of the canadian general transportation company, was lost, with her cargo and all on board, just fourteen years ago, in the neighborhood of the faroe islands. " d.--this vessel was insured in the general steam navigation company of new york for the sum of eight hundred thousand dollars. " d.--the disappearance of the 'cynthia' having remained unexplained, and the causes of the sad accident never having been clearly proved to the satisfaction of the insurance company, a lawsuit ensued, which was lost by the proprietors of the said vessel. " th.--the loss of this lawsuit occasioned the dissolution of the canadian general transportation company, which has ceased to exist for the last eleven years, having gone into liquidation. while waiting to hear from you again, i beg of you, sir, to accept our sincere salutations. "jeremiah smith, walker & co., "maritime agents." "well, what do you say to that?" asked mr. bredejord, when the doctor had finished reading the letter. "it is a document of some value, i think. do you agree with me?" "i quite agree with you," answered the doctor. "how did you procure it?" "in the simplest way in the world. that evening when you spoke to me about the 'cynthia' being necessarily an english vessel, i thought that you were taking too limited a field for your researches, and that the vessel might be an american one. when time passed, and you received no intelligence, for you would have told us if you had, the idea occurred to me of writing to new york. the third letter brought the result which you have before you. the affair is no longer a complicated one. do you not think that it assures to me beyond contest the possession of your pliny?" "it appears to me to be rather a forced conclusion," replied the doctor, taking the letter and reading it over again, to see if he could find any new arguments to support his theory. "how forced?" cried the advocate. "i have proved to you that the vessel was an american one, and that she was lost off the faroe islands, that is to say, near the coast of norway, precisely at the time which corresponds to the arrival of the infant, and still you are not convinced of your error." "not in the least, my dear friend. i do not dispute the value or your document. you have discovered what i have found it impossible to do--the true 'cynthia,' which was lost at a little distance from our coast, and at a specified epoch; but permit me to say, that this only confirms precisely my theory, for the vessel was a canadian one, or in other words, english, and the irish element is very strong in some parts of canada, and i have therefore more reason than ever for being sure that the child is of irish origin." "ah, is that what you find in my letter?" said mr. bredejord, more vexed than he was willing to appear to be. "then without doubt you persist in believing that you have not lost your pliny?" "assuredly!" "perhaps you think you have a right to my quintilian?" "i hope in any case to be able to prove my right, thanks to your discovery, if you will only give me time by renewing the bet." "i am willing. i ask nothing better. how much time do you want?" "let us take two more years, and wait until the second christmas after this one." "it is agreed," answered mr. bredejord. "but be assured, doctor, that you will finally see me in possession of your pliny!" "by my faith no. it will make a fine appearance in my book-case beside your quintilian." chapter vii. vanda's opinion. in the beginning, erik burning with zeal at the sacrifice which he had made, devoted all his energies to a fisherman's life, and tried to forget that he had ever known any other. he was always the first to rise and prepare the boat for his adopted father, who found every morning all the arrangements completed, and he had only to step on board. if the wind failed, then erik took the heavy oars, and rowed with all his strength, seeming to choose the hardest and most fatiguing duties. nothing discouraged him, neither the long waiting for the fish to seize the bait, nor the various preparations to which the captive was subjected--first, the removal of the tongue, which is a most delicate morsel; then the head, then the bones, before placing them in the reservoir, where they receive their first salting. whatever their work was, erik did his part not only conscientiously, but eagerly. he astonished the placid otto by his extreme application to the smallest details of their business. "how you must have suffered, when you were shut up in the town," said the lad to him, naively. "you only seem to be in your element when you are on the borders of the fiord or on the open sea." when their conversation took this turn, erik always remained silent. sometimes, however, he would revert to the subject himself, and try to prove to otto, or rather to himself, that there was no better state of existence than their own. "it is what i have always heard," the other would answer with his calm smile. and poor erik would turn away and stifle a sigh. the truth is that he suffered cruelly after renouncing his studies and seeing himself condemned to a life of manual labor. when these thoughts came to him he fought against them with all his might. he did not wish any one to suspect that he felt in this way, and in hiding them within his own breast he suffered all the more. a catastrophe which occurred at the beginning of the spring, only served to increase his discouragement. one day, as there was a great deal of work to do at home in piling together the salted fish, mr. hersebom had intrusted it to erik and to otto, and had gone out to fish alone. the weather was stormy, and the sky very cloudy for the time of the year. the two young men, although they worked actively, could not help noticing that it was exceptionally dull, and they felt the atmosphere very heavy. "it is singular!" said erik, "but i feel a roaring in my ears as if i were some distance above the earth in a balloon." almost immediately his nose began to bleed. otto had a similar sensation, although not quite so severe. "i think the barometer must be very low," said erik. "if i had time i would run to mr. malarius' and see." "you have plenty of time," said otto. "our work is nearly done, and even if you were delayed i could easily finish it alone." "then i will go," replied erik. "i do not know why the state of the atmosphere should trouble me so much. i wish father was home." as he walked toward the school, he met mr. malarius on the road. "is it you, erik?" said the teacher. "i am glad to see you, and make sure that you are not on the sea. i was just going to inquire. the barometer has fallen with such rapidity during the last half hour. i have never seen anything like it. we are surely going to have a change of weather." mr. malarius had hardly finished speaking, when a distant grumbling, followed by a lugubrious roaring, fell upon their ears. the sky became covered with a cloud as black as ink, which spread rapidly in all directions, and obscured every object with great swiftness. then suddenly, after an interval of complete silence, the leaves of the trees, the bits of straw, the sand, and even the stones, were swept away by a sudden gust of wind. the hurricane had begun. it raged with unheard-of violence. the chimneys, the window shutters, and in some places even the roofs of the houses were blown down; and the boat-houses without exception were carried away and destroyed by the wind. in the fiord, which was usually as calm as a well in a court-yard, the most terrible tempest raged; the waves were enormous and came and went, breaking against the shore with a deafening noise. the cyclone raged for an hour, then arrested in its course by the heights of norway, it moved toward the south, and swept over continental europe. it is noted in meteorological annals as one of the most extraordinary and disastrous that ever was known upon the atlantic coast. these great changes of the atmosphere are now generally announced beforehand by the telegraph. most of the european sea-ports forewarned of the danger have time to warn vessels and seamen of the threatened tempest, and they seek a safe anchorage. by this means many disasters are averted. but on the distant and less frequented coasts, in the fishing-hamlets, the number of shipwrecks was beyond computation. in one office, that of "veritas" in france, there were registered not less than . the first thought of all the members of the hersebom family, as well as of all the other families of fishermen, was naturally for those who were on the sea on this disastrous day. mr. hersebom went most often to the western coast of a large island which was about two miles distant, beyond the entrance to the fiord. it was the spot where he had first seen erik. they hoped that during the tempest he had been able to find shelter by running his boat upon the low and sandy shore. but erik and otto felt so anxious that they could not wait until evening to see if this hope was well founded. the fiord had hardly resumed its ordinary placidity, after the passage of the hurricane, when they borrowed a boat of one of their neighbors, in order to go in search of him. mr. malarius insisted upon accompanying the young men upon their expedition, and they all three set out, anxiously watched by katrina and her daughter. on the fiord the wind had nearly gone down, but it blew from the west, and to reach the entrance to the harbor they were obliged to use their oars. this took them more than an hour. when they reached the entrance an unexpected obstacle presented itself. the tempest was still raging on the ocean, and the waves dashed against the island which, formed the entrance to the fiord of noroe, forming two currents, which came and went with such violence in the narrow pass that it was impossible to gain the open sea. a steamboat could not have ventured through it, and a weak boat could not have resisted it for a moment. the only thing they could do, therefore, was to return to noroe, and wait as patiently as they could. the hour when he habitually came home passed without bringing mr. hersebom, but none of the other fishermen returned; so they hoped that they were all detained by the impassable state of the entrance to the fiord, and would not believe that he had personally met with any disaster. that evening was a very sad one at all the firesides where a member was missing. as the night passed without any of the absent men making their appearance, the anxieties of their families increased. in mr. hersebom's house nobody went to bed. they passed the long hours of waiting seated in a circle around the fire, silent and anxious. dawn is late in these high latitudes in march, but when at last it grew light it was bright and clear. the wind was calm, and they hoped they would be able to get through the pass. a regular fleet of boats, composed of every one who could get away from noroe, was ready to go in search of the absent men. just at this moment several vessels hove in sight, and soon reached the village. they were the fishermen who had gone out the day before, not expecting such a cyclone; but mr. hersebom was not among them. nobody could give any account of him, and the fact of his not returning with the others increased their anxiety as all the men had been in great peril. some had been surprised by the cyclone and dashed upon the shore, others had time to shelter themselves in a secure place of anchorage. a few had reached the land just in time to save themselves. it was decided that the flotilla should go in search of those who were missing. mr. malarius who still wished to take part in the expedition accompanied erik and otto. a large yellow dog begged so earnestly to go with them, that at length they yielded. it was kaas, the greenland dog that mr. hersebom had brought back with him, after a voyage to cape farewell. after issuing from the pass the boats separated, some going to the right, and others to the left, to explore the shores of the innumerable islands which lie scattered near the entrance to the fiord of noroe, as well as all along the coast of norway. when they met at midday at a given point, which had been agreed upon before separating, no trace of mr. hersebom had been discovered. as the search had apparently been well conducted, everyone was of the opinion that they had nothing more to do but to go home. but erik was not willing to own himself defeated, and give up all hope so easily. he declared that having visited all the islands which lay toward the south, he now wished to explore those which were in the north. mr. malarius and otto supported him; and seeing this they granted his desire. this persistence deserved some recompense. toward two o'clock as they approached a large island, kaas began suddenly to bark furiously; then before they could prevent him he threw himself into the water, and swam to the shore. erik and otto rowed with all their strength in the same direction. soon they saw the dog reach the island, and bound, while he uttered loud howls, toward what appeared to be a human form lying extended upon the sand. they made all possible haste, and soon saw beyond a doubt that it was a man who was lying there, and this man was mr. hersebom; bloody, pale, cold, inanimate--dead, perhaps. kaas was licking his hands, and uttering mournful cries. erik's first action was to drop on his knees beside the cold body, and apply his ear to his heart. "he is alive, i feel it beat," he cried. mr. malarias had taken one of mr. hersebom's hand's, and was feeling his pulse and he shook his head, sadly and doubtfully; but he would not neglect any of the means which are usually tried in such cases. after taking off a large woolen girdle which he wore around his waist, he tore it in three pieces, and giving one to each of the young men, they rubbed vigorously the body, the arms, and the legs of the fisherman. it was soon manifest that this simple treatment had produced the effect of restoring the circulation. the beating of the heart grew stronger, the chest rose, and a feeble respiration escaped through the lips. in a little while mr. hersebom was partially restored to consciousness, for he distinctly moaned. mr. malarias, and the two young men lifted him from the ground, and carried him to the boat, where they hastily arranged a bed for him of sails. as they laid him in the bottom of the boat he opened his eyes. "a drink!" he said in a weak voice. erik held a flask of brandy to his lips. he swallowed a mouthful and appeared to be conscious of their arrival, for he tried to give them an affectionate and grateful smile. but fatigue overcame him almost immediately, and he fell into a heavy sleep which resembled a complete lethargy. thinking justly that the best thing they could do was to get him home as speedily as possible, they took their oars and rowed vigorously; and in a very short time they reached noroe. mr. hersebom was carried to his bed, and his wounds were dressed with arnica. he was fed with broth, and given a glass of beer, and in a short time he recovered consciousness. his injuries were not of a very grave nature. one of his arms was fractured, and his body was covered with wound and bruises. but mr. malarius insisted that he should remain quiet and rest, and not fatigue himself by attempting to talk. he was soon sleeping peacefully. it was not until the next day that they permitted him to speak and explain in a few words what had happened to him. he had been overtaken by the cyclone just as he had hoisted his sail to return to noroe. he had been dashed against the rocks of the island and his boat had been broken into a thousand pieces and carried away by the waves. he had thrown himself into the sea to escape the frightful shock, when she struck, but in spite of all his efforts, he had been dashed by the waves upon the rocks and terribly wounded; he had only been able to drag himself beyond the reach of the waves. exhausted by fatigue, one arm broken, and his whole body covered with wounds, he had lain in an unconscious state, unable to move. he could give no account of the manner in which he had passed the twenty hours; doubtless he had either been delirious or unconscious. now that he was saved, he began to lament for the loss of his boat, and because of his broken arm, which was now in splints. what would become of him, even admitting that he might be able to use his arm again after eight or ten weeks? the boat was the only capital possessed by the family, and the boat had been broken to pieces by the wind. it would be very hard for a man of his age to be compelled to work for others. besides, could he find work? it was very doubtful, for nobody in noroe employed any assistant, and the factory even had lately reduced its hands. such were the bitter reflections of mr. hersebom, while he lay upon his bed of pain; and he felt still worse when he was able to get up, and occupy his accustomed seat in his arm-chair. while waiting for his complete recovery, the family lived upon such provisions as they had in the house, and by the sale of the salt cod-fish which still remained. but the future looked very dark, and nobody could see how it was to be lightened. this imminent distress had given a new turn to erik's thoughts. for two or three days he reflected that it was by his good fortune that mr. hersebom had been discovered. how could he help feeling proud, when he saw dame katrina and vanda look at him with intense gratitude, as they said: "dear erik, our father saved you from the waves, and now, in your turn, you have snatched him from death." certainly it was the highest recompense that he could desire for the self-abnegation of which he had given such a noble proof, in condemning himself to a fisherman's life. to feel that he had been able to render his adopted family such an inestimable benefit was to him a thought full of sweetness and strength. this family, who had so generously shared with him all that they possessed, were now in trouble, and in want of food. but, could he remain to be a burden to them? was it not rather his duty to try and do something to assist them? erik did not doubt his obligation to do this. he only hesitated as to the best way for him to do it. should he go to bergen and become a sailor? or was there some better occupation open to him, where he could be immediately useful to them. he resolved to consult mr. malarius, who listened to his reasons, and approved of them, but did not think well of his project of becoming a sailor. "i understood, but i deplored your decision when you were resigned to remain here and share the life of your adopted parents; but i can not understand why you should condemn yourself to the life of a sailor, which would take you far away from them, when doctor schwaryencrona offers you every advantage to pursue a more congenial career," said mr. malarius. "reflect, my dear child, before you make such a decision." mr. malarius did not tell him that he had already written to stockholm to inform the doctor of the sad state of their affairs, and the change which the cyclone of the d of march had made in the circumstances of erik's family. he was not surprised, when three days after his conversation with erik, he received the following letter, which he lost no time in carrying to the house of mr. hersebom. the letter read as follows: "stockholm, march th. "my dear mr. malarius,--i thank you cordially for informing me of the disastrous consequences of the cyclone of the d of march to the worthy mr. hersebom. i am proud and happy to learn that erik acted in these circumstances, as always before, like a brave boy and a devoted son. you will find a check in this letter for kroners; and i beg you to give them to him from me. tell him if it is not enough to buy at bergen a first-class boat, he must let me know without delay. he must name this boat 'cynthia,' and then present it to mr. hersebom as a souvenir of filial love. that done, if erik wishes to please me he will return to stockholm and resume his studies. his place is always ready for him at my fireside, and if he needs a motive to assist in this decision, i add that i have at length obtained some information, and hope yet to be able to solve the mystery enshrouding his birth. "believe me, my dear malarius, your sincere and devoted friend, "r.w. schwaryencrona, m.d." you may imagine with what joy this letter was received. the doctor, by sending this gift to erik, showed that he understood the character of the old fisherman. if he had offered it directly to him, it is hardly probable that mr. hersebom would have accepted it. but he could not refuse the boat from erik's hand, and bearing the name of "cynthia," which recalled how erik had become a member of the family. their only grief now, which already began to sadden all their countenances, was the thought that he must soon leave them again. nobody dared to speak about it, although it was constantly in their thoughts. erik himself, with his head bowed, was divided between the desire of satisfying the doctor, and realizing the secret wishes of his own heart, and the no less natural wish of giving no offense to his adopted parents. it was vanda who first broke the reserve, and spoke upon the subject. "erik," she said, in her sweet grave voice, "you can not say 'no' to the doctor after receiving such a letter. you can not do it, because it would be treating him most ungratefully, and sinning against yourself. your place is among scholars, and not among fishermen. i have thought so for a long time. nobody has dared to tell you, therefore i tell you." "vanda is right," said mr. malarius, with a smile. "vanda is right," repeated dame katrina, drying her eyes. and in this manner, for the second time, erik's departure was decided. chapter viii. patrick o'donoghan. the information which dr. schwaryencrona had received was not very important, but it sufficed to start his inquiries in a new direction. he had learned the name of the ex-director of the canadian transportation company, it was mr. joshua churchill. but they did not know what had become of this gentleman since the dissolution of the company. if they could succeed in finding him, he might be able to give them some information about the old records of the company; perhaps there might have been a list of the passengers by the "cynthia," and the baby might have been registered with his family or with the persons who had charge of him. but their investigations proved very unsatisfactory. the solicitor who had formerly had the books in his possession as the receiver of the company about ten years before; did not know what had become of mr. churchill. for a moment dr. schwaryencrona consoled himself with a false hope. he remembered that the american newspapers usually published a list of the passengers embarking for europe, and he sent for a number of old gazettes to see if he could find the "cynthia's" list; but he was soon convinced that this was a fruitless effort. he discovered that the practice of publishing the names of passengers on european steamships was of comparatively recent date. but the old gazettes were of one use to him, they gave the exact date of sailing of the "cynthia," which had left on the d of november, not from a canadian port as they had at first supposed, but from new york, to go to hamburg. it was therefore in new york that the doctor must first make his investigations, and, if unsuccessful, then in other parts of the united states. at hamburg all his inquiries proved to be useless. the consignee of the canadian transportation company knew nothing about the passengers of the "cynthia," and could only give them information about the freight, which they had already obtained. erik had been in stockholm six months when they learned that the ex-director, mr. joshua churchill, had died several years before, in an hospital, without leaving any known heirs, or probably any money. as for the registers of the company, they had probably been sold long before as waste paper. these long researches led to nothing, except to provoke the sarcasms of mr. bredejord, which were wounding, to the doctor's self-love, who, however, did not as yet give way to despair. erik's history was now well known in the doctor's household. they no longer forbore to speak openly about it, and the results of their researches were talked of both in the dining-room and the parlor. perhaps the doctor had acted more discreetly during the first two years of erik's sojourn with him, when he had kept his affairs a secret. now they furnished food for the gossiping of kajsa and dame greta, and even occupied the thoughts of erik himself; and his reflections were often very melancholy. not to know whether his parents were still living, to reflect that he might never be able to discover the secret of his birth, was in itself a sad thought to him; but it was still more sad to be ignorant of the land of his birth. "the poorest child in the streets, the most miserable peasant, knew at least what his country was, and to what branch of the great human family he belonged," he would sometimes say to himself, as he thought of those things. "but i am ignorant of all this. i am cast on the globe like a waif, like a grain of dust tossed by the winds, and nobody knows where i came from. i have no tradition--no past. the spot where my mother was born, and where her ashes now rest, is perhaps profaned and trodden under foot, and i am powerless to defend and protect it." these thoughts saddened erik. sometimes he would tell himself that he had a mother in dame katrina, and a home at mr. hersebom's, and that noroe was his country. he vowed that he would repay their kindness to him fourfold, and would always be a devoted son to norway, but still he felt himself in an exceptional position. sometimes when he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he could observe the physical difference between himself and those surrounding him. the color of his eyes and his skin often occasioned him gloomy reflections. sometimes he would ask himself which country he would prefer to be a native of if he had a choice, and he studied history and geography that he might become better acquainted with the civilization of different countries, and with the habits of their inhabitants. it was a sort of consolation to him to believe that he belonged to the celtic race, and he sought in books a confirmation of the theory of the doctor. but when the learned man repeated that in his opinion he was certainly irish, erik felt depressed. why among all the celtic race should he belong to the people who were the most oppressed? if he had felt absolutely sure of this, he would have loved this unfortunate country. but all proof being wanting, why might he not rather believe that he was french? there were certainly celts in france, and it was a country that he would have been proud to claim as his own, with her glorious traditions, her dramatic history, and her fruitful principles, which she had disseminated all over the world. oh! he could have passionately loved, and served with devotion, such a country. he would have felt a filial interest in studying her glorious annals, in reading the works of her great authors, and in studying her poets. but alas! all these delicate emotions were denied him, and he felt that the problem of his origin would never be solved, since after so many years spent in making inquiries they had learned nothing. however, it seemed to erik that if he could pursue these inquiries himself, and follow up the information already obtained, that he might discover something which might lead to some result, and his activity and zeal might succeed where money had failed. would he not work with an ardor which must overcome all difficulties? this idea took possession of his mind, and insensibly had a marked effect in his studies, giving them a special direction; although he was not aware of this fact himself. as he had made up his mind to travel, he commenced to study cosmography and nautical matters; in fact, everything that was taught in the school for marines. "some day," he said to himself, "i will pass my examination as a captain, and then i shall go to new york in my own vessel, and pursue my inquiries with regard to the 'cynthia.'" as a natural consequence, this project of personally investigating the matter of his birth soon became known, for he was candor itself. dr. schwaryencrona, mr. bredejord and professor hochstedt ended by becoming interested, and finally adopted his views as their own. the question of erik's birth, which had at first only been an interesting problem in their eyes, engrossed them more and more. they saw how much erik took it to heart, and as they were sincerely attached to him, they realized how important it was to him, and they were disposed to do everything in their power to cast some light upon the mystery. one fine evening, just as the vacation was approaching, it occurred to them that it would be a good idea to make an excursion to new york together, and see if they could, obtain any further news about the matter. who first conceived this idea was a disputed point among them, and gave rise to many discussions between the doctor and mr. bredejord, each claiming a priority. doubtless it occurred to them both simultaneously; but be this as it may, the proposal was adopted unanimously, and in the month of september the three friends, accompanied by erik, embarked at christiana for new york. ten days later they had reached that city, and opened communication with the house of jeremiah smith, walker & company, from whom they had received the first intelligence. and now a new agent appeared on the scene, whose assistance they had had little suspicion of, and this was erik himself. in new york he only saw what would assist him in his search. he was up at daybreak visiting the wharves, accosting the sailors, whom he might chance to meet, working with indefatigable activity to collect the most minute intelligence. "do you know anything about the canadian transportation company? could you tell me of any officer, or passenger, or sailor, who had sailed on the 'cynthia'?" he asked everywhere. thanks to his perfect knowledge of the english language, his sweet and serious countenance, and his familiarity with everything pertaining to the sea, he was well received everywhere. they mentioned to him successively several old officers, sailors, and employs, of the canadian transportation company. sometimes he was able to find them. sometimes all traces of them were lost. but none of them could give him any useful information about the last voyage of the "cynthia." it took fifteen days of walking, and searching incessantly, to obtain one little bit of information which might prove valuable, among all the confused and contradictory accounts which were poured into poor erik's willing ears. this one little truth however seemed to be worth its weight in gold. they assured him that a sailor named patrick o'donoghan, had survived the shipwreck of the "cynthia," and had even returned to new york several times since that eventful voyage. this patrick o'donoghan had been on the "cynthia," on her last voyage, and had been a special attendant of the captain. in all probability he would know the first-class passengers, who always eat at the captain's table. they judged by the fineness of the infant's clothing that he belonged to this class. it was now a matter of the greatest importance to find this sailor. this was the conclusion of dr. schwaryencrona and mr. bredejord, when erik informed them of his discovery, when he returned to the fifth avenue hotel to dinner. as usual it led to a discussion, since the doctor tried to draw from this discovery a confirmation of his favorite theory. "if ever there was an irish name," he cried, "patrick o'donoghan is one. did i not always say that i was sure that erik was of irish birth?" "does this discovery prove it?" asked mr. bredejord laughing. "an irish cabin-boy does not prove much. it would be difficult, i fancy, to find an american vessel without one or two natives of erin among her crew." they discussed the matter for two or three hours, neither of them willing to give way to the other. from that day erik devoted all his energies to the task of finding patrick o'donoghan. he was not successful it is true, but by force of seeking, and questioning, he discovered a sailor who had known this man, and who was able to give him some information. patrick o'donoghan was a native of the county cork. he was between thirty-three and thirty-four years old, of medium height, with red hair, black eyes, and a nose which had been broken by some accident. "a boy one would remember among a thousand," said the sailor. "i recollect him very well, although i have not seen him for seven or eight years." "is it in new york you usually meet him?" asked erik. "yes, in new york, and in other places; but the last time was in new york." "do you know any one who could give me any information about him, so that i could find out what has become of him?" "no, unless it is the proprietor of the hotel called the red anchor, in brooklyn. patrick o'donoghan lodges there when he is in new york. the name of the hotel-keeper is mr. bowles, and he is an old sailor. if he does not know, i do not know of any one else who can tell you anything about him." erik hurried on board one of the ferry-boats that cross the east river, and ten minutes later he was in brooklyn. at the door-way of the red anchor he saw an old woman, who was neatly dressed, and busily occupied in peeling potatoes. "is mr. bowles at home?" he said, saluting her politely, after the custom of his adopted country. "he is at home, but he is taking a nap," answered the good woman, looking with curiosity at her questioner. "if you have any message for him, you can give it to me. i am mrs. bowles." "oh, madam, you can no doubt give me the information i desire as well as mr. bowles," answered erik. "i wish to know whether you are acquainted with a sailor named patrick o'donoghan, and whether he is now with you, or if you can tell me where i can find him?" "patrick o'donoghan: yes, i know him, but it is five or six years since he has been here, and i am unable to say where he is now." erik's countenance displayed such great disappointment that the old woman was touched. "are you so anxious to find patrick o'donoghan that you are disappointed in not finding him here?" she asked. "yes, indeed," he answered. "he alone can solve a mystery that i shall seek all my life to make clear." during the three weeks that erik had been running everywhere in search of information, he gained a certain amount of experience in human nature. he saw that the curiosity of mrs. bowles was aroused by his questions, he therefore entered the hotel and asked for a glass of soda-water. the low room in which he found himself was furnished with green tables, and wooden chairs, but it was empty. this circumstance emboldened erik to enter into conversation with mrs. bowles, when she handed him the bottle of soda-water which he had ordered. "you are doubtless wondering, madam, what i can want with patrick o'donoghan, and i will tell you," said he, with a smile. "an american vessel called the 'cynthia' was lost about seventeen years ago on the coast of norway; patrick o'donoghan was employed on board. i was picked up by a norwegian fisherman when i was about nine months old. i was floating in a cradle attached to a buoy of the 'cynthia.' i am seeking o'donoghan to see if he can give me any information about my family, or at least about my country." mrs. bowles uttered a cry that put a stop to erik's explanation. "to a buoy, do you say? you were tied to a buoy?" but without waiting for any reply she ran to the stairway. "bowles! bowles! come down quickly," she cried, in a piercing voice. "on a buoy! you are the child who was tied to the buoy! who ever would have expected such a thing to happen?" she said, as she returned to erik, who had turned pale from surprise. was he going to learn the secret which he was so anxious to make out. a heavy footstep was heard on the stairs, and soon an old man, fat and rosy, clothed in a complete suit of blue cloth, and with gold rings in his ears, appeared on the threshold. "what is the matter?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "here is somebody who wants you," said mrs. bowles; "sit down and listen to the gentleman, who will repeat what he has told me." mr. bowles obeyed without any protestation; erik did the same. he repeated in as few words as he could what he had told the old woman. as he listened, the countenance of mr. bowles dilated like a full moon, his lips parted in a broad smile, and he looked at his wife, and rubbed his hands. she on her side appeared equally well pleased. "must i suppose that you are already acquainted with my story?" asked erik, with a beating heart. mr. bowles made an affirmative sign, and scratching his ear, made up his mind to speak: "i know it without your telling me," he said, at length, "and my wife knows it as well as i do. we have often talked about it without understanding it." erik, pale and with tightly compressed lips, hung upon his words, expecting some revelation, but this he had to wait for. mr. bowles had not the gift of either eloquence or clearness, and perhaps his ideas were still clouded with sleep, and in order to recover his faculties he took two or three glasses of a liquor called "pick me up," which greatly resembled gin. after his wife had placed the bottle and two glasses before him, and he had sufficiently fortified himself, he began to speak. his story was so confused, and mingled with so many useless details, that it was impossible to draw any conclusions from it, but erik listened attentively to all he said, and by questioning and insisting, and aided by mrs. bowles, he ended by gathering some facts about himself. chapter ix. in which a reward of five hundred pounds sterling is offered. patrick o'donoghan, as far as erik could make out through mr. bowles' rambling account of him, was not a model of virtue. the proprietor of the red anchor had known him as a cabin-boy and sailor, both before and after the loss of the "cynthia." up to that time patrick o'donoghan had been poor, as all sailors are. after the shipwreck he had returned from europe with a large bundle of bank-notes, pretending to have inherited some money in ireland, which seemed likely enough. mr. bowles, however, had never believed in this inheritance. he thought that this sudden accession of wealth was connected in some way with the loss of the "cynthia," and that patrick o'donoghan was afraid to say so; for it was evident that contrary to the usual habit of seamen in such cases, he carefully avoided speaking about the sad occurrence. he would always turn the conversation if any one alluded to it before him, and he was very anxious to start on a long voyage before the lawsuit brought by the company to recover the insurance due on the "cynthia" should take place. he did not wish to be summoned as a witness. this conduct appeared very suspicious, as he was the sole known survivor from the shipwreck. mr. bowles and his wife had always suspected him, but they had kept their own counsel. what looked still more suspicious was the fact that when patrick o'donoghan was in new york he was never short of money. he brought back very little with him after a voyage, but a few days after his return he always had gold and bank-notes; and when he was tipsy, which frequently happened, he would boast of being in possession of a secret which was worth a fortune to him. the words which most frequently escaped from his lips were, "the baby tied to the buoy!" "the baby tied to the buoy," he would say, striking the table with his fist, "the baby tied to the buoy is worth its weight in gold." then he would laugh, as if well satisfied with himself. but they could never draw out of him any explanation of these words, and for many years the bowles household were lost in conjectures as to what they could possibly mean. this accounted for mrs. bowles' excitement, when erik suddenly announced to her that he was the famous baby who had been tied to a buoy. patrick o'donoghan, who had been in the habit of lodging at the red anchor, whenever he was in new york, for more than fifteen years, had not been seen there now for more than four years. there had also been something mysterious about his last departure. he had received a visit from a man who had been closeted with him for more than an hour. after this visit patrick o'donoghan, who had seemed worried and troubled, had paid his board bill, taken his carpet bag, and left in a hurry. they had never seen him since that day. mr. and mrs. bowles were naturally ignorant of the cause of his sudden departure, but they had always thought that it had some connection with the loss of the "cynthia." in their opinion the visitor had come to warn patrick o'donoghan of some danger which threatened him, and the irishman had thought it prudent to leave new york immediately. mrs. bowles did not think he had ever returned. if he had done so, they would have been sure to hear of him through other seamen who frequented their house, and who would have been astonished if patrick o'donoghan had boarded anywhere else, and would have been sure to ask questions as to the reasons for his doing so. this was the substance of the story related to erik, and he hastened to communicate it to his friends. his report was naturally received with all the interest which it merited. for the first time, after so many years, they were on the track of a man who had made reiterated allusions to the baby tied to a buoy. it was true they did not know where this man was, but they hoped to find him some day. it was the most important piece of news which they had as yet obtained. they resolved to telegraph to mrs. bowles, and beg her to prepare a dinner for six persons. mr. bredejord had suggested this idea, as a good means of drawing the worthy couple out; for while they talked during the dinner, they might be able to glean some new facts. erik had little hopes of obtaining any further information. he thought that he already knew mr. and mrs. bowles well enough to be convinced that they had told him all that they knew. but he did not take into account mr. bredejord's skill in questioning witnesses, and in drawing from them information which they themselves were scarcely aware of. mrs. bowles had surpassed herself in preparing the dinner. she had laid the table in the best room on the first floor. she felt very much flattered at being invited to partake of it, in the society of such distinguished guests, and answered willingly all of mr. bredejord's questions. they gathered from this conversation a certain number of facts which were not unimportant. one was that patrick o'donoghan had said at the time, of the lawsuit against the insurance company, that he was going away to avoid being summoned as a witness. this was evident proof that he did not wish to explain the circumstances under which the shipwreck had occurred, and his subsequent conduct confirmed this theory. it was also evident that in new york or its environs he received the suspicious revenue which seemed to be connected with his secret. for when he arrived he was always without money, but after he had been about for a short time he always returned with his pockets full of gold. they could not doubt that his secret was connected with the infant tied to the buoy, for he had frequently affirmed that such was the case. the evening before his sudden departure patrick o'donoghan had said that he was tired of a sea-faring life, and that he thought he should give up making voyages, and settle in new york for the remainder of his life. lastly, the individual who had called to see patrick o'donoghan was interested in his departure, for he had called the next day and asked for the irishman who was boarding at the red anchor, and had seemed pleased to hear that he was no longer there. mr. bowles felt sure that he would recognize this man if he saw him again. by his conversation and actions he had believed him to be a detective, or some agent of the police. mr. bredejord concluded from these facts that patrick o'donoghan had been systematically frightened by the person from whom he drew the money, and that this man had been sent to make him fear that criminal proceedings were about to be taken against him. this would explain his precipitate flight, and why he had never returned to new york. it was important to find this detective, as well as patrick o'donoghan. mr. and mrs. bowles, by referring to their books, were able to give the exact date of the irishman's departure, which was four years, lacking three months; although they had previously believed that it was four or five years ago. dr. schwaryencrona was immediately struck by the fact that the date of his departure, and consequently of the visit of the detective, corresponded precisely with the date of the first advertisements which he had caused to be made in great britain for the survivors of the "cynthia." this coincidence was so striking that it was impossible not to believe that there was some connection between them. they began to understand the mystery a little better. the abandonment of erik on the buoy had been the result of some crime--a crime of which the cabin-boy o'donoghan had been a witness or an accomplice. he knew the authors of this crime, who lived in new york or its environs, and he had for a long time enjoyed the reward of his secrecy. then a day had come when the excessive demands of the irishman had become burdensome, and the announcement in the newspapers by advertisement had been made use of to frighten patrick, and cause his hurried departure. in any case, even if these deductions were not correct in every point, they had obtained sufficient information to entitle them to demand a judicial investigation. erik and his friends therefore left the red anchor full of hope that they would soon obtain some favorable intelligence. the next day mr. bredejord was introduced by the swedish consul to the chief of police of new york, and he made him acquainted with the facts which had become known to him. at the same time he entered into conversation with the officers of the insurance company who had refused to pay the claims due on the "cynthia," and read the old documents relative to this matter, which had lain undisturbed so many years. but the examination of these papers did not afford him any important intelligence. the matter had been decided upon technical points, relating to an excess of insurance far above the value of the vessel and cargo. neither side had been able to produce any person who had been a witness of the shipwreck. the owners of the "cynthia" had not been able to prove their good faith, or to explain how the shipwreck had taken place, and the court had decided in favor of their adversaries. their defense had been weak, and their opponents had triumphed. the insurance company, however, had been compelled to pay several claims on the lives of the passengers to their heirs. but, in all these law proceedings, there was no trace of any infant nine months old. these examinations had occupied several days. finally, the chief of police informed mr. bredejord that he had been unable to obtain any intelligence about the matter. nobody in new york knew any detective who answered to mr. bowles' description. nobody could tell who the individual was who was interested in the departure of patrick o'donoghan. as for this sailor, he did not appear to have set his foot in the united states for at least four years. all they could do was to keep the address of the place where he was born, which might prove useful some time. but the chief of police told mr. bredejord, without any dissimulation, that the affair had happened so long ago--now nearly twenty years--that even if patrick o'donoghan ever returned to new york, it was at least doubtful if the authorities would be willing to investigate the matter. at the moment when erik believed that he was about to obtain a solution of the mystery which clouded his life, all their investigations came to a sudden end, and without producing the slightest result. the only thing that remained to be done was to pass through ireland as they returned to sweden, to see if perchance patrick o'donoghan had returned there to pass the remainder of his days planting cabbages. dr. schwaryencrona and his friends, after taking leave of mr. and mrs. bowles, resolved to pursue this route. the steamers between new york and liverpool touch at cork, and this was only a few miles from innishannon, the place where patrick was born. there they learned that patrick o'donoghan had never returned to his native place since he left it at the age of twelve years, and that they had never heard from him. "where shall we look for him now?" asked dr. schwaryencrona, as they embarked for england, on the way to stockholm. "at the seaport towns evidently, and clearly at those which are not american," answered mr. bredejord. "for note this point, a sailor, a sea-faring man, does not renounce his profession at the age of thirty-five. it is the only one he knows. patrick is doubtless still on the sea. and all vessels have some port or other for their destination, and it is only there that we can hope to find this man. what do you think, hochstedt?" "your reasoning seems to be just, although not altogether indisputable," answered the professor, with his customary prudence. "admit that it is right," continued mr. bredejord. "we know that patrick o'donoghan was frightened away and would be in dread of pursuit, perhaps of being extradited. in that case, he would avoid his old companions, and seek in preference ports where he was not likely to meet any of them. i know that my ideas can be contradicted, but let us suppose they are well founded. the number of ports which are not frequented by american vessels is not very large. i think we might begin by seeking in these places news of patrick o'donoghan." "why not have recourse to advertisements?" asked dr. schwaryencrona. "because patrick o'donoghan would not answer them if he is trying to hide himself; even supposing that a sailor would be likely to see your advertisement." "but you could word your advertisement so as to assure him that you intended to do him no injury, but rather that it would be greatly to his advantage to communicate with you." "you are right, but still i am afraid that an ordinary seaman would not be likely to see such an advertisement." "well, you might try offering a reward to patrick o'donoghan, or to any one who would give you information as to where he might be found. what do you think about it, erik?" "it seems to me that such an advertisement to produce any result would have to be continued for a long time, and in a great many different papers. that would cost a great deal, and might only frighten patrick o'donoghan, no matter how well worded the advertisement might be, provided it is to his interest to remain concealed. would it not be better to employ some one to visit personally those seaports which this man would be likely to frequent?" "but where could we find a trusty man who would be willing to undertake such a task?" "i can furnish one, if you wish it," answered erik. "i would go myself." "you, my dear child--and what would become of your studies?" "my studies need not suffer. there is nothing to prevent me from pursuing them, even during my travels. and another thing, doctor, i must confess to you, that i have already secured the means of doing so without costing me anything." "how is that possible," asked dr. schwaryencrona, mr. bredejord, and professor hochstedt, simultaneously. "i have simply been preparing myself for a sea-faring life. i can pass the examination to-day if necessary. once in possession of my diploma, it would be easy for me to obtain a position as a lieutenant in any sea-port. "and you have done all this without saying a word to me?" said the doctor, half grieved, while the lawyer and the professor both laughed heartily. "well," said erik, "i do not think that i have committed any great crime. i have only made inquiries as to the requisite amount of knowledge, and i have mastered it. i should not have made any use of it without asking your permission, and i now solicit it." "and i shall grant it, wicked boy," said the doctor, "but to let you set out all alone now is another matter--we will wait until you have attained your majority." erik submitted to this decision willingly and gratefully. however, the doctor was not willing to give up his own ideas. to search the sea-ports personally he regarded as a last expedient. an advertisement on the other hand would go everywhere. if patrick o'donoghan was not hiding away, they might possibly find him by this means. if he was hiding, some one might see it and betray him. he therefore had this advertisement written in seven or eight different languages, and dispatched to the four quarters of the globe in a hundred of the most widely circulated newspapers. "patrick o'donoghan, a sailor, has been absent from new york for four years. a reward of one hundred pounds sterling will be paid to any one who can give me news of him. five hundred pounds sterling will be given to the said patrick o'donoghan if he will communicate with the advertiser. he need fear nothing, as no advantage will be taken of him. "doctor schwaryencrona. "stockholm." by the th of october, the doctor and his companions had returned to their homes. the next day the advertisement was sent to the advertising agency in stockholm, and three days afterward it had made its appearance in several newspapers. erik could not repress a sigh and a presentiment that it would be unsuccessful as he read it. as for mr. bredejord, he declared openly that it was the greatest folly in the world, and that for the future he considered the affair a failure. but erik and mr. bredejord were deceived, as events afterward proved. chapter x. tudor brown, esquire. one morning in may the doctor was in his office, when his servant brought him a visitor's card. this card, which was small as is usual in america, had the name of "mr. tudor brown, on board the 'albatross'" printed upon it. "mr. tudor brown," said the doctor, trying to remember whom he had ever known who bore this name. "this gentleman asked to see the doctor," said the servant. "can he not come at my office-hour?" asked the doctor. "he said his business was about a personal matter." "show him in, then," said the doctor, with a sigh. he lifted his head as the door opened again, and was surprised when he beheld the singular person who answered to the feudal name of tudor, and the plebeian name of brown. he was a man about fifty years of age, his forehead was covered with a profusion of little ringlets, of a carroty color, while the most superficial examination betrayed that they were made of curled silk; his nose was hooked, and surmounted with an enormous pair of gold spectacles; his teeth were as long as those of a horse, his cheeks were smooth, but under his chin he wore a little red beard. this odd head, covered by a high hat which he did not pretend to remove, surmounted a thin angular body, clothed from head to foot in a woolen suit. in his cravat he wore a pin, containing a diamond as large as a walnut; also a large gold chain, and his vest buttons were amethysts. he had a dozen rings on his fingers, which were as knotty as those of a chimpanzee. altogether he was the most pretentious and grotesque-looking man that it was possible to behold. this person entered the doctor's office as if he had been entering a railway station, without even bowing. he stopped to say, in a voice that resembled that of punch, its tone was so nasal and guttural: "are you doctor schwaryencrona?" "i am," answered the doctor, very much astonished at his manners. he was debating in his mind whether he should ring for his servant to conduct this offensive person to the door, when a word put a stop to his intention. "i saw your advertisement about patrick o'donoghan," said the stranger, "and i thought you would like to know that i can tell you something about him." "take a seat, sir," answered the doctor. but he perceived that the stranger had not waited to be asked. after selecting the most comfortable arm-chair, he drew it toward the doctor, then he seated himself with his hands in his pockets, lifted his feet and placed his heels on the window-sill, and looked at the doctor with the most self-satisfied air in the world. "i thought," he said, "that you would listen to these details with pleasure, since you offer five hundred pounds for them. that is why i have called upon you." the doctor bowed without saying a word. "doubtless," continued the other, in his nasal voice, "you are wondering who i am. i am going to tell you. my card has informed you as to my name, and i am a british subject." "irish perhaps?" asked the doctor with interest. the granger, evidently surprised, hesitated a moment, and then said: "no, scotch. oh, i know i do not look like a scotchman, they take me very often for a yankee--but that is nothing--i am scotch." as he gave this piece of information, he looked at dr. schwaryencrona as much as to say: "you can believe what you please, it is a matter of indifference to me." "from inverness, perhaps?" suggested the doctor, still clinging to his favorite theory. the stranger again hesitated for a moment. "no, from edinburgh," he answered. "but that is of no importance after all, and has nothing to do with the matter in hand. i have an independent fortune and owe nothing to anybody. if i tell you who i am, it is because it gives me pleasure to do so, for i am not obliged to do it." "permit me to observe that i did not ask you," said the doctor, smiling. "no, but do not interrupt me, or we shall never reach the end of this matter. you published an advertisement to find out what became of patrick o'donoghan, did you not?--you therefore have some interest in knowing. i know what has become of him." "you know?" asked the doctor, drawing his seat closer to that of the stranger. "i know, but before i tell you, i want to ask you what interest you have in finding him?" "that is only just," answered the doctor. in as few words as possible, he related erik's history, to which his visitor listened with profound attention. "and this boy is still living?" asked tudor brown. "assuredly he is living. he is in good health, and in october next he will begin his studies in the medical university at upsal." "ah! ah!" answered the stranger, who seemed lost in reflection. "tell me," he said at length, "have you no other means of solving this mystery of his birth except by finding patrick o'donoghan?" "i know of no other," replied the doctor. "after years of searching i only found out that this o'donoghan was in possession of the secret, that he alone could reveal it to me, and that is why i have advertised for him in the papers. i must confess that i had no great hopes of finding him by this means." "how is that?" "because i had reasons for believing that this o'donoghan has grave motives for remaining unknown, consequently it was not likely that he would respond to my advertisement. i had the intention of resorting to other means. i have a description of him. i know what ports he would be likely to frequent, and i propose to employ special agents to be on the lookout for him." dr. schwaryencrona did not say this lightly. he spoke with the intention of seeing what effect these words would produce on the man before him. and as he watched him intently, he saw that in spite of the affected coolness of the stranger his eyelids fell and the muscles of his month contracted. but almost immediately tudor brown recovered his self-possession, and said: "well, doctor, if you have no other means of solving this mystery, except by discovering patrick o'donoghan, i am afraid that you will never find it out. patrick o'donoghan is dead." the doctor was too much taken aback by this disappointing announcement to say a word, and only looked at his visitor, who continued: "dead and buried, three hundred fathoms beneath the sea. this man, whose past life always appeared to me to have been mysterious, was employed three years on board my yacht, the 'albatross.' i must tell you that my yacht is a stanch vessel, in which i often cruise for seven or eight months at a time. nearly three years ago we were passing through the straits of madeira, when patrick o'donoghan fell overboard. i had the vessel stopped, and some boats lowered, and after a diligent search we recovered him; but though we spared no pains to restore him to life, our efforts were in vain. patrick o'donoghan was dead. we were compelled to return to the sea the prey which we had snatched from it. the accident was put down on the ship's log, and recorded in the notary's office at the nearest place we reached. thinking that this act might be useful to you, i have brought you a certified copy of it." as he said this, mr. tudor brown took out his pocket-book and presented the doctor with a paper stamped with a notarial seal. the latter read it quickly. it was a record of the death of patrick o'donoghan, while passing through the straits of madeira, duly signed and sworn to, before two witnesses, as being an exact copy of the original--it was also registered in london, at somerset house, by the commissioners of her britannic majesty. this instrument was evidently authentic. but the manner in which he had received it was so strange that the doctor could not conceal his astonishment. he took it, however, with his habitual courtesy. "permit me to ask one question, sir," he said to his visitor. "speak, doctor." "how is it that you have this document in your pocket duly prepared and certified? and why have you brought it to me?" "if i can count, you have asked two questions," said tudor brown. "i will answer them, however--i had this paper in my pocket, because i read your advertisement two months ago, and wishing to furnish you with the information which you asked for, i thought it better to give it to you, in the most complete and definite form that lay in my power. i have brought it to you personally, because i happened to be cruising in these waters; and i wished at the same time to gratify your curiosity and my own." there was nothing to answer to this reasoning--this was the only conclusion the doctor could draw. "yon are here, then, with the 'albatross'?" he asked, eagerly. "without doubt." "and you have still on board some sailors who have known patrick o'donoghan?" "yes, several." "would you permit me to see them?" "as many as you please. will you accompany me on board now?" "if you have no objection." "i have none," said the stranger, as he arose. dr. schwaryencrona touched his bell, and they brought him his fur pelisse, his hat, and his cane, and he departed with mr. tudor brown. fifteen minutes later they were on board the "albatross." they were received by an old gray-headed seaman, with a rubicund face, whose open countenance betrayed only truth and loyalty. "mr. ward, this gentleman wishes to make some inquiries about the fate of patrick o'donoghan," said mr. tudor brown. "patrick o'donoghan," answered the old sailor, "god rest his soul. he gave us trouble enough to pick him up the day he was drowned in the straits of madeira. what is the use of inquiries now that he has gone to feed the fishes?" "had you known him for a long time?" asked the doctor. "the rascal--no--for a year or two perhaps. i believe that it was at zanzibar that we took him on board--am i right, tommy duff?" "is any one hailing me?" asked a young sailor, who was busily employed in polishing a copper bowl. "come here," said the other--"was it at zanzibar that we recruited patrick o'donoghan?" "patrick o'donoghan," repeated the young sailor, as if his remembrance of the man was not very good. "oh yes, i remember him. the man who fell overboard in the straits of maderia. yes, mr. ward, it was at zanzibar that he came on board." dr. schwaryencrona made him describe patrick o'donoghan, and was convinced that it was the same man whom he was seeking. both these men seemed honest and sincere. they had honest and open countenances. the uniformity of their answers seemed a little strange, and almost preconcerted; but after all it might be only the natural consequence of relating facts. having known patrick o'donoghan only a year at the most, they would have but little to say about him, except the fact of his death. besides the "albatross" was a yacht of such large proportions, that if she had been furnished with some cannon she might easily have passed for a man-of-war. the most rigorous cleanliness was observed on board. the sailors were in good condition, well clothed, and under perfect discipline. the general appearance of the vessel insensiby acted upon the doctor, and carried conviction of the truth of the statement which he had just heard. he therefore declared himself perfectly satisfied, and could not leave without inviting mr. tudor brown to dine with him. but mr. tudor brown did not think it best to accept this invitation. he declined it in these courteous terms: "no--i can not--i never dine in town." it now only remained for dr. schwaryencrona to retire. this he did without having obtained even the slightest bow from this strange individual. the doctor's first thought was to go and relate his adventure to mr. bredejord, who listened to him without saying a word, only promising himself to institute counter inquiries. but he, with erik, who had been told the whole story upon his return from school, repaired to the vessel to see if they could elicit any further information, but the "albatross" had left stockholm, without leaving word where she was going, and they could not, therefore, obtain even the address of mr. tudor brown. all that resulted from this affair was the possession of the document, which legally proved the death of patrick o'donoghan. was this paper of any value? this was the question that mr. bredejord could not help doubting, in spite of the evidence of the british consul at stockholm, whom he questioned, and who declared that the signatures and stamp were perfectly authentic. he also caused inquiries to be made at edinburgh, but nobody knew mr. tudor brown, which he thought looked suspicious. but it was an undeniable fact that they obtained no further intelligence of patrick o'donoghan, and all their advertisements were ineffectual. if patrick o'donoghan had disappeared for good, they had no hope of penetrating the mystery that surrounded erik's birth. he himself saw this, and was obliged to recognize the fact that, for the future, the inquiries would have to be based upon some other theory. he therefore made no opposition about commencing his medical studies the following autumn at the university at upsal, according to the doctor's wishes. he only desired, first, to pass his examination as a captain, but this sufficed to show that he had not renounced his project of traveling. besides, he had another trouble which lay heavy at his heart, and for which he saw no other remedy but absence. erik wished to find some pretext for leaving the doctor's house as soon as his studies were completed; but he wished to do this without exciting any suspicion. the only pretext which he could think of was this plan of traveling. he desired to do this because of the aversion of kajsa, the doctor's niece. she lost no occasion of showing her dislike; but he would not at any price have had the excellent man suspect this state of affairs between them. his relations toward the young girl had always been most singular. in the eyes of erik during these seven years as well as on the first day of his arrival at stockholm, the pretty little fairy had always been a model of elegance and all earthly perfections. he had bestowed on her his unreserved admiration, and had made heroic efforts to overcome her dislike, and become her friend. but kajsa could not make up her mind calmly to see this "intruder," as she called erik, take his place in the doctor's home, be treated as an adopted son, and become a favorite of her uncle and his friends. the scholastic success of erik, his goodness and his gentleness, far from making him pleasing in her eyes, were only new motives of jealousy. in her heart kajsa could not pardon the young man for being only a fisherman and a peasant. it seemed to her that he brought discredit upon the doctor's household and on herself, who, she liked to believe, occupied a very high position in the social scale. but it was worse when she learned that erik was even less than a peasant, only a child that had been picked up. that appeared to her monstrous and dishonorable. she thought that such a child had a lower place in society than a cat or a dog; she manifested these sentiments by the most disdainful looks, the most mortifying silence, and the most cruel insults. if erik was invited with her to any little social gathering at the house of a friend, she would positively refuse to dance with him. at the table she would not answer anything he said, nor pay any attention to him. she tried on all occasions, and in every possible way, to humiliate him. poor erik had divined the cause of this uncharitable conduct, but he could not understand how ignorance of his family, and of the land of his birth, could be regarded by her as such a heinous crime. he tried one day to reason with kajsa, and to make her understand the injustice and cruelty of such a prejudice, but she would not even deign to listen to him. then as they both grew older, the abyss which separated them seemed to widen. at eighteen kajsa made her _début_ in society. she was flattered and noticed as the rich heiress, and this homage only confirmed her in the opinion that she was superior to common mortals. erik, who was at first greatly afflicted by her disdain, ended by becoming indignant, and vowing to triumph over it. this feeling of humiliation had a great share in producing the passionate ardor with which he pursued his studies. he dreamed of raising himself so high in public esteem, by the force of his own industry, that every one would bow before him. but he also vowed that he would go away on the first opportunity, and that he would not remain under a roof where every day he was exposed to some secret humiliation. only the good doctor must be kept in ignorance of the cause of his departure. he must attribute it solely to a passion for traveling. and erik therefore frequently spoke of his desire, when his studies were completed, of engaging in some scientific expedition. while pursuing his studies at upsal, he prepared himself by work, and the most severe exercise, for the life of fatigue and danger which is the lot of great travelers. chapter xi. the "vega." in the month of december, , erik had attained the age of twenty, and passed his first examination for his doctor's degree. the learned men of sweden were greatly excited about the proposed arctic expedition of the navigator nordenskiold, and their enthusiasm was shared by a large proportion of the population. after preparing himself for the undertaking by several voyages to the polar regions, and after studying the problem in all its aspects, nordenskiold intended to attempt once more to discover the north-east passage from the atlantic to the pacific, which for three centuries had defied the efforts of all the maritime nations. the programme for the expedition had been defined by the swedish navigator, and he announced the reasons which led him to believe that the north-east passage was practicable in summer, and the means by which he hoped to realize this geographical desideratum. the intelligent liberality of two scandinavian gentlemen, and the assistance of the swedish government, enabled him to organize his expedition upon a plan which he believed would insure its success. it was on the st of july, , that nordenskiold quitted from-sae, on board of the "vega," to attempt to reach behring's strait by passing to the north of russia and siberia. lieutenant palanders, of the swedish navy, was in command of the vessel, with the instigator of the voyage, and they had also a staff of botanists, geologists, and astronomical doctors. the "vega," which had been especially prepared for the expedition under the surveillance of nordenskiold, was a vessel of five hundred tons, which had been recently built at bremen, and carried an engine of sixty-horse power. three ships were to accompany her to successive points on the siberian coast, which had been previously determined upon. they were all provisioned for a cruise of two years, in case it might be necessary for them to winter in those arctic regions. but nordenskiold did not conceal his hope of being able to reach behring's strait before autumn, on account of his careful arrangements, and all sweden shared this hope. they started from the most northerly point of norway, and the "vega" reached nova zembla on the th of july, on the st of august the sea of kara, and on the th of august the mouth of the gulf yenisei. on the th of august she doubled cape schelynshin, or cape north-east, the extreme point of the continent, which no vessel had hitherto been able to reach. on the th of september she cast anchor at the mouth of the lena, and separated from the third of the vessels which had accompanied her thus far. on the th of october a telegraphic dispatch from irkutsk announced to the world that the expedition had been successful up to this point. we can imagine the impatience with which the friends of the swedish navigator waited for the details of the expedition. these details did not reach them until the st of december. for if electricity flies over space with the rapidity of thought, it is not the same with the siberian post. the letters from the "vega," although deposited in the post-office at irkutsk, at the same time that the telegraphic message was dispatched, did not reach sweden until six weeks afterward. but they arrived at last; and on the th of december one of the principal newspapers of sweden published an account of the first part of the expedition, which had been written by a young medical doctor attached to the "vega." that same day, at breakfast, mr. bredejord was occupied in reading with great interest the details of the voyage, given in four columns, when his eyes fell upon a paragraph which almost upset him. he re-read it attentively, and then read it again; then he arose, and seizing his hat and coat, he rushed to the house of dr. schwaryencrona. "have you read the correspondence of the 'vega'?" he cried, as he rushed like a hurricane into the dining-room where the doctor and kajsa were taking their breakfast. "i have just commenced it," replied the doctor, "and was intending to finish reading it after breakfast, while i smoked my pipe." "then you have not seen!" exclaimed mr. bredejord, out of breath. "you do not know what this correspondence contains?" "no," replied doctor schwaryencrona, with perfect calmness. "well, listen to this," continued mr. bredejord, approaching the window. "it is the journal of one of your brethren, the aid of the naturalist of the 'vega.'" "' th and st of july, we entered the strait of jugor, and cast anchor before a samoyede village called chabarova. we landed, and i questioned some of the natives to discover, by holmgren's method, the extent of their perception of colors. i found that this sense was normally developed among them. bought of a samoyede fisherman two magnificent salmon.'" "pardon me," interrupted the doctor; "but is this a charade you are reading to me. i confess i do not see how these details can interest me." "ah! they do not interest you?" said mr. bredejord, in a triumphant tone. "well, wait a moment and you will see: "'bought of a samoyede fisherman two magnificent salmon, which i have preserved in alcohol, notwithstanding the protestations of our cook. this fisherman fell into the water as he was quitting the ship. they pulled him out half suffocated and stiffened by the cold, so that he resembled a bar of iron, and he, also, had a serious cut on his head. we were just under way, and they carried him to the infirmary of the "vega," while still unconscious, undressed him, and put him to bed. they then discovered that this fisherman was an european. he had red hair; his nose had been broken by some accident, and on his chest, on a level with his heart, these words were tattooed: "patrick o'donoghan--cynthia."'" here dr. schwaryencrona uttered a cry of surprise. "wait! listen to the rest of it," said mr. bredejord; and he continued his reading: "'being subjected to an energetic massage treatment, he was soon restored to life. but as it was impossible for him to leave us in that condition, we were compelled to take care of him. a fever set in and he became delirious. our experiment of the appreciation of colors among the samoyedes, therefore, was frustrated.-- d of august. the fisherman of chabarova has recovered from the effects of his bath. he appeared to be surprised to find himself on board the "vega," and _en route_ for cape tahelyuskin, but soon became reconciled to his fate. his knowledge of the ganwyede language may be useful to, us, and we have determined to take him with us on the coast of siberia. he speaks english with a nasal accent like a yankee, but pretends to be scotch, and calls himself tommy bowles. he came from nova zembla with some fishermen, and he has lived on these shores for the last twelve years. the name tattooed upon his chest he says, 'is that of one of the friends of his infancy who has been dead for a long time.'" "it is evidently our man," cried the doctor, with great emotion. "yes, there can be no doubt of it," answered the lawyer. "the name, the vessel, the description, all prove it; even this choice of a pseudonym johnny bowles, and his declaring that patrick o'donoghan was dead, these are superabundant proofs!" they were both silent, reflecting upon the possible consequences of this discovery. "how can we go so far in search of him?" said the doctor, at length. "it will be very difficult, evidently," replied mr. bredejord. "but it is something to know that he is alive, and the part of the world where he can be found. and, besides, who can tell what the future may have in store? he may even return to stockholm in the 'vega,' and explain all that we wish to find out. if he does not do this, perhaps we may, sooner or later, find an opportunity to communicate with him. voyages to nova zembla will become more frequent, on account of this expedition of the 'vega.' ship-owners are already talking about sending every year some vessels to the mouth of the yenisei." the discussion of this topic was inexhaustible, and the two friends were still talking about the matter, when erik arrived from upsal, at two o'clock. he also had read this great piece of news, and had taken the train for home without losing a moment. but it was a singular fact that he was not joyful, but rather disturbed by this new intelligence. "do you know what i am afraid of?" said he to the doctor and mr. bredejord. "i fear that some misfortune has happened to the 'vega.' you know it is now the th of december, and you know the leaders of the expedition counted upon arriving at behring's strait before october. if this expectation had been realized, we should have heard from her by this time; for she would have reached japan, or at least petropaulosk, in the aleutian islands, or some station in the pacific, from which we should have received news of her. the dispatches and letters here came by the way of irkutsk, and are dated the th of september, so that for three entire months we have heard nothing from the 'vega.' so we must conclude that they did not reach behring's strait as soon as they expected, and that she has succumbed to the common fate of all expeditious which for the last three centuries have attempted to discover the north-east passage. this is the deplorable conclusion which i have been compelled to arrive at." "the 'vega' might have been obliged to encounter in the polar regions a great deal which was unforeseen, and she might have been unprovided for such a contingency," replied dr. schwaryencrona. "evidently; but this is the most favorable hypothesis; and a winter in that region is surrounded by so many dangers that it is equivalent to a shipwreck. in any case, it is an indisputable fact that if we ever have any news of the 'vega' it will not be possible to do so before next summer." "why, how is that?" "because, if the 'vega' has not perished she is inclosed in the ice, and she will not be able, at the best, to extricate herself before june or july." "that is true," answered mr. bredejord. "what conclusion do you draw from this reasoning?" asked the doctor, disturbed by the sad tone of erik's voice as he made the announcement. "the conclusion that it is impossible to wait so long before solving a question which is of such great importance to me." "what do you want to do? we must submit to what is inevitable." "perhaps it only appears to be so," answered erik. "the letters which have reached us have come across the arctic ocean by the way of irkutsk. why could i not follow the same route? i would keep close to the coast of siberia. i would endeavor to communicate with the people of that country, and find out whether any foreign vessel had been shipwrecked, or was held prisoner among the icebergs. perhaps i might succeed in finding nordenskiold, and patrick o'donoghan. it is an enterprise worth undertaking." "in the middle of winter?" "why not? it is the most favorable season for traveling in sleighs in that latitude." "yes; but you forget that you are not there yet, and that it will be spring before you could get there." "that is true," said erik, who was compelled to recognize the force of this argument. he sat with his eyes fixed on the floor, absorbed in thought. "no, matter," said he suddenly; "nordenskiold must be found, and with him patrick o'donoghan. they shall be, or it will not be my fault." erik's plan was a very simple one. he proposed to write an anonymous letter to the leading newspapers of stockholm, and thus proclaim his fears as to the fate of the "vega." had she been shipwrecked, or was she held a prisoner by icebergs, and he concluded his communication by representing how important it was that some vessel should be sent to her assistance in the latter case. the truth of his reasoning was so apparent, and the interest in the expedition so general, that the young student of upsal was certain that the question would be warmly discussed in scientific circles. but the effect of his letter was beyond his highest expectations. all the newspapers without exception expressed their approval of his proposition while commenting upon his communication. public opinion was unanimously in favor of fitting out a relief expedition. commercial men, manufacturers, the members of schools and colleges, the judicial corps--in fact, all classes voluntarily contributed to the enterprise. a rich ship-owner offered to equip a vessel at his own expense, to go to the relief of the "vega;" and he named it the "nordenskiold." the enthusiasm increased as days passed without bringing any intelligence of the "vega." by the end of december, the subscription had reached a considerable sum. dr. sehwaryencrona and mr. bredejord had headed the list with a subscription of ten thousand kroners each. they were members of the committee who had chosen erik for their secretary. the latter was in fact the soul of the undertaking. his ardor, his modesty, his evident ability with regard to all questions relative to the expedition, which he studied untiringly, soon acquired for him a most decided influence. from the first he did not conceal the fact that it was his dream to take part in the enterprise, if only as a simple sailor, and that he had a supreme and personal interest in the matter. this only gave the greater weight to the excellent suggestions which he made to the originators of the expedition, and he personally directed all the preparatory labors. it was agreed that a second vessel should accompany the "nordenskiold," and that it should be like the "vega," a steamship. nordenskiold himself had demonstrated that the principal cause of the failure of previous attempts had been the employment of sailing vessels. arctic navigators, especially when on an exploring expedition, must not be dependent upon the wind, but must be able to force their way speedily through a difficult or perilous pass--and above all, always be able to take the open sea, which it was often impossible to do with a sailing vessel. this fundamental point having been established, it was decided also to cover the vessel with a lining of green oak, six inches thick, and to divide it into compartments, so that it would be better able to resist a blow from the ice. they were also desirous that she should not draw too much water, and that all her arrangements should be so made as to enable her to carry a full supply of coal. among the offers which were made to the committee, was a vessel of one hundred and forty tons, which had been recently built at bremen, and which had a crew of eighteen men, who could easily maneuver her. she was a schooner, but while she carried her masts, she also was furnished with an engine of eighty horse-power. one of her boilers was so arranged that it could burn oil or fat, which was easily procurable in the arctic regions, in case their coal should fail. the schooner protected by its lining of oak, was further strengthened by transverse beams, so as to offer the greatest possible resistance to the pressure of the ice. lastly, the front of it was armed with a spur of steel, to enable it to break its way through a thick field of ice. the vessel when placed on the stocks, was named the "alaska," on account of the direction which she was destined to take. it had been decided that while the "nordenskiold" should pursue the same route which the "vega" had followed, that the second vessel should take an opposite direction around the world, and gain the siberian ocean, by the island of alaska and behring's straits. the chances of meeting the swedish expedition, or of discovering traces of her if she had perished would thus, they thought, be double, for while one vessel followed on her track, the other would, as it were, precede her. erik, who had been the originator of this plan, had often asked himself which of the vessels he had better join, and he had finally concluded to attach himself to the second. the "nordenskiold," he said to himself, would follow the same course as the "vega." it was therefore necessary that she should be equally successful in making the first part of the voyage, and double cape tchelynskin, but they might not be able to do this, since it had only been accomplished once. besides, the last news which they had received from the "vega," she was only two or three hundred leagues from behring's straits; therefore they would have a better chance of meeting her. the "nordenskiold" might follow her for many months without overtaking her. but the other vessel could hardly fail to meet her, if she was still in existence. the principal thing in erik's eyes was to reach the "vega" as quickly as possible, in order to meet patrick o'donoghan without delay. the doctor and mr. bredejord warmly approved of his motives when he explained them to them. the work of preparing the "alaska" was pushed on as rapidly as possible. her provisions, equipments, and the clothing, were all carefully chosen, for they profited by the experience of former arctic explorers. her crew were all experienced seamen, who had been inured to cold by frequent fishing voyages to iceland and greenland. lastly, the captain chosen by the committee, was an officer of the swedish marines, then in the employment of a maritime company, and well known on account of his voyages to the arctic ocean; his name was lieutenant marsilas. he chose for his first lieutenant erik himself, who seemed designed for the position by the energy he had displayed in the service of the expedition, and who was also qualified by his diploma. the second and third officers were tried seamen, mr. bosewitz and mr. kjellguist. the "alaska" carried some explosive material in order to break the ice, if it should be necessary, and abundant provisions of an anti-scorbutic character, in order to preserve the officers and crew from the common arctic maladies. the vessel was furnished with a heater, in order to preserve an even temperature, and also with a portable observatory called a "raven's nest," which they could hoist to the top of the highest mast, in those regions where they meet with floating ice, to signal the approach of icebergs. by erik's proposal this observatory contained a powerful electric light, which at night could illuminate the route of the "alaska." seven small boats, of which two were whale-boats, a steam-cutter, six sledges, snow-shoes for each of the crew, four gatling cannons and thirty guns, with the necessary ammunition, were stored away on board. these preparations were approaching an end, when mr. hersebom and his son otto arrived from noroe with their large dog kaas, and solicited the favor of being employed as seamen on board of the "alaska." they knew from a letter of erik's the strong personal interest which he had in this voyage, and they wished to share its dangers with him. mr. hersebom spoke of the value of his experience as a fisherman on the coast of greenland, and of the usefulness of his dog kaas, who could be used as a leader of the dogs which would be necessary to draw the sledges. otto had only his good health, his herculean strength, and his devotion to the cause to recommend him. thanks to the influence of the doctor and mr. bredejord, they were all three engaged by the committee. by the beginning of february, , all was ready. the "alaska" had therefore five months before the first of june to reach behring's straits, which was accounted the most favorable season for the exploration. they intended also to take the most direct route, that is to say, through the mediterranean, the suez canal, the indian ocean, and the china seas, stopping successively to take in coal at gibraltar, aden, colombo in ceylon, singapore, hong kong, yokohama, and petropaulosk. from all these stations the "alaska" was to telegraph to stockholm, and it was also agreed that, if in the meantime any news was received of the "vega," they should not fail to send information. the voyage of the "alaska," although intended primarily for an arctic exploration, would begin by a voyage through tropical seas, and along the continents most favored by the sun. the programme had not, however, been arranged to give them pleasure; it was the result of an imperative necessity, since they must reach behring's straits by the shortest route and remain in telegraphic communication with stockholm up to the last moment. but a serious difficulty threatened to retard the expedition. they had spent so much in equipping the vessel that the funds which were indispensable for the success of the enterprise, began to run short. they would require considerable to purchase coal, and for other incidental expenses. a new appeal for money became necessary. as soon as it was issued the committee received two letters simultaneously. one was from mr. malarius, the public teacher of noroe, and laureate of the botanical society. it contained a check for one hundred kroners, and begged that he might be attached to the expedition as the assistant naturalist of the "alaska." the other contained a check for twenty-five thousand kroners, with this laconic note: "for the voyage of the 'alaska,' from mr. tudor brown, on condition that he is received as a passenger." chapter xii. unexpected passengers. the request of mr. malarius could only be received with gratitude by the committee. it was therefore passed enthusiastically, and the worthy teacher, whose reputation as a botanist was greater than he himself suspected, was appointed assistant naturalist of the expedition. as for the condition upon which tudor brown bestowed his donation of twenty-five thousand kroners, both dr. schwaryencrona and mr. bredejord were strongly inclined to refuse to grant it. but if called upon to give some motive for their repugnance, they had to confess that they would not know what to say. what sufficient reason could they give the committee if they asked them to refuse such a large subscription? they really had no valid one. tudor brown had called upon dr. schwaryencrona, and brought him a certified account of the death of patrick o'donoghan; and now patrick o'donoghan appeared to be living. but they could not prove that tudor brown had willfully deceived them in this matter, and the committee would require some sufficient cause before rejecting so large a sum. tudor brown could easily declare that he had been truthful. his present attitude seemed to prove it. perhaps he intended to go himself, only to find out how patrick o'donoghan, whom he believed to have been drowned in the straits of madeira, could now be living on the shores of siberia. but even supposing that tudor brown had other projects, it would be to their interest to find them out, and keep him in their hands. for, one of two facts was certain: either tudor brown had no interest in the search which had occupied erik's friends for so long a time, and in that case it would be useless to treat him as an enemy; or he had some slight personal interest in the matter, and then it would be better to watch his plans, and overthrow them. the doctor and mr. bredejord therefore concluded that they would not oppose his becoming a passenger. then they gradually were filled with a desire to study this singular man, and find out why he wished to take passage on the "alaska." but how could they do this without sailing with him. it would not be such an absurd thing to do after all. the course which the "alaska" was to take was a very attractive one, at least the first part of it. to be brief, dr. schwaryencrona, who was a great traveler, asked to be taken as a passenger, to accompany the expedition as far as the china seas, by paying such a price as the committee might judge proper. this example immediately acted with irresistible force upon mr. bredejord, who had dreamed for a long time about an excursion to the land of the sun. he also solicited a cabin under the same conditions. every one in stockholm now believed that mr. hochstedt would do the same, partly out of scientific curiosity, and partly from terror at the thought of passing so many months without the society of his friends. but all stockholm was deceived. the professor was strongly tempted to go, and he reviewed all the arguments for and against it, and found it almost impossible to arrive at any decision, but fate ordained that he should stay at home. the time of their departure was irrevocably fixed for the th of february. on the th erik went to meet mr. malarius, and was agreeably surprised to see dame hersebom, and vanda, who had come to bid him farewell. they were modestly intending to go to a hotel in the town, but the doctor insisted that they should come and stay with him, to the great displeasure of kajsa, who did not think that they were sufficiently distinguished. vanda was now a tall girl, whose beauty fulfilled its early promise. she had passed successfully a very difficult examination at bergen which entitled her to take a professor's chair, in a superior school. but she preferred to remain at noroe with her mother, and she was going to fill mr. malarius' place during his absence: always serious and gentle, she found in teaching a strange and inexplicable charm, but it had not changed the simplicity of her home life. this beautiful girl, in her quaint norwegian costume, was able to give tranquilly her opinion on the deepest scientific subjects, or seat herself at the piano, and play with consummate skill a sonata of beethoven. but her greatest charm was the absence of all pretension, and her perfectly natural manners. she no more thought of being vain of her talents, or of making any display of them, than she did of blushing on account of her rural costume. she bloomed like some wild flower, that, growing beside the fiord, had been transplanted by her old master, and cultivated and cherished in his little garden behind the school. in the evening all erik's adopted family were assembled in the parlor of dr. schwaryencrona; mr. bredejord and the doctor were about to play a last game of whist with mr. hochstedt. they discovered that mr. malarius was also an authority in this noble game, which would enable them to while away many leisure hours on board the "alaska." unfortunately the worthy instructor also told them, at the same time, that he was always a victim of sea-sickness, and nearly always confined to his bed as soon as he set foot upon a vessel. only his affection for erik had induced him to join the expedition, added to the ambition, long fondly cherished, of being able to add some more varieties to his catalogue of botanical families. after which they had a little music: kajsa, with a disdainful air, played a fashionable waltz; vanda sung an old scandinavian melody with a sweetness that surprised them all. the tea was served, and a large bowl of punch, which they drunk to the success of the expedition, followed. erik noticed that kajsa avoided touching his glass. "will you not wish me a happy voyage?" he said to her, in a low tone. "what is the use of wishing for what we do not expect to see granted?" she answered. the next morning, at day-break, every one went on board, except tudor brown. since the receipt of his letter containing the check they had not heard a word from him. the time of departure had been fixed for ten o'clock. at the first stroke, the commander, mr. marsilas, had the anchor hoisted, and rang the bell to warn all visitors to leave the ship. "adieu, erik!" cried vanda, throwing her arms around his neck. "adieu, my son!" said katrina, pressing the young lieutenant to her heart. "and you, kajsa, have you nothing to say to me?" he asked, as he walked toward her as if to embrace her also. "i hope that you will not get your nose frozen, and that you will discover that you are a prince in disguise!" said she, laughing impertinently. "if that should happen, then at least i might hope to win a little of your affection?" he said, trying to smile, to hide his feelings, for her sarcasm had cut him to the heart. "do you doubt it?" answered kajsa, as she turned toward her uncle, to show that her adieu to him was finished. the time of departure had indeed come. the warning bell rang imperiously. the crowd of visitors descended the stairs to the boats which were waiting for them. in the midst of this confusion every one noticed the arrival of a tardy passenger, who mounted to the deck with his valise in his hand. the tardy one was tudor brown. he presented himself to the captain, and claimed his cabin, to which he was immediately shown. a moment later, after two or three prolonged whistles, the engine began to work, and a sea of foam whitening the waters behind her, the "alaska" glided majestically over the green waters of the baltic, and soon left stockholm behind her, followed by the acclamations of the crowd who were waving their hats and handkerchiefs. erik, on the bridge, directed the maneuvers of the vessel, while mr. bredejord and the doctor waved a last farewell to vanda from the deck. mr. malarius, already frightfully seasick, had retired to his bed. they were all so occupied with saying farewell that not one of them had noticed the arrival of tudor brown. therefore the doctor could not repress a start of surprise when as he turned around, he saw him ascending from the depths of the vessel, and marching straight toward him, with his hands in his pockets, clothed as he had been at their first interview, and with his hat always seemingly glued to his head. "fine weather!" said tudor brown, by way of salutation and introduction. the doctor was stupefied by his effrontery. he waited for some moments to see if this strange man would make any excuse, or give any explanation of his conduct. seeing that he did not intend to say anything, he opened the subject himself. "well, sir, it appears that patrick o'donoghan is not dead, as we supposed!" he said, with his customary vivacity. "that is precisely what i want to find out, and it is on that account i have undertaken this voyage." after saying this, tudor brown turned away, and began to walk up and down the deck, whistling his favorite air, appearing to think that his explanation was perfectly satisfactory. erik and mr. bredejord listened to this conversation with a natural curiosity. they had never seen tudor brown before, and they studied him attentively, even more so than dr. schwaryencrona. it seemed to them that the man, although he affected indifference, cast a furtive glance at them from time to time, to see what impression he made upon them. perceiving this, they also immediately feigned to take no notice of him, and did not address a word to him. but as soon as they descended to the saloon, upon which their cabins opened, they took counsel together. "what could have been tudor brown's motive in trying to make them believe that patrick o'donoghan was dead? and what was his purpose in taking this voyage upon the 'alaska'? it was impossible for them to say. but it was difficult not to believe that it had some connection with the shipwreck of the 'cynthia,' and the infant tied to the buoy. the only interest which patrick o'donoghan had for erik and his friends, was the fact of his supposed knowledge of the affair, and this was their only reason for seeking for him. now they had before them a man who was uninvited, and who had come to them, and declared that patrick o'donoghan was dead. and this man had forced his society upon the members of the expedition, as soon as his assertion in the most unexpected manner had been proved to be false. they were therefore obliged to conclude that he had some personal interest in the matter, and the fact of his seeking out doctor schwaryencrona indicated the connection between his interests, and the inquiries instituted by the doctor." all these facts therefore seemed to indicate that tudor brown was in this problem a factor quite as important as patrick o'donoghan himself. who could tell whether he was not already in possession of the secret which they were trying to elucidate? if this was the case, was it a happy thing for them that they had him on board, or should they rather be disturbed by his presence? mr. bredejord inclined to the latter opinion, and did not consider his appearance among them as at all reassuring. the doctor, on the other side, argued that tudor brown might have acted in good faith, and also that he might be honest at heart, notwithstanding his unattractive exterior. "if he knows anything," said he, "we can hope that the familiarity which a long voyage necessarily produces may induce him to speak out; in that case it would be a stroke of good luck to have had him with us. at least we shall see what he can have to do with o'donoghan, if we ever find the irishman." as for erik, he did not even dare to express the sentiments which the sight of this man awakened in him. it was more than repulsion, it was positive hatred, and an instinctive desire to rush upon him and throw him into the sea. he was convinced that this man had had some share in the misfortune of his life, but he would have blushed to abandon himself to such a conviction, or even to speak of it. he contented himself with saying that he would never have allowed tudor brown to come on board if he had had any voice in the matter. how should they treat him? on this point also they were divided. the doctor declared that it would be politic to treat tudor brown with at least outward courtesy, in the hope of inducing him to speak out. mr. bredejord, as well as erik, felt a great repugnance to act out such a comedy, and it was by no means certain that dr. schwaryencrona himself would be able to conform to his own programme. they determined to leave the matter to be decided by circumstances, and the behavior of tudor brown himself. they did not have to wait long. precisely at midday the bell rang for dinner. mr. bredejord and the doctor, went to the table of the commander. there they found tudor brown already seated, with his hat on his head, and he did not manifest the least inclination to enter into any relations with his neighbors. the man proved to be so rude and coarse that he disarmed indignation. he seemed to be ignorant of the simplest rules of politeness. he helped himself first, chose the best portions, and ate and drank like an ogre. two or three times the commander, and dr. schwaryencrona addressed a few words to him. he did not even deign to speak, but answered them by gestures. that did not prevent him however, when he had finished his repast, and armed himself with an enormous tooth-pick, from throwing himself back in his seat, and saying to mr. marsilas: "what day shall we reach gibraltar?" "about the nineteenth or twentieth i think," answered the captain. tudor brown drew a book from his pocket, and examined his calendar. "that will bring us to malta on the twenty-second, to alexandria on the twenty-fifth, and to aden at the end of the month," said he, as if speaking to himself. then he got up, and going on deck again, began to pace up and down. "a pleasant traveling companion truly," mr. marsilas could not help saying. mr. bredejord was about to answer, when a frightful noise at the head of the staircase prevented him. they heard cries, and barking, and a confusion of voices. everybody arose and ran on deck. the tumult had been caused by kaas, mr. hersebom's greenland dog. it seemed that he did not approve of mr. tudor brown, for after evincing his displeasure by low growls every time he passed and repassed him, he finished by seizing him by the legs. tudor brown had drawn his revolver from his pocket, and was about to use it when otto appeared on the scene and prevented him from doing so, and then sent kaas away to his kennel. a stormy discussion then took place. tudor brown, white with rage and terror, insisted that the dog's brains should be blown out. mr. hersebom, who had come to the rescue, protested warmly against such a project. the commander arriving at this moment, settled the matter by desiring tudor brown to put away his revolver, and decreeing that henceforth kaas must be kept chained. this ridiculous incident was the only one that varied the monotony of their first days of voyaging. every one became accustomed to the silence and strange manners of tudor brown. at the captain's table they at length took no more notice of him than if he had not been in existence. everybody pursued their own avocations. mr. malarius, after passing two days in bed, was able to crawl upon deck, he commenced to eat, and was soon able to take his place at the innumerable whist parties of the doctor and mr. bredejord. erik, very much occupied with his business as lieutenant, spent every spare moment in reading. on the eleventh they passed the island of oland, on the thirteenth they reached shayer rock, passed through the sound, signaled heligoland on the fourteenth, and on the sixteenth they doubled cape hogue. on the following night erik was sleeping in his cabin when he was awakened by a sudden silence, and perceived that he no longer felt the vibrations of the engine. he was not however alarmed, for he knew that mr. kjellguist was in charge of the vessel; but out of curiosity he arose and went on deck to see what had happened. he was told by the chief engineer that the engine had broken down, and that they would be compelled to extinguish the fires. they could proceed, however, under sail, with alight breeze from the south-west. a careful inspection threw no light on the cause of the damage, and the engineer asked permission to repair to the nearest port to repair the injury. commander marsilas, after a personal examination, was of the same opinion. they found that they were thirty miles from brest, and the order was given to steer for the great french port. chapter xiii. the shipwreck. the next day the "alaska" entered the harbor of brest. the damage which she had sustained was fortunately not important. an engineer who was applied to immediately promised that her injuries should be repaired in three days. it was therefore not a very serious delay, and they could make up for it in a measure by taking in coal. they would therefore not be obliged to stop at gibraltar for this purpose, as they had at first intended. their next stopping-place was to be at malta, which they hoped to reach twenty-four hours earlier than they had at first expected, and thus would reduce the time of their delay in reality to two days. they therefore had nothing to worry themselves about, and everyone felt disposed to view the accident in the most philosophical manner. it soon became evident that their mischance was going to be turned into a festival. in a few hours the arrival of the "alaska" became known through the town, and as the newspapers made known the object of the expedition, the commander of the swedish vessel soon found himself the recipient of the most flattering attentions. the admiral and mayor of brest, the commander of the port, and the captains of the vessels which were lying at anchor, all came to pay an official visit to captain marsilas. a dinner and a ball were tendered to the hardy explorers, who were to take part in the search for the "nordenskiold." although the doctor and mr. malarius cared little for such gatherings, they were obliged to take their places at the table which was prepared for them. as for mr. bredejord, he was in his true element. among the friends invited by the admiral, was a grand-looking old man with a refined but sad countenance. he soon attracted erik's attention, who felt a sympathy for him which he could hardly explain. it was mr. durrien, honorary consul-general, and an active member of the geographical society, who was well known on account of his travels and researches in asia minor and the soudan. erik had read his works with very great interest, and he mentioned that he had done so, when he had been presented to the french _savant_, who experienced a feeling of satisfaction as he listened to the enthusiastic young man. it is often the fate of travelers, when their adventures make a stir in the world, to receive the loud admiration of the crowd; but to find that their labors are appreciated, by those who are well informed and capable of judging, does not occur so frequently. therefore the respectful curiosity of erik went straight to the heart of the old geographer, and brought a smile to his pale lips. "i have never attached any great merit to my discoveries," he said, in reply to a few words from erik, regarding the fortunate excavations which had recently been made. "i went ahead seeking, to forget my own cruel misfortunes, and not caring so much for the results as i did for prosecuting a work which was in entire accordance with my tastes. chance has done the rest." seeing erik and mr. durrien so friendly, the admiral took care to seat them together at table, so that they could continue their conversation during dinner. as they were taking their coffee, the young lieutenant of the "alaska" was accosted by a little bald-headed man, who had been introduced to him as dr. kergaridec, who asked him without any preamble to what country he belonged. a little surprised at first by the question, erik answered that he was from sweden, or, to be more exact, from norway, and that his family lived in the province of bergen. then he inquired his motive for asking the question. "my motive is a very simple one," answered his interlocutor. "for an hour i have been studying your face across the table, while we were at dinner, and i have never seen anywhere such a perfect type of the celt as i behold in you! i must tell you that i am devoted to celtic studies, and it is the first time that i have met with this type among the scandinavians. perhaps this is a precious indication for science, and we may be able to place norway among the regions visited by our gaelic ancestors?" erik was about to explain to the worthy _savant_ the reasons which would invalidate this hypothesis, when dr. kergaridec turned away to pay his respects to a lady who had just entered the room, and their conversation was not resumed. the young lieutenant of the "alaska" would probably never have thought of this incident again, but the next day as they were passing through a street near the market, dr. schwaryencrona said suddenly to him: "my dear child, if i have ever had a doubt as to your celtic origin, i should have lost it here. see how you resemble these bretons. they have the same brown eyes, black hair, bony neck, colored skin and general appearance. bredejord may say what he likes, but you are a pure-blooded celt--you may depend upon it." erik then told him what old dr. kergaridec had said to him, and dr. schwaryencrona was so delighted that he could not talk of anything else all the day. with the other passengers of the "alaska," tudor brown had received and accepted an invitation from the prefect. they thought up to the last moment that he would go in his accustomed dress, for he had made his appearance in it just as they were all going ashore to the dinner. but doubtless the necessity of removing his precious hat appeared too hard to him, for they saw him no more that evening. when he returned after the ball, erik learned from mr. hersebom that tudor brown had returned at seven o'clock and dined alone. after that, he had entered the captain's room to consult a marine chart; then he had returned to the town in the same small boat which had brought him on board. this was the last news which they received of him. the next evening at five o'clock tudor brown had not made his appearance. he knew, however, that the machinery of the "alaska" would be repaired by that time, and her fires kindled, after which it would be impossible to defer her departure. the captain had been careful to notify every one. he gave the order to hoist the anchor. the vessel had been loosened from her moorings when a small boat was signaled making all speed toward them. every one believed that it carried tudor brown, but they soon saw that it was only a letter which had been sent on board. it occasion general surprise when it was discovered that this letter was directed to erik. when he opened it, erik found that it simply contained the card of mr. durrien, the honorary consul-general, and member of the geographical society, with these words written in pencil: "a good voyage--a speedy return." we can not explain erik's feelings. this attention from an amiable and distinguished _savant_ brought tears to his eyes. in leaving this hospitable shore where he had remained three days, it seemed to him as if he was leaving his own country. he placed mr. durrien's card in his memorandum book, and said to himself that this adieu from an old man could not fail to bring him good luck. it was now the th of february. the weather was fine. the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving a sky as cloudless as that of summer. erik had the watch during the first quarter, and he walked the quarter-deck with a light step. it seemed to him that, with the departure of tudor brown, the evil genius of the expedition had disappeared. "provided that he does not intend to rejoin us at malta or suez," he said to himself. it was possible--indeed, even probable--if tudor brown wished to spare himself the long voyage which the "alaska" would make before reaching egypt. while the vessel was going around the coasts of france and spain, he could, if it so pleased him, stay for a week in paris, or at any other place, and then take the mail packet either to alexandria or suez, and rejoin the "alaska" at either of those places; or he could even defer doing so until they reached singapore or yokohama. but this was only a possibility. the fact was that he was no longer on board, and that he could not cast a damper upon the spirits of the company. their dinner, also, which they took at six o'clock, as usual, was the gayest which they had yet sat down to. at dessert they drank to the success of the expedition, and every one, in his heart, associated it, more or less, with the absence of tudor brown. then they went on deck and smoked their cigars. it was a dark night, but in the distance toward the north they could see the light of cape saint matthew. they soon signaled, also, the little light on the shore at bec-du-raze, which proved that they were in their right course. a good breeze from the north-east accelerated the speed of the vessel, which rolled very little, although the sea was quite rough. as the dinner-party reached the deck, one of the sailors approached the captain, and said: "six knots and a quarter." "in that case we shall not want any more coal until we arrive at behring's straits," answered the captain. after saying these words, he left the doctor and went down to his room. there he selected a large chart, which he spread out before him under a brilliant light, which was suspended from the ceiling. it was a map of the british admiralty, and indicated all the details of the course which the "alaska" intended to take. the shores, the islands, the sand-banks, the light-houses, revolving lights, and the most minute details were all clearly marked out. with such a chart and a compass it seemed as if even a child might be able to guide the largest ship through these perilous passes; and yet, a distinguished officer of the french navy, lieutenant mage, who had explored the niger, had been lost in these waters, with all his companions, and his vessel, the "magician." it had happened that captain marsilas had never before navigated in these waters. in fact, it was only the necessity of stopping at brest which had brought him here now, otherwise he would have passed a long distance from shore. therefore he was careful to study his chart attentively, in order to keep his proper course. it seemed a very easy matter, keeping on his left the pointe-du-van, the bec-du-raze, and the island of sein, the legendary abode of the nine druidesses, and which was nearly always veiled by the spray of the roaring waters; he had only to run straight to the west and to the south to reach the open sea. the light on the island indicated clearly his position, and according to the chart, the island ended in rocky heights, bordered by the open sea, whose depth reached one hundred meters. the light on the island was a useful guide on a dark night, and he resolved to keep closer to it than he would have done in broad daylight. he therefore ascended to the deck, and told erik to sail twenty-five degrees toward the southwest. this order appeared to surprise the young lieutenant. "to the south-west, did you say?" he asked in a respectful manner, believing that he had been mistaken. "yes, i said to the south-west!" repeated the commander, dryly: "do you not like this route?" "since you ask me the question, captain, i must confess that i do not. i should have preferred running west for some time." "to what purpose? we should only lose another night." the commander spoke in a tone that did not permit of any contradiction, and erik gave the order which he had received. after all the captain was an experienced seaman in whom they might have perfect confidence. slight as was the change in her course, it sufficed to modify sensibly the sailing of the vessel. the "alaska" commenced to roll a great deal, and to dip her prow in the waves. the log indicated fourteen knots, and as the wind was increasing, erik thought it prudent to take a couple of reefs. the doctor and mr. bredejord both became a prey to seasickness, and descended to their cabins. the captain, who had for some time been pacing up and down the deck, soon followed their example. he had hardly entered his own apartment when erik stood before him. "captain," said the young man, "i have heard suspicious noises, like waves breaking over rocks. i feel conscientiously bound to tell you that in my opinion we are following a dangerous route." "certainly, sir, you are gifted with tenaciousness," cried the captain. "what danger can you fear when we have this light at least three good miles, if not four, distant from us?" and he impatiently with his finger pointed out their position upon the chart, which he had kept spread out upon his table. erik followed the direction of his finger, and he saw clearly that the island was surrounded by very deep waters. nothing could be more decisive and reassuring, in the eyes of a mariner. but still he felt sure that it was not an illusion, those noises which he had heard, and which certainly were made by waves breaking upon a rocky shore very close to them. it was a strange case, and erik hardly liked to acknowledge it to himself, but it did not seem to him that he could recognize in this profile of the coast which lay spread out before his eyes the dangerous spot which he remembered in the same geographical studies which he had pursued. but could he venture to oppose his dim impressions and vague remembrances against a chart of the british admiralty? erik dared not do it. these charts are made expressly to guard navigators against errors or any illusions of their memory. he therefore bowed respectfully to his chief and returned to his position on deck. he had scarcely reached it when he heard this cry resounding through the vessel, "breakers on the starboard!" followed almost immediately by a second shout of "breakers on the larboard!" there was a loud whistle and a clattering of many feet followed by a series of effective maneuvers. the "alaska" slackened her course, and tried to back out. the captain made a rush up the stairs. at this moment he heard a grating noise, then suddenly a terrible shock which shook the vessel from prow to stern. then all was silent, and the "alaska" remained motionless. she was wedged in between two submarine rocks. commander marsilas, his head bleeding from a fall, mounted the deck, where the greatest confusion reigned. the dismayed sailors made a rush for the boats. the waves dashed furiously over the rocks upon which the vessel had been shipwrecked. the distant light-houses, with their fixed lights, seemed to reproach the "alaska" for having thrown herself into the dangers which it was their duty to point out. erik tried vainly to penetrate through the gloom and discover the extent of the damage which the vessel had sustained. "what is the matter?" cried the captain, still half-stunned by his fall. "by sailing south-west, sir, according to your orders, we have run upon breakers," replied erik. commander marsilas did not say a word. what could he answer? he turned on his heel, and walked toward the staircase again. their situation was a tragical one, although they did not appear to be in any immediate peril. the vessel remained motionless between the rocks which seemed to hold her firmly, and their adventure appeared to be more sad than frightful. erik had only one thought--the expedition was brought to a full stop--his hope of finding patrick o'donoghan was lost. he had scarcely made his somewhat hasty reply to the captain, which had been dictated by this bitter disappointment, than he regretted having done so. he therefore left the deck to go in search of his superior officer with the generous intention of comforting him, if it were possible to do so. but the captain had disappeared, and three minutes had not elapsed when a detonation was heard. erik ran to his room. the door was fastened on the inside. he forced it open with a blow of his fist. commander marsilas lay stretched out upon the carpet, with a revolver in his right hand, and a bullet wound in his forehead. seeing that the vessel was shipwrecked by his fault, he had blown his brains out. death had been instantaneous. the doctor and mr. bredejord, who had run in after the young lieutenant, could only verify the sad fact. but there was no time for vain regrets. erik left to his two friends the care of lifting the body and laying it upon the couch. his duty compelled him to return to the deck, and attend to the safety of the crew and passengers. as he passed the door of mr. malarius, the excellent man, who had been awakened by the stopping of the vessel, and also by the report of the pistol, opened his door and put out his white head, covered by his black silk night-cap. he had been sleeping ever since they left brest, and was therefore ignorant of all that had occurred. "ah, well, what is it? has anything happened?" he asked quietly. "what has happened?" replied erik. "my dear master, the 'alaska' has been cast upon breakers, and the captain has killed himself!" "oh!" said mr. malarius, overcome with surprise. "then, my dear child, adieu to our expedition!" "that is another affair," said erik. "i am not dead, and as long as a spark of life remains in me, i shall say, 'go forward!'" chapter xiv. on the rocks. the "alaska" had been thrown upon the rocks with such violence that she remained perfectly motionless, and the situation did not appear to be immediately dangerous for her crew and passengers. the waves, encountering this unusual obstacle, beat over the deck, and covered everything with their spray; but the sea was not rough enough to make this state of affairs dangerous. if the weather did not change, day would break without any further disaster. erik saw this at a glance. he had naturally taken command of the vessel, as he was the first officer. having given orders to close the port-holes and scuttles carefully, and to throw tarred cloths over all openings, in case the sea should become rougher, he descended to the bottom of the hold, in company with the master carpenter. there he saw with great satisfaction that no water had entered. the exterior covering of the "alaska" had protected her, and the precaution which they had taken against polar icebergs had proved very efficacious against the rocky coast; in fact the engine had stopped at once, being disarranged by the frightful shock, but it had produced no explosion, and they had, therefore, no vital damage to deplore. erik resolved to wait for daybreak, and then disembark his passengers if it should prove necessary. he, therefore, contented himself with firing a cannon to ask aid from the inhabitants of the island of sein, and with dispatching his small steam launch to l'orient. he said to himself, that at no place would they find the means of repairing their damages so promptly and well as at this great maritime arsenal of western france. thus in this glooming hour when every one on board believed that their chances were irretrievably lost, he already began to feel hopeful, or rather he was one of those courageous souls who know no discouragement and never confess themselves vanquished. "if we can only get the 'alaska' off these rocks, everything may yet go well with us," he said. but he was careful not to express this hope to the others, who would doubtless have considered it chimerical. he only told them when he returned from his visit to the hold that they were in no danger at present, and that there was plenty of time for them to receive aid. then he ordered a distribution of tea and rum to all the crew. this sufficed to put these children of a larger growth in a good humor, and their little steam-boat was speedily launched. some rockets from the light-house of sein soon announced that aid was coming to the assistance of the shipwrecked vessel. red lights now became visible, and voices hailed them. they answered that they had been shipwrecked upon the rocks surrounding sein. it was a full hour before the boat could reach them. the breakers were so strong that the attempt was perilous. but at length six men succeeded in seizing a small cable, and hoisting themselves on board of the "alaska." they were six rude fishermen of sein--strong, intrepid fellows--and it was not the first time they had gone to the assistance of shipwrecked mariners. they fully approved of the idea of sending to l'orient for assistance, for their little port could not offer the necessary resources. it was agreed that two of them should depart in the little steamer with mr. hersebom and otto, as soon as the moon arose above the horizon. while they were waiting for it to do so, they gave some account of the place where they were shipwrecked. the rocks extend in a westerly direction for nine miles beyond the island of sein. they are divided into two parts, which are called the pont du sein and the basse froid. the pont du sein is about four miles long, and a mile and a half wide. it is composed of a succession of high rocks, which form a chain above the waters. the basse froid extends beyond the pont du sein for five miles, and is two thirds of a mile wide; it consist of a great number of rocks of about an equal height, which can be seen at a great distance. the principal rocks are the cornengen, schomeur, cornoc-ar-goulet-bas-ven, madiou and ar-men. these are the least dangerous, because they can be seen. the number and irregularity of their points under the water are not fully known, for the sea beats over them with extreme violence, the force of the current is very strong, and they are the scene of many shipwrecks. light-houses have been erected on the island of sein and at bec-du-raze, so that these rocks can be seen and avoided by vessels coming from the west, but they are very dangerous for vessels coming from the south. unfortunately there is no rock or small island at the extreme end where a signal could be placed, and the turbulence of the waters will not permit a floating one to be placed there. therefore it was resolved to build a light-house on the rock ar-men, which is three miles from the extreme point. this work is so extremely difficult that although it was commenced in , twelve years later, in , it was only half built. they say that during the latter year it was only possible to work for eight hours, although the workmen were always ready to seize a favorable moment. the light-house therefore was not yet completed at the time when the "alaska" met with her disaster. but this did not suffice to explain how, after leaving brest, they had been run into such peril. erik promised himself that he would solve this difficulty as soon as the little steam-boat had been dispatched for aid. this departure was easily effected, the moon having soon made its appearance. the young captain then appointed the night watch, and sent the rest of the crew to bed, then he descended to the captain's room. mr. bredejord, mr. malarius, and the doctor were keeping watch beside the corpse. they arose as soon as they saw erik. "my poor child, what is the cause of this sad state of things? how did it happen?" asked the doctor. "it is inexplicable," answered the young man, looking at the chart which lay open upon the table. "i felt instinctively that we were out of our route, and i said so; but in my estimation we are at least three miles from the light-house; and all the seamen agree with me," he added, designating a spot with his finger on the map--and you see no danger is indicated--no sand-banks or rocks. this coloring indicates deep water. it is inconceivable how the mistake can have occurred. we can not suppose that a chart of the british admiralty can be at fault, for it is a region well known to mariners, as it has been minutely explored for centuries!" "is it not possible to make a mistake as to our position? could not one light be mistaken for another?" asked mr. bredejord. "that is scarcely possible in a voyage as short as ours has been since we left brest," said erik. "remember that we have not lost sight of land for a moment, and that we have been passing from one point to another. we can only suppose that one of the lights indicated on the chart has not been lighted or that some supplementary light has been added--in a word, we must imagine what is highly improbable. our course has been so regular, the soundings have been so carefully made, that it seems impossible that we could have mistaken our route, and yet the fact remains that we are on the rocks, when we ought to have been some distance out to sea." "but how is it going to end? that is what i want to know," cried the doctor. "we shall soon see," answered erik, "if the maritime authorities show any eagerness to come to our assistance. for the present the best thing that every one can do is to go quietly to bed, since we are as secure as if we were at anchor in some quiet bay." the young commander did not add that it was his intention to keep watch while his friends slept. nevertheless this is what he did for the remainder of the night, sometimes promenading the deck and encouraging the men, sometimes descending for a few minutes to the saloon. as day commenced to dawn he had the satisfaction of perceiving that the waves visibly receded, and if they continued to do so the "alaska" would be left almost on dry rocks. this gave him hope of being able speedily to determine the extent of the damage which the vessel had received, and, in fact, toward seven o'clock they were able to proceed with this examination. they found that three points of the rocks had pierced the "alaska," and held her firmly on her rocky bed. the direction in which she lay, slightly inclined to the north, which was contrary to her course, showed that the commands given by erik to back the vessel had saved her, and also rendered the shock, when she struck, less severe. the engine had been reversed some seconds before she touched, and she had been carried on the reef by the remainder of her previous speed, and by the force of the current. doubtless but for this she would have gone to pieces. besides, the waves having continued to break against her all night in the same direction, had helped to keep her in her place instead of fixing her more firmly on the rocks, which would have happened if the wind had changed. so, after all, there was a favorable view to take of the disaster. the question now was how to get the vessel off before the wind should change, and reverse these favorable conditions. erik resolved not to lose a moment. immediately after breakfast he set all his men to work. he hoped that when the tow-boat should arrive, which he had sent for from l'orient, it might be possible at high tide to disengage the "alaska." we can therefore imagine that the young captain waited impatiently for the first trace of smoke upon the horizon. all turned out as he desired. the water remained calm and peaceful. toward noon the boat arrived. erik, with his staff, received the mariners with due honors. "but explain to me," said the captain of the tow-boat, "how you came to cast your vessel on these rocks after leaving brest?" "this chart will explain it," said erik. "it does not point out any such danger." the french officer examined the chart with curiosity at first, and then he looked stupefied. "in fact the basse-froide is not marked down, nor the point of sein," he cried. "what unparalleled negligence. why, even the position of the light-house is not correctly marked. i am more and more surprised. this is a chart of the british admiralty. i should say that some one has taken pleasure in making it as deceitful and perfidious as possible. navigators of olden times frequently played such tricks upon their rivals. i should never have believed such traditions would be imitated in england." "are you sure that this is an english chart?" asked mr. bredejord. "for myself i suspect that the chart is the work of a rascal, and has been placed with criminal intentions among the charts of the 'alaska.'" "by tudor brown!" cried erik, impetuously. "that evening when we dined with the authorities at brest he entered the captain's room upon the pretense of examining the charts. oh, the infamous wretch! this then is the reason that he did not come on board again!" "it appears to be only too evident that he is the culprit," said dr. schwaryencrona. "but such a dastardly action betrays such an abyss of iniquity. what motive could he have for committing such a crime?" "what was his motive in coming to stockholm, expressly to tell you that patrick o'donoghan was dead?" answered mr. bredejord. "for what purpose did he subscribe twenty thousand kroners for the voyage of the 'alaska,' when it was doubtful if she would ever make the journey? why did he embark with us to leave us at brest? i think we must be blind indeed if we do not see in these facts a chain of evidence as logical as it is frightful. what interest has tudor brown in all this? i do not know. but this interest must be very strong, very powerful, to induce him to have recourse to such means to prevent our journey; for i am convinced now that it was he who caused the accident which detained us at brest, and it was he who led us upon these rocks, where he expected we would all lose our lives." "it seems difficult, however, to believe that he could have foreseen the route that captain marsilas would choose!" objected mr. malarias. "why did he not indicate this route by altering the chart? after delaying us for three days, he felt certain that the captain would take the shortest way. the latter, believing that the waters were safe around sein, was thrown upon the rocks." "it is true," said erik; "but the proof that the result of his maneuvers was uncertain lies in the fact that i insisted, before captain marsilas, that we ought still to keep to the west." "but who knows whether he has not prepared other charts to lead us astray, in case this one failed to do so?" said mr. bredejord. "that is easily determined," answered erik, who went and brought all the charts and maps that were in the case. the first one which they opened was that of corunna, and at a glance the french officer pointed out two or three grave errors. the second was that of cape vincent. it was the same. the third was that of gibraltar. here the errors were apparent to every eye. a more thorough examination would have been superfluous, as it was impossible to doubt any longer. if the "alaska" had not been shipwrecked on the island of sein, this fate would surely have awaited her before she could have reached malta. a careful examination of the charts revealed the means which had been employed to effect these changes. they were undoubtedly english charts, but they had been partly effaced by some chemical process, and then retouched so as to indicate false routes among the true ones. they had been recolored so skillfully that only a very slight difference in the tints could be perceived after the most careful scrutiny. but there was one circumstance which betrayed the criminal intentions with which they had been placed on board the "alaska." all the charts belonging to the vessel bore the seal of the secretary of the swedish navy. the forger had foreseen that they would not be examined too minutely, and had hoped that by following them they would all come to a watery grave. these successive discoveries had produced consternation in the breasts of all who were present. erik was the first to break the silence which had succeeded the conversation. "poor captain marsilas!" he said, in a trembling voice, "he has suffered for us all. but since we have escaped almost by a miracle the fate which was prepared for us, let us run no more risks. the tide is rising, and it may be possible to draw the 'alaska' off the rocks. if you are willing, gentlemen, we will go and commence operations without delay." he spoke with simple authority and a modest dignity, with which the feeling of responsibility had already inspired him. to see a young man of his age invested with the command of a ship under such circumstances, and for such a hazardous expedition, was certainly an unforeseen occurrence. but he felt that he was equal to the performance of all his duties. he knew that he could rely upon himself and upon his crew, and these thoughts transfigured him. the youth of yesterday was a man to-day. the spirit of a hero burned in his eyes. he rose superior to the calamity which had befallen them. his ability impressed all who approached him. even the doctor and mr. bredejord submitted to him like the others. the operation of preparing for their morning's work proved easier than they had hoped. lifted by the rising waters, the vessel only required a slight force to take her off the rocks. a few hours of hard work were sufficient to accomplish this, and the "alaska" was once more afloat, strained indeed, and weighed down by the water which made its way into some of her compartments, and with her engine silent, but manageable. all the crew, who were assembled on the deck, watched anxiously the result of these efforts, and a loud hurrah greeted the deliverance of the "alaska." the frenchmen replied to this joyful cry with similar acclamations. it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. above the horizon the beautiful february sun inundated the calm sparkling sea with floods of sunshine, which fell also on the rocks of the basse-froide, as if to efface all remembrance of the drama which had been enacted there the previous night. that same evening the "alaska" had been safely towed into the harbor of l'orient. the next day the french maritime authorities, with the utmost courtesy, authorized the necessary repairs to be made without delay. the damage which the vessel had sustained was not serious, but that of the machinery was more complicated, although not irremediable. necessarily it would take some time to render her seaworthy, but nowhere in the world, as erik had foreseen, could this be accomplished so speedily as at this port, which possessed such immense resources for naval construction. the house of gainard, norris & co., undertook to make the repairs in three weeks. it was now the d of february; on the th of march they would be able to resume their voyage, and this time with good charts. that would leave three months and a half for them to reach behring's strait by the end of june. it was not impossible to do this, although the time was very limited. erik would not hear of abandoning the enterprise. he feared only one thing, and that was being compelled to do so. therefore he refused to send to stockholm a report of the shipwreck, and he would not make a formal complaint against the presumed author of the attempt to shipwreck them for fear of being delayed by legal proceedings, yet he had his fears that this might encourage tudor brown to throw some new obstacle in the way of the "alaska." this is what dr. schwaryencrona and mr. bredejord asked each other as they were playing at whist with mr. malarius, in the little sitting-room of the hotel to which they had gone after arriving at l'orient. as for mr. bredejord, he had no doubts about the matter. a rascal like tudor brown, if he knew of the failure of his scheme--and how could any one doubt that he was acquainted with this fact?--would not hesitate to renew the attempt. to believe that they would ever succeed in reaching behring's strait was therefore more than self-delusion--it was foolishness. mr. bredejord did not know what steps tudor brown would take to prevent this, but he felt certain that he would find some means of doing so. dr. schwaryencrona was inclined to the same opinion, and even mr. malarius could not think of anything very reassuring to say. the games of whist were therefore not very lively, and the long strolls that the three friends took were not very gay. their principal occupation was to watch the erection of the mausoleum which they were building for poor captain marsilas, whose funeral obsequies had been attended by the entire population of l'orient. the sight of this funeral monument was not calculated to raise the spirits of the survivors of the "alaska." but when they joined erik again their hopes revived. his resolution was unshakable, his activity untiring, he was so bent upon overcoming all obstacles, so certain of success, that it was impossible for them to express, or even to preserve, less heroic sentiments. they had a new proof of the malignity of tudor brown, and that he still was pursuing them. on the th of march, erik saw that the work upon the machinery was almost finished. they only had to adjust the pumps, and that was to be done the next day. but in the night, between the th and th, the body of the pump disappeared from the workshop of the messrs. gainard, norris & co. it was impossible to find it. how had it been taken away--who had done it? after investigation they were unable to discover. however, it would take ten days more to replace it, and that would make it the th of march before the "alaska" could leave l'orient. it was a singular fact, but this incident affected erik's spirits more than the shipwreck had done. he saw in it a sure sign of a persistent desire to prevent the voyage of the "alaska." but these efforts only redoubled his ardor, and he determined that nothing should be wanting on his part to bring the expedition to a successful termination. these ten days of delay were almost exclusively occupied by him in considering the question in all its aspects. the more he studied, the more he became convinced that he could not reach behring's straits in three months, for they had suffered a detention of forty days since they had left stockholm, and to persist would only be to court failure and perhaps some irremediable disaster. this conclusion did not stop him, but it only led him to think that some modification of their original plans was indispensable. he took care, however, to say nothing, rightly judging that secrecy was the first condition of victory. he contented himself with watching more closely than ever the work of repairing the vessel. but his companions thought that they perceived that he was less eager to set out. they therefore concluded that he saw that the enterprise was impracticable, which they had also believed for some time. but they were mistaken. on the th of march, at midday, the repairs of the "alaska" were completed, and she was once more afloat in the harbor of l'orient. chapter xv. the shortest route. night was closing in when erik summoned his three friends and counselors to hold a serious consultation. "i have reflected a great deal," he said to them, "upon the circumstances which have made our voyage memorable since we left stockholm. i have been forced to arrive at one conclusion, which is that we must expect to meet with obstacles or accidents during our voyage. perhaps they may befall us at gibraltar or at malta. if we are not destroyed, it appears to me certain that we shall be delayed. in that case we can not reach behring's straits during the summer, which is the only season when it is practicable to navigate the polar sea!" "that is also the conclusion which i formed some time ago," declared mr. bredejord: "but i kept it to myself, as i did not wish to dampen your hopes, my dear boy. but i am sure that we must give up the idea of reaching behring's strait in three months!" "that is also my opinion," said the doctor. mr. malarius on his part indicated by a motion of his head that he agreed with them all. "well!" said erik, "having settled that point, what line of conduct now remains for us to adopt?" "there is one right course which it is our duty to take," answered mr. bredejord, "it is to renounce an enterprise which we see clearly is impracticable and return to stockholm. you understand this fact, my child, and i congratulate you upon being able to look the situation calmly in the face!" "you pay me a compliment which i can not accept," said erik smiling, "for i do not merit it. no--i have no thoughts of abandoning the expedition, for i am far from regarding it as impracticable. i only think that it is best for us all to baffle the machinations of that scoundrel who is lying in wait for us, and the first thing to do is to change our route." "such a change would only complicate our difficulties," replied the doctor, "since we have adopted the shortest one. if it would be difficult to reach behring's straits by the mediterranean and the suez canal, it would be impossible by the cape of good hope, or cape horn, for either of these routes would necessarily take five or six months." "there is another way which would shorten our voyage, instead of lengthening it, and where we would be sure not to meet tudor brown," said erik. "another way?" answered dr. schwaryencrona; "upon my word i do not know of any unless you are thinking of the way of panama. but it is not yet practicable for vessels, and it will not be yet for several years." "i am not thinking of panama, nor of cape horn, nor of the cape of good hope," answered the young captain of the "alaska." "the route i propose is the only one by which we can reach behring's strait in three months: it is to go by way of the arctic ocean, the north-west passage." then seeing that his friends were stupefied by this unexpected announcement, erik proceeded to develop his plans. "the north-west passage now is no longer what it was formerly, frightful to navigators--it is intermittent, since it is only open for eight or ten weeks every year, but it is now well known, marked out upon excellent charts, and frequented by hundreds of whaling-vessels. it is rarely taken by any vessel going from the atlantic to the pacific ocean, i must admit. most of them who enter it from either side only traverse it partially. it might even happen, if circumstances were not favorable, that we might find the passage closed, or that it might not be open at the precise time when we desired to enter it. it is a risk that one must take. but i think there are many reasons to make us hopeful of success if we take this route, whilst as far as i can see there is none, if we take any of the others. this being the state of affairs, i think it is our duty--a duty which we owe to those who have fitted out the expedition--to take the shortest way of reaching behring's strait. an ordinary vessel equipped for navigating tropical waters might hesitate before deciding upon such a course, but with a vessel like the 'alaska' fitted out especially for polar navigation, we need not hesitate. for my part i declare that i will not return to stockholm before having attempted to find nordenskiold." erik's reasoning was so sound that nobody tried to contradict it. what objections could the doctor, mr. bredejord, and mr. malarius raise? they saw the difficulties which beset the new plan. but it was possible that these difficulties might not prove insurmountable, whilst, if they pursued any other course, they must abandon all hopes of success. besides, they did not hesitate to agree with erik that it would be more glorious, in any case, to make the attempt, than to return to stockholm and acknowledge themselves conquered. "i see but one serious objection, for my part," said dr. schwaryencrona, after he had remained for a few moments lost in reflection. "it is the difficulty of procuring coal in the arctic regions. for without coal, adieu to the possibility of making the north-west passage, and of profiting by the time, often very short, during which it is practicable." "i have foreseen this difficulty, which is in fact the only one," answered erik, "and i do not think it is insurmountable. in place of going to malta or gibraltar, where we might doubtless expect new machinations on the part of tudor brown, i propose that we go to london; from there i can send, by transatlantic cable, a dispatch to a house in montreal, to send without delay a boat loaded with coal to wait for us in baffin's bay, and to a house in san francisco to send to behring's strait. we have the necessary funds at our disposal, and, besides, we will not require as much as we would have done if we had gone by the way of asia, for our new route is a much shorter one. it is useless for us to reach baffin's bay before the end of may, and we can not hope to reach behring's strait before the end of june. our correspondents in montreal and san francisco will therefore have plenty of time to execute our orders, which will be covered by funds deposited with bankers in london. this accomplished, we shall only have to find out whether the north-west passage is practicable, and that evidently depends upon ourselves. but, if we find the passage closed, at least we shall have the consolation of knowing that we have neglected nothing that could have insured our success." "it is evident!" said mr. malarius, "that your arguments are unanswerable!" "gently, gently," said mr. bredejord. "do not let us go too fast. i have another objection. do you think, my dear erik, that the 'alaska' can pass unnoticed through these waters? no, it is not possible. the newspapers would mention our arrival. the telegraph companies would make it known. tudor brown would know it. he would know that we had changed our plans. what would prevent him from altering his? do you think, for example, that it would be very difficult to prevent our boat with coals from reaching us?--and without it we could do nothing!" "that is true," answered erik, "and it proves that we must think of everything. we must not go to london. we must put into lisbon as if we were _en route_ to gibraltar and suez. then one of us must go _incognito_ to madrid, and without explaining why, or for whom it is intended, must open telegraphic communications with montreal and san francisco, to order the supply of coal. the crews of these boats must not know for whom the coal is destined, but remain at designated points at the disposition of a captain who will carry an order to them previously agreed upon!" "a perfect arrangement. it will be almost impossible for tudor brown to track us." "you mean to track me, for i hope that you do not think of accompanying me to these arctic regions," said erik. "indeed that is my intention!" answered the doctor. "it shall not be said that that rascal, tudor brown, made me turn back!" "nor me either," cried mr. bredejord and mr. malarius together. the young captain tried to combat this resolution, and explained to his friends the dangers and monotony of the voyage which they proposed to take with him. but he could not alter their decision. the perils which they had already encountered, made them feel it a duty to keep together; for the only way of rendering such a voyage acceptable to them all was not to separate. every precaution had been taken to protect the persons on board the "alaska" from suffering unduly from cold; and neither swedes nor norwegians fear frost. erik was obliged to yield to their wishes, only stipulating that their change of route should not be made known to the crew of the vessel. the first part of their voyage was quickly accomplished. on the d of april the "alaska" reached lisbon. before the newspapers had given notice of their arrival, mr. bredejord had gone to madrid, and by means of a banking-house opened communications with two large firms, one in montreal and one in san francisco. he had arranged to have two boat-loads of coal sent to two designated points, and had given the sign by which erik was to make himself known. this sign was the words found upon him when he was discovered floating, tied to the buoy of the "cynthia," "semper idem." finally these arrangements having all been happily concluded, on the th of april mr. bredejord returned to lisbon, and the "alaska" resumed her voyage. on the twenty-fifth of the same month, having crossed the atlantic and reached montreal, where they took in coal, and erik was assured that his orders had been punctually fulfilled, they left the waters of the st. lawrence and straits of belle isle, which separate labrador from newfoundland. on the th of may they reached the coast of greenland and found the vessel with their coal, it having arrived before them. erik knew very well that at this early date it would be useless to attempt to force his way through the arctic ocean, which was still firmly frozen over the largest part of his route. but he counted upon obtaining on these shores, which were much frequented by whaling-vessels, precise information as to the best charts, and he was not mistaken. he was also able to buy, although at a high price, a dozen dogs, who with kaas could draw their sledges if necessary. among the danish stations on the coast of greenland, he found godhaven, which is only a poor village, and is used as a depot by dealers in oil and the furs of the country. at this time of the year the cold is not more severe than at stockholm or noroe. but erik and his friends beheld with surprise the great difference between the two countries, both situated at the same distance from the pole. godhaven is in precisely the same latitude as bergen. but whilst the southern port of norway is in april covered with green forests and fruit trees, and even cultivated vines trained upon trellises above green meadows, greenland is still in may covered with ice and snow, without a tree to enliven the monotony. the shape of the norwegian coast, deeply indented by fjords and sheltered by chains of islands, which contribute almost as much as the warmth of the gulf stream to raise the temperature of the country. greenland, on the contrary, has a low regular coast and receives the full shock of the cold blasts from the pole, consequently she is enveloped almost to the middle of the island by fields of ice several feet in thickness. they spent fifteen days in the harbor and then the "alaska" mounted davis' straits, and keeping along the coast of greenland, gained the polar sea. on the th of may for the first time they encountered floating ice in ' of north latitude, with a temperature two degrees below zero. these first icebergs, it is true, were in a crumbling condition, rapidly breaking up into small fragments. but soon they became more dense, and frequently they had to break their way through them. navigation, although difficult, was not as yet dangerous. by a thousand signs they perceived, however, that they were in a new world. all objects at a little distance appeared to be colorless, and almost without form; the eye could find no place to repose in this perpetually changing horizon, which every minute assumed a new aspect. "who can describe," says an eye-witness, "these melancholy surroundings, the roaring of the waves beating beneath the floating ice, the singular noise made by the snow as it falls suddenly into the abyss of waters? who can imagine the beauty of the cascades which gush out on all sides, the sea of foam produced by their fall, the fright of the sea-birds who, having fallen asleep on a pyramid of ice, suddenly find their resting-place overturned and themselves obliged to fly to some other spot? and in the morning, when the sun bursts through the fog, at first only a little of the blue sky is visible, but it gradually widens, until the view is only limited by the horizon." these spectacles, presented by the polar sea, erik and his friends were able to contemplate at their leisure as they left the coast of greenland, to which they had kept close until they had reached uppernavik. then they sailed westward across baffin's bay. here navigation became more difficult, for this sea is the ordinary course of the polar icebergs which are drawn in by the innumerable currents which traverse it. sometimes they found their course checked by insurmountable barriers of ice, which it was impossible to break, and therefore they were compelled to turn aside. the "alaska" was obliged continually to break her way through immense fields of ice. sometimes a tempest of snow assailed them which covered the deck and the masts with a thick coat. sometimes they were assailed by ice dashed over them by the wind, which threatened to sink the vessel by its weight. sometimes they found themselves in a sort of lake, surrounded on all sides by fields of ice apparently firm and impassable, and from which they had great difficulty to extricate themselves and gain the open sea. then they had to exercise great vigilance to escape some enormous iceberg sailing down from the north with incredible swiftness, a frightful mass, which could have crushed the "alaska" like a walnut. but a greater danger still was the submarine ice, which could injure her and act like a battering-ram. the "alaska" lost her two large boats. one must experience the dangers which polar navigation presents at every moment to have any just appreciation of them. after one or two weeks of such experience the most intrepid crew become exhausted, and repose is necessary for them. sometimes, although surrounded by all these dangers, they made rapid progress; at others they made scarcely any; but at length, on the th of june, they came in sight of land again, and cast anchor at the entrance to lancaster sound. erik had expected to be obliged to wait some days before being able to enter the sound; but, to his surprise and joy, he found it open, at least at the entrance. he entered resolutely, but only to find the next day his passage impeded by ice, which held them prisoners for three days; but, thanks to the violent currents which sweep through this arctic canal, he at last was able to free his vessel and continue his route as the whalers of godhaven had told him he would be able to do. on the seventeenth he arrived at barrow's straits, and made all the speed he could; but on the nineteenth, as he was about to enter melville sound, he was again blocked in by the ice. at first he patiently accepted the situation, waiting for it to break up; but day succeeded to day and still this did not happen. there were, however, many sources of amusement open to the voyagers. they were near the coast and supplied with everything that could render their life comfortable in that latitude. they could take sleigh-rides and see in the distance the whales enjoying their diversions. the summer solstice was approaching. since the fifteenth the occupants of the "alaska" had beheld a new and astonishing spectacle, even for norwegians and the natives of southern sweden; it was the sun at midnight touching the horizon without disappearing and then mounting again in the sky. in these high latitudes and desolate coasts the star of day describes in twenty-four hours a complete circle in space. the light, it is true, is pale and languishing, objects lose their perfect shape, and all nature has a shadowy appearance. one realizes profoundly how far he is removed from the world, and how near he is to the pole. the cold, however, was not extreme. the temperature did not fall more than four or five degrees below zero, and the air was sometimes so mild that they could hardly believe that they were in the center of the arctic zone. but those novel surrounding were not sufficient to satisfy erik, or make him lose sight of the supreme object which had brought them there. he had not come to herbalize like mr. malarius, who returned every evening more and more delighted with his explorations, both of the country and of its unknown plants, which he added to his collection; nor to enjoy with dr. schwaryencrona and mr. bredejord the novelty of the sights which nature offered to them in these polar regions. he wanted to find nordenskiold and patrick o'donoghan--to fulfill a sacred duty while he discovered, perhaps, the secret of his birth. this was why he sought untiringly to break the circle of ice which hemmed them in. he made excursions with his sleigh and on his snow-shoes, reconnoitered in every direction for ten days, but it was all in vain. at the west, as well as the north and east, the banks of ice remained firm. it was the th of june, and they were still far from the siberian sea. must he confess himself vanquished? erik could not make up his mind to do this. repeated soundings had revealed that under the ice there was a swift current running toward franklin's strait, that is to say toward the south; he told himself that some effort might suffice to break up the ice, and he resolved to attempt it. for the length of seven marine miles he had hollowed in the ice a series of chambers, and in each of them was placed a kilogramme of dynamite. these were connected by a copper wire inclosed in gutta percha. on the th of june, at eight o'clock in the morning, erik from the deck of the "alaska" pressed the button of the electrical machine, and a formidable explosion took place. the field of ice shook and trembled, and clouds of frightened sea-birds hovered around uttering discordant cries. when silence was restored, a long black train cut into innumerable fissures met their anxious gaze. the explosion of the terrible agent had broken up the ice field. there was, so to speak, a moment of hesitation, and then the ice acted as if it had only been waiting for some signal to move. cracking in all parts it yielded to the action of the current, and they beheld here and there whole continents, as it were, gradually moving away from them. some portions, however, were more slow to move; they seemed to be protesting against such violence. the next day the passage was clear, and the "alaska" rekindled her fires. erik and his dynamite had done what it would probably have taken the pale arctic sun a month longer to accomplish. on the d of july, the expedition arrived at banks' straits; on the fourth, she issued from the arctic sea properly speaking. from this time the route was open notwithstanding icebergs, fogs, and snow-storms. on the twelfth, the "alaska" doubled ice cape; on the thirteenth, cape lisburne, and on the fourteenth she entered the gulf of kotzebue to the north of behring's straits and found there, according to instructions, the boat loaded with coal which had been sent from san francisco. thus in two months and sixteen days they had accomplished the programme arranged by erik before they left the coast of france. the "alaska" had hardly ceased to move, when erik rushed into a small boat and hurried off to accost the officer who had charge of the boat loaded with coal. "_semper idem!_" said he, as he approached. "lisbon!" answered the yankee. "how long have you been waiting here for me?" "five weeks--we left san francisco one month after the arrival of your dispatch." "have you heard any news of nordenskiold?" "at san francisco they had not received any reliable information about him. but since i have been here i have spoken to several captains of whaling-vessels, who said that they had heard from the natives of serdze-kamen that an european vessel had been frozen in by the ice for nine or ten months; they thought it was the 'vega.'" "indeed!" said erik, with a joy which we can easily understand. "and do you believe that it has not yet succeeded in getting through the straits?" "i am sure of it--not a vessel has passed us for the last five weeks, which i have not seen and spoken to." "god be praised--our troubles will not be without recompense, if we succeed in finding nordenskiold." "you will not be the first who has done so!" said the yankee, with an ironical smile--"an american yacht has preceded you. it passed here three days ago, and like you was inquiring for nordenskiold." "an american yacht?" repeated erik, half stupefied. "yes--the 'albatross,' captain tudor brown, from vancouver's island. i told him what i had heard, and he immediately started for cape serdze-kamen." chapter xvi. from serdze-kamen to ljakow. tudor brown had evidently heard of the change in the route of the "alaska." he had reached behring's straits before them. but by what means? it seemed almost supernatural, but still the fact remained that he had done so. erik was greatly depressed by this information, but he concealed his feelings from his friends. he hurried on the work of transporting the coal, and set out again without losing a moment. serdze-kamen is a long asiatic-promontory situated nearly a hundred miles to the west of behring's straits, and whaling-vessels from the pacific visit it every year. the "alaska" reached there after a voyage of twenty-four hours, and soon in the bay of koljutschin behind a wall of ice, they discovered the masts of the "vega," which had been frozen in for nine months. the barrier which held nordenskiold captive was not more than ten kilometers in size. after passing around it, the "alaska" came to anchor in a little creek, where she would be sheltered from the northerly winds. then erik with his three friends made their way overland to the establishment which the "vega" had made upon the siberian coast to pass this long winter, and which a column of smoke pointed out to them. this coast of the bay of koljutschin consists of a low and slightly undulating plain. there are no trees, only some dwarf willows, marine grasses and lichens. summer had already brought forth some plants, which mr. malarius recognized as a species which was very common in norway. the encampment of the "vega" consisted of a large store-house for their eatables, which had been made by the orders of nordenskiold, in case the pressure of the ice should destroy his ship, which so frequently happens on these dangerous coasts. it was a touching fact that the poor population, although always half starved, and to whom this depot represented incalculable wealth in the shape of food, had respected it, although it was but poorly guarded. the huts of skin of these tschoutskes were grouped here and there around the station. the most imposing structure was the "tintinjaranga," or ice-house, which they had especially arranged to use for a magnetic observatory, and where all the necessary apparatus had been placed. it had been built of blocks of ice delicately tinted and cemented together with snow; the roof of planks was covered with cloth. the voyagers of the "alaska" were cordially welcomed by the young astronomer, whom they found at the time of their arrival holding a consultation with the man in charge of the store-house. he offered with hearty goodwill to take them on board the "vega" by the path which had been cut in the ice in order to keep open the means of communication between the vessel and the land, and a rope attached to stones served as a guide on dark nights. as they walked, he related to them their adventures since they had been unable to send home any dispatches. after leaving the mouth of the lena, nordenskiold had directed his course toward the islands of new siberia, which he wished to explore, but finding it almost impossible to approach them, on account of the ice which surrounded them, and the shallowness of the water in that vicinity, he abandoned the idea, and resumed his course toward the east. the "vega" encountered no great difficulties until the th of september, but about that time a continuance of fogs, and freezing nights, compelled her to slacken her speed, besides the darkness necessitated frequented stoppages. it was therefore the th of september before she reached cape serdze-kamen. they cast her anchor on a bank of ice, hoping to be able the next day to make the few miles which separated her from behring's straits and the free waters of the pacific. but a north wind set in during the night, and heaped around the vessel great masses of ice. the "vega" found herself a prisoner for the winter at the time when she had almost accomplished her work. "it was a great disappointment to us, as you can imagine!" said the young astronomer, "but we soon rallied our forces, and determined to profit by the delay as much as possible, by making scientific investigations. we made the acquaintance of the 'tschoutskes' of the neighborhood, whom no traveler has hitherto known well, and we have made a vocabulary of their language, and also gathered together a collection of their arms and utensils. the naturalists of the 'vega' have also been diligent, and added many new arctic plants to their collection. lastly, the end of the expedition has been accomplished, since we have doubled cape tchelynskin, and traversed the distance between it and the mouth of the yenisei and of the lena. henceforth the north-east passage must become a recognized fact. it would have been more agreeable for us, if we could have effected it in two months, as we so nearly succeeded in doing. but provided we are not blocked in much longer, as the present indications lead us to hope, we will not have much to complain of, and we shall be able to return with the satisfaction of knowing that we have accomplished a useful work." while listening to their guide with deep interest, the travelers were pursuing their way. they were now near enough to the "vega" to see that her deck was covered over with a large canvas, and that her sides were protected by lofty masses of snow, and that her smoke-stacks had been carefully preserved from contact with the ice. the immediate approach to the vessel was still more strange; she was not, as one would have expected, completely incrusted in a bed of ice, but she was suspended, as it were, in a labyrinth of lakes, islands, and canals, between which they had been obliged to throw bridges formed of planks. "the explanation is very simple," said the young astronomer, in reply to a question from erik. "all vessels that pass some months surrounded by ice form around them a bed of refuse, consisting principally of coal ashes. this is heavier than snow, and when a thaw begins, the bed around the vessel assumes the aspect which you behold." the crew of the "vega," in arctic clothing, with two or three officers, had already seen the visitors whom the astronomer was bringing with him. their joy was great when they saluted them in swedish, and when they beheld among them the well-known and popular physiognomy of dr. schwaryencrona. neither nordenskiold nor captain palender were on board. they had gone upon a geological excursion into the interior of the country, and expected to be absent five or six days. this was a disappointment to the travelers, who had naturally hoped when they found the "vega" to present their congratulations to the great explorer. but this was not their only disappointment.[ ] [footnote : they returned sooner, for on the th of july the ice broke up, and after days of captivity the "vega" resumed her voyage. on the th of july she issued from behring's straits and set out for yokohama.] they had hardly entered the officer's room, when erik and his friends were informed that three days before the "vega" had been visited by an american yacht, or rather by its owner, mr. tudor brown. this gentleman had brought them news of the world beyond their settlement, which was very acceptable, they being confined to the limited neighborhood of the bay of koljutschin. he told them what had happened in europe since their departure--the anxiety that sweden and indeed all civilized nations felt about their fate, and that the "alaska" had been sent to search for them. mr. tudor brown came from vancouver's island, in the pacific, and his yacht had been waiting there for him for three months. "but," exclaimed a young doctor, attached to the expedition, "he told us that he had at first embarked with you, and only left you at brest, because he doubted whether you would be able to bring the enterprise to a successful termination!" "he had excellent reasons for doubting it," replied erik, coolly, but not without a secret tremor. "his yacht was at valparaiso and he telegraphed for her to wait for him at victoria, on the coast of vancouver," continued the doctor; "then he took the steamer from liverpool to new york, and the railroad to the pacific. this explains how he was able to reach here before you." "did he tell you why he came?" asked mr. bredejord. "he came to help us, if we stood in need of assistance, and also to inquire about a strange enough personage, whom i had incidentally mentioned in my correspondence, and in whom mr. tudor brown seemed to take a great interest." the four visitors exchanged glances. "patrick o'donoghan--was not that the name?" asked erik. "precisely--or at least it is the name which is tattooed on his body, although he pretends it is not his own, but that of a friend. he calls himself johnny bowles." "may i ask if this man is still here?" "he left us ten months ago. we had at first believed that he might prove useful to us by acting as interpreter between us and the natives of this coast, on account of his apparent knowledge of their language; but we soon discovered that his acquaintance with it was very superficial--confined, in fact, to a few words. besides, until we came here, we were unable to hold any communications with the natives. this johnny bowles, or patrick o'donoghan, was lazy, drunken, and undisciplined. his presence on board would only have occasioned trouble for us. we therefore acceded without regret to his request to be landed on the large island of ljakow, as we were following the southern coast." "what! did he go there? but this island is uninhabited!" cried erik. "entirely; but what attracted the man appeared to be the fact that its shores are literally covered by bones, and consequently by fossil ivory. he had conceived the plan of establishing himself there, and of collecting, during the summer months, all the ivory that he could find; then when, in winter, the arm of the sea which connects ljakow with the continent should be frozen over, to transport in a sleigh this treasure to the siberian coast, in order to sell it to the russian traders, who come every year in search of the products of the country." "did you tell these facts to mr. tudor brown?" asked erik. "assuredly, he came far enough to seek for them," replied the young doctor, unaware of the deep personal interest that the commander of the "alaska" took in the answers to the questions which he addressed to him. the conversation then became more general. they spoke of the comparative facility with which nordenskiold had carried out his programme. he had not met with any serious difficulties, and consequently the discovery of the new route would be an advantage to the commerce of the world. "not," said the officer of the "vega," "that this path was ever destined to be much frequented, but the voyage of the 'vega' would prove to the maritime nations of the atlantic and pacific that it was possible to hold direct communication with siberia by water. and nowhere would these nations, notwithstanding the vulgar opinions, find a field as vast and rich." "is it not strange," observed mr. bredejord, "that they have failed completely during the last three centuries in this attempt that you have now accomplished without difficulty?" "the singularity is only apparent," answered one of the officers. "we have profited by the experience of our predecessors, an experience often only acquired at the cost of their lives. professor nordenskiold has been preparing himself for this supreme effort during the last twenty years, in which he has made eight arctic expeditions. he has patiently studied the problem in all its aspects, and finally succeeded in solving it. then we have had what our predecessors lacked, a steam vessel especially equipped for this voyage. this has enabled us to accomplish in two months a voyage that it would have taken a sailing vessel two years to do. we have also constantly been able not only to choose, but also to seek out, the most accessible route. we have fled from floating ice and been able to profit by the winds and tides. and still we have been overtaken by winter. how much more difficult it would have been for a mariner who was compelled to wait for favorable winds, and see the summer passing in the meantime." in such conversation they passed the afternoon, and after accepting their invitation and dining on board the "vega," they carried back with them to supper on board the "alaska" all the officers who could be spared from duty. they mutually gave each other all the information and news in their power. erik took care to inform himself exactly of the route followed by the "vega," in order to utilize it for his own profit. after exchanging many good wishes and with the heartfelt desire that they would all soon return in safety to their country, they separated. the next day at dawn erik had the "alaska" steering for the island of ljakow. as for the "vega" she had to wait until the breaking up of the ice would permit her to reach the pacific. the first part of erik's task was now accomplished. he had found nordenskiold. the second still remained to be fulfilled: to find patrick o'donoghan, and see if he could persuade him to disclose his secret. that this secret was an important one they were now all willing to admit, or tudor brown would never have committed such a dastardly crime to prevent them from becoming acquainted with it. would they be able to reach the island of ljakow before him? it was hardly probable, for he was three days in advance of them: never mind--he would make the attempt. the "albatross" might lose her way, or meet with some unforeseen obstacles. as long as there was even a probability of success erik determined to take the chances. the weather was now mild and agreeable. light fogs indicated an open sea, and a speedy breaking of the ice along the siberian coast where the "vega" had been held prisoner so long. summer was advancing, and the "alaska" could reasonably count upon at least ten weeks of favorable weather. the experience which they had acquired amongst the american ice had its value and would render this new enterprise comparatively easy. lastly the north-east passage was the most direct way to return to sweden, and besides the deep personal interest which induced erik to take it, he had a truly scientific desire to accomplish in a reverse route the task which nordenskiold had fulfilled. if he had succeeded, why should he not be able to do so?--this would be proving practically the experiment of the great navigator. the wind favored the "alaska." for ten days it blew almost constantly from the south-east, and enabled them to make from nine to ten knots at least without burning any coal. this was a precious advantage, and besides the wind drove the floating ice toward the north and rendered navigation much less difficult. during these ten days they met with very little floating ice. on the eleventh day, it is true they had a tempestuous snow storm followed by dense fogs which sensibly retarded the progress of the "alaska." but on the th of july the sun appeared in all its brilliancy, and on the morning of the d of august they came in sight of the island of ljakow. erik gave orders immediately to sail around it in order to see if the "albatross" was not hidden in some of its creeks. having done this they cast anchor in a sandy bottom about three miles from the southern shore. then he embarked in his boat accompanied by his three friends and six of his sailors. half an hour later they had reached the island. erik had not chosen the southern coast of the island to anchor his vessel without a reason. he had said to himself that patrick o'donoghan might have told the truth when he had stated that his object was to collect ivory; but if it was his intention to leave the island at the first opportunity which afforded, he would be sure to establish himself upon a spot where he would have a good view of the sea. he would undoubtedly choose some elevated place, and one as near as possible to the siberian coast. besides the necessity of sheltering himself against the polar winds would lead him to establish himself upon the southern coast of the island. erik did not pretend that his conclusions were necessarily incontrovertible, but he thought that, in any case, they would suffer no inconvenience from adopting them as the basis of a systematic exploration of the place. the results fully justified his expectations. the travelers had not walked along the shore for an hour, when they perceived on a height, perfectly sheltered by a chain of hills, facing the south, an object which could only be a human habitation. to their extreme surprise this little cottage, which was of a cubical form, was perfectly white, as if it had been covered with plaster. it only lacked green shutters to perfectly resemble a country home near marseilles, or an american cottage. after they had climbed the height and approached near to it, they discovered a solution of the mystery. the cottage was not plastered, it was simply built of enormous bones skillfully arranged, which gave it its white color. strange as the materials were, they were forced to admit that the idea of utilizing them was a natural one; besides there was nothing else available on the island where vegetation was most meagre; but the whole place, even the neighboring hills were covered with bones, which dr. schwaryencrona recognized as the remains of wild beasts. chapter xvii. at last. the door of the cottage was open. the visitors entered, and saw at a glance that the single room of which it consisted was empty, although it had been recently occupied. upon the hearth, which was built of three large stones, lay some extinguished embers upon which the light ashes still lingered, although the lightest breeze would have been sufficient to carry them away. the bed, consisting of a wooden frame, from which was suspended a sailor's hammock, still bore the impress of a human figure. this hammock, that erik examined immediately, bore the stamp of the "vega." on a sort of table formed from the shoulder-blade of some animal and supported by four thigh bones, lay some crumbs of ship's biscuit, a pewter goblet, and a wooden spoon of swedish workmanship. they could not doubt that they were in the dwelling-place of patrick o'donoghan, and according to all appearances he had only left it a short time ago. had he quitted the island, or had he only gone to take a walk? the only thing they could do was to make a thorough exploration of the island. around the habitation excavations bore witness to the fact that a great amount of hard work had been done; on a sort of plateau that formed the summit of the hill, a great quantity of ivory had been piled up, and indicated the nature of the work. the voyagers perceived that all the skeletons of elephants and other animals had been despoiled of their ivory, and they arrived at the conclusion that the natives of the siberian coast had been aware, long before the visit of patrick o'donoghan, of the treasure which was to be found upon the island, and had come and carried off large quantities of it. the irishman, therefore, had not found the quantity of ivory upon the surface of the ground which he had expected, and had been compelled to make excavations and exhume it. the quality of this ivory, which had been buried probably for a long time, appeared to the travelers to be of a very inferior quality. now the young doctor of the "vega" had told them, as had the proprietor of the red anchor, in brooklyn, that laziness was one of the distinguishing characteristics of patrick o'donoghan. it therefore seemed to them very improbable that he would be resigned to follow such a laborious and unremunerative life. they therefore felt sure that he would embrace the first opportunity to leave the island of ljakow. the only hope that still remained of finding him there was that which the examination of his cabin had furnished them. a path descended to the shore, opposite to that by which our explorers had climbed up. they followed it, and soon reached the bottom, where the melting snows had formed a sort of little lake, separated from the sea by a wall of rocks. the path followed the shores of this quiet water, and going around the cliff they found a natural harbor. they saw a sleigh abandoned on the land, and also traces of a recent fire; erik examined the shore carefully, but could find no traces of any recent embarkation. he was returning to his companions, when he perceived at the foot of a shrub a red object, which he picked up immediately. it was one of those tin boxes painted outside with carmine which had contained that preserved beef commonly called "endaubage," and which all vessels carry among their provisions. it was not so great a prize, since the captain of the "vega" had supplied patrick o'donoghan with food. but what struck erik as significant, was the fact that there was printed on the empty box the name of martinez domingo, valparaiso. "tudor brown has been here," he cried. "they told us on board the 'vega' that his vessel was at valparaiso when he telegraphed them to wait for him at vancouver. besides, this box from chili could not have been brought here by the 'vega,' for it is evidently quite fresh. it can not be three days, perhaps not twenty-four hours since it has been opened!" dr. schwaryencrona and mr. bredejord shook their heads, as if they hesitated to accept erik's conclusions, when turning the box in his hands, he descried written in pencil the word "albatross," which had doubtless been done by the person who had furnished the vessel with the beef. he pointed it out to his friends. "tudor brown has been here," he repeated, "and why should he come except to carry off patrick o'donoghan. let us go, it is evident they embarked at this creek. his men, while they were waiting for him, have taken breakfast around this fire. he has carried off the irishman, either willingly or unwillingly. i am as certain of it as if i saw them embark." notwithstanding this firm belief, erik carefully explored the neighborhood, to assure himself that patrick o'donoghan was no longer there. an hour's walk convinced him that the island was uninhabited. there was no trace of a path, nor the least vestige of a human being. on all sides valleys extended as far as his sight could reach, without even a bird to animate its solitude. and above all, the gigantic bones which they beheld lying around in every direction, gave them a feeling of disgust; it seemed as if an army of animals had taken refuge in this solitary island only to die there. "let us go!" said dr. schwaryencrona. "there is no use in making a more complete search of the island; we have seen sufficient to assure us that patrick o'donoghan would not require much urging to induce him to leave this place!" four hours later they were again on board of the "alaska," and continuing their journey. erik did not hide the fact that his hopes had received a severe check. tudor brown had been ahead of him, he had succeeded in reaching the island first, and doubtless had carried off patrick o'donoghan. it was therefore hardly probable that they would succeed in finding him again. a man capable of displaying such ability in his fiendish attack upon the "alaska," and who could adopt such energetic measures to carry off the irishman from such a place, would assuredly exert himself to the utmost to prevent them from ever coming in contact with him. the world is large, and its waters were open to the "albatross." who could tell to what point of the compass patrick o'donoghan and his secret would be carried? this is what the captain of the "alaska" said to himself, as he walked the deck of his vessel, after giving orders to steer to the westward. and to these doleful thoughts was added a feeling of remorse that he had permitted his friends to share the dangers and fatigue of his useless expedition. it was doubly useless, since tudor brown had found nordenskiold before the "alaska," and also preceded them to the island of ljakow. they must then return to stockholm, if they ever succeeded in reaching it, without having accomplished one of the objects of the expedition. it was indeed a great disappointment. but at least their returning in a contrary direction to the "vega" would prove the feasibility of the northeast passage. at any risk he must reach cape tchelynskin, and double it from east to west. at any risk he must return to sweden by way of the sea of kara. it was this redoubtable cape tchelynskin, formerly considered impassable, that the "alaska" crowded on steam to reach. they did not follow the exact route of the "vega," for erik had no occasion to descend the siberian coast. leaving to starboard the islands of stolbovvi and semenoffski, which they sighted on the th of august, they sailed due west, following closely the th degree of latitude, and made such good speed that in eight days they had made degrees of longitude, from the th to the th degree east of greenwich. it is true that they had to burn a great deal of coal to accomplish this, for the "alaska" had had contrary winds almost all the time. but erik thought rightly that everything was subordinate to the necessity of making their way out of these dangerous passes as speedily as possible. if they could once reach the mouth of the yenisei, they could always procure the necessary fuel. on the th of august, at midday they were unable to make a solar observation on account of a thick fog, which covered the whole sky. but they knew that they were approaching a great asiatic promontory, therefore erik advanced with extreme caution, while at the same time he had the speed of the vessel slackened. toward night he gave orders to have the vessel stopped. these precautions were not useless. the following morning at daylight they made soundings and found that they were in only thirty fathoms of water, and an hour afterward they came in sight of land; and the "alaska" soon reached a bay in which she could cast anchor. they resolved to wait until the fog dispersed before going on land, but as the th and th of august passed without bringing about this desired result, erik determined to start accompanied by mr. bredejord, mr. malarius, and the doctor. a short examination showed them that the "alaska" was at the extreme north of the two points of cape tchelynskin; on two sides the land lay low toward the sea, but it rose gradually toward the south, and they perceived that it was about two or three hundred feet in height. no snow or ice was to be seen in any direction, except along the borders of the sea where there was a little band, such as is commonly seen in all arctic regions. the clayey soil was covered with abundant vegetation, consisting of mossy grasses and lichens. the coast was enlivened by great numbers of wild geese and walruses. a white bear displayed himself on top of a rock. if it had not been for the fog which cast a gray mantle over everything, the general aspect of this famous cape tchelynskin was not particularly disagreeable; certainly there was nothing to justify the name of cape severe, which it had borne for three centuries. as they advanced to the extreme point at the west of the bay, the travelers perceived a sort of monument that crowned a height, and naturally pressed forward to visit it. they saw, as they approached, that it was a sort of "cairn," or mass of stones supporting a wooden column made out of a post. this column bore two inscriptions; the first read as follows: "on the th of august, , the 'vega' left the atlantic to double cape tchelynskin, _en route_ for behring's straits." the second read: "on the th of august, , the 'albatross,' coming from behring's straits, doubled cape tchelynskin, _en route_ for the atlantic." once again tudor brown had preceded the "alaska." it was now the th of august. he had written this inscription only four days previously. in erik's eyes it appeared cruel and ironical; it seemed to him to say: "i will defeat you at every turn. all your efforts will be useless. nordenskiold has solved the problem. tudor brown, the counter proof." as for himself he would return humiliated and ashamed, without having demonstrated, found or proved anything. he was going without adding a single word to the inscriptions on the column. but dr. schwaryencrona would not listen to him, and taking out his knife from his pocket he wrote on the bottom of the post these words: "on the th of august, , the 'alaska' left stockholm, and came here across the atlantic and the siberian sea, and has doubled cape tchelynskin, _en route_ to accomplish the first circumpolar periplus." there is a strange power in words. this simple phrase recalled to erik what a geographical feat he was in hopes of accomplishing, and without his being conscious of it restored him to good humor. it was true, after all, that the "alaska" would be the first vessel to accomplish this voyage. other navigators before him had sailed through the arctic-american seas, and accomplished the northwest passage. nordenskiold and tudor brown had doubled cape tchelynskin; but no person had as yet gone from one to the other, completely around the pole, completing the three hundred and sixty degrees. this prospect restored every one's ardor, and they were eager to depart. erik thought it best, however, to wait until the next day and see if the fog would lift; but fogs appeared to be the chronic malady of cape tchelynskin, and when next morning the sun rose without dissipating it, he gave orders to hoist the anchor. leaving to the south the gulf of taymis--which is also the name of the great siberian peninsula of which cape tchelynskin forms the extreme point--the "alaska," directing her course westward, sailed uninterruptedly during the day and night of the th of august. on the eighteenth, at day-break, the fog disappeared at last and the atmosphere was pure and enlivened by the sunshine. by midday they had rounded the point, and immediately descried a distant sail to the south-west. the presence of a sailing-vessel in these unfrequented seas was too extraordinary a phenomenon not to attract special attention. erik, with his glass in his hand, ascended to the lookout and examined the vessel carefully for a long time. it appeared to lie low in the water, was rigged like a schooner and had a smoke-stack, although he could not perceive any smoke. when he descended from the bridge the young captain said to the doctor: "it looks exactly like the 'albatross!'" then he gave orders to put on all steam possible. in less than a quarter of an hour he saw that they were gaining on the vessel, whose appointments they were now able to discern with the naked eye. they could see that the breeze had slackened, and that her course was at right angles with that of the "alaska." but suddenly a change took place in the distant vessel; clouds of smoke issued from her smoke-stack, and formed behind her a long black cloud. she was now going by steam and in the same direction as the "alaska." "there is now no doubt of it. it is the 'albatross,'" said erik. he gave orders to the engineer to increase the speed of the "alaska," if possible. they were then making fourteen knots, and in a quarter of an hour they were making sixteen knots. the vessel that they were pursuing had not been able to attain a like rate of speed, for the "alaska" continued to gain upon her. in thirty minutes they were near enough to her to distinguish all her men who were maneuvering her. at last they could see the moldings and letters forming her name, "albatross." erik gave orders to hoist the swedish flag. the "albatross" immediately hoisted the stars and stripes of the united states of america. in a few minutes the two vessels were only separated by a few hundred yards. then the captain of the "alaska" took his speaking-trumpet and hailed the vessel in english: "ship ahoy! i wish to speak with your captain!" in a few moments some one made his appearance on the bridge of the "albatross." it was tudor brown. "i am the proprietor and captain of this yacht," he said. "what do you want?" "i wish to know whether patrick o'donoghan is on board!'" "patrick o'donoghan is on board and can speak for himself," answered tudor brown. he made a sign, and a man joined him on the bridge. "this is patrick o'donoghan," said tudor brown. "what do you want with him?" erik was desirous of this interview so long, he had come so far in search of this man, that when he found himself unexpectedly in his presence and recognized him by his red hair and broken nose, he was at first taken aback and scarcely knew what to say to him. but gathering his ideas together, he at last made an attempt. "i have been wishing to talk to you confidentially for several years," he said. "i have been seeking for you, and it was to find you that i came into these seas. will you come on board of my vessel?" "i do not know you, and i am very well satisfied to stay where i am," answered the man. "but i know you. i have heard through mr. bowles that you were on board when the 'cynthia' was wrecked, and that you had spoken to him about the infant who was tied to a buoy. i am that infant, and it is about this matter that i wish you to give me all the information in your power." "you must question somebody else, for i am not in the humor to give any." "do you wish me to suppose that the information is not to your credit?" "you can think what you like; it is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said the man. erik resolved to betray no irritation. "it would be better for you to tell me what i wish to know of your own free will than to be compelled to do so before a court of justice," he said, coolly. "a court of justice! they will have to catch me first," answered the other, mockingly. here tudor brown interposed. "you see it is not my fault if you have not obtained the information that you desired," said he to erik. "the best thing is now for us both to resume our course and go where we desire." "why should we each go our way?" answered the young captain. "would it not be better for us to keep together until we reach some civilized country where we can settle these matters." "i have no business with you, and do not want any one's company," answered tudor brown, moving as if he was about to leave the bridge. erik stopped him by a sign. "proprietor of the 'albatross,'" he said, "i bear a regular commission from my government, and am besides an officer of the maritime police. i therefore ask you to show me your papers immediately!" tudor brown did not make the slightest answer, but descended the bridge with the man whom he had called. erik waited a couple of minutes, and then he spoke again: "commander of the 'albatross,' i accuse you of having attempted to shipwreck my vessel on the rocks of sein, and i now summon you to come and answer this accusation before a marine tribunal. if you refuse to answer this summons it will be my duty to compel you to do so!" "try it if you like," cried tudor brown, and gave orders to resume his journey. during this colloquy his vessel had insensibly tacked, and now stood at right angles with the "alaska." suddenly the wheel commenced to revolve and beat the water which boiled and foamed around it. a prolonged whistle was heard, and the "albatross" carrying all the steam she could raise sped over the waters in the direction of the north pole. two minutes later, the "alaska" was rushing after her. chapter xviii. cannon-balls. at the same time that he gave orders to pursue the "albatross," erik also desired his men to get the cannon in readiness. the operation took some time, and when they had everything in order the enemy was beyond their reach. doubtless they had taken advantage of the time occupied by their stoppage to increase their fires, and they were two or three miles ahead. this was not too great a distance for a gatling gun to carry, but the rolling and speed of the two vessels made it probable that they would miss her; and they thought it better to wait, hoping that the "alaska" would gain upon the enemy. it soon became evident, however, that the two vessels were equally matched, for the distance between them remained about the same for several hours. they were obliged to burn an enormous amount of coal--an article which was becoming very scarce on board the "alaska"--and this would be a heavy loss if they could not succeed in overtaking the "albatross" before night set in. erik did not think it right to do this without consulting his crew. he therefore mounted the bridge, and frankly explained to them the position in which he was placed. "my friends," he said, "you know that i am anxious to seize and deliver up to justice this rascal who attempted to shipwreck our vessel on the rocks of sein. but we have hardly coal enough left to last us for six days. any deviation from our route will compel us to finish our voyage under sail, which may make it very long and toilsome for all of us, and may even cause us to fail in our undertaking. on the other hand, the 'albatross' counts upon being able to get away from us during the night. to prevent this we must not slacken our speed for a moment, and we must keep her within the range of our electric light. i feel sure, however, that we will eventually overtake her, but it may take us some time to do so. i did not feel willing to continue this pursuit without laying the facts plainly before you, and asking you if you were willing to risk the dangers which may arise for us." the men consulted together in a low tone, and then commissioned mr. hersebom to speak for them: "we are of opinion that it is the duty of the 'alaska' to capture this rascal at any sacrifice!" he said, quietly. "very well, then, we will do our best to accomplish it," answered erik. when he found that he had the confidence of his crew, he did not spare fuel, and in spite of the desperate efforts of tudor brown, he could not increase the distance between them. the sun had scarcely set when the electric light of the "alaska" was brought to bear unpityingly upon the "albatross," and continued in this position during the night. at day-break the distance between them was still the same, and they were flying toward the pole. at midday they made a solar observation, and found that they were in , ', " of latitude north, by of longitude east. floating ice, which they had not encountered for ten or fifteen days, now became very frequent. it was necessary to ward it off, as they had been compelled to do in baffin's bay. erik, feeling sure that they would soon reach fields of ice, was careful to steer obliquely to the right of the "albatross" so as to bar the way toward the east if she should attempt to change her course, finding her path toward the north obstructed. his foresight was soon rewarded, for in two hours a lofty barrier of ice casts its profile on the horizon. the american yacht immediately steered toward the west, leaving the ice two or three miles on its starboard. the "alaska" immediately imitated this maneuver, but so obliquely to the left of the "albatross" as to cut her off if she attempted to sail to the south. the chase became very exciting. feeling sure of the course which the "albatross" would be compelled to take, the "alaska" tried to push her more toward the ice. the yacht's course becomes more and more wavering, every moment they made some change, at one time steering north at another west. erik, mounted aloft, watched every movement she made, and thwarted her attempts to escape by appropriate maneuvers. suddenly she stopped short, swung round and faced the "alaska." a long white line which was apparent extending westward told the reason of this change. the "albatross" found herself so close to the ice-banks that she had no recourse but to turn and face them. the young captain of the "alaska" had scarcely time to descend, before some missile whistled past his head. the "albatross" was armed, and relied upon being able to defend herself. "i prefer that it should be so, and that he should fire the first shot," said erik, as he gave orders to return it. his first attack was not more successful than that of tudor brown--for it fell short two or three hundred yards. but the combat was now begun, and the firing became regular. an american projectile cut the large sail yards of the "alaska," and it fell upon the deck killing two men. a small bomb from the swedish vessel fell upon the bridge of the "albatross," and must have made great havoc. then other projectiles skillfully thrown lodged in various parts of the vessel. they had been constantly approaching each other, when suddenly a distant rumbling mingled with the roar of artillery, and the crews raising their heads saw that the sky was very black in the east. was a storm with its accompanying fog and blinding snow, coming to interpose between the "albatross" and the "alaska," to permit tudor brown to escape? this erik wished to prevent at any price. he resolved to attempt to board her. arming his men with sabers, cutlasses, and hatchets, he crowded on all the steam the vessel could carry and rushed toward the "albatross." tudor brown tried to prevent this. he retreated toward the banks of ice, firing a shot from his cannon every five minutes. but his field of action had now become too limited; between the ice and the "alaska" he saw that he was lost unless he made a bold attempt to regain the open sea. he attempted this after a few feigned maneuvers to deceive his adversary. erik let him do it. then at the precise moment when the "albatross" tried to pass the "alaska," she made a gaping hole in the side of the yacht which stopped her instantly, and rendered her almost unmanageable; then she fell quickly behind and prepared to renew the assault. but the weather, which had become more and more menacing, did not give him time to do this. the tempest was upon them. a fierce wind from the south-east, accompanied by blinding clouds of snow, which not only raised the waves to a prodigious height, but dashed against the two vessels immense masses of floating ice. it seemed as if they were attacked at all points at once. erik realized his situation, and saw that he had not a minute to lose in escaping, unless he wished to be hemmed in perhaps permanently. he steered due east, struggling against the wind, the snow, and the dashing ice. but he was soon obliged to confess that his efforts were fruitless. the tempest raged with such violence that neither the engine of the "alaska" nor her steel buttress were of much use. not only did the vessel advance very slowly, but at times she seemed to be fairly driven backward. the snow was so thick that it obscured the sky, blinded the crew, and covered the bridge a foot in depth. the ice driven against the "alaska" by the fierce wind increased and barred their progress, so that at length they were glad to retreat toward the banks, in the hope of finding some little haven where they could remain until the storm passed over. the american yacht had disappeared, and after the blow it had received from the "alaska" they almost doubted if it would be able to resist the tornado. their own situation was so perilous that they could only think of their own safety, for every moment it grew worse. there is nothing more frightful than those arctic tempests, in which all the primitive forces of nature seem to be awakened in order to give the navigator a specimen of the cataclysms of the glacial period. the darkness was profound although it was only five o'clock in the afternoon. the engine had stopped, and they were unable to light their electric light. to the raging of the storm was added the roars of thunder and the tumult made by the floating blocks of ice dashing against each other. the ice-banks were continually breaking with a noise like the roar of a cannon. the "alaska" was soon surrounded by ice. the little harbor in which she had taken refuge was soon completely filled with it, and it commenced to press upon and dash against her sides until she began to crack, and they feared every moment that she would go to pieces. erik resolved not to succumb to the storm without a combat with it, and he set the crew to work arranging heavy beams around the vessel so as to weaken the pressure as much as possible, and distribute it over a wider surface. but, although this protected the vessel, it led to an unforeseen result which threatened to be fatal. the vessel, instead of being suddenly crushed, was lifted out of the water by every movement of the ice, and then fell back again on it with the force of a trip-hammer. at any moment after one of these frightful falls they might be broken up, crushed, buried. to ward off this danger there was only one resource, and this was to re-enforce their barrier by heaping up the drift ice and snow around the vessel to protect her as well as they could. everybody set to work with ardor. it was a touching spectacle to see this little handful of men taxing their pygmy muscles to resist the forces of nature--trying with anchors, chains, and planks to fill up the fissures made in the ice and to cover them with snow, so that there might be a uniformity of motion among the mass. after four or five hours of almost superhuman exertions, and when their strength was exhausted, they were in no less danger, for the storm had increased. erik held a consultation with his officers, and it was decided that they should make a depot on the ice-field for their food and ammunition in case the "alaska" should be unable to resist the powerful shocks to which she was being subjected. at the first moment of danger every man had received provisions enough for eight days, with precise instructions in case of disaster, besides being ordered to keep his gun in his belt even while he was working. the operation of transporting twenty tons of provisions was not easy of accomplishment, but at last it was done and the food was placed about two hundred yards from the ship under a covering of tarred canvas, which was soon covered by the snow with a thick white mantle. this precaution, having been taken, everybody felt more comfortable as to the result of a shipwreck, and the crew assembled to recruit their strength with a supper supplemented with tea and rum. suddenly, in the midst of supper, a more violent shock than any that had as yet agitated the vessel, split the bed of ice and snow around the "alaska." she was lifted up in the stern with a terrible noise, and then it appeared as if she were plunging head-foremost into an abyss. there was a panic, and every one rushed on deck. some of the men thought that the moment had come to take refuge on the ice, and without waiting for the signal of the officers they commenced clambering over the bulwarks. four or five of these unfortunate ones managed to leap on a snow-bank. two others were caught between the masses of floating ice and the beams of the starboard, as the "alaska" righted herself. their cries of pain and the noise of their crushed bones were lost in the storm. there was a lull, and the vessel remained motionless. the lesson which the sailors had been taught was a tragical one. erik made use of it to enforce on the crew the necessity of each man's retaining his presence of mind, and of waiting for positive orders on all occasions. "you must understand," he said to his men, "that to leave the ship is a supreme measure, to which we must have recourse only at the last extremity. all our efforts ought to be directed toward saving the 'alaska.' deprived of her, our situation will be a very precarious one on the ice. it is only in case of our vessel becoming uninhabitable that we must desert it. in any case such a movement should be made in an orderly manner to avoid disasters. i therefore expect that you will return quietly to your supper, and leave to your superior officers the task of determining what is best to do!" the firmness with which he spoke had the effect of reassuring the most timid, and they all descended again. erik then called mr. hersebom and asked him to untie his good dog kaas, and follow him without making any noise. "we will go on the field of ice," he said, "and seek for the fugitives and make them return to their duty, which will be better for them than wandering about." the poor devils were huddled together on the ice, ashamed of their escapade, and at the first summons were only too glad to take the path toward the "alaska." erik and mr. hersebom having seen them safely on board, walked as far as their depot of provisions, thinking that another sailor might have taken refuge there. they went all around it but saw no one. "i have been asking myself the last few moments," said erik, "if it would not be better to prevent another panic by landing part of the crew?" "it might be better perhaps," answered the fisherman. "but would not the men who remained on board feel jealous and become demoralized by this measure?" "that is true," said erik. "it would be wiser to occupy them up to the last moment in struggling against the tempest, and it is in fact the only chance we have of saving the ship. but since we are on the ice we may as well take advantage of it, and explore it a little. i confess all these crackings and detonations inspire me with some doubt as to its solidity!" erik and his adopted father had not gone more than three hundred feet from their depot of provisions before they were stopped short by a gigantic crevasse which lay open at their feet. to cross it would have required long poles, with which they had neglected to supply themselves. they were therefore compelled to walk beside it obliquely toward the west, in order to see how far it reached. they found that this crevasse extended for a long distance, so long that after they had walked for half an hour they could not see the end of it. feeling more secure about the extent of this field of ice upon which they had established their depot of provisions, they turned to retreat their steps. after they had walked over about half of the distance a new vibration occurred, followed by detonations and tumultuous heavings of ice. they were not greatly disturbed by this, but increased their speed, being anxious to discover whether this shock had had done the "alaska" any mischief. the depot was soon reached, then the little haven that sheltered the vessel. erik and mr. hersebom rubbed their eyes, and asked each other whether they were dreaming, for the "alaska" was no longer there. their first thought was that she had been swallowed up by the waters. it was only too natural that they should think this after such an evening as they had just passed. but immediately they were struck by the fact that no _débris_ was visible, and that the little harbor had assumed a new aspect since their departure. the drift ice which the tempest had piled up around the "alaska" had been broken up, and much of it had drifted away. at the same time mr. hersebom mentioned a fact which had not struck him while they were hurrying along, and this was that the wind had changed and was now blowing from the west. was it not possible that the storm had carried away the floating ice in which the "alaska" had become embedded. yes, evidently it was possible; but it remained for them to discover whether this supposition was true. without delaying a moment, erik proceeded to reconnoiter, followed by mr. hersebom. they walked for a long time. everywhere the drift was floating freely, the waves came and went, but the whole aspect of things around them looked strange and different. at length erik stopped. now he understood what had befallen them. he took mr. hersebom's hand and pressed it with both his own. "father," said he, in a grave voice, "you are one of those to whom i can only speak the truth. well, the fact is that this ice-field has split; it has broken away from that which surrounded the 'alaska,' and we are on an island of ice hundreds of yards long, and carried along by the waters, and at the mercy of the storm." chapter xix. gunshots. about two o'clock in the morning erik and mr. hersebom, exhausted with fatigue, laid down side by side between two casks, under the canvas that protected their provisions. kaas, also, was close to them and kept them warm with his thick fur. they were not long in falling asleep. when they awoke the sun was already high in the heavens, the sky was blue and the sea calm. the immense bank of ice upon which they were floating appeared to be motionless, its movement was so gentle and regular. but along the two edges of it which were nearest to them enormous icebergs were being carried along with frightful rapidity. these gigantic crystals reflected like a prism the solar rays, and they were the most marvelous that erik had ever beheld. mr. hersebom also, although but little inclined in general, and especially in his present situation, to admire the splendor of nature in the arctic regions, could not help being impressed with them. "how beautiful this would look were we on a good ship!" he said, sighing. "bah!" answered erik, with his usual good humor. "on board a ship one must be thinking only how to avoid the icebergs so as not to be crushed to pieces, whilst on this island of ice we have none of these miseries to worry us." as this was evidently the view of an optimist, mr. hersebom answered with a sad smile. but erik was determined to take a cheerful view of things. "is it not an extraordinary piece of good luck that we have this depot of provisions?" he said. "our case would, indeed, be a desperate one if we were deprived of everything; but, with twenty casks of biscuits, preserved meats, and, above all, our guns and cartridges, what have we to fear? at the most, we will only have to remain some weeks without seeing any land that we can reach. you see, dear father, that we have happened upon this adventure in the same manner as the crew of the 'hansa.'" "of the 'hansa'?" asked mr. hersebom, with curiosity. "yes, a vessel that set out in for the arctic seas. part of her crew were left, as we are, on a floating field of ice, while they were occupied in transporting some provisions and coal. the brave men accommodated themselves as well as they could to this new life, and after floating for six mouths and a half over a distance of several thousand leagues, ended by landing in the arctic regions of north america." "may we be as fortunate!" said mr. hersebom, with a sigh. "but it would be well i think for us to eat something." "that is also my opinion!" said erik. "a biscuit and a slice of beef would be very acceptable." mr. hersebom opened two casks to take out what they required for their breakfast, and as soon as his arrangements were completed they did ample justice to the provisions. "was the raft of the crew of the 'hansa' as large as ours?" asked the old fisherman, after ten minutes conscientiously devoted to repairing his strength. "i think not--ours is considerably larger. the 'hansa's' became gradually much smaller, so that the unfortunate shipwrecked men were at last compelled to abandon it, for the waves began to dash over them. fortunately they had a large boat which enabled them, when their island was no longer habitable, to reach another. they did this several times before they at last reached the main-land." "ah, i see!" said mr. hersebom, "they had a boat--but we have not. unless we embark in an empty hogshead i do not see how we can ever leave this island of ice." "we shall see about it when the time comes!" answered erik. "at the present moment i think the best thing that we can do is to make a thorough exploration of our domain." he arose, as did mr. hersebom, and they commenced climbing a hill of ice and snow--a hummock is the technical name--in order to obtain a general idea of their island. they found it from one end to the other lying and floating insensibly upon the polar ocean. but it was very difficult to form a correct estimate either of its size or shape; for a great number of hummocks intercepted their view on all sides. they resolved, however, to walk to the extremity of it. as far as they could judge from the position of the sun, that end of the island which extended toward the west had been detached from the mass of which it had formerly been a part, and was now turning to the north. they therefore supposed that their ice raft was being carried toward the south by the influence of the tide and breeze, and the fact that they no longer saw any trace of the long barriers of ice, which are very extensive in the , fully corroborated this hypothesis. their island was entirely covered with snow, and upon this snow they saw distinctly here and there at a distance some black spots, which mr. hersebom immediately recognized as "ongionks," that is to say, a species of walrus of great size. these walruses doubtless inhabited the caverns and crevasses in the ice, and believing themselves perfectly secure from any attack, were basking in the sunshine. it took erik and mr. hersebom more than an hour to walk to the extreme end of their island. they had followed closely the eastern side, because that permitted them to explore at the same time both their raft and the sea. suddenly kaas, who ran ahead of them, put to flight some of the walruses which they had seen in the distance. they ran toward the border of the field of ice in order to throw themselves into the water. nothing would have been more easy than to have killed a number of them. but what would have been the use of their doing so, since they could not make a fire to roast their delicate flesh? erik was occupied about other matters. he carefully examined the ice-field, and found that it was far from being homogeneous. numerous crevasses and fissures, which seemed to extend in many cases for a long distance, made him fear that a slight shock might divide it into several fragments. it was true that these fragments might in all probability be of considerable size; but the possibility of such an accident made them realize the necessity of keeping as close as possible to their depot of provisions, unless they wished to be deprived of them. erik resolved to examine carefully their whole domain, and to make his abode on the most massive portion; the one that seemed capable of offering the greatest resistance. he also determined to transport to this spot their depot of provisions. it was with this resolve that mr. hersebom and erik continued their exploration of the western coast, after resting a few minutes at the northerly point. they were now following that portion of the ice-field where they had attacked the american yacht. kaas ran on before them, seeming to enjoy the freshness of the air, and being in his true element on this carpet of snow, which doubtless reminded him of the plains of greenland. suddenly erik saw him sniff the air and then dart forward like an arrow, and stop barking beside some dark object, which was partially hidden by a mass of ice. "another walrus, i suppose!" he said, hurrying forward. it was not a walrus which lay extended on the snow, and which had so excited kaas. it was a man, insensible, and covered with blood, whose clothing of skins was assuredly not the dress worn by any seamen of the "alaska." it reminded erik of the clothing worn by the man who had passed the winter on the "vega." he raised the head of the man; it was covered with thick red hair, and it was remarkable that his nose was crushed in like that of a negro. erik asked himself whether he was the sport of some illusion. he opened the man's waistcoat, and bared his chest. it was perhaps as much to ascertain whether his heart still beat as to seek for his name. he found his name tattooed in blue, on a rudely designed escutcheon. "patrick o'donoghan, 'cynthia,'" and his heart still beat. the man was not dead. he had a large wound in his head, another in his shoulder, and on his chest a contusion, which greatly interfered with his respiration. "he must be carried to our place of shelter, and restored to life," said erik, to mr. hersebom. and then he added in a low tone as if he was afraid of being overheard. "it is he, father, whom we have been seeking for such a long time without being able to find him--patrick o'donoghan--and see he is almost unable to breathe." the thought that the secret of his life was known to this bloody object upon which death already appeared to have set his seal, kindled a gloomy flame in erik's eyes. his adopted father divined his thoughts, and could not help shrugging his shoulders--he seemed to say: "of what use would it be to discover it now. the knowledge of all the secrets in the world would be useless to us." he, however, took the body by the limbs, while erik lifted him under the arms, and loaded with this burden they resumed their walk. the motion made the wounded man open his eyes. soon the pain caused by his wounds was so great that he began to moan and utter confused cries, among which they distinguished the english word "drink!" they were still some distance from their depot of provisions. erik, however, stopped and propped the unfortunate man against a hummock, and then put his leathern bottle to his lips. it was nearly empty, but the mouthful of strong liquor that patrick o'donoghan swallowed seemed to restore him to life. he looked around him, heaved a deep sigh and then said: "where is mr. jones?" "we found you alone on the ice," answered erik. "had you been there long?" "i do not know!" answered the wounded man, with difficulty. "give me something more to drink." he swallowed a second mouthful and then he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak. "when the tempest overtook us the yacht sunk," he explained. "some of the crew had time to throw themselves into the boats, the rest perished. at the first moment of peril mr. jones made a sign for me to go with him into a life-boat, which was suspended in the stern of the yacht and that every one else disdained on account of its small dimensions, but which proved to be safe, as it was impossible to sink it. it is the only one which reached the ice island--all the others were upset before they reached it. we were terribly wounded by the drift ice which the waves threw into our boat, but at length we were able to draw ourselves beyond their reach and wait for the dawn of day. this morning mr. jones left me to go and see if he could kill a walrus, or some sea-bird, in order that we might have something to eat. i have not seen him since!" "is mr. jones one of the officers of the 'albatross'?" asked erik. "he is the owner and captain of her!" answered o'donoghan, in a tone which seemed to express surprise at the question. "then mr. tudor brown is not the captain of the 'albatross'?" "i don't know," said the wounded man, hesitatingly, seeming to ask himself whether he had been too confidential in speaking as freely as he had done. erik did not think it wise to insist on this point. he had too many other questions to ask. "you see," he said to the irishman, as he seated himself on the snow beside him, "you refused the other day to come on board of my ship and talk with me, and your refusal has occasioned many disasters. but now that we have met again, let us profit by this opportunity to talk seriously and like rational men. you see you are here on a floating ice-bank, without food, and seriously wounded, incapable by your own efforts of escaping the most cruel death. my adopted father and myself have all that you need, food, fire-arms, and brandy. we will share with you, and take care of you until you are well again. in return for our care, we only ask you to treat us with a little confidence!" the irishman gave erik an irresolute look in which gratitude seemed to mingle with fear--a look of fearful indecision. "that depends on the kind of confidence that you ask for?" he said, evasively. "oh, you know very well," answered erik, making an effort to smile, and taking in his hands those of the wounded man. "i told you the other day; you know what i want to find out and what i have come so far to discover. now, patrick o'donoghan, make a little effort and disclose to me this secret which is of so much importance to me, tell me what you know about the infant tied to the buoy. give me the faintest indication of who i am, so that i may find my family. what do you fear? what danger do you run in satisfying me?" o'donoghan did not answer, but seemed to be turning over in his obtuse brain the arguments that erik had used. "but," he said at last, with an effort, "if we succeed in getting away from here, and we reach some country where there are judges and courts, you could do me some harm?" "no, i swear that i would not. i swear it by all that is sacred," said erik, hotly. "whatever may be the injuries you have inflicted upon me or upon others, i guarantee that you shall not suffer for them in any way. besides, there is one fact of which you seem to be ignorant, it is that there is a limit to such matters. when such events have taken place more than twenty years ago, human justice has no longer the right to demand an accounting for them." "is that true?" asked patrick o'donoghan, distrustfully. "mr. jones told me that the 'alaska' had been sent by the police, and you yourself spoke of a tribunal." "that was about recent events--an accident that happened to us at the beginning of our journey. you may be sure that mr. jones was mocking you, patrick. doubtless he has some interest of his own for wishing you not to tell." "you may be sure of that," said the irishman, earnestly. "but how did you discover that i was acquainted with this secret?" "through mr. and mrs. bowles of the red anchor in brooklyn, who had often heard you speak of the infant tied to the buoy." "that is true," said the irishman. he reflected again. "then you are sure that you were not sent by the police?" he said, at length. "no--what an absurd idea. i came of my own accord on account of my ardent desire, my thirst, to discover the land of my birth and to find out who my parents were, that is all." o'donoghan smiled, proudly: "ah, that is what you want to know," he said. "well, it is true that i can tell you. it is true that i know." "tell me--tell me!" cried erik, seeing that he hesitated. "tell me and i promise you pardon for all the evil that you have done, and my everlasting gratitude if i am ever in a position to show it!" the irishman gave a covetous look at the leathern bottle. "it makes my throat dry to talk so much," he said, in a faint tone. "i will drink a little more if you are willing to give it to me." "there is no more here, but we can get some at our depot of provisions. we have two large cases of brandy there," answered erik, handing the bottle to mr. hersebom. the latter immediately walked away, followed by kaas. "they will not be gone long," said the young man, turning toward his companion. "now, my brave fellow, do not make merchandise of your confidence. put yourself in my place. suppose that during all your life you had been ignorant of the name of your country, and that of your mother, and that at last you found yourself in the presence of a man who knew all about it, and who refused the information which was of such inestimable value to you, and that at the very time when you had saved him, restored him to consciousness and life. i do not ask you to do anything impossible. i do not ask you to criminate yourself if you have anything to reproach yourself with. give me only an indication, the very slightest. put me on the track, so that i can find my family; and that is all that i shall ask of you." "by my faith, i will do you this favor!" said patrick, evidently moved. "you know that i was a cabin-boy on board the 'cynthia'?" he stopped short. erik hung upon his words. was he at last going to find out the truth? was he going to solve this enigma and discover the name of his family, the land of his birth? truly the scene appeared to him almost chimerical. he fastened his eyes upon the wounded man, ready to drink in his words with avidity. for nothing in the world would he have interfered with his recital, neither by interruption nor gesture. he did not even observe that a shadow had appeared behind him. it was the sight of this shadow which had stopped the story of patrick o'donoghan. "mr. jones!" he said, in the tone of a school-boy detected in some flagrant mischief. erik turned and saw tudor brown coming around a neighboring hummock, where until this moment he had been hidden from their sight. the exclamation of the irishman confirmed the suspicion which during the last hour had presented itself to his mind. mr. jones and tudor brown were one and the same person. he had hardly time to make this reflection before two shots were heard. tudor brown raised his gun and shot patrick o'donoghan through the heart, who fell backward. then before he had time to lower his rifle, tudor brown received a bullet in his forehead, and fell forward on his face. "i did well to come back when i saw suspicious footprints in the snow," said mr. hersebom, coming forward, his gun still smoking in his hands. chapter xx. the end of the voyage. erik gave a cry and threw himself on his knees beside patrick o'donoghan, seeking for some sign of life, a ray of hope. but the irishman was certainly dead this time, and that without revealing his secret. as for tudor brown, one convulsion shook his body, his gun fell from his hands, in which he had tightly held it at the moment of his fall, and he expired without a word. "father, what have you done?" cried erik, bitterly. "why have you deprived me of the last chance that was left to me of discovering the secret of my birth? would it not have been better for us to throw ourselves upon this man and take him prisoner?" "and do you believe that he would have allowed us to do so?" answered mr. hersebom. "his second shot was intended for you, you may be sure. i have avenged the murder of this unfortunate man, punished the criminal who attempted to shipwreck us, and who is guilty perhaps of other crimes. whatever may be the result, i do not regret having done so. besides of what consequence is the mystery surrounding your birth, my child, to men in our situation? the secret of your birth before long, without doubt, will be revealed to us by god." he had hardly finished speaking, when the firing of a cannon was heard, and it was re-echoed by the icebergs. it seemed like a reply to the discouraging words of the old fisherman. it was doubtless a response to the two gunshots which had been fired on their island of ice. "the cannon of the 'alaska!' we are saved!" cried erik, jumping up and climbing a hummock to get a better view of the sea that surrounded them. he saw nothing at first but the icebergs, driven by the wind and sparkling in the sunshine. but mr. hersebom, who had immediately reloaded his gun, fired into the air, and a second discharge from the cannon answered him almost immediately. then erik discovered a thin streak of black smoke toward the west, clearly defined against the blue sky. gunshots, answered by the cannon, were repeated at intervals of a few minutes, and soon the "alaska" steamed around an iceberg and made all speed toward the north of the island. erik and mr. hersebom, weeping for joy, threw themselves into each other's arms. they waved their handkerchiefs and threw their caps into the air, seeking by all means to attract the attention of their friends. at length the "alaska" stopped, a boat was lowered, and in twenty minutes it reached their island. who can describe the unbounded joy of dr. schwaryencrona, mr. bredejord, mr. malarius, and otto when they found them well and safe; for through the long hours of that sad night they had mourned them as lost. they related all that had befallen them--their fears and despair during the night, their vain appeals, their useless anger. the "alaska" had been found in the morning to be almost entirely clear of the ice, and they had dislodged what remained with the assistance of their gunpowder. mr. bosewitz had taken command, being the second-officer, and had immediately started in search of the floating island, taking the direction in which the wind would carry it. this navigation amidst floating icebergs was the most perilous which the "alaska" had as yet attempted; but thanks to the excellent training to which the young captain had accustomed his crew, and to the experience which they had acquired in maneuvering the vessel, they passed safely among these moving masses of ice without being crushed by them. the "alaska" had had the advantage of being able to travel more swiftly than the icebergs, and she had been able to benefit by this circumstance. kind providence had willed that her search should not prove fruitless. at nine o'clock in the morning the island had been sighted. they recognized it by its shape, and then the two shots from the guns made them hopeful of finding their two shipwrecked friends. all their other troubles now appeared to them as insignificant. they had a long and dangerous voyage before them, which they must accomplish under sail, for their coal was exhausted. "no," said erik, "we will not make it under sail. i have another plan. we will permit the ice island to tow us along, as long as she goes toward the south or west. that will spare us incessantly fighting with the icebergs, for our island will chase them ahead of her. then we can collect here all the combustibles that we will require in order to finish the voyage, when we are ready to resume it." "what are you talking about?" asked the doctor, laughing. "is there an oil-well on this island?" "not exactly an oil-well," answered erik, "but what will answer our purpose nearly as well, multitudes of fat walruses. i wish to try an experiment, since we have one furnace especially adapted for burning oil." they began their labors by performing the last rites of the two dead men. they tied weights to their feet and lowered them into the sea. then the "alaska" made fast to the ice bank in such a manner as to follow its movements without sustaining any injury to herself. they were able, with care, to carry on board again the provisions which they had landed, and which it was important for them not to lose. that operation accomplished, they devoted all their energies to the pursuit of the walrus. two or three times a day, parties armed with guns and harpoons and accompanied by all their greenland dogs landed on the ice bank, and surrounded the sleeping monsters at the mouth of their holes. they killed them by firing a ball into their ears, then they cut them up, and placed the lard with which they were filled in their sleighs, and the dogs drew it to the "alaska." their hunting was so easy and so productive, that in eight days they had all the lard that they could carry. the "alaska," still towed by the floating island, was now in the seventy-fourth degree; that is to say, she had passed nova zembla. the ice island was now reduced at least one-half, and cracked by the sun was full of fissures, more or less extensive, evidently ready to go to pieces. erik resolved not to wait until this happened, and ordering their anchor to be lifted, he sailed away westward. the lard was immediately utilized in the fire of the "alaska," and proved an excellent combustible. the only fault was that it choked up the chimney, which necessitated a daily cleaning. as for its odor, that would doubtless have been very disagreeable to southern passengers, but to a crew composed of swedes and norwegians, it was only a secondary inconvenience. thanks to this supply, the "alaska" was able to keep up steam during the whole of the remainder of her voyage. she proceeded rapidly, in spite of contrary winds, and arrived on the th of september in sight of cape north or norway. they pursued their route with all possible speed, turned the scandinavian peninsula, repassed skager-rack, and reached the spot from which they had taken their departure. on the th of september they cast anchor before stockholm, which they had left on the tenth of the preceding february. thus, in seven months and four days, the first circumpolar periplus had been accomplished by a navigator of only twenty-two years of age. this geographical feat, which so promptly completed the great expedition of nordenskiold, would soon make a prodigious commotion in the world. but the journals and reviews had not as yet had time to expatiate upon it. the uninitiated were hardly prepared to understand it, and one person, at least, reviewed it with suspicion--this was kajsa. the supercilious smile with which she listened to the story of their adventures was indescribable. "was it sensible to expose yourself to such dangers?" was her only comment. but the first opportunity that presented itself she did not fail to say to erik: "i suppose that now you will do nothing more about this tiresome matter, since the irishman is dead." what a difference there was between these cold criticisms and the letters full of sympathy and tenderness that erik soon received from noroe. vanda told him in what a state of anxiety she and her mother had passed these long months, how the travelers had been ever present in their thoughts, and how happy they were when they heard of their safe return. if the expedition had not accomplished all that erik hoped, they begged him not to worry himself too much about it. he must know that if he never succeeded in finding his own family he had one in the poor norwegian village, where he would be tenderly cared for like one of themselves. would he not soon come and see them, could he not stay with them one little month. it was the sincere desire of his adopted mother and of his little sister vanda, etc., etc. the envelope also contained three pretty flowers, gathered on the borders of the fiord, and their perfume seemed to bring back vividly to erik his gay and careless childhood. ah, how sweet these loving words were to his poor disappointed heart, and they enabled him to fulfill more easily the concluding duties appertaining to the expedition. he hoped soon to be able to go and tell them all he felt. the voyage of the "alaska" had equaled in grandeur that of the "vega." the name of erik was everywhere associated with the glorious name of nordenskiold. the journals had a great deal to say about the new periplus. the ships of all nations anchored at stockholm united in doing honor to this national victor. the learned societies came in a body to congratulate the commander and crew of the "alaska." the public authorities proposed a national recompense for them. all these praises were painful to erik. his conscience told him that the principal motive of this expedition on his part had been purely a personal one, and he felt scrupulous about accepting honors which appeared to him greatly exaggerated. he therefore availed himself of the first opportunity to state frankly that he had gone to the polar seas to discover if possible the secret of his birth, and of the shipwreck of the "cynthia," that he had been unsuccessful in doing so. the occasion was offered by a reporter of one of the principal newspapers of stockholm, who presented himself on board of the "alaska" and solicited the favor of a private interview with the young captain. the object of this intelligent gazeteer, let us state briefly, was to extract from his victim the outlines of a biography which would cover one hundred lines. he could not have fallen on a subject more willing to submit to vivisection. erik had been eager to tell the truth, and to proclaim to the world that he did not deserve to be regarded as a second christopher columbus. he therefore related unreservedly his story, explaining how he had been picked up at sea by a poor fisherman of noroe, educated by mr. malarius, taken to stockholm by dr. schwaryencrona; how they had found out that patrick o'donoghan probably held the key to the mystery that surrounded him. they discovered that he was on board of the "vega;" they had gone in search of him. he related the accident which had induced them to change their route. erik told all this to convince the world that he was no hero. he told it because he felt ashamed of being so overwhelmed with praises for a performance that only seemed to him natural and right. during this time the pen of the delighted reporter, mr. squirrelius, flew over the paper with stenographic rapidity. the dates, the names, the least details were noted with avidity. mr. squirrelius told himself with a beating heart that he had obtained matter not only for one hundred lines, but that he could make five or six hundred out of it. and what a story it would be--more interesting than a novel! the next day erik's revelations filled the columns of the most largely circulated newspaper in stockholm, and indeed in all sweden. as is usually the case, erik's sincerity, instead of diminishing his popularity, only increased it, on account of his modesty, and the romantic interest attached to his history. the press and the public seized upon it with avidity. these biographical details were soon translated into all languages, and made the tour of europe. in this way they reached paris, and penetrated in the form of a french newspaper into a modest drawing-room on varennes street. there were two persons in this room. one was a lady dressed in black, with white hair, although she still appeared to be young, but her whole appearance betrayed profound sorrow. seated under a lighted lamp she worked mechanically at some embroidery, which at times fell from her thin fingers, while her eyes, fixed on vacancy, seemed to be thinking of some overwhelming calamity. on the other side of the table sat a fine-looking old gentleman, who took the newspaper abstractedly which his servant brought in. it was mr. durrien, the honorary consul-general of the geographical society, the same person who had been at brest when the "alaska" reached that place. this was doubtless the reason why erik's name attracted his notice, but while reading the article carefully which contained the biography for the young swedish navigator, he was startled. then he read it again carefully, and little by little an intense pallor spread over his face, which was always pale. his hands trembled nervously, and his uneasiness became so evident that his companion noticed it. "father, are you suffering?" she asked with solicitude. "i believe it is too warm here--i will go to the library and get some fresh air. it is nothing; it will pass off," answered mr. durrien, rising and walking into the adjoining room. as if by accident, he carried the paper with him. if his daughter could have read his thoughts, she would have known that amidst the tumults of hopes and fears that so agitated him was also a determination not to let her eyes rest upon that paper. a moment later she thought of following him into the library, but she imagined that he wished to be alone, and discreetly yielded to his desire. besides she was soon reassured by hearing him moving about and opening and closing the window. at the end of an hour, she decided to look in, and see what mr. durrien was doing. she found that he was seated before his desk writing a letter. but she did not see that us he wrote his eyes filled with tears. chapter xxi. a letter from paris. since his return to stockholm, erik had received every day from all parts of europe a voluminous correspondence. some learned society wished for information on some point, or wrote to congratulate him; foreign governments wished to bestow upon him some honor or recompense; ship-owners, or traders, solicited some favor which would serve their interests. therefore he was not surprised when he received one morning two letters bearing the paris postmark. the first that he opened was an invitation from the geographical society of france, asking him and his companions to come and receive a handsome medal, which had been voted in a solemn conclave "to the navigators of the first circumpolar periplus of the arctic seas." the second envelope made erik start, he looked at it. on the box which closed it was a medallion upon which the letters "e.d." were engraved, surrounded by the motto "semper idem." these initials and devices were also stamped in the corner of the letter enclosed in the envelope, which was that from mr. durrien. the letter read as follows: "my dear child,--let me call you this in any case. i have just read in a french newspaper a biography translated from the swedish language, which has overcome me more than i can tell you. it was your account of yourself. you state that you were picked up at sea about twenty-two years ago by a norwegian fisherman in the neighborhood of bergen; that you were tied to a buoy, bearing the name of 'cynthia;' that the especial motive of your arctic voyage was to find a survivor of the vessel of that name--ship wrecked in october, ; and then you state that you have returned from the voyage without having been able to gain any information about the matter. "if all this is true (oh, what would i not give if it is true!), i ask you not to lose a moment in running to the telegraph office and letting me know it. in that case, my child, you can understand my impatience, my anxiety, and my joy. in that case you are my grandson, for whom i have mourned so many years, whom i believed lost to me forever, as did also my daughter, my poor daughter, who, broken-hearted at the tragedy of the 'cynthia,' still mourns every day for her only child--the joy and consolation at first of her widowhood, but afterward the cause of her despair. "but we shall see you again alive, covered with glory. such happiness is too great, too wonderful. i dare not believe it until a word from you authorizes me to do so. but now it seems so probable, the details and dates agree so perfectly, your countenance and manners recall so vividly those of my unfortunate son-in-law. upon the only occasion when chance led me into your society, i felt myself mysteriously drawn toward you by a deep and sudden sympathy. it seems impossible that there should be no reason for this. "one word, telegraph me one word. i do not know how to exist until i hear from you. will it be the response that i wait for so impatiently? can you bring such happiness to my poor daughter and myself as will cause us to forget our past years of tears and mourning? "e. durrien, honorary consul-general, " rue de varennes, paris." to this letter was added one of explanation, that erik devoured eagerly. it was also in mr. durrien's handwriting, and read as follows: "i was the french consul at new orleans when my only daughter, catherine, married a young frenchman, mr. george durrien, a distant connection, and, like ourselves, of breton origin. mr. george durrien was a mining engineer. he had come to the united states to explore the recently discovered mines of petroleum and intended to remain several years. i received him into my family--he being the son of a dear friend--and when he asked for my daughter's hand, i gave her to him with joy. shortly after their marriage i was appointed consul to riga; and my son-in-law being detained by business interests in the united states, i was obliged to leave my daughter. she became a mother, and to her son was given my christian name, united to that of his father--emile henry georges. "six months afterward my son-in-law was killed by an accident in the mines. as soon as she could settle up his affairs, my poor daughter, only twenty years of age, embarked at new york on the 'cynthia' for hamburg, to join me by the most direct route. "on the th of october, , the 'cynthia' was shipwrecked off the faroe islands. the circumstances of the shipwreck were suspicious, and have never been explained. "at the moment of the disaster, when the passengers were taking their places one by one in the boat, my little grandson, seven months old--whom his mother had tied to a buoy for safety--slipped or was pushed into the sea, and was carried away by the storm and disappeared. his mother, crazed by this frightful spectacle, tried to throw herself into the sea. she was prevented by main force and placed in a fainting condition in one of the boats, in which were three other persons, and who had alone escaped from the shipwrecked vessel. in forty-nine hours this boat reached one of the faroe islands. from there my daughter returned to me after a dangerous illness which lasted seven weeks, thanks to the devoted attentions of the sailor who saved her and who brought her to me. this brave man, john denman, died in my service in asia minor. "we had but little hope that the baby had survived the shipwreck. i, however, sought for him among the faroe and shetland islands, and upon the norwegian coast north of bergen. the idea of his cradle floating any further seemed impossible, but i did not give up my search for three years; and noroe must be a very retired spot, or surely some inquiries would have been made there. when i had given up all hope i devoted myself exclusively to my daughter, whose physical and moral health required great attention. i succeeded in being sent to the orient, and i sought, by traveling and scientific enterprises, to draw off her thoughts from her affliction. she has been my inseparable companion sharing all my labors, but i have never been able to lighten her incurable grief. we returned to france, and we now live in paris in an old house which i own. "will it be my happiness to receive there my grandson, for whom we have mourned so many years? this hope fills me with too much joy, and i dare not speak of it to my daughter, until i am assured of its truth; for, if it should prove false, the disappointment would be too cruel. "to-day is monday: they tell me at the post-office that by next saturday i can receive your answer." erik had hardly been able to read this, for the tears would obscure his sight. he also felt afraid to yield too quickly to the hope which had been so suddenly restored to him. he told himself that every detail coincided--the dates agreed; all the events down to the most minute particulars. he hardly dared to believe, however, that it could be true. it was too much happiness to recover in a moment his family, his own mother, his country. and such a country--the one that he could have chosen above all because she possessed the grandeur, the graces, the supreme gifts of humanity--because she had fostered genius, and the civilization of antiquity, and the discoveries and inventions of modern times. he was afraid that he was only dreaming. his hopes had been so often disappointed. perhaps the doctor would say something to dispel his illusions. before he did anything he would submit these facts to his cooler judgment. the doctor read the documents attentively which he carried to him, but not without exclamations of joy and surprise. "you need not feel the slightest doubt!" he said, when he had finished. "all the details agree perfectly, even those that your correspondent omits to mention, the initials on the linen, the device engraved on the locket, which are the same as those on the letter. my dear child, you have found your family this time. you must telegraph immediately to your grandfather!" "but what shall i tell him?" asked erik, pale with joy. "tell him that to-morrow you will set out by express, to go and embrace him and your mother!" the young captain only took time to press the hands of this excellent man, and he ran and jumped into a cab to hasten to the telegraph office. he left stockholm that same day, took the railroad to malmo on the north-west coast of sweden, crossed the strait in twenty minutes, reached copenhagen, took the express train through to holland and belgium, and at brussels the train for paris. on saturday, at seven o'clock in the evening, exactly six days after mr. durrien had posted his letter, he had the joy of waiting for his grandson at the depot. as soon as the train stopped they fell into each other's arms. they had thought so much about each other during these last few days that they both felt already well acquainted. "my mother?" asked erik. "i have not dared to tell her, much as i was tempted to do so!" answered mr. durrien. "and she knows nothing yet?" "she suspects something, she fears, she hopes. since your dispatch i have done my best to prepare her for the unheard-of joy that awaits her. i told her of a track upon which i had been placed by a young swedish officer, the one whom i had met at brest, and of whom i had often spoken to her. she does not know, she hesitates to hope for any good news, but this morning at breakfast i could see her watching me, and two or three times i felt afraid that she was going to question me. one can not tell, something might have happened to you, some other misfortune, some sudden mischance. so i did not dine with her to-night, i made an excuse to escape from a situation intolerable to me." without waiting for his baggage, they departed in the _coup_ that mr. durrien had brought. mme. durrien, alone in the parlor in varennes street, awaited impatiently the return of her father. she had had her suspicions aroused, and was only waiting until the dinner hour arrived to ask for an explanation. for several days she had been disturbed by his strange behavior, by the dispatches which were continually arriving, and by the double meaning which she thought she detected beneath all he said. accustomed to talk with him about his lightest thoughts and impressions, she could not understand why he should seek to conceal anything from her. several times she had been on the point of demanding a solution of the enigma, but she had kept silence, out of respect for the evident wishes of her father. "he is trying to prepare me for some surprise, doubtless," she said to herself. "he is sure to tell me if anything pleasant has occurred." but for the last two or three days, especially that morning, she had been impressed with a sort of eagerness which mr. durrien displayed in all his manner, as well as the happy air with which he regarded her, insisting in hearing over and over again from her lips, all the details of the disaster of the "cynthia," which he had avoided speaking of for a long time. as she mused over his strange behavior a sort of revelation came to her. she felt sure that her father must have received some favorable intelligence which had revived the hope of finding her child. but without the least idea that he had already done so, she determined not to retire that night until she had questioned him closely. mme. durrien had never definitely renounced the idea that her son was living. she had never seen him dead before her eyes, and she clung mother-like to the hope that he was not altogether lost to her. she said that the proofs were insufficient, and she nourished the possibility of his sudden return. she might be said to pass her days waiting for him. thousands of women, mothers of soldiers and sailors, pass their lives under this touching delusion. mrs. durrien had a greater right than they had to preserve her faith in his existence. in truth the tragical scene enacted twenty-two years ago was always before her eyes. she beheld the "cynthia" filling with water and ready to sink. she saw herself tying her infant to a large buoy while the passengers and sailors were rushing for the boats. they left her behind, she saw herself imploring, beseeching that they would at least take her baby. a man took her precious burden, and threw it into one of the boats, a heavy sea dashed over it, and to her horror she saw the buoy floating away on the crest of the waves. she gave a dispairing cry and tried to jump after him, then came unconsciousness. when she awoke she was a prey to despair, to fever, to delirium. to this succeeded increasing grief. yes, the poor woman recalled all this. her whole being had in fact received a shock from which she had never recovered. it was now nearly a quarter of a century since this had happened, and mrs. durrien still wept for her son as on the first day. her maternal heart so full of grief was slowly consuming her life. she sometimes pictured to herself her son passing through the successive phases of infancy, youth, and manhood. from year to year she represented to herself how he would have looked, how he was looking, for she obstinately clung to her belief of the possibility of his return. this vain hope nothing had as yet had the power to shake--neither travels, nor useless researches, nor the passage of time. this is why this evening she awaited her father with the firm resolution of knowing all that he had to tell. mr. darrien entered. he was followed by a young gentleman, whom he presented to her in the following words: "my daughter, this is mr. erik hersebom, of whom i have often spoken to you, and who has just arrived at paris. the geographical society wish to bestow upon him a grand medal, and he has done me the honor to accept our hospitality." she had arisen from her arm-chair, and was looking kindly at him. suddenly her eyes dilated, her lips trembled, and she stretched out her hands toward him. "my son! you are my son!" she cried. then she advanced a step toward erik. "yes, you are my child," she said. "your father lives over again in you!" when erik, bursting into tears, fell on his knees before her, the poor woman took his head in her hands, and fainted from joy and happiness as she tried to press a kiss on his forehead. chapter xxii. at val-feray. a month later at val-féray, an old homestead of the family, situated half a league from brest, erik's adopted family were assembled, together with his mother and grandfather. mrs. durrien had, with the delicacy of feeling habitual to her, desired that the good, simple-hearted beings who had saved her son's life should share her profound and inexpressible joy. she had insisted that dame katrina, and vanda, mr. hersebom, and otto should accompany doctor schwaryencrona, kajsa, mr. bredejord, and mr. malarius, and they held a great festival together. amidst the rugged natural scenery of breton and near the sea, her norwegian guests felt more at their ease than they could have done in varennes street. they took long walks in the woods together, and told each other all they knew about erik's still somewhat obscure history, and little by little many hitherto inexplicable points became clear. their long talks and discussions cast light upon many obscure circumstances. the first question they asked each other was, who was tudor brown? what great interest did he have in preventing patrick o'donoghan from telling who erik's relations were? the words of that unfortunate man had established one fact, viz., that tudor brown's real name was jones, as it was the only one that the irishman had known him by. now, a mr. noah jones had been associated with erik's father in working a petroleum mine, that the young engineer had discovered in pennsylvania. the simple announcement of this fact gave a sinister aspect to many events which had so long appeared mysterious: the suspicious wreck of the "cynthia," the fall of the infant into the sea, perhaps the death of erik's father. a document that mr. durrien found among his papers elucidated many of these perplexing questions. "several months before his marriage," he said to erik's friends, "my son-in-law had discovered, near harrisburg, a petroleum well. he lacked the capital necessary to purchase it, and he saw that he was in danger of losing all the advantages which the possession of it would secure to him. chance made him acquainted with mr. noah jones, who represented himself as a cattle dealer from the far west. but in reality, as he found out afterward, he was a slave-trader. "this individual agreed to advance the sum necessary to purchase and work the petroleum mine, which was called the vandalia. he made my son-in-law sign, in exchange for this assistance, an agreement which was very profitable to himself. i was ignorant of the terms of this contract at the time of his marriage to my daughter, and according to all appearances he thought but little of it. unusually gifted, and understanding chemistry and mechanics, yet he was entirely ignorant of business matters, and already had to pay dearly for his inexperience. no doubt he had trusted all the arrangements to noah jones, according to his usual habit. probably he signed with closed eyes the contract which was laid before him. these are the principle articles agreed upon: "art. iii. the vandalia shall remain the sole property of mr. george durrien, the discoverer, and mr. noah jones, his silent partner. "art. iv. mr. noah jones will take charge of moneys, and pay out what is necessary for the exploration of the mine, he will also sell the product, take charge of the receipts, and have a settlement with his partner every year, when they will divide the net profits. "art. v. if either of the partners should wish to sell his share, the other would have the first right to purchase it, and he should have three months in which to make arrangements to do so. he might then become sole proprietor by paying the capital and three per cent. on the net revenue, according to what it had been proved to be at the last inventory. "art. vi. only the children of the two partners could become inheritors of these rights. in case one of the partners should die childless, or his children should not live until they were twenty-one years of age, the entire property to revert to the survivor, to the exclusion of all other heirs of the dead partner. "n.b. the last article is on account of the different nationalities of the two partners, and because of the complications that could not fail to arise in case of the death of either of them without issue." "such," continued mr. durrien, "was the contract which my future son-in-law had signed at the time, when he had no thought of marrying, and when everybody, except, perhaps, mr. noah jones, was ignorant of what immense value the vandalia mine would become in the course of time. they had then hardly commenced operations, and they met with the usual discouragements incident to all new undertakings. perhaps noah jones hoped that his associate would become disgusted with the whole business and retire, leaving him sole proprietor. the marriage of george with my daughter, the birth of his son, and the well becoming suddenly prodigiously fruitful, must have modified his plans by degrees. he could no longer hope to purchase for a trifling sum this splendid property; but before it came into the possession of noah jones, first george himself, and then his only child, must disappear from the world. two years after his marriage and six months after the birth of my grandson, george was found dead near one of the wells--asphyxiated, the doctors said, by gas. i had left the united states upon my nomination as consul to riga. the business relating to the partnership was left to an attorney to settle. noah jones behaved very well, and agreed to all the arrangements that were made for the benefit of my daughter. he agreed to continue the work, and pay every six months into the central bank of new york that part of the net profits which belonged to the infant. alas! he never made the first payment. my daughter took passage in the 'cynthia' in order to join me. the 'cynthia' was lost with her crew and freight under such suspicious circumstances that the insurance company refused to pay; and in this shipwreck the sole heir of my son-in-law disappeared. "noah jones remained the sole proprietor of the vandalia, which has yielded him at the least since that event an annual income of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year." "did you never suspect that he had had some hand in these successive catastrophies?" asked mr. bredejord. "i have certainly suspected him; it was only too natural. such an accumulation of misfortunes, and all tending to his private enrichment, seemed to point him out as the author only too clearly. but how could i prove my suspicions, particularly in a court of justice? they were only vague, and i knew too well that they would have but little weight in an international contest. and then, besides i had my daughter to console, or at least to try and draw away her thoughts from this tragedy, and a lawsuit would only have revived her grief. briefly i resigned myself to silence. did i do wrong? is it to be regretted?" "i think not, for i feel convinced that it would have produced no results. you see how difficult it is even today, after we have related all the facts in our possession, to arrive at any definite conclusion!" "but how can you explain the part which patrick o'donoghan has taken in this matter?" asked dr. schwaryencrona. "on this point, as on many others, we are reduced to conjectures, but it seems to me that there is one which is plausible enough. this o'donoghan was cabin-boy on board of the 'cynthia,' in the personal service of the captain, and consequently in constant communication with the first-class passengers, who always eat at the captain's table. he therefore certainly knew the name of my daughter, and her french origin, and he could easily have found her again. "had he been commissioned by noah jones to perform some dark mission? had he a hand in causing the shipwreck of the 'cynthia,' or simply in pushing the infant into the sea? this they could never know for a certainty since he was dead. one thing was evident, he was aware how important the knowledge of this fact was for noah jones. but did this lazy drunken man know that the infant was living? had he any hand in saving it? had he rescued it from the sea to leave it floating near noroe? "this was a doubtful point. in any case he must have assured noah jones that the infant had survived. he was doubtless proud of knowing the country which had received him, and he had probably taken precautions to know all about the child, so that if any misfortune happened to him--o'donoghan--noah jones would be obliged to pay him well for his silence. he was doubtless the person from whom he received money every time he landed in new york." "all this appears to me to be very probable," said mr. bredejord, "and i think that subsequent events confirm it. the first advertisements of doctor schwaryencrona disturbed noah jones, and he believed it to be an imperative necessity to get rid of patrick o'donoghan, but he was obliged to act prudently. he therefore contented himself with frightening the irishman, by making him believe that he would be brought before a criminal court. the result of this we know from mr. and mrs. bowles, of the red anchor, who told us of the haste with which patrick o'donoghan had taken flight. he evidently believed that he was in danger of being arrested, or he would not have gone so far, to live among the samoyedes, and under an assumed name, which noah jones had doubtless advised him to do. "but the announcement in the newspapers about patrick o'donoghan must have been a severe blow to him. he had made a journey to stockholm expressly to assure us that the irishman was dead, and doubtless to discover if possible how far we had pushed our inquiries. the publication of the correspondence of the 'vega, and the departure of the 'alaska,' must have made noah jones, or tudor brown, as he called himself, feel that he was in imminent peril, for his confidence in patrick o'donoghan could be only very limited, and he would have revealed his secret to any one who would have assured him that he would not be punished. happily as affairs have turned out, we may congratulate ourselves upon having escaped pretty well." "who knows?" said the doctor, "perhaps all the danger we have encountered has only helped to bring us to the knowledge of the truth. but for running on the rocks of the basse-froide, we would probably have pursued the route through the suez canal, and then we should have reached behring's strait too late to meet the 'vega.' it is at least doubtful whether we would have undertaken the voyage to the island of ljakow, and more doubtful still whether we would have been able to extract any information from patrick o'donoghan if we had met him in company with tudor brown. "so, although our entire voyage has been marked by tragical events, it is due to the fact of our having accomplished the periplus in the 'alaska, and the consequent celebrity which has been the result for erik, that he has at last found his family." "yes," said mrs. durrien, laying her hand proudly on the head of her son, "it is his glory which has restored him to me." and immediately she added: "it was a crime that deprived me of you, but your own goodness which has restored you to me!" "and the rascality of noah jones has resulted in making our erik one of the richest men in america," cried mr. bredejord. every one looked at him with surprise. "doubtless," answered the eminent lawyer. "erik is his father's heir, and has a share in the income, derived from the vandalia mine. has he not been unjustly deprived of this for the last twenty-two years? "we have only to give proofs of his identity, and we have plenty of witnesses, mr. hersebom, dame katrina and mr. malarius, besides ourselves. if noah jones has left any children, they are responsible for the enormous arrears which will probably consume all their share of the capital stock. "if the rascal has left no children, by the terms of the contract which mr. durrien has just read, erik is the sole inheritor of the entire property; and according to all accounts he ought to have in pennsylvania an income of one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand dollars a year!" "ah, ah," said the doctor, laughing. "behold the little fisherman of noroe become an eligible _parti!_ laureate of the geographical society, author of the first circumpolar periplus, and afflicted with the modest income of two hundred thousand dollars. there are not many such husbands to be met with in stockholm. what do you say kajsa?" the young girl blushed painfully at being thus addressed, but her uncle had no suspicion that he had made a cruel speech. kajsa had felt that she had not acted wisely in treating erik as she had done, and she resolved for the future to show him more attention. but it was a singular fact that erik no longer cared for her, since he felt himself elevated above her unjust disdain. perhaps it was absence, or the lonely hours which he had spent walking the deck at night, which had revealed to him the poverty of kajsa's heart; or it might be the satisfaction he felt that she could no longer regard him as "a waif"; he only treated her now with the most perfect courtesy, to which she was entitled as a young lady and dr. schwaryencrona's niece. all his preference now was for vanda, who indeed grew every day more and more charming, and was losing all her little village awkwardness under the roof of an amiable and cultivated lady. her exquisite goodness, her native grace, and perfect simplicity, made her beloved by all who approached her. she had not been eight days at val-fray, when mrs. durrien declared positively that it would be impossible for her ever to part with her. erik undertook to arrange with mr. hersebom and dame katrina that they should leave vanda behind them, with the express condition that he would bring her himself every year to see them. he had tried to keep all his adopted family with him, even offering to transport from noroe the house with all its furniture where he had passed his infancy. but this project of emigration was generally regarded as impracticable. mr. hersebom and katrina were too old to change their habits. they would not have been perfectly happy in a country of whose language and habits they were ignorant. he was obliged, therefore, to permit them to depart, but not before making such provision for them as would enable them to spend the remainder of their days in ease and comfort, which, notwithstanding their honest, laborious lives, they had been unable to accomplish. erik would have liked to have kept otto at least, but he preferred his fiord, and thought that there was no life preferable to that of a fisherman. it must also be confessed that the golden-haired and blue-eyed daughter of the overseer of the oil-works had something to do with the attractions which noroe had for him. at least we must conclude so, since it was soon made known that he expected to marry her at the next "yule," or christmas. mr. malarius counted upon educating their children as he had educated erik and vanda. he modestly resumed his position in the village school, after sharing in the honor of the decorations bestowed by the geographical society of france upon the captain of the "alaska." he was also busily occupied in correcting the proofs of his magnificent work on the "flora of the arctic regions." as for dr. schwaryencrona, he has not quite finished his "treatise on iconography," which will transmit his name to posterity. the latest legal business of mr. bredejord has been to establish erik's claim as sole proprietor of the vandalia mine. he gained his case in the first instance, and also on appeal, which was no small success. erik took advantage of this, and of the enormous fortune thus accruing to him, to purchase the "alaska," which he converted into a pleasure yacht. he uses it every year to go to noroe in company with mme. durrien and vanda, to visit his adopted family. although his civil rights have been accorded to him, and his legal name is emile durrien, he has added that of hersebom, and among his relatives he is still called only erik. the secret desire of his mother is to see him some day married to vanda, whom she already loves as a daughter, and, as erik evidently shares this desire, we may suppose that it will be realized one of these days. kajsa still remains single, with the knowledge that she has lost her opportunity. dr. schwaryencrona, mr. bredejord, and professor hochstedt still play innumerable games of whist. one evening the doctor, having played worse than usual, mr. bredejord, as he tapped his snuff-box, had the pleasure of recalling to his mind a circumstance which had too long been forgotten. "when do you intend to send me your pliny?" he asked, with a wicked gleam in his eye. "certainly you can no longer think that erik is of irish origin?" the doctor was thunder-struck for a moment by this speech, but he soon recovered himself. "bah! an ex-president of the french republic was a direct descendant of one of the irish kings," he said, seriously. "i should not be at all surprised if mr. durrien belongs to the same family!" "evidently," replied mr. bredejord. "in fact it is so extremely probable that out of sport i will send you my quintilian!" the end. bruvver jim's baby by philip verrill mighels new york and london harper & brothers publishers mcmiv copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ published may, . this volume is dedicated, with much affection, to my mother contents i. a mighty little hunter ii. jim makes discoveries iii. the way to make a doll iv. planning a new celebration v. visitors at the cabin vi. the bell for church vii. the sunday happenings viii. old jim distraught ix. the guilty miss doc x. preparations for christmas xi. troubles and discoveries xii. the making of a christmas-tree xiii. their christmas-day xiv. "if only i had the resolution" xv. the gold in borealis xvi. arrivals in camp xvii. skeezucks gets a name xviii. when the parson departed xix. old jim's resolution xx. in the toils of the blizzard xxi. a bed in the snow xxii. cleaning their slate xxiii. a day of joy bruvver jim's baby chapter i a mighty little hunter it all commenced that bright november day of the indian rabbit drive and hunt. the motley army of the piute tribe was sweeping tremendously across a sage-brush valley of nevada, their force two hundred braves in number. they marched abreast, some thirty yards apart, and formed a line that was more than two miles long. the spectacle presented was wonderful to see. red, yellow, and indigo in their blankets and trappings, the hunters dotted out a line of color as far as sight could reach. through the knee-high brush they swept ahead like a firing-line of battle, their guns incessantly booming, their advance never halted, their purpose as grim and inexorable as fate itself. indeed, death, the reaper, multiplied two-hundred-fold and mowing a swath of incredible proportions, could scarcely have pillaged the land of its conies more thoroughly. before the on-press of the two-mile wall of red men with their smoking weapons, the panic-stricken rabbits scurried helplessly. soon or late they must double back to their burrows, soon or late they must therefore die. behind the army, fully twenty indian ponies, ridden by the youngster-braves of the cavalcade, were bearing great white burdens of the slaughtered hares. the glint of gun-barrels, shining in the sun, flung back the light, from end to end of the undulating column. billows of smoke, out-puffing unexpectedly, anywhere and everywhere along the line, marked down the tragedies where desperate bunnies, scudding from cover and racing up or down before the red men, were targets for fiercely biting hail of lead from two or three or more of the guns at once. and nearly as frightened as the helpless creatures of the brush was a tiny little pony-rider, back of the army, mounted on a plodding horse that was all but hidden by its load of furry game. he was riding double, this odd little bit of a youngster, with a sturdy indian boy who was on in front. that such a timid little dot of manhood should have been permitted to join the hunt was a wonder. he was apparently not more than three years old at the most. with funny little trousers that reached to his heels, with big brown eyes all eloquent of doubt, and with round, little, copper-colored cheeks, impinged upon by an old fur cap he wore, pulled down over forehead and ears, he appeared about as quaint a little man as one could readily discover. but he seemed distressed. and how he did hang on! the rabbits secured upon the pony were crowding him backward most alarmingly. at first he had clung to the back of his fellow-rider's shirt with all the might and main of his tiny hands. as the burden of the rabbits had increased, however, the indian hunters had piled them in between the timid little scamp and his sturdier companion, till now he was almost out on the horse's tail. his alarm had, therefore, become overwhelming. no fondness for the nice warm fur of the bunnies, no faith in the larger boy in front, could suffice to drive from his tiny face the look of woe unutterable, expressed by his eyes and his trembling little mouth. the indians, marching steadily onward, had come to the mountain that bounded the plain. already a score were across the road that led to the mining-camp of borealis, and were swarming up the sandy slope to complete the mighty swing of the army, deploying anew to sweep far westward through the farther half of the valley, and so at length backward whence they came. the tiny chap of a game-bearer, gripping the long, velvet ears of one of the jack-rabbits tied to his horse, felt a horrid new sensation of sliding backward when the pony began to follow the hunters up the hill. not only did the animal's rump seem to sink beneath him as they took the slope, but perspiration had made it amazingly smooth and insecure. the big fat rabbits rolled against the desperate little man in a ponderous heap. the feet of one fell plump in his face, and seemed to kick, with the motion of the horse. then a buckskin thong abruptly snapped in twain, somewhere deep in the bundle, and instantly the ears to which the tiny man was clinging, together with the head and body of that particular rabbit, and those of several others as well, parted company with the pony. gracefully they slid across the tail of the much-relieved creature, and, pushing the tiny rider from his seat, they landed with him plump upon the earth, and were left behind. unhurt, but nearly buried by the four or five rabbits thus pulled from the load by his sudden descent from his perch, the dazed little fellow sat up in the sand and solemnly noted the rapid departure of the indian army--pony, companion, and all. not only had his fall been unobserved by the marching braves, but the boy with whom he had just been riding was blissfully unaware of the fact that something behind had dismounted. the whole vast line of piute braves pressed swiftly on. the shots boomed and clattered, as the hill-sides were startled by the echoes. red, yellow, indigo--the blankets and trappings were momentarily growing less and less distinct. more distant became the firing. onward, ever onward, swung the great, long column of the hunters. dully, then even faintly, came the noise of the guns. at last the firing could be heard no more. the two hundred warriors, the ponies, the boys that rode--all were gone. even the rabbits, that an hour before had scampered here and there in the brush with their furry feet, would never again go pattering through the sand. the sun shone warmly down. the great world of valley and mountains, gray, severe, unpeopled, was profoundly still, in that wonderful way of the dying year, when even the crickets and locusts have ceased to sing. clinging in silence to the long, soft ears of his motionless bunny, the timid little game-bearer sat there alone, big-eyed and dumb with wonder and childish alarm. he could see not far, unless it might be up the hill, for the sage-brush grew above his head and circumscribed his view. miles and miles away, however, the mountains, in majesty of rock and snow, were sharply lifting upward into blue so deep and cloudless that its intimate proximity to the infinite was impressively manifest. the day was sweet of the ripeness of the year, and virginal as all that mighty land itself. with two of the rabbits across his lap, the tiny hunter made no effort to rise. it was certainly secure to be sitting here in the sand, for at least a fellow could fall no farther, and the good, big mountain was not so impetuous or nervous as the pony. an hour went by and the mere little mite of a man had scarcely moved. the sun was slanting towards the southwest corner of the universe. a flock of geese, in a great changing v, flew slowly over the valley, their wings beating gold from the sunlight, their honk! honk! honk! the note of the end of the year. how soon they were gone! then indeed all the earth was abandoned to the quiet little youngster and his still more quiet company of rabbits. there was no particular reason for moving. where should he go, and how could he go, did he wish to leave? to carry his bunny would be quite beyond his strength; to leave him here would be equally beyond his courage. but the sun was edging swiftly towards its hiding place; the frost of the mountain air was quietly sharpening its teeth. already the long, gray shadow of the sage-brush fell like a cooling film across the little fellow's form and face. homeless, unmissed, and deserted, the tiny man could do nothing but sit there and wait. the day would go, the twilight come, and the night descend--the night with its darkness, its whispered mysteries, its wailing coyotes, cruising in solitary melancholy hither and thither in their search for food. but the sun was still wheeling, like a brazen disk, on the rim of the hills, when something occurred. a tall, lanky man, something over forty years of age, as thin as a hammer and dusty as the road itself--a man with a beard and a long, gray, drooping mustache, and with drooping clothes--a man selected by shiftlessness to be its sign and mark--a miner in boots and overalls and great slouch hat--came tramping down a trail of the mountain. he was holding in his dusty arms a yellowish pup, that squirmed and wriggled and tried to lap his face, and comported himself in pup-wise antics, till his master was presently obliged to put him down in self-defence. the pup knew his duty, as to racing about, bumping into bushes, snorting in places where game might abide, and thumping everything he touched with his super-active tail. almost immediately he scented mysteries in plenty, for indian ponies and hunters had left a fine, large assortment of trails in the sand, that no wise pup could consent to ignore. with yelps of gladness and appreciation, the pup went awkwardly knocking through the brush, and presently halted--bracing abruptly with his clumsy paws--amazed and confounded by the sight of a frightened little red-man, sitting with his rabbits in the sand. for a second the dog was voiceless. then he let out a bark that made things jump, especially the tiny man and himself. "here, come here, tintoretto," drawlingly called the man from the trail. "come back here, you young tenderfoot." but tintoretto answered that he wouldn't. he also said, in the language of puppy barks, that important discoveries demanded not only his but his master's attention where he was, forthwith. there was nothing else for it; the mountain was obliged to come to mohammed--or the man to the pup. then the miner, no less than tintoretto, was astonished. to ward off the barking, the red little hunter had raised his arm across his face, but his big brown eyes were visible above his hand, and their childish seriousness appealed to the man at once. "well, cut my diamonds if it ain't a kid!" drawled he. "injun pappoose, or i'm an elk! young feller, where'd you come from, hey? what in mischief do you think you're doin' here?" the tiny "injun" made no reply. tintoretto tried some puppy addresses. he gave a little growl of friendship, and, clambering over rabbits and all, began to lick the helpless child on the face and hands with unmistakable cordiality. one of the rabbits fell and rolled over. tintoretto bounded backward in consternation, only to gather his courage almost instantly upon him and bark with lusty defiance. "shut up, you anermated disturbance," commanded his owner, mildly. "you're enough to scare the hair off an elephant," and, squatting in front of the wondering child, he looked at him pleasantly. "what you up to, young feller, sittin' here by yourself?" he inquired. "scared? needn't be scared of brother jim, i reckon. say, you 'ain't been left here for good? i saw the gang of injuns, clean across the country, from up on the ridge. it must be the last of their drives. that it? and you got left?" the little chap looked up at him seriously and winked his big, brown eyes, but he shut his tiny mouth perhaps a trifle tighter than before. as a matter of fact, the miner expected some such stoical silence. the pup, for his part, was making advances of friendship towards the motionless rabbits. "wal, say, piute," added jim, after scanning the country with his kindly eyes, "i reckon you'd better go home with me to borealis. the injuns wouldn't look to find you now, and you can't go on settin' here a waitin' for pudding and gravy to pass up the road for dinner. what do you say? want to come with me and ride on the outside seat to borealis?" considerably to the man's amazement the youngster nodded a timid affirmative. "by honky, tintoretto, i'll bet he savvies english as well as you," said jim. "all right, borealis or bust! i reckon a man who travels twenty miles to git him a pup, and comes back home with you and this here young piute, is as good as elected to office. injun, what's your name?" the tiny man apparently had nothing to impart by way of an answer. "'ain't got any, maybe," commented jim. "what's the matter with me namin' you, hey? suppose i call you aborigineezer? all in favor, ay! contrary minded? carried unanimously and the motion prevails." the child, for some unaccountable reason, seemed appalled. "we can't freight all them rabbits," decided the miner. "and, tintoretto, you are way-billed to do some walkin'." he took up the child, who continued to cling to the ears of his one particular hare. as all the jacks were tied together, all were lifted and were dangling down against the miner's legs. "huh! you can tell what some people want by the way they hang right on," said jim. "wal, no harm in lettin' you stick to one. we can eat him for dinner to-morrow, i guess, and save his hide in the bargain." he therefore cut the buckskin thong and all but one of the rabbits fell to the earth, on top of tintoretto, who thought he was climbed upon by half a dozen bears. he let out a yowp that scared himself half into fits, and, scooting from under the danger, turned about and flung a fearful challenge of barking at the prostrate enemy. "come on, unlettered ignoramus," said his master, and, holding the wondering little foundling on his arm, with his rabbit still clutched by the ears, he proceeded down to the roadway, scored like a narrow gray streak through the brush, and plodded onward towards the mining-camp of borealis. chapter ii jim makes discoveries it was dark and there were five miles of boot-tracks and seven miles of pup-tracks left in the sand of the road when jim, tintoretto, and aborigineezer came at length to a point above the small constellation of lights that marked the spot where threescore of men had builded a town. from the top of the ridge they had climbed, the man and the pup alone looked down on the camp, for the weary little "injun" had fallen asleep. had he been awake, the all to be seen would have been of little promise. great, sombre mountains towered darkly up on every side, roofed over by an arch of sky amazingly brilliant with stars. below, the darkness was the denser for the depth of the hollow in the hills. vaguely the one straight street of borealis was indicated by the lamps, like a thin milky way in a meagre universe of lesser lights, dimly glowing and sparsely scattered on the rock-strewn acclivities. from down there came the sounds of life. half-muffled music, raucous singing, blows of a hammer, yelpings of a dog, hissing of steam escaping somewhere from a boiler--all these and many other disturbances of the night furnished a microcosmic medley of the toiling, playing, hoping, and fearing, where men abide, creating that frailest and yet most enduring of frailties--a human community. the sight of his town could furnish no novelties to the miner on top of the final rise, and feeling somewhat tired by the weight of his small companion, as well as hungry from his walking, old jim skirted the rocky slope as best he might, and so came at length to an isolated cabin. this dark little house was built in the brush, quite up on the hill above the town, and not far away from a shallow ravine where a trickle of water from a spring had encouraged a straggling growth of willows, alders, and scrub. some four or five acres of hill-side about the place constituted the "babylonian glory" mining-claim, which jim accounted his, and which had seen about as much of his labor as might be developed by digging for gold in a barrel. "nobody home," said the owner to his dog, as he came to the door and shouldered it open. "wal, all the more for us." that any one might have been at home in the place was accounted for simply by the fact that certain worthies, playing in and out of luck, as the wheel of fate might turn them down or up, sometimes lived with jim for a month at a time, and sometimes left him in solitude for weeks. one such transient partner he had left at the cabin when he started off to get the pup now tagging at his heels. this house-partner, having departed, might and might not return, either now, a week from now, or ever. the miner felt his way across the one big room which the shack afforded, and came to a series of bunks, built like a pantry against the wall. into one of these he rolled his tiny foundling, after which he lighted a candle that stood in a bottle, and revealed the smoky interior of the place. three more of the bunks were built in the eastern end of the room; a fireplace occupied a portion of the wall against the hill; a table stood in the centre of the floor, and a number of mining tools littered a corner. cooking utensils were strewn on the table liberally, while others hung against the wall or depended from hooks in the chimney. this was practically all there was, but the place was home. tintoretto, beholding his master preparing a fire to heat up some food, delved at once into everything and every place where a wet little nose could be thrust. having snorted in the dusty corners, he trotted to the bench whereon the water-bucket stood, and, standing on his hind legs, gratefully lapped up a drink from the pail. his thirst appeased, he clambered ambitiously into one of the bunks, discovered a nice pair of boots, and, dragging one out on the floor, proceeded to carry it under the table and to chew it as heartily as possible. there was presently savory smoke, sufficient for an army, in the place, while sounds of things sizzling made music for the hungry. the miner laid bare a section of the table, which he set with cups, plates, and iron tools for eating. he then dished up two huge supplies of steaming beans and bacon, two monster cups of coffee, black as tar, and cut a giant pile of dun-colored bread. "aborigineezer," he said, "the banquet waits." thereupon he fetched his weary little guest to the board and attempted to seat him on a stool. the tiny man tried to open his eyes, but the effort failed. had he been awake and sitting erect on the seat provided for his use, his head could hardly have come to the level of the supper. "can't you come to, long enough to eat?" inquired the much-concerned miner. "no? wal, that's too bad. couldn't drink the coffee or go the beans? h'm, i guess i can't take you down to show you off to the boys to-night. you'll have to git to your downy couch." he returned the slumbering child to the bunk, where he tucked him into the blankets. tintoretto did ample justice to the meal, however, and filled in so thoroughly that his round little pod of a stomach was a burden to carry. he therefore dropped himself down on the floor, breathed out a sigh of contentment, and shut his two bright eyes. old jim concluded a feast that made those steaming heaps of food diminish to the point of vanishing. he sat there afterwards, leaning his grizzled head upon his hand and looking towards the bunk where the tiny little chap he had found was peacefully sleeping. the fire burned low in the chimney; the candle sank down in its socket. on the floor the pup was twitching in his dreams. outside the peace, too vast to be ruffled by puny man, had settled on all that tremendous expanse of mountains. when his candle was about to expire the miner deliberately prepared himself for bed, and crawled in the bunk with his tiny guest, where he slept like the pup and the child, so soundly that nothing could suffice to disturb his dreams. the arrows of the sun itself, flung from the ridge of the opposite hills, alone dispelled the slumbers in the cabin. the hardy old jim arose from his blankets, and presently flung the door wide open. "come in," he said to the day. "come in." the pup awoke, and, running out, barked in a crazy way of gladness. his master washed his face and hands at a basin just outside the door, and soon had breakfast piping hot. by then it was time to look to aborigineezer. to jim's delight the little man was wide awake and looking at him gravely from the blankets, his funny old cap still in place on his head, pulled down over his ears. "time to wash for breakfast," announced the miner. "but i don't guarantee the washin' will be the kind that mother used to give," and taking his tiny foundling in his arms he carried him out to the basin by the door. for a moment he looked in doubt at the only apology for a wash-rag the shanty afforded. "wal, it's an awful dirty cloth that you can't put a little more blackness on, i reckon," he drawled, and dipping it into the water he rubbed it vigorously across the gasping little fellow's face. then, indeed, the man was astounded. a wide streak, white as milk, had appeared on the baby countenance. "pierce my pearls!" exclaimed the miner, "if ever i saw a rag in my shack before that would leave a white mark on anything! say!" and he took off the youngster's old fur cap. he was speechless for a moment, for the little fellow's hair was as brown as a nut. "i snum!" said jim, wiping the wondering little face in a sort of fever of discovery and taking off color at every daub with the rag. "white kid--painted! ain't an injun by a thousand miles!" and this was the truth. a timid little paleface, fair as dawn itself, but smeared with color that was coming away in blotches, emerged from the process of washing and gazed with his big, brown eyes at his foster-parent, in a way that made the miner weak with surprise. such a pretty and wistful little armful of a boy he was certain had never been seen before in all the world. "i snum! i certainly snum!" he said again. "i'll have to take you right straight down to the boys!" at this the little fellow looked at him appealingly. his lip began to tremble. "no-body--wants--me," he said, in baby accents, "no-body--wants--me--anywhere." chapter iii the way to make a doll for a moment after the quaint little pilgrim had spoken, the miner stared at him almost in awe. had a gold nugget dropped at his feet from the sky his amazement could scarcely have been greater. "what's that?" he said. "nobody wants you, little boy? what's the matter with me and the pup?" and taking the tiny chap up in his arms he sat in the doorway and held him snugly to his rough, old heart and rocked back and forth, in a tumult of feeling that nothing could express. "little pard," he said, "you bet me and tintoretto want you, right here." for his part, tintoretto thumped the house and the step and the miner's shins with the clumsy tail that was wagging his whole puppy body. then he clambered up and pushed his awkward paws in the little youngster's face, and licked his ear and otherwise overwhelmed him with attentions, till his master pushed him off. at this he growled and began to chew the big, rough hand that suppressed his demonstrations. in lieu of the ears of the rabbit to which he had clung throughout the night, the silent little man on the miner's knee was holding now to jim's enormous fist, which he found conveniently supplied. he said nothing more, and for quite a time old jim was content to watch his baby face. "a white little kid--that nobody wants--but me and tintoretto," he mused, aloud, but to himself. "where did you come from, pardner, anyhow?" the tiny foundling made no reply. he simply looked at the thin, kindly face of his big protector in his quaint, baby way, but kept his solemn little mouth peculiarly closed. the miner tried a score of questions, tenderly, coaxingly, but never a thing save that confident clinging to his hand and a nod or a shake of the head resulted. by some means, quite his own, the man appeared to realize that the grave little fellow had never prattled as children usually do, and that what he had said had been spoken with difficulties, only overcome by stress of emotion. the mystery of whence a bit of a boy so tiny could have come, and who he was, especially after his baby statement that nobody wanted him, anywhere, remained unbroken, after all the miner's queries. jim was at length obliged to give it up. "do you like that little dog?" he said, as tintoretto renewed his overtures of companionship. "do you like old brother jim and the pup?" solemnly the little pilgrim nodded. "want some breakfast, all pretty, in our own little house?" once more the quaint and grave little nod was forthcoming. "all right. we'll have it bustin' hot in the shake of a crockery animal's tail," announced the miner. he carried the mite of a man inside and placed him again in the bunk, where the little fellow found his rabbit and drew it into his arms. the banquet proved to be a repetition of the supper of the night before, except that two great flapjacks were added to the menu, greased with fat from the bacon and sprinkled a half-inch thick with soft brown sugar. when the cook fetched his hungry little guest to the board the rabbit came as well. "you ought to have a dolly," decided jim, with a knowing nod. "if only i had the ingenuity i could make one, sure," and throughout the meal he was planning the manufacture of something that should beat the whole wide world for cleverness. the result of his cogitation was that he took no time for washing the dishes after breakfast, but went to work at once to make a doll. the initial step was to take the hide from the rabbit. sadly but unresistingly the little pilgrim resigned his pet, and never expected again to possess the comfort of its fur against his face. with the skin presently rolled up in a nice light form, however, the miner was back in the cabin, looking for something of which to fashion a body and head for the lady-to-be. there seemed to be nothing handy, till he thought of a peeled potato for the lady's head and a big metal powder-flask to supply the body. unfortunately, as potatoes were costly, the only tuber they had in the house was a weazened old thing that parted with its wrinkled skin reluctantly and was not very white when partially peeled. however, jim pared off enough of its surface on which to make a countenance, and left the darker hide above to form the dolly's hair. he bored two eyes, a nose, and a mouth in the toughened substance, and blackened them vividly with soot from the chimney. after this he bored a larger hole, beneath the chin, and pushed the head thus created upon the metal spout of the flask, where it certainly stuck with firmness. with a bit of cord the skin of the rabbit was now secured about the neck and body of the lady's form, and her beauty was complete. that certain particles of powder rattled lightly about in her graceful interior only served to render her manners more animated and her person more like good, lively company, for jim so decided himself. "there you are. that's the prettiest dolly you ever saw anywhere," said he, as he handed it over to the willing little chap. "and she all belongs to you." the mite of a boy took her hungrily to his arms, and jim was peculiarly affected. "do you want to give her a name?" he said. slowly the quaint little pilgrim shook his head. "have you got a name?" the miner inquired, as he had a dozen times before. this time a timid nod was forthcoming. "oh," said jim, in suppressed delight. "what is your nice little name?" for a moment coyness overtook the tiny man. then he faintly replied, "nu-thans." "nuisance?" repeated the miner, and again he saw the timid little nod. "but that ain't a name," said jim. "is 'nuisance' all the name the baby's got?" his bit of a guest seemed to think very hard, but at last he nodded as before. "well, string my pearls," said the miner to himself, "if somebody 'ain't been mean and low!" he added, cheerfully, "wal, it's easier to live down a poor name than it is to live up to a fine one, any day, but we'll name you somethin' else, i reckon, right away. and ain't that dolly nice?" the two were in the midst of appreciating the charms of her ladyship when the cabin door was abruptly opened and in came a coatless, fat, little, red-headed man, puffing like a bellows and pulling down his shirtsleeves with a great expenditure of energy, only to have them immediately crawl back to his elbows. "hullo, keno," drawled the lanky jim. "i thought you was mad and gone away and died." "me? not me!" puffed the visitor. "what's that?" and he nodded himself nearly off his balance towards the tiny guest he saw upon a stool. with a somewhat belated bark, tintoretto suddenly came out from his boot-chewing contest underneath the table and gave the new-comer an apoplectic start. "hey!" he cried. "hey! by jinks! a whole menajry!" "that's the pup," said jim. "and, keno, here's a poor little skeezucks that i found a-sittin' in the brush, 'way over to coyote valley. i fetched him home last night, and i was just about to take him down to camp and show him to the boys." "by jinks!" said keno. "alive!" "alive and smart as mustard," said the suddenly proud possessor of a genuine surprise. "you bet he's smart! i've often noticed how there never yet was any other kind of a baby. that's one consolation left to every fool man livin'--he was once the smartest baby in the world," "alive!" repeated keno, as before. "i'm goin' right down and tell the camp!" he bolted out at the door like a shot, and ran down the hill to borealis with all his might. aware that the news would be spread like a sprinkle of rain, the lanky jim put on his hat with a certain jaunty air of importance, and taking the grave little man on his arm, with the new-made doll and the pup for company, he followed, where keno had just disappeared from view, down the slope. a moment later the town was in sight, and groups of flannel-shirted, dusty-booted, slouchily attired citizens were discernible coming out of buildings everywhere. running up the hill again, puffing with added explosiveness, keno could hardly contain his excitement. "i've told em!" he panted. "they know he's alive and smart as mustard!" chapter iv planning a new celebration the cream, as it were, of the population of the mining-camp were ready to receive the group from up on the hill. there were nearly twenty men in the delegation, representing every shade of inelegance. indeed, they demonstrated beyond all argument that the ways of looking rough and unkempt are infinite. there were tall and short who were rough, bearded and shaved who were rougher, and washed and unwashed who were roughest. and there were still many denizens of borealis not then on exhibition. webber, the blacksmith; lufkins, the teamster; bone, the "barkeep"; dunn, the carpenter, and field, who had first discovered precious ore at borealis, and sold out his claims for a gold watch and chain--which subsequently proved to be brass--all these and many another shining light of the camp could be counted in the modest assemblage gathered together to have a look at the "kid" just reported by keno. surprise had been laid on double, in the town, by the news of what had occurred. in the first place, it was almost incredible that old "if-only" jim had actually made his long-threatened pilgrimage to fetch his promised pup, but to have him back here, not only with the dog in question, but also with a tiny youngster found at the edge of the wilderness, was far too much to comprehend. in a single bound, old jim had been elevated to a starry firmament of importance, from wellnigh the lowest position of insignificance in the camp, attained by his general worthlessness and shiftlessness--of mind and demeanor--which qualities had passed into a proverb of the place. procrastination, like a cuckoo, had made its nest in his pockets, where the hands of jim would hatch its progeny. labor and he abhorred each other mightily. he had never been known to strike a lick of work till larder and stomach were both of them empty and credit had taken to the hills. he drawled in his speech till the opening parts of the good resolutions he frequently uttered were old and forgotten before the remainders were spoken. he loitered in his walk, said the boys, till he clean forgot whether he was going up hill or down. "hurry," he had always said, by way of a motto, "is an awful waste of time that a feller could go easy in." yet in his shambling, easy-going way, old jim had drifted into nearly every heart in the camp. his townsmen knew he had once had a good education, for outcroppings thereof jutted from his personality even as his cheek-bones jutted out of his russet old countenance. not by any means consenting to permit old jim to understand how astonishment was oozing from their every pore, the men brought forth by keno's news could not, however, entirely mask their incredulity and interest. as jim came deliberately down the trail, with the pale little foundling on his arm, he was greeted with every possible term of familiarity, to all of which he drawled a response in kind. not a few in the group of citizens pulled off their hats at the nearer approach of the child, then somewhat sheepishly put them on again. with stoical resolutions almost immediately upset, they gathered closely in about the miner and his tiny companion, crowding the red-headed keno away from his place of honor next to the child. the quaint little pilgrim, in his old, fur cap and long, "man's" trousers, looked at the men in a grave way of doubt and questioning. "it's a sure enough kid, all the same," said one of the men, as if he had previously entertained some doubts of the matter. "and ain't he white!" "of course a white kid's white," answered the barkeep, scornfully. "awful cute little shaver," said another. "by cracky, jim, you must have had him up yer sleeve for a week! he don't look more'n about one week old." "aw, listen to the man afraid to know anything about anything!" broke in the blacksmith. "one week! he's four or five months, or i'm a woodchuck." "you kin tell by his teeth," suggested a leathery individual, stroking his bony jaw knowingly. "i used to be up on the game myself, but i'm a little out of practice jest at present." "shut up, you scare him, shaky," admonished the teamster. "he's a pretty little chipmunk. jim, wherever did you git him?" jim explained every detail of his trip to fetch the pup, stretching out his story of finding the child and bringing him hither, with pride in every item of his wonderful performance. his audience listened with profound attention, broken only by an occasional exclamation. "old if-only jim! old son-of-a-sea-cook!" repeated one, time after time. meanwhile the silent little man himself was clinging to the miner's flannel collar with all his baby strength. with shy little glances he scanned the members of the group, and held the tighter to the one safe anchorage in which he seemed to feel a confidence. a number of the rough men furtively attempted a bit of coquetry, to win the favor of a smile. "you don't mean, jim, you found him jest a-settin' right in the bresh, with them dead jack-rabbits lyin' all 'round?" insisted the carpenter. "that's what," said jim, and reluctantly he brought the tale to its final conclusion, adding his theory of the loss of the child by the indians on their hunt, and bearing down hard on the one little speech that the tiny foundling had made just this morning. the rough men were silenced by this. one by one they took off their hats again, smoothed their hair, and otherwise made themselves a trifle prettier to look upon. "well, what you goin' to do with him, jim?" inquired field, after a moment. "oh, i'll grow him up," said jim. "and some day i'll send him to college." "college be hanged!" said field. "a lot of us best men in borealis never went to college--and we're proud of it!" "so the little feller said nobody wanted him, did he?" asked the blacksmith. "well, i wouldn't mind his stayin' 'round the shop. where do you s'pose he come from first? and painted like a little piute injun! no wonder he's a scared little tike." "i ain't the one which scares him," announced a man whose hair, beard, and eyes all stuck out amazingly. "if i'd 'a' found him first he'd like me same as he takes to jim." "speakin' of catfish, where the little feller come from original is what gits to me," said field, the father of borealis, reflectively. "you see, if he's four or five months old, why he's sure undergrowed. you could drink him up in a cupful of coffee and never even cough. and bein' undergrowed, why, how could he go on a rabbit-drive along with the injuns? i'll bet you there's somethin' mysterious about his origin." "huh! don't you jump onto no little shaver's origin when you 'ain't got any too much to speak of yourself," the blacksmith commanded. "he's as big as any little skeezucks of his size!" "kin he read an' write?" asked a person of thirty-six, who had "picked up" the mentioned accomplishments at the age of thirty-five. "he's alive and smart as mustard!" put in keno, a champion by right of prior acquaintance with the timid little man. "wal, that's all right, but mustard don't do no sums in 'rithmetic," said the bar-keep. "i'm kind of stuck, myself, on this here pup." tintoretto had been busily engaged making friends in any direction most handily presented. he wound sinuously out of the barkeep's reach, however, with pup-wise discrimination. the attention of the company was momentarily directed to the small dog, who came in for not a few of the camp's outspoken compliments. "he's mebbe all right, but he's homely as aunt marier comin' through the thrashin'-machine," decided the teamster. the carpenter added: "he's so all-fired awkward he can't keep step with hisself." "wal, he ain't so rank in his judgment as some i could indicate," drawled jim, prepared to defend both pup and foundling to the last extent. "at least, he never thought he was smart, abscondin' with a little free sample of a brain." "what kind of a mongrel is he, anyway?" inquired bone. "thorough-breed," replied old jim. "there ain't nothing in him but dog." the blacksmith was still somewhat longingly regarding the pale little man who continued to cling to the miner's collar. "what's his name?" said he. "tintoretto," answered jim, still on the subject of his yellowish pup. "tintoretto?" said the company, and they variously attacked the appropriateness of any such a "handle." "what fer did you ever call him that?" asked bone. "wal, i thought he deserved it," jim confessed. "poor little kid--that's all i've got to say," replied the compassionate blacksmith. "that ain't the kid's name," corrected jim, with alacrity. "that's what i call the pup." "that's worse," said field. "for he's a dumb critter and can't say nothing back." "but what's the little youngster's name?" inquired the smith, once again. "yes, what's the little shaver's name?" echoed the teamster. "if it's as long as the pup's, why, give us only a mile or two at first, and the rest to-morrow." "i was goin' to name him 'aborigineezer,'" jim admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "but he ain't no piute injun, so i can't." "hard-hearted ole sea-serpent!" ejaculated field. "no wonder he looks like cryin'." "oh, he ain't goin' to cry," said the blacksmith, roughly patting the frightened little pilgrim's cheek with his great, smutty hand. "what's he got to cry about, now he's here in borealis?" "well, leave him cry, if he wants to," said the fat little keno. "i 'ain't heard a baby cry fer six or seven years." "go off in a corner and cry in your pocket, and leave it come out as you want it," suggested bone. "jim, you said the little feller kin talk?" "like a greasy dictionary," said jim, proudly. "well, start him off on somethin' stirrin'." "you can't start a little youngster off a-talkin' when you want to, any more than you can start a turtle runnin' to a fire," drawled jim, sagely. "then, kin he walk?" insisted the bar-keep. jim said, "what do you s'pose he's wearin' pants for, if he couldn't?" "put him down and leave us see him, then." "this ain't no place for a child to be walkin' 'round loose," objected the gray old miner. "he'll walk some other time." "aw, put him down," coaxed the smith. "we'd like to see a little feller walk. there's never bin no such a sight in borealis." "yes, put him down!" chorused the crowd. "we'll give him plenty of elbow-room," added webber. "git back there, boys, and give him a show." as the group could be satisfied with nothing less, and jim was aware of their softer feelings, he disengaged the tiny hand that was closed on his collar and placed his tiny charge upon his feet in the road. how very small, indeed, he looked in his quaint little trousers and his old fur cap! instantly he threw the one little arm not engaged with the furry doll about the big, dusty knee of his known protector, and buried his face in the folds of the rough, blue overalls. "aw, poor little tike!" said one of the men. "take him back up, jim. anyway, you 'ain't yet told us his name, and how kin any little shaver walk which ain't got a name?" jim took the mere little toy of a man again in his arms and held him close against his heart. "he 'ain't really got any name," he confessed. "if only i had the poetic vocabulary i'd give him a high-class out-and-outer." "what's the matter with a good old home-made name like si or hank or zeke?" inquired field, who had once been known as hank himself. "they ain't good enough," objected jim. "if only i can git an inspiration i'll fit him out like a barn with a bran'-new coat of paint." "well, s'pose--" started keno, but what he intended to say was never concluded. "what's the fight?" interrupted a voice, and the men shuffled aside to give room to a well-dressed, dapper-looking man. it was parky, the gambler. he was tall, and easy of carriage, and cultivated a curving black mustache. in his scarf he wore a diamond as large as a marble. at his heels a shivering little black-and-tan dog, with legs no larger than pencils and with a skull of secondary importance to its eyes, followed him mincingly into the circle and stood beside his feet with its tail curved in under its body. "what have you got? huh! nothing but a kid!" said the gambler, in supreme contempt. "and a pup!" said keno, aggressively. the gambler ignored the presence of the child, especially as tintoretto bounded clumsily forward and bowled his own shaking effigy of a canine endways in one glad burst of friendship. the black-and-tan let out a feeble yelp. with his boot the gambler threw tintoretto six feet away, where he landed on his feet and turned about growling and barking in puppywise questioning of this sudden manoeuvre. with a few more staccato yelps, the shivering black-and-tan retreated behind the gambler's legs. "of all the ugly brutes i ever seen," said parky, "that's the worst yellow flea-trap of the whole caboose." "wal, i don't know," drawled jim, as he patted his timid little pilgrim on the back in a way of comfort. "all dogs look alike to a flea, and i reckon tintoretto is as good flea-feed as the next. and, anyhow, i wouldn't have a dog the fleas had deserted. when the fleas desert a dog, it's the same as when the rats desert a ship. about that time a dog has lost his doghood, and then he ain't no better than a man who's lost his manhood." "aw, i'd thump you and the cur together if you didn't have that kid on deck," sneered the gambler. "you couldn't thump a drum," answered jim, easily. "come back here, tintoretto. don't you touch that skinny little critter with the shakes. i wouldn't let you eat no such a sugar-coated insect." the crowd was enjoying the set-to of words immensely. they now looked to parky for something hot. but the man of card-skill had little wit of words. "don't git too funny, old boy," he cautioned. "i'd just as soon have you for breakfast as not." "i wish the fleas could say as much for you or your imitation dog," retorted jim. "there's just three things in borealis that go around smellin' thick of perfume, and you and that little two-ounce package of dog-degeneration are maybe some worse than the other." parky made a belligerent motion, but webber, the blacksmith, caught his arm in a powerful grip. "not to-day," he said. "the boys don't want no gun-play here this mornin'." "you're a lot of old women and babies," said parky, and pushing through the group he walked away, a certain graceful insolence in his bearing. "speakin' of catfish," said field, "we ought to git up some kind of a celebration to welcome jim's little skeezucks to the camp." "that's the ticket," agreed bone. "what's the matter with repeatin' the programme we had for the fourth of july?" "no, we want somethin' new," objected the smith. "it ought to be somethin' we never had before." "why not wait till christmas and git good and ready?" said jim. the argument was that christmas was something more than four weeks away. "we've got to have a rousin' big christmas fer little skeezucks, anyhow," suggested bone. "what sort of a celebration is there that we 'ain't never had in borealis?" "church," said keno, promptly. this caused a silence for a moment. "guess that's so, but--who wants church?" inquired the teamster. "we might git up somethin' worse," said a voice in the crowd. "how?" demanded another. "it wouldn't be so far off the mark for a little kid like him," tentatively asserted field, the father of the camp, "s'pose we give it a shot?" "anything suits me," agreed the carpenter. "church might be kind of decent, after all. jim, what you got to say 'bout the subject?" jim was still patting the timid little foundling on the back with a comforting hand. "who'd be preacher?" said he. they were stumped for a moment. "why--you," said keno. "didn't you find little skeezucks?" "kerrect," said bone. "jim kin talk like a steam fire-engine squirtin' languages." "if only i had the application," said jim, modestly, "i might git up somethin' passable. where could we have it?" this was a stumper again. no building in the camp had ever been consecrated to the uses of religious worship. bone came to the rescue without delay. "you kin have my saloon, and not a cent of cost," said he. "bully fer bone!" said several of the men. "y-e-s, but would it be just the tip-toppest, tippe-bob-royal of a place?" inquired field, a little cautiously. "what's the matter with it?" said bone. "when it's church it's church, and i guess it would know the way to behave! if there's anything better, trot it out." "you can come to the shop if it suits any better," said the blacksmith. "it 'ain't got no floor of gold, and there ain't nothing like wings, exceptin' wheels, but the fire kin be kept all day to warm her up, and there's plenty of room fer all which wants to come." "if i'm goin' to do the preachin',' i'd like the shop first rate," said jim. "what day is to-day?" "friday," replied the teamster. "all right. then we'll say on sunday we celebrate with church in webber's blacksmith shop," agreed old jim, secretly delighted beyond expression. "we won't git gay with anything too high-falootin', but we'd ought to git shorty hobb to show up with his fiddle." "certain!" assented the barkeep. "you kin leave that part of the game to me." "if we've got it all settled, i reckon i'll go back up to the shack," said jim. "the little feller 'ain't had a chance yet to play with his doll." "is that a doll?" inquired the teamster, regarding the grave little pilgrim's bundle of fur in curiosity. "how does he know it's a doll?" "he knows a good sight more than lots of older people," answered jim. "and if only i've got the gumption i'll make him a whole slough of toys and things." "well, leave us say good-bye to him 'fore you go," said the blacksmith. "does he savvy shakin' hands?" he gave a little grip to the tiny hand that held the doll, and all the others did the same. little skeezucks looked at them gravely, his quaint baby face playing havoc with their rough hearts. "softest little fingers i ever felt," said webber. "i'd give twenty dollars if he'd laugh at me once." "awful nice little shaver," said another. "i once had a mighty touchin' story happen to me, myself," said keno, solemnly. "what was it?" inquired a sympathetic miner. "couldn't bear to tell it--not this mornin'," said keno. "too touchin'." "good-bye fer just at present, little skeezucks," said field, and, suddenly divesting himself of his brazen watch and chain, he offered it up as a gift, with spontaneous generosity. "want it, skeezucks?" said he. "don't you want to hear it go?" the little man would relax neither his clutch on jim's collar nor his hold of his doll, wherefore he had no hand with which to accept the present. "do you think he runs a pawn-shop, field?" said the teamster. "put it back." the men all guffawed in their raucous way. "keeps mighty good time, all the same," said field, and he re-swung the chain, like a hammock, from the parted wings of his vest, and dropped the huskily ticking guardian of the minutes back to its place in his pocket. "watches that don't keep perfect time," drawled jim, "are scarcer than wimmin who tell their age on the square." "better come over, jim, and have a drink," suggested the barkeep. "you're sure one of the movin' spirits of borealis." "no, i don't think i'll start the little feller off with the drinkin' example," replied the miller. "you'll often notice that the men who git the name of bein' movin' spirits is them that move a good deal of whiskey into their interior department. i reckon we'll mosey home the way we are." "i guess i'll join you up above," said the fat little keno, pulling stoutly at his sleeves. "you'll need me, anyway, to cut some brush fer the fire." with tiny skeezucks gravely looking backward at the group of men all waving their hats in a rough farewell, old jim started proudly up the trail that led to the babylonian glory claim, with tintoretto romping awkwardly at his heels. suddenly, webber, the blacksmith, left the groups and ran quickly after them up the slope. "say, jim," he said. "i thought, perhaps, if you reckoned little skeezucks ought to bunk down here in town--why--i wouldn't mind if you fetched him over to the house. there's plenty of room." "wal, not to-day i won't," said jim. "but thank you, webber, all the same." "all right, but if you change your mind it won't be no trouble at all," and, not a little disappointed, the smith waved once more to the little pilgrim on the miner's arm and went back down the hill. then up spoke keno. "bone and lufkins both wanted me to tell you, jim, if you happen to want a change fer little skeezucks, you can fetch him down to them," he said. "but of course we ain't agoin' to let 'em have our little kid in no great shakes of a hurry." chapter v visitors at the cabin when jim and his company had disappeared from view up the rock-strewn slope, the men left below remained in a group, to discuss not only the marvellous advent of a genuine youngster in borealis, but likewise the fitness of old if-only jim as a foster-parent. "i wouldn't leave him raise a baby rattlesnake of mine," said field, whose watch had not been accepted by the foundling. "in fact, there ain't but a few of us here into camp which knows the funderments of motherhood, anyhow." "i don't mind givin' jim a few little pointers on the racket," responded bone. "never knew jim yet to chuck out my advice. "he's too lazy to chuck it," vouchsafed the teamster. "he just lets it trickle out and drip." "well, we'll watch him, that's all," field remarked, with a knowing squint in his eyes, and employing a style he would not have dared to parade in the hearing of jim. "borealis has come to her formaline period, and she can't afford to leave this child be raised extraneous. it's got to be done with honor and glory to the camp, even if we have to take the kid away from jim complete." "he found the little skeezucks, all the same," the blacksmith reminded them. "that counts for somethin'. he's got a right to keep him for a while, at least, unless the mother should heave into town." "or the dad," added lufkins. "shoot the dad!" answered bone. "a dad which would let a little feller small as him git lost in the brush don't deserve to git him back." "mysterious case, sure as lizards is insects," said an individual heretofore silent. "i guess i'll go and tell miss doc dennihan." "'ain't miss doc bin told--and her the only decent woman in the camp?" inquired field. "i'll go along and see you git it right." "no miss doc in mine," said the smith. "i'll git back and blow my fire up before she's plump dead out. fearful vinegar miss doc would make if ever she melted." miss dennihan, sister of "doc" dennihan, was undeniably if-only jim's exact antithesis--a scrupulously tidy, exacting lady, so severe in her virtues and so acrid in denunciations of the lack of down-east circumspection that nearly every man in camp shied off from her abode as he might have shied from a bath in nitric acid. six months prior to this time she had come to borealis from the east, unexpectedly plumping down upon her brother "doc" with all her moral fixity of purpose, not only to his great distress of mind, but also to that of all his acquaintances as well. she had raided the ethical standing of miners, teamsters, and men-about-town; she had outwardly and inwardly condemned the loose and indecorous practices of the camp; she had made herself an accusing hand, as it were, pointing out the road to perdition which all and sundry of the citizens of borealis, including "doc," were travelling. if-only jim had promptly responded to her natural antipathy to all that he represented, and the strained relations between the pair had furnished much amusement for the male population of the place. it was now to this lady that field and his friend proposed a visit. the group of men broke up, and the news that each one had to tell of the doings of jim was widely spread; and the wonder increased till it stretched to the farthest confines of the place. then as fast as the miners and other laborers, who were busy with work, could get away for a time sufficiently long, they made the pilgrimage up the slope to the cabin where the tiny foundling had domicile. they found the timid little man seated, with his doll, on the floor, from which he watched them gravely, in his baby way. half the honors of receiving the groups and showing off the quaint little skeezucks were assumed by keno, with a grace that might have been easy had he not been obliged to pull down his shirt-sleeves with such exasperating frequency. but jim was the hero of the hour, as he very well knew. time after time, and ever with thrilling new detail and added incident, he recounted the story of his find, gradually robbing even tintoretto, the pup, of such of the glory as he really had earned. the pup, however, was recklessly indifferent. he could pile up fresh glories every minute by bowling the little pilgrim on his back and walking on his chest to lap his ear. this he proceeded to do, in his clumsy way of being friendly, with a regularity only possible to an enthusiast. and every time he did it anew, either keno or jim or a visitor would shy something at him and call him names. this, however, only served to incite him to livelier antics of licking everybody's face, wagging himself against the furniture, and dragging the various bombarding missiles between the legs of all the company. there were men, who apparently had nothing else to do, who returned to the cabin on the hill with every new visiting deputation. a series of ownership in and familiarity with the grave little chap and his story came upon them rapidly. field, the father of borealis, was the most assiduous guide the camp afforded. by afternoon he knew more about the child than even jim himself. for his part, the lanky jim sat on a stool, looking wiser than solomon and moses rolled in one, and greeted his wondering acquaintances with a calm and dignity that his oneness in the great event was magnifying hourly. that such an achievement as finding a lost little pilgrim in the wilderness might be expected of his genius every day was firmly impressed upon himself, if not on all who came. "speakin' of catfish, jim thinks he's hoein' some potatoes." said field to a group of his friends. "if one of us real live spirits of borealis had bin in his place, it's ten to one we'd 'a' found a pair of twins." all the remainder of the day, and even after dinner, and up to eight o'clock in the evening, the new arrivals, or the old ones over again, made the cabin on the hill their mecca. "shut the door, keno, and sit outside, and tell any more that come along, the show is over for the day," instructed jim, at last. "the boy is goin' to bed." "did he bring a nightie?" said keno. "forgot it, i reckon," answered jim, as he took the tired little chap in his arms. "if only i had the enterprise i'd make him one to-night." but it never got made. the pretty little armful of a boy went to sleep with all his baby garments on, the long "man's" trousers and all, and jim permitted all to remain in place, for the warmth thereof, he said. into the bunk went the tiny bundle of humanity, his doll tightly held to his breast. then jim sat down and watched the bunk, till keno had come inside and climbed in a bed and begun a serenade. at twelve o'clock the miner was still awake. he went to his door, and, throwing it open, looked out at the great, dark mountains and the brilliant sky. "if only i had the steam i'd open up the claim and make the little feller rich," he drawled to himself. then he closed the door, and, removing his clothing, got into the berth where his tiny guest was sleeping, and knew no more till the morning came and a violent knocking on his window prodded his senses into something that answered for activity. "come in!" he called. "come in, and don't waste all that noise." the pup awoke and let out a bark. in response to the miner's invitation the caller opened the door and entered. jim and keno had their heads thrust out of their bunks, but the two popped in abruptly at the sight of a tall female figure. she was homely, a little sharp as to features, and a little near together and piercing as to eyes. her teeth were prominent, her mouth unquestionably generous in dimensions, and a mole grew conspicuously upon her chin. nevertheless, she looked, as jim had once confessed, "remarkly human." on her head she wore a sun-bonnet. her black alpaca dress was as styleless and as shiny as a stovepipe. it was short, moreover, and therefore permitted a view of a large, flat pair of shoes on which polish for the stovepipe aforesaid had been lavishly coated. it was miss doc dennihan. having duly heard of the advent of a quaint little boy, found in the brush by the miner, she had come thus early in the morning to gratify a certain hunger that her nature felt for the sight of a child. but always one of the good woman's prides had been concealment of her feelings, desires, and appetites. she had formed a habit, likewise, of hiding not a few of her intentions. instead of inquiring now for what she sought, she glanced swiftly about the interior of the cabin and said: "ain't you lazy-joints got up yet in this here cabin?" "been up and hoisted the sun and went back to bed," drawled jim, while keno drew far back in his berth and fortified himself behind his blankets. "glad to see you, but sorry you've got to be goin' again so soon." "i 'ain't got to be goin'," corrected the visitor, with decision. "i jest thought i'd call in and see if your clothin' and kitchen truck was needin' a woman's hand. breakfast over to our house is finished and john has went to work, and everything has bin did up complete, so 'tain't as if i was takin' the time away from john; and this here place is disgraceful dirty, as i could see with nuthin' but a store eye. is these here over-halls your'n?" "when i'm in 'em i reckon they are," drawled jim, in some disquietude of mind. "but don't you touch 'em! them pants is heirlooms. wouldn't have anybody fool with them for a million dollars." "they don't look worth no such a figger," said miss dennihan, as she held them up and scanned them with a critical eye. "they're wantin' a patch in the knee. it's lucky fer you i toted my bag. i kin always match overhalls, new or faded." keno slyly ventured to put forth his head, but instantly drew it back again. jim, in his bunk, was beginning to sweat. he held his little foundling by the hand and piled up a barrier of blankets before them. that many another of the male residents of borealis had been honored by similar visitations on the part of miss doc was quite the opposite of reassuring. that the lady generally came as a matter of curiosity, and remained in response to a passion for making things glisten with cleanliness, he had heard from a score of her victims. he knew she was here to get her eyes on the grave little chap he was cuddling from sight, but he had no intention of sharing the tiny pilgrim with any one whose attentions would, he deemed, afford a trial to the nerves. "seems to me the last time i saw old doc his shirt needed stitchin' in the sleeve," he said. "how about that, keno?" keno was dumb as a clam. "you never seen nuthin' of the sort," corrected miss doc, with asperity, and, removing her bonnet, she sat down on a stool, jim's overalls in hand and her bag in her lap. "john's mended regular, all but his hair, and if soap-suds and bear's-grease would patch his top he wouldn't be bald another day." "he ain't exactly bald," drawled the uncomfortable miner. "his hair was parted down the middle by a stroke of lightnin'. or maybe you combed it yourself." "don't you try to git comical with me!" she answered. "i didn't come here for triflin'." her back being turned towards the end of the room wherein the redheaded keno was ensconced, that diffident individual furtively put forth his hand and clutched up his boots and trousers from the floor. the latter he managed to adjust as he wormed about in the berth. then silently, stealthily, trembling with excitement, he put out his feet, and suddenly bolting for the door, with his boots in hand, let out a yell and shot from the house like a demon, the pup at his heels, loudly barking. "keno! keno! come back here and stand your share!" bawled jim, lustily, but to no avail. "mercy in us!" miss doc exclaimed. "that man must be crazy." jim sank back in his bunk hopelessly. "it's only his clothes makes him look foolish," he answered. "he's saner than i am, plain as day." "then it's lucky i came," decided the visitor, vigorously sewing at the trousers. "the looks of this house is enough to drive any man insane. you're an ornary, shiftless pack of lazy-joints as ever i seen. why don't you git up and cook your breakfast?" perspiration oozed from the modest jim afresh. "i never eat breakfast in the presence of ladies," said he. "well, you needn't mind me. i'm jest a plain, sensible woman," replied miss dennihan. "i don't want to see no feller-critter starve." jim writhed in the blankets. "i didn't s'pose you could stay all day," he ventured. "i kin stay till i mend all your garmints and tidy up this here cabin," she announced, calmly. "so let your mind rest easy." she meant to see that child if it took till evening to do so. "maybe i can go to sleep again and dream i'm dead," said jim, in growing despair. "if you kin, and me around, you can beat brother john all to cream," she responded, smoothing out the mended overalls and laying them down on a stool. "now you kin give me your shirt." jim galvanically gathered the blankets in a tightened noose about his neck. "hold on!" he said. "hold on! this shirt is a bran'-new article, and you'd spoil it if you come within twenty-five yards of it with a needle." "where's your old one?" she demanded, atilt for something more to repair. her gaze searched the bunks swiftly, and jim was sure she was looking for the little man behind him. "where's your old one went?" she repeated. "i turned it over on a friend of mine," drawled jim, who meant he had deftly reversed it on himself. "it's a poor shirt that won't work both ways." "ain't there nuthin' more i kin mend?" she asked. "not unless it's somethin' of doc's down to your lovely little home." "oh, i ain't agoin' to go, if that's what you're drivin' at," she answered, as she swiftly assembled the soiled utensils of the cuisine. "i'll tidy up this here pig-pen if it takes a week, and you kin hop up and come down easy." "i wouldn't have you go for nothing," drawled jim, squirming with abnormal impatience to be up and doing. "angel's visits are comin' fewer and fewer in a box every day." "that's bogus," answered the lady. "i sense your oilin' me over. you git up and go and git a fresh pail of water." "i'd like to," jim said, convincingly, "but the only time i ever broke my arm was when i went out for a bucket of water before breakfast." "you ain't agoin' is what you mean, with all them come-a-long-way-round excuses," she conjectured. "you've got the name of bein' the laziest-jointed, mos' shiftless man into camp." "wal," drawled the helpless miner, "a town without a horrible example is deader than the spikes in adam's coffin. and the next best thing to being a livin' example is to hang around the house where one of 'em stays in his bunk all mornin'." "if that's another of them underhanded hints of your'n, you might as well save your breath," she replied. "i'll go and git the water myself, fer them dishes is goin' to git cleaned." she took up the bucket at once. outside, the sounds of some one scooting rapidly away brought to jim a thought of keno's recently demonstrated presence of mind. cautiously sitting up in the berth, so soon as miss doc had disappeared with the pail, he hurriedly drew on his boots. a sound of returning footsteps came to his startled ears. he leaped back up in the bunk, boots and all, and covered himself with the blanket, to the startlement of the timid little chap, who was sitting there to watch developments. both drew down as miss doc reappeared in the door. "i might as well tote a kettleful, too," she said, and taking that soot-plated article from its hook in the chimney she once more started for the spring. this time, like a guilty burglar, old jim crept out to the door. then with one quick resolve he caught up his trousers, and snatching his pale little guest from the berth, flung a blanket about them, sneaked swiftly out of the cabin, stole around to its rear, and ran with long-legged awkwardness down through a shallow ravine to the cover of a huge heap of bowlders, where he paused to finish his toilet. "hoot! hoot!" sounded furtively from somewhere near. then keno came ducking towards him from below, with tintoretto in his wake, so rampantly glad in his puppy heart that he instantly climbed on the timid little skeezucks, sitting for convenience on the earth, and bowled him head over heels. "here, pup, you abate yourself," said jim. "be solemnly glad and let it go at that." and he took up the gasping little chap, whose doll was, as ever, clasped fondly to his heart. "how'd you make it?" inquired keno. "has she gone for good?" "no, she's gone for water," answered the miner, ruefully. "she's set on cleanin' up the cabin. i'll bet when she's finished we'll have to pan the gravel mighty careful to find even a color of our once happy home." "well, you got away, anyhow," said keno, consolingly. "you can't have your cake and eat it too." "no, that's the one nasty thing about cake," said jim. he sat on a rock and addressed the wondering little pilgrim, who was watching his face with baby gravity. "did she scare the boy?" he asked. "is he gittin' hungry? does pardner want some breakfast?" the little fellow nodded. "what would little skeezucks like old brother jim to make for breakfast?" the quaint bit of a man drew a trifle closer to the rough old coat and timidly answered: "bwead--an'--milk." the two men started mildly. "by jinks!" said the awe-smitten keno. "by jinks!--talkin'!" "i told you so," said jim, suppressing his excitement. "bread and milk?" he repeated. "just bread and milk. you poor little shaver! wal, that's as easy as oyster stew or apple-dumplin'. baby want anything else?" the small boy shook a negative. "by jinks!" said keno, as before. "look at him go it!" "i'll make some bread to-day, if ever we git back into eden," said jim. "and i'll make him a lot of things. if only i had the stuff in me i'd make him a noah's ark and a train of cars and a fat mince-pie. would little skeezucks like a train of cars?" again the little pilgrim shook his head. "then what more would the baby like?" coaxed the miner. again with his shy little cuddling up the wee man answered, "moey--bwead--an'--milk." "by jinks!" repeated the flabbergasted keno, and he pulled at his sleeves with all his strength. "say, keno," said jim, "go find miss doc's goat and milk him for the boy." "miss doc may be home by now," objected keno, apprehensively. "well, then, sneak up and see if she has gone off real mad." "s'posen she 'ain't?" keno promptly hedged. "s'posen she seen me?" "you've got all out-doors to skedaddle in, i reckon." keno, however, had many objections to any manner of venture with the wily miss dennihan. it took nearly half an hour of argument to get him up to the brow of the slope. then, to his uncontainable delight, he beheld the disgusted and somewhat defeated miss doc more than half-way down the trail to borealis, and making shoe-tracks with assuring rapidity. "hoot! hoot!" he called, in a cautious utterance. "she's went, and the cabin looks just the same--from here." but jim, when he came there, with his tiny guest upon his arm, looked long at the well-scrubbed floor and the tidy array of pots, pans, plates, and cups. "we'll never find the salt, or nothin', for a week," he drawled. "it does take some people an awful long time to learn not to meddle with the divine order of things." chapter vi the bell for church what with telling little skeezucks of all the things he meant to make, and fondling the grave bit of babyhood, and trying to work out the story of how he came to be utterly unsought for, deserted, and parentless, jim had hardly more than time enough remaining, that day, in which to entertain the visiting men, who continued to climb the hill to the house. throughout that saturday there was never more than fifteen minutes when some of the big, rough citizens of borealis were not on hand, attempting always to get the solemn little foundling to answer some word to their efforts at baby conversation. but neither to them, for the strange array of presents they offered, nor to jim himself, for all his gentle coaxing, would the tiny chap vouchsafe the slightest hint of who he was or whence he had come. it is doubtful if he knew. by the hour he sat where they placed him, holding his doll with something more deep and hungry than affection, and looking at jim or the visitors in his pretty, baby way of gravity and questioning. when he sat on old jim's knee, however, he leaned in confidence against him, and sighed with a sweet little sound of contentment, as poignant to reinspire a certain ecstasy of sadness in the miner's breast as it was to excite an envy in the hearts of the others. next to jim, he loved tintoretto--that joyous, irresponsible bit of pup-wise gladness whose tail was so utterly inadequate to express his enthusiasm that he wagged his whole fuzzy self in the manner of an awkward fish. never was the tiny man seated with his doll on the floor that the pup failed to pounce upon him and push him over, half a dozen times. never did this happen that one of the men, or jim himself, did not at once haul tintoretto, growling, away by the tail or the ear and restore their tiny guest to his upright position. never did such a good samaritan fail to raise his hand for a cuff at the pup, nor ever did one of them actually strike. it ended nearly always in the pup's attack on the hand in question, which he chewed and pawed at and otherwise befriended as only a pup, in his freedom from worries and cares, can do. with absolutely nothing prepared, and with nothing but promises made and forgotten, old jim beheld the glory of sunday morning come, with the bite and crystalline sunshine of the season in the mountain air. god's thoughts must be made in nevada, so lofty and flawless is the azure sky, so utterly transparent is the atmosphere, so huge, gray, and passionless the mighty reach of mountains! man's little thought was expressed in the camp of borealis, which appeared like a herd of small, brown houses, pitifully insignificant in all that immensity, and gathered together as if for company, trustfully nestling in the hand of the earth-mother, known to be so gentle with her children. on the hill-sides, smaller mining houses stood, each one emphasized by the blue-gray heap of earth and granite--the dump--formed by the labors of the restless men who burrowed in the rock for precious metal. the road, which seemed to have no ending-place, was blazed through the brush and through the hills in either direction across the miles and miles of this land without a people. the houses of borealis stood to right and left of this path through the wilderness, as if by common consent to let it through. meagre, unknown, unimportant borealis, with her threescore men and one decent woman, shared, like the weightiest empire, in the smile, the care, the yearning of the ever all-pitiful, greeting the earth with another perfect day. intelligence of what could be expected, in the way of a celebration at the blacksmith-shop of webber, had been more than merely spread; it had almost been flooded over town. long before the hour of ten, scheduled by common consent for church to commence, webber was sweeping sundry parings of horse-hoof and scraps of iron to either side of his hard earth floor, and sprinkling the dust with water that he flirted from his barrel. he likewise wiped off the anvil with his leathern apron, and making a fire in the forge to take off the chill, thrust in a huge hunk of iron to irradiate the heat. many of the denizens of borealis came and laid siege to the barber-shop as early as six in the morning. hardly a man in the place, except parky, the gambler, had been dressed in extravagance so imposing since the th of july as was early apparent in the street. bright new shirts, red, blue, and even white, came proudly to the front. trousers were dropped outside of boots, and the boots themselves were polished. a run on bear's-grease and hair-oil lent a shining halo to nearly every head the camp could boast. then the groups began to gather near the open shop of the smith. "we'd ought to have a bell," suggested lufkins, the teamster. "churches always ring the bell to let the parson know it's time he was showin' up to start the ball." "well, i'll string up a bar of steel," said webber. "you can get a crackin' fine lot of noise out of that." he strung it up in a framework just outside the door, ordinarily employed for hoisting heavy wagons from the earth. then with a hammer he struck it sharply. the clear, ringing tone that vibrated all through the hills was a stirring note indeed. so the bell-ringer struck his steel again. "that ain't the way to do the job," objected field. "that sounds like scarin' up voters at a measly political rally." "can you do it any better?" said the smith, and he offered his hammer. "here comes doc dennihan," interrupted the barkeep. "ask doc how it's done. if he don't know, we'll have to wait for old if-only jim hisself." the brother of the tall miss doc was a small man with outstanding ears, the palest gray eyes, and the quietest of manners. he was not a doctor of anything, hence his title. perhaps the fact that the year before he had quietly shot all six of the bullets of his colt revolver into the body of a murderous assailant before that distinguished person could fall to the earth had invested his townsmen and admirers with a modest desire to do him a titular honor. howsoever that might have been, he had always subsequently found himself addressed with sincere respect, while his counsel had been sought on every topic, possible, impossible, and otherwise, mooted in all borealis. the fact that his sister was the "boss of his shack," and that he, indeed, was a henpecked man, was never, by any slip of courtesy, conversationally paraded, especially in his hearing. appealed to now concerning the method of ringing the bar of steel for worshipful purposes, he took a bite at his nails before replying. then he said: "well, i'd ring it a little bit faster than you would for a funeral and a little bit slower than you would for a fire." "that's the stuff!" said field. "i knowed that doc would know." but doc refused them, nevertheless, when they asked if he would deign to do the ringing himself. consequently field, the father of the camp, made a gallant attempt at the work, only to miss the "bell" with his hammer and strike himself on the knee, after which he limped to a seat, declaring they didn't need a bell-ringing anyhow. upon the blacksmith the duty devolved by natural selection. he rang a lusty summons from the steel, that fetched all the dressed-up congregation of the town hastening to the scene. still, old jim, the faithful keno, little skeezucks, and tintoretto failed to appear. a deputation was therefore sent up the hill, where jim was found informing his household that if only he had the celerity of action he would certainly make a sunday suit of clothing for the tiny little man. for himself, he had washed and re-turned his shirt, combed his hair, and put on a better pair of boots, which the pup had been chewing to occupy his leisure time. the small but impressive procession came slowly down the trail at last, jim in the lead, with the grave little foundling on his arm. "boys," said he, as at last he entered the dingy shop and sat his quaint bit of a man on the anvil, over which he had thoughtfully thrown his coat--"boys, if only i'd had about fifteen minutes more of time i'd have thought up all the tricks you ever saw in a church." the men filed in, awkwardly taking off their hats, and began to seat themselves as best they could, on anything they found available. webber, the smith, went stoutly at his bellows, and blew up a fire that flamed two feet above the forge, fountaining fiercely with sparks of the iron in the coal, and tossing a ruddy light to the darkest corners of the place. the incense of labor--that homely fragrance of the smithy all over the world--spread fresh and new to the very door itself. old jim edged closer to the anvil and placed his hand on the somewhat frightened little foundling, sitting there so gravely, and clasping his doll in fondness to his heart. outside, it was noted, field had halted the red-headed keno for a moment's whispered conversation. keno nodded knowingly. then he came inside, and, addressing them all, but principally jim, he said: "say, before we open up, miss doc would like to know if she kin come." a silence fell on all the men. webber went hurriedly and closed the ponderous door. "wal, she wouldn't be apt to like it till we get a little practised up," said the diplomatic jim, who knew the tenor of his auditors. "tell her maybe she kin--some other time." "this ain't no regular elemercenary institution," added the teamster. "why not now?" demanded field. "why can't she come?" "becuz," said the smith, "this church ain't no place for a woman, anyhow." a general murmur of assent came from all the men save field and doc dennihan himself. "leave the show commence," said a voice. "start her up," said another. "wal, now," drawled jim, as he nervously stroked his beard, "let's take it easy. which opening do all you fellers prefer?" no one answered. one man finally inquired. "how many kinds is there?" jim said, "wal, there's the methodist, the baptist, the graeco-roman, episcopalian, and--the catch-as-catch-can." "give us the ketch-and-kin-ketch-as-you-kin," responded the spokesman. "mebbe we ought to begin with sunday-school," suggested the blacksmith. "that would sort of get us ready for the real she-bang." "how do you do it?" inquired lufkins, the teamster. "oh, it's just mostly catechism," jim imparted, sagely. "and what's catechism?" said bone. "catechism," drawled the miner, "is where you ask a lot of questions that only the children can answer." "i know," responded the blacksmith, squatting down before the anvil. "little skeezucks, who made you?" the quaint little fellow looked at the brawny man timidly. how pale, how wee he appeared in all that company, as he sat on the great lump of iron, solemnly winking his big, brown eyes and clinging to his make-shift of a doll! "aw, say, give him something easy," said lufkins. "that's what they used to bang at me," said the smith, defending his position. "but i'll ask him the easiest one of the lot. baby boy," he said, in a gentle way of his own, "who is it makes everything?--who makes all the lovely things in the world?" shyly the tiny man leaned back on the arm he felt he knew, and gravely, to the utter astonishment of the big, rough men, in his sweet baby utterance, he said: "bruv-ver--jim." a roar of laughter instantly followed, giving the youngster a start that almost shook him from his seat. "by jinks!" said keno. "that's all right. you bet he knows." but the sunday-school programme was not again attempted. when something like calm had settled once more on the audience, if-only jim remarked that he guessed they would have to quit their fooling and get down to the business of church. chapter vii the sunday happenings but to open the service when quiet reigned again and expectation was once more concentrated upon him afforded something of a poser still to the lanky old jim, elected to perform the offices of leading. "where's shorty hobb with his fiddle?" said he. "parky wouldn't leave him come," answered bone. "he loaned him money on his vierlin, and he says he owns it and won't leave him play in no church that ever got invented." "parky, hey?" said jim, drawlingly. "wal, bless his little home'pathic pill of a soul!" "he says he's fed more poor and done more fer charity than any man in town," informed a voice. "does, hey?" said the miner. "i'll bet his belly's the only poor thing he feeds regular. his hand ain't got callous cutting bread for the orphans. but he ain't a subject for church. if only i'd 'a' known what he was agoin' to do i'd made a harp. but let it go. we'll start off with roll-call and follow that up with a song." he therefore began with the name of webber, who responded "here," and proceeding to note who was present, he drawled the name or familiar sobriquet of each in turn, till all had admitted they were personally in attendance. "ahem," said jim, at the end of this impressive ceremony. "now we'll sing a hymn. what hymn do you fellows prefer?" there was not a great confusion of replies; in fact, the confusion resulted from a lack thereof. "as no one indicates a preference," announced the miner, "we'll tackle 'darling, i am growing old.' are there any objections? all in favor?--contrary minded?--the motion prevails. now, then, all together--'darling--'why don't you all git in?" "how does she go?" inquired webber. "she goes like this," jim replied, clearing his throat: "'darling, i am growing o-old, silver bars among the gold; shine upon--te dum te dumpty-- far from the old folks at home.'" "don't know it," said a voice. "neither do i." "nor i." "nor i." the sheep of the flock all followed in a chorus of "nor i's." "what's the matter with 'swing low, sweet cheery o'?" inquired lufkins. "suits me," jim replied. "steam up." he and the teamster, in duet, joined very soon by all the congregation, sang over and over the only lines they could conjure back to memory, and even these came forth in remarkable variety. for the greater part, however, the rough men were fairly well united on the simple version: "'swing low, sweet cheery o, comin' for to carry me home; swing low, sweet cheery o, comin' for to carry me home.'" this was sung no less than seven times, when jim at length lifted his hand for the end. "we'll follow this up with the lord's prayer," he said. laying his big, freckled hand on the shoulder of the wondering little pilgrim, seated so quietly upon the anvil, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. how thin, but kindly, was his rugged face as the lines were softened by his attitude! he began with hesitation. the prayer, indeed, was a stumbling towards the long-forgotten--the wellnigh unattainable. "'our father which art in heaven . . . our father which art in heaven--' "now, hold on, just a minute," and he paused to think before resuming and wiped his suddenly sweating brow. "'our father which art in heaven-- if i should die before i wake . . . give us our daily bread. amen.'" the men all sat in silence. then keno whispered, so loudly that every one could hear; "by jinks! i didn't think he could do it!" "we'll now have another hymn," announced the leader, "there used to be one that went on something about, 'i'm lost and far away from the shack, and it's dark, and lead me--somewhere--kindly light.' any one remember the words all straight?" "i don't," replied the blacksmith, "but i might come in on the chorus." "seems to me," said bone, "a candle or just a plain, unvarnished light, would 'a' went out. it must have bin a lantern." "objection well taken," responded jim, gravely. "i reckon i got it turned 'round a minute ago. it was more like: "'lead me on, kindly lantern, for i am far from home, and the night is dark.'" "it don't sound like a song--not exactly," ventured lufkins. "why not give 'em 'down on the swanee river'?" "all right," agreed the "parson," and therefore they were all presently singing at the one perennial "hymn" of the heart, universal in its application, sweetly religious in its humanism. they sang it with a woful lack of its own original lines; they put in string on string of "dum te dums," but it came from their better natures and it sanctified the dingy shop. when it was ended, which was not until it had gone through persistent repetitions, old jim was prepared for almost anything. "i s'pose you boys want a regular sermon," said he, "and if only i'd 'a' had the time--wal, i won't say what a torch-light procession of a sermon you'd have got, but i'll do the best i can." he cleared his throat, struck an attitude inseparable from american elocution, and began: "fellow-citizens--and ladies and gentlemen--we--we're an ornary lot of backwoods fellers, livin' away out here in the mountains and the brush, but god almighty 'ain't forgot us, all the same. he sent a little youngster once to put a heartful of happiness into men, and he's sent this little skeezucks here to show us boys we ain't shut off from everything. he didn't send us no bonanza--like they say they've got in silver treasury--but i wouldn't trade the little kid for all the bullion they will ever melt. we ain't the prettiest lot of ducks i ever saw, and we maybe blow the ten commandants all over the camp with giant powder once in a while, lookin' 'round for gold, but, boys, we ain't throwed out complete. we've got the love and pity of god almighty, sure, when he gives us, all to ourselves, a little helpless feller for to raise. i know you boys all want me to thank the father of us all, and that's what i do. and i hope he'll let us know the way to give the little kid a good square show, for christ's sake. amen." the men would have listened to more. they expected more, indeed, and waited to hear old jim resume. "that's about all," he said, as no one spoke, "except, of course, we'll sing some more of the hymns and take up collection. i guess we'd better take collection first." the congregation stirred. big hands went down into pockets. "who gets the collection?" queried field. jim drawled, "when it ain't buttons, it goes to the parson; when it is, the parson's wife gits in." "you 'ain't got no wife," objected bone. "that's why there ain't goin' to be no buttons," sagely answered the miner. "on the square, though, boys, this is all for the little skeezucks, to buy some genuine milk, from miss doc dennihan's goat." "what we goin' to put our offerings into?" asked the blacksmith, as the boys made ready with their contributions. "they used to hand around a pie-plate when i was a boy." "we'll try to get along with a hat," responded jim, "and keno here can pass it 'round. i've often observed that a hat is a handy thing to collect things in, especially brains." so the hat went quickly from one to another, sagging more and more in the crown as it travelled. the men had come forward to surround the anvil, with the tiny little chap upon its massive top, and not one in all the groups was there who did not feel that, left alone with the timid bit of a pilgrim, he could get him to talking and laughing in the briefest of moments. the hymns with which old jim had promised the meeting should conclude were all but forgotten. two or three miners, whose hunger for song was not to be readily appeased, kept bringing the subject to the fore again, however, till at length they were heard. "we're scarin' little skeezucks, anyhow," said the brawny smith, once more reviving the fire in the forge. "let's sing 'in the sweet by-and-by,' if all of us know it," suggested a young fellow scarcely more than a lad. "it's awful easy." "wal, you start her bilin'," replied the teamster. the young fellow blushed, but he nerved himself to the point and sang out, nervously at first, and then, when his confidence increased, in a clear, ringing tenor of remarkable purity, recalling the old-time words that once were so widely known and treasured: "'there's a land that is fairer than day, and by faith we can see it afar, for the father waits over the way to prepare us a dwelling-place there.'" then the chorus of voices, husky from neglect and crude from lack of culture, joined in the chorus, with a heartiness that shook the dingy building: "'in the sweet by-and-by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore; in the sweet by-and-by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.'" they followed this with what they knew of "home, sweet home," and so at last strolled out into the sunshine of the street, and surrounded the quaint little foundling, as he looked from one to another in baby gravity and sat in his timid way on the arm of "bruvver jim." "i'll tell you what," said the blacksmith, "now that we've found that we can do the job all right, we'll get up a christmas for little skeezucks that will lift the mountains clean up off the earth!" "good suggestion," jim agreed. "but the little feller feels tired now. i am goin' to take him home." and this he did. but after lunch no fewer than twenty of the men of borealis climbed up the trail to get another look at the quiet little man who glorified the cabin. but the darkness had only begun to creep through the lowermost channels of the canyons when skeezucks fell asleep. by then old jim, the pup, and keno were alone with the child. "keno, i reckon i'll wander quietly down and see if doc will let me buy a little milk," said jim. "you'd better come along to see that his sister don't interfere." keno expressed his doubts immediately, not only as to the excellence of goat's milk generally, but likewise as to any good that he could do by joining jim in the enterprise suggested. "anyway," he concluded, "doc has maybe went on shift by this time. he's workin' nights this week again." jim, however, prevailed. "you don't get another bite of grub in this shack, nor another look at the little boy, if you don't come ahead and do your share." therefore they presently departed, shutting tintoretto in the cabin to "watch." in half an hour, having interviewed doc dennihan himself on the hill-side quite removed from his cabin, the two worthies came climbing up towards their home once again, jim most carefully holding in his hands a large tin cup with half an inch of goat's milk at the bottom. while still a hundred yards from the house, they were suddenly startled by the mad descent upon them of the pup they had recently left behind. "huh! you young galoot," said jim. "you got out, i see!" when he entered the cabin it was dark. keno lighted the candle and jim put his cup on the table. then he went to the berth to awaken the tiny foundling and give him a supper of bread and milk. keno heard him make a sound as of one in terrible pain. the miner turned a face, deadly white, towards the table. "keno," he cried, "he's gone!" chapter viii old jim distraught for a moment keno failed to comprehend. then for a second after that he refused to believe. he ran to the bunk where jim was desperately turning down the blankets and made a quick examination of that as well as of the other beds. they were empty. hastening across the cabin, the two men searched in the berths at the farther end with parental eagerness, but all in vain, the pup meantime dodging between their legs and chewing at their trousers. "tintoretto!" said jim, in a flash of deduction. "he must have got out when somebody opened the door. somebody's been here and stole my little boy!" "by jinks!" said keno, hauling at his sleeves in excess of emotion. "but who?" "come on," answered jim, distraught and wild. "come down to camp! somebody's playin' us a trick!" again they shut the pup inside, and then they fairly ran down the trail, through the darkness, to the town below. a number of men were standing in the street, among them the teamster and field, the father of borealis. they were joking, laughing, wasting time. "boys," cried jim, as he hastened towards the group, "has any one seen little skeezucks? some one's played a trick and took him off! somebody's been to the cabin and stole my little boy!" "stole him?" said field. "why, where was you and keno?" "down to doc's to get some milk. he wanted bread and milk," jim explained, in evident anguish. "you fellows might have seen, if any one fetched him down the trail. you're foolin'. some of you took him for a joke!" "it wouldn't be no joke," answered lufkins, the teamster. "we 'ain't got him, jim, on the square." "of course we 'ain't got him. we 'ain't took him for no joke," said field. "nobody'd take him away like that." "why don't we ring the bar of steel we used for a bell," suggested one of the miners. "that would fetch the men--all who 'ain't gone back on shift." "good idea," said field. "but i ought to get back home and eat some dinner." he did not, however, depart. that jim was in a fever of excitement and despair they could all of them see. he hastened ahead of the group to the shop of webber. and taking a short length of iron chain, which he found on the earth, he slashed and beat at the bar of steel with frantic strength. the sharp, metallic notes rang out with every stroke. the bar was swaying like a pendulum. blow after blow the man delivered, filling all the hollows of the hills with wild alarm. out of saloons and houses men came sauntering, or running, according to the tension of their nerves. many thought some house must be afire. at least thirty men were presently gathered at the place of summons. with five or six informers to tell the news of jim's bereavement, all were soon aware of what was making the trouble. but none had seen the tiny foundling since they bade him good-bye in the charge of jim himself. "are you plum dead sure he's went?" said webber, the smith. "did you look all over the cabin?" "everywhere," said jim. "he's gone!" "wal, maybe some mystery got him," suggested bone. "jim, you don't suppose his father, or some one who lost him, come and nabbed him while you was gone?" they saw old jim turn pale in the light that came from across the street. keno broke in with an answer. "by jinks! jim was his mother! jim had more good rights to the little feller than anybody, livin' or dead!" "you bet!" agreed a voice. jim spoke with difficulty. "if any one did that"--he faltered--"why, boys, he never should have let me find him in the brush." "are you plum dead sure he's went?" insisted the blacksmith, whom the news had somewhat stunned. "i thought perhaps you fellows might have played a joke--taken him off to see me run around," said jim, with a faint attempt at a smile. "'ain't you got him, boys--all the time?" "aw, no, he'd be too scared," said bone. "we know he'd be scared of any one of us." "it ain't so much that," said field, "but i shouldn't wonder if his father, or some other feller just as good, came and took him off." "of course his father would have the right," said jim, haltingly, "but--i wish he hadn't let me find him first. you fellows are sure you ain't a-foolin'?" "we couldn't have done it--not on sunday--after church," said lufkins. "no, jim, we wouldn't fool that way." "you don't s'pose that parky might have took him, out of spite?" said jim, eager for hope in any direction whatsoever. "no! he hates kids worse than pizen," said the barkeep, decisively. "he's been a-gamblin' since four this afternoon, dealin' faro-bank." "we could go and search every shack in camp," suggested a listener. "what would be the good of that?" inquired field. "if the father came and took the little shaver, do you think he'd hide him 'round here in somebody's cabin?" the blacksmith said: "it don't seem as if you could have looked all over the house. he's such a little bit of a skeezucks." keno told him how they had searched in every bunk, and how the milk was waiting on the table, and how the pup had escaped when some one opened the door. the men all volunteered to go up on the hill with torches and lanterns, to see if the trail of the some one who had done this deed might not be discovered. accordingly, the lights were secured and the party climbed the slope. all of them entered the cabin and heard the explanation of exactly how old jim had found that the little chap was gone. webber was one of the number. to satisfy his incredulous mind, he searched every possible and impossible lurking-place where an object as small as a ball could be concealed. "i guess he's went," he agreed, at last. then out on the hill-side went the crowd, and breaking up in groups, each with its lanterns and torches, they searched the rock-strewn slope in every direction. the wavering lights went hither and yon, revealing now the faces of the anxious men, and then prodigious features of a clump of granite bowlders, jewelled with mica, sparkling in the light. intensely the darkness hedged the groups about. the sounds of their voices and of rocks that crunched beneath their boots alone disturbed the great, eternal calm; but the search was vain. the searchers had known it could be of no avail, for the puny foot of man could have made no track upon the slanted floor of granite fragments that constituted the hill-side. it was something to do for jim, and that was all. at length, about midnight, it came to an end. they lingered on the slope, however, to offer their theories, invariably hopeful, and to say that monday morning would accomplish miracles in the way of setting everything aright. many were supperless when all save jim and little keno had again returned to borealis and left the two alone at the cabin. "we'll save the milk in case he might come home by any chance," said the gray old miner, and he placed the cup on a shelf against the wall. in silence he cooked the humble dinner, which he placed on the table in front of his equally voiceless companion. keno and the pup went at the meal with unpoetic vigor, but jim could do no eating. he went to the door from time to time to listen. then he once more searched the blankets in the bunks. "wal, anyway," said he, at last, "he took his doll." chapter ix the guilty miss doc that keno and tintoretto should sleep was inevitable, after the way they had eaten. old jim then took his lantern and went out alone. perhaps his tiny foundling had wandered away by himself, he thought. searching and searching, up hill and down, lighting his way through the brush, the miner went on and on, to leave no spot unvisited. he was out all night, wandering here and climbing there on the hillside, pausing now and again to listen and to look about, almost expectantly, where naught could be seen save the mighty procession of the stars, and naught could be heard save the ringing of the inter-stellar silence as the earth swung steadily onward in her course. hour after hour of the darkness went by and found him searching still. with the coming of the morning he suddenly grasped at a startling thought. miss doc!--miss dennihan! she must have stolen his foundling! her recent climb to his cabin, her protracted stay, her baffled curiosity--these were ample explanation for the trick she must have played! how easily she might have watched the place, slipped in the moment the cabin was left unguarded, and carried off the little pilgrim! jim knew she would glory in such a revenge. she probably cared not a whit for the child, but to score against himself, for defeating her purpose when she called, she would doubtless have gone to any possible length. the miner was enraged, but a second later a great gush of thankfulness and relief surged upward in his heart. at least, the little man would not have been out all night in the hills! then growing sick in turn, he thought this explanation would be too good to be true. it was madness--only a hope! he clung to it tenaciously, however, then gave it up, only to snatch it back again in desperation as he hastened home to his cabin. "keno, wake up," he cried to his lodger, shaking him briskly by the shoulder. "keno! keno!" "what's the matter? time for breakfast?" asked keno, drowsily, risking only half an eye with which to look about. "why not call me gently?" "get up!" commanded jim. "i have thought of where little skeezucks has gone!" "where?" cried keno, suddenly aroused. "i'll go and kill the cuss that took him off!" "miss doc!" replied the miner. "miss doc!" "miss doc?" repeated keno, weakly, pausing in the act of pulling on his boots. "by jinks! say, i couldn't kill no woman, jim. how do you know?" "stands to reason," jim replied, and explaining his premises rapidly and clearly, he punched poor keno into something almost as good as activity. "by jinks! i can't believe it," said keno, who did believe it with fearful thoroughness. "jim, she wouldn't dare, an' us two fellers liable to bust her house to pieces." "don't you know she'd be dead sure to play a trick like that?" said jim, who could not bear to listen to a doubt. "don't you see she couldn't do anything else, bein' a woman?" "maybe--maybe," answered keno, with a sort of acquiescence that is deadlier than an out-and-out denial. "but--i wouldn't want to see you disappointed, jim--i wouldn't want to see it." "wal, you come on, that's all," said jim. "if it ain't so--i want to know it early in the day!" "but--what can i do?" still objected keno. "wouldn't you rather i'd stay home and git the breakfast?" "we don't want any breakfast if she 'ain't got the little boy. you come on!" keno came; so did tintoretto. the three went down the slope as the sun looked over the rim of the mountains. the chill and crispness of the air seemed a part of those early rays of light. in sight of the home of doc and miss dennihan, they paused and stepped behind a fence, for the door of the neat little house was open and the lady herself was sweeping off the steps, with the briskness inseparable from her character. she presently disappeared, but the door, to jim's relief, was left standing open. he proceeded boldly on his course. "now, i'll stay outside and hold the pup," said keno. "if anything goes wrong, you let the pup go loose," instructed jim. "he might distract her attention." thereupon he went in at the creaking little garden gate, and, leaving it open, knocked on the door and entered the house. he had hardly more than come within the room when miss doc appeared from her kitchen. "mercy in us, if you ain't up before your breakfast!" she said. "whatever do you want in my house at this time of mornin', you jim lazy-joints?" "you know what i came for," said jim. "i want my little boy." "your little boy?" she echoed. "i never knowed you had no little boy. you never said nuthin' 'bout no little boy when i was up to your cabin." jim's heart, despite his utmost efforts to be hopeful, was sinking. "you know i found a little kid," he said, less aggressively. "and some one's taken him off--stole him--that's what they've done, and i'll bet a bit it's you!" "wal, if i ever!" cried miss doc, her eyes lighting up dangerously. "did you come down here to tell me right to my face i stole from your dirty little shanty?" "i want my little boy," said jim. "wal, you git out of my house," commanded miss doc. "if john was up you'd never dare to stay here another minute. you clear out! a-callin' me a thief!" jim's hope collapsed in his bosom. the taking of the child he could gladly have forgiven. any excuse would have satisfied his anger--anything was bearable, save to know that he had come on a false belief. "miss doc," he said, "i only want the little kid. don't say he ain't here." "tellin' me i'd steal!" she said, in her indignation. "you shiftless, good-for-nothin'--" but she left her string of epithets incompleted, all on account of an interruption in the shape of tintoretto. keno had made up his mind that everything was going wrong, and he had loosed the pup. bounding in at the door, that enthusiastic bit of awkwardness and good intentions jumped on the front of miss doc's dress, gave a lick at her hand, scooted back to his master, and wagged himself against the tables, chairs, and walls with clumsy dexterity. sniffing and bumping his nose on the carpet, he pranced through the door to the kitchen. almost immediately jim heard the sound of something being bowled over on the floor--something being licked--something vainly striving with the over-affectionate pup, and then there came a coo of joy. "there he is!" cried jim, and before miss doc could lift so much as hand or voice to restrain him, he had followed tintoretto and fallen on his knees by the side of his lost little foundling, who was helplessly straddled by the pup, and who, for the first time, dropped his doll as he held out his tiny arms to be taken. "my little boy!" said the miner--"my little boy!" and taking both doll and little man in his arms he held them in passionate tenderness against his heart. "how da'st you come in my kitchen with your dirty boots?" demanded miss dennihan, in all her unabashed pugnacity. "it's all right, little skeezucks," said jim to the timid little pilgrim, who was clinging to his collar with all the strength of a baby's new confidence and hope. "did you think old brother jim was lost? did you want to go home and get some bread and milk?" "he ain't a bit hungry. he didn't want nuthin' to eat," said miss doc, in self-defence. "and you ain't no more fit to have that there child than a--" "goin' to have him all the same," old jim interrupted, starting for the door. "you stole him--that's what you did!" "i didn't do no sech thing," said the housewife. "i jest nachelly borrowed him--jest for over night. and now you've got him, i hope you're satisfied. and you kin jest clear out o' my house, do you hear? and i can't scrub and sweep too soon where your lazy, dirty old boots has been on the floor!" "wal," drawled jim, "i can't throw away these boots any too soon, neither. i wouldn't wear a pair of boots which had stepped on any floor of yours." he therefore left the house at once, even as the lady began her violent sweeping. interrupting keno's mad chortles of joy at sight of little skeezucks, jim gave him the tiny man for a moment's keeping, and, taking off his boots, threw them down before miss dennihan's gate in extravagant pride. then once more he took his little man on his arm and started away. but when he had walked a half-dozen rods, on the rocks that indented the tender soles of his stockinged feet, he was stepping with gingerly uncertainty. he presently came to a halt. the ground was not only lumpy, it was cold. "i'll tell you what," he slowly drawled, "in this little world there's about one chance in a million for a man to make a president of himself, and about nine hundred and ninety-nine chances in a thousand for him to make a fool of himself." "that's what i thought," said keno. "all the same, if only i had the resolution i'd leave them boots there forever!" "what for?" said keno. "wal," drawled jim, "a man can't always tell he comes of a proud family by the cut of his clothes. but, keno, you ain't troubled with pride, so you go back and fetch me the boots." then, when he presently drew his cowhide casings on, he sat for a moment enjoying the comfort of those soles beneath his feet. for the time that they halted where they were, he held his rescued little boy to his heart in an ecstasy such as he never had dreamed could be given to a man. chapter x preparations for christmas when the word spread 'round that jim and the quaint little foundling were once more united, the story of the episode at miss doc's home necessarily followed to make the tale complete. immensely relieved and grateful, to know that no dire calamity had befallen the camp's first and only child, the rough men nevertheless lost no time in conceiving the outcome to be fairly amusing. "you kin bet that doc was awake all the time, and listenin', as long as jim was there," said bone, "but six yoke of oxen couldn't 'a' dragged his two eyes open, or him out of bed, to mingle in the ceremonies." to prevent a recurrence of similar descents upon his household, jim arranged his plans in such a manner that the timid little skeezucks should never again be left alone. indeed, the gray old miner hardly ever permitted the little chap to be out of his sight. hour by hour, day by day, he remained at his cabin, playing with the child, telling him stories, asking him questions, making him promises of all the wonderful toys and playthings he would manufacture soon. once in a while the little fellow spoke. that utterance came with difficulty to his lips was obvious. he must always have been a silent, backward little fellow, and sad, as children rarely become at an age so tender. of who or what he was he gave no clew. he seemed to have no real name, to remember no parents, to feel no confidence in anything save "bruvver jim" and tintoretto. in the course of a week a number of names had been suggested for the tiny bit of a stranger, but none could suit the taste of jim. he waited still for a truant inspiration, and meanwhile "skeezucks" came daily more and more into use among the men of borealis. it was during this time that a parcel arrived at the cabin from the home of miss doc. it was fetched to the hill by doc himself, who said it was sent by his sister. he departed at once, to avoid the discussion which he felt its contents might occasion. on tearing it open old jim was not a little amazed to discover a lot of little garments, fashioned to the size of tiny skeezucks, with all the skill which lies--at nature's second thought--in the hand of woman. neat little undergarments, white little frocks, a something that the miner felt by instinct was a "nightie," and two pairs of the smallest of stockings rewarded the overhauling of the package, and left jim momentarily speechless. "by jinks!" said keno, pulling down his sleeves, "them are awful small fer us!" "if only i had the time," drawled jim, "i'd take 'em back to miss doc and throw them in her yard. we don't need anybody sewin' for little skeezucks. i was meanin' to make him somethin' better than these myself." "oh!" said keno. "well, we could give 'em to the pup. he'd like to play with them little duds." "no; i'll try 'em on the little boy tonight," reflected jim, "and then, if we find they ain't a fit, why, i'll either send 'em back or cut 'em apart and sew 'em all over and make 'em do." but once he had tried them on, their fate was sealed. they remained as much a part of the tiny man as did his furry doll. indeed, they were presently almost forgotten, for december being well advanced, the one great topic of conversation now was the christmas celebration to be held for the camp's one little child. ten of the big, rough citizens had come one evening to the cabin on the hill, to settle on some of the details of what they should do. the tiny pilgrim, whom they all regarded so fondly, had gone to sleep and jim had placed him in his bunk. in the chimney a glowing fire drove away the chill of the wintry air. "speakin' of catfish, of course we'll hang up his stockin'," said field. "christmas wouldn't be no christmas without a stockin'." "stockin'!" echoed the blacksmith. "we'll have to hang up a minin'-shaft, i reckon, for to hold all the things." "i'm goin' to make him a kind of kaliderscope myself, or maybe two or three," said one modest individual, stroking his chin. dunn, the most unworkman-like carpenter that ever built a crooked house, declared it was his intention to fashion a whole set of alphabetical blocks of prodigious size and unearthly beauty. "well, i can't make so much in the way of fancy fixin's, but you jest wait and see," said another. the blacksmith darkly hinted at wonders evolving beneath the curly abundance of his hair, and lufkins likewise kept his purposes to himself. "i s'pose we'd ought to have a tree," said jim. "we could make a christmas-tree look like the garden of eden before mrs. adam began to eat the ornaments." "that's the ticket," webber agreed. "that's sure the boss racket of them all." "we couldn't git no tree into this shanty," objected field. "this place ain't big enough to hold a christmas puddin'." "of course it is," said the carpenter. "it's ten foot ten by eighteen foot six inches, or i can't do no guessin'." "that 'mount of space couldn't hold jest me, on christmas," estimated the teamster. "and the whole camp sure will want to come," added another. "'ceptin' miss doc," suggested webber. "'ceptin' miss doc," agreed the previous speaker. "then why not have the tree down yonder, into webber's shop, same as church?" asked field. "we could git the whole camp in there." this was acclaimed a thought of genius. "it suits me down to the ground," said jim, with whom all ultimate decision lay, by right of his foster-parenthood of little skeezucks, "only i don't see so plain where we're goin' to git the tree. we're burnin' all the biggest brush around borealis, and there ain't a genuine christmas-tree in forty miles." the truth of this observation fell like a dampened blanket on all the company. "that's so," said webber. "that's just the luck!" "there's a bunch of willers and alders by the spring," suggested a hopeful person. "you pore, pitiful cuss," said field. "you couldn't have seen no christmas-tree in all your infancy." "if only i had the time," drawled jim, "i'd go across to the pinyon mountains and git a tree. perhaps i can do that yet." "if you'd do that, jim, that would be the biggest present of the lot," said webber. "you wouldn't have to do nuthin' more."' "wal, i'm goin' to make a noah's ark full of animals, anyway," said jim. "also a few cars and boats and a big tin horn--if only i've got the activity." "but we'll reckon on you for the tree," insisted the blacksmith. "then, of course, we want a great big christmas dinner." "what are you goin' to do fer a turkey?" inquired field. "and rich brown gravy?" added the carpenter. "and cranberry sauce and mince-pie?" supplemented lufkins. "well, maybe we could git a rabbit for the turkey," answered the smith. "and, by jinks! i kin make a lemon-pie that tastes like a chunk dropped out of heaven," volunteered keno, pulling at his sleeves. "but what about that rich brown gravy?" queried the carpenter. "smoky white can dish up the slickest dough-nuts you ever slapped your lip onto," informed the modest individual who stroked his chin. "we can have pertatoes and beans and slapjacks on the side," a hopeful miner reminded the company. "you bet. don't you worry; we can trot out a regular banquet," field assured them, optimistically. "s'posen we don't have turkey and cranberry sauce and a big mince-pie?" "i'd like that rich brown gravy," murmured the carpenter--"good and thick and rich and brown." "we could rig up a big, long table in the shop," planned the blacksmith, "and put a hundred candles everywhere, and have the tree all blazin' with lights, and you bet things would be gorgeous." "if we git the tree," said lufkins. "and the rabbit fer a turkey," added a friend. "well, by jinks! you'll git the lemon-pie all right, if you don't git nuthin' else," declared little keno. "if only i can plan it out i'll fetch the tree," said jim. "i'd like to do that for the little boy." "jim's an awful clever ole cuss," said field, trusting to work some benefit by a judicious application of flattery. "it ain't every man which knows the kind of a tree to chop. not all trees is christmas-trees. but ole jim is a clever ole duck, you bet." "wal," drawled jim, "i never suspect my own intelligence till a man begins to tell me i'm a clever old duck. still, i reckon i ain't over-likely to cut no cherry-trees over to the pinyon hills." "the celebration's comin' to a head in bully style, that's the main concern," said the teamster. "i s'pose we'd better begin to invite all the boys?" "if all of 'em come," suggested a listener, "that one jack-rabbit settin' up playin' turkey will look awful sick." "i'd hate to git left on the gravy," added the carpenter--"if there's goin' to be any gravy." "aw, we'll have buckets of grub," said the smith. "we'll ask 'em all to 'please bring refreshments,' same as they do in families where they never git a good square meal except at surprise-parties and birthday blow-outs. don't you fear about the feed." "well, we ought to git the jig to goin'," suggested field. "lots of the boys needs a good fair warnin' when they're goin' to tackle cookin' grub for a christmas dinner. i vote we git out of here and go down hill and talk the racket up." this motion was carried at once. the boys filed out with hearty good-nights, and wended their way down the slope, with the bite of the frosted air at their ears. then jim, at the very thought of travelling forty miles to fetch a tree for christmas gayeties, sat down before his fire to take a rest. chapter xi troubles and discoveries for the next ten days the talk of the camp was the coming celebration. moreover, man after man was surrounding himself with mystery impenetrable, as he drew away in his shell, so to speak, to undergo certain throes of invention and secret manufacture of presents for the tiny boy at the cabin on the hill. knowing nods, sly winks, and jealous guarding of their cleverness marked the big, rough fellows one by one. and yet some of the most secretive felt a necessity for consulting jim as to what was appropriate, what would please little skeezucks, and what was worthy to be tied upon the tree. that each and every individual thus laboring to produce his offering should be eager to excel his neighbor, and to win the greatest appreciation from the all-unknowing little pilgrim for his own particular toy or trinket, was a natural outcome of the christmas spirit actuating the manoeuvres. and all the things they could give would have to be made, since there was not a shop in a radius of a hundred miles where baubles for youngsters could be purchased, while borealis, having never had a baby boy before in all its sudden annals of being, had neglected all provision for the advent of tiny skeezucks. the carpenter came to the cabin first, with a barley-sack filled with the blocks he had made for the small foundling's christmas ecstasy. before he would show them, however, keno was obliged to leave the house and the tiny pilgrim himself was placed in a bunk from which he could not see. "i want to surprise him," explained the carpenter. he then dumped out his blocks. as lumber was a luxury in borealis, he had been obliged to make what shift he could. in consequence of this the blocks were of several sizes, a number were constructed of several pieces of board nailed together--and split in the process--no two were shaped alike, except for generalities, and no one was straight. however, they were larger than a man's two fists, they were gaudily painted, and the alphabet was sprinkled upon them with prodigal generosity. there were even hieroglyphics upon them, which the carpenter described as birds and animals. they were certainly more than any timid child could ever have demanded. "them's it," said dunn, watching the face of jim with what modest pride the situation would permit. "now, what i want you to do is to give me a genuine, candid opinion of the work." "wal, i'll tell you," drawled the miner, "whenever a man asks you for a candid opinion, that's the time to fill your shovel with guff. it's the only safe proceedin'. so i won't fool around with candid opinions, dunn, i'll just admit they are jewels. cut my diamonds if they ain't!" "i kind of thought so myself," confessed the carpenter. "but i thought as you was a first-class critic, why, i'd like to hear what you'd say." "no, i ain't no critic," jim replied. "a critic is a feller who can say nastier things than anybody else about things that anybody else can do a heap sight better than he can himself." "well, i do reckon, as who shouldn't say so, that nobody livin' into borealis but me could 'a' made them blocks," agreed dunn, returning the lot to his sack. "but i jest wanted to hear you say so, jim, fer you and me has had an eddication which lots of cusses into camp 'ain't never got. not that it's anything agin 'em, but--you know how it is. i'll bet the little shaver will like them better'n anything else he'll git." "oh, he'll like 'em in a different way," agreed the miner. "no doubt about that." and when the carpenter had gone old jim took his little foundling from the berth and sat him on his knee. in the tiny chap's arms the powder-flask-and-potato doll was firmly held. the face of the lady had wrinkled with a premature descent of age upon her being. one of her eyes had disappeared, while her soot-made mouth had been wiped across her entire countenance. the quaint bit of a boy was dressed, as usual, in the funny little trousers that came to his heels, while his old fur cap had been kept in requisition for the warmth it afforded his ears. he cuddled confidingly against his big, rough protector, but he made no sound of speaking, nor did anything suggestive of a smile come to play upon his grave little features. jim had told him of christmas by the hour--all the beauty of the story, so old, so appealing to the race of man, who yearns towards everything affording a brightness of hope and a faith in anything human. "what would little skeezucks like for his christmas?" the man inquired, for the twentieth time. the little fellow pressed closer against him, in baby shyness and slowly answered: "bruv-ver--jim." the miner clasped him tenderly against his heart. yet he had but scanty intimation of the all the tiny pilgrim meant. he sat with him throughout that day, however, as he had so many of these fleeting days. the larder was neglected; the money contributed at "church" had gone at once, to score against a bill at the store, as large as the cabin itself, and only the labors of keno, chopping brush for fuel, kept the home supplied even with a fire. jim had been born beneath the weight of some star too slow to move along. when keno came back to the cabin from his work in the brush it was well along in the afternoon. jim decided to go below and stock up the pantry with food. on arriving at the store, however, he met a new manner of reception. the gambler, parky, was in charge, as a recent purchaser of the whole concern. "you can't git no more grub-stake here without the cash," he said to jim. "and now you've come, you can pony up on the bill you 'ain't yet squared." "so?" said jim. "you bet your boots it's so, and you can't begin to pungle up a minute too soon!" was the answer. "i reckon you'd ask a chicken to pungle up the gravel in his gizzard if you thought he'd picked up a sliver of gold," jim drawled, in his lazy utterance. "and an ordinary chicken, with the pip thrown in, could pungle twice to my once." "ain't got the stuff, hey?" said parky. "broke, i s'pose? then maybe you'll git to work, you old galoot, and stop playin' parson and goody-goody games. you don't git nothing here without the chink. so perhaps you'll git to work at last." a red-nosed henchman of the gambler's put in a word. "i don't see why you 'ain't gone to work," he said. "don't you?" drawled jim, leaning on the counter to survey the speaker. "well, it looks to me as if you found out, long ago, that all work and no play makes a man a yankee." "i ain't no yankee, you kin bet on that!" said the man. "that's pretty near incredible," drawled jim. "and i ain't neither," declared the gambler, who boasted of being canadian. "don't you forget that, old boy." "no," jim slowly replied, "i've often noticed that all that glitters ain't american." "well, you can clear out of here and notice how things look outside," retorted parky. jim was slowly straightening up when the blacksmith and the teamster entered the place. they had heard the gambler's order and were thoroughly astounded. no man, howsoever poor and unprepared to pay a wretched bill, had ever been treated thus in borealis before. "what's the matter?" said webber. "nuthin', particularly," answered jim, in his slow, monotonous way, "only a difference of opinion. parky thinks he's brainy, and a gentleman--that's all." "i can see you don't git another snack of grub in here, my friend," retorted parky, adding a number of oaths. "and for just two cents i'd break your jaw and pitch you out in the street." "not with your present flow of language," answered jim. the teamster inquired, "why don't jim git any more grub?" "because i'm running this joint and he 'ain't got the cash," said parky. "you got anything to say about the biz?" "jim's got a call on me and my cash," replied the brawny webber. "jim, you tell him what you need, and i'll foot the bill." "i'll settle half, myself," added lufkins. "thanks, boys, not this evenin'," said jim, whose pride had singular moments for coming to the surface. "there's only one time of day when it's safe to deal with a gambler, and that's thirteen o'clock." "i wouldn't sell you nothing, anyway," said parky, with a swagger. "he couldn't git grub here now for no money--savvy?" "i wonder why you call it grub, now that it's come into your greasy hands!" drawled the miner, as he slowly started to leave the store. "i'd be afraid you'd deal me a dirty ace of spades instead of a decent slice of bacon." and, hands in pockets, he sauntered away, vaguely wondering what he should do. the blacksmith hung for a moment in the balance of indecision, rapidly thinking. then he followed where the gray old jim had gone, and presently overtook him in the road. "jim," he said, "what about poor little skeezucks? say, i'll tell you what we'll do: i'll wait a little, and then send field to the store and have him git whatever you need, and pretend it's all for himself. then we'll lug it up the hill and slide it into the cabin slick as a lead two-bits." "can't let you do it," said jim. "why not?" demanded webber. jim hesitated before he drawled his reply. "if only i had the resolution," said he, "i wouldn't take nothing that parky could sell." "when we git you once talkin' 'if-only,' the bluff is called," replied the smith, with a grin. "now what are you needin' at the shack?" "you rich fellers want to run the whole shebang," objected jim, by way of an easy capitulation. "there never yet was a feller born with a silver spoon in his mouth that didn't want to put it in every other feller's puddin'. . . . i was goin' to buy a can or two of condensed milk and a slab of bacon and a sack of flour and a bean or two and a little 'baccy, and a few things about like that." "all right," said the blacksmith, tabulating all these items on his fingers. "and field kin look around and see if there ain't some extrys for little skeezucks." "if only i had the determination i wouldn't accept a thing from parky's stock," drawled the miner, as before. "i'll go to work on the claim and pay you back right off." "kerrect," answered webber, as gravely as possible, thinking of the hundred gaudy promises old jim had made concerning his undeveloped and so far worthless claim. "i hope you'll strike it good and rich." "wal," drawled jim; "bad luck has to associate with a little good luck once in a while, to appear sort of half-way respectable. and my luck--same as any tired feller's--'ain't been right good sunday-school company for several years." so he climbed back up the hill once more, and, coming to his cabin, had a long, earnest look at the picks, bars, drills, and other implements of mining, heavy with dust, in the corner. "if only the day wasn't practically gone," said he, "i'd start to work on the claim this afternoon." but he touched no tools, and presently instead he took the grave little foundling on his knee and told him, all over, the tales the little fellow seemed most to enjoy. when the stock of provisions was finally fetched to the house by webber himself, the worthy smith was obliged to explain that part of the money supplied to field for the purchase of the food had been confiscated for debt at the store. in consequence of this the quantity had been cut to a half its intended dimensions. "and the worst of it is," said the blacksmith, in conclusion, "we all owe a little at the store, and parky's got suspicious that we're sneakin' things to you." indeed, as he left the house, he saw that certain red-nosed microbe of a human being attached to the gambler, spying on his visit to the hill. stopping for a moment to reflect upon the nearness of christmas and the needless worry that he might inflict by informing jim of his discovery, webber shook his head and went his way, keeping the matter to himself. but with food in the house old jim was again at ease, so much so, indeed, that he quite forgot to begin that promised work upon his claim. he had never worked except when dire necessity made resting no longer possible, and then only long enough to secure the wherewithal for sufficient food to last him through another period of sitting around to think. if thinking upon subjects of no importance whatsoever had been a lucrative employment, jim would certainly have accumulated the wealth of the whole wide world. he took his pick in his hands the following day, but placed it again in its corner, slowly, after a moment's examination of its blunted steel. three days went by. the weather was colder. bitter winds and frowning clouds were hastening somewhere to a conclave of the wintry elements. it was four days only to christmas. neither the promised noah's ark to present to tiny skeezucks nor the christmas-tree on which the men had planned to hang their gifts was one whit nearer to realization than as if they had never been suggested. meantime, once again the food-supply was nearly gone. keno kept the pile of fuel reasonably high, but cheer was not so prevalent in the cabin as to ask for further room. the grave little pilgrim was just a trifle quieter and less inclined to eat. he caught a cold, as tiny as himself, but bore its miseries uncomplainingly. in fact, he had never cried so much as once since his coming to the cabin; and neither had he smiled. in sheer concern old jim went forth that cold and windy afternoon of the day but four removed from christmas, to make at least a show of working on his claim. keno, skeezucks, and the pup remained behind, the little red-headed man being busily engaged in some great culinary mystery from which he said his lemon-pie for christmas should evolve. when presently jim stood beside the meagre post-hole he had made once upon a time, as a starter for a mining-shaft, he looked at it ruefully. how horridly hard that rock appeared! what a wretched little scar it was he had made with all that labor he remembered so vividly! what was the good of digging here? nothing! dragging his pick, he looked for a softer spot in which to sink the steel. there were no softer spots. and the pick helve grew so intensely cold! jim dropped it to the ground, and with hands thrust into his armpits, for the warmth afforded, he hunched himself dismally and scanned the prospect with doleful eyes. why couldn't the hill break open, anyhow, and show whether anything worth the having were contained in its bulk or not? a last summer's mullen stock, beating incessantly in the wind, seemed the only thing alive on all that vast outbulging of the earth. the stunted brush stiffly carded the breeze that blew so persistently. from rock to rock the gray old miner's gaze went wandering. so undisturbed had been the surface of the earth since he had owned the claim that a shallow channel, sluiced in the earth by a freshet of the spring long past, remained as the waters had cut it. slowly up the course of this insignificant cicatrice old jim ascended, his hands still held beneath his arms, his long mustache and his grizzled beard blown awry in the breeze. the pick he left behind. coming thus to a deeper gouge in the sand of the hill, he halted and gazed attentively at a thick seam of rock outcropping sharply where the long-gone freshet had laid it bare. in mining parlance it was "quartzy." to jim it appeared even more. he stooped above it and attempted to break away a fragment with his fingers. at this he failed. rubbing off the dust and sand wherewith old mother nature was beginning to cover it anew, he saw little spots, at which he scratched with his nails. "awful cold it's gittin'," he drawled to himself, and sitting down on the meagre bank of earth he once more thrust his hands beneath his coat and looked at the outcropping dismally. he had doubtless been gone from the cabin half an hour, and not a stroke had he given with his pick, when, as he sat there looking at the ground, the voice of keno came on the wind from the door of the shack. arising, jim started at once towards his home, leaving his pick on the hill-side a rod or two below. "what is it?" he called, as he neared the house. "calamerty!" yelled keno, and he disappeared within the door. jim almost made haste. "what kind of a calamity?" said he, as he entered the room. "what's went wrong?" "the lemon-pie!" said keno, whose face was a study in the art of expressing consternation. "oh," said jim, instantly relieved, "is that all?" "all?" echoed keno. "by jinks! i can't make another before it's christmas, to save my neck, and i used all the sugar and nearly all the flour we had." "is it a hopeless case?" inquired jim. "some might not think so," poor keno replied. "i scoured out the old dutch oven and i've got her in a-bakin', but--" "well, maybe she ain't so worse." "jim," answered keno, tragically, "i didn't find out till i had her bakin' fine. then i looked at the bottle i thought was the lemon extract, and, by jinks! what do you think?" "i don't feel up to the arts of creatin' lemon-pies," confessed the miner, warming himself before the fire. "what happened?" "you have to have lemon extract--you know that?" said keno. "all right." "well, by jinks, jim, it wasn't lemon extract after all! it was hair-oil!" a terrible moment of silence ensued. then jim said, "was it all the hair-oil i had?" "every drop," said keno. "wal," drawled the miner, sagely, "don't take on too hard. into each picnic some rain must fall." "but the boys won't eat it," answered keno, inconsolably. "you don't know," replied jim. "you never can tell what people will eat on christmas till the follerin' day. they'll take to anything that looks real pretty and smells seasonable. what did i do with my pick?" "you must have left it behind," said keno. "you ain't goin' to hit the pie with your pick?" "wal, not till christmas, anyway, keno, and only then in case we've busted all the knives and saws trying to git it apart," said jim, reassuringly. "would you keep it, sure, and feed it to 'em all the same?" inquired keno, forlornly, eager for a ray of hope. "i certainly would," replied the miner. "they won't know the diff between a lemon-pie and a can of tomatoes. so i guess i'll go and git my pick. it may come on to snow, and then i couldn't find it till the spring." without the slightest intention of working any more, jim sauntered back to the place where the pick was lying on the hill and took it up. by chance he thought of the ledge of quartz above in the rain-sluiced channel. "might as well hit her a lick," he drawled to himself, and climbing to the spot he drove the point of his implement into a crevice of the rock and broke away a piece of two or three pounds in weight. this he took in his big, red hands, which were numbing in the cold. for a moment he looked at the fragment of quartz with unbelieving eyes. he wet it with his tongue. then a something that answered in jim to excitement pumped from his heart abruptly. the rock was flecked all through with tiny specks of metal that the miner knew unerringly. it was gold. chapter xii the making of a christmas-tree despite the snow that fell that night, despite the near approach of christmas, old jim's discovery aroused a great excitement in the camp. that very evening the news was known throughout all borealis, and all next day, in the driving storm, the hill was visited, the ledge was viewed, and the topic was discussed at length in all its amazing features. teamsters, miners, loiterers--all, even including the gambler--came to pay their homage at the hiding-place of one of mammon's family. all the mountain-side was taken up in claims. the calmest man in all the hills was jim himself. parky made him an offer without the slightest hesitation. "i'll square off your bill at the store," he said, "and give you a hundred dollars' worth of grub for the claim and prospect just as she stands." "not to-day," old jim replied. "i never do no swapping at the other's feller's terms when i'm busy. we've got to get ready for christmas, and you don't look to me like santy claus hunting 'round for lovely things to do." "anyway, i'll send up a lot of grub," declared the gambler, with a wonderful softening of the heart. "i was foolin'--just havin' a joke--the last time you was down to the store. you know you can have the best we've got in the deck." "wal, i 'ain't washed the taste of your joke clean out of my mouth just yet, so i won't bother you to-day," drawled jim; and with muttered curses the gambler left, determined to have that ledge of gold-bearing rock, let the cost be what it might. "i guess we'll have to quit on that there christmas-tree," said the blacksmith, who was present with others at the cabin. "seems you didn't have time to go to the pinyon hills and fetch one back." "if only i hadn't puttered 'round with the work on the claim," said jim, "we might have had that tree as well as not. but i'll tell you what we can do. we can cut down the alders and willows at the spring, and bind a lot together and tie on some branches of mountain-tea and make a tree. that is, you fellers can, for little skeezucks ain't a-feelin' right well to-day, and i reckon i'll stay close beside him till he spruces up." "what about your mine?" inquired lufkins. "it ain't agoin' to run away," said the old philosopher, calmly. "i'll let it set there for a few more days, as long as i can't hang it up on the tree. it's just my little present to the boy, anyhow." if anything had been needed to inject new enthusiasm into the plans for a christmas celebration or to fire anew the boyhood in the men, the find of gold at jim's very door would have done the trick a dozen times over. with hearts new-created for the simple joys of their labor, the big rough fellows cut the meagre growth of leafless trees at the spring in the small ravine, and gathered evergreen mountain-tea that grew in scrawny clusters here and there on the mountains. armful after armful of this, their only possible material, they carried to the blacksmith's shop below, and there wrought long and hard and earnestly, tying together the wisps of green and the boughs and trunks of tender saplings. four of the stalks, the size of a lady's wrist, they fastened together with twisted wire to form the main support, or body, of their tree, to this the reconstructed, enlarged, and strengthened branches were likewise wired. lastly, the long, green spikes of the mountain shrub were tied on, in bunches, like so many worn-out brooms. the tree, when completed and standing in its glory in the shop, was a marvellous creation, fully as much like a fir from the forest as a hair-brush is like a palm. then began the scheme of its decoration. one of the geniuses broke up countless bottles, for the red and green glass they afforded, and, tying the pieces in slings of cord, hung them in great profusion from the tree's peculiar arms. from the ceiling of his place of business, bone, the barkeep, cut down a fluffy lot of colored paper, stuck there in a great rosette, and with this he added much original beauty to the pile. out of cigar-boxes came a great heap of bright tin-foil that went on the branches in a way that only men could invent. the carpenter loaded the structure with his gaudy blocks. the man who had promised to make a "kind of kaliderscope" made four or five instead of one. they were white-glass bottles filled with painted pebbles, buttons, dimes, chopped-up pencils, scraps of shiny tin, and anything or everything that would lend confusion or color to the bottle's interior as the thing was rolled about or shaken in the hands. these were so heavy as to threaten the tree's stability. therefore, they had to be placed about its base on the floor. the blacksmith had made a lot of little axes, shovels, picks, and hammers, all of which had been filed and polished with the greatest care and affectionate regard for the tiny man whose tree and christmas all desired to make the finest in the world. the teamster had evolved, from the inside lining of his winter coat, a hybrid duck-dog-bear that he called a "woolly sheep." one of the men had whittled out no less than four fat tops, all ringed with colors and truly beautiful to see, that he said were the best he had ever beheld, despite the fact that something was in them that seemed to prevent them from spinning. another old fellow brought a pair of rusty skates which were large enough for a six-foot man. he told of the wonderful feats he had once performed on the ice as he hung them on the tree for little skeezucks. the envy of all was awakened, however, by field, the father of the camp, who fetched a drum that would actually make a noise. he had built this wonder out of genuine sheep-skin, stretched over both of the ends of a bright tin can of exceptional size, from which he had eaten the contents solely with the purpose in view of procuring the metal cylinder. there were wooden animals, cut-out guns, swords and daggers, wagons--some of them made with spools for wheels--a sled on which the paint was still wet, and dolls suspiciously suggestive of potato-mashers and iron spoons, notwithstanding their clothing. there were balls of every size and color, coins of gold and silver, and books made up of pasted pictures, culled for the greater part from cans of peaches, oysters, tomatoes, lobsters, and salmon. nearly every man had fashioned something, and hardly anything had been left unpainted. the clumsy old "boys" of the town had labored with untold patience to perfect their gifts. their earnestness over the child and the day was a beautiful thing to see. never were presents more impressive as to weight. the men had made them splendidly strong. the gifts had been ticketed variously, many being marked "for little skeezucks," but by far the greatest number bore the inscription: "for bruvver jim's baby--merry christmas." the tree, by the time the things had been lashed upon its branches, needed propping and guying in every direction. the placing of big, white candles upon it, however, strained the skill and self-control of the men to the last degree. if a candle prefers one set of antics to another, that set is certainly embodied in the versatile schemes for lopping over, which the wretched thing will develop on the best-behaving tree in the world. on a home-made tree the opportunities for a candle's enjoyment of this, its most diverting of accomplishments, are increased remarkably. the day was cold, but the men perspired from every pore, and even then the night came on before the work was completed. when at length they ceased their labors for the day, there was still before them the appalling task of preparing the christmas banquet. in the general worry incident to all such preparations throughout the world, parky, the gambler, fired an unexpected shot. he announced his intention of giving the camp a grand celebration of his own. the "palace" saloon would be thrown wide open for the holiday, and food, drink, music, and dancing would be the order of the memorable occasion. "it's a game to knock our tree and banquet into a cocked hat," said the blacksmith, grimly. "well--he may get some to come, but none of old jim's friends or the fellers which likes little skeezucks is goin' to desert our own little festival." nevertheless, the glitter of the home-made tree in the dingy shop was dimmed. chapter xiii their christmas-day the day before christmas should, by right of delights about to blossom, be nearly as happy as the sweet old carnival itself, but up at the cabin on the hill it was far from being joyous. the tiny mite of a foundling was not so well as when his friends had left him on the previous afternoon. he was up and dressed, sitting, in his grave little way, on the miner's knee, weakly holding his crushed-looking doll, but his cold had increased, his sweet baby face was paler, the sad, dumb look in his eyes was deeper in its questioning, the breakfast that the fond old jim had prepared was quite untasted. "he ain't agoin' to be right down sick, of course?" said the blacksmith, come to report all the progress made. "natchelly, we'd better go on, gittin' ready fer the banquet? he'll be all right fer to-morrow?" "oh yes," said jim. "there never yet was a christmas that wouldn't get a little youngster well. he'll come to the tree, you bet. it's goin' to be the happiest time he ever had." outside, the red-headed keno was chopping at the brush. the weather was cold and windy, the sky gray and forbidding. when the smith had gone, old jim, little skeezucks, and the pup were alone. tintoretto, the joyous, was prancing about with a boot in his jaws. he stumbled constantly over its bulk, and growled anew at every interference with his locomotion. "does little pardner like the pup?" said jim, patting the sick little man on the back with his clumsy but comforting hand. "do you want him to come here and play?" the wee bit of a parentless, deserted boy slowly shook his head. "don't you like him any more?" said jim. a weak little nod was the answer. "is there anything the baby wants?" inquired the miner, tenderly. "what would little skeezucks like?" for the very first time since his coming to the camp the little fellow's brown eyes abruptly filled with tears. his tiny lip began to tremble. "bruv-ver jim," he said, and, leaning against the rough old coat of the miner, he cried in his silent way of passionate longing, far too deep in his childish nature for the man to comprehend. "poor little man ain't well," said jim, in a gentle way of soothing. "bruvver jim is here all right, and goin' to stay," and, holding the quiet little figure to his heart, he stood up and walked with him up and down the dingy cabin's length, till the shaking little sobs had ceased and the sad little man had gone to sleep. all day the miner watched the sleeping or the waking of the tiny pilgrim. the men who came to tell of the final completion of the tree and the greater preparations for the feast were assured that the one tiny guest for whom their labors of love were being expended would surely be ready to enjoy the celebration. the afternoon gave way to night in the manner common to wintry days. from time to time a gust of wind tore the fleece from the clouds and hurled it in snow upon the silent earth. dimly the lights of the cabins shone through the darkness and the chill. at the blacksmith's shop the wind went in as if to warm itself before the forge, only to find it chill and black, wherefore it crept out again at the creaking door. a long, straight pencil of snow was flung through a chink, across the earthen floor and against the swaying christmas-tree, on which the, presents, hanging in readiness for little skeezucks, beat out a dull, monotonous clatter of tin and wood as they collided in the draught. the morning--christmas morning--broke with one bright gleam of sunlight, shining through the leaden banks before the cover of clouds was once more dropped upon the broken rim of mountains all about. old jim was out of his bunk betimes, cooking a breakfast fit, he said, "to tempt a skeleton to feast." true to his scheme of ensnaring the gray old miner in an idleness with regard to his mine which should soon prove a fatal mistake, parky, the gambler, had sent a load of the choicest provisions from the store to the cabin on the hill. only too glad of the daintier morsels thus supplied for his ailing little guest, old jim had made but feeble protest when the things arrived, and now was preparing a meal from the nicest of the packages. little skeezucks, however, waked in a mood of lethargy not to be fathomed by mere affection. not only did he turn away at the mere suggestion of eating, but he feebly hid his face and gave a little moan. "he ain't no better," jim announced, putting down a breakfast-dish with its cargo quite untasted. "i wish we had a little bit of medicine." "what kind?" said the worried keno. "it wouldn't make much difference," answered the miner. "anything is medicine that a doctor prescribes, even if it's only sugar-and-water." "but there ain't a doctor into camp," objected keno, hauling at his sleeves. "and the one they had in bullionville has went away, and he was fifty miles from here." "i know," said jim. "you don't think he's sick?" inquired keno, anxiously. jim looked long at his tiny foundling dressed in the nightie that came below his feet. a dull, heavy look was in the little fellow's eyes, half closed and listless. "he ain't no better," the miner repeated. "i don't know what to do." keno hesitated, coughed once or twice, and stirred the fire fiercely before he spoke again. then he said, "miss doc is a sort of female doctor. she knows lots of female things." "yes, but she can't work 'em off on the boy," said jim. "he ain't big enough to stand it." "no, i don't suppose he is," agreed keno, going to the window, on which he breathed, to melt away the frosty foliage of ice. "i think there's some of the boys a-comin'--yep--three or four." the boots of the men could be heard, as they creaked on the crisply frozen snow, before the visitors arrived at the door. keno let them in, and with them an oreole of chill and freshness flavored spicily of winter. there were three--the carpenter, bone, and lufkins. "how's the little shaver?" bone inquired at once. "about the same," said jim. "and how's the tree?" "all ready," answered lufkins. "old webber's got a bully fire, and iron melting hot, to warm the shop. the tree looks great. she's all lit up, and the doors all shut to make it dark, and you bet she's a gem--a gorgeous gem--ain't she, fellers?" the others agreed that it was. "and the boys are nearly all on deck," resumed the teamster, "and webber wanted to know if the morning--christmas morning--ain't the time for to fetch the boy." "wal, some might think so," jim replied, unwilling to concede that the tiny man in the bunk was far too ill to join in the cheer so early in the day. "but the afternoon is the regular parliamentary time, and, anyway, little skeezucks 'ain't had his breakfast, boys, and--we want to be sure the shop is good and warm." "the boys is all waitin' fer to give three cheers," said the carpenter, "and we're goin' to surprise you with a christmas song called 'massa's in the cole, cole ground.'" "shut up!" said bone; "you're givin' it all away. so you won't bring him down this mornin'?" "well, we'll tell 'em," agreed the disappointed lufkins. "what time do you think you'll fetch the little shaver, then, this afternoon?" "i guess about twelve," said jim. "how's he feelin'?" inquired the carpenter. "wal, he don't know how to feel on christmas yet," answered the miner, evasively. "he doesn't know what's a-comin'." "wait till he sees them blocks," said the carpenter, with a knowing wink. "i ain't sayin' nothin'," added lufkins, with the most significant smile, "but you jest wait." "nor me ain't doin' any talkin'," said bone. "well, the boys will all be waitin'," was the teamster's last remark, and slowly down the whitened hill they went, to join their fellows at the shop of the smith. the big, rough men did wait patiently, expectantly, loyally. blowing out the candles, to save them for the moment when the tiny child should come, they sat around, or stood about, or wandered back and forth, each togged out in his very best, each with a new touch of christmas meaning in his heart. behind the tree a goodly portion of the banquet was in readiness. keno's pie was there, together with a mighty stack of doughnuts, plates on plates of pickles, cans of fruit preserves, a mighty pan of cold baked beans, and a fine array of biscuits big as a man's two fists. from time to time the carpenter, who had saved up his appetite for nearly twenty-four hours, went back to the table and feasted his eyes on the spread. at length he took and ate a pickle. from that, at length, his gaze went longingly to keno's pie. how one little pie could do any good to a score or so of men he failed to see. at last, in his hunger, he could bear the temptation no longer. he descended on the pie. but how it came to be shied through the window, practically intact, half a moment later, was never explained to the waiting crowd. by the time gray noon had come across the mountain desolation to the group of little shanties in the snow, old jim was thoroughly alarmed. little skeezucks was helplessly lying in his arms, inert, breathing with difficulty, and now and again moaning, as only a sick little mite of humanity can. "we can't take him down," said the miner, at last. "he ought to have a woman's care." keno was startled; his worry suddenly engulfed him. "what kin we do?" he asked, in helplessness. "miss doc's a decent woman," answered jim, in despair. "she might know what to do." "you couldn't bring yourself to that?" asked keno, thoroughly amazed. "i could bring myself to anything," said jim, "if only my little boy could be well and happy." "then you ain't agoin' to take him down to the tree?" "how can i?" answered jim. "he's awful sick. he needs something more than i can give. he needs--a mother. i didn't know how sick he was gettin'. he won't look up. he couldn't see the tree. he can't be like the most of little kids, for he don't even seem to know it's christmas." "aw, poor little feller!" said keno. "jim, what we goin' to do?" "you go down and ask miss doc if i can fetch him there," instructed jim. "i think she likes him, or she wouldn't have made his little clothes. she's a decent woman, and i know she's got a heart. go on the run! i'm sorry i didn't give in before." the fat little keno ran, in his shirt-sleeves, and without his hat. jim was afraid the motionless little foundling was dying in his arms. he could presently wait no longer, either for keno's return or for anything else. he caught up two of the blankets from the bed, and, wrapping them eagerly, swiftly about the moaning little man, left his cabin standing open and hastened down the white declivity as fast as he could go, tintoretto, with puppy whinings of concern, closely tagging at his heels. lufkins, starting to climb once more to the cabin, beheld him from afar. with all his speed he darted back to the blacksmith-shop and the tree. "he coming!" he cried, when fifty yards away. "light the candles--quick!" in a fever of joy and excitement the rough fellows lighted up their home-made tree. the forge flung a largess of heat and light, as red as holly, through the gloom of the place. all the men were prepared with a cheer, their faces wreathed with smiles, in a new sort of joy. but the moments sped away in silence and nothing of jim and the one small cause of their happiness appeared. indeed, the gray old miner was at dennihan's already. keno had met him on the hill with an eager cry that welcome and refuge were gladly prepared. with her face oddly softened by the news and appeal, miss doc herself came running to the gate, her hungry arms outstretched to take the child. "just make him well," was jim's one cry. "i know a woman can make him well." and all afternoon the men at the blacksmith's-shop kept up their hope. keno had come to them, telling of the altered plans by which little skeezucks had found his way to miss doc, but by special instruction he added that jim was certain that improvement was coming already. "he told me that evenin' is the customary hour fer to have a tree, anyhow," concluded keno, hopefully. "he says he was off when he said to turn it loose at noon." "does he think miss doc can git the little feller fixed all up to celebrate to-night?" inquired bone. "is that the bill of fare?" "that's about it," said keno, importantly. "i'm to come and let you know when we're ready." impatient for the night to arrive, excited anew, when at last it closed in on the world of snow and mountains, the celebrators once more gathered at the shop and lighted up their tree. the wind was rushing brusquely up the street; the snow began once more to fall. from the "palace" saloon came the sounds of music, laughter, song, and revelry. light streamed forth from the window in glowing invitation. all day long its flow of steaming drinks and its endless succession of savory dishes had laded the air with temptation. not a few of the citizens of borealis had succumbed to the gayer attractions of parky's festival, but the men who had builded a christmas-tree and loaded its branches with presents waited and waited for tiny skeezucks in the dingy shop. the evening passed. night aged in the way that wintry storm and lowering skies compel. dismally creaked the door on its rusted hinges. into the chink shot the particles of snow, and formed again that icy mark across the floor of the shop. one by one the candles burned away on the tree, gave a gasp, a flare, and expired. silently, loyally the group of big, rough miners and toilers sat in the cheerless gloom, hearing that music, in its soullessness, come on the gusts of the storm--waiting, waiting for their tiny guest. at length a single candle alone illumined their pitiful tree, standing with its meagre branches of greenery stiffly upheld on its scrawny frame, while the darkness closed sombrely in upon the glint of the toys they had labored to make. then finally keno came, downcast, pale, and worried. "the little feller's awful sick," he said. "i guess he can't come to the tree." his statement was greeted in silence. "then, maybe he'll see it to-morrow," said the blacksmith, after a moment. "it wouldn't make so very much odds to us old cusses. christmas is for kids, of course. so we'll leave her standing jest as she is." slowly they gave up their final hopes. slowly they all went out in the storm and night, shutting the door on the christmas celebration now abandoned to darkness, the creak of the hinges, the long line of snow inside that pointed to the tree. one by one they bade good-night to webber, the smith, and so went home to many a cold little cabin, seemingly hunched like a freezing thing in the driving storm. chapter xiv "if only i had the resolution" for the next three or four days the tiny bit of a man at miss doc's seemed neither to be worse nor better of his ailment. the hand of lethargy lay with dulling weight upon him. old jim and miss dennihan were baffled, though their tenderness increased and their old animosity disappeared, forgotten in the stress of care. that the sister of doc could develop such a spirit of motherhood astounded nearly every man in the camp. accustomed to acerbities of criticism for their many shortcomings from her ever-pointed tongue, they marvelled the more at her semi-partnership with jim, whom of all the population of the town she had scorned and verbally castigated most frequently. resupplying their tree with candles, the patient fellows had kept alive their hope of a great day of joy and celebration, only to see it steadily receding from their view. at length they decided to carry their presents to the house where the wan little foundling lay, trusting the sight of their labors of love might cheer him to recovery. to the utter amazement of her brother, miss doc not only permitted the big, rough men to track the snow through her house, when they came with their gifts, but she gave them kindly welcome. in her face that day they readily saw some faint, illusive sign of beauty heretofore unnoticed, or perhaps concealed. "he'll come along all right," she told them, with a smile they found to be singularly sweet, "for jim do seem a comfort to the poor little thing." old jim would surely have been glad to believe that he or anything supplied a comfort to the grave little sick man lying so quietly in bed. the miner sat by him all day long, and far into every night, only climbing to his cabin on the hill when necessity drove him away. then he was back there in the morning by daylight, eager, but cheerful always. the presents were heaped on the floor in sight of the pale little skeezucks, who clung unfailingly, through it all, to the funny makeshift of a doll that "bruvver jim" had placed in his keeping. he appeared not at all to comprehend the meaning of the gifts the men had brought, or to know their purpose. that never a genuinely happy christmas had brightened his little, mysterious life, miss dennihan knew by a swift, keen process of womanly intuition. "i wisht he wasn't so sad," she said, from time to time. "i expect he's maybe pinin'." on the following day there came a change. the little fellow tossed in his bed with a fever that rose with every hour. with eyes now burning bright, he scanned the face of the gray old miner and begged for "bruvver jim." "this is bruvver jim," the man assured him repeatedly. "what does baby want old jim to do?" "bruv-ver--jim," came the half-sobbed little answer. "bruv-ver--jim." jim took him up and held him fast in his arms. the weary little mind had gone to some tragic baby past. "no-body--wants me--anywhere," he said. the heart in old jim was breaking. he crooned a hundred tender declarations of his foster-parenthood, of his care, of his wish to be a comfort and a "pard." but something of the fever now had come between the tiny ears and any voice of tenderness. "bruv-ver--jim; bruv-ver--jim," the little fellow called, time and time again. with the countless remedies which her lore embraced, the almost despairing miss doc attempted to allay the rising fever. she made little drinks, she studied all the bottles in her case of simples with unremitting attention. keno, the always-faithful, was sent to every house in camp, seeking for anything and everything that might be called a medicine. it was all of no avail. by the time another day had dawned little skeezucks was flaming hot with the fever. he rolled his tiny body in baby delirium, his feeble little call for "bruvver jim" endlessly repeated, with his sad little cry that no one wanted him anywhere in the world. in his desperation, jim was undergoing changes. his face was haggard; his eyes were ablaze with parental anguish. "i know a shrub the injuns sometimes use for fever," he said to miss doc, at last, when he suddenly thought of the aboriginal medicine. "it grows in the mountains. perhaps it would do him good." "i don't know," she answered, at the end of her resources, and she clasped her hands. "i don't know." "if only i can git a horse," said jim, "i might be able to find the shrub." he waited, however, by the side of the moaning little pilgrim. then, half an hour later, bone, the bar-keep, came up to see him, in haste and excitement. they stood outside, where the visitor had called him for a talk. "jim," said bone, "you're in fer trouble. parky is goin' to jump your claim to-night--it bein' new year's eve, you know--at twelve o'clock. he told me so himself. he says you 'ain't done assessment, nor you can't--not now--and you 'ain't got no more right than anybody else to hold the ground. and so he's meanin' to slap a new location on the claim the minute this here year is up." "wal, the little feller's awful sick," said jim. "i'm thinkin' of goin' up in the mountains for some stuff the injuns sometimes use for fever." "you can't go and leave your claim unprotected," said bone. "how did parky happen to tell you his intentions?" said jim. "he wanted me to go in with him," bone replied, flushing hotly at the bare suggestion of being involved in a trick so mean. "he made me promise, first, i wouldn't give the game away, but i've got to tell it to you. i couldn't stand by and see you lose that gold-ledge now." "to-morrow is new year's, sure enough," jim replied, reflectively. "that mine belongs to little skeezucks." "but parky's goin' to jump it, and he's got a gang of toughs to back him up." "i'd hate to lose it, bone. it would seem hard," said jim. "but i ought to go up in the hills to find that shrub. if only i had a horse. i could go and git back in time to watch the claim." bone was clearly impatient. "don't git down to the old 'if only' racket now," he said, with heat. "i busted my word to warn you, jim, and the claim is worth a fortune to you and little skeezucks." jim's eyes took on a look of pain. "but, bone, if he don't git well," he said--"if he don't git well, think how i'd feel! couldn't you get me a horse? if only--" "hold on," interrupted bone, "i'll do all i kin for the poor little shaver, but i don't expect i can git no horse. i'll go and see, but the teams has all got the extry stock in harness, fer the roads is mighty tough, and snow, down the cañon, is up to the hubs of the wheels. you've got to be back before too late or your claim goes up, fer, jim, you know as well as me that parky's got the right of law!" "if only i could git that shrub," said jim, as his friend departed, and back to the tossing little man he went, worried to the last degree. bone was right. the extra horses were all in requisition to haul the ore to the quartz-mill through a stretch of ten long miles of drifted snow. moreover, jim had once too often sung his old "if-only" cry. the men of borealis smiled sadly, as they thought of tiny skeezucks, but with doubt of jim, whose resolutions, statements, promises, had long before been estimated at their final worth. "there ain't no horse he could have," said lufkins, making ready himself to drive his team of twenty animals through wind and snow to the mill, "and even if we had a mule, old jim would never start. it's comin' on to snow again to-night, and that's too much for jim." bone was not at once discouraged, but in truth he believed, with all the others, that jim would no more leave the camp to go forth and breast the oncoming snow to search the mountains for a shrub than he would fetch a tree for the christmas celebration or work good and hard at his claim. the bar-keep found no horse. he expected none to be offered, and felt his labors were wasted. the afternoon was well advanced when he came again to the home of miss doc, where jim was sitting by the bed whereon the little wanderer was burning out his life. "jim," he said, in his way of bluntness, "there ain't no horse you can git, but i warned you 'bout the claim, and i don't want to see you lose it, all fer nothin'." "he's worse," said jim, his eyes wildly blazing with love for the fatherless, motherless little man. "if only i had the resolution, bone, i'd go and git that shrub on foot." "you'd lose yer claim," said bone. miss doc came out to the door where they stood. she was wringing her hands. "jim," she said, "if you think you kin, anyhow, git that injun stuff, why don't you go and git it?" jim looked at her fixedly. not before had he known that she felt the case to be so nearly hopeless. despair took a grip on his vitals. a something of sympathy leaped from the woman's heart to his--a something common to them both--in the yearning that a helpless child had stirred. "i'll get my hat and go," he said, and he went in the house, to appear almost instantly, putting on the battered hat, but clothed far too thinly for the rigors of the weather. "but, jim, it's beginning to snow, right now," objected bone. "i may get back before it's dark," old jim replied. "i can see you're goin' to lose the claim," insisted bone. "i'm goin' to git that shrub!" said jim. "i won't come back till i git that shrub." he started off through the gate at the back of the house, his long, lank figure darkly cut against the background of the white that lay upon the slope. a flurry of blinding snow came suddenly flying on the wind. it wrapped him all about and hid him in its fury, and when the calmer falling of the flakes commenced he had disappeared around the shoulder of the hill. chapter xv the gold in borealis the men to whom the bar-keep told the story of jim and his start into the mountains smiled again. the light in their eyes was half of affection and half of concern. they could not believe the shiftless old miner would long remain away in the snow and wind, where more than simple resolution was required to keep a man afoot. they would see him back before the darkness settled on the world, perhaps with something in his hand by way of a weed, if not precisely the "injun" thing he sought. but the darkness came and jim was not at hand. the night and the snow seemed swirling down together in the gorge, from every lofty uprise of the hills. it was not so cold as the previous storm, yet it stung with its biting force. at six o'clock the blacksmith called at the dennihans', in some anxiety. doc himself threw open the door, in response to the knock. how small and quiet he appeared, here at home! "no, he 'ain't showed up," he said of jim. "i don't know when he'll come." webber reported to the boys. "well, mebbe he's gone, after all," said field. "he looked kind of funny 'round the eyes when he started," bone informed them. "i hope he'll git his stuff," and they wandered down the street again. at eight o'clock the bar-keep returned once more to miss doc's. no jim was there. the sick little foundling was feebly calling in his baby way for "bruvver jim." the fever had him in its furnace. restlessly, but now more weakly weaving, the tiny bit of a man continued as ever to cling to his doll, which he held to his breast with all that remained of his strength. it seemed as if his tired baby brain was somehow aware that jim was gone, for he begged to have him back in a sweet little way of entreaty, infinitely sad. "bruvver jim?" he would say, in his questioning little voice--"bruvver jim?" and at last he added, "bruvver jim--do--yike--'ittle nu--thans." at this miss doc felt her heart give a stroke of pain, for something that was almost divination of things desolate in the little fellow's short years of babyhood was granted to her woman's understanding. "bruvver jim will come," she said, as she knelt beside the bed. "he'll come back home to the baby." but nine o'clock and ten went by, and only the storm outside came down from the hills to the house. hour after hour the lamp was burning in the window as a beacon for the traveller; hour after hour miss dennihan watched the fever and the weary little fellow in its toils. at half-past ten the blacksmith, the carpenter, and kew came, tintoretto, the pup, coldly trembling, at their heels. jim was not yet back, and the rough men made no concealment of their worry. "not home?" said webber. "out in the hills--in this?" "you don't s'pose mebbe he's lost?" inquired the carpenter. "no, jim knows his mountains," replied the smith, "but any man could fall and break his leg or somethin'." "i wisht he'd come," said miss doc. "i wisht that he was home." the three men waited near the house for half an hour more, but in vain. it was then within an hour of midnight. slowly, at last, they turned away, but had gone no more than half a dozen rods when they met the bar-keep, doc dennihan, lufkins the teamster, and four other men of the camp, who were coming to see if jim had yet returned. "i thought he mebbe hadn't come," said bone, when webber gave his report, "but parky's goin' to try to jump his claim at twelve o'clock, and we ain't goin' fer to stand it! come on down to my saloon fer extry guns and ammunition. we're soon goin' up on the hill to hold the ledge fer jim and the poor little kid." with ominous coupling of the gambler's name with rough and emphatic language, the ten men marched in a body down the street. the wind was howling, a door of some deserted shed was dully, incessantly slamming. helplessly miss dennihan sat by the bed whereon the tiny pilgrim lay, now absolutely motionless. the fever had come to its final stage. dry of skin, burning through and through, his little mouth parched despite the touch of cooling water on his lips, the wee mite of a man without a name, without a home, or a mother, or a single one of the baby things that make the little folks so joyous, had ceased to struggle, and ceased at last to call for "bruvver jim." then, at a quarter-past eleven, the outside door was suddenly thrown open, and in there staggered jim, a haggard, wild-eyed being, ghastly white, utterly exhausted, and holding in his hand a wretched, scrawny branch of the mountain shrub he had gone to seek. "oh, jim! jim!" cried miss doc, and, running forward, she threw her arm around his waist to keep him up, for she thought he must fall at every step, "he's--alive?" he asked her, hoarsely. "he's alive? i only asked to have him wait! hot water!--get the stuff in water--quick!" and he thrust the branch into her hand. beside the bed, on his great, rough knees, he fairly fell, crooning incoherently, and by a mighty effort keeping his stiff, cold hands from the tiny form. miss doc had kept a plate of biscuit warm in the stove. one of these and a piece of meat she gave to the man, bidding him eat it for the warmth his body required. "fix the shrub in the water," he begged. "it's nearly ready now," she answered. "take a bite to eat." then, presently, she came again to his side. "i've got the stuff," she said, awed by the look of anguish on the miner's face, and into his hands she placed a steaming pitcher, a cup, and a spoon, after which she threw across his shoulders a warm, thick blanket, dry and comforting. already the shrub had formed a dark, pungent liquor of the water poured upon it. turning out a cupful in his haste, old jim flowed the scalding stuff across his hands. it burned, but he felt no pain. the spoonful that he dipped from the cup he placed to his own cold lips, to test. he blew upon it as a mother might, and tried it again. then tenderly he fed the tea through the dry little lips. dully the tiny man's unseeing eyes were fixed on his face. "take it, for old bruvver jim," the man gently coaxed, and spoonful after spoonful, touched every time to his own mouth first, to try its heat, he urged upon the little patient. then miss doc did a singular thing. she put on a shawl and, abruptly leaving the house, ran with all her might down the street, through the snow, to bone's saloon. for the very first time in her life she entered this detested place, a blazing light of joy in her eyes. six of the men, about to join the four already gone to the hill above, where jim had found the gold, were about to leave for the claim. "he's come!" cried miss doc. "he's home--and got the weed! i thought you boys would like to know!" then backing out, with a singular smile upon her face, she hastened to return to her home with all the speed the snow would permit. alone in the house with the silent little pilgrim, who seemed beyond all human aid, the gray old miner knew not what he should do. the shrub tea was failing, it seemed to him. the sight of the drooping child was too much to be borne. the man threw back his head as he knelt there on the floor, and his stiffened arms were appealingly uplifted in prayer. "god almighty," he said, in his broken voice of entreaty, "don't take this little boy away from me! let him stay. let him stay with me and the boys. you've got so many little youngsters there. for christ's sake, let me have this one!" when miss doc came quietly in, old jim had not apparently moved. he was once more dipping the pungent liquor from the cup and murmuring words of endearment and coaxing, to the all-unhearing little patient. the eager woman took off her shawl and stood behind him, watching intently. "oh, jim!" she said, from time to time--"oh, jim!" with a new supply of boiling water, constantly heated on her stove, she kept the steaming concoction fresh and hot. midnight came. the new year was blown across those mighty peaks in storm and fury. presently out of the howling gale came the sound of half a dozen shots, and then of a fusillade. but jim, if he heard them, did not guess the all they meant to him. for an hour he had only moved his hands to take the pitcher, or to put it down, or to feed the drink to the tiny foundling, still so motionless and dull with the fever. one o'clock was finally gone, and two, and three. jim and the yearning miss doc still battled on, like two united parents. then at last the miner made a half-stifled sound in his throat. "you--can go and git a rest," he said, brokenly. "the sweat has come." all night the wind and the storm continued. all through the long, long darkness, the bitter cold and snow were searching through the hills. but when, at last, the morning broke, there on the slope, where old jim's claim was staked, stood ten grim figures, white with snow, and scattered here and there around the ledge of gold. they were bone and webber, keno and field, doc dennihan, the carpenter, the teamster, and other rough but faithful men who had guarded the claim against invasion in the night. chapter xvi arrivals in camp there is something fine in a party of men when no one brags of a fight brought sternly to victory. parky, the gambler, was badly shot through the arm; bone, the bar-keep, had a long, straight track through his hair, cleaned by a ball of lead. and this was deemed enough of a story when the ten half-frozen men had secured the claim to jim and his that new-year's morning. but the camp regretted on the whole that, instead of being shelved at his house, the gambler had not been slain. for nearly a week the wan little foundling, emerging from the vale of shadows at the home of miss dennihan, lay as if debating, in his grave, baby way, the pros and cons of existence. and even when, at last, he was well on the road to recovery, he somehow seemed more quiet than ever before. the rough old "boys" of the town could not, by any process of their fertile brains, find an adequate means of expressing their relief and delight when they knew at last the quaint little fellow was again himself. they came to miss dennihan's in groups, with brand-new presents and with wonderful spirits. they played on the floor like so many well-meaning bears; they threatened to fetch their poor, neglected christmas-tree from the blacksmith-shop; they urged miss doc to start a candy-pull, a night-school, a dancing-class, and a game of blindman's-buff forthwith. moreover, not a few discovered traces of beauty and sweetness in the face of the formerly plain, severe old maid, and slyly one or two began a species of courtship. on all their manoeuvres the little convalescent looked with grave curiosity. such antics he had surely never seen. pale and silent, as he sat on jim's big knee one evening, he watched the men intently, their crude attempts at his entertainment furnishing an obvious puzzle to his tiny mind. then presently he looked with wonder and awe at the presents, unable to understand that all this wealth of bottles, cubes, tops, balls, and wagons was his own. the carpenter was spelling "cat" and "dog" and "jim" with the blocks, while field was rolling the balls on the floor and others were demonstrating the beauties and functions of kaleidoscopes and endless other offerings; but through it all the pale little guest of the camp still held with undiminished fervor to the doll that jim had made when first he came to borealis. "we'd ought to git up another big christmas," said the blacksmith, standing with his arms akimbo. "he didn't have no holidays worth a cent." "we could roll 'em all into one," suggested field--"christmas, new year's, st. valentine's, and fourth of july." "what's the matter with washington's birthday?" bone inquired. "and mine?" added keno, pulling down his sleeves. "by jinks! it comes next week." "aw, you never had a birthday," answered the teamster. "you was jest mixed up and baked, like gingerbread." "or a lemon pie," said the carpenter, with obvious sarcasm. "wal, holidays are awful hard for some little folks to digest," said jim. "i'm kind of scared to see another come along." "i should think to-night is pretty near holiday enough," said the altered miss doc. "our little boy has come 'round delightful." "kerrect," said bone. "but if us old cusses could see him sort of laughin' and crowin' it would do us heaps of good." "give him time," said the teamster. "some of the sickenest crowin' i ever heard was let out too soon." the carpenter said, "you jest leave him alone with these here blocks for a day or two, if you want to hear him laugh." "'ain't we all laughed at them things enough to suit you yit?" inquired bone. "some people would want you to laugh at their funeral, i reckon." "wal, laughin' ain't everything there is worth the havin'," jim drawled. "some people's laughin' has made me ashamed, and some has made me walk with a limp, and some has made me fightin' mad. when little skeezucks starts it off--i reckon it's goin' to make me a boy again, goin' in swimmin' and eatin' bread-and-molasses." for the next few days, however, jim and the others were content to see the signs of returning baby strength that came to little skeezucks. that the clearing away of the leaden clouds, and the coming of beauty and sunshine, pure and dazzling, had a magical effect upon the tiny chap, as well as on themselves, the men were all convinced. and the camp, one afternoon, underwent a wholly novel and unexpected sensation of delight. a man, with his sweet, young wife and three small, bright-faced children, came driving to borealis. with two big horses steaming in the crystal air and blowing great, white clouds of mist from their nostrils, with wheels rimmed deeply by the snow between the spokes, with colored wraps and mittened hands, and three red worsted caps upon the children's heads, the vision coming up the one straight street was quite enough to warm up every heart in town. the rig drew up in front of the blacksmith-shop, and twenty men came walking there to give it welcome. "howdy, stranger?" said the blacksmith, as he came from his forge, bareheaded, his leathern apron tied about his waist, his sleeves rolled up, and his big, hairy arms akimbo. "pleasant day. you're needin' somethin' fixed, i see," and he nodded quietly towards a road-side job of mending at the doubletree, which was roughly wrapped about with rope. "yes. good-morning," said the driver of the rig, a clear-eyed, wholesome-looking man of clerical appearance. "we had a little accident. we've come from bullionville. how long do you think it will take you to put us in shape?" the smith was looking at the children. such a trio of blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, unalarmed little girls had never before been seen in borealis; and they all looked back at him and the others with the most engaging frankness. "well, about how far you goin'?" said the smith, by way of answer. "to fremont," replied the stranger. "i'm a preacher, but they thought they couldn't support a church at bullionville," he added, with a look, half mirth, half worry, in his eyes. "however, a man from fremont loaned us the horses and carriage, so we thought we'd move before the snow fell any deeper. i'd like to go on without great delay, if the mending can be hastened." "your off horse needs shoein'," said webber, quickly scanning every detail of the animals and vehicle with his practised eye. "it's a long pull to fremont. i reckon you can't git started before the day after tomorrow." to a preacher who had found himself superfluous, the thought of the bill of expenses that would heap up so swiftly here in borealis was distressing. he was poor; he was worried. like many of the miners, he had worked at a claim that proved to be worthless in the end. "i--hoped it wouldn't take so long," he answered, slowly, "but then i suppose we shall be obliged to make the best of the situation. there are stables where i can put up the horses, of course?" "you kin use two stalls of mine," said the teamster, who liked the looks of the three little girls as well as those of the somewhat shy little mother and the preacher himself. "boys, unhitch his stock." field, bone, and the carpenter, recently made tender over all of youngster-kind, proceeded at once to unfasten the harness. "but--where are we likely to find accommodations?" faltered the preacher, doubtfully. "is there any hotel or boarding-house in camp?" "well, not exactly--is there, webber?" replied the teamster. "the boardin'-house is over to the mill--the quartz-mill, ten miles down the canon." "but i reckon they could stop at doc's," replied the smith, who had instantly determined that three bright-eyed little girls in red worsted caps should not be permitted to leave borealis without a visit first to jim and tiny skeezucks. "miss doc could sure make room, even if doc had to bunk up at jim's. one of you fellers jest run up and ask her, quick! and, anyway," he added, "mr. preacher, you and the three little girls ought to see our little boy." field, who had recently developed a tender admiration for the heretofore repellent miss doc, started immediately. he found old jim and the pup already at the house where the tiny, pale little skeezucks still had domicile. quickly relating the news of the hour, the messenger delivered his query as to room to be had, in one long gasp of breath. miss doc flushed prettily, to think of entertaining a preacher and his family. the thought of the three little girls set her heart to beating in a way she could not take the time to analyze. "of course, they kin come, and welcome," she said. "i'll give 'em all a bite to eat directly, but i don't jest see where i'll put so many. if john and the preacher could both go up on the hill with you, jim, i 'low i could manage." "room there for six," said jim, who felt some singular stirring of excitement in his veins at the thought of having the grave little foundling meet three other children here in the camp. "i'd give him a bunk if keno and me had to take to the floor." "all right, i'll skedaddle right back there, lickety-split, and let 'em know," said field. "i knowed you'd do it, miss doc," and away he went. by the time he returned to the blacksmith-shop the horses were gone to the stable, and all the preacher's family and all their bundles were out of the carriage. what plump-legged, healthy, inquisitive youngsters those three small girls appeared as they stood there in the snow. "all right!" said field, as he came to the group, where everybody seemed already acquainted and friendly. "fixed up royal, and ye're all expected right away." "we couldn't leave the little gals to walk," said the blacksmith. "i'll carry this one myself," and, taking the largest of the children in his big, bare arms, he swung her up with a certain gesture of yearning not wholly under control. "and i'll--" "and i'll--" came quickly from the group, while six or eight big fellows suddenly jostled each other in their haste to carry a youngster. there being but two remaining, however, only two of the men got prizes, and field felt particularly injured because he had earned such an honor, he felt, by running up to doc's to make arrangements. he and several others were obliged to be contented with the bundles, not a few of which were threatened with destruction in the eagerness of all to be of use. but presently everything was adjusted, and, deserting the carriage, the shop, and everything else, the whole assemblage moved in procession on the home of the dennihans. a few minutes later little skeezucks, jim, and the pup--all of them looking from the window of the house--saw those three small caps of red, and felt that new-year's day had really come at last. chapter xvii skeezucks gets a name when the three small girls, so rosy of cheek and so sparkling of eye, confronted the grave little pilgrim he could only gaze upon them with timid yearning as he clung to his doll and to old "bruvver jim." there never had been in all his life a vision so beautiful. old jim himself was affected almost as much as the quaint, wee man so quietly standing at his side. even tintoretto was experiencing ecstasies heretofore unknown in his youthful career. indeed, no one could have determined by any known system of calculation whether jim or tiny skeezucks or the pup most enjoyed the coming of the preacher and his family. old jim had certainly never before undergone emotions so deeply stirring. tintoretto had never before beheld four youngsters affording such a wealth of opportunity for puppy-wise manoeuvres; indeed, he had never before seen but one little playfellow since his advent in the world. he was fairly crazed with optimism. as for skeezucks--starving for even so much as the sight of children, hungering beyond expression for the sound of youngster voices, for the laughter and over-bubblings of the little folk with whom by rights he belonged--nothing in the way of words will ever tell of the almost overpowering excitement and joy that presently leaped in his lonely little heart. honesty is the children's policy. there was nothing artificial in the way those little girls fell in love with tiny skeezucks; and with equally engaging frankness the tiny man instantly revealed his fondness for them all. they were introduced as susie and rachie and ellie. their other name was stowe. this much being soon made known, the three regarded their rights to the house, to little skeezucks, and to tintoretto as established. they secured the pup by two of his paws and his tail, and, with him thus in hand, employed him to assist in surrounding tiny skeezucks, whom they promptly kissed and adopted. "girls," said the father, mildly, "don't be rude." "they're all right," drawled jim, in a new sort of pleasure. "there are some kinds of rudeness a whole lot nicer than politeness." "what's his name?" said susie, lifting her piquant little face up to jim, whom all the stowe family had liked at once. "has he got any name?" in a desperate groping for his inspiration, jim thought instantly of all his favorites--diogenes, plutarch, endymion, socrates, kit carson, and daniel boone. "wal, yes. his name--" and there old jim halted, while "di" and "plu" and "indy" and "soc" all clamored in his brain for the honor. "his name--i reckon his name is carson boone." "little carson," said rachie. "isn't carson a sweet little boy, mammy? what's he got--a rabbit?" "that's his doll," said jim. "oh, papa, look!" said rachie. "oh, papa, look!" echoed susie. "papa, yook!" piped ellie, the youngest, who wanted the dolly for herself, and, therefore, hauled at it lustily. the others endeavored to prevent her depredations. between them they tore the precious creation from the hands of the tiny man, and released the pup, who immediately leaped up and fastened a hold on the doll himself, to the horror of the preacher, miss doc, old jim, mrs. stowe, and skeezucks, all of whom, save the newly christened little carson, pounced upon the children, the doll, and tintoretto, with one accord. and there is nothing like a pounce upon a lot of children or a pup to make folks well acquainted. her "powder-flask" ladyship being duly rescued, her raiment smoothed, and her head readjusted on her body, the three small, healthy girls were perpetually enjoined from another such exhibition of coveting their neighbor's doll, whereupon all conceived that new diversion must be forthwith invented. "you can have a lot of fun with all them christmas presents in the corner," jim informed them, in the great relief he felt himself to see the quaint little foundling once more in undisputed possession of his one beloved toy. "they 'ain't got any feelin's." miss doc had carefully piled the presents in a tidy pyramid against the wall, in the corner designated, after which she had covered the pile with a sheet. this sheet came off in a hurry. the pup filled his mouth with a yard of the white material, and, growling in joy, shook it madly and raced away with it streaming in his wake. miss doc and mrs. stowe gave chase immediately. tintoretto tripped at once, but even when the women had caught the sheet in their hands he hung on prodigiously, and shook the thing, and growled and braced his weight against their strength, to the uncontainable delight of all the little stowe contingent. then they fell on the presents, to which they conveyed little carson, in the intimate way of hugging in transit that only small mothers-to-be have ever been known to develop. "oh, papa, look at the funny old bottle!" said susie, taking up one of the "sort of kaliderscopes" in her hand. "papa, mamma, look!" added rachie. "papa--yook!" piped ellie, as before, laying violent hands of possession on the toy. "you can have it," said susie; "i'm goin' to have the red wagon." "oh, papa, look at the pretty red wagon!", said rachie, dropping another of the kaleidoscopes with commendable promptness. "me!--yed yaggon!" cried ellie. "children, children!" said the preacher, secretly amused and entertained. "don't you know the presents all belong to little carson?" "well, we didn't get anything but mittens and caps," said rachie, in the baldest of candor. "go ahead and enjoy the things," instructed jim. "skeezucks, do you want the little girls to play with all the things?" the little fellow nodded. he was happier far than ever he had been in all his life. "but they ought to play with one thing at a time, and not drop one after another," said the mild mrs. stowe, blushing girlishly. "i like to see them practise at changin' their minds," drawled the miner, philosophically. "i'd be afraid of a little gal that didn't begin to show the symptoms." but all three of the bright-eyed embryos of motherhood had united on a plan. they sat the grave little carson in the red-painted wagon, with his doll held tightly to his heart, and began to haul him about. tintoretto, who had dragged off an alphabetical block, was engrossed in the task of eating off and absorbing the paint and elements of education, with a gusto that savored of something that might and might not have been ambition. he abandoned this at once, however, to race beside or behind or before the wagon, and to help in the pulling by laying hold of any of the children's dresses that came most readily within reach of his jaws. the ride became a romp, for the pup was barking, the wheels were creaking, and the three small girls were crying out and laughing at the tops of their voices. they drew their royal coach through every room in the house--which rooms were five in number--and then began anew. back and forth and up and down they hastened, the pup and tiny skeezucks growing more and more delighted as their lively little friends alternately rearranged him, kissed him, crept on all fours beside him, and otherwise added adornments to the pageant. in an outburst of enthusiasm, tintoretto made a gulp at the off hind-wheel of the wagon, and, sinking his teeth in the wood thereof, not only prevented its revolutions, but braced so hard that the smallest girl, who was pulling at the moment, found herself suddenly stalled. to her aid her two sturdy little sisters darted, and the three gave a mighty tug, to haul the pup and all. but the unexpected happened. the wheel came off. the pup let out a yell of consternation and turned a back somersault; the three little stowes went down in a heap of legs and heads, while the wagon lurched abruptly and gave the tiny passenger a jolt that astonished him mightily. the three small girls scrambled to their feet, awed into silence by their breaking of the wagon. for a moment the hush was impressive. then the gravity began to go from the face of little carson. something was dancing in his eyes. his quaint little face wrinkled oddly in mirth. his head went back, and the sweetest conceivable chuckle of baby laughter came from his lips. like joy of bubbling water in a brook, it rippled in music never before awakened. old jim and miss doc looked at each other in complete amazement, but the little fellow laughed and laughed and laughed. his heart was overflowing, suddenly, with all the laughing and joy that had never before been invited to his heart. the other youngsters joined him in his merriment, and so did the preacher and pretty mrs. stowe; and so did jim and miss doc, but these two laughed with tears warmly welling from their eyes. it seemed as if the fatherless and motherless little foundling laughed for all the days and weeks and months of sadness gone beyond his baby recall. and this was the opening only of his frolic and fun with the children. they kissed him in fondness, and planted him promptly in a second of the wagons. they knew a hundred devices for bringing him joy and merriment, not the least important of which was the irresistible march of destruction on the rough-made christmas treasures. that evening a dozen rough and awkward men of the camp came casually in to visit miss doc, whose old-time set of thoughts and ideas had been shattered, till in sheer despair of getting them all in proper order once again she let them go and joined in the general outbreak of amusement. there were games of hide-and-seek, in which the four happy children and the men all joined with equal irresponsibility, and games of blind-man's-buff, that threatened the breaking to pieces of the house. through it all, old jim and the preacher, mrs. stowe and miss doc were becoming more and more friendly. at last the day and the evening, too, were gone. the tired youngsters, all but little skeezucks, fell asleep, and were tucked into bed. even the pup was exhausted. field and the blacksmith, lufkins, bone, keno, and the others thought eagerly of the morrow, which would come so soon, and go so swiftly, and leave them with no little trio of girls romping with their finally joyous bit of a boy. when at length they were ready to say good-night to tiny carson, he was sitting again on the knee of the gray old miner. to every one he gave a sweet little smile, as they took his soft, baby hand for a shake. and when they were gone, and sleep was coming to hover him softly in her wings, he held out both his little arms in a gesture of longing that seemed to embrace the three red caps and all this happier world he began to understand. "somebody--wants 'ittle--nu-thans," he sighed, and his tiny mouth was smiling when his eyes had closed. chapter xviii when the parson departed in the morning the preacher rolled up his sleeves and assisted jim in preparing breakfast in the cabin on the hill, where he and doc, in addition to keno and the miner, had spent the night. doc had departed at an early hour to take his morning meal at home. keno was out in the brush securing additional fuel, the supply of which was low. "jim," said stowe, in the easy way so quickly adopted in the mines, "how does the camp happen to have this one little child? there seem to be no families, and that i can understand, for bullionville is much the same; but where did you get the pretty little boy?" "i found him out in the brush, way over to coyote valley," jim replied. "he was painted up to look like a little piute, and the injuns must have lost him when they went through the valley hunting rabbits." "found him--out in the brush?" repeated the preacher. "was he all alone?" "not quite. he had several dead rabbits for company," jim drawled in reply, and he told all that was known, and all that the camp had conjectured, concerning the finding of the grave little chap, and his brief and none too happy sojourn in borealis. the preacher listened with sympathetic attention. "poor little fellow," he said, at the end. "it someway makes me think of a thing that occurred near bullionville. i was called to giant-powder gulch to give a man a decent burial. he had been on a three-days' spree, and then had lain all night in the wet where the horse-trough overflowed, and he died of quick pneumonia. well, a man there told me the fellow was a stranger to the gulch. he said the dissolute creature had appeared, on the first occasion, with a very small child, a little boy, who he said had belonged to his sister, who was dead. my informant said that just as soon as the fellow could learn the location of a near-by indian camp he had carried the little boy away. the man who told me of it never heard of the child again, and, in fact, had not been aware of the drunkard's return to the gulch, till he heard the man had died, in the rear of a highly notorious saloon. i wonder if it's possible this quiet little chap is the same little boy." "it don't seem possible a livin' man--a white man--could have done a thing like that," said jim. "no--it doesn't," stowe agreed. "and yet, it must have been in some such way little skeezucks came to be among the injuns," jim reflected, aloud. then in a moment he added; "i'm glad you told me, parson. i know now the low-down brute that sent him off with the piute hunters can't never come to borealis and take him away." and yet, all through their homely breakfast old jim was silently thinking. a newer tenderness for the innocent, deserted little pilgrim was welling in his heart. keno, having declared his intention of shovelling off the snow and opening up a trench to uncover the gold-ledge of the miner's claim, departed briskly when the meal was presently finished. jim and the preacher, with the pup, however, went at once to the home of miss dennihan, where the children were all thus early engaged in starting off the day of romping and fun. the lunch that came along at noon, and the dinner that the happy miss doc prepared at dusk, were mere interruptions in the play of the tiny carson and the lively little girls. there never has been, and there never can be, a measure of childish happiness, but surely never was a child in the world more happy than the quaint little waif who had sat all alone that bright november afternoon in the brush where the indian pony had dropped him. all the games they had tried on the previous day were repeated anew by the youngsters, and many freshly invented were enjoyed, including a romp in the snow, with the sled that one of the miners had fashioned for the christmas-tree. that evening a larger contingent of the men who hungered for the atmosphere of home came early to the little house and joined in the games. laughter made them all one human family, and songs were sung that took them back to farms and clearings and villages, far away in the eastern states, where sweethearts, mothers, wives, and sisters ofttimes waited and waited for news of a wanderer, lured far away by the glint of silver and gold. the notes of birds, the chatter of brooks, the tinkle of cow-bells came again, with the dreams of a barefoot boy. something of calm and a newer hope and fresher resolution was vouchsafed to them all when the wholesome young preacher held a homely service, in response to their earnest request. "life is a mining for gold," said he, "and every human breast is a mother-lode of the precious metal--if only some one can find the out-croppings, locate a claim, and come upon the ledge. there are toils, privations, and sufferings, which the search for gold brings forever in its train. there are pains and miseries and woe in the search for the gold in men, but, boys, it's a glorious life! there is something so honest, so splendid, in taking the metal from the earth! no one is injured, every one is helped. and when the gold in a man is found, think what a gift it is to the world and to god! i am a miner myself, but i make no gold. it is there, in the hill, or in the man, where god has put it away, and all that you and i can do is to work, though our hands be blistered and our hearts be sore, until we come upon the treasure at the last. we hasten here, and we scramble there, wheresoever the glint seems brightest, the field most promising; but the gold i seek is everywhere, and, boys, there is gold on gold in borealis! "in the depth of the tunnel or the shaft you need a candle, throwing out its welcome rays, to show you how to work the best and where to dig, as you follow the lead. in the search for gold the way is very often dark, so we'll sing a hymn that i think you will like, and then we'll conclude with a prayer. "children--girls--we will all start it off together, you and your mother and me." the three little, bright-faced girls, the pretty mother, and the father of the little flock stood there together to sing. they sang the hymn old jim had attempted to recall at his own little service that sunday, weeks before: "lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, lead thou me on. the night is dark and i am far from home. lead thou me on. keep thou my feet; i do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me." the fresh, sweet voices of the three little girls sent a thrill of pleasure through the hearts of the big, rough men, and the lumps arose in their throats. one after another they joined in the singing, those who knew no words as well as those who were quick to catch a line or more. then at last the preacher held up his hand in his earnest supplication. "father," he said, in his simple way, "we are only a few of thy children, here in the hollow of thy mountains, but we wish to share in the beauty of thy smile. we want to hear the comfort of thy voice. away out here in the sage-brush we pray that thou wilt find us and take us home to thy heart and love. father, when thou sendest thy blessing for this little child, send enough for all the boys. amen." and so the evening ended, and the night moved in majesty across the mountains. in the morning, soon after breakfasts were eaten, and jim and the preacher had come again to the home of the dennihans, webber, the blacksmith, and lufkins, the teamster, presently arrived with the horses and carriage. a large group of men swiftly gathered to bid good-bye to the children, the shy little mother, and the fine young preacher. "i'm sorry to go," he told them, honestly. "i like your little camp." "it's goin' to be a rousin' town pretty soon, by jinks!" said keno, pulling at his sleeves. "i'm showin' up a great big ledge, on jim's baberlonian claim." "mebbe you'll some day come back here, parson," said the smith. "perhaps i shall," he answered. then a faint look of worry came on his face as he thrust his hand in his pocket. "before i forget it, you must let me know what my bill is for board of the horses and also for the work you've done." webber flushed crimson. "there ain't no bill," he said. "what do you take us fellers fer--since little skeezucks came to camp? all we want is to shake hands all 'round, with you and the missus and the little girls." old jim, little skeezucks, the pup, and miss doc, with mrs. stowe, came out through the snow to the road in front of the gate. not a penny had the preacher been able to force upon the dennihans for their lodging and care. the man tried to speak--to thank them all, but he failed. he shook hands "all around," however, and then his shy little wife and the three little girls did the same. preacher and all, they kissed tiny carson, sitting on the arm he knew so well, and holding fast to his doll; and he placed his wee bit of a hand on the face of each of his bright-faced little friends. he understood almost nothing of what it meant to have his visitors clamber into the carriage, nevertheless a grave little query came into his eyes. "well, jim, good-bye again," said stowe, and he shook the old miner's hand a final time. "good-bye, miss dennihan--good-bye, boys." with all the little youngsters in their bright red caps waving their mittened hands and calling out good-bye, the awkward men, miss doc, old jim, and tiny skeezucks saw them drive away. till they came to the bend of the road the children continued to wave, and then the great ravine received them as if to the arms of the mountains. chapter xix old jim's resolution all that day little skeezucks and the pup were waiting, listening, expecting the door to open and the three small girls to reappear. they went to the window time after time and searched the landscape of mountains and snow, tintoretto standing on his hind-legs for the purpose, and emitting little sounds of puppy-wise worry at the long delay of their three little friends. a number of the men of the camp came to visit there again that evening. "we thought little skeezucks might be lonesome," they explained. so often as the door was opened, the pup and the grave little pilgrim--clothed these days in the little white frock miss dennihan had made--looked up, ever in the hope, of espying again those three red caps. the men saw the wistfulness increase in the baby's face. "we've got to keep him amused," said field. the awkward fellows, therefore, began the games, and romped about, and rode the lonely little foundling in the wagon, to the great delight of poor miss doc, who felt, as much as the pup or skeezucks, the singular emptiness of her house. having learned to laugh, little carson tried to repeat the delights of a mirthful emotion. the faint baby smile that resulted made the men all quiet and sober. "he's tired, that's what the matter," the blacksmith explained. "we'd better be goin', boys, and come to see him to-morrow." "of course he must be tired," agreed the teamster. but jim, sitting silently watching, and the fond miss doc, whom nothing concerning the child escaped, knew better. it was not, however, till the boys were gone and silence had settled on the house that even jim was made aware of the all that the tiny mite of a man was undergoing. miss doc had gone to the kitchen. jim, tintoretto, and little skeezucks were alone. the little fellow and the pup were standing in the centre of the floor, intently listening. together they went to the door. there little carson stretched his tiny arms across the panels in baby appeal. "bruv-ver--jim," he begged. "bruv-ver--jim." then, at last, the gray old miner understood the whole significance of the baby words. "bruvver jim" meant more than just himself; it meant the three little girls--associates--children--all that is dear to a childish heart--all that is indispensable to baby happiness--all that a lonely little heart must have or starve. jim groaned, for the utmost he could do was done when he took the sobbing little fellow in his arms and murmured him words of comfort as he carried him up and down the room. the day that followed, and the day after that, served only to deepen the longing in the childish breast. the worried men of borealis played on the floor in desperation. they fashioned new wagons, sleds, and dolls; they exhausted every device their natures prompted; but beyond a sad little smile and the call for "bruvver jim" they received no answer from the baby heart, at the end of a week the little fellow smiled no more, not even in his faint, sweet way of yearning. his heart was starving; his grave, baby thought was far away, with the small red caps and the laughing voices of children. the fond miss doc and the gray old jim alone knew what the end must be, inevitably, unless some change should speedily come to pass. meantime, keno had quietly opened up a mighty ledge of gold-bearing ore on the hill. it lay between walls of slate and granite. its hugeness was assured. that the camp would boom in the spring was foreordained. and that ledge all belonged to jim. but he heard them excitedly tell what the find would do for him and the camp as one in a dream. he could not care while his tiny waif was starving in his lonely little way. "boys," he said at last, one night, when the smith and bone had called to see the tiny man, who had sadly gone to sleep--"boys, he's pinin'. he's goin' to die if he don't have little kids for company. i've made up my mind. i'm goin' to take him to fremont right away." miss doc, who was knitting a tiny pair of mittens and planning a tiny red cap and woollen leggings, dropped a stitch and lost a shade of color from her face. "ain't there no other way?" inquired the blacksmith, a poignant regret already at his heart. "you don't really think he'd up and die?" "children have got to be happy," jim replied. "if they don't get their fun when they're little, why, when is it ever goin' to come? i know he'll die, all alone with us old cusses, and i ain't a-goin' to wait." "but the claim is goin' to be a fortune," said bone. "couldn't you hold on jest a week or two and see if he won't get over thinkin' 'bout the little gals?" "if i kept him here and he died, like that--just pinin' away for other little kids--i couldn't look fortune in the face," answered jim, to which, in a moment, he added, slowly, "boys, he's more to me than all the claims in nevada." "but--you'll bring him back in the spring, of course?" said the blacksmith, with a worried look about his eyes. "we'd miss him, jim, almost as much as you." "by that time," supplemented bone, "the camp's agoin' to be boomin'. probably we'll have lots of wimmen and kids and schools and everything, fer the gold up yonder is goin' to make borealis some consid'rable shakes." "i'll bring him back in the spring, all right," said the miner; "but none of you boys would want to see me keep him here and have him die." miss doc had been a silent listener to all their conversation. she was knitting again, with doubled speed. "jim, how you goin'?" she now inquired. "i want to get a horse," answered jim. "we could ride there horseback quicker than any other way. if only i can get the horse." "it may be stormin' in the mornin'," webber suggested. "a few clouds is comin' up from the west. what about the horse, jim, if it starts to snow?" "riding in a saddle, i can git through," said the miner. "if it snows at all, it won't storm bad. storms that come up sudden never last very long, and it's been good and bright all day. i'll start unless it's snowin' feather-beds." miss doc had been feeling, since the subject first was broached, that something in her heart would snap. but she worked on, her emotions, yearnings, and fears all rigorously knitted into the tiny mittens. "you'll let me wrap him up real warm?" she said. jim knew her thoughts were all on little skeezucks. "if you didn't do it, who would?" he asked, in a kindness of heart that set her pulse to faster beating. "but--s'pose you don't git any job in fremont," bone inquired. "will you let us know?" "i'll git it, don't you fear," said jim. "i know there ain't no one so blind as the feller who's always lookin' for a job, but the little kid has fetched me a sort of second sight." "well, if anything was goin' hard, we'd like for to know," insisted bone. "i guess we'd better start along, though, now, if we're goin' to scare up a bronch to-night." he and the blacksmith departed. jim and the lorn miss doc sat silently together in the warm little house. jim looked at her quietly, and saw many phases of womanly beauty in her homely face. "wal," he drawled, at last, "i'll go up home, on the hill." he hesitated for a moment, and then added, quietly, "miss doc, you've been awful kind to the little boy--and me." "it wasn't nuthin'," she said. they stood there together, beside the table. "yes, it was," said jim, "and it's set me to thinkin' a heap." he was silent for a moment, as before, and then, somewhat shyly for him, he said, "when we come back home here, in the spring, miss doc, i'm thinkin' the little feller ought to have a mother. do you think you could put up with him--and with me?" "jim," she said, in a voice that shook with emotion, "do you think i'm a kind enough woman?" "too kind--for such as me," said jim, thickly. he took her hand in his own, and with something of a courtliness and grace, reminiscent of his youth, he raised it to his lips. "good-night," he said. "good-night, miss doc." "good-night, jim," she answered, and he saw in her eyes the beauty that god in his wisdom gives alone to mother-kind. and when he had gone she sat there long, forgetting to keep up the fire, forgetting that doc himself would come home early in the morning from his night-employment, forgetting everything personal save the words old jim had spoken, as she knitted and knitted, to finish that tiny pair of mittens. the night was spent, and her heart was at once glad and sore when, at last, she concluded her labor of love. nevertheless, in the morning she was up in time to prepare a luncheon for jim to take along, and to delve in her trunk for precious wraps and woollens in which to bundle the grave little pilgrim, long before old jim or the horse he would ride had appeared before the house. little skeezucks was early awake and dressed. a score of times miss doc caught him up in her hungering arms, to hold him in fervor to her heart and to kiss his baby cheek. if she cried a little, she made it sound and look like laughter to the child. he patted her face with his tiny hand, even as he begged for "bruvver jim." "you're goin' to find bruvver jim," she said. "you're goin' away from fussy old me to where you'll be right happy." at least a dozen men of the camp came plodding along behind the horse, that arrived at the same time jim, the pup, and keno appeared at the dennihan home. doc dennihan had cut off his customary period of rest and sleep, to say good-bye, with the others, to the pilgrims about to depart. jim was dressed about as usual for the ride, save that he wore an extra pair of trousers beneath his overalls and a great blanket-coat upon his back. he was hardy, and he looked it, big as he was and solidly planted in his wrinkled boots. the sky, despite webber's predictions of a storm, was practically free from clouds, but a breeze was sweeping through the gorge with increasing strength. it was cold, and the men who stood about in groups kept their hands in their pockets and their feet on the move for the sake of the slight degree of warmth thereby afforded. as their spokesman, webber, the blacksmith, took the miner aside. "jim," said he, producing a buckskin bag, which he dropped in the miner's pocket, "the boys can't do nuthin' fer little skeezucks when he's 'way off up to fremont, so they've chipped in a little and wanted you to have it in case of need." "but, webber--" started jim. "ain't no buts," interrupted the smith. "you'll hurt their feelin's if you go to buttin' and gittin' ornary." wherefore the heavy little bag of coins remained where webber had placed it. there were sober words of caution and advice, modest requests for a line now and then, and many an evidence of the hold old jim had secured on their hearts before the miner finally received the grave and carefully bundled little carson from the arms of miss doc and came to the gate to mount his horse and ride away. "jest buckle this strap around me and the little boy," instructed jim, as he gave a wide leather belt to the teamster; "then if i happen for to need both hands, he won't be able to git a fall." the strap was adjusted about the two in the manner suggested. "good scheme," commented field, and the others agreed that it was. then all the rough and awkward big fellows soberly shook the pretty little pilgrim's hand in its mitten, and said good-bye to the tiny chap, who was clinging, as always, to his doll. "what you goin' to do with tinterretter?" inquired the teamster as he looked at the pup, while jim, with an active swing, mounted to the saddle. "take him along," said jim. "i'll put him in the sack i've got, and tie him on behind the saddle when he gits too much of runnin' on foot. he wouldn't like it to be left behind and skeezucks gone." "guess that's kerrect," agreed the teamster. "he's a bully pup, you bet." poor miss doc remained inside the gate. her one mad impulse was to run to jim, clasp him and the grave little waif in her arms, and beg to be taken on the horse. but repression had long been her habit of life. she smiled, and did not even speak, though the eyes of the fond little pilgrim were turned upon her in baby affection. "well--you'll git there all right," said the blacksmith, voicing the hope that swelled in his heart. "so long, and let us know how the little feller makes it with the children." "by jinks!--so long," said keno, striving tremendously to keep down his rising emotions. "so long. i'll stay by the claim." "and give our love to them three little gals," said bone. "so long." one after another they wrung the big, rough hand, and said "so long" in their easy way. "bye, miss doc," said jim, at the last. "skeezucks--say good-bye--to miss doc--and all the boys. say good-bye." the little fellow had heard "good-bye" when the three little caps of red departed. it came as a word that hurt his tiny heart. but, obediently, he looked about at all his friends. "dood-bye," he said, in baby accents. "dood-bye." chapter xx in the toils of the blizzard something was tugged and wrenched mighty hard as jim rode finally around the hill, and so out of sight of the meagre little camp he called his home, but resolution was strong within him. up and up through the narrow canon, winding tortuously towards the summit, like the trail of a most prodigious serpent channelled in the snow, the horse slowly climbed, with tintoretto, the joyous, busily visiting each and every portion of the road, behind, before, and at the sides. what a world of white it was! the wind had increased, and a few scattered specks of snow that sped before it seemed trying to muster the force of a storm, from the sky in which the sun was still shining, between huge rents and spaces that separated scudding clouds. it was not, however, until an hour had gone that the flakes began to swirl in fitful flurries. by then the travellers were making better time, and jim was convinced the blotted sun would soon again assert its mastery over clouds so abruptly accumulated in the sky. the wind, however, had veered about. it came directly in their faces, causing the horse to lower his head and the pup to sniff in displeasure. little skeezucks, with his back to the slanting fire of small, hard flakes, nestled in comfort on the big, protecting shoulder, where he felt secure against all manner of attack. for two more hours they rode ahead, while the snow came down somewhat thicker. "it can't last," old jim said, cheerily, to the child and horse and pup. "just a blowout. too fierce and sudden to hold." yet, when they came to the great level valley beyond the second range of hills, the biting gale appeared to greet them with a fury pent up for the purpose. unobstructed it swept across the desert of snow, flinging not only the shotlike particles from the sky, but also the loose, roving drift, as dry as salt, that lay four inches deep upon the solider snow that floored the plain. and such miles and miles of the frozen waste were there! the distant mountains looked like huge windrows of snow wearing away in the rush of the gale. confident still it was only a flurry, jim rode on. the pup by now was trailing behind, his tail less high, his fuzzy coat beginning to fill with snow, his eyes so pelted that he sneezed to keep them clear. the air was cold and piercing as it drove upon them. jim felt his feet begin to ache in his hard, leather boots. beneath his clothing the chill lay thinly against his body, save for the place where little carson was strapped to his breast. "it can't last," the man insisted. "never yet saw a blusterin' storm that didn't blow itself to nothin' in a hurry." but a darkness was flung about them with the thicker snow that flew. indeed, the flakes were multiplying tremendously. the wind was becoming a hurricane. with a roar it rushed across the valley. the world of storm suddenly closed in upon them and narrowed down the visible circle of desolation. like hurrying troops of incalculable units, the dots of frozen stuff went sweeping past in a blinding swarm. the thing had become a blizzard. jim halted his horse, convinced that wisdom prompted them to turn their backs upon the fury and flee again to borealis, to await a calmer day for travelling. a fiercer buffeting of wind puffed from the west, fiercely toothed with shot of snow. as if in fear unnamable, a gaunt coyote suddenly appeared scurrying onward before the hail and snow, and was quickly gone. the horse shied violently out of the road. the girth of the saddle was loosened. with a superhuman effort old jim remained in his seat, but he knew he must tighten the cinch. dismounting, he permitted the horse to face away from the gale. the pup came gladly to the shelter of the miner's boots and clambered stiffly up on his leg, for a word of companionship and comfort. "all right," said jim, giving him a pat on the head when the saddle was once more secure in its place; "but i reckon we'll turn back homeward, and i'll walk myself, for a spell, to warm me up. it may let up, and if it does we can head for fremont again without much loss of time." with the bridle-rein over his shoulder, he led the horse back the way they had come, his own head low on his breast, to avoid the particles of snow that searched him out persistently. they had not plodded homeward far when the miner presently discovered they were floundering about in snow-covered brush. he quickly lifted his head to look about. he could see for a distance of less than twenty feet in any direction. mountains, plain--the world of white--had disappeared in the blinding onrush of snow and wind. a chaos of driving particles comprised the universe. and by the token of the brush underfoot they had wandered from the road. there had been no attempt on the miner's part to follow any tracks they had left on their westward course, for the gale and drift had obliterated every sign, almost as soon as the horse's hoofs had ploughed them in the snow. believing that the narrow road across the desolation of the valley lay to the right, he forged ahead in that direction. soon they came upon smoother walking, which he thought was an indication that the road they sought was underfoot. it was not. he plodded onward for fifteen minutes, however, before he knew he had made a mistake. the storm was, if possible, more furious. the snow flew thicker; it stung more sharply, and seemed to come from every direction. "we'll stand right here behind the horse till it quits," he said. "it can't keep up a lick like this." but turning about, in an effort to face the animal away from the worst of the blizzard, he kicked a clump of sage brush arched fairly over by its burden of snow. instantly a startled rabbit leaped from beneath the shrub and bounded against the horse's legs, and then away in the storm. in affright the horse jerked madly backward. the bridle was broken. it held for a second, then tore away from the animal's head and fell in a heap in the snow. "whoa, boy!--whoa!" said the miner, in a quiet way, but the horse, in his terror, snorted at the brush and galloped away, to be lost from sight on the instant. for a moment the miner, with his bundled little burden in his arms, started in pursuit of the bronco. but even the animal's tracks in the snow were being already effaced by the sweep of the powdery gale. the utter futility of searching for anything was harshly thrust upon the miner's senses. they were lost in that valley of snow, cold, and blizzard. "we'll have to make a shelter the best we can," he said, "and wait here, maybe half an hour, till the storm has quit." he kicked the snow from a cluster of sagebrush shrubs, and behind this flimsy barrier presently crouched, with the shivering pup, and with the silent little foundling in his arms. what hours that merciless blizzard raged, no annals of nevada tell. what struggles the gray old miner made to find his way homeward before its wrath, what a fight it was he waged against the elements till night came on and the worst of the storm had ceased, could never be known in borealis. but early that night the teamster, lufkins, was startled by the neighing of a horse, and when he came to the stable, there was the half-blinded animal on which old jim and tiny skeezucks had ridden away in the morning--the empty saddle still upon his back. chapter xxi a bed in the snow the great stout ore-wagons stood in the snow that lay on the borealis street, with never a horse or a mule to keep them company. not an animal fit to bear a man had been left in the camp. but the twenty men who rode far off in the white desolation out beyond were losing hope as they searched and searched in the drifts and mounds that lay so deep upon the earth. by feeble lantern glows at first, and later by the cold, gray light of dawn, they scanned the road and the country for miles and miles. it was five o'clock, and six in the morning, and still the scattered company of men and horses pushed onward through the snow. the quest became one of dread. they almost feared to find the little group. the wind had ceased to blow, but the air was cold. gray ribbons of cloud were stretched across the sky. desolation was everywhere--in the heavens, on the plain, on the distant mountains. all the world was snow, dotted only where the mounted men made insignificant spots against the waste of white. aching with the cold, aching more in their hearts, the men from borealis knew a hundred ways to fear the worst. then at last a shout, and a shot from a pistol, sped to the farthest limits of the line of searching riders and prodded every drop of sluggish blood within them to a swift activity. the shout and signal had come from webber, the blacksmith, riding a big, bay mare. instantly field, bone, and lufkins galloped to where he was swinging out of his saddle. there in the snow, where at last he had floundered down after making an effort truly heroic to return to borealis, lay the gray old jim, with tiny skeezucks strapped to his breast and hovered by his motionless arms. in his hands the little mite of a pilgrim held his furry doll. on the snow lay the luncheon miss doc had so lovingly prepared. and tintoretto, the pup, whom nature had made to be joyous and glad, was prostrate at the miner's feet, with flakes of white all blown through the hair of his coat. a narrow little track around the two he loved so well was beaten in the snow, where time after time the worried little animal had circled and circled about the silent forms, in some brave, puppy-wise service of watching and guarding, faithfully maintained till he could move no more. for a moment after bone and lufkins joined him at the spot, the blacksmith stood looking at the half-buried three. the whole tale of struggle with the chill, of toiling onward through the heavy snow, of falling over hidden shrubs, of battling for their lives, was somehow revealed to the silent men by the haggard, death-white face of jim. "they can't--be dead," said the smith, in a broken voice. "he--couldn't, and--us all--his friends." but when he knelt and pushed away some of the snow, the others thought his heart had lost all hope. it was field, however, who thought to feel for a pulse. the eager searchers from farther away had come to the place. a dozen pair of eyes or more were focussed on the man as he held his breath and felt for a sign of life. "alive!--he's alive!" he cried, excitedly. "and little skeezucks, too! for god's sake, boys, let's get them back to camp!" in a leap of gladness the men let out a mighty cheer. from every saddle a rolled-up blanket was swiftly cut, and rough but tender hands swept off the snow that clung to the forms of the miner, the child, and the pup. chapter xxii cleaning their slate never could castle or mansion contain more of gladness and joy of the heart than was crowded into the modest little home of miss doc when at last the prayers and ministrations of a score of men and the one "decent" woman of the camp were rewarded by the father all-pitiful. "i'm goin' to bawl, and i'll lick any feller that calls me a baby!" said the blacksmith, but he laughed and "bawled" together. they had saved them all, but a mighty quiet jim and a quieter little skeezucks and a wholly subdued little pup lay helpless still in the care of the awkward squad of nurses. and then a council of citizens got together at the dingy shop of webber for a talk. "we mustn't fergit," said the smith, "that jim was a takin' the poor little feller to fremont 'cause he thought he was pinin' away fer children's company; and i guess jim knowed. now, the question is, what we goin' for to do? little skeezucks ain't a goin' to be no livelier unless he gits that company--and maybe he'll up and die of loneliness, after all. do you fellers think we'd ought to git up a party and take 'em all to fremont, as soon as they're able to stand the trip?" bone, the bar-keep answered: "what's the matter with gittin' the preacher and his wife and three little gals to come back here and settle in borealis? i'm goin' in for minin', after a while, myself, and i'll--and i'll give my saloon from eight to two on sundays to be fixed all up fer a church; and i reckon we kin support parson stowe as slick as any town in all navady." for a moment this astonishing speech was followed by absolute silence. then, as if with one accord, the men all cheered in admiration. "let's git the parson back right off," cried the carpenter. "i kin build the finest steeple ever was!" "send a gang to fetch him here to-day!" said webber. "i wouldn't lose no time, or he may git stuck on fremont, and never want to budge," added lufkins. field and half a dozen more concurred. "i'll be one to go myself," said the blacksmith, promptly. "two or three others can come along, and we'll git him if we have to steal him--wife, little gals, and all!" but the party was yet unformed for the trip when the news of the council's intentions was spread throughout the camp, and an ugly feature of the life in the mines was revealed. the gambler, parky, sufficiently recovered from the wound in his arm to be out of his house, and planning a secret revenge against old jim and his friends, was more than merely opposed to the plan which had come from the shop of webber. "it don't go down," said he to a crowd, with a sneer at the parson and with oaths for bone. "i own some borealis property myself, and don't you fergit i'll make things too hot for any preacher to settle in the camp. and i 'ain't yet finished with the gang that thought they was smart on new-year's eve--just chew that up with your cud of tobacker!" with half a dozen ruffians at his back--the scum of prisons, gambling-dens, and low resorts--he summed up a menace not to be estimated lightly. many citizens feared to incur his wrath; many were weak, and therefore as likely to gather to his side as not, under the pressure he could put upon them. the camp was suddenly ripe for a struggle. right and decency, or lawlessness and violence would speedily conquer. there could be no half-way measures. if webber and his following had been persuaded before that parson stowe should have a place in the town, they were grimly determined on the project now. the blacksmith it was who strung up once again a bar of steel before his shop and rang it with his hammer. there were forty men who answered to the summons. and when they had finished the council of war within the shop, the work of an upward lift had been accomplished. a supplement was added to the work of signing a short petition requesting parson stowe to come among them, and this latter took the form of a mandate addressed to the gambler and his backing of outlaws, thieves, and roughs. it was brief, but the weight of its words was mighty. "the space you're using in borealis is wanted for decenter purposes," it read. "we give you twenty-four hours to clear out. git!--and then god have mercy on your souls if any one of the gang is found in borealis!" this was all there was, except for a fearful drawing of a coffin and a skull. and such an array of inky names, scrawled with obvious pains and distinctness, was on the paper that argument itself was plainly hand in hand with a noose of rope. opposition to an army of forty wrathful and determined men would have been but suicide. parky nodded when he read the note. he knew the game was closed. he sold all his interests in the camp for what they would bring and bought a pair of horses and a carriage. in groups and pairs his henchmen--suddenly thrown over by their leader to hustle for themselves--sneaked away from the town, many of them leaving immediately in their dread of the grim reign of law now come upon the camp. parky, for his part, waited in some deliberation, and then drove away with a sneer upon his lips when at last his time was growing uncomfortably short. decency had won--the moral slate of the camp was clean! chapter xxiii a day of joy there came a day--never to be forgotten in the annals of borealis--when, to the ringing of the bar of steel, parson stowe, with his pretty little wife and the three little red-capped youngsters, rode once more into town to make their home with their big, rough friends. fifty awkward men of the mines roared lustily with cheering. fifty great voices then combined in a sweet, old song that rang through the snow-clad hills: "lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom, lead thou me on. the night is dark, and i am far from home, lead thou me on." and the first official acts of the wholesome young parson were conducted in the "church" that bone had given to the town when the happy little skeezucks was christened "carson boone" and the drawling old jim and the fond miss doc were united as man and wife. "if only i'd known what a heart she's got, i'd asked her before," the miner drawled. "but, boys, it's never too late to pray for sense." the moment of it all, however, which the men would remember till the final call of the trumpet was that in which the three little girls, in their bright-red caps, came in at the door of the dennihan home. they would never forget the look on the face of their motherless, quaint little waif as he held forth both his tiny arms to the vision and cried out: "bruvver jim!" the end the adventures of harry revel. by arthur thomas quiller-couch. this e-text prepared from a reprint of a version published in preface when i started to set down these early adventures of harry revel, i meant to dedicate them to my friend mr. w. f. collier of woodtown, horrabridge: but he died while the story was writing, and now cannot twit me with the pranks i have played among his stories of bygone plymouth, nor send me his forgiveness--as he would have done. peace be to him for a lover of dartmoor and true gentleman of devon! so now i have only to beg, by way of preface, that no one will bother himself by inquiring too curiously into the geography, topography, etc. of this tale, or of any that i have written or may write. if these tales have any sense of locality, they certainly will not square with the ordnance maps; and even the magnetic pole works loose and goes astray at times--a phenomenon often observed by sailors off the sea-coast of bohemia. it may be permissible to add that the story which follows by no means exhausts the adventures, civil and military, of harry revel. but the recital of his further campaigning in company with mr. benjamin jope, and of the verses in which miss plinlimmon commemorated it, will depend upon public favour. a.t. quiller-couch. the haven, fowey, march th, . contents. chapter i. i find myself a foundling. ii. i start in life as an eminent person. iii. i am bound apprentice. iv. miss plinlimmon. v. the shadow of archibold. vi. i stumble into horrors. vii. i escape from the jew's house. viii. poor tom bowling. ix. saltash ferry. x. i go on a honeymoon. xi. flight. xii. i fall among smugglers. xiii. the man in the verandah. xiv. the mock-orange bush. xv. minden cottage. xvi. mr. jack rogers as a man of affairs. xvii. lydia belcher intervenes. xviii. the owl's cry. xix. checkmate. xx. isabel's revenge. xxi. i go campaigning with lord wellington. xxii. on the greater tesson. xxiii. in ciudad rodrigo. xxiv. i exchange the laurel for the olive. chapter i. i find myself a foundling. my earliest recollections are of a square courtyard surrounded by high walls and paved with blue and white pebbles in geometrical patterns--circles, parallelograms, and lozenges. two of these walls were blank, and had been coped with broken bottles; a third, similarly coped, had heavy folding doors of timber, leaden-grey in colour and studded with black bolt-heads. beside them stood a leaden-grey sentry-box, and in this sat a red-faced man with a wooden leg and a pigtail, whose business was to attend to the wicket and keep an eye on us small boys as we played. he owned two books which he read constantly: one was foxe's _martyrs_, and the other (which had no title on the binding) i opened one day and found to be _the devil on two sticks_. the arch over these gates bore two gilt legends. that facing the roadway ran: "_train up a child in the way he should go,_" which prepared the visitor to read on the inner side: "_when he is old he will not depart from it._" but we twenty-five small foundlings, who seldom evaded the wicket, and so passed our days with the second half of the quotation, found in it a particular and dreadful meaning. the fourth and last wall was the front of the hospital, a two-storeyed building of grey limestone, with a clock and a small cupola of copper, weather-greened, and a steeply pitched roof of slate pierced with dormer windows, behind one of which (because of a tendency to walk in my sleep) i slept in the charge of miss plinlimmon, the matron. below the eaves ran a line of eight tall windows, the three on the extreme right belonging to the chapel; and below these again a low-browed colonnade, in the shelter of which we played on rainy days, but never in fine weather--though its smooth limestone slabs made an excellent pitch for marbles, whereas on the pebbles in the yard expertness could only be attained by heart-breaking practice. yet we preferred them. if it did nothing else, the genevan hospital, by plymouth dock, taught us to suit ourselves to the world as we found it. i do not remember that we were unhappy or nursed any sense of injury, except over the porridge for breakfast. the rev. mr. scougall, our pastor, had founded the hospital some twenty years before with the money subscribed by certain calvinistic ladies among whom he ministered, and under the patronage of a port admiral of like belief, then occupying admiralty house. his purpose (to which we had not the smallest objection) was to rescue us small jetsam and save us from many dreadful christian heresies, more especially those of rome. but he came from the north of britain and argued (i suppose) that what porridge had done for him in childhood it might well do for us-- a conclusion against which our poor little southern stomachs rebelled. it oppressed me worse than any, for since the discovery of my sleep-walking habit my supper (of plain bread and water) had been docked, so that i came ravenous to breakfast and yet could not eat. nevertheless, i do not think we were unhappy. perhaps we were too young, and at any rate we had nothing with which to contrast our lot. across the roadway outside lay blue water, and of this and of roving ships and boats and free passers-by glimpses came to us through the wicket when mr. george, the porter (we always addressed him as "mr." and supposed him to resemble the king in features), admitted a visitor, or the laundress, or the butcher's boy. and sometimes we broke off a game to watch the topmasts of a vessel gliding by silently, above the wall's coping. but if at any time the world called to us, we took second thoughts, remembering our clothes. we wore, i dare say, the most infernal costume ever devised by man--a tightish snuff-coloured jacket with diminutive tails, an orange waistcoat, snuff-coloured breeches, grey-blue worsted stockings, and square-toed shoes with iron toe-plates. add a flat-topped cap with an immense leathern brim; add genevan neck-bands; add, last of all, a leathern badge with "g.f.h." (genevan foundling hospital) depending from the left breast-button; and you may imagine with what diffidence we took our rare walks abroad. the dock-boys, of course, greeted us with cries of "yellow hammer!" the butcher-boy had once even dared to fling that taunt at us within our own yard; and we left him in no doubt about the hammering, gallant fellow though he was and wore a spur on his left heel. but no bodily deformity could have corroded us as did those thrice-accursed garments with terror of the world without and of its laughter. of a world yet more distant we were taught the gloomiest views. twice a week regularly, and incidentally whenever he found occasion, mr. scougall painted the flames of hell for us in the liveliest colours. we never doubted his word that our chances of escaping them were small indeed; but somehow, as life did not allure, so eternity did not greatly frighten us. meanwhile we played at our marbles. we knew, in spite of the legend over the gateway, that at the age of ten or so our elder companions disappeared. they went, as a fact, into various trades and callings, like ordinary parish apprentices. perhaps we guessed this; if so, it must have been vaguely, and i incline to believe that we confused their disappearance with death in our childish musings on the common lot. they never came back to see us; and i remember that we were curiously shy of speaking about them, once gone. from miss plinlimmon's window above the eaves i could look over the front wall on to an edge of roadway, a straight dock like a canal-- crowded with shipping--and a fort which fired a gun in the early morning and again at sunset. and every morning, too, the drums would sound from the hill at our back; and be answered by a soldier, who came steadily down the roadway beside the dock, halted in front of our gates, and blew a call on his bugle. other bugle-calls sounded all around us throughout the day and far into our sleep-time: but this was the only performer i ever saw. he wore a red coat, a high japanned hat, and clean white pantaloons with black gaiters: and i took it for granted that he was always the same soldier. yet i had plenty of opportunities for observing him, for miss plinlimmon made it a rule that i should stand at the window and continue to gaze out of it while she dressed. one day she paused in the act of plaiting her hair. "harry," said she, "i shall always think of you and that tune together. it is called the revelly, which is a french word." "but the soldier is english?" said i. "oh, i truly trust so--a heart of oak, i should hope! england cannot have too many of them in these days, when a weak woman can scarce lay herself down in her bed at night with the certainty of getting up in the same position in the morning." (they were days when, as i afterwards learnt, napoleon's troops and flat-bottomed boats were gathered at boulogne and waiting their opportunity to invade us. but of this scarcely an echo penetrated to our courtyard, although the streets outside were filled daily with the tramping of troops and rolling of store-wagons. we knew that our country--whatever that might mean--was at war with france, and we played in our yard a game called "french and english." that was all: and miss plinlimmon, good soul, if at times she awoke in the night and shuddered and listened for the yells of frenchmen in the town, heroically kept her fears to herself. this was as near as she ever came to imparting them.) "i have often thought of you, harry," she went on, "as embracing a military career. mr. scougall very kindly allows me to choose surnames for you boys when you--when you leave us. he says (but i fear in flattery) that i have more invention than he." and here, though bound on my word of honour not to look, i felt sure she was smiling to herself in the glass. "what would you say if i christened you revelly?" "oh, please, no!" i entreated. "let mine be an english name. why--why couldn't i be called plinlimmon? i would rather have that than any name in the world." "you are a darling!" exclaimed she, much to my surprise; and, the next moment, i felt a little pecking kiss on the back of my neck. she usually kissed me at night, after my prayers were said: but somehow this was different, and it fetched tears to my eyes--greatly to my surprise, for we were not given to tears at the genevan hospital. "plinlimmon is a mountain in wales, and that, i dare say, is what makes me so romantic. now, you are not romantic in the least: and, besides, it wouldn't do. no, indeed. but you shall be called by an english name, if you wish, though to my mind there's a _je ne sais quoi_ about the french. i once knew a frenchman, a writing and dancing master, called duvelleroy, which always seemed the beautifullest name." "was he beautiful himself?" i asked. "he used to play a kit--which is a kind of small fiddle--holding it across his waist. it made him look as if he were cutting himself in half; which did not contribute to that result. but suppose, now, we call you revel--harry revel? that's english enough, and will remind me just the same--if mr. scougall will not think it too anacherontic." i saw no reason to fear this: but then i had no idea what she meant by it, or by calling herself romantic. she was certainly soft-hearted. she possessed many books, as well as an album in her own handwriting, and encouraged me to read aloud to her on summer mornings when the sun was up and ahead of us. and once, in the story of _maximilian, or quite the gentleman: founded on fact and designed to excite the love of virtue in the rising generation_, at a point where the hero's small brother felix is carried away by an eagle, she dissolved in tears. "in my native wales," she explained afterwards, "the wild sheep leap from rock to rock so much as a matter of course that you would, in time, be surprised if they didn't. and that naturally gives me a sympathy with all that is sublime on the one hand or affecting on the other." yet later--but i cannot separate these things accurately in time--i awoke in my cot one night and heard miss plinlimmon sobbing. the sound was dreadful to me and i longed to creep across the room to her dark bedside and comfort her; though i could tell she was trying to suppress it for fear of disturbing me. in the end her sobs ceased and, still wondering, i dropped off to sleep, nor next day did i dare to question her. but it could not have been long after this that we boys got wind of mr. scougall's approaching marriage with a wealthy lady of the town. i must speak of this ceremony, because, as the fates ordained, it gave me my first start in life. chapter ii. i start in life as an eminent person. mr. scougall was a lean, strident man who, if he lectured us often, whipped us on the whole with judgment and when we deserved it. so we bore him no grudge. but neither did we love him nor take any lively interest in him as a bridegroom, and i was startled to find these feelings shared by mr. george in the porter's box when i discussed the news with him. "i'm to have a new suit of clothes," said mr. george, "but whoever gets scougall, he's no catch." this sounded blasphemous, while it gave me a sort of fearful joy. i reported it, under seal of secrecy, to miss plinlimmon. "naval men, my dear harry," was her comment, "are notoriously blunt and outspoken, even when retired upon a pension; perhaps, indeed, if anything, more so. it is in consequence of this habit that they have sometimes performed their grandest feats, as, for instance, when horatio nelson put his spy-glass up to his blind eye. i advise you to do the same and treat mr. george as a chartered heart of oak, without remembering his indiscretions to repeat them." she went on to tell me that sailor-men were beloved in plymouth and allowed to do pretty well as they pleased; and how, quite recently, a quaker lady had been stopped in bedford street by a jack tar who said he had sworn to kiss her. "thee must be quick about it, then," said the quaker lady. and he was. i suppose this anecdote encouraged me to be more familiar with mr. george. at any rate, i confided to him next day that i thought of being a soldier. "do you know what we used to say in the navy?" he answered. "we used to say, 'a friend before a messmate, a messmate before a shipmate, a shipmate before a dog, and a dog before a soldier.'" "you think," said i, somewhat discouraged, "that the navy would be a better opening for me?" "ay," he answered again, eyeing me gloomily; "that is, if so be ye can't contrive to get to jail." he cast a glance down upon his jury-leg and patted the straps of it with his open palm. "the leg, now, that used to be here--i left it in a french prison called jivvy, and often i thinks to myself, 'that there leg is having better luck than the rest of me.' and here's another curious thing. what d'ye think they call it in france when you remember a person in your will?" i hadn't a notion, and said so. "why, 'legs,'" said he. "and they've got one of mine. if a man was superstitious, you might almost call it a coincidence, hey?" this was the longest conversation i ever had with mr. george. i have since found that sentiments very like his about the navy have been uttered by dr. samuel johnson. but mr. george spoke them out of his own experience. mr. scougall's bride was the widow of a plymouth publican who had sold his business and retired upon a small farm across the hamoaze, near the cornish village of anthony. on the wedding morning (which fell early in july) she had, by agreement with her groom, prepared a delightful surprise for us. we trooped after prayers into the dining-hall to find, in place of the hateful porridge, a feast laid out--ham and eggs, cold veal pies, gooseberry preserves, and--best of all--plate upon plate of strawberries with bowl upon bowl of cool clotted cream. not a child of us had ever tasted strawberries or cream in his life, so you may guess if we ate with prudence. at half-past ten miss plinlimmon (who had not found the heart to restrain our appetites) marshalled and led us forth, gorged and torpid, to the church where at eleven o'clock the ceremony was to take place. her eyes were red-rimmed as she cast them up towards the window behind which mr. scougall, no doubt, was at that moment arraying himself: but she commanded a firm step, and even a firm voice to remark outside the wicket, as she looked up at the chimney-pots, that nature had put on her fairest garb. the day, to be sure, was monstrously hot and stuffy. not a breath of wind ruffled the waters of the dock, around the head of which we trudged to a recently erected church on the opposite shore. i remember observing, on our way, the dazzling brilliance of its weathercock. we found its interior spacious but warm, and the air heavy with the scent--it comes back to me as i write--of a peculiar sweet oil used in the lamps. perhaps mr. scougall had calculated that a ceremony so interesting to him would attract a throng of sightseers; at any rate, we were packed into a gallery at the extreme western end of the church, and in due time watched the proceedings from that respectful distance and across a gulf of empty pews. --that is to say, some of us watched. i have no doubt that miss plinlimmon did, for instance; nay, that her attention was riveted. otherwise i cannot explain what followed. on the previous night i had gone to bed almost supperless, as usual. i had come, as usual, ravenous to breakfast, and for once i had sated, and more than sated, desire. for years after, though hungry often enough in the course of them, i never thought with longing upon cold veal or strawberries, nor have i ever recovered an unmitigated appetite for either. it is certain, then, that even before the ceremony began--and the bride arrived several minutes late--i slumbered on the back bench of the gallery. the evidence of six boys seated near me agrees that, at the moment when mr. scougall produced the ring, i arose quietly, but without warning, and made my exit by the belfry door. they supposed that i was taken ill; they themselves were feeling more or less uncomfortable. the belfry stairway, by which we had reached the door of our gallery, wound upward beyond it to the top of the tower, and gave issue by a low doorway upon the dwarf battlements, from which sprang a spire some eighty feet high. this spire was, in fact, a narrowing octagon, its sides hung with slate, its eight ridges faced with bath stone, and edged from top to bottom with ornamental crockets. the service over, bride and bridegroom withdrew with their friends to the vestry for the signing of the register; and there, while they dallied and interchanged good wishes, were interrupted by the beadle, a white-faced pew-opener, and two draymen from the street, with news (as one of the draymen put it, shouting down the rest) that "one of scougall's yellow orphans was up clinging to the weathercock by his blessed eyebrows; and was this a time for joking, or for feeling ashamed of themselves and sending for a constable?" the drayman shouted and gesticulated so fiercely with a great hand flung aloft that mr. scougall, almost before comprehending, precipitated himself from the church. outside stood his hired carriage with its pair of greys, but the driver was pointing with his whip and craning his neck like the rest of the small crowd. it may have been their outcries, but i believe it was the ringing of the dockyard bell for the dinner-hour, which awoke me. in my dreams my arms had been about some kindly neck (and of my dreams in those days, though but a glimpse ever survived the waking, in those glimpses dwelt the shade, if not the presence, of my unknown mother). they were, in fact, clasped around the leg of the weathercock. unsympathetic support! but i have known worse friends. a mercy it was, at any rate, that i kept my embrace during the moments when sense returned to me, with vision of the wonders spread around and below. truly i enjoyed a wonderful view--across the roofs of plymouth, quivering under the noon sun, and away to the violet hills of dartmoor; and, again, across the water and shipping of the hamoaze to the green slopes of mount edgcumbe and the massed trees slumbering in the heat. slumber, indeed, and a great quiet seemed to rest over me, over the houses, the ships, the whole wide land. by the blessing of heaven, not so much as the faintest breeze played about the spire, or cooled the copper rod burning my hand (and, again, it may have been this that woke me). i sat astride the topmost crocket, and glancing down between my boot heels, spied the carriage with its pair of greys flattened upon the roadway just beyond the verge of the battlements, and mr. scougall himself dancing and waving his arms like a small but very lively beetle. doubtless, i had ascended by the narrow stairway of the crockets: but to descend by them with a lot of useless senses about me would be a very different matter. no giddiness attacked me as yet; indeed i knew rather than felt my position to be serious. for a moment i thought of leaving my perch and letting myself slip down the face of the slates, to be pulled up short by the parapet; but the length of the slide daunted me, and the parapet appeared dangerously shallow. i should shoot over it to a certainty and go whirling into air. on the other hand, to drop from my present saddle into the one below was no easy feat. for this i must back myself over the edge of it, and cling with body and legs in air while i judged my fall into the next. to do this thirty times or so in succession without mistake was past hoping for: there were at least thirty crockets to be manoeuvred, and a single miscalculation would send me spinning backwards to my fate. above all, i had not the strength for it. so i sat considering for a while; not terrified, but with a brain exceedingly blank and hopeless. it never occurred to me that, if i sat still and held on, steeplejacks would be summoned and ladders brought to me; and i am glad that it did not, for this would have taken hours, and i know now that i could not have held out for half an hour inactive. but another thought came. i saw the slates at the foot of the weathercock, that they were thinly edged and of light scantling. i knew that they must be nailed upon a wooden framework not unlike a ladder. and at the genevan hospital, as i have recorded, we wore stout plates on our shoes. i am told that it was a bad few moments for the lookers-on when they saw me lower myself sideways from my crocket and begin to hammer on the slates with my toes: for at first they did not comprehend, and then they reasoned that the slates were new, and if i failed to kick through them, to pull myself back to the crocket again would be a desperate job. but they did not know our shoe-leather. mr. scougall, whatever his faults, usually contrived to get value for his money, and at the tenth kick or so my toes went clean through the slate and rested on the laths within. next came the most delicate moment of all, for with a less certain grip on the crocket i had to kick a second hole lower down, and transfer my hand-hold from the stone to the wooden lath laid bare by my first kicks. this, too, with a long poise and then a flying clutch, i accomplished; and with the rest of my descent i will not weary the reader. it was interminably slow, and it was laborious; but, to speak comparatively, it was safe. my boots lasted me to within twenty feet of the parapet, and then, just as i had kicked my toes bare, a steeplejack appeared at the little doorway with a ladder. planting it in a jiffy, he scrambled up, took me under his arm, bore me down and laid me against the parapet, where at first i began to cry and then emptied my small body with throe after throe of sickness. i recovered to find mr. scougall and another clergyman (the vicar) standing by the little door and gazing up at my line of holes on the face of the spire. mr. scougall was offering to pay. "but no," said the vicar, "we will set the damage down against the lad's preservation; that is, if i don't recover from the contractor, who has undoubtedly swindled us over these slates." chapter iii. i am bound apprentice. although holidays were a thing unknown at the genevan hospital, yet discipline grew sensibly lighter during mr. scougall's honeymoon, being left to miss plinlimmon on the understanding that in emergency she might call in the strong and secular arm of mr. george. but we all loved miss plinlimmon, and never drove her beyond appealing to what she called our better instincts. her dearest aspiration (believe it if you can) was to make gentlemen of us--of us, doomed to start in life as parish apprentices! and to this her curriculum recurred whether it had been divagating into history, geography, astronomy, english composition, or religious knowledge. "the author of the book before me, a b.a.--otherwise a bachelor of arts, but not on that account necessarily unmarried-- observes that to believe the sun goes round the earth is a vulgar error. for my part i should hardly go so far: but it warns us how severely those may be judged who obtrusively urge in society opinions which the wise in their closets have condemned." "the refulgent orb--another way, my dears, of saying the sun--is in the vicinity of persia an object of religious adoration. the christian nations, better instructed, content themselves with esteeming it warmly, and as they follow its course in the heavens, draw from it the useful lesson to look always on the bright side of things." humble beneficent soul! i never met another who had learned that lesson so thoroughly. once she pointed out to me at the end of her dictation-book a publisher's colophon of a sundial with the word _finis_ above it, and, underneath, the words "every hour shortens life." "now, i prefer to think that every hour lengthens it," said she, with one of her few smiles; for her cheerfulness was always serious. best of all were the hours when she read to us extracts from her album. "at least," she explained, "i _call_ it an album. i ever longed to possess one, adorned with remarks--moral or sprightly, as the case might be--by the choicest spirits of our age, and signed in their own illustrious handwriting. but in my sphere of life these were hard--nay, impossible--to come by; so in my dilemma i had recourse to subterfuge, and having studied the career of this or that eminent man, i chose a subject and composed what (as it seemed to me) he would _most likely_ have written upon it, signing his name below--but in print, that the signatures may not pass hereafter for real ones, should the book fall into the hands of strangers. you must not think, therefore, that the lines on statesmanship which i am about to read you, beginning 'but why statesmans _ship_? because, my lords and gentlemen, the state is indeed a ship, and demands a skilful helmsman'--you must not think that they were actually penned by the right honourable william pitt. but i feel sure the sentiments are such as he would have approved, and perhaps might have uttered had the occasion arisen." this puzzled us, and i am not sure that we took any trouble to discriminate miss plinlimmon's share in these compositions from that of their signatories. indeed, the first time i set eyes on lord wellington (as he rode by us to inspect the breaches in ciudad rodrigo) my memory saluted him as the honourable arthur wellesley, author of the passage, "though educated at eton, i have often caught myself envying the quaintly expressed motto of the more ancient seminary amid the hampshire chalk-hills, i.e. _manners makyth man_"; and to this day i associate general paoli with an apostrophe "o corsica! o my country, bleeding and inanimate!" etc., and with miss plinlimmon's foot-note: "n.b.--the author of these affecting lines, himself a blameless patriot, actually stood godfather to the babe who has since become the infamous napoleon bonaparte. oh, irony! what had been the feelings of the good paoli, could he have foreseen this eventuality, as he promised and vowed beside the font! (if they have such things in corsica: a point on which i am uncertain)." i dwell on these halcyon days with miss plinlimmon because, as they were the last i spent at the genevan hospital, so they soften all my recollections of it with their own gentle prismatic haze. in fact, a bare fortnight had gone by since my adventure on the spire when i was summoned to mr. scougall's parlour and there found miss plinlimmon in conversation with a tall and very stout man: and if her eyelids were pink, i paid more attention to the stout man's, which were rimmed with black--a more unusual sight. his neck, too, was black up to a well-defined line; the rest of it, and his cheeks, red with the red of prize beef. "this is the boy--hem--revel, of whom we were speaking." miss plinlimmon smiled at me and blushed faintly as she uttered the name. "harry, shake hands with mr. trapp. he has come expressly to make your acquaintance." somehow i gathered that this politeness took mr. trapp aback; but he held out his hand. it was astonishingly black. "pray be seated, mr. trapp." "the furniture, ma'am!" "ah, to be sure!" mr. scougall's freshly upholstered chairs had all been wrapped in holland coverings pending his return. "mr. trapp, harry, is a--a chimney-sweep." "oh!" said i, somewhat ruefully. "and if i can answer for your character (as i believe i can)," she went on with a wan, almost wistful smile, "he is ready to make you his apprentice." "but i had rather be a soldier, miss plinlimmon!" she still kept her smile, but i could read in it that my pleading was useless; that the decision really lay beyond her. "boys will be boys, mr. trapp." she turned to him with her air of gentility. "you will forgive harry for preferring a red coat to--to your calling." (i thought this treacherous of miss plinlimmon. as if she did not prefer it herself!) "no doubt he will learn in time that all duty is alike noble, whether it bids a man mount the deadly breach or climb a--or do the sort of climbing required in your profession." "i climbed up that spire in my sleep," said i, sullenly. "that's just it," mr. trapp agreed. "that's what put me on the track of ye. 'here's a tacker,' i said, 'can climb up to the top of emmanuel's in his sleep, and i've been wasting money and temper on them that won't go up an ord'nary chimbley when they're wideawake, 'ithout i lights a furze-bush underneath to hurry them.'" "i trust," put in miss plinlimmon, aghast, "you are jesting, mr. trapp?" "jesting, ma'am?" "you do not really employ that barbarous method of acceleration?" "meaning furze-bushes? why, no, ma'am; not often. look ye here, young sir," he continued, dismissing (as of no account) this subject, so interesting to me; "you was wide awake, anyway, when you came down, and that you can't deny." "harry," persisted miss plinlimmon, "has not been used to harsh treatment. you will like his manners: he is a very gentlemanly boy." mr. trapp stared at her, then at me, then slowly around the room. "gentlemanly?" he echoed at length, in a wondering way, under his breath. "i have used my best endeavours. yes, though i say it to his face, you will really--if careful to appeal to his better instincts--find him one of nature's gentlemen." mr. trapp broke into a grin of relief; almost you could say that he heaved a sigh. "oh, that's all?" said he. "why, lord love ye, ma'am, i've been called that myself before now!" so to mr. trapp i was bound, early next week, before the magistrates sitting in petty sessional division, to serve him and to receive from him proper sustenance and clothing until the age of twenty-one. and i (as nearly as could be guessed, for i had no birthday) had barely turned ten. mr. scougall arrived in time to pilot me through these formalities and hand me over to mr. trapp: but at a parting interview, throughout which we both wept copiously, miss plinlimmon gave me for souvenir a small testament with this inscription on the fly-leaf: h. revel, _from his affectionate friend, a. plinlimmon_. _o happy, happy days, when childhood's cares were soon forgotten! but now, when dear ones all around are still the same, where shall we be in ten years' time?_ "they were my own composition," she explained. mr. george bade me a gloomier farewell. "you might come to some good," he said contemplatively; "and then again you mightn't. i ain't what they call a _pessimist_, but i thinks poorly of most things. it's safer." mr. trapp was exceedingly jocose as he conveyed me home to his house beside the barbican, plymouth; stopping on the way before every building of exceptional height and asking me quizzically how i would propose to set about climbing it. at the time, in the soreness of my heart, i resented this heavy pleasantry, and to be sure, after the tenth repetition or so, the diversity of the buildings to which he applied it but poorly concealed its sameness. but, in fact, he was doing his best to be kind, and succeeded in a sort; for it roused a childish scorn in me and so fetched back my heart, which at starting had been somewhere in my boots. i took it for granted that a sweep must inhabit a dingy hovel, and certainly the crowded filth of the barbican promised nothing better as we threaded our way among fishermen, fish-jowters, blowzy women, and children playing hop-scotch with the heads of decaying fish. at the seaward end of it, and close beside the bow-fronted custom house, we turned aside into an alley which led uphill between high blank walls to the base of the citadel: and here, stuck as if it were a marten's nest under the shadow of the ramparts, a freshly whitewashed cottage overhung the slope, with a sweep's brush dangling over its doorway and the sign "s. trapp, chimney sweep in season." while i wondered what might be the season for chimney-sweeps, a small bead-eyed woman emerged from the doorway and shook a duster vigorously: in the which act catching sight of us, she paused. "i've a-got en, my dear," said mr. trapp much as a man might announce the capture of a fish: and though he did not actually lift me for inspection his hand seemed to waver over my collar. but it was mrs. trapp, who, after a fleeting glance at me, caught her husband by the collar. "and you actilly went in that state, you nasty keerless hulks! o, you heart-breaker!" mr. trapp in custody managed to send me a sidelong, humorous grin. "my dear, i thought 'twould be a surprise for you--business taking me that way, and the magistrates being used to worse." "you heart-breaker!" repeated mrs. trapp. "and me slaving morn and night to catch up with your messy ways! what did i tell you the first time you came back from the hospital looking like a malkin, and with a clean shift of clothes laid out for you and the water on the boil, that i couldn't have taken more trouble, no, not for a funeral? didn't i tell you 'twas positively lowering?" "i ha'n't a doubt you did, my dear." "that's what you are. you're a lowering man. and there by your own account you met a lady, with your neck streaked like a ham-rasher, and me not by--thank goodness!--to see what her feelings were; and now 'tis magistrates. but nothing warns you. i suppose you thought that as 'twas only fondlings without any father or mother it didn't matter how you dressed!" mrs. trapp, though she might seem to talk at random, had a wifely knack of dropping a shaft home. her husband protested. "come, come, maria--you know i'm not that sort of man!" "how do i know what sort of man you are, under all that dirt? for my part, if i'd been a magistrate, you shouldn't have walked off with the boy till you'd washed yourself, not if you'd gone down on your hands and knees for it; and him with his face shining all over like a little moses on the mount, which does the lady credit if she's the one you saw; though how they can dress children up like pickle-herrings it beats me. your bed's at the top of the house, child, and there you'll find a suit o' clothes that i've washed and aired after the last boy. i only hope you won't catch any of his nasty tricks in 'em. straight up the stairs and the little door to the left at the top." "unless"--mr. trapp picked up courage for one more pleasantry--"you'd like to make a start at once and go up by way of the chimbley." he was rash. as a pugilist might eye a recovering opponent supposed to be stunned, so mrs. trapp eyed mr. trapp. "i thought i told you plain enough," she said, "that you're a lowering man. what's worse, you're an unconverted one. oh, you nasty, fat, plain-featured fellow! go indoors and wash yourself, this instant!" i spent close upon four years with this couple: and good parents they were to me, as well as devoted to each other. mrs. trapp may have been "cracked," as she certainly suffered from a determination of words to the mouth: but, as a child will, i took her and the rest of the world as i found them. she began to mother me at once; and on the very next morning took my clothes in hand, snipped the ridiculous tails off the jacket, and sent it, with the breeches, to the dyer's. the yellow waistcoat she cut into pin-cushions, two for upstairs and two for the parlour. having no children to save for, mr. trapp could afford to feed and clothe an apprentice and take life easily to boot. mrs. trapp would never allow him to climb a ladder; had even chained him to _terra firma_ by a vow--since, as she explained to me once, "he's an unconverted man. there's no harm in 'en; but i couldn't bear to have him cut off in his sins. besides, with such a figure, he'd scatter." i recollect it as a foretaste of his kindness that on the first early morning, as he led me forth to my first experiment, we paused between the blank walls of the alley that i might practise the sweep's call in comparative privacy. the sound of my own voice, reverberated there, covered me with shame, though it could scarcely have been louder than the cheeping of the birds on the citadel ramparts above. "hark to that fellow, now!" said my master, as the notes of a bugle sang out clear and brave in the dawn. "he's no bigger than you, i warrant, and has no more call to be proud of his business." in time i grew bold enough and used to begin my "sweep, swee--eep!" at the mouth of the alley to warn mrs. trapp of our return. my first chimney daunted me, though it was a wide one, belonging to a cottage, well fitted with climbing brackets, and so straight that from the flat hearth-stone you could see a patch of blue sky with the gulls sailing across it. mr. trapp instructed me well and i listened, setting my small jaws to choke down the terror: but, once started, with his voice guiding me from below and growing hollower as i ascended, i found that all came easily enough. "bravo!" he shouted up from the far side of the street, whither he had run out to see me wave my brush from the summit. in a day or two he began to boast of me, and i had to do my young best to live up to a reputation; for the fame of my feat on emmanuel church spire had spread all over the barbican. being reckoned a bold fellow, i had to justify myself in fighting with the urchins of my age there; in which, and in wrestling, i contrived to hold my own. my shame was that i had never learnt to swim. all my rivals could swim, and even in the winter weather seemed to pass half their time in the filthy water of sutton pool, or in running races, stark naked, along the quay's edge. our trade, steady and leisurable until the last week of march, then went up with a rush and continued at high pressure through april and may, so that, dog-tired in every limb, i had much ado to drag myself to bed up the garret stairs after mrs. trapp had rubbed my ankles with goose-fat where the climbing-irons galled them. while this was doing, mr. trapp would smoke his pipe and watch and assure me that mine were the "growing-pains" natural to sweeps, and mrs. trapp (without meaning it in the least) lamented the fate which had tied her for life to one. "it being well known that my birthday is the th of the month and its rightful motto in proverbs thirty-one, 'she riseth also while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household and a portion to her maidens'; and me never able to hire a gel at eight pounds a year even!" "if you did," retorted mr. trapp, "i don't see you turning out at midnight to feed her." early in june this high-tide of business slackened, and by the close of the second week we were moderately idle. on midsummer morning i descended to find, to my vast astonishment, mr. trapp seated at table before a bowl of bread and milk and wearing a thick blue guernsey tucked inside his trousers, the waist of which reached so high as to reduce his braces to mere shoulder-straps. i could not imagine why he, a man given to perspiration, should add to his garments at this season. breakfast over, he beckoned me to the door and jerked his thumb towards the lintel. the usual, sign had been replaced by a shorter one: "s. trapp. gone driving." "if folks," said he, "ha'n't the foresight to get swept afore midsummer, i don't humour 'em." "are--are you really going for a drive, sir?" i stammered. "to be sure i am. i drive every day in the summer. what do you suppose?" "it won't be a chaise and pair, sir?" i hazarded, though even this would not have surprised me. "not to-day. lord knows what we may come to, but to-day 'tis mackerel and whiting; later on, pilchards." he took me down to the quay; and there, sure enough, we stepped on board a boat lying ready, with two men in her, who fended off and began to hoist sails at once. mr. trapp took the helm. it turned out that he owned a share in the vessel and worked her from midsummer to michaelmas with a crew of two men and a boy. the men were called isaac and morgan (i cannot remember their other names), the one extremely old and surly, the other cheerful, curly-haired and active, and both sparing of words. i was to be the boy. we baited our hooks and whiffed for mackerel as we tacked out of the sound. and by and by we came to what isaac called the "grounds" (though i could see nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the sea) and cast anchor and weighted our lines differently and caught a few whiting while we ate our dinner. the wind had fallen to a flat calm. after dinner mr. trapp looked up and said to isaac: "got a life-belt on board?" "what in thunder do 'ee want it for?" asked isaac. "that's my business," said mr. trapp. so isaac hunted up a belt made of pieces of cork and then was ordered to lash one of the sweeps so that it stuck well outboard. "now, my lad," said mr. trapp, turning to me, "you've been a very good lad 'pon the whole, and i see you fighting with the tackers down 'pon the quay and holding your own. but they can swim, and you can't, and it's wearing your spirit. so here's a chance to larn. i can't larn' ee myself, for the fashion's come up since i was a youngster. can you swim, morgan?" morgan could not; and old isaac said he couldn't see the use of it-- if you capsized, it only lengthened out the trouble. "well, then, you must larn yourself," said mr. trapp to me. "i've heard that pigs and men are the only animals it don't come to by nature. and that's a scandal however you look at it." so strip i did, and was girt with the belt under my armpits, tied to a rope, and slipped over the side in fear and trembling. i swallowed a pint or two of salt water and wept (but they could not see this, though they watched me curiously), i dare say, half a pint of it back in tears of fright. i knew by observation how legs and arms should be worked, but made disheartening efforts to put it into practice. at length, utterly ashamed, i was hauled out and congratulated: at which i stared. "as for the swimmin'," said isaac, "i can't call to mind that i've seen worse: but for pluck, considering the number of sharks at about this season, i couldn't ask better of his age." i had not thought of sharks--supposed them, indeed, to inhabit the tropics only. we caught one towards sunset, after it had fouled all our lines, and smashed its head with the unshipped tiller as it came to the surface. it measured five feet and a little over, and we lashed it alongside the gunwale and carried it home in triumph next morning (having shot the nets at sundown and slept and hauled them up empty at sunrise--the pilchards being scarce as yet, though a few had been caught off the eddystone). i don't suppose the shark would have interfered with my bath, but i gave myself airs on the strength of him. chapter iv. miss plinlimmon. late in august, and a week or two before mr. trapp changed his signboard and resumed his proper business, i was idling by the edge of the barbican one evening when a boy, whose eye i had blacked recently, charged up behind me and pushed me over. i pretended to be drowning, and sank theatrically as he and half a dozen others, conveniently naked, plunged to the rescue. they dived for my body with great zeal, while i, having slipped under the keel of a trading-ketch and climbed on board by her accommodation-ladder dangling on the far side, watched them from behind a stack of flower-pots on her deck. when they desisted, and i had seen the culprit first treated as a leper by the crowd, then haled before two constables and examined at length, finally led homeward by the ear and cuffed at every few steps by his mother (a widow), i slipped back into the water, dived back under the ketch, and, emerging, asked the cause of the disturbance. this made a new reputation for me, at the expense of some emotion to mrs. trapp, to whom the news of my decease had been borne on the swiftest wings of rumour. but i have tarried too long over those days of my apprenticeship, and am yet only at the beginning. were there no story to be told, i might fill a chapter by fishing up recollections of plymouth in those days; of the women, for instance, carried down in procession to the barbican and ducked for scolding. a husband had but to go before the mayor (mr. trapp sometimes threatened it) and swear that his wife was a common scold, and the mayor gave him an order to hoist her on a horse and take her to the ducking-chair to be dipped thrice in sutton pool. at last a poor creature died of it, and that put an end to the bad business. then there were the press-gangs. time and again i have run naked from bathing to watch the press as, after hunting from tavern to tavern, it dragged a man off screaming to the steps, the sailors often man-handling him and the officer joking with the crowd and behaving as cool and gentlemanly as you please. mr. trapp and i were by the door one evening, measuring out the soot, when a man came panting up the alley and rushed past us into the back kitchen without so much as "by your leave." half a minute later up came the press, and the young officer at the head of them was for pushing past and into the house; but mr. trapp blocked the doorway, with mrs. trapp full of fight in the rear. "stand by!" says the officer to his men. "and you, sir, what the devil do you mean by setting yourself in the way of his majesty's service?" "an englishman's house," said mr. trapp, "is his castle." "d'ye hear that?" screamed mrs. trapp. "an englishman's house," repeated mr. trapp slowly, "is his castle. the storms may assail it, and the winds whistle round it, but the king himself cannot do so." the officer knew the law and called off his gang. when the coast was clear we went to search for the man, and found he had vanished, taking half a flitch of bacon with him off the kitchen-rack. all those days, too, throb in my head to the tramp of soldiers in the streets, and ring with bugles blown almost incessantly from the ramparts high above my garret. on sundays mr. trapp and i used to take our walk together around the ramparts, between church and dinner-time, after listening to the royal marine band as it played up george street and bedford street on the way from service in st. andrew's church. if we met a soldier we had to stand aside; indeed, even common privates in those days (so proudly the army bore itself, though its triumphs were to come) would take the wall of a woman--a greater insult then than now, or at least a more unusual one. a young officer of the '--'th regiment once put this indignity upon mrs. trapp, in southside street. the day was a wet one, and the gutter ran with liquid mud. mrs. trapp recovered her balance, slipped off her pattens, and stamped them on the back of his scarlet coat--two oval o's for him to walk about with. those were days, too, which kept our plymouth stones rattling. besides the coaches--the "quicksilver," which carried the mails and a coachman and guard in scarlet liveries, the humdrum "defiance" and the dashing "subscription" or "scrippy" post-chaises came and went continually, whisking naval officers between us and london with dispatches: and sometimes the whole populace turned out to cheer as trains of artillery wagons, escorted by armed seamen, marines, and soldiers, horse and foot, rumbled up from dock towards the citadel with treasure from some captured frigate. i could tell, too, of the great november fair in the market place, and the rejoicings on the king's jubilee, when i paid a halfpenny to go inside the huge hollow bonfire built on the hoe: but all this would keep me from my story-- for which i must hark back to miss plinlimmon. for many months i heard nothing of this dear lady, and it seemed that i had parted from her for ever, when one evening as i returned from carrying a bag of soot out to mutley plain (where a market-gardener wanted some for his beds), mrs. trapp put into my hands a letter addressed in the familiar italian hand to "h. revel, residing with mr. s. trapp, house renovator, near the barbican." it ran: "my dearest harry,--i wonder if, amid your new avocations, you will take the pleasure in the handwriting of an _old friend_? i remember you many times daily, and often when i wake in the night; and commend you to god morning and evening, kneeling on the place where your cot used to stand, for i have no one now to care for in my room. there is little change in our life here; though mr. scougall, as i foreboded, takes less heart in his ministrations, and i should not wonder if he retired before long. but this is between ourselves. punctual as ever in his duties, he rarely spends the night here, but departs at six p.m. for his wife's farm, where mrs. s. very naturally prefers to reside. indeed, i wish she would absent herself altogether; for when she comes, it is to criticise the housekeeping, in which i regret to say she does not maintain that generous spirit of which she gave promise in the veal pies, etc., of that _ever memorable_ morning. i never condescended to be a bride: yet i feel sure, that had i done so, it would have given me an extra compassion for the fatherless." "but enough of myself. my object in writing is to tell you that my birthday falls on wednesday next (may st, dedicated by the ancient romans to the goddess of flowers, as i was yearly reminded in my happy youth. but how often fate withholds from us her seeming promises!). it might be a bond between us, my dear boy, if you will take that day for your birthday too. pray humour me in this; for indeed your going has left a void which i cannot fill, and perhaps do not wish to, except with thoughts of you. i trust there used to be no _partiality_; but for some reason you were dearer to me than the others; and i feel as if god, in his mysterious way, sent you into my life _with meaning_. do you think that mr. trapp, if you asked him politely (and i trust you have not forgotten your politeness), would permit you to meet me at p.m. on wednesday, in mr. tucker's bun shop, in bedford street, to celebrate your birthday with an affectionate friend? such ever is," "amelia plinlimmon." "oh, very well," said mr. trapp when i showed him the letter and put my request; "only don't let her swell you out of shape. chimbleys is narrower than they used to be. may-day is sweeps' holiday, too, though we don't keep it up in plymouth: i dare say the lady thought 'pon that. in my bachelor days i used to be jack in the green reggilar." "it's just as well i never saw ye, then," said his wife tartly. "and to imagine that a lady like miss plinlimmon would concern herself with your deboshes! but you'd lower the king on his throne." indeed, mr. trapp went on to give some colour to this. "i wonder what she means, talking about roman goddesses?" he mused. "i seen one, once, in a penny show; and it was marked outside 'men only admitted.'" mrs. trapp swept me from the room. on may-day, then, i entered mr. tucker's bun shop with a beating heart, a scrubbed face and a sprig of southernwood in my button-hole, and miss plinlimmon fell on my neck and kissed me. all the formality of the genevan hospital dropped away from her as a garment, and left only the tender formality of her own nature, so human that it amazed me. i had never really known her until now. she had prepared a feast, including mr. tucker's famous cheese-cakes, "as patronised by queen charlotte," and cakes called "maids of honour." "to my mind," said miss plinlimmon, taking one, "there is always an air of refinement about this shop." she praised my growth, and the cleanliness of my skin, and the care with which mrs. trapp kept my clothes; and laughed when i reported some of mrs. trapp's sayings-- but tremulously: indeed, more than once her eyes brimmed as she gazed across the table. "you cannot think how happy i am!" she almost whispered, and broke off to draw my attention to a young officer who had entered the shop, with two ladies in fresh summer gowns of sprigged muslin, and who stood by the counter buying sweetmeats. "if you can do so without staring, harry, always make a point of observing such people as that. you will be surprised at the little hints you pick up." i told her, growing bold, that i knew no finer lady than she, and never wanted to--which i still think a happy and highly creditable speech for a boy of eleven. she flushed with pleasure. "i have birth, i hope," she said, and with that her colour deepened, perhaps with a suspicion that this might hurt my feelings. "but since our reverses," she went on hurriedly, "we plinlimmons have stood still; and one should move with the times. i am not with those who think good manners need be old-fashioned ones." she recurred to mrs. trapp. "i feel sure she must be an excellent woman. your clothes are well kept, and i read more in needlework than you think. also folks cannot neglect their cleanliness and then furbish themselves up in a day. i see by your complexion that she attends to you. i hope you are careful not to laugh at her when she makes those ludicrous speeches?" but i shifted the talk from mrs. trapp. "what did you mean, just now, by 'we,' miss plinlimmon?" i asked. "did i say 'we'?" "you talked about your reverses--'our reverses,' you said. i wish you would tell me about it: i never heard, before, of anyone belonging to you." "'we' means 'my brother and i,'" she said, and said no more until she had paid the bill and we walked up to the hoe together. there she chose a seat overlooking the sound and close above the amphitheatre (in those days used as a bull-ring) where corineus the trojan had wrestled, ages before, with the giant gogmagog and defeated him. "my brother arthur--captain arthur plinlimmon of the king's own--is the soul of honour. i do not believe a nobler gentleman lives in the whole wide world: but then we are descended from the great glendower, king of wales (i will show you the pedigree, some day), and have tudor blood, too, in our veins. when dear papa died and we discovered he had been speculating unfortunately in east india stock--'buying for a fall' was, i am told, his besetting weakness, though i could never understand the process--arthur offered me a home and maintenance for life. of course i refused: for the blow reduced him, too, to bitter poverty, and he was married. and, besides, i could never bear his wife, who was a woman of fashion and extravagant. she is dead now, poor thing, so we will not talk of her: but she could never be made to understand that their circumstances were altered, and died leaving some debts and one child, a boy called archibald, who is now close on twenty years old. so there is my story, harry; and a very ordinary one, is it not?" "where does captain plinlimmon live?" i asked. "he is quartered in lancaster just now, with his regiment: and archie lives with him. he had hoped to buy the poor boy a commission before this, but could not do so honourably until all the debts were paid. 'the sins of the fathers--'" she broke off and glanced at me nervously. but i was not of an age to suspect why, or to understand my own lot at all. "i suppose you love this archibald better than anybody," said i with a twinge of jealousy. "oh, no," she exclaimed quickly, and at once corrected herself. "not so much as i ought. i love him, of course, for his father's sake: but in features he takes after his mother very strikingly, and that--on the few occasions i have seen him--chilled me. it is wrong, i know; and no doubt with more opportunity i should have grown very fond of him. sometimes i tax myself, harry, with being frail in my affections: they require renewing with a sight of--of their object. that is why we are keeping our birthdays together to-day." she smiled at me, almost archly, putting out a hand to rest it on mine, which lay on my knee; then suddenly the smile wavered, and her eyes began to brim; i saw in them, as in troubled water, broken images of a hundred things i had known in dreams; and her arm was about my neck and i nestled against her. "dear harry! dear boy!" i cannot tell how long we sat there: certainly until the ships hung out their riding-lights and the may stars shone down on us. at whiles we talked, and at whiles were silent: and both the talk and the silences (if you will not laugh) held some such meanings as they hold for lovers. more than ever she was not the miss plinlimmon i remembered, but a strange woman, coming forth and revealing herself with the stars. she actually confessed that she loathed porridge!-- "though for example's sake, you know, i force myself to eat it. i think it unfair to compel children to a discipline you cannot endure with them." she parted with me under the moonlit citadel, at the head of a by-lane leading to the trapps' cottage. "i shall not write often, or see you," she said. "it is seldom that i get a holiday or even an hour to myself, and we will not unsettle ourselves"--mark, if the child could not, the noble condescension--"in our duties that are perhaps the more blessed for being stern. but a year hence for certain, if spared, we will meet. until then be a gentleman always and--i may ask it now--for my sake." so we parted, and for a whole year i saw nothing of her, nor heard except at christmas, when she sent me a closely written letter of six sheets, of which i will transcribe only the poetical conclusion: "christmas comes but once a year: and why? we well may ask. repine not. we are probably unequal to a severer task." chapter v. the shadow of archibald. it is not only children who, having once tasted bliss, suppose fondly that one has only to prepare a time and place for it again and it can be repeated. but he must be a queer child who starts with expecting any less. certainly no doubts assailed me when the anniversary came round and i made my way to mr. tucker's bun shop; nor did miss plinlimmon's greeting lack anything of tenderness. she began at once to talk away merrily: but children are demons to detect something amiss, and there was a note in her gaiety which somehow did not sound in key. after a while she broke off in the middle of a sentence and sat stirring her tea, as with a mind withdrawn; recovered herself, and catching at her last words, continued--but on a different subject; then, reading some puzzlement in my eyes, exclaimed abruptly, "my dear harry, you have grown beyond knowledge!" "were you thinking of that?" i asked, for i had heard it twice already. she answered one question with another. "of what were _you_ thinking?" i hesitated, for in truth i had been thinking how much older she had grown. a year is a long time to a child, but it did not account to me for a curious wanness in her colour. her hair was greyer, too, and there were dark rings under her eyes. "you seem different somehow, miss plinlimmon." "do i? the hospital has been wearing me out, of late. i have thought sometimes of resigning and trying my fortune elsewhere: but the thought of the children restrains me. i make many mistakes with them--perhaps more as the years go on: they love me, however, for they know that i mean well, and it would haunt me if they fell into bad hands. now i am not sure that mr. scougall would choose the best successor. before he married i could have trusted his judgment." she fell a-musing again. "archibald is here in plymouth," she added inconsequently. "my nephew, you know." i nodded, and asked, "is he quartered here?" "why, how did you know he was in the army?" "you told me major arthur was saving up to buy him a commission." "how well you remember!" she sighed. "alas! no: the debts were too heavy. archibald is in the army, but he has enlisted as a private, in the th, the north wilts regiment. his father advised it: he says that, in these days, commissions are to be won by young men content to begin in the ranks; and the lad has (i believe) a good friend in colonel festonhaugh, who commands the north wilts. he and arthur are old comrades in arms. but garrison life does not suit the poor boy, or so he complains. he is a little sore with his father for subjecting him to it, and cannot take his stern view about paying the debts. that is natural enough, perhaps." she heaved another sigh. "his regiment--or rather the second battalion, to which he belongs--was ordered down to plymouth last january, and since then has been occupied with drill and petty irritating duties at which he grumbles sorely--though i believe there is a prospect of their being ordered out to portugal before long." "you see him often?" i asked. she seemed to pause a moment. "yes; oh, yes to be sure, i see him frequently. that is only natural, is it not?" we left the shop and strolled towards the hoe. i felt that something was interfering to spoil our day; and felt unreasonably sure of it on finding our old seat occupied by three soldiers--two of them supporting a drunken comrade. we made disconsolately for an empty bench, some fifty yards away. "they belong to archibald's regiment," said miss plinlimmon as we settled ourselves to talk. i had noted that she scanned them narrowly. "why, here _is_ archibald!" she exclaimed: and i looked up and saw a young red-coat sauntering towards us. her tone, i was jealously glad to observe, had not been entirely joyous. and master archibald, as he drew near, did not seem in the best of tempers. he was beyond all doubt a handsome youth, and straight-limbed; but apparently a sullen one. he kept his eyes on the ground and only lifted them for a moment when close in front of us. "good afternoon, aunt." "good afternoon, archibald. this is harry--my friend of whom you have heard me speak." he glanced at me with a curt nod. i could see that he considered me a nuisance. an awkward silence fell between the three of us, broken at length by a start and a smothered exclamation from miss plinlimmon. archibald glanced over his shoulder carelessly. "oh, yes," said he, "they are baiting a bull down yonder." the ridge hid the bull-ring from us. dogs had been barking there when we seated ourselves, but the noise held no meaning for us. it was the bull's roar which had startled miss plinlimmon. "pray let us go!" she gathered her shawl about her in a twitter. "this is quite horrible!" "there's nothing to be afraid of," he assured her. "the brute's tied fast enough. don't go, aunt: i want a word with you." he glowered at me again, and this time with meaning. i saw that he wished me gone, and i moved to go. "this is harry's birthday. i am keeping it with him: his birthday as well as mine, archibald." "gad, i forgot! i'm sorry, aunt--many happy returns of the day!" "thank you," said she drily. "and now if you particularly wish to speak to me, i will walk with you, but only a short way. harry shall find another seat." as they walked away side by side, i turned my head to look for a bench farther removed from the bull-ring; and so became aware of another soldier, in uniform similar to mr. archibald's, stretched prone on the turf a few paces behind me. when i stood up and turned to have a look at him, his head had dropped on his arms and he appeared to be sleeping. but i could have sworn that when i first caught sight of him he had been gazing after the pair. well, there was nothing in this (you will say) to disturb me; yet for some reason it made me alert, if not uneasy. i chose another seat, but at no great distance, and kept him in view. he raised his head once, stared around like one confused and not wholly awake, and dropped into slumber again. miss plinlimmon and archibald turned and came pacing back; turned again and repeated this quarter-deck walk three or four times. he was talking, and now and then using a slight gesture. i could not see that she responded. at any rate, she did not turn to him. but the man on the grass occupied most of my attention, and i missed the parting. an odd fancy took me to watch if he stirred again while i counted a hundred. he did not, and i shifted my gaze to find miss plinlimmon coming towards me unescorted. archibald had disappeared. her eyes were red, and her voice trembled a little. "and now," said she, "that's enough of my affairs, please god!" she began to put questions about the trapps. and while i answered them i happened to look along the flat stretch of turf to the right, in time to see, at perhaps a hundred yards' distance, a soldier cross it from behind and go hurrying down the slope towards the bull-ring. i recognised him at a glance. he was the black-avised man who had pretended to be sleeping. almost at once, as i remember it--but i dare say some minutes had passed--a furious hubbub arose below us, mixed with the yelling of dogs and a few sharp screams. and, before we knew what it meant, at the point where the black-avised man had disappeared, he came scrambling back, found his legs and headed desperately towards us, with a bull behind him in full chase. i managed to drag miss plinlimmon off the bench, thrust her like a bundle beneath it, and scrambled after her into shelter but a second or two before the pair came thundering by; for the bull's hooves shook the ground; and so small a space--ten or twelve yards at the most--divided him from the man, that they passed in one rush, and with them half a dozen bulldogs hanging at the brute's heels as if trailed along by an invisible cord. next after these pelted master archibald, shouting and tugging at his side-arm; and after him again, but well in the rear, a whole rabble of bull-baiters, butchers, soldiers, boys and mongrels, all yelping together with excitement and terror, the men flourishing swords and pitchforks. to speak of the man first.--i have since seen soldiers crazed and running in battle, but never such a face as passed me in that brief vision. his lips were wide, his eyes strained and almost starting from his head, the pupils turned a little backward as if fascinated by the terror at his heels, imploring help, seeking a chance to double--all three together--and yet absolutely fixed and rigid. the bull made no account of us, though below the seat i caught the light of his red eye as he plunged past, head to ground and so close that his hot breath smote in our faces and the broken end of rope about the base of his horns whipped the grass by my fingers. perhaps the red coat attracted his rage. but he seemed to nurse a special grudge against the man. this appeared when, a stone's-throw beyond our seat, the man sprang sideways to the left of his course--in the nick of time, too, for as he sprang he seemed to clear the horns by a bare foot. the bull's heavier rush carried him forward for several yards before he swerved himself on to the new line of pursuit; and this let up master archibald, who by this time had his side-arm loose. "ham-string 'en!" yelled a blue-shirted butcher, pausing beside us and panting. "quick, you fool--ham-string 'en!" for some reason the young man seemed to hesitate. likely enough he did not hear; perhaps had lost presence of mind. at any rate, for a second or so, his arm hung on the stroke, and as the bull swerved again he jabbed his bayonet feebly at the haunch. the butcher swore furiously. "murdered by folly if ever man was! ye bitter fool," he shouted, "it's pricked him on, ye've done!" the black-faced man, having gained maybe a dozen yards by his manoeuvre, was now heading for the citadel gate; beside which--so far away that we saw them as toys--stood a sentry-box and the figure of a sentry beside it. could he reach this gate? his altered course had taken him a little downhill, to the left of the ridge, and to regain it by the citadel he must fetch a slight loop. luckily the bull could not reason: he followed his enemy. but there was just a chance that by running along the ridge the chase might be headed off. the crowd saw this and set off anew, with master archibald still a little in front and increasing his lead. i scrambled from under the seat and followed. but almost at once it became plain that we were out-distanced. alone of us master archibald had a chance; and if the man were to be saved, it lay either with him or with the sentry at the gate. i can yet remember the look on the sentry's face as we drew closer and his features grew distinct. he stood in the middle of the short roadway which led to the drawbridge, and clearly it had within a few moments dawned upon him that _he_ was the point upon which these fatal forces were converging. a low wall fenced him on either hand, and as he braced himself, grasping his brown bess--a fine picture of duty triumphing over irresolution--into this narrow passage poured the chase, rolled as it were in a flying heap; the hunted man just perceptibly first, the bull and archibald plinlimmon cannoning against each other at the entrance. master archibald was hurled aside by the impact of the brute's hindquarters and shot, at first on all fours, then prone, alongside the base of the wall; but he had managed to get his thrust home, and this time with effect. the bull tossed his head with a mighty roar, ducked it again and charged on his prey, who flung up both arms and fell spent by the sentry-box. the sentry sprang to the other side of the roadway and let fly his charge at random as box, man, and bull crashed to earth together, and a dreadful bellow mingled with the sharper notes of splintered wood. it was the end. the bullet had cut clean through the bull's spine at the neck, and the crowd dragged him lifeless, a board of the sentry-box still impaled on his horns, off the legs of the black-avised man--who, at first supposed to be dead also, awoke out of his swoon to moan feebly for water. while this was fetching, the butcher knelt and lifted him against his knee. he struck me as ill-favoured enough--not to say ghastly--with the dust and blood on his face (for a splinter had laid open his cheek), and its complexion an unhealthy white against his matted hair. i took note that he wore sergeant's stripes. "what's the poor thing called?" someone inquired of the sentry. the sentry, being an irishman, mistook the idiom. "he's called a bull," said he, stroking the barrel of his rifle. "h'what the divvle else?" "but 'tis the man we mean." "oh, _he's_ called letcher; sergeant; north wilts." letcher gulped down a mouthful of water and managed to sit up, pushing the butcher's arm aside. "where's plinlimmon?" he asked hoarsely. "hurt?" "here i am, old fellow," answered archibald, reeling rather than stepping forward. "a crack on the skull, that's all. hope you're none the worse?" his own face was bleeding from a nasty graze on the right temple. "h'm?" said letcher. "mean it? you'd better mean it by--!" he snarled suddenly, his face twisted with pain or malice. "you weren't too smart, the first go. why the deuce didn't you hamstring the brute? you heard them shouting?" "that's asackly what i told 'en," put in the butcher. "oh, stow your fat talk, you silly devonshire-man!" the butcher's tongue was too big for his mouth, and letcher mimicked him ferociously and with an accuracy quite wonderful, his exhaustion considered. he leaned back and panted. "the brute touched me--under the thigh, here. i doubt i'm bleeding." he closed his eyes and fainted away. they found, on lifting him, that he spoke truth. the bull had gored him in the leg: a nasty wound beginning at the back of the knee, running upward and missing the main artery by a bare inch. a squad of soldiers had run out, hearing the shot, and these bore him into the citadel, master archibald limping behind. the crowd began to disperse, and i made my way back to miss plinlimmon. "a providential escape!" said she on hearing my report. "i am glad that archibald acquitted himself well." she went on to tell me of a youthful adventure of her own with a mountain bull, in her native wales. some days later she sent me a poem on the occurrence: "lo, as he strides his native scene, the bull--how dignified his mien! when tethered, otherwise! yet _one_ his tether broke and ran after a military man before these very eyes!" "i feel that i have been more successful with the metre than usual," she added, "having been guided by a little poem, a favourite of mine, which, as it also inculcates kindness to the brute creation, you will do well, harry, to commit to memory. it runs: "'poor little birds! if people knew what sorrows little birds go through, i think that even boys would never deem it sport, or fun, to stand and fire a frightful gun for nothing but the noise.'" the shadow of mr. archibald seemed doomed to rest upon our anniversaries. this second one, though more than exciting enough, had not answered my expectations: and, on the third, when i presented myself at the bun shop it was to learn with dismay that miss plinlimmon had not arrived; with dismay and something more--for i had walked into the country towards plympton early that morning and raided an orchard under the trees of which grew a fine crop of columbines, seeded from a neighbouring garden. also i jingled together in my pocket no less a sum than two bright shillings, which mr. trapp had magnificently handed over to me out of a wager of five he had made with an east country skipper that i could dive and take the water, hands first, off the jib-boom of any vessel selected from the shipping then at anchor in cattewater. i knew that miss plinlimmon wanted a box to hold her skeins, and i also knew the price of one in a window in george street, and had the shopman's promise not to part with it before five o'clock that evening. i wished miss plinlimmon to admire it first, and then i meant to enter the shop in a lordly fashion and, emerging, to put the treasure in her hands. so i paced the pavement in front of mr. tucker's, the prey of a thousand misgivings. but at length, and fully half an hour late, she hove in sight. "i have been detained, dear," she explained as we kissed, "--by archibald," she added. always that accursed archibald! "did he wish you many happy returns?" i asked, thrusting my bunch of columbines upon her with a blush. "you dear, dear boy!" she chirruped. but she ignored my question. when we were seated, too, she made the poorest attempt to eat, but kept exclaiming on the beauty of my flowers. the meal over, she drew out her purse to pay. "we shan't be seeing mr. archibald to-day?" i asked wistfully, preparing to go. "you may be certain--" with that she paused, with a blank look which changed to one of shame and utter confusion. the purse was empty. "oh, harry--what shall i do? there were five shillings in it when--. i counted them out and laid the purse on the table beside my gloves. i was just picking them up when--when archibald--" her voice failed again and she turned to the shop-woman. "something most unfortunate has happened. will you, please, send for mr. tucker? he will know me. i have been here on several previous occasions--" i had not the slightest notion of the price of eatables; but i, too, turned on the shopwoman with a bold face, albeit with a fluttering heart. "how much?" i demanded. "one-and-ninepence, sir." i know not which made me the happier--relief, or the glory of being addressed as "sir." i paid, pocketed my threepence change, and in the elation of it offered miss plinlimmon my arm. we walked down george street, past the work-box in the window. i managed to pass without wincing, though desperately afraid that the shopman might pop out--it seemed but natural he should be lying in wait--and hold me to my bargain. our session upon the hoe, though uninterrupted, did not recapture the dear abandonment of our first blissful birthday. miss plinlimmon could neither forget the mishap to her purse, nor speak quite freely about it. a week later she celebrated her redemption in the following stanza: "a friend in need is a friend indeed, we have oft-times heard: and king richard the third was reduced to crying, 'my kingdom for a horse!' o, may we never want a friend! 'or a bottle to give him,' i omit, as coarse." she enclosed one-and-ninepence in the missive: and so obtained her work-box after all--it being, by a miracle, still unsold. chapter vi. i stumble into horrors. it was exactly seven weeks later--that is to say, on the evening of june th, --that as i stood in the doorway whistling _come, cheer up, my lads_, to mrs. trapp's tame blackbird, the old jew slop-dealer came shuffling up the alley and demanded word with my master. his name was rodriguez--"i. rodriguez, marine stores"--and his shop stood at the corner of the barbican as you turn into southside street. he had an extraordinarily fine face, narrow, emaciated, with a noble hook to his nose (which was neither pendulous nor fleshy) and a black pointed beard divided by a line of grey. we boys feared him, one and all: but in a furred cloak and skull-cap he would have made a brave picture. the dirt of his person, however, was a scandal. i told him that mr. trapp had walked over and taken the ferry to cremyll, where his boat was fitting out for the summer. "but mrs. trapp is washing-up at the back. shall i call her?" "god forbid!" said he. "i am not come to listen, but to speak." i asked him then if i could take a message. "as wine in a leaky vessel, so is a message committed to a child. two of my chimneys need to be swept." "i can remember that, sir," said i. he eyed me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. "yes; you will remember," he said, as if somehow he had satisfied himself. yet his eyes continued to search me. "you have not swept my chimneys before?" "i have been working for mr. trapp almost three years," said i demurely. "yes, i have seen your face. but i do not often have my chimneys swept: it is dreadful waste of money. the soot, now--your master and i cannot agree about it. i say that the soot is mine, that i made it, in my own chimney, with my own fuel; therefore it should be my property, but your master claims it. five years ago i left my chimneys un-swept while i argued this; but one of them took fire, and so i lost my soot, and the corporation fined me five shillings. it was terrible." he fell back a pace and studied me again. "if my brother aaron could see your face, boy, he would want to paint it and you might make money." "where does he live, sir?" i asked. "eh? good boy--good boy! he lives in lisbon, in the ghetto off the street of the four evangelists." he laughed, high up in his nose, at my discomfiture. "if you ever meet him, mention my name: but first of all tell your master i shall expect him at five o'clock to-morrow morning." he wished me good night and shuffled away down the alley, still laughing at his joke. at five o'clock next morning, or a little before, mr. trapp and i started for the house. the barbican had not yet awaked to business. its frowzy blinds were down, and out on the pool nothing moved but a fishing-boat sweeping in upon the first of the flood. at the entrance of southside street, however, we almost overtook a soldier walking towards the town. he walked slowly and with a very slight limp, but seemed to quicken his pace a little, and kept ahead of us. the barracks being full just then, many soldiers had their billets about the town, and that one should be abroad at such an hour was nothing suspicious: yet my eyes were still following him when mr. trapp halted and knocked at the jew's door. at the sound, i saw the man start and hesitate for an instant in his stride: and in that instant, though he held on his pace and was lost to sight around the street-corner, i recognised him and understood the limp. he was the man of the bull-chase--sergeant letcher (as the sentry had named him) of the north wilts. nobody answered mr. trapp's knock, though he repeated it four or five times. he stepped back into the roadway and scanned the unshuttered upper windows. they were uncurtained, too, every one, and grimed with dust: and through this dust we could see rows of cast-off suits dangling within like limp suicides. "very odd," commented mr. trapp. "you're sure he said five o'clock?" "sure," said i. "besides--five o'clock or six--why can't the old skin-flint answer?" he knocked again vigorously. a blind-cord creaked, a window went up over a ship-chandler's shop next door, and a man thrust out his head. "what's wrong?" he demanded. "sorry to disturb ye, clemow; but old rodriguez, here, bespoke us to sweep his chimneys at five, and we can't get admittance." "why, i heard him unbolt for ye an hour ago!" said the ship-chandler. "he woke me up with his noise, letting down the chain." the door had a latch-handle and mr. trapp grasped it. "drat me, but you're right!" he exclaimed, as he pressed his thumb and the door at once yielded. "huh!" he stared into the empty passage, out of which a room opened on either hand, each hung with cast-off suits which seemed to sway slightly in the scanty light filtered through the shutter-holes. "i don't stomach moving among these. even in broad daylight i'm never too sure there ain't a man hidden in one of 'em. he might be dead, too--by the smell." he stepped to the foot of the uncarpeted stairs. "mister rodriguez!" he called. his voice echoed up past the cobwebbed landing and seemed to go wandering aloft among unclean mysteries to the very roof. nobody answered. "mister rodriguez!" he called again, and waited. "let's try the kitchen," he suggested. "we started with that, last time: and, if my memory holds good, 'tis the only chimney he uses. he beds in a small room right over us, next the roof, and keeps a fire going there through the winter: but the flue of it leads into the same shaft--a pretty wide shaft as i rec'llect." we groped our way by the foot of the staircase and along a line of cupboards to the kitchen. the window of this looked out upon a backyard piled with refuse timber, packing-cases, and plaster statuary broken and black with soot. within, the hearth had been swept as if in preparation for us. on the dirty table stood a milk-jug with a news-sheet folded and laid across its top, a half-loaf of bread, and a plate of meat--but of what kind we did not pause to examine. it looked nauseous enough. a brindled cat made a dash past us and upstairs. its unexpected charge greatly unsettled mr. trapp. "it daunts me--i declare it do!" he confided hoarsely. "but he's been here, anyway; and he expects us." he waved a hand towards the hearth. "shall i call again? or what d'ye say to getting it over?" "i'm ready," said i. to tell the truth, the inside of the chimney seemed more inviting to me than the rest of the house. i was accustomed to chimneys. "up we go, then!" mr. trapp began to spread his bags. he always used the first person plural on these occasions--meaning, no doubt, that i took with me his moral support. "the shaft's easy enough, i mind-- two storeys above this, and all the flues leadin' to your right. i'll be out in the street by the time you hail." i hadn't a doubt he would. "one week to midsummer!" i cried, to hearten me--for we were both counting the days now between us and the fishing. he grinned, and up i went. the chimney was foul, to be sure, but once past the first ten or a dozen feet i mounted quickly. towards the top the shaft narrowed so that for a while i had my doubts if it could be squeezed through: but i found, on reaching it, that the brickwork shelved inwards very slightly, though furred or crusted with an extra thick coating of soot below the vent. through this i broke in triumph, sweating from my haste; and brushing the filth from my eyes, leaned both arms on the chimney-pot while i scanned the roofs around for a glimpse between them, down to the street and mr. trapp. i did so at ease, for a flue entered the main shaft immediately below the stack, which was a decidedly dumpy one--in fact, less than five feet tall; so that i supported myself not by the arms alone but by resting my toes on the ridge where flue and shaft met. now, as the reader will remember, it was the height of summer, and the day had brightened considerably since we entered the house. the sudden sunshine set me blinking, and while i cleared my eyes it seemed to me that a man--a dark figure--something, at any rate, and something a great deal too large to be mistaken for a cat--stole from under the gable above which my chimney rose, and, swiftly crossing a patch of flat leaded roof to the right, disappeared around a chimney-stack on the far side of it. i ceased rubbing my eyes and stared at the stack. it was a tall one, rising from a good fifteen feet below almost to a level with mine, and i could not possibly look over it. _something_, i felt sure, lurked behind it, and my ears seemed to hold the sound of a soft footstep. i forgot mr. trapp. by pulling myself a little higher i could get a better view, not of the stack, but of the stretch of roof beyond it: nobody could break cover in that direction and escape me. i took a firm grip on the corroded bricks and heaved on them. next moment they had given way under my hands, falling inwards: and i was falling with them. i kicked out, striving to find again with my toes the ridge where the flue joined the shaft--missed it--and went shooting down to the right through a smother of soot. the total fall--or slide, rather--was not a severe one, after all; twenty feet perhaps, though uncomfortable enough for sixty. i pulled myself up quite suddenly, my feet resting on a ledge which, as i shook the soot off and recovered my wits, turned out to be the upper sill of a grate. then, growing suddenly cautious when the need for caution was over, i descended the next foot or two back foremost, as one goes down a ladder, and jumped out into the room clear of the hearthstone. and with that, as i turned, a scream rose to my throat and died there. i had almost jumped upon the stretched-out body of a man. chapter vii. i escape from the jew's house. it was mr. rodriguez. he lay face downward and slantwise across the front of the hearth, with arms spread, fingers hooked, and his neck protruding from the collar of his dingy dressing-gown like a plucked fowl's. he had cast a slipper in falling, and the flesh of one heel showed through its rent stocking. for a moment i supposed him in a fit; the next, i was recoiling towards the wall, away from a dark moist line which ran from under his left armpit and along the uneven boards to the far corner by the window, and there, under a disordered truckle-bed, spread itself in a pool. with my eyes glued upon this horrid sight i slowly straightened myself up--having crouched back until i felt the wall behind me--and so grew aware of a door beside the chimney-breast, and that it stood ajar upon the empty landing. the dead man's heels pointed towards it, his head towards the window at the foot of the bed. and still my shaken wits could not clutch at the meaning of what i saw. i only felt that there was something horrible, menacing, hideously malignant in the figure at my feet: only craved for strength of will to dash by it, reach the door and fling myself down the stairs--anywhere--away from it. had it stirred, i believe it had then and there destroyed my reason. but it did not stir. and all the while i knew that the thing lay with its breast in a bath of blood; that it had been stabbed in the back and the blood welling down under the clothes had gathered in a pool, ready to gush and spread on all sides as soon as the body should be lifted or its attitude interfered with. i cannot tell how i found time to reason this out; but i did. i knew, too, that i could not scream aloud if i tried: but i had no desire to try. _it_ might wake and lift up its head! i felt backwards with my hand along the wall, groping unconsciously for something to aid my spring towards the door; but desisted. for the moment i could not lift a foot. with that--either this was all a dream or i heard footsteps on the flat roof outside; very slow, soft footsteps, too, as of somebody walking on tiptoe. but if on tiptoe, why was he coming _towards_ me? yet so it was; my ear told me distinctly. as his feet crunched the leads close outside the window i caught a gleam of scarlet; then the frame grew dark between me and the daylight, and through the pane a man peered cautiously into the room. it was archibald plinlimmon. he peered in, turning his face sideways for a better view and shading it, after a moment, with his hand. so shaded, and with the daylight behind it, his face after that first instant became an inscrutable blur. but while he peered speech broke from me--words and a wild laugh. "look at it! look at it!" i cried, and pointed. he drew back instantly, and was gone. "don't leave me! mr. plinlimmon--please don't leave me!" i made a leap for the window--halted helplessly--and fell back again from the body. i was alone again. but power to move had come back, and i must use it while it lasted. if i could gain the stairs now . . . stealthily, and more stealthily as the fear returned and grew, i reached the door, pushed it open, and looked out on the landing. but for a worm-eaten trunk and a line of old suits dangling from pegs around the wall, it was bare. the little light filtered through a cracked and discoloured window high up in the slope of the roof. the stairhead lay a short two yards from me, to be reached by one bold leap. this, however, was not what i first saw; nay, how or when i saw it is a wonder still. for, across the landing, a door faced me; and, as i pushed mine open, this door had moved--was moving yet, as if to shut. it did not quite shut. it came to a standstill when almost a foot ajar. beyond it i could see yet other suits of clothes hanging: and among these lurked someone, watching me, perhaps, through the chink by the hinges. i was sure of it--was almost sure i had seen a hand on the edge of the door; a hand with a ring on one of its fingers, and just the edge, and no more, of a black cuff. for perhaps five seconds i endured it, my hair lifting: then, with one sharp scream i dashed back into the room and across the corpse; struggled for a moment with the window-sash; and flinging it up, dropped out upon the leads. out there, in the restorative sunshine, my first thought was to crawl away as fast and as far as possible; to reach some hiding-place where i might lie down and pant, unpursued by the horrors of that house. the roofs on my right were flat; i staggered along them, halting at every few steps to lean a hand for support against one or other of the chimney-stacks, now growing warm in the sunshine. from the far side of one, as i leaned clinging, a man sprang up, almost at my feet. it was archie plinlimmon again. he had been flattening himself against its shadow; and at first--so white and fierce was his face--i made sure he meant to hurl me over and on to the street below. "what do you want? what have you seen?" though he spoke fiercely, his teeth chattered. "oh--it's you!" he exclaimed, recognising me through my soot. "mr. plinlimmon--" i began. "i didn't do it. i didn't--" he broke off. "for heaven's sake, how are we to get down out of this?" "there's no way on the street side," i answered, "unless--" he took me up short. "the street? we can't go that way--it's as much as my neck's worth. yours, too." "mr. trapp's waiting for me," i answered stupidly. "who knows who isn't waiting?" he snapped. "we'll have to cut out of this." he pointed downward on the side away from the street. "i say, what happened? who did it, eh?" "i slipped in the chimney," i answered again. "he wanted his chimneys swept this morning. we knocked--mr. trapp and i--and no one answered: then we tried the door, and it opened. there was no one about, and no one in the street but sergeant letcher." he began to shake. "sergeant letcher? what do you know about sergeant letcher?" "nothing, except that he was in the street--the man the bull chased, you know." he was shaking yet. "i ought to kill you," said he. "but i didn't do it. look here, show me a way down and i'll let you off. you're used to this work, ain't you?" "how did you come up?" i asked, innocently enough. "by the lord, if you ask questions, i'll strangle you! you were in the room with--with _it_! i saw you: i'll swear i saw you. get me down out of this, and hide--get on board some ship, and clear. see? if you breathe a word that you've seen me, i'll cut your heart out. you understand me?" i hadn't a doubt then that he was guilty. his fear was too craven. "there's a warehouse at the end here," said i, and led the way to it. but when we reached it, its roof rose in a sharp slope from the low parapet guarding the leads where we stood. "but i don't see," he objected; "and, anyway, i can't manage that." i pointed to a louver skylight half-way up the roof. "we can prise that open, or break it. it's easy enough to reach," i assured him. he was extraordinarily clumsy on the slates, but obeyed my instructions like a child. i wrenched at the wooden louvers. "got a knife?" i asked. he produced one--an ugly-looking weapon, but clean. by good luck, we did not need it; for as he passed it to me, the louver at which i was tugging broke and came away in my hand. we easily loosened another and, squeezing through, dropped into the loft upon a sliding pile of grain. the loft was dark enough; but a glimmer of light shone through the chinks of a door at the far end. unbolting it, we looked down, from the height of thirty feet or so, into a deserted lane. or rather _i_ looked down: for while i fumbled with the bolts master archie had banged his head into something hard, and dropped, rubbing the hurt and cursing. it proved to be the timber cross-piece of a derrick used for hoisting sacks of grain into the loft, working on an axle, and now swung inboard for the night. a double rope ran through the pulley at its end and had been hitched back over the iron winch which worked it. we pushed the derrick out over the lane and i manned the winch handle, while master archie caught hold of the hook and pulley at the end of the double line. checking the handle with all my strength i lowered him as noiselessly as i could. as his feet touched the cobbles below he let go and, without a thought of my safety, made off down the lane. i tugged the derrick inboard and recaptured the rope; cogged the winch, swung out, dropped hand over hand into the lane, and raced up it with all the terrors of the law at my heels. chapter viii. poor tom bowling. master archibald's advice to me--to escape down to the water-side and conceal myself on shipboard--though acute enough in its way, took no account of certain difficulties none the less real because a soldier would naturally overlook them. to hide in a ship's hold you must first get on board of her unobserved, which in broad daylight is next to impossible. moreover, to reach cattewater i must either fetch a circuit through purlieus where every householder knew me and every urchin was a nodding acquaintance, or make a straight dash close by the spot where by this time mr. trapp would be getting anxious--if indeed southside street and the barbican were not already resounding with the hue and cry. no: if friendly vessel were to receive and hide me, she lay far off, across the heart of the town, amid the shipping of the dock. yonder, too, miss plinlimmon resided. if you think it absurd that my thoughts turned to her, whose weak arms could certainly shield no one from the clutches of the law, i beg you to remember my age, and that i had never known another protector. she, at least, would hear me and never doubt my innocence. she must hear, too, of archie's danger. that to reach her, even if i eluded pursuit to the hospital gate, i must run the gauntlet of mr. george--who would assuredly ask questions--and possibly of mr. scougall, scarcely occurred to me. to reach her--to sob out my story in her arms and hear her voice soothing me--this only i desired for the moment; and it seemed that if i could only hear her voice speaking, i might wake and feel these horrors dissolve like an evil dream. meanwhile i ran. but at the end of a lane leading into treville street, and as i leapt aside to avoid colliding with the hind-wheels of a hackney-coach drawn in there and at a standstill close by the kerb, to my unspeakable fright i felt myself gripped by the jacket-collar. "hi! bring-to and 'vast kicking, young coal-dust! where're ye bound, hey? answer me, and take your black mop out of a gentleman's weskit." "to--to dock, sir," i stammered. "let me go, please: i'm in a hurry." my captor held me out at arm's length and eyed me. he was a sailor, and rigged out in his best shore-going clothes--tarpaulin hat, blue coat and waistcoat, and a broad leathern belt to hold up his duck trousers, on which my sooty head had left its mark. he grinned at me good-naturedly. i saw that he had been drinking. "in a hurry? and what's your hurry about? business?" "ye--es, sir." "'stonishing what spirit boys'll put into work nowadays! i've seen boys run for a leg o' mutton, and likewise i've seen 'em run when they've broken ship; but on the path o' duty, my sonny, you've the legs of any boy in my ex-perience. well, for once, you'll put pleasure first. i'm bound for dock or thereabouts myself, and under convoy." he waved his hand up the street, where twelve or fifteen hackney-coaches stood in line ahead. "if you please, sir--" he threw open the coach door. "jump in. the frigate sets the rate o' sailing. that's bill." i hesitated, rebellious. "that's bill. messmate o' mine on the _bedford_, and afore that on the _vesuvius_ bomb. there, sonny--don't stand gaping at me like a stuck pig: i never expected ye to _know_ him! and now the time's past, and ye'll go far afore finding a better. bill adams his name was; but bill to me, always, and in all weathers." here for a moment he became maudlin. "paid off but three days agone, same as myself, and now--cut down like a flower! he's the corpse, ahead, in the first conveyance." "is this a funeral, sir?" "darn your eyes, don't it look like one? and after the expense i've been to!" he paused, eyed me solemnly, opened his mouth, and pointed down it with his forefinger. "drink done it." his voice was impressive. "steer you wide of the drink, my lad; or else drop down on it gradual. if drink must be your moorings, don't pick 'em up too rash. 'a boiled leg o' mutton first,' says i, persuasive; '_and_ turnips,' and got him to symonds's boarding-house for the very purpose, symonds being noted. and symonds--i'll do him that justice--says the same. symonds says--" but at this point a young woman--and pretty, too, though daubed with paint--thrust her hat and head out of a window, three carriages away, and demanded to know what in the name of moses we were waiting for. "signals, my dear. the flagship's forra'd; and keep your eye lifting that way, _if_ you please. i'm main glad you fell in with us," he went on affably, turning to me; "because you round it up nicely. barring the sharks in black weepers, you're the only mourning-card in the bunch, and i'll see you get a good position at the grave." "thank you, sir." "don't mention it. we're doin' our best. when poor bill dropped down in symonds's"--he jerked his thumb towards the boarding-house door--"symonds himself was for turning everyone out. very nice feeling he showed, i will say. 'damn it, here's a go!' he says; 'and the man looked healthy enough for another ten year, with proper care!'--and went off at once to stop the fiddlers and put up the shutters. but, of course, it meant a loss to him, the place being full at the time; and i felt a sort of responsibility for having introduced bill. so i went after him and says i, 'this is a most unforeseen occurrence.' 'not a bit,' says he; 'accidents will happen.' i told him that the corpse had never been a wet blanket; it wasn't his nature; and i felt sure he wouldn't like the thought. 'if that's the case, says symonds, 'i've a little room at the back where he'd go very comfortable--quite shut off, as you might say. we must send for the doctor, of course, and the crowner can sit on him to-morrow--that is, if you feel sure deceased wouldn' think it any disrespect.' 'disrespect?' says i. 'you don't know bill. why, it's what he'd arsk for!' so there we carried him, and i sent for the undertaker same time as the doctor, and ordered it of oak; and next morning, down i tramped to dock and chose out a grave, brick-lined, having heard him say often, 'plymouth folk for wasting, but dock folk for lasting.' i won't say but what, between whiles, we've been pretty lively at symonds's; and i won't say--hallo! here's more luck! your servant, sir!" he stepped forward--leaving me shielded and half hidden by the coach door--and accosted a stranger walking briskly up the pavement towards us with a small valise in his hand; a gentlemanly person of about thirty-five or forty, in clerical suit and bands. "eh? good-morning!" nodded the clergyman affably. "might i arsk where you're bound?" then, after a pause, "my name's jope, sir; benjamin jope, of the _bedford_, seventy-four, bo'sun's mate--now paid off." the clergyman, at first taken aback by the sudden question, recovered his smile. "and mine, sir, is whitmore--the reverend john whitmore-- bound just now in the direction of dock. can i serve you thereabouts?" mr. jope waved his hand towards the coach door. "jump inside! oh, you needn't be ashamed to ride behind bill!" "but who is bill?" the rev. mr. whitmore advanced to the coach door like a man in two minds. "ah, i see--a funeral!" he exclaimed as a mute advanced--assailed from each coach window, as he passed, with indecorous obloquy--to announce that the _cortege_ was ready to start. for the last two minutes heads had been popping out at these windows--heads with dyed ringlets and heads with artificially coloured noses--and their owners demanding to know if ben jope meant to keep them there all day, if the corpse was expected to lead off the ball, and so on; and i, cowering by the coach step, had shrunk from their gaze as i flinched now under mr. whitmore's. "hallo!" said he, and gave me (as i thought) a searching look. "what's this? a chimney-sweep?" "if your reverence will not object?" i turned my eyes away, but felt that this clergyman was studying me. "not at all," said he quietly after a moment's pause. "is he bound for dock, too?" "he said so." "eh? then we'll see that he gets there. after you, youngster!" to my terror the words seemed charged with meaning, but i dared not look him in the face. i clambered in and dropped into a seat with my back to the driver. he placed himself opposite, nursing the valise on his knees. ben jope came last and slammed-to the door after him. "way-ho!" he shouted. "easy canvas!" and with that plumped down beside me, and took off his tarpaulin hat, extracted a handkerchief, and carefully wiped his brow and the back of his neck. "well!" he sighed. "bill's launched, anyhow." "shipmate?" asked the clergyman. "messmate," answered mr. jope; and, opening his mouth, pointed down it with his forefinger. "not that a better fellow ever lived." "i can quite believe it," said mr. whitmore sympathetically. he had a pleasant voice, but somehow i did not want to catch his eye. instead i kept my gaze fastened upon the knees of his well-fitting pantaloons. no divine could have been more correctly attired, and yet there was a latent horsiness about his cut. i set him down for a sporting parson from the country, and wondered why he wore clothes so much superior to those of the plymouth parsons known to me by sight. "just listen to that now!" exclaimed mr. jope. a cornet in one of the coaches ahead had struck up _tom bowling_, and before we reached the head of the street from coach after coach the funeral party broke into song: "here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of his crew-ew; no more he'll hear the te--empest how--wow--ling, for death has broach'd him to. his form was of the--e ma--hanliest beau--eau--ty--" "i wouldn't say that, quite," observed mr. jope pensively. "to begin with, he'd had the small-pox." "_de gustibus nil nisi bonum_," mr. whitmore observed soothingly. "what's that?" "latin." "wonderful! would ye mind saying it again?" the words were obligingly repeated. "wonderful! and what might be the meaning of it, making so bold?" "it means 'speak well of the dead.'" "well, we're doing of it, anyhow. hark to 'em ahead there!" the _cortege_, in fact, was attracting general attention. folks on the pavement halted to watch and grin as we went by: one or two, catching sight of familiar faces within the coaches, waved their handkerchiefs or shouted back salutations: and as we crawled out of old town street and past st. andrew's church a small crowd raised three cheers for us. and still above it the cornet blared and the mourners' voices rose uproarious: "his friends were many and true-hearted, his poll was kind and fair; and then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, ah, many's the time and oft! but mirth is turned to melanchol--ol--y-- for tom is gone aloft." "bill couldn't sing a note," mr. jope murmured: "but as you say, sir--would you oblige us again?" again the latin was repeated, and he swung round upon me. "think of that, now! be you a scholar, hey?--read, write and cipher? how would you spell 'sojer' for instance?" the question knocked the wind out of me, and i felt my face whitening under the clergyman's eyes. "soldier--s.o.l.d.i.e.r," i managed to answer, but scarce above a whisper. "very good: now make a rhyme to it." "i--please, sir, i don't know any rhymes." "well, that's honest, anyway. now i'll tell you why i asked." he turned and addressed mr. whitmore. "i'm cornish born, sir; from saltash, up across the river. afore i went to sea there was a maid livin' next door to us that wanted to marry me. well, when she found i wasn't to be had, she picked up with a fellow from the victualling yard and married he, and came down to dock to live. man's name was babbage, and they hadn't been married six months afore he tumbled into a brine-vat and was drowned. 'that's one narrow escape to me,' i said. next news i had was a letter telling me she'd a boy born, and please would i stand godfather? i didn't like to say no, out of respect to her family. so i wrote home from gibraltar that i was agreeable, only it must be done by proxy and she mustn't make it no precedent. that must be ten years back; and what with one thing and another i never set eyes 'pon mother or child till yesterday when-- having to run down to dock to order bill's grave--i thought 'twould be neighbourly to drop 'em a visit. i found the boy growed to be a terrible plain child, about the size of this youngster. i didn't like the boy at all. so i says to his mother, 'i s'pose he's clever?'--for dang it! thinks i, he must be clever to make up for being so plain-featured as all that. 'benjy'--she'd a-called him benjamin after me--'benjy's the cleverest child for his age that ever you see,' she says. 'why,' says she, 'he'll pitch-to and make up a rhyme 'pon anything!' 'can he so?' i says, pulling a great crown-piece out of my pocket (not that i liked the cut of his jib, but the woman had been hinting about my being his godfather): 'now, my lad, let's see if you're so gifted as your mother makes out. there's a sojer now passin' the window. make a rhyme 'pon he, and you shall have the money.' what d'ye think that ghastly boy did? 'aw, that's easy,' he says--" 'sojer, sojer, diddy, diddy, dodger!' "'now hand me over the money,' he says. i could have slapped his ear." almost as he ended his simple story, the procession came to a halt: the strains of _tom bowling_ changed into noisy--and, on the part of the ladies, very unladylike--expostulations. mr. jope started forward and leaned out of the window. "i think," said the rev. mr. whitmore, "we have arrived at the toll-gate." "d'ye mean to say the sharks want to take toll on bill?" "likely enough." "on bill? and him a-going to his long home? here--hold hard!" mr. jope leapt out into the roadway and disappeared. upon us two, left alone in the coach, there fell a dreadful silence. mr. whitmore leaned forward and touched my knee; and i met his eye. the face i looked into was thin and refined; clean-shaven and a trifle pale as if with the habit of study. a slight baldness by the temples gave the brow unusual height. his eyes i did not like at all: instead of soothing the terror in mine they seemed to be drinking it in and tasting it and calculating. "i passed by the barbican just now," said he; "and heard some inquiries about a small chimney-sweep." he paused, as if waiting. but i had no speech in me. "it was a very strange story they were telling--a very dreadful and strange story: still when i came upon you i saw, of course, it was incredible. boys of your size"--he hesitated and left the sentence unfinished. "still, you may have seen something--hey?" again i could not answer. "at any rate," he went on, "i gave you the benefit of the doubt and resolved to warn you. it was a mistake to run away: but the mischief's done. how were you proposing to make off?" "you--you won't give me up, sir?" "no, for i think you must be innocent--of what they told me, at least. i feel so certain of it that, as you see, my conscience allows me to warn you. in the first place, avoid the torpoint ferry. it will without doubt be watched. i should make for the docks, hide until night, and try to stow myself on shipboard. secondly"--he put out a hand and softly unfastened the coach door--"i am going to leave you. our friend mr. jope is engaged, i see, in an altercation with the toll-keeper. he seems a good-natured fellow. the driver (it may help you to know) is drunk. of course, if by ill-luck they trace me out, to question me, i shall be obliged to tell what i know. it amounts to very little: still--i have no wish to tell it. one word more: get a wash as soon as you can, and by some means acquire a clean suit of clothes. i may be then unable to swear to you: may be able to say that your face is as unfamiliar to me as it was--or as mine was to you--when mr. jope introduced us. eh?" his look was piercing. "thank you, sir." he picked up his valise, nodded, and after a swift glance up the street and around at the driver, to make sure that his head was turned, stepped briskly out upon the pavement and disappeared around the back of the coach. chapter ix. saltash ferry. apparently the hackney coachman was accustomed to difficulties with the toll-gate; for he rested on the box in profoundest slumber, recumbent, with his chin sunk on his chest; and only woke up--with a start which shook the vehicle--when a black hearse with plumes waving went rattling by us and back towards plymouth. a minute later mr. jope reappeared at the coach door, perspiring copiously, but triumphant. "oh, it's been heavinly!" he announced. "why, hallo! where's his reverence?" "he couldn't wait, sir. he--he preferred to walk." "eh? i didn't see 'en pass the toll-bar. that's a pity, too; for i wanted to take his opinion. oh, my son, it's been heavinly! first of all i tried argyment and called the toll-man a son of a bitch; and then he fetched up a constable, and, as luck would have it, nan--she's in the second coach--knew all about _him_; leastways, she talked as if she did. well, the toll-man stuck to his card of charges and said he hadn't made the law, but it was threepence for everything on four wheels. 'four wheels?' i said. 'don't talk so weak! we brought nothing into the world and we can't take it out; but you'd take the breeches off a highlander,' i says. 'he's on four wheels,' says the fellow, stubborn as ever. 'so was elijah,' says i; 'but if you're so mighty particular, we'll try ye another way.' i paid off the crew of the hearse, gave the word to cast loose, and down we dumped poor bill slap in the middle of the roadway. 'now,' says i, 'we'll leave talking of wheels. what's your charge for 'en on the flat?' 'eight bearers at a ha'penny makes fourpence,' he says. 'no, no, my son,' i says, 'there ain't a-going to be no bearers. _he's_ happy enough if he stops here all night. you may charge 'en as a covered conveyance, as i see you've a right to; but the card says nothing about rate of drivin', except that it mustn't be reckless; and, you may lay to it, bill won't be that.' at first the constable talked big about obstructing the traffic: but nan was telling the crowd such terrible things about his past that for very shame he grew quiet, and the pair agreed that, by lashin' bill a-top of the first coach, we might pass him through _gratis_ as personal luggage--why, what's the boy cryin' for? it's all over now; and a principle's a principle." but still, as the squadron got under way again and moved on amid the cheers of the populace, i sat speechless, dry-eyed, shaken with dreadful sobs. "easy, my lad--don't start the timbers. in trouble--hey?" i nodded. "i thought as much, when i shipped ye. sit up, and tell me; but first listen to this. all trouble's big to a boy, but one o' your age don't often do what's past mendin', if he takes it honest. that's comfort, hey? very well: now haul up and inspect damages, and we'll see what's to be done." "it's about a jew, sir," i stammered at length. he nodded. "now we're making headway." "he--he was murdered. i saw him--" "look here," said mr. jope, very grave but seemingly not astonished: "hadn't you best get under the seat?" "i--i didn't do it, sir. really, i didn't." "i'm not suggestin' it," said mr. jope. "still, all circumstances considered, i'd get under the seat." "if you wish it, sir." "i wouldn't go so far as to say _that_: but 'tis my advice." and under the seat i crawled obediently. "now, then," said he, with an absurd air of one addressing vacancy; "if you didn' do it, who did?" "i don't know, sir." "then where's your difficulty?" "but i saw a man staring in at the window--it was upstairs in a room close to the roof; and afterwards i found him on the roof, and he was all of a tremble, and in two minds, so he said, about pitching me over. i showed him the way down. if you please, sir," i broke off, "you're not to tell anyone about this, whatever happens!" "eh? why not?" "because--" i hesitated. "friend of yours?" "not a friend, sir. he's a young man, in the army; and his aunt--she used to be very kind to me. i ran away at first because i was afraid: but they can't do anything to me, can they? i didn't find the--the--the--mr. rodriguez, i mean--until he was dead. but if they catch me i shall have to give evidence, and mr. archie--though i don't believe he did it--" "belay there!" commanded mr. jope! "i'm beginning to see things clearer, though i won't say 'tis altogether easy to follow ye yet. far as i can make out, you're not a bad boy. you ran away because you were scared. well, i don't blame ye for that. i never seen a dead jew myself, though i often wanted to. you won't go back if you can help it, 'cos why? 'cos you don't want to tell on a man: 'cos his aunt's a friend o' yourn: and 'cos you don't believe he's guilty. what's your name?" "harry, sir: harry revel." "well, then, my name's ben jope, and as such you'll call me. i'm sorry, in a way, that it rhymes with 'rope,' which it never struck me before in all these years, and wouldn't now but for thinkin' 'pon that ghastly godson o' mine and how much better i stomach ye. i promise nothing, mind: but if you'll keep quiet under that seat, i'll think it over." certainly, having made my confession, i felt easier in mind as i lay huddled under the seat, though it seemed to me that mr. jope took matters lightly. for the squadron ahead had resumed the singing of _tom bowling_ and he sat humming a bar or two here and there with evident pleasure, and paused only to bow out of window and acknowledge the cheers of the passers-by. at the end of five minutes, however, he spoke aloud again. "the first thing," he announced, "is to stay where you are. let me think, now--who seen you? there's the parson: he's gone. and there's the jarvey: he's drunk as a lord. anyone else?" "there was one of the young ladies that looked out of window." "true: then 'tis too risky. when the company gets out, you'll have to get out. let the jarvey see you do it: the rest don't matter. you can pretend to walk with us a little way, then slip back and under the seat again--takin' care that this time the jarvey _don't_ see you. that's easy enough, eh?" i assured him i could manage it. "then leave the rest to me, and bide still. i got to think of bill, now; and more by token here's the graveyard gate!" he thrust the door open and motioned me to tumble out ahead of him. as the rest of the funeral guests alighted, he worked me very skilfully before him into the driver's view, having taken care to set the coach door wide on the off side. "it's understood that you wait, all o' ye?" said mr. jope to the driver. the man lifted a lazy eye. "take your time," he said: "don't mind me. i hope "--he stiffened himself suddenly--"i knows a gentleman when i sees one." mr. jope turned away and from that moment ignored my existence. the coffin was unlashed and lowered from the leading coach; the clergyman at the gate began to recite the sacred office, and the funeral train, reduced to decorum by his voice, followed him as he turned, and trooped along the path towards the mortuary chapel. i moved with the crowd to its porch, drew aside to make way for a lady in rouge and sprigged muslin, and slipped behind the chapel wall. the far end of it hid me from the view of the coaches, and from it a pretty direct path led to a gap in the hedge, and a stile. reaching and crossing this, i found myself in a by-lane leading back into the high road. there were no houses with windows to overlook me. i sauntered around at leisure, took the line of coaches in the rear, and crawled back to my hiding-place--it astonished me with what ease. every driver sat on his box, and every driver slumbered. the mystery of this was resolved when--it seemed an hour later; but actually, i dare say, bill's obsequies took but the normal twenty minutes or so--mr. jope shepherded his flock back through the gates and, red-eyed, addressed them while he distributed largess along the line of jarveys. "i thank ye, friends," said he in a muffled voice which at first i attributed to emotion. "the fare home is paid to the foot of george street--i arranged that with the jobmaster, and this here little gift is private, between me and the drivers, to drink bill's health. and now i'll shake hands." here followed sounds of coughing and choking, and he resumed in feeble gasping sentences, "thank ye, my dear; i've brought up the two guineas, but you've a-made me swallow my quid o' baccy. hows'ever, you meant it for the best. and that's what i had a mind to say to ye all." his voice grew firmer--"you're a pleasant lot, and we've spent the time very lively and sociable, and you done this here last service to bill in a way that brings tears to my eyes. still, if you won't mind my saying it, a little of ye lasts a long time, and i'm going home to live clean. so here's wishing all well, and good-bye!" not one of the party seemed to resent this dismissal. the women laughed hilariously and called him a darling. there was a smacking exchange of kisses; and the coaches, having been packed at length, started for home to the strains of the cornet and a chorus of cheers. mr. jope sprang in beside me, and leaning out of the farther window, waved his neckerchief for a while, then pensively readjusted it, and called to the driver-- "st. budeaux!" the driver, after a moment, turned heavily in his seat, and answered, "nonsense!" "i tell ye, i want to drive to st. budeaux, by saltash ferry." "and _i_ tell _you_, 'get out!' st. budeaux? the idea!" "why, what's wrong with st. budeaux?" "oh, i'm not goin' to _argue_ with you," said the driver. "i'm goin' home." and he began to turn his horse's head. mr. jope sprang out upon the roadway. the driver, with sudden and unexpected agility, dropped off--on the other side. "look here, it's grindin' the faces of the poor!" he pleaded, breathing hard. "it _will_ be," assented mr. jope grimly. "i been up all night: at a ball." "if it comes to that, so've i: at symonds's." "mine was at admiralty house," said the driver. "i wasn' dancin'." "what about the horse?" "the horse? the ho--oh, i take your meanin'! the horse is all right: he's a fresh one. poor i may be," he announced inconsecutively, "but i wouldn' live the life of one of them there women of fashion, not for a million of money." he ruminated for a moment. "did i say a million?" "you did." "well i don't wishaggerate. i don't, if you understand me, wish--to--exaggerate: so we'll put it at half a million." "all right: jump up!" to my astonishment, no less than to mr. jope's (who had scarcely time to skip back into the coach), the man scrambled up to his seat without more ado, flicked his whip, and began to urge the horse forward. at the end of five minutes or so, however, he pulled up just as abruptly. "eh?" mr. jope put forth his head. "ah, i see--public-house!" he alighted, and entered; returned with a pot of porter in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other; dexterously tipped half the brandy into the porter, and handed up the mixture. the driver took it down at one steady draught. the pot and glass were returned and we jogged on again. we were now well beyond the outskirts of stoke and between dusty hedges over which the honeysuckle trailed. butterflies poised themselves and flickered beside us, and the sun, as it climbed, drew up from the land the fragrance of freshly mown hay and mingled it with the stuffy odour of the coach. by and by we halted again, by another roadside inn, and again mr. jope fetched forth and administered insidious drink. "if this is going to last," said the charioteer dreamily, "may i have strength to see the end o't!" i did not catch this prayer, but mr. jope reported it to me as he resumed his seat, with an ill-timed laugh. the fellow, who had been gathering up his reins, lurched round suddenly and gazed in through the glass front. "you was sayin'?" he demanded. "nothing," answered mr. jope hastily. "i was talking to myself, that's all." "the point is, am i, or am i not, an objic of derision?" "if you don't drive on this moment, i'll step around and punch your head." "tha's all right. tha's right as ninepence. it's not much i arsk-- only to have things clear." he drove on. we halted at yet another public-house--i remember its name, the half a face--and must have journeyed a mile or so beyond it when the end came. we had locked wheels in the clumsiest fashion with a hay-wagon; and the wagoner, who had quartered to give us room and to spare, was pardonably wroth. mr. jope descended, pacified him, and stepped around to the back of the coach, the hinder axle of which, a moment later, i felt gently lifted beneath me and slewed clear of the obstruction. "my word, mister, but you've a tidy strength!" exclaimed the wagoner. "no more than you, my son--if so much: 'tain't the strength, but the application. that's 'nelson's touch.' ever heard of it?" "i've heard of _him_, i should hope. look y' here, mister, did you ever know him? honour bright, now!" "friends, my son: dear, dear friends! and the gentleman 'pon the box, there, drunk some of the very rum he was brought home in. he's never recovered it." "and to think of my meeting you!" "ay, 'tis a small world," agreed mr. jope cheerfully: "like a cook's galley, small and cosy and no time to chat in it. now then, my slumb'ring ogre!" the driver, who from the moment of the mishap had remained comatose, shook his reins feebly and we jogged forward. but this was his last effort. at the next sharp bend in the road he lurched suddenly, swayed for a moment, and toppled to earth with a thud. the horse came to a halt. mr. jope was out in a moment. he glanced up and down the road. "tumble out, youngster! there's no one in sight." "is--is he hurt?" "blest if _i_ know." he stooped over the prostrate body. "hurt?" he asked, and after a moment reported, "no, i reckon not: talkin' in his sleep, more like--for the only word i can make out is 'jezebel.' that don't help us much, do it?" he scanned the road again. "there's only one thing to do. i can't drive ye: i never steered yet with the tiller lines in front--it al'ays seemed to me un-christian. we must take to the fields. i used to know these parts, and by the bearings we can't be half a mile above the ferry. here, through that gate to the left!" we left the man lying and his horse cropping the hedgerow a few paces ahead; and struck off to the left, down across a field of young corn interspersed with poppies. the broad estuary shone at our feet, with its beaches uncovered--for the tide was low--and across its crowded shipping i marked and recognised (for mr. trapp had often described them to me) a line of dismal prison-hulks, now disused, moored head to stern off a mudbank on the farther shore. "plain sailing, my lad," panted mr. jope, as the cornfield threw up its heat in our faces. "see, yonder's saltash!" he pointed up the river to a small town which seemed to run toppling down a steep hill and spread itself like a landslip at the base. "i got a sister living there, if we can only fetch across; a very powerful woman; widowed, and sells fish." we took an oblique line down the hillside, and descended, some two or three hundred yards below the ferry, upon a foreshore firm for the most part and strewn with flat stones, but melting into mud by the water's edge. a small trading ketch lay there, careened as the tide had left her; but at no great angle, thanks to her flat-bottomed build. a line of tattered flags, with no wind to stir them, led down from the truck of either mast, and as we drew near i called mr. jope's attention to an immense bunch of foxgloves and pink valerian on her bowsprit end. "looks like a wedding, don't it?" said he; and turning up his clean white trousers he strolled down to the water's edge for a closer look. "scandalous," he added, examining her timbers. "what's scandalous?" he pointed with his finger. "rotten as touch"; and he pensively drew out an enormous clasp-knife. "a man ought to be fined for treating human life so careless. see here!" he drove the knife at a selected spot, and the blade sank in to the hilt. from the interior, prompt on the stroke, arose a faint scream. chapter x. i go on a honeymoon. "sure-ly i know that voice?" said mr. jope. he drew out the knife reflectively. it relieved me to see that no blood dyed the blade. "oh, mr. jope, i was afraid you'd stabbed him!" "'tisn't a him, 'tis a her. i touched somebody up, and that's the truth." "ahoy there!" said a voice immediately overhead; and we looked up. a round-faced man was gazing down on us from the tilted bulwarks. "you might ha' given us notice," he grumbled. "i knew 'twas soft, but not so soft as all that," mr. jope explained. "got such a thing as a scrap o' chalk about ye?" "no." the round-faced man felt in his pocket and tossed down a piece. "mark a bit of a line round the place, will ye? i'll give it a lick of paint afore the tide rises. it's only right the owner should have it pointed out to him." "belong to these parts?" asked mr. jope affably, having drawn the required circle. "i don't seem to remember your face." "no?" the man seemed to think this out at leisure. "i was married this morning," he said at length with an air of explanation. "wish ye joy. saltash maid?" "widow. name of sarah treleaven." "why that's my sister!" exclaimed mr. jope. "is it?" the round-faced man took the news without apparent surprise or emotion. "well, i'm married to her, any way." "monstrous fine woman," mr. jope observed cheerfully. "ay; she's all that. it seems like a dream. you'd best step on board: the ladder's on t'other side." as we passed under the vessel's stern i looked up and read her name-- _glad tidings, port of fowey_. "i've a-broken it to her," our host announced, meeting us at the top of the ladder. "she says you're to come down." down the companion we followed him accordingly and so into a small cabin occupied--or, let me rather say, filled--by the stoutest woman it has ever been my lot to meet. she reclined--in such a position as to display a pair of colossal feet, shoeless, clothed in thick worsted stockings--upon a locker on the starboard side: and no one, regarding her, could wonder that this also was the side towards which the vessel listed. her broad recumbent back was supported by a pile of seamen's bags, almost as plethoric as herself and containing (if one might judge from a number of miscellaneous articles protruding from their distended mouths) her bridal outfit. unprepared as she was for a second visitor in the form of a small chimney-sweep, she betrayed no astonishment; but after receiving her brother's kiss on either cheek bent a composed gaze on me, and so eyed me for perhaps half a minute. her features were not uncomely. "o.p.," she addressed her husband. "ask him, who's his friend?" "who's your friend?" asked the husband, turning to mr. jope. "chimney-sweep," said mr. jope; "leastways, so apprenticed, as i understand." the pair gazed at me anew. "i asked," said the woman at length, "because this is a poor place for chimbleys." "he's in trouble," mr. jope explained; "in trouble--along o' killing a jew." "oh no, mr. jope!" i cried. "i didn't--" "couldn't," interrupted his sister shortly, and fell into a brown study. "constables after him?" she asked. mr. jope nodded. her next utterance struck me as irrelevant, to say the least of it. "ben, 'tis high time you followed o.p.'s example." "meaning?" queried ben. "o, onesimus. p, pengelly. example, marriage. there's the widow babbage, down to dock: she always had a hankering for you. you're neglecting your privileges." "ever seen that boy of hers?" asked ben in an aggrieved voice. "no, of course you haven't, or you wouldn't suggest it. and why marry me up to a widow?" "o.p.," said the lady, "tell him you prefer it." "i prefer it," said mr. pengelly. "oh," explained ben, "present company always excepted, o' course. i wish you joy." "thank ye," the lady answered graciously. "you shall drink the same by and by in a dish o' tea; which i reckon will suit ye best this morning," she added eyeing him. "o.p., put on the kettle." ben jope winced and attempted to turn the subject. "what's your cargo, this trip?" he asked cheerfully. "i didn't write," she went on, ignoring the question. "o.p. took me so sudden." "oh, sarah!" mr. pengelly expostulated. "you did; you know you did, you rogue!" mr. pengelly took her amorous glance and turned to us. "it seems like a dream," he said, and went out with the kettle. the lady resumed her business-like air. "we sail for looe next tide. it's queer now, your turning up like this." "providential. i came o' purpose, though, to look ye up." "i might ha' been a limpet." "eh?" "by the way you prised at me with that knife o' yours. and you call it providence." ben grinned. "providence or no, you'll get this lad out o' the way, sarah?" "h'm?" she considered me. "i can't take him home to looe." "why not?" "folks would talk," she said modestly. "'od rabbit it!" exclaimed ben. "he's ten year old; and you were saying just now that the man took ye sudden!" "well, i'll see what can be done: but on conditions." "conditions?" "ay, we'll talk that over while he's cleanin' himself." she lifted her voice and called, "o.p., is that water warm?" "middlin'," came o.p.'s voice from a small cuddy outside. "then see to the child and wash him. put him inside your foul-weather suit for the time, and then take his clothes out on the beach and burn 'em. that seam'll be the better for a lick of pitch afore the tide rises, and you can use the same fire for the caldron." so she dismissed me; and in the cuddy, having washed myself clean of soot, i was helped by mr. pengelly into a pair of trousers which reached to my neck, and a seaman's guernsey, which descended to my knees. my stockings i soaped, scrubbed, wrung out and laid across the companion rail to dry: but, as it turned out, i was never to use them or my shoes again. my sweep's jumper, waistcoat, and breeches mr. pengelly carried off, to burn them. all this while ben jope and his sister had been talking earnestly: i had heard at intervals the murmur of their voices through the partition; but no distinct words save once, when mrs. pengelly called out to her husband to keep an eye along the beach and report the appearance of constables. now so ludicrous was the figure i cut in my borrowed clothes that on returning to the cabin i expected to be welcomed with laughter. to my surprise, ben jope arose at once with a serious face and shook me by the hand. "good-bye, my lad," he said. "she makes it a condition." "you're not leaving me, mr. jope!" "worse'n that. i'm a-goin to marry the widow babbage." "oh, ma'am!" i appealed. "it'll do him good," said mrs. pengelly. "i honestly think, sarah," poor ben protested, "that just now you're setting too much store by wedlock altogether." "it's my conditions with you; and you may take it or leave it, ben." his sister was adamant, and he turned ruefully to go. "and you're doing this for me, mr. jope!" i caught his hand. "don't 'ee mention it. blast the child!" he crammed his tarpaulin hat on his head. "i don't mean you, my lad, but t'other one. if he makes up a rhyme 'pon me, i'll--i'll--" speech failed him. he wrung my hand, staggered up the companion, and was gone. "it'll be the making of him," said mrs. pengelly with composure. "i don't like the woman myself, but a better manager you wouldn't meet." she remembered presently that ben had departed without his promised dish of tea, and this seemed to suggest to her that the time had arrived for preparing a meal. with singular dexterity and almost without shifting her posture she slipped one of the seamen's bags from somewhere beneath her shoulders, drew it upon her lap, and produced a miscellaneous feast--a cheek of pork, a loaf, a saffron cake; a covered jar which, being opened, diffused the fragrance of marinated pilchards; a bagful of periwinkles, a bunch of enormous radishes, a dish of cream wrapped about in cabbage-leaves, a basket of raspberries similarly wrapped; finally, two bottles of stout. "to my mind," she explained as she set these forth on the table beside her, each accurately in its place, and with such economy of exertion that only one hand and wrist seemed to be moving, "for my part, i think a widow-woman should be married quiet. i don't know what _your_ opinion may be?" i thought it wise to say that her opinion was also mine. "it took place at eight o'clock this morning." she disengaged a pin from the front of her bodice, extracted a periwinkle from its shell, ate it, sighed, and said, "it seems years already. i gathered these myself, so you may trust 'em." she disengaged another pin and handed it to me. "we meant to be alone, but there's plenty for three. now you're here, you'll have to give a toast--or a sentiment," she added. she made this demand in form when o.p. appeared, smelling strongly of pitch, and taking his seat on the locker opposite, helped himself to marinated pilchards. "but i don't know any sentiments, ma'am." "nonsense. didn't they learn you any poetry at school?" most happily i bethought me of miss plinlimmon's verses in my testament--now alas! left in the trapps' cottage and lost to me; and recited them as bravely as i could. "ah!" sighed mrs. pengelly, "there's many a true word spoken in jest. 'where shall we be in ten years' time?' where indeed?" "here," her husband cheerfully suggested, with his mouth full. "hush, o.p.! you never buried a first." she demanded more, and i gave her wolfe's last words before quebec (signed by him in miss plinlimmon's album). "'they run!'--but who? 'the frenchmen!' such was the report conveyed to the dying hero. 'thank heaven!' he cried, 'i thought as much.' in canada the glass is frequently below zero." on hearing the author's name and my description of miss plinlimmon, she fell into deep thought. "i suppose, now, she'd look higher than ben?" i told her that, so far as i knew, miss plinlimmon had no desire to marry. "she'd look higher, with her gifts, you may take my word for it." but a furrow lingered for some time on mrs. pengelly's brow, and (i think) a doubt in her mind that she had been too precipitate. the meal over, she composed herself to slumber; and mr. pengelly and i spent the afternoon together on deck, where he smoked many pipes while i scanned the shore for signs of pursuit. but no: the tide rose and still the foreshore remained deserted. above us the ferry plied lazily, and at whiles i could hear the voices of the passengers. nothing, even to my strained ears, spoke of excitement; and yet, in the great town beyond the hill, murder had been done and men were searching for me. so the day dragged by. towards evening, as the vessel beneath us fleeted and the deck resumed its level, mr. pengelly began to uncover the mainsail. i asked him if he expected any crew aboard? for surely, thought i, he could not work this ketch of forty tons or so single-handed. he shook his head. "there was a boy, but i paid him off. sarah takes the helm from this night forth. you wouldn't believe it, but she can swig upon a rope too: and as for pulling an oar--" he went on to tell me that she had been rowing a pair of paddles when his eye first lit on her: and i gathered that the courtship had been conducted on these waters under the gaze of saltash, the male in one boat pursuing, the female eluding him in another, for long indomitable, but at length gracefully surrendering. my handiness with the ropes, when i volunteered to help in hoisting sail, surprised and even perplexed him. "but i thought you was a chimney-sweeper?" he insisted. i told him then of my voyages with mr. trapp, yet without completely reassuring him. hitherto he had taken me on my own warrant, and ben's, without a trace of suspicion: but henceforth i caught him eyeing me furtively from time to time, and overheard him muttering as he went about his preparations. as he had promised, when the time came for hauling up our small anchor, mrs. pengelly emerged from the companion hatch like a _geni_ from a bottle. she bore two large hunches of saffron cake and handed one to each of us before moving aft to uncover the wheel. chapter xi. flight. the sails drew as we got the anchor on board; and by the time o.p. and i had done sluicing the hawser clean of the mud it brought up, we were working down the hamoaze with a light and baffling wind, but carrying a strong tide under us. evening fell with a warm yellow haze: the banks slipping past us grew dim and dimmer: here and there a light shone among the long-shore houses. i felt more confident, and no longer concealed myself as we tacked under the sterns of the great ships at anchor or put about when close alongside. as we cleared devil's point and had our first glimpse of the grey line where night was fast closing down on open sea, i noted a certain relaxation in mr. pengelly, as if he too had been feeling the strain. he began to chat with me. the wind, he said, was backing and we might look for this spell of weather to break up before long. once past the rame we should be right as ninepence and might run down the coast on a soldier's wind: it would stiffen a bit out yonder unless he was mistaken. he pulled out his pipe and lit it. aft loomed the bulk of mrs. pengelly at the wheel. save for a call now and again to warn us that the helm was down, to put about, she steered in silence. and she steered admirably. we had opened the lights of cawsand and were heading in towards it on the port tack when, as o.p. smoked and chatted and i watched the spark of the eddystone growing and dying, her voice reached us, low but distinct. "there's a boat coming. get below, boy!" sure enough as i scrambled for the hatchway in a flutter, someone hailed us out of the darkness. "ahoy, there!" "ahoy!" o.p. called back, after a moment, into the darkness. "what's your name?" "the _glad tidings_, of looe, and thither bound. who be you?" "water-guard. is that you speaking, mr. pengelly?" "ay, sure. anything the matter?" "seen such a thing as the body of a young chimney-sweep on your way down? age, ten or thereabouts. there's one missing." "you don't say so! drowned?" his wife having put about, mr. pengelly obligingly hauled a sheet or two to windward, and brought the _glad tidings_ almost to a standstill, allowing the boat to come close alongside. "drowned?" he asked again. "worse than that," said the officer's voice (and it sounded dreadfully close); "there's been murder committed, and the child was in the house at the time. the belief is, he's been made away with." "save us all! murder? whereto?" "on the barbican--an old jew there, called rodriguez. who's that you've got at the helm?" "missus." "never knew ye was married." "nor did i, till this mornin'." "eh? wish ye luck, i'm sure; and you, ma'am, likewise!" "thank ye, mr. tucker," answered the lady. "the same to you and many of 'em--which by that i don't mean wives." "good lord, is that _you_, sally? well, i'm jiggered! and i owe you ninepence for that last pair of flatfish you sold me!" "tenpence," said mrs. pengelly. "but i can trust a gentleman. where d'ye say this here murder was committed?" "barbican." "i don't wonder at anything happening there. they're a stinking lot. why don't ye s'arch the shipping there and in cattewater?" "we've been s'arching all day. and now the constables are off towards stoke--it seems a child answering all particulars was seen in that direction this morning." "that don't look like being made away with." "in a case like this," answered mr. tucker sagely, "as often as not there's wheels within wheels. well, i won't detain ye. good-night, friends!" "good-night!" i heard the creak of thole-pins as the rowers gave way, and the wash of oars as the boat shot off into the dark. mr. pengelly sent me a low whistle and i crept forth. "hear what they said?" he asked. "they--they didn't give much trouble." "depends what you call trouble." he seemed slightly hurt in his feelings, and added, with asperity and obvious truth, "carry it off how you will, a honeymoon's a honeymoon, and a man doesn't expect to be interrupted with questions about a sweep's apprentice." "stand by!" cautioned the voice aft, low and firm as before. "by the sound of it they've stopped rowing." "if they come on us again, we're done for. that tucker's a fool, but i noticed one or two of the men muttering together." "sounds as if they were putting about. can the boy swim?" asked mrs. pengelly anxiously. "i'll bet he can't." "but i can," said i. "if you'll put the helm down, ma'am, and hold in, i think she'll almost fetch penlee point. i don't want to get you into trouble." we all listened. and sure enough the sound of oars was approaching again out of the darkness. "mr. pengelly can lower me overside," i urged, "as soon as we're near shore. it's safest in every way." "so best," she answered shortly, and again put the _glad tidings_ about. i began to pluck off my clothes. the boat was evidently watching us: for, dark as the evening had grown, almost as soon as our helm went down the sound of oars ceased astern--to begin again a few seconds later, but more gently, as if someone had given the order for silence. o.p. peered under the slack of the mainsail. "there she is!" he muttered. "tucker will be trying to force her alongside under our lee." he picked up and uncoiled a spare rope. "you'd best take hold o' this and let me slip ye over the starboard side, forra'd there, as she goes about. bain't afeard, hey?" "i'm not afraid of anything but being caught, sir." "sarah will take her in close: there's plenty water." "o.p.," said the voice aft. "my angel." "tell 'en he's a good boy, and i wouldn' mind having one like him." "you're a good boy," said o.p., and covered the remainder of the message with a discreet cough. "seems to me tucker's holdin' off a bit," he added, peering again under the sail. "wonder what his game is?" but i was already stripped, and already the high land loomed over us. down went the helm again, and "now's your time," muttered o.p. as we scrambled forward to cast off sheets. amid the flapping of her head sails as she hung for a moment or two in stays, i slipped overside and took the water easily while the black mass of her stern swung slowly round and covered me from view of the boat. then, as the tall side began to gather way and slip by me, i cast a glance towards land and dived. i came to the surface warily and trod water whilst i spied for the boat, which--as i reckoned--must be more than a gunshot distant. the sound of oars guided me, and i dived again in a terror. for she had not turned about to follow the ketch, but was heading almost directly towards me, as if to cut me off from the shore. my small body was almost bursting when i rose for air and another look. the boat had not altered her course, and i gasped with a new hope. what if, after all, she were not pursuing me? i let my legs sink and trod water. no: i had not been spied. she was pointing straight for the shore. but what should take a long-boat, manned (as i made out) by a dark crowd of rowers and passengers, at this hour to this deserted spot? why was she not putting-in for cawsand, around the point? and did she carry the water-guard? was this tucker's boat after all, or another? still treading water, i heard her nose take the ground, and presently the feet of men shuffling, as they disembarked, over loose stones: then a low curse following on a slip and a splash. "who's that talking?" a voice inquired, quick and angry. "sergeant! take that man's name." but apparently the sergeant could not discover him. the footfalls grew more regular and seemed to be mounting the cliff, along the base of which, perhaps a hundred yards from shore, the tide was now sweeping me. i gave myself to it and noiselessly, little by little working towards land, was borne out of hearing. another ten minutes and my feet touched bottom. i pulled myself out upon a weed-covered rock, and along it to a slate-strewn foreshore overhung by a low cliff of shale, grey and glimmering in the darkness. but even in the darkness a ridge of harder rock showed me a likely way. i remembered that the cliff hereabouts was of no great height and scalable in a score of places. very cautiously, and sometimes sitting and straddling the ridge while my fingers sought a new grip, i mounted to the edge of a heathery down; and there, after pricking myself sorely among the furze-bushes that guarded it, found a passage through and cast myself at full length on the short turf. for a while i lay and panted, flat on my back, staring up at the stars: for the wind had chopped about and was now drawing gently off shore, clearing the sky. but, though gentle, it had an edge of chill which by and by brought me to my feet again. far out on the dark waters of the sound glimmered the starboard light of the _glad tidings_, and it seemed to me that she was heading in for shore. had the pengellys too discovered that the boat was not the water-guard's? and was o.p. working the ketch back to give me a chance of rejoining her? else why was she not slackening sheets and running? vain hope! i suppose that the new slant of wind took some time in reaching her; for, just as i was preparing to creep back between the furze-whins and scramble down to the foreshore again, the green light was quenched. she had altered her helm and was clearing the sound. i dared not hail her. indeed, had i risked it, the odds were against my voice carrying so far, to be recognised. and while i stood and searched the darkness into which she had disappeared, my ear caught again the muffled tramp of the soldiers, this time advancing towards me. i waited no longer, but started running for dear life up the shoulder of the down. the swim and the chill breeze had numbed my legs and arms. after a few hundred yards, however, i felt life coming back to them, and i ran like a hare. i was stark naked, and here and there my feet struck a heather root pushed above the turf, or wounded themselves on low-lying sprouts of furze; but as my eyes grew used to the dark sward i learned to avoid these. so close the night hung around me that even on the sky-line i had no fear of being spied. i crossed the ridge and tore down the farther slope; stumbled through a muddy brook and mounted another hillside. my heart was drumming now, but terror held me to it--over this second ridge and downhill again. i supposed myself but half-way down this slope, or only a little more, when in springing aside to avoid a low bush i missed footing altogether; went hurling down into night, dropped plumb upon another furze-bush--a withered one--and heard and felt it snap under me; struck the cliff-side, bruising my hip, and slid down on loose stones for another few yards. as i checked myself, sprawling, and came to a standstill, some of these stones rolled on and splashed into water far below. for a minute or so, at full length on this treacherous bed, i could pluck up no heart to move. then, inch by inch at first, i drew myself up to the broken bush and found beside it a flat ledge, smooth and grassy, which led inland and downwards. i think it must have been a sheep-track. i kept to it on hands and knees, and it brought me down to the head of a small cove where a faint line of briming showed the sea's edge rippling on a beach of flat grey stones. my hip was hurting me, and i could run no farther. i groped along the base of the eastern cliff and crawled into a shallow cave close by a pile of seaweed which showed the high mark of the tide now receding. with daylight i might discover a better hiding-place. meanwhile i snuggled down and drew a coverlet of seaweed over me for warmth. chapter xii. i fall among smugglers. i awoke to a most curious sensation. the night was still black and only the ridge of the cliff opposite showed, by the light of the many stars, its dull outline above; yet i felt that the whole beach had suddenly become crowded with people--that they were moving stealthily about me, whispering, picking their way among the loose stones, hunting me and yet hushing their voices as though themselves afraid. at first, you may be sure--wakened as i was from sleep--i had no doubt but that this unseen band of folk was after me. all that followed my awakening passed so quickly that i cannot separate dreams now from guesses nor apprehensions from realities. i do remember, however, that, whereas the soldiers from whom i had run had been on foot, my first fears were of a pursuit by cavalrymen, and therefore it seems likely that some sound of horses' trampling must have set them in train: but, though i strained my ears, they detected nothing of the sort--only a subdued murmur, as of human voices, down by the water's edge, and now and again the cautious crunch of a footstep upon shingle. even this i had not heard but for the extreme quiet on the sea under the off-shore wind. gradually, by the light of the stars, i separated from the surrounding shadows that of a whole mass of people inert and darkly crowded there: and then--almost as i guessed their business--the cliff above me shot up a flame; and their forms and their dismayed upturned faces stood out distinct in the glare of it. "loose the horses and clear!" yelled someone; and another voice deep and wrathful began to curse, but was drowned by a stampede of hoofs upon the shingle. straight forth from the sea--or so it looked to me--some twenty or thirty naked horses, without rider, bit, or bridle, broke from the crowd and came plunging up the beach at a gallop. they were met by a roar from the cove-head, and with that a line of glittering helmets and cuirasses sprang out of the night and charged past me. "dragoons! dragoons!" as the yell reached me from the waterside and the men there scattered and ran, i saw the shock of the double charge--the flame overhead lighting up every detail of it. the riderless horses, though they opened and swerved, neither turned tail nor checked their pace, but heading suddenly towards the left wing of the troop went through it as water through a gate, the dragoons either vainly hacking at them with their sabres, or leaning from their saddles and as vainly attempting to grip the brutes. grip there was none to be had. these were smugglers' horses, clipped to the skin, with houghed manes, and tails and bodies sleek with soft soap. nor did the dragoons waste more trouble upon them, but charged forward and down upon the crowd at the water's edge. and as they charged i saw--but could not believe--that on a sudden the crowd had vanished. a moment before they had been jostling, shouting, cursing. they were gone now like ghosts. the light still flared overhead. it showed no boat beyond the cove--only the troopers reaching right across it in an irregular line, as each man had been able to check his horse--the most of them on the verge of the shingle, but many floundering girth-deep, and one or two even swimming. the riding officer, who had followed them, was bawling and pointing with his whip towards the cliff--at what i could not tell. i had no time to wonder: for an unholy din broke out, on the same instant, at the head of the beach. a couple of the smugglers' horses had been hurled over by the dragoons' impact, and lay, hurt beyond recovery, lashing out across the shingle with their heels. a third had gone down under a sabre-cut, but had staggered up and was lobbing after his comrades at a painful canter. they had traversed the heavy shingle, reached the harder stones at the cove's head and were sailing away at stretched gallop when a volley rang out from the shadow of the cliff there, and the scream of more than one mingled with fresh shouting. at that moment, and just before the flame above me sank and died almost as swiftly as it had first shot up, a soldier--not a dragoon, but a man in red coat and white breeches--ran forward and sprang at the girth of the wounded horse, which had stumbled again. he did the wise thing--for a single girth was these horses' only harness: but whether he caught it or not i could not tell. ten or a dozen soldiers followed, to help him. and, the next instant, total darkness came down on the scene like a shutter. it did not last long. the red-coats, it turned out, had brought lanterns, and now, at a shouted order from their commanding officer answering the call of the dragoon officer below, began to light them. they meant, i doubted not, to make a strict search of the cliffs; and, if they did--my cave being but a shallow one--there was no hope for me. but just then a dismounted trooper came running up the beach, his scabbard scraping the shingle as he went by: and his first words explained the mystery of the crowd's disappearance. "where's your officer commanding?" he panted. "the devils have got away into the next cove through a kind of hole in the cliff--a kind of archway so far as we make out. they've blocked it with stones and posted three-four men there, threatening sudden death. by their own account they're armed. major dilke's holding them to parley, and wants the loan of a lantern while you, sir, march your men round and take the gang in the rear. they reckon they've none but us to deal with." the infantry officer grunted that he understood, sent the trooper back with a lantern, and quietly formed up and marched off his company. from my hiding-place i caught scraps of the parley at the lower end of the beach--or rather of major dilke's share in it; for the smugglers answered him through a tunnel, and i could only hear their voices mumbling in response to the threats which he flung forth on the wide night. he was in no sweet temper, having been cheated of a rich haul: for the flare had, of course, warned away the expected boat, and i supposed that some of the red-coats had been dispatched at once to search the headland for the man who lit it. revenge was now the major's game, and, by his tune, he meant to have it. but while i lay listening, a stone trickled from the cliff overhead and plumped softly upon the seaweed at the mouth of my cave. it was followed by a rush of small gravel (had the major not, at the moment, been declaiming at his loudest, his men must surely have heard it): and this again by the plumb fall of a heavy body which still lay for a full five seconds after alighting, and then emitted a groan so eloquent that it raised the roots of my hair. i held my breath. more seconds passed, and the body groaned again, still more dolefully. we were within three yards of one another; and, friend or foe, if he continued to lie and groan like this for long, flesh and blood could not stand it. "are you hurt?" i summoned up voice to ask. "the devil!" i had feared that he would scream. but he sat up-- i saw his shoulders fill the mouth of the cave between me and the starlight. by his attitude he was peering at me through the darkness. "who are you?" "if you please, sir, i'm a boy." "glad to hear it. i took you at first for one of those cursed soldiers. hiding, eh?" "yes, sir." "so am i: but this is a mighty poor place for it. they may be here any moment with their lanterns: we had better cut across while everything's dark. gad!" he said, throwing his head back as if to stare upwards, "i must have dropped twenty feet. wonder if i've broken anything?" he stood up, and appeared to be feeling his limbs carefully. "sound as a bell!" he announced. "come along, youngster: we'll get out of this first and talk afterwards." he put out a hand, seeking for mine; but, missing it, touched my ribs with his open palm and drew it away sharply. "good lord, the boy's naked!" "i've been swimming," said i. "all right. get out of this first and talk afterwards, that's the order. there's a rug in my tilbury, if we can only reach it. now then, follow me close--and gently over the shingle!" like shadows we stole forth and across the cove. no one spied us, and, thanks perhaps to major dilke's sustained oratory, no one heard. "there's a track hereabouts," my new friend whispered as we gained the farther cliff. "this looks like it--no--yes, here it is! close after me, sonny, and up we go. surely, 'tis robinson crusoe and man friday with a touch of something else thrown in--can't think what, for the moment, unless 'tis the scaling of plataea. ever read thucydides?" "no, sir." "he's a nigger. he floored me at brasenose: but i bear the old cock no malice. now you wouldn't think i was a university man, eh?" "no, sir." i had not the least notion of his meaning. "i am, though; and, what's more, i'm a justice of the peace and deputy-lieutenant for the county of cornwall. ever heard of jack rogers of brynn?" once more i had to answer "no, sir." "then, excuse me, but where in thunder do you come from?" he halted and confronted me in the path. this was a facer, for the words "justice of the peace" had already set me quaking. "if you please, sir, i'd rather not tell." "no, i dare say not," he replied magisterially. "it's my fate to get into these false positions. now there was josh truscott of blowinghouse--justice of the peace and owned two thousand acres--what you might call a neat little property. _he_ never allowed it to interfere, and yet somehow he carried it off. do i make myself plain?" "not very, sir." "well, for instance, one day he was expecting company. there was a fountain in the middle of the lawn at blowinghouse, and a statue of hercules that his old father had brought home from italy and planted in the middle of it. josh couldn't bear that statue--said the muscles were all wrong. so, if you please, he takes it down, dresses himself in nothing at all--same as you might be, bare as my palm--and a justice of the peace, mind you--and stands himself in the middle of the fountain, with all the guests arriving. not an easy thing to pass off, and it caused a scandal: but folks didn't seem to mind. 'it was truscott's way,' they said: 'after all, he comes of a clever family, and we hope his son will be better.' a man wants character to carry off a thing like that." i agreed that character must have been mr. truscott's secret. "now _i_ couldn't do that for the life of me," mr. rogers sighed, and chuckled over another reminiscence. "josh had a shindy once with a groom. the fellow asked for a rise in wages. 'you couldn't have said anything more hurtful to my feelings,' josh told him, and knocked him down. there was a hole in one of his orchards where they'd been rooting up an old apple-tree. he put the fellow in that, tilled him up to his neck in earth, and kept him there till he apologised. not at all an easy thing for a justice of the peace to pass off: but, bless you, folks said that he came of a clever county family, and hoped his son would be better. the fellow didn't even bring an action." mr. rogers broke off suddenly, and seemed to meditate a new train of thought. "hang it!" he exclaimed. "i believe 'tis a hundred pounds. i must look it up when i get back." "what is a hundred pounds, sir?" i asked. "penalty for showing a coast-light without authority. lydia laid me ten pounds i hadn't the pluck, though; and that'll bring it down to ninety at the worst. she'd a small fortune in this trip, too, which she stood to lose: but, as it turns out, i've saved that for her. oh, she's a treasure!" "did you light the flare?" i began to see that i had fallen in with an original, and that he might be humoured. "eh?--to be sure i did! 'slocked away the man in charge by mimicking pascoe's voice--he's the freighter, and talks like a man with no roof to his mouth. i'm a pretty good mimic, though i say it. nothing easier, after that. you see, lydia had laid me ten pounds that as a justice of the peace i hadn't wit nor pluck to spoil her next run; honestly, that is. she knows i wouldn't blow on her for worlds. oh, we understand one another! now you and i'll go off and call on her, and hear what she says about it. for in a way i've won, and in a way i've not. i stopped the run, but also i've saved the cargo for her: for the devil a notion had i that the soldiers had wind of it; and, but for the flare, the boats would have run in and lost every tub. here we are, my lad!" we had climbed the cliff and were crossing a field of stubble grass, very painful to my feet. i saw the shadow of a low hedge in front, but these words of mr. rogers conveyed nothing to me. "soh, soh, my girl!" he called softly, advancing towards the shadow: and at first i supposed him to be addressing the mysterious lydia. but following i saw him smoothing the neck of a small mare tethered beside the hedge, and the next moment had almost blundered against a light two-wheeled carriage resting on its shafts a few yards away. mr. rogers whispered to me to lift the shafts. "and be quiet about it: there's a road t'other side of the hedge. soh, my girl--sweetly, sweetly!" he backed the mare between the shafts, harnessed her, and led her along to a gate opening on the road. "jump up, my lad," he commanded, as he steered the tilbury through; and up i jumped. "there's a rug somewhere by your feet, and lydia'll do the rest for you. cl'k, my darling!" away we bowled. chapter xiii. the man in the verandah. the mare settled down to a beautiful stride and we spun along smoothly over a road which, for a coast road, must have been well laid, or mr. rogers's tilbury was hung on exceptionally good springs. we were travelling inland, for the wind blew in our faces, and i huddled myself up from it in the rug--on which a dew had fallen, making it damp and sticky. for two miles or so we must have held on at this pace without exchanging a word, meeting neither vehicle nor pedestrian in all that distance, nor passing any; and so came to a sign-post and swerved by it into a broader road, which ran level for maybe half a mile and then began to climb. here mr. rogers eased down the mare and handed me the reins, bidding me hold them while he lit a cigar. "we're safe enough now," said he, pulling out a pocket tinder-box: "and while i'm about it we'd better light the lamps." he slipped them from their sockets and lit the pair cleverly from the same brimstone match. "the _highflier_'s due about this time," he explained; "and russell's wagon 's another nasty thing to hit in the dark. we're on the main road, you know." before refixing the lamp beside him, he held it up for a good stare at me, and grinned. "well, you're a nice guest for a spinster at this hour, i must say! but there's no shyness about lydia." "is she--is this miss lydia unmarried?" i made bold to ask. "lydia belcher 's a woman in a thousand. there's no better fellow living, and i've known worse ladies. yes, she's unmarried." he took the reins from me and the mare quickened her pace. after sucking at his cigar for a while he chuckled aloud. "she's to be seen to be believed: past forty and wears top-boots. but she was a beauty in her day. her mother's looks were famous--she was daughter to one of the earl's cottagers, on the edge of the moors"--here mr. rogers jerked his thumb significantly, but in what direction the night hid from me: "married old sam belcher, one of his lordship's keepers, a fellow not fit to black her boots; and had this one child, lydia. this was just about the time of the earl's own marriage. folks talked, of course: and sure enough, when the earl came to die, 'twas found he'd left lydia a thousand a year in the funds. that's the story: and lydia--well she's lydia. couldn't marry where she would, i suppose, and wouldn't where she could; though they do say whitmore 's trimming sail for her." "whitmore?" i echoed. "ay, the curate: monstrous clever fellow, and a sportsman too: trinity college dublin man. don't happen to know him, do you?" "is he a thin-faced gentleman, very neatly dressed? oh, but it can't be the gentleman i mean, sir! the one i mean has a slow way of speaking, and the hair seems gone on each side of his forehead--" "that's whitmore, to a t. so you know him? well, you'll meet him at lydia's, i shouldn't wonder. he's there most nights." "if you please, sir, will you set me down? i can shift for myself somehow--indeed i can! i promised--that is, i mean, mr. whitmore won't like it if--if--" while i stammered on, mr. rogers pulled up the mare, quartering at the same time to make room for the mail-coach as it thundered up the road from westward and swept by at the gallop, with lamps flashing and bits and swingles shaken in chorus. "look here, what's the matter?" he demanded. "why don't you want to meet whitmore?" then as i would not answer but continued to entreat him, "there's something deuced fishy about you. here i find you, stark naked, hiding from the soldiers: yet you can't be one of the 'trade,' for you don't know the country or the folks living hereabouts--only whitmore: and whitmore you won't meet, and your name you won't tell, nor where you come from--only that you've been swimming. 'swimming,' good lord! you didn't swim from france, i take it." he flicked his whip and fell into a muse. "and i'm a justice of the peace, and the lord knows what i'm compounding with." he mused again. "tell you what i'll do," he exclaimed; "i'll take you up to lydia's as i promised. if whitmore's there, you shan't meet him if you don't want to: and if the house is full, i'll drop you in the shrubbery with the rug, and get them to break up early. only i must have your solemn davey that you'll stay there and not quit until i give you leave. eh?" i gave that promise. "very well. i'll tip the wink to lydia, and when we've cleared the company, we'll have you in and get the rights of this. oh, you may trust lydia!" as he said this we were passing a house the long whitewashed front of which abutted glimmering on the road. a light shone behind the blind of one lower window and showed through a chink under the door. "the major 's sitting up late," observed mr. rogers, and again flicked up the mare. two minutes later he pulled the left rein and we swung through an open gateway and were rolling over soft gravel. tall bushes of laurel on either hand glinted back the lights of the tilbury, and presently around a sweep of the drive i saw a window shining. mr. rogers pulled up once more. "jump out and take the path to the left. it'll bring you out almost facing the front door. wait among the laurels there." i climbed down and drew my rug about me as he drove on and i heard the tilbury's wheels come to a halt on the gravel before the house. then, following the path which wound about a small shrubbery, i came to the edge of the gravel sweep before the porch just as a groom took the mare and cart from him and led them around to the left, towards the stables. i saw this distinctly, for on the right of the porch, where there ran a pretty deep verandah, each window on the ground floor was lit and flung its light across the gravel to the laurel behind which i crouched. there were in all five windows; of which three seemed to belong to an empty room, and two to another filled with people. the windows of this one stood wide open, and the racket within was prodigious. also the company seemed to consist entirely of men. but what surprised me most was to see that the tables at which these guests drank and supped--as the clatter of knives and plates told me, and the shouting of toasts--were drawn up in a semicircle about a tall bed-canopy reaching almost to the ceiling in the far right-hand corner. the bed itself was hidden from me by the broad backs of two sportsmen seated in line with it and nursing a bottle apiece under their chairs. now while i wondered, mr. jack rogers passed briskly through the room with the closed windows towards this chamber of revelry, preceded by an elderly woman with a smoking dish in her hands. i could not see the doorway between the two rooms; but the company announced his appearance with a shout, and several guests pushing back their chairs and rising to welcome him, in the same instant were disclosed to me, first, the pale face of the rev. mr. whitmore under a sporting print by the wall opposite, and next, reclining in the bed, the most extraordinary figure of a woman. so much of her as appeared above the bedclothes was arrayed in an orange-coloured dressing-gown and a night-cap the frills of which towered over a face remarkable in many ways, but chiefly for its broad masculine forehead and the firm outline of its jaw and chin. indeed, i could hardly believe that the face belonged to a woman. a slight darkening of the upper lip even suggested a moustache, but on a second look i set this down to the shadow of the bed-canopy. a round table stood at her elbow, with a bottle and plate upon it: and in one hand she lifted a rummer to mr. rogers's health, crooking back the spoon in it with her forefinger as she drank, that it might not incommode her aquiline nose. "good health, jack, and sit you down!" she hailed him, her voice ringing above the others like a bell. "tripe and onions it is, and plymouth gin--the usual fare: and while you're helping yourself, tell me--do i owe you ten pounds or no?" "that depends," mr. rogers answered, searching about for a clean plate and seating himself amid the hush of the company. "all the horses back?" "five of 'em. they came in together, nigh on an hour ago, and not a tub between 'em. the roan's missing." "maybe the red-coats have him," said mr. rogers, holding out his tumbler. "here, pass the kettle, somebody!" "red-coats?" she cried sharply. "you don't tell me--" but the sentence was drowned by a new and (to me) very horrible noise--the furious barking of dogs from the stables or kennels in the rear of the house. here was a new danger: and i liked it so little--the prospect of being bayed naked through those pitch-dark shrubberies by a pack of hounds--that i broke from my covert of laurel, hurriedly skirted the broad patch of light on the carriage sweep, and plumped down close to the windows, behind a bush of mock-orange at the end of the verandah, whence a couple of leaps would land me within it among miss belcher's guests. and i felt that even mr. whitmore was less formidable than miss belcher's dogs. their barking died down after a minute or so, and the company, two or three of whom had started to their feet, seemed to be reassured and began to call upon jack rogers for his explanation. it now turned out that, quite unintentionally, i had so posted myself as to hear every word spoken; and, i regret to say, was deep in mr. rogers's story--from which he considerately omitted all mention of me--when my eye caught a movement among the shadows at the far end of the verandah. a man was stealing along it and towards me, close by the house wall. he reached the first of the lighted windows, and peeped warily round its angle. this room, as i have said, was empty: but while he assured himself of this, the light rested on his face, and through the branches of the mock-orange bush i saw his features distinctly. it was sergeant letcher. he wore his red uniform and white pantaloons, but had slipped off his boots and--as i saw when he rapidly passed the next two panels of light--was carrying them in his hand. reaching the first of the open windows, he stood for a while in the shade beside it, listening; and then, to my astonishment, turned and stole back by the way he had come. i watched him till he disappeared in the darkness beyond the house-porch. meanwhile miss belcher had been calling to clear away the supper and set the tables for cards. "nonsense, lydia!" mr. rogers objected. "it's a good one-in-the-morning, and the company tired. where's the sense, too, of keeping the place ablaze on a night like this, with gauger rosewarne scouring the country, and the dragoons behind him, and all in the worst possible tempers?" "my little magistrate," miss belcher retorted, "there's naught to hinder your trotting home to bed if you're timorous. jim's on his way to the moor by this time with the rest of the horses: 'twas at his starting the dogs gave tongue just now, and i'll have to teach them better manners. as for the roan, if he's hurt or rosewarne happens on him, there's evidence that i sold him to a gipsy three weeks back, at st. germans fair. here, bathsheba, take the keys of my bureau upstairs; you'll find some odd notes in the left-hand drawer by the fire-place. bring mr. rogers down his ten pounds and let him go. we'll not compromise a justice of the peace if we can help it." "don't play the fool, lydia," growled mr. rogers, and added ingenuously, "the fact is, i wanted a word with you alone." "oh, you scandalous man! and me tucked between the sheets!" she protested, while the company haw-haw'd. "you'll have to put up with some more innocent amusement, my dear. there's a badger somewhere round at the back, in a barrel: we'll have him in with the dogs-- unless you prefer a quiet round with the cards." "oh, damn the badger at this hour!" swore mr. rogers. "cards are quiet at any rate. here, raby--penrose--tregaskis--which of you'll cut in? whitmore--you'll take a hand, won't you?" "the parson's tired to-night, and with better excuse than you. he's ridden down from plymouth." "hallo, whitmore--what were you doing in plymouth?" mr. whitmore ignored the question. "i'm ready for a hand, miss belcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet--a rubber for choice." "half-guinea points?" asked somebody. "yes, if you will." i heard them settle to cards, and their voices sink to a murmur. now and again a few coins clinked, and one of the guests yawned. "you're as melancholy as gib-cats," announced miss belcher. "the next that yawns, i'll send him out to fetch in that badger. tell us a story, somebody." "i heard the beginning of a queer one," said mr. whitmore in his deliberate voice. "the folks were discussing it at torpoint ferry as i crossed. there's, been a murder at plymouth, either last night or this morning." "a murder? who's the victim?" "an old jew, living on the barbican or thereabouts. my deal, is it not?" "what's his name?" "his name?" mr. whitmore seemed to be considering. "wait a moment, or i shall misdeal." after a pause, he said, "a spanish-sounding one--rodriguez, i think. they were all full of it at the ferry." "what! old ike rodriguez? why, he was down in these parts buying up guineas the other day!" exclaimed mr. rogers. "was he?" "why, hang it all, whitmore," said a guest, "you know he was! more by token i pointed him out to you myself on looe hill." "was that the man?" "of course it was. don't you remember admiring his face? it put you in mind of caiaphas--those were your very words, and at the moment i didn't clearly recollect who caiaphas was. it can't be three weeks since." "three weeks less two days," said miss belcher; "for he called here and bought fifteen off me: gave me twenty-four shillings and sixpence apiece for all but one, which he swore was light. who's murdered him?" "there was talk of a boy," said mr. whitmore, still very deliberately. "at least, a boy was missing who had been seen in the house just previously, and they were watching the ferries for him. why, surely, rogers, that's a revoke!" "a revoke?" stammered mr. rogers. "so it is--i beg your pardon, tregaskis! damn the cards! i'm too sleepy to tell one suit from another." "that makes our game then, and the rubber. rub and rub--shall we play the conqueror? no? as you please then. how do we stand?" "we owe three guineas on points," growled a voice which, to judge by its sulkiness, belonged to mr. tregaskis. "i'm a clumsy fool," mr. rogers again accused himself. "here, whitmore, give me change out of a note." "with pleasure. it's as good as a gift, though, with the cards you held," said mr. whitmore, and i heard the coins jingle in changing hands, when from the shrubbery, where the gravel sweep narrowed, there sounded the low hoot of an owl. being town-bred and unused to owls, i took it for a human cry in the darkness and shrank closer against my mock-orange bush. "hallo, whitmore, you've dropped a guinea. here it is, by the table-leg. take twenty-four shillings for it, now that old rodriguez is gone?" mr. whitmore thanked the speaker as the coin was restored to him. "the room's hot, as mr. rogers says, and i think i'll step out for a mouthful of fresh air. phe--ew!" he drew a long breath as he appeared at the window. he strolled carelessly out beneath the verandah and stood for a moment by one of its pillars. and at that moment the owl's cry sounded again, but more softly, from the shrubbery on my left. i knew, then, that it came from no true bird. with a swift glance back into the room mr. whitmore stepped out upon the gravel and followed the sound, almost brushing the mock-orange bush as he passed. chapter xiv. the mock-orange bush. to my dismay, he halted but five paces from me. "is that you, leicester?" he whispered. "sergeant letcher, if you please," answered a quiet voice close by; "unless you wish to be called pickthall." "not so loud--the windows are open. how on earth did you come here? you're not with the van to-night?" "i came on a horse, and a lame one: one of your tub-carriers. the captain saw me mount him, down at the cove, and sent me off to scour the country for evidence. i guessed pretty well in what direction he'd take me. but you're a careless lot, i will say. look at this bit of rope." "for god's sake don't talk so loud! rope? what rope?" "oh, you needn't be afraid! it's not _your_ sort! here--if you can't see, take hold and feel it. left-handed, you'll notice--french sling-stuff. and that belcher woman has no more sense of caution than to tie up her roses with it! now see here, my son"--and his voice became a snarl--"it may do for her to play tricks. all the country knows her, the magistrates included. but for the likes of you this dancing on the edge of the law is risky, and i can't afford it. understand? why the devil you haunt the house as you do is more than i can fathom, unless maybe you're making up to marry the old fool." he paused and added contemplatively, "'twould be something in your line to be sure. women were always your game." "you didn't whistle me out to tell me this," said mr. whitmore stiffly. "no, i did not. i want ten pounds." mr. whitmore groaned. "look here, leicst--" "be careful!" "but this makes twice in ten days. it's pushing a man too hard altogether!" "not a bit of it," letcher assured him cheerfully. "you're too devilish fond of your own neck, my lad; and i know it too devilish well to be come over by that talk." he chuckled to himself. "how's the beauty down at the cottage?" "i don't know," mr. whitmore answered sulkily. "is plinlimmon there?" "no, he's not; and you ought to know he's not. where have you been, all day?" the curate was silent. "he'll be down again on saturday, though. leave of absence is going cheap, just now. i've an idea that our marching orders must be about due. maybe i'll be able to run down myself, though my father hadn't the luck to be a friend of the colonel's. if i don't, you're to keep your eye lifting, and report." "is there really a chance of the order coming?" asked mr. whitmore, with a shake in his low voice. "dissemble your joy, my friend! when it comes, i shall call on you for fifty. meanwhile i tell you to keep your eye lifting. the battalion's raw, yet. about the order, it's only my guesswork, and before we sail you may yet do the christening." "it's damnable!" "hush, you fool! gad, if somebody hasn't heard you! who's _that_?" they held their breath; and i held mine, pressing my body into the mock-orange bush until the twigs cracked. mr. jack rogers stepped out upon the verandah, and stood by one of the pillars, not a dozen yards from me, contemplating the sky where the dawn was now beginning to break over the dark shrubberies. i heard the two men tip-toeing away through the laurels. he, too, seemed to catch the sound, for he turned his head sharply. but at that moment miss belcher's voice called him back into the room. a minute later he reappeared with a loaf of bread in either hand, and walked moodily past my bush without turning his head or observing me. i faced about cautiously and looked after him. from the end of the verandah the ground, sheltered on the right by a belt of evergreen trees, fell away steeply to a valley where, under the paling sky, a sheet of water glimmered. towards this, down the grassy slope, mr. rogers went with long strides. i broke cover, and ran after him. i ran as fast as my hurt hip and the trailing folds of the rug allowed. the grass underfoot was grey with dew, and overhead the birds were singing. an old horse that had been sleeping in his pasture heaved himself up and gazed at me as i went by, and either his snort of contempt or the sound of my footsteps must have struck on mr. rogers's ear. he turned and allowed me to catch up with him. "it's you, eh?" he eyed me between pity and distrust. "here, catch hold, if you're feeling peckish." he thrust a loaf into my hands and i fell on it ravenously, plucking off a crust and gnawing it while i trotted beside him. "got to feed her blessed swans now!" he muttered. "the deuce is in her for perversity to-night." he kept growling to himself, knitting his brow and pausing once or twice for a moody stare. he was not drunk, and his high complexion showed no trace of his all-night sitting; and yet something had changed him utterly from the cheerful gentleman of a few hours back. the water in the valley bottom proved to be an artificial lake, very cunningly contrived to resemble a wild one. at the head of it, where we trod on asphodels and sweet-smelling mints and brushed the young stalks of the loose-strife, stood a rustic bridge partly screened by alders. here mr. rogers halted, and a couple of fine swans came steering towards him out of the shadows. he broke his loaf into two pieces. "that's for you," he exclaimed, hurling the first chunk viciously at the male bird. the pair turned in alarm at the splash and paddled away, hissing. "and that's for you!" the second chunk caught the female full astern, and mr. rogers leaned on the rail and laughed grimly. he thrust his hand into his breeches pocket and drew forth a guinea. the young daylight touched its edge as it lay in his palm. "i'm a justice of the peace; or i'd toss that after the bread." "what's the matter with it, sir?" he turned it over gingerly with his forefinger. "see?" he said. "i put that mark on it myself, for sport, three weeks ago, and this very night i won it back." "was it one you sold to mr. rodriguez?" "hey?" i thought he would have taken me by the collar. "so you _are_ the boy! what do you know of rodriguez, boy?" "i--i was listening in the verandah, sir. and oh, but i've something to tell you! i'm the boy, sir, that mr. whitmore spoke about--the boy that's being searched for--" "look here," mr. rogers interrupted, "i'm a justice of the peace, you know." "i can't help it, sir--begging your pardon. but i was in the house, and i saw things: and if they catch me, i must tell." "tell the truth and shame the devil," said mr. rogers. "but the more truth i told, sir, the worse it would look for someone who's innocent." "whitmore?" "you changed a note with mr. whitmore, didn't you, sir?" this confused him. "you've been using your ears to some purpose," he growled. "i don't know how mr. whitmore comes to be mixed up in it. but here's another thing, sir--you remember that he walked out after the game--for fresh air, he said?" "well?" "and he didn't come back?" "well?" "he stepped out because he was whistled out. there was a man waiting for him." "what man?" "his name's letcher--at least--" "i don't know the name." "he was one of the soldiers on the beach this evening." "the devil!" "but he hadn't come about _that_ business." "about what, then?" "well now, sir, i must ask you a question. they were talking about 'the beauty down at the cottage.' who would that be?" "that," said he slowly, "would be isabel brooks, for a certainty." "and the cottage?" "remember the one we passed on the road?--the one with a light downstairs? that's it. she lives there with her father--an old soldier and three-parts blind. there's no mischief brewing against _her_, i hope?" "i don't know sir," i went on breathlessly. "but if you please, go on answering me. do you know a young man called plinlimmon-- archibald plinlimmon?" "plinlimmon? ay, to be sure i do. met him there once--another soldier, youngish and good-looking--in the ranks, but seemed a gentleman--didn't catch his christian name. the major introduced him as the son of an old friend--comrade-in-arms, he said, if i remember. he was there with a black-faced fellow, whose name i didn't catch either." "that was letcher!" "what? the man whitmore was talking with? what were they saying?" "they said something about a christening. and letcher asked for money." "a christening? what in thunder has a christening to do with it?" "that's what i don't know, sir." mr. rogers looked at me and rubbed his chin. "i meant to take you to lydia," he said; "but now that whitmore's mixed up in this, i'll be shot if i do. that fellow has bewitched her somehow, and where he's concerned--" he glanced up the slope and clutched me suddenly by the shoulder: for whitmore himself was there, walking alone, and coming straight towards us. "talk of the devil--here, hide, boy--duck down, i tell you, there behind the bushes! no! through the hedge, then--" i burst across the hedge and dropped through a mat of brambles, dragging my rug after me. the fall landed me on all-fours upon the sunken high road, along which i ran as one demented--stark naked, too--a small jack of bedlam under the broadening eye of day; ran past miss belcher's entrance gate with its sentinel masses of tall laurels, and had reached the bend of the road opening the low cottage into view, when a sudden jingling of bells and tramp of horses drove me aside through a gate on the left, to cower behind a hedge there while they passed. two wagons came rumbling by, each drawn by six horses and covered by a huge white tilt bearing in great letters the words "russell and co., falmouth to london." on the front of each a lantern shone pale against the daylight. at the head of each team rode a wagoner, mounted on a separate horse and carrying a long whip. beside the wagons tramped four soldiers with fixed bayonets, and two followed behind: they wore the uniform of the north wilts regiment. i knew them well enough by repute--these famous wagons conveying untold treasure between london and the falmouth packets. they passed, and i crept out into the road again, to stare after them. with that, turning my head, i was aware of a girl in the roadway outside the cottage door. but if she had come out to gaze after the wagons, she was gazing now at me. it was too late to hide, and moreover i had come almost to the end of my powers. with a cry for pity i ran towards her. chapter xv. minden cottage. stark naked though i was, she did not flinch as i came; only her eyes seemed to widen upon me in wonder. and for all my desperate hurry i had time to see, first, that they were graver than other girls' eyes, and next that they were exceedingly beautiful. in those days i had small learning (i have little enough, even now), or i might have fancied her some goddess awaiting me between the night and the dawn. she stood, tall and erect, in a loose white wrapper, the collar of which had fallen open and revealed the bodice-folds of her nightgown--a cloud at the base of her firm throat. her feet were thrust into loose slippers: and her hair hung low on her neck in dark masses as she had knotted them for the night. "where do you come from, boy?" she asked; but an instant later she put that question aside as an idle one. "someone has been ill-treating you! come indoors!" she held out a hand and, as i clung to it, led me to the door; but turned with her other hand on the latch. "is anyone following?" i shook my head. she was attempting now, but gently, to draw back the hand to which i clung; and, in resisting, my fingers met and pulled against a ring--a single ring of plain gold. seeing that i had observed it, she made no further effort, but let her hand lie, her eyes at the same moment meeting mine and searching them gravely and curiously. "come upstairs," she said; "but tread softly. my father is a light sleeper." she took me to a room in the corner of which stood a white bed with the sheets neatly turned down, prepared and ready for a guest. the room was filled with the scent of flowers--fragrant scent of roses and clean aromatic scent of carnations. there were fainter scents, too, of jasmine and lavender; the first wafted in from a great bush beyond the open lattice, the second (as i afterwards discovered) exhaled by the white linen of the bed. but flowers were everywhere, in bowls and jars and glasses; and as though other receptacles for them had failed, one long spray of small roses climbed the dressing-table from a brown pitcher at its foot. she motioned me to a chair beside the bed, and, almost before i knew what was intended, she had fetched a basin of water and was kneeling to wash my feet. "no--please!" i protested. "but i love children," she whispered; "and you are but a child." so i sat in a kind of dream while she washed away the dust and blood, changing the water twice, and afterwards dried each foot in a towel, pressing firmly but never once hurting me. when this was done, she rose and stood musing, contemplating me seriously and yet with a touch of mirth in her eyes. "you are such a little one!" she said. "father's would never fit." and having poured out fresh water and bidden me wash my body, she stole out. she returned with a white garment in her hand and real mirth now in her eyes. my toilet done, she slipped the garment over me. it fell to my feet in long folds, yet so lightly that i scarcely felt i was clothed: and she clapped her hands in dumb-show. it was one of her own night-gowns. i glanced uneasily towards the bed. its daintiness frightened me, used as i was to the housekeeping--coarse if clean--of mrs. trapp. "your prayers first," she whispered. "don't you know any?" she eyed me anxiously again. "but you are a good boy? surely you are a good boy? don't boys say their prayers? they ought to." since passing out of miss plinlimmon's tutelage, i had sadly neglected the habit: but i knelt down obediently and in silence. she stepped close behind me. "but you're not speaking," she murmured. "father always says his aloud, and so do i. you mustn't pretend, if you don't really know any. i can teach you." she knelt down beside me, and began to say the lord's prayer softly. i repeated it after her, sentence by sentence: and this was really shamming, for of course i knew it perfectly. at the time i felt only that she--this beautiful creature beside me--was in a strange state of exaltation which i could not in the least understand. i know now something of the springs i had touched and loosened within her--i, a naked waif coming to her out of the night and catching her hand for protection. it was not i she taught, nor over me that she yearned. she was reaching through me to a child unknown, using me to press against a strange love tearing at the roots of her body, and to break the pain of it--the roots of her body, i say; for he who can separate a woman's soul from her body is a wiser man than i. she rose from her knees; threw back the sheets and tucked them about me as i snuggled down. "what is your name?" "harry revel. are you miss isabel brooks?" "i am isabel." "why were you crying, out in the road?" "was i crying?" "well, not crying exactly: but you looked as if you wanted to." she smiled. "we both have our secrets it seems; and you shall tell me yours to-morrow. will yours let you sleep?" "i think so, miss isabel. i am so tired--and so clean--and this bed is so soft--" i stretched out my arms luxuriously, and almost before i knew it she was bending to kiss me, and they were about her neck. her hair fell over me in a shower and in the shade of it she laughed happily, kissing me by the ear and whispering, "i have my happy secret, too!" she straightened herself up, tossed back the dark locks with curved sweep of arm and wrist, and moved to the door. "good night, harry revel!" a bird was cheeping in the jasmine bush when i dropped asleep, and when i awoke he was cheeping there still. of my dreams i only remember that they ended in a vague sense of discomfort, somehow arising from a vision of mr. rogers in the act of throwing bread at the swans, and of the hen bird's flurry as she paddled away. but the sound which i took for the splashing of water came in fact from the rings of the window curtain, which miss isabel was drawing to shut out the high morning sun. she heard me stir and faced about, with her hand yet on the curtain. "awake?" she cried, and laughed. "you shall have a basin of bread-and-milk presently: and after that you may get up and put on these." she held out a suit of clothes which lay across her arm. "i have borrowed them from miss belcher, who distributes all sorts of garments at christmas among the youngsters hereabouts, and has rummaged this out of her stock. and after that my father will be glad to make your acquaintance. we shall find him in the garden. now i must go and see to preparing dinner: for it is past noon, though you may not know it." behold me, half an hour later, clad in a blue jacket very tight at the elbows and corduroy breeches very tight at the knees and warm for the time of year, as i descended with isabel into the walled garden at the back of the cottage. its whole area cannot have been an acre, and even so the half of it was taken up by a plot of turf, smooth as a bowling green: but beyond this stretched a miniature orchard, and along the walls ran two deep borders crowded with midsummer flowers-- tall white lilies and canterbury bells; stocks, sweet williams, mignonette, candytuft and larkspurs; bushes of lemon verbena, myrtle, and the white everlasting pea. near the house all was kept in nicest order, with trim ranks of standard roses marching level with the turfed verges, and tall carnations staked and bending towards them across the alley: but around the orchard all grew riotous. the orchard ended in a maze of currant bushes, through which the path seemed to wander after the sound of running water till it emerged upon another clearing of turf, with a tall filbert tree, and a summer-house beneath it, and a row of beehives set beside a stream. the stream, i afterwards learned, came down from miss belcher's park, and was the real boundary of the garden: but miss belcher had allowed the major to build a wall for privacy, on the far side of it, yet not so high as to shut off the sun from his bee-skeps; and had granted him a private entrance through it to the park--a narrow wooden door approached by a miniature bridge across the stream. "papa!" called isabel. i heard a movement in the summer-house, and her father appeared in the doorway. he was old, but held himself so erect that his head almost touched the lintel of the summer-house door, the posts of which he gripped and so stood framed--a giant of close upon six and a half feet in stature. he wore a brown holland suit, with grey stockings and square-toed shoes; and at first i mistook him for a quaker. his snow-white hair was gathered back from his temples, giving salience to a face of ineffable simplicity and goodness--the face of a man at peace with god and all the world, yet touched with the scars of bygone passions. "papa, this is harry revel." he bowed with ceremony, a little wide of me. i saw then that his eyes were sightless. "i am happy to make your acquaintance, young sir. my daughter informs me that you are in trouble." "he has promised to tell me all about it," isabel put in. "we need not bother him with questions just now." "assuredly not," he agreed. "well, if you will, my lad, tell it to isabel. what is your age? barely fourteen? troubles at that age are not often incurable. only whatever you do--and you will pardon an old man for suggesting it--tell the whole truth. when a man, though he be much older than you and his case more serious than yours can possibly be--when a man once brings himself to make a clean breast of it, the odds are on his salvation. take my word for that, and a wiser man's--by the way, do you understand latin?" "no, sir." "i am sorry to hear it. but perhaps you play the drum?" "i--i have never tried, sir." "dear, dear, this is unfortunate: but at least you can serve me by leading me round the garden and telling me where the several flowers grow, and how they come on. that will be something." "i will try, sir: but indeed i can hardly tell one flower from another." at this his face fell again. "do you, by chance, know a bee when you see one?" "a bee? oh yes, sir." "come, we have touched bottom at length! do you understand bees? can you handle them?" here isabel, seeing my chapfallen face, interposed. "and if he does not, papa, you will have the pleasure of teaching him." "very true, my dear. you must excuse me"--here major brooks turned as if seeing me with his sightless eyes. "but understand that i like you far better for owning up. there are men--there is a clergyman in our neighbourhood for one--capable of pretending a knowledge of latin which they don't possess." "doesn't mr. whitmore know latin?" i asked. "hey? who told you i was speaking of whitmore?" i glanced at isabel, for her eyes drew me. they were fixed on me almost in terror. "i have heard him talk it, sir." "excuse me: you may have heard him pretending." "but, papa--" isabel put forth a hand as if in protest, and i noted that it trembled and that the ring was missing which she had worn overnight. "you never told me that he--that mr. whitmore--" "was an impostor? my dear, had you any occasion to seek my opinion of him, or had i any occasion to give it? none, i think: and but for master revel's incomprehensible guess you had not discovered it now. i have been betrayed into gossip." he turned abruptly and, feeling with his hand over the surface of the summer-house table, picked up a small volume lying there. it struck me that his temper for the moment was not under perfect control. isabel cast at me a look which i could not interpret, and went slowly back to the house. "the meaning of my catechism just now," said her father, addressing me after listening for awhile to her retreating footsteps, "may be the plainer when i tell you that i am translating the works of the roman poet virgil, line for line, into english verse, and have just reached the beginning of the fourth georgic. he is, i may tell you, a poet, and the most marvellous that ever lived; so marvellous, that the middle ages mistook him for a magician. that any age is likely to mistake me--his translator--for a conjuror i think improbable. nevertheless i do my best. and while translating i hold this book in my hand, not that i can see to read a line of it, but because the mere touch of it, my companion on many campaigns, seems to unloose my memory. except in handling this small volume, i have none of the delicate gift of touch with which blind men are usually credited. but this is page , is it not?" he held out the open book towards me, and added, with sudden apprehension, "you can read, i trust?" i assured him that i could. "and write? good again! come in--you will find pen, ink, and paper on the side-drum in the corner. bring them over to the table and seat yourself. ready? now begin, and let me know when you cannot spell a word." i seated myself, silently wondering what might be the use of the side-drum in the corner. "let me see--let me see--" he thumbed the book for a while, murmuring words which i could not catch; then thrust it behind his back with a finger between its pages, straightened himself up, and declaimed: "next of aerial honey, gift divine, i sing. maecenas, be once more benign!" he paused and instructed me how to spell "aerial" and "maecenas." the orthography of these having been settled, i asked his advice upon "benign," which, as written down by me (i forget how) did not seem convincing. "you are indisputably an honest boy," said he; "but i have yet to acquire that degree of patience which, by all accounts, consorts with my affliction. continue, pray: "prepare the pomp of trifles to behold: proud peers--a nation's polity unrolled-- customs, pursuits--its clans, and how they fight, slight things i labour; not for glory slight, if heaven attend and phoebus hearken me. first, then, for site. seek and instal your bee--" --"with a capital b, if you please. the poet says 'bees': but the singular, especially if written with a capital, adds in my opinion that mock-heroic touch which, as the translator must frequently miss it for all his pains, he had better insert where he can. by the way, how have you spelt 'phoebus'?" "f.e.b.u.s," i answered. "i feared so," he sighed. "and 'site'?" "s.i.g.h.t." i felt pretty sure about this. he smote his forehead. "that is how miss plinlimmon taught me," i urged almost defiantly. "i beg your pardon--'plinlimmon,' did you say? an unusual name. do you indeed know a miss plinlimmon?" "it is the name of my dearest friend, sir." "most singular! you cannot tell me, i dare say, if she happens to be related to my old friend arthur plinlimmon?" "she is his sister." "this is most interesting. i remember her, then, as a girl. you must know that arthur plinlimmon and i were comrades in the old fourth regiment, and dear friends--are dear friends yet, i trust, although time and circumstances have separated us. his sister used to keep house for him before his marriage. a most estimable person! and pray where did you make her acquaintance?" "in the hospital, sir." "the hospital? not an eleemosynary institution for the diseased, i hope?" i did not know what this meant. "it's a place for foundlings, sir," i answered. "but--excuse me--miss plinlimmon--agatha? arabella? i forget for the moment her christian name--" "amelia, sir." "to be sure; amelia. well, she could not be a foundling, nor--as i remember her--did she in the least resemble one." "oh no, sir: she is the matron there." "i see. and where is this hospital?" "at plymouth dock." "hey?" "at plymouth dock. a mr. scougall keeps it--a sort of clergyman." "this is most strange. my friend arthur's son, young archibald plinlimmon, is quartered with his regiment there, and often pays us a visit, poor lad." "indeed, sir?" "his circumstances are not prosperous. family troubles--money losses, you understand: and then his father made an imprudent marriage. not that anything can be said against the leicesters-- there are few better families. but the lady, i imagine, did not take kindly to poverty: never learnt to cut her coat according to the cloth. her uncle might have helped her--sir charles, that is--the head of the family--a childless man with plenty of money. for some reason, however, he had opposed her match with arthur. a sad story! and now, when their lad is grown and the time come for him to be a soldier, he must start in the ranks. but why in the world, if she lives at plymouth dock, has archibald never mentioned his aunt to us?" this was more than i could tell him. and you may be sure that the name leicester made me want to ask questions, not to answer them. but just now isabel came across the lawn, bearing a tray with a plateful of biscuits, a decanter of claret, and a glass. "my dear," asked her father, "has our friend archibald ever spoken to you of an aunt of his--a miss plinlimmon--residing at plymouth dock?" "no, papa." she turned on me, again with that fear and appeal in her eyes, as if in some way i was persecuting her; and the decanter shook and tinkled on the rim of the glass as she poured out the claret. the old man lifted the wine and held it between his sightless eyes and the sunshine. "a sad story," he mused: "but, after all, the lad is young and the world young for him! rejoice in your youth, mr. revel, and honour your creator in the days of it. for me, i enjoyed it by god's grace, and it has not forsaken me: no, not when darkness overtook and shut me out of the profession i loved. i cannot see the colour of this wine, nor the face of this my daughter, nor my garden, yonder, full of flowers." "seasons return, but not to me returns day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, or flocks, or herds, or human face divine--" "yet memory returns and consoles my blindness. the colour of the wine is there, the flowers are about me, and isabel--i am told-- resembles her mother. yes, and away on the edge of spain, the army i served is planting fresh laurels--my old regiment too, the king's own, though james brooks is by this time scarcely a name to it. here i sit, hale in wind and limb, and old age creeps on me kindly, telling me that no man is necessary. and yet, if god should come and lay a command on me--some task that a blind man might undertake--i am at god's service. i sit with my loins girt and my soul, i hope, shriven. that is my sermon to you, young sir: a clean breast and no baggage. i bid you welcome to minden cottage!" he drank to me. "is it named from the battle of minden, sir?" i asked. "it is, my lad." "were you there?" he laughed. "my father won his captaincy there, in a regiment that mistook orders, charged three lines of cavalry, and broke them one after another. it also broke a sound maxim of war by charging between flanking batteries. the british army has made half its reputation by mistaking orders--you will understand why, if ever you have the honour to belong to it. isabel, get me my drum!" she fetched it from its corner, with the drumsticks; hitched the sling over her beautiful neck; tightened the straps carefully; and began to play a soft tattoo. the old man leaned back in his chair; felt in his pocket; and having found a silk bandanna handkerchief, unfolded it deliberately, cast it over his head and composed himself to slumber. the tattoo ran on, peaceful as a brook. isabel's arms hung lax and motionless: only her hands stirred, from the wrists, and so slightly, or else so rapidly without effort, that they too scarcely seemed to move. her eyes were averted. my ear could not separate the short taps. they ran on and on in a murmur as of bees or of leaves rustling together in a wood; grew imperceptibly gentler; and almost imperceptibly ceased. isabel glanced at her father, and set the drum back in its corner. we stole out of the summer-house together, and across to the orchard. but under the shade of the apple-boughs she turned and faced me. "boy, what do you know?" chapter xvi. mr. jack rogers as a man of affairs. "i know," said i, meeting her gaze sturdily, "that you are in danger." "how should i be in danger?" "that i cannot tell you, miss isabel, unless you first tell me something." she waited, her eyes searching mine. "last night," i went on, "in the road--you were expecting someone." her chin went up proudly; but a tide of red rose with it, flushing her throat and so creeping up and colouring her face. "was it archibald plinlimmon?" she put up a hand as if to push me aside: but on a sudden turned and hastened from me, with bowed head, towards the cottage. "miss isabel!" i cried, following her close. "i meant no harm--how could i mean you harm? miss isabel!" i would not let her go, but followed her to the door, entreating; even pushed after her into the small kitchen, where at last she faced on me. "why cannot you let me alone, boy? into what have you come here to pry? you are odious--yes, odious!" she stamped her foot. "and i thought last night, that you were in trouble. was i not kind to you for that, and that only?" she broke off pitifully. "oh, harry, i am dreadfully unhappy!" she sank into a chair beside the table, across which she flung an arm and so leaned her brow and let the sobs shake her. "and i am here to help you, miss isabel: only so much is puzzling me! last night you said you had a secret, and that it was a happy one. to-day you are crying, and it is miserable to see." "and why should i not be happy?" she lifted a hand to the bosom of her bodice, and slipped over her third finger the ring she had worn over-night. "why should i not be expecting him?" she murmured. for the moment i was slow in understanding. but i suppose that at length she saw that in my eyes which satisfied her: for she drew down my head to her lap, and sat laughing and weeping softly. a kettle hanging from a crook in the chimney-place boiled over, hissing down upon the hot wood-ashes. she sprang up and lifted it down to the hearth. "oh, and i forgot!" her hand went back to her bodice again. "mr. jack rogers was here this morning inquiring for you. he drove up in his tilbury, and said he was on his way to plymouth. but he left this note." i took it and deciphered these words, scrawled in an abominable hand: "meet me to-night, nine o'clock, at the place where we parted. j. r." "was mr. rogers going to plymouth?" i asked. "yes, and in a hurry, by the pace he was driving." as you may guess, this news discomposed me. could mr. rogers be preparing a trap? no: certainly not for me. whitmore, if anyone, was his quarry. but i mistrusted that, if he once started this game, it would lead him on to another scent. that archibald plinlimmon was innocent of the jew's murder i felt sure. still--what had he been seeking on the roofs by the jew's house? it would be an ugly question, if mr. rogers blundered on it; and in the way of honest blundering i felt mr. rogers to be infinitely capable. would that, trusting in his good nature, i had made a clean breast to him! a clean breast? isabel too, poor girl, was aching to make confession to her father. for weeks her secret had been a sword within her, wearing the flesh, and it eased her somewhat (as i saw) even to have made confession to me. but she would not speak to her father without first consulting archibald. it was he, i gathered, who had enjoined silence. major brooks (and small blame to him) would assuredly have imposed a probation: old men with lovely daughters do not surrender them at call to penniless youths, even when the penniless youth happens to be the son of an old friend. i wished master archibald to perdition for a selfish fool. i talked long with isabel: first in the kitchen, and again on our way back to the summer-house, where her father sat awake and expecting me, book in hand. there she left me, and he began to dictate at once as i settled myself to write. "first, then, for site. seek, and instal your bee where nor may winds invade (for winds forbid his homeward load); nor sheep, nor heady kid trample the flowers; nor blundering heifer pass, brush off the dew and bruise the tender grass; nor lizard foe in painted armour prowl round the rich hives. ban him, ban every fowl-- bee-bird with procne of the bloodied breast: these rifle all--our hero with the rest, snapped on the wing and haled, a tit-bit, to the nest. --but seek a green moss'd pool, with well-spring nigh; and through the turf a streamlet fleeting by." so much, with interminably slow pauses, we accomplished before the light waned in the summer-house and isabel called us in to supper, which we ate together in a low-ceiled parlour overlooking the garden. at a quarter to nine, on pretence that i had still to make up arrears of sleep, she signed to me to wish her father good-night and escorted me out into the passage. a slip of the bolt, and i was free of the night. i found the spot where i had dropped into the road, and cautiously mounted the hedge, putting the brambles aside and peering through them into the fast falling twilight. a low whistle sounded, and mr. rogers stepped into view on the footbridge. but he left a companion behind him in the shadow of the alders, and who this might be i could neither see nor guess. "is that you, master revel?" there was no help for it now; so over the hedge i climbed and met him. "how did you find out--" --"your name? miss brooks told me, this morning. but, for that matter, it's placarded all over plymouth and at every public and forge and signpost along the road. you're a notorious character, my son." i began to quake. "parson," he went on, turning and addressing the figure in the shadow, "here's the boy. better make haste, if you have any questions to ask him before we get to business." there stepped forward, not mr. whitmore (as i was fearfully expecting), but a figure unknown to me; an old shovel-hatted man leaning on a stick and buttoned to the chin in a black inverness cape. i felt his eyes peering at me through the dusk. "he seems very young to be a trustworthy witness," croaked this old gentleman in a voice which seemed to be affected by the night air. "he's right enough," mr. rogers answered cheerfully. "he shall tell his tale, then, in mr. whitmore's presence. i will not yet believe that a minister of christ's religion, whose papers-- as i have proved to you--are in order, whose testimonials are unexceptionable, who has the bishop's licence--" "the bishop's fiddlestick! the bishop didn't license him to carry marked guineas in his pocket, and i don't wait for a licence to carry a warrant in mine." "you will at least afford him an opportunity of explaining before you execute it. to be plain with you, mr. rogers, this business is like to be scandalous, however you look at it." "the constables shall remain outside, and the warrant i'll keep in my pocket until your reverence's doubts are at rest." mr. rogers gave another low whistle and two men, hitherto concealed at a little distance in the trees' shadow, stepped silently forward and joined us. "ready, lads? quick march, then!" we took the path up the valley bottom, and across a grassy shoulder of the park to a small gate in the ring-fence. beyond this gate a lane, or cart-road, dipped steeply downhill to the right; and following it, we came on a high stone wall overtopped by trees. "here's your post, hodgson," whispered mr. rogers, after waiting for the constables to come up. "jim will take the back of the house: and understand that no one is to enter or leave. if anyone attempts it, signal to me: one whistle from you, hodgson, and two from jim. off you go, my lad! the signal's the same if i want you--one whistle or two, as the case may be." the constable he called jim crept away in the darkness, while mr. rogers found and cautiously opened a wicket-gate leading to a courtlage, across which a solitary window shone on the ground-floor of a house lifting its gables and heavy chimneys against a sky only less black than itself. "gad!" said mr. rogers softly, "i wonder what whitmore's doing? the fun would be, now, to find one of these windows unfastened, and slip in upon him without announcing ourselves. 'twouldn't be the thing, though, for a justice of the peace, let alone mr. doidge here. no: we'll have to do it in order and knock. the maid knows me. only you two must keep back in the shadow here while she opens the door." he stepped forward and knocked boldly. to the astonishment of us all the door opened almost at once, and without any noise of unlocking or drawing of bolts. "for heaven's sake, my dear--unless you want to wake the village--" began a voice testily. it was mr. whitmore's, and almost on the instant, by the light of a candle which he held, he recognised the man on the doorstep. "mr. rogers? to what do i owe--" "good evening, whitmore! may i come in? won't detain you long-- especially since you seem to be expecting company." "it's the maid," answered mr. whitmore coldly, though he seemed confused. "she has stepped down to the village for an hour, to her mother's cottage, and i am alone." "so you call her 'my dear'? that's a bit pastoral, eh?" "look here, rogers: if you're drunk, i beg you to call at some other time. to tell the truth, i'm busy." "writing your sermon? i thought saturday was the night for that. 'pon my honour now i wouldn't intrude, only the business is urgent." he waited while mr. whitmore somewhat grudgingly set the door wide to admit him. "by the way i've brought a couple of friends with me." "confound it all, rogers--" "oh, you know them." mr. rogers, with his foot planted over the threshold, airily waved us forward out of the darkness. "mr. doidge, your rector," he announced; "also mr. revel--a recent acquaintance of yours, as i understand." "good evening, whitmore," said the rector stepping forward. "i owe you an apology (i sincerely hope) for the circumstances of this visit, as i certainly discommend mr. rogers's method of introducing us." now, as we two stepped forward, mr. whitmore had instantly shot out his right hand to the door--against which mr. rogers, however, had planted his foot--with a gesture as if to slam it in our faces. but the sombre apparition of the rector seemed to freeze him where he stood--or all of him but his left hand which, grasping the candlestick, slowly and as if involuntarily lifted it above the level of his eyes. then, before the rector had concluded, he lowered it, turned, and walked hastily before us down the passage. still without speaking he passed through a door on his right, and we followed him into a sparely furnished room lined with empty book-shelves. a few books lay scattered on the centre table where also, within the shaded light of a reading lamp, stood a tray with a decanter and a couple of glasses. beside this lamp he set down the candle and faced us. in those few paces down the passage i had observed that he wore riding-boots and spurs, and that they were spotlessly bright and clean. but from this moment i had eyes only for his face, which was ashen white and the more horrible because he was essaying a painful smile. "my dear rector," he began, "this is indeed a--a surprise. you said nothing of any such intention when i had the honour to call on you in plymouth, two days ago." "good reason for why," interrupted mr. rogers. "look here, whitmore--with the rector's leave we'll get this over. do you know this coin?" he held forward a guinea under the lamp. i could see the unhappy man pick up his courage to fix his gaze on the coin and hold it fixed. "i don't understand you, rogers," he answered. "i have, of course, no knowledge of that coin or what it means. to me it looks like an ordinary guinea." "i had it from you last night, whitmore: and it is not an ordinary guinea, but a marked one. what's more, i marked it myself--see, with this small cross behind the king's head. what's more i sold it, so marked, to rodriguez, the jew." --"who, i suppose, promptly put it into circulation in plymouth, where by chance it was handed to me amid the change when i paid my hotel-bill--if indeed you are absolutely sure you were given this coin by me." "come, rogers, that's an explanation i myself suggested," put in the rector. "the folks at the royal hotel," answered mr. rogers curtly, "tell me that you paid your bill in silver." it seemed to me that mr. rogers was pressing whitmore harshly, almost with a note of private vindictiveness in his voice. but while i wondered at this my eyes fell on the curate's hand as it played nervously with the base of the brass candlestick. there was a ring on the little finger: and in an instant i knew--though i could not have sworn to it in court--yet knew more certainly than many things to which i could have testified on oath--that this was the hand i had seen closing the door in the jew's house. through a buzzing of the brain i heard him addressing the rector and protesting against the absurdity, the monstrosity, of the charge--yet still with that recurring agonised glance at me. but my eyes now were on mr. rogers; and the buzzing ceased and my brain cleared when he swung round, inviting me to speak. i cannot tell what question he put to me, but what i said was: "if you please, sirs, the runners are after me; and it isn't fair to make me tell yet what happened in the jew's house, or what i saw there: for what i told might be twisted and turned against me." "nonsense!" interrupted mr. rogers. but the rector nodded his head. "the boy's right. he's under suspicion himself, and should have a lawyer to advise him before he speaks. that's only fair play." "but," i went on "there's another thing, if you'll be pleased to ask mr. whitmore about it. why is he paying money to a soldier--a man who calls himself letcher, but his real name is leicester? and what have they been plotting against miss isabel down at the cottage?" chapter xvii. lydia belcher intervenes. the effect of my words astounded me. as a regiment holding itself bravely against an attack in front will suddenly melt at an unexpected shout on its flank and collapse without striking another blow, so mr. whitmore collapsed. his jaw fell; his eyes wildly searched the dim corners of the room; his hands gripped the edge of the table; he dropped slowly into the chair behind him, dragging the tablecloth askew as he sank. with that i felt mr. rogers's grip on my shoulder--no gentle one, i can assure you. he, too, had been gazing at the curate, but now stared down, searching my face. "you've hit him, by george! quick, boy!--have you learnt more than you told me last night? or is it only guessing?" "ask him," said i, "why he married miss isabel." "married! isabel brooks married!"--mr. rogers's eyes, wide and round, turned slowly from me and fastened themselves on the curate. "not to _him_, but to archibald plinlimmon. mr. whitmore married them privately. ask him why!" "why?" mr. rogers released me and springing on the curate, seized him by the collar. "why, you unhanged cur? why? or better, say it's not true--say _some_thing, else by the lord i'll kill you here and now!" mr. whitmore slid from his chair and grovelling on the floor clasped mr. doidge's knees. "take him off!" he gasped. "have mercy--take him off! you shall hear everything, sir: indeed you shall. only have mercy, and take him off!" "pah!" mr. rogers hurled him into a corner. "enough, mr. rogers!" commanded the rector. the two stood eyeing the culprit who, crouching where he fell, gazed up at them dumbly, pitifully, as a dog between two thrashings. "now, sir," the rector continued. "you married this couple, it seems. at whose request?" "at their own," came the answer in a whisper. "ay," said mr. rogers, "at their own request. you--not being a priest at all, or in orders, but a swindler with a forged licence-- married that lady at her own request." "is that true?" the rector demanded. the poor wretch made as if to crawl towards him, to clasp his knees again. "mercy!" he whined, between two sobs. "one moment," mr. rogers insisted, as the rector held up a hand. "did young plinlimmon know of the fraud?" "no." "does he know now?" "no." "thank the lord for that small mercy! for, by the lord, i'd have shot him without grace to say his prayers." "mr. rogers!" again the rector lifted a reproving hand. "you don't understand, sir. for this marriage--which isn't a marriage--isabel brooks gave the door to an honest man. he may be a bit of a fool, sir: but since she wasn't for him, he prayed she might find a better fellow. that's sound christianity, hey? i can tell you it came tough enough. and now--" he swung round upon whitmore. "did this man letcher know?" he demanded. "he did, mr. rogers. oh, if you only knew what agonies of mind--" "stow your agonies of mind. we'll begin with those you've caused. what was letcher's game?" "his right name is leicester, sir. he is mr. plinlimmon's cousin --or second cousin, rather--though mr. plinlimmon don't know it." mr. whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to his native style even in speech. you could as little mistake him now for a gentleman as for a priest. "and how does that bear on your pretty plot?" "i will tell you, gentlemen: for when george leicester forced me to it--and it was only under threats so terrible that you would hardly believe--" "in other words, he knew enough to hang you." "it was terrorism, gentlemen: i was his slave, body and soul. but when he came and proposed this, and never told me what he was to get by it--for the plan was all his, and i stood to win nothing, absolutely nothing--i determined to find out for myself, thinking (you see) that by getting at his secret i might put myself on level terms." "you mean, that you might discover enough to hang _him_. i hope you succeeded." "to this extent, mr. rogers--george leicester and archibald plinlimmon's mother were first cousins. there were three leicesters to begin with, as you might say--sir charles, who was head of the family and is living yet, though close on eighty, and two younger brothers, archibald and randall, both dead. sir charles was a bachelor, and for years his brothers lived with him in a sort of dependence. towards middle-age they both married--i was told, by his orders--and near about at the same time. at any rate each married and each had a child--archibald a daughter and randall a son. archibald's daughter--he died two years after her birth--was brought up by her uncle, sir charles, who made a pet of her; but she spoilt her prospects by marrying a poor soldier, captain plinlimmon. she ran away with him. and the old man would never speak to her again, nor see her, but cut her out of his will." "i see. and she--this daughter of archibald leicester--was archibald's plinlimmon's mother. is she living?" "mrs. plinlimmon died some years ago," i put in. "hey? what do _you_ know about all this?" asked mr. rogers. "a little, sir," i answered. "but what little you know--does it bear this man's story out?" "yes, sir." "it's as well to have some check on it, for i'd trust him just so far as i could fling him by the eyebrows." "there was no profit for me in this business, mr. rogers," protested whitmore. "i'm telling you the truth, sir!" and indeed the poor rogue, having for the moment another's sins to confess, rattled on with his story almost glibly. "as i was saying, sir, the old man cut her out of his will: and not only this, but had a bible fetched and took his oath upon it that no child of hers should ever touch a penny of his money. be so good as to bear that in mind, sir, for it's important." "i see," mr. rogers nodded. "so that cuts out master archibald. and the money, i suppose, went to her brother's child--the boy you spoke of?" "softly sir, for now we come to it. that boy--randall leicester's son--was george leicester--the man who calls himself letcher. randall leicester lived long enough to have his heart broken by him. he started in the navy, with plenty of pocket-money, and better prospects; for sir charles turned all his affection over to him and meant to make him his heir. but--if you knew george leicester, gentlemen, as i do! that man has a devil in him; and the devil showed himself early. first there was an ugly story about a woman--a planter's wife in one of the west india islands, where he was serving under abercromby--santa lucia, i think, or it may have been st. vincent. they say that after getting her to run with him, he left her stranded and bolted back to the ship with his pockets full of her jewels. on top of that came a bad business at naples--an affair of cards--which cost him his uniform. after that he disappeared, and for years his uncle has believed him to be dead." "then who gets the money?" "there's the villainy, sir"--he spoke as if indeed he had taken no hand in it. "sir charles, you see, had vowed never to leave it to young plinlimmon: but it seems he's persuaded himself that the oath doesn't apply to young plinlimmon's children, should he marry and have children. to whom else should it go? 'lawful heirs of his body': and if the inheritance is made void by bastardy, you see, he turns up as the legitimate heir and collars the best of the property." "my god!" shouted mr. rogers, and would have leapt on him again had not the rector, with wonderful agility for his years, flung himself between. "you dare to stand there and tell me that, to aid this devilry, you pushed a woman into shame--and that woman isabel brooks?" "mr. rogers," the rector implored, "control yourself! i know better than you--every man knows who has been a parish priest--what vileness a man can be guilty of to save his skin. reserve your wrath for leicester, but let this poor creature be--he has an awful expiation before him--and consider with me if the worst of this evil cannot be remedied." he turned to the curate. "you have the registers--the parish papers? where are they? here?" whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner. "is the licence for this marriage among them? give me the key." the curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked a hand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary. the rector strode across to search. "by god, it shall be remedied!" mr. rogers shouted. "rector!" the old man turned. "well?" he asked. "you can marry them yet?" "to be sure i can. and if the licence is in order, little time need be lost. let me search for it." "man, there's no time to lose! the north wilts regiment sails to-morrow night for portugal. i heard the news as i left plymouth." "if that's so," i put in, "plinlimmon will be down at the cottage to-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye." "are you sure of that?" "sure," said i. "miss isabel told me that he had his colonel's promise." mr. rogers slapped his thigh. "egad, boy, it seems to me you're the good angel in this business! we'll send down to the cottage at once." he pulled a dog-whistle from his pocket and blew two shrill calls upon it. but above the second sounded the rector's voice in a sharp exclamation, and we spun round in time to see him fling back the door in the corner. it opened on a lighted room. i was running towards this door to see what his exclamation might mean when at the other appeared the constable whom mr. rogers called "jim"--a youngish man, and tall, with a round head set like a button on top of a massive pair of shoulders. "you whistled for me, sir?" "i did. you will not be wanted to keep watch any longer. step down to minden cottage and give this note to miss brooks." he pulled out a pencil, searched his pockets, found a scrap of paper, and, leaning over the table, scribbled a few lines. "if miss brooks has gone to bed, you must knock her up." "very good, sir." constable jim touched his hat and retired. "and now what's the matter in there? come along, you whitmore. has he found the licence?" but this was not what the rector's cry had announced. the room into which we passed had apparently served mr. whitmore for a bed-chamber and private study combined, for a bed stood in the corner, and a bookcase and bureau on either side of the chimneypiece. in the middle of the floor lay an open valise, and all around it a litter of books and clothes, tossed here and there as their owner had dragged them out to make a selection in his packing. mr. rogers uttered a long whistle. "so you were bolting?" he stared around, rubbing his chin, and fastened his eyes again on whitmore. "now why to-night?" "my conscience, mr. rogers--" "oh, the devil take your conscience! your conscience seems to have timed matters pretty accurately. say that your nose smelt a rat. but why to-night?" i cannot say wherefore; but, as he stared around, a nausea seemed to take the unfortunate man. perhaps, the excitement of confession over, the cold shadow of the end rose and thrust itself before him. he was, i feel sure, a coward in grain. he swayed and caught at the ledge of the chimneypiece, almost knocking over one of the two candles which burned there. with that there smote on our ears the sounds of two voices in altercation outside--one a woman's high contralto. footsteps came bustling through the outer room and there stood on the threshold-- miss belcher. she was attired in a low-crowned beaver hat and a riding habit the skirt of which, hitched high in her left hand, disclosed a pair of tall boots cut like hessians. on this hand blazed an enormous diamond. the other, resting on her hip, held a hunting-crop and a pair of gauntleted gloves. "i bid ye be quiet, sam hodgson," she was saying to the expostulating constable. "man, if you dare to get in my way, i'll take the whip to ye. to heel, i say! 'mr. rogers's orders?' damn your impidence, what do i care for mr. rogers? why hallo, jack!--" as her gaze travelled round the room, mr. rogers stepped up and addressed the constable across her. "it's all right, hodgson: you may go back to your post. begad, lydia," he added as the constable withdrew, "this is a queer hour for a call." but miss belcher's gaze moved slowly from the rector--whose bow she answered with a curt nod--to me, and from me to the figure of whitmore by the fireplace. "what's wrong?" she demanded. "lord, if he's not fainting!"--and as she ran, the curate swayed and almost fell into her arms. "brandy, jack! i saw a bottle in the next room, didn't i? no, thank ye, rector. i can manage him." as mr. rogers hurried back for the brandy, she lifted the man and carried him, rejecting our help, to an armchair beside the window. there for a moment, standing with her back to us, she peered into his face and (as i think now) whispered a word to him. "open the window, boy--he wants air," she called to me, over her shoulder. while i fumbled to draw the curtains she reached an arm past me and flung them back: and so with a turn of the wrist unlatched the casement and thrust the pane wide. in doing so she leaned the weight of her body on mine, pressing me back among the curtain-folds. i heard a cry from the rector. an oath from mr. rogers answered it. but between the cry and the answer mr. whitmore had rushed past me and vaulted into the night. "confound you, lydia!" mr. rogers set down the tray with a crash, and leapt over it towards the window, finding his whistle and blowing a shrill call as he ran. "we'll have him yet! tell hodgson to take the lane. oh, confound your interference!" across the yard a clatter of hoofs sounded, cutting short his speech. "the gate!" he shouted, clambering across the sill. but he was too late. as he dropped upon the cobbles and pelted off to close it, i saw and heard horse and rider go hurtling through the open gate--an indistinguishable mass. a shout--a jet or two of sparks--a bang on the thin timbers as on a drum--and the hoofs were thudding away farther and farther into darkness. chapter xviii. the owl's cry. silence--and then mr. rogers's voice uplifted and shouting for hodgson! but hodgson, it seemed, had found out a way of his own. for a fresh sound of hoofs smote on our ears--this time in the lane--a tune pounded out to the accompaniment of loose stones volleyed and dropping between the beats. "drat the man's impidence," said miss belcher coolly; "he's taken my mare!" "what's that you say?" demanded mr. rogers's angry voice from the yard. "you won't find another horse, jack, unless you brought him. whitmore keeps but one." "confound it all, lydia!" he came sullenly back towards the window. "you've said that before. the man's gone, unless hodgson can overtake him--which i doubt. he rides sixteen stone if an ounce, and the mare's used to something under eleven. so give over, my boy, and come in and tell me what it's all about." "look here," he growled, clambering back into the room, "there's devilry somewhere at the bottom of this. the fellow's nag was ready saddled--i got near enough to see that: and the yard-gate posted open: and--the devil take it, lydia, i believe you opened that window on purpose! did you?" "that's telling, my dear. but, if you like, we'll suppose that i did." "then," said mr. rogers bitterly, "it may interest you to know that you've given him bail from the gallows. he's no priest at all: by his own confession he's a forger: and i'll lay odds he's a murderer too, if that's enough. but perhaps you knew this without my telling you?" miss belcher took a step or two towards the fireplace and back. her face, hidden for a moment, was composed when she turned it again upon us. "don't be an ass, jack. i knew nothing of the sort." "you knew enough, it seems," mr. rogers persisted sulkily, "to guess he was in a hurry. and you'll excuse me, lydia, but this is a serious business. whether you knew it or not, you've abetted a criminal in escaping from the law, and i've my duty to do. what brought you here to-night?" "are you asking that as a justice of the peace?" "i am," he answered, flushing angrily. "then i shall not answer you. who is this boy?" "his name is harry revel?" "what? the youngster the hue-and-cry's after?" "quite so: and in a pretty bad mess, since you've opened the cage to the real bird." "jack rogers, you don't mean to tell me that he--that mr. whitmore--" "killed the jew rodriguez? well, lydia, i've no doubt of it in my own mind: but when you entered we were investigating another crime of his, and a dirtier one." she swept us all in a gaze, and i suppose that our faces answered her. "very well," she said; "i will answer your questions. you may put them to me as a magistrate later on, but just now you shall listen to them as a friend and a gentleman." with her hunting-crop she pointed towards the door. "in the next room and alone, if you please. thank you. you will excuse us, rector?" she bowed to the old man. mr. rogers stood aside to let her pass, then followed. the door closed behind them. mr. doidge fumbled in his pockets, found his spectacles, adjusted them with a shaking hand, and sat down before the bureau to search for the licence. the pigeon-holes contained but a few bundles of papers, all tied very neatly with red tape and docketed. (neatness, at any rate, was one of mr. whitmore's virtues. although the carpet lay littered with books, boots, and articles of clothing which by their number proclaimed the dandy, the few selected for the valise had been deftly packed and with extreme economy of space.) in the first drawer below the writing flap the rector found the register and parish account-books in an orderly pile. he seized on the register at once, opened it, and ran his eyes down the later pages, muttering while he read. "there is no entry here of miss brooks's marriage," he announced. "one, two, three, five marriages in all entered in his handwriting: but no such name as brooks or plinlimmon. stay: what is the meaning of this?--a blank line between two entries--one of march th, the other of the th--both baptisms. looks as if he'd left room for a post-entry. let's have a look at the papers." he tossed the bundles over and found one labelled "marriages"; spread the papers out and rubbed his head in perplexity. isabel's licence was not among them. next he began to open the books and shake them, pausing now and again as a page of figures caught his eye. "accounts seem in order, down to the petty cash." he stooped, picked up and opened a small parcel of coin wrapped in paper, which his elbow had brushed off the ledge. "fifteen and ninepence--right, to a penny. but where in the world's that licence?" there were drawers in the lower half of the bookcase, and he directed me to search in these while he hunted again through the bureau. and while we were thus occupied the door opened and miss belcher re-entered the room with mr. rogers at her heels. had it been possible to associate tears with miss belcher, i could have sworn she had been weeping. her first words, and the ringing masculine tone of them, effaced that half-formed impression. "what the dickens are you two about?" "we are searching for a licence," the rector answered. "i am right, mr. rogers--am i not?--in my recollection that whitmore indicated it to be here, in this room, and easily found?" "to be sure he did," said mr. rogers. "i cannot find it among his papers--which, for the rest, are in apple-pie order." thereupon we all fell to searching. in half an hour we had ransacked the room, and all to no purpose; and so, as if by signal, broke off and eyed one another in dismay. and as we did so miss belcher laughed aloud and pointed at the valise lying in the middle of the floor--the only thing we had left unexplored. mr. rogers flung himself upon it, tossed its contents right and left, dived his hand under a flap, and held up a paper with a shout. the rector clutched it and hurried to the bureau to examine it by the light of the candles he had taken from the chimney-piece and placed there to assist his search. "it's the licence!" he announced. the two others pressed forward to assure themselves. he put the paper into their hands and, stepping to the rifled valise, bent over it, rubbing his chin meditatively. "now why," he asked, "would he be taking this particular paper with him?" "because," miss belcher answered, with a glance at mr. rogers, "he was a villain, but not a complete one. he was a weak fool--oh, yes, and i hate him for it. but i won't believe but that he loathed this business." "i don't see how you get that out of his packing the paper, to carry it off with him: though it's queer, i allow," said mr. rogers. "it's plain enough to me. he meant, if he reached safety, to send the thing back to you, rector, and explain: he meant to set this thing right. i'll go bail he abominated what he'd done, and abominated the man who compelled him." "he called it damnable," said i. the words were scarcely out of my mouth when my ears and senses stiffened at a sound from the night without, borne to us through the open window--the hoot of an owl. the others heard it too. "there he is!" i whispered. "who?" asked miss belcher. but i nodded at mr. rogers. "letcher: that's his call." mr. rogers glanced at the window, and grinned. "now here's a chance," he said softly. "eh?" "he hasn't seen us. stand close, everyone--oh, moses, here's a game!" he seemed to be considering. "let's have it, jack," miss belcher urged. "don't be keeping all the fun to yourself." "whist a moment! i was thinking what to do with you three. the door's in line with the window, and he'll spot anyone that crosses the room." i pointed to the window-skirting. "not if one crossed close under the window, sir--hands and knees." "good boy! can you manage it, lydia? keep close by the wall, tuck in your tuppeny and slip across." she nodded. "and where after that?" "under the bed or behind the far curtain--which you will: and no tricks, this time! the near curtain will do for the rector. is that your hat, sir--there beside you, on the bureau?" "no: i left mine in the next room. this must belong to whitmore." "better still! pass it over--thank you. and now, if you please, we'll exchange coats." mr. rogers began to strip. the rector hesitated, but after a moment his eye twinkled and he comprehended. the coats were exchanged, and he, too, began to steal towards the window. "this will do for me, sir," said i, pointing to a cupboard under the bookcase. "plenty of room beneath the bed," he decided, as miss belcher disappeared behind her curtain. and so it happened that better than either she or the rector i saw what followed. we were hiding some while before the owl's cry sounded again and (as it seemed to me) from the same distance as before. mr. rogers, in the rector's coat and the curate's hat, stepped hurriedly to the valise and began to re-pack it, kneeling with his back to the window, and full in the line of sight. i am fain to say that he played his part admirably. the suspense, which kept my heart knocking against my ribs, either did not trouble him or threw into his movements just the amount of agitation to make them plausible. by and by he scrambled up, collected a heap of garments, and flung them back into a wardrobe beside the bed; stepped to the bureau--still keeping his face averted from the window--picked up and pocketed the licence which the rector had left there; returned to the valise, and, stooping again, rammed its contents tighter. i saw that he had disengaged the leather straps which ran round it, pulling them clear of their loops. it was then that i heard a light sound on the cobbles outside, and knew it for a footstep. "w'st!" said a voice. "w'st--whitmore!" chapter xix. checkmate. mr. rogers's attitude stiffened with mock terror. so natural was it that i cowered back under the bed. he closed the valise with a snap as a heel grated on the window-ledge and george leicester dropped into the room. "wh--ew! so _that's_ why you couldn't hear an old friend's signal! bolting, were you? no, no, my pretty duck--pay first, if you please!" "take it then!" mr. rogers swung round on him and smote him full on the jaw--a neat blow and beautifully timed. the man went down like an ox, his head striking the floor with a second thud close beside my hiding-place. miss belcher ran from her curtain, clapping her hands. but mr. rogers had not finished with his man. "shut the window!" he commanded, flinging himself forward and gripping leicester's hands as they clutched at the carpet. "here, youngster--pass the straps yonder and hold on to his legs!" the blow had so rattled leicester--had come so very near to smiting him senseless--that he scarcely struggled whilst we bound him, trussing him like a fowl with the aid of miss belcher's riding-crop which she obligingly handed. he was not a pretty object, with his mouth full of blood and two of his teeth knocked awry, and we made him a ludicrous one. towards the end of the operation he began to spit and curse. "gently, my lad!" mr. rogers turned him over. "you came here to settle up and we don't mean to disappoint you. let's see what you're worth." he plunged a hand into leicester's breeches pocket and drew forth a coin or two. "let me alone, you '--' thief!" roared leicester, his voice coming back to him in full strength. "indeed, mr. rogers," the rector protested, "this is going too far, i doubt." "it's funny work for a justice of the peace, i'll own," he answered, with a grin at miss belcher. "lydia, my dear, be so good as to bring one of those candles: i want to have a look at these coins. . . . ah, i thought so!" "put that money back where you found it!" snarled leicester. "by god! i don't know what you're after, but i'll have the law of you for this evening's work!" "all in good time, my friend: you shall have as much law as you like, and a trifle over. see, rector?" mr. rogers pointed to a scratch on the face of one of the coins. leicester began to smell danger. "what's wrong with the money?" he demanded. then as no one answered, "there's nothing wrong with it, is there?" he asked. "depends where you got it, and how," he was answered. "look here--you're not treating me fair," urged the rogue, changing his tune. "if it's over the money you're knocking me about like this, you're maltreating an innocent man; for i had it from parson whitmore--every penny." "ah, if you can prove that"--mr. rogers's face was perfectly grave-- "you're a lucky man! the reverend mr. whitmore has disappeared." the scoundrel's face was a study. miss belcher turned to the window, and even the rector was forced to pull his lip. "disappeared," mr. rogers repeated, "and most mysteriously. the unfortunate part of the business is that before leaving he made no mention of any money actually paid to you. on the contrary, we gathered that for some reason or other he owed you a considerable sum which he found a difficulty in paying. let me see"--he looked around on us as if for confirmation--"the sum was fifty pounds, if i mistake not? we found it difficult to guess how he, a priest in holy orders, came to owe you this substantial amount. but perhaps you met him on his way, and these guineas in my hand were tendered as part-payment?" george leicester blinked. accustomed to play with the fears of others, he understood well enough the banter in mr. rogers's tone, and that he was being sauced in his own sauce. he read the menace in it too. but what could he answer? "i had the money from whitmore," he repeated doggedly. "when?" "that i'll leave you to find out." he laughed a short laugh, between rage and derision. "gad! you've a fair stock of impudence among you! first you assault me, half kill me, and tie me up here without a penn'orth of reason given: and now you're inviting me to walk into another trap-for all i can learn, merely because it amuses you. it won't do, my fine justice-fellow; and that you'll discover." "the question is important, nevertheless. i may tell you that at one time or another these coins were in the possession of the jew rodriguez, who was found murdered in southside street, plymouth, yesterday morning. you perceive, therefore, that something depends on when and how you came by them. still, since you prefer--and perhaps wisely--to keep your knowledge to yourself, i'll start by making out the warrant and we'll have in the constables." mr. rogers stepped towards the bureau. "wh--" leicester attempted a low whistle, but his mouth hurt him and he desisted. an ugly grin of comprehension spread over his face--of comprehension and, at the same time, of relief. "that explains," he muttered. "but where did he find the pluck?" "eh?" mr. rogers, in the act of seating himself by the bureau, had caught the tone but not the words. as he slewed round with the query i heard another sound in the adjoining room. "oh, go ahead with your warrant, my jessamy justice! it tickles you and don't hurt me. shall i help you spell it?" "i was thinking to ask you that favour," mr. rogers replied demurely. "your name, now?" "letcher--l.e.t.c.h.e.r--sergeant, north wilts regiment." "thank you--'letcher,' you say? now i was on the point of writing it 'leicester.'" in the dead silence that followed he laid down his pen, and with his hands behind him came slowly across the room and stared into leicester's face. "the game is up, my friend." leicester met the stare, but his jaw and throat worked as though he were choking. i thought he was trying to answer. if so, the words refused to come. someone knocked at the door. mr. rogers stepped to it quickly. "that you, jim?" "yessir." "is miss brooks with you?" he held the door a very little ajar--not wide enough to give sight of us behind him. "yessir. a gentleman, too, sir: leastways he talks like one, though dressed like a private soldier. he won't give his name." jim's tone was an aggrieved one. "thank you: that's quite right. you may go home to bed, if you wish: but be ready for a call. i may want you later on." "be this all you want of me?" jim was evidently disappointed. "i fear so." "p'rhaps you don't know it, sir, but hodgson's gone. there was nobody at the gate when we came by." "hodgson has a little job on hand. it will certainly occupy him all night, but i am afraid you cannot help him. now don't stay asking questions, my man, but be off to bed. i'll send word if i want you." jim grumbled and withdrew. "best to get him out of the way," mr. rogers explained to the rector. "you and i can take this fellow back to plymouth at daybreak." he listened for a moment and announced, "he's gone. keep an eye on our friend, please, while i prepare isabel for it. my word!"--and he heaved a prodigious sigh-- "i'd give something to be through with the next ten minutes!" he opened the door and, passing through, closed it as quickly behind him. he was absent for half an hour perhaps. we could hear the mutter of his voice in the next room and now and again another masculine voice interrupting--never isabel's. the rector had found a seat for miss belcher beside the bureau. he himself took his stand beside the chimney and fingered a volume of the registers, making pretence to read but keeping his eye alert for any movement of leicester. no one spoke; until the prisoner, intercepting a glance from miss belcher, broke into a sudden brutal laugh. "poor old lady!" he jeered, and his eyes travelled wickedly across the disordered floor. "whitmore left a lot behind him, eh?" she rose and turning her back on him, walked to the window. there she leaned out, seeming to study the night: but i saw that her shoulders heaved. the rector looked across with a puzzled frown. leicester laughed again: and with that, miss belcher came back to him, slipped out the riding-crop which trussed him, and held it under his nose. her face was white, but calm. she lifted the stick slowly to bring it across his face, paused, and flung it on the floor. "you tempt me to be as dirty as yourself," she said. "but one woman has shown you mercy to-night, despising you. think of that, george leicester." the door opened again and mr. rogers nodded to us. "hallo!" he exclaimed, perceiving the riding-crop on the floor. "he can't run," said miss belcher nonchalantly. "but he can stand now, i fancy--and walk, if you loosen his legs a bit. he'll be wanted for a witness, won't he?" "you're all wanted." mr. rogers helped leicester to stand and slackened the bond about his ankles. "we'll tighten it again in the next room, my friend. stay a moment, rector!" he pointed to the wardrobe. the rector went to it and unhitching a clean surplice laid it across his arm. so we filed into the room where isabel and archibald plinlimmon awaited us. they stood in the shadow of the window-curtains, talking together in low tones: and by their attitudes she was vehemently pleading for a favour which he as vehemently rejected. but when she caught him by both hands he yielded, and they faced us together--she with her beautiful face irradiated. miss belcher stepped to her at once and kissed her; and across that good lady's shoulder she cast one look at the prisoner, now being shuffled into the room by mr. rogers. it was neither vindictive nor recriminatory, but cheerful and calm with an utter scorn. i looked nervously at archibald plinlimmon. his face was dusky red and sullen with rage; but i noted with a leap of my heart that he, too, looked leicester squarely in the face: and from that moment (if a boy may say so) i felt there was hope for him. the rector unfolded and donned the surplice. isabel disengaged herself from miss belcher's arms and, drawing off her ring, handed it to her lover. their eyes met, and hers were smiling bravely: but they brimmed on a sudden as the tears sprang into his. and now i felt that there was strong hope for him. thus i came to be present at their wedding. indeed, the prisoner claimed so much of mr. rogers's attention during the ceremony that you might almost say i acted as groomsman. chapter xx. isabel's revenge. when all was over, and the book signed, isabel walked across to mr. rogers and held out her hand. "you have been a good friend to me to-night. god will surely bless you for what you have done." she paused, with heightened colour. mr. rogers awkwardly stammered that he hoped she wouldn't mention it. but if the speech was inadequate, his action made up for it. he took her hand and kissed it respectfully. it seemed that she had more to say. "i have still another favour to ask," she went on--i have heard since that a woman always keeps some tenderness for an honest man who has once wooed her, however decidedly she may have said "no." isabel's smile was at once tender and anxious; but it drew no response from mr. rogers, who had let drop her fingers and stood now with eyes uncomfortably averted. "i want a wedding gift," said she. "eh?" he turned a flushed face and perceived that she was pointing at leicester. "i want this man from you. will you give him to me?" "for what?" "you shall see." she knelt at the prisoner's feet and began to unbuckle the strap about his ankles; shrinking a little at first at the touch of him, but resolutely conquering her disgust. mr. rogers put down a hand to prevent her. "you never mean to set him free?" "that is what i ask," she answered, with an upturned look of appeal. "my dear miss brooks," he said, inadvertently using her maiden name, "i am sorry--no, that's a lie--i am jolly glad to say that it can't be done." "why? against whom else has he sinned, to injure them?" "against a good many, even if we put it on that ground only. besides, he'll have to answer another charge altogether." "what charge?" "of having murdered the jew rodriguez. did i not tell you that we found marked money in his pocket?" "but he never took that money from mr. rodriguez?" mr. rogers shrugged his shoulders. "that's for him to prove." "but we know he did not," isabel insisted, and turned to me. "he never took that money from mr. rodriguez?" "no," said i; "it was given him last night by mr. whitmore in miss belcher's shrubbery." "he is not guilty of this murder?" "no," said i again, "i think not: indeed, i am sure he is not." i glanced at archibald plinlimmon who had been standing with eyes downcast and gloomy, studying the dim pattern of the carpet at his feet. he looked up now: his face had grown resolute. "no," he echoed in a strained voice; "he had nothing to do with the murder." "why, what on earth do _you_ know?" cried mr. rogers, and isabel, too, bent back on her knees and gazed on him amazedly. "i was there." "_where_, in heaven's name?" "on the roof outside the garret. i looked in and saw the body lying." "you were on the roof--you looked in and saw the body--" mr. rogers repeated the words stupidly, automatically, searching for speech of his own. "man alive, how came you on the roof? what were you doing there?" "we were billeted three doors away," said archibald, and paused. "i can tell you no more just now." "'we'?" "that man and i." he pointed at leicester. "and you looked in. what else did you see?" mr. rogers's voice was sharp. "that i cannot tell you." "the murderer?" "no: not the murderer," he answered slowly. "then what? whom?" "i have said that i cannot tell you." "but he can, sir!" i cried recklessly. "he saw _me_! i had just found the body and was standing beside it when he looked in." i stopped, panting. it seemed as if all the breath in me had escaped for the moment with my confession. mr. rogers turned from me to archibald. "i think i see. you supposed the boy to be guilty, and helped him to get away." "no," answered archibald, "i did not think him guilty. i did not know what to think. and it was he who helped me to get away." "why should he help you to get away?" "i will tell that--but not to you. i will tell it to my wife." isabel had risen from her knees. she went to him and would have taken his hand. "not yet," he said hoarsely, and turned from her. mr. rogers eyed the rector in despair. but the rector merely shook his head. "but confound it all! where's the murderer, in all this?" "sakes alive! isn't that as clear as daylight?" interjected miss belcher. "didn't i let him out of the window more than an hour ago? and isn't hodgson foundering my mare at this moment in chase of him? see here, jack," she went on judicially, "you've played one or two neat strokes to-night: but one or two neat strokes don't make a professional. you'll have to give up this justicing. you've no head for it." "indeed?" retorted mr. rogers. "then since it seems you see deeper into this business than most of us, perhaps you'll favour us with your advice." "with all the pleasure in life, my son," said the lady. "i can see holes in a ladder: but i don't look deep into a brick wall, for the reason that i don't try. there's some secret between mr. plinlimmon and this boy. what it is i don't know, and you don't know: and i've yet to discover that 'tis any business of ours. all i care to hear about it is that mr. plinlimmon means to tell his wife, for which i commend him. now you don't propose to make out a warrant against _him_, i take it? as for the boy, he's done us more services to-night than we can count on our fingers. he's saved more than one, and more than two, of us here, let alone five couples married by whitmore in the four months he was curate. reckon them in, please, and their children to come. ah, my dear," she laid a hand on isabel's shoulder. "i know what i'm speaking of! he has ended a scandal for the rector, and in time for the mischief to be repaired. he has even saved that dirty scoundrel there, if it helps a man on judgment day that his villainies have miscarried. well then, what about the boy? there's a hue-and-cry after him; but you can't give him up. let alone the manner of your meeting him--that business of the bonfire--and a pretty tale 'twould make against a justice of the peace--" "i never gave that a thought, lydia," mr. rogers protested. "i know you didn't, my lad: that's why i mentioned it. well, letting that alone, how are you to give the child up? you can't. you know you can't. we've to hide him now, though it cost your commission. eh? to be sure we must. give him up? pretty gratitude indeed, and what next, i wonder!" "i never thought of giving him up." "i know you didn't, again: but i'm combing out your brains for you, if you'll only stand quiet and not interrupt. keep your mind fixed on whitmore. whitmore's your man. if hodgson catches him--" "if hodgson catches him, he'll be charged with the murder. i've the warrant in my pocket. then how are we to hide the boy, or keep any silence on what has happened here to-night?" "ye dunderhead!" miss belcher stamped her foot. "what in the name of fortune have we to do with the murder? if hodgson catches him, he'll be charged with forging the bishop of exeter's licence: that's to say with a crime he's already confessed to you. if you want to hang him, that'll do it. you don't want to hang him twice over, do you? and i don't reckon he'll be so anxious to be hanged twice that he'll confess to a murder for the fun of the thing. if you say nothing, he'll say nothing. upon my word you seem to have that jew on the brain! who made out the warrant?" "i, of course." "then keep it in your pocket: and when you get home, burn it. it beats me to think why you can't let that murder alone. rodriguez was no friend of yours, was he? you can't bring him to life again, can you? and what's your evidence? a couple of marked coins? barring us few here, who knows of them? nobody. barring us few here, who knows a whisper beside, to connect whitmore with the murder? nobody again. very well, then: you came here to-night to expose whitmore as a false priest and a forger. you took the villain on the hop, and he confessed: so the boy's evidence is not needed. having confessed, he made his escape. you can say, if you will, that i helped him. that's all you need remember, and what more d'ye want? it's odds against hodgson catching him. it's all lombard street to a china orange against his bothering you, if caught, with any plea but guilty." she ceased, panting with her flow of words. "well, but about this leicester?" mr. rogers objected. "what about him? let him go. isabel was right in begging him off-- though you did it, my dear, for other reasons than mine: but when the heart's right, god bless you, it usually speaks common sense. let him go. d'ye want to hang him? he's ugly enough, but i don't see how you're to do it, unless first of all you catch whitmore and then force him to turn cat-in-the-pan, at the risk of his talking too much and with the certainty of dragging isabel into the exposure. even so, i doubt you'll get evidence. this man is a deal too shrewd to have done any of the forging himself. if whitmore had known enough to hang him, whitmore wouldn't have gone in awe of him. and what whitmore don't know, whitmore can't tell." all this while the prisoner had kept absolute silence; had stood motionless, except that his eyes turned from one speaker to another, and now and then seemed to seek archibald plinlimmon's--who, however, refused to return the look. but now he twisted his battered mouth into something like an appreciative grin. "bravo, madam!" said he. "you've the wits of the company, if you'll take my compliments." "i misdoubt they're interested ones," she answered drily, and so addressed herself again to mr. rogers. "let the man go: you've drawn his sting. if ever he opens his mouth on to-night's work, we've a plum or two to pop into it. if mr. plinlimmon chooses to take him at the door and horsewhip him, i say nothing against it. indeed he's welcome to the loan of my hunting-crop." "but no," put in isabel quickly, and knelt again; "my husband will not hurt where i have pardoned!" rapidly she unloosed the strap about leicester's ankles and stood up. "now hold out your hands," she said. he held them out. she looked him in the face, and a sudden tide of shame forced her to cover her own. in the silence her husband stepped to her side. his eyes were steady upon leicester now. "how could you? how could you?" she murmured. then, dragging--as it were--her hands down to the task, she unbuckled the strap around his wrist and pointed to the door. said miss belcher, "so two women have shown you mercy to-night, george leicester!" he went, without any swagger. his face was white. miss belcher and the rector drew back as though he carried a disease, and let him pass. at the door he turned and his eyes, with a kind of miserable raillery in them, challenged archibald plinlimmon. "yes, you are right." the young man took a step towards him. "between us two there is a word to be said." he turned on us abruptly. "i have been afraid of that man--yes, afraid. to say this out, and before isabel, costs me more courage than to thrash him. through fear of him i have been a villain. worse wrong than i did to my wife--worse in its consequences--i could not do: you know it, all of you; and i must go now and tell it to her father. i did it unknowingly, by this man's contrivance; but not in any fear of him. what i did in fear, and knowingly, was worse in another way--worse in intention. i tell you that but for an accident i might--i might have--" he stammered and came to a halt. "no, i cannot tell it yet," he muttered half defiantly, with a shy look at the rector. "but this i can tell"--and his voice rose--"that no fear of _him_ stays me. you? i have your secret now. you have none of mine i dare not meet. you may go: you have my wife's pardon, it seems. i do not understand it, but you have mine--with this caution. you are my superior officer. if to-morrow, outside of the ranks, you dare to say a word to me, i promise to strike you on the mouth before the regiment, and afterwards to tell the whole truth of us both, and take what punishment may befall." so he too pointed towards the door. leicester bowed and went from us into the night. "that's all very well," groaned mr. rogers, "but i'll have to resign my commission of the peace." "if it's retiring from active service you mean," said miss belcher cheerfully, "that's what i began by advising. but stick to the title, jack: you adorn it--indeed you do. and for my part," she wound up, "i think you've done mighty well to-night, considering." "i've let one villain escape, you mean, and t'other go scot free." "and the nuisance of it is," said she with a broadening smile, "i shan't be able to congratulate you in public." "well"--mr. rogers regained his cheerfulness as he eyed his knuckles--"we've let a deal of villainy loose on the world: but i got in once with the left, and that must be my consolation. what are we to do with this boy?" "hide him." "easier said than done." "not a bit." miss belcher turned to me. "have you any friends, boy, who will be worrying if we keep you a few days?" "none, ma'am," said i, and thereby in my haste did much injustice to the excellent mr. and mrs. trapp. "eh? you have the world before you? then maybe you're luckier than you think, my lad. what would you like to be? a sailor, now? i can get you shipped across to guernsey to-morrow, if you say the word." "that would do very well, ma'am: but if you ask me to choose--" "i do." "then i'll choose to be a soldier," said i stoutly. "h'm! you'll have to grow to it." "i could start as a drummer, ma'am." the drum in major brooks's summer-house had put that into my head. "my father can manage it, i am sure!" cried isabel. "and meanwhile let him come back to the cottage. no one will think of searching for him there: and to-night, when i have spoken to my father--" "you will speak to your father to-night?" isabel glanced at her bridegroom, who nodded. "to-night," said he firmly. "we sail to-morrow." miss belcher wagged her head at him. "i had my doubts of you, young man. you've been a fool: but i've a notion you'll do, yet." "good-night, then!" isabel went to her and held up her cheek to be kissed. "eh? not a bit of it! i'm coming with you. don't stare at me now-- i've a word to say, and i think maybe 'twill help." we left the rector and mr. rogers to their task of overhauling the house while they sat up on the chance of hodgson's returning with whitmore or with news of him: and trooped up the lane and down across the park to minden cottage. "take the child to bed," said miss belcher, as we reached the door: and so to my room isabel conducted me, the others waiting below. she lit my candles and kissed me. "you won't forget your prayers to-night, harry? and say a prayer for me: i shall need it, though i have more call to thank god for sending you." a minute later i heard her tap on her father's door. he was awake and dressed, apparently--for it seemed at any rate but a moment later that her voice was guiding his blind footsteps by whispers down the stairs. had i guessed more of the ordeal before her, my eyes had closed less easily than they did. as it was, i tumbled into bed and slept almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. i had forgotten to blow out the candles, and they were but half burnt, yet extinguished, when i awoke from a dream that isabel was kneeling beside me in their dim light to find her standing at the bed's foot in a fresh print gown and the room filled again with sunshine. her eyes were red. poor soul! she had but an hour before said good-bye to archibald; and spain and its battlefields lay before him, and between their latest kiss and their next--if another there might be. yet she smiled bravely, telling me that all was well, and that her father would be ready for me in the summer-house. major brooks, when i found him there, made no allusion to the events of the night. his face was mild and grave as at our first meeting. at the sound of my footsteps he picked up his virgil and motioned me to be seated. "let me see," he began: "_liquidi fontes_, was it not?"--and forthwith began to dictate at his accustomed pace. "but seek a green-moss'd pool, with well-spring nigh, and through the grass a streamlet fleeting by. the porch with palm or oleaster shade-- that when the regents from the hive parade its gilded youth, in spring--their spring!--to prank, to woo their holiday heat a neighbouring bank may lean with branches hospitably cool. and midway, be your water stream or pool, cross willow-twigs, and massy boulders fling-- a line of stations for the halting wing to dry in summer sunshine, has it shipped a cupful aft, or deep in neptune dipped. plant cassias green around, thyme redolent, full-flowering succory with heavy scent, and violet-beds to drink the channel'd stream. and let your hives (sewn concave, seam to seam, of cork; or of the supple osier twined) have narrow entrances; for frosts will bind honey as hard as dog-days run it thin: --in bees' abhorrence each extreme's akin. not purposeless they vie with wax to paste their narrow cells, and choke the crannies fast with pollen, or that gum specific which out-binds or birdlime or idxan pitch--" --and so on, and so on, until midday arrived, and isabel with the claret and biscuits. she lingered while he ate: and when he had done he shut his virgil, saying (in a tone which, though studiously kind, told me that she was not wholly forgiven): "take the drum, isabel, and give the lad his first lesson. it will not disturb me." she choked down a sob, passed the drum to me, and put the drumsticks into my hands. and so by signs rather than by words, she began to teach me; scarcely letting me tap the vellum, but instructing me rather how to hold the sticks and move my wrists. so quiet were we that the old man by and by dropped asleep: and then, as she taught, her tears flowed. this was the first of many lessons; for i spent a full fortnight at minden cottage, free of its ample walled garden, but never showing my face in the high road or at the windows looking upon it. i learned from isabel that whitmore had not been found, and that archibald and his regiment had sailed for lisbon. sometimes miss belcher or mr. rogers paid us a visit, and once the two together: and always they held long talks with the major in his summer-house. but they never invited me to be present at these interviews. so the days slipped away and i almost forgot my fears, nor speculated how or when the end would come. my elders were planning this for me, and meanwhile life, if a trifle dull, was pleasant enough. what vexed me was the old man's obdurate politeness towards isabel, and her evident distress. it angered me the more that, when she was not by he gave never a sign that he brooded on what had befallen, but went on placidly polishing his petty and (to me) quite uninteresting verses. but there came an evening when we finished the fourth georgic together. "of tillage, timber, herds, and hives, thus far my trivial lay--while caesar thunders war to deep euphrates, conquers, pacifies, twice wins the world and now attempts the skies. pardon thy virgil that parthenope sufficed a poor tame scholar, who on thee whilom his boyish pastoral pipe essayed, --thee, tityrus, beneath the beechen shade." he closed the book. "lord wellington is not a caesar," he said and paused, musing: then, in a low voice, "parthenope--parthenope--and to-morrow 'arms and the man.' boy," said he sharply, "we do not translate the aeneid." "no, sir?" "mr. rogers calls for you to-night. a draft of the nd regiment sails from plymouth to-morrow. you will find, when you join it in spain, that--that my son-in-law"--he hesitated and spoke the word with a certain prim deliberateness--"has been gazetted to an ensigncy in that gallant regiment. i may tell you that he owes this to no intervention of mine, but solely to the generosity of miss belcher. before departing--i will do him so much justice--he spoke to me very frankly of his past, and for my daughter's sake and his father's i trust that, as under providence you were an instrument in averting its consequences, so you may sound him yet to some action which, whether he lives or falls, may redeem it. mr. rogers will sup with us to-night. if i mistake not, i hear his wheels on the road." he drew himself up to his full height and bowed. "you have done a service, boy, to the honour of two families. i thank you for it, and shall not omit to remember you daily when i thank god. shall we go in?" i had, as i said just now, almost forgotten my fears of the law: but that the law had not relaxed its interest in me was evident from my friends' precautions. night had fallen before mr. rogers rose from table and gave the word for departure, and after exchanging some formal farewells with major brooks, and some very tender ones with isabel, i was packed in the tilbury and driven off into darkness in which the world seemed uncomfortably large and vague and my prospects disconcertingly ill lit. "d'ye know what _that_ is?" asked mr. rogers at the end of five minutes, pulling up his mare and jerking his whip towards a splash of white beside the road. "no, sir." he pulled a rein, and brought the light of the offside lamp to bear on a milestone with a bill pasted upon it. "a full, particular, and none too flattering description of you, my lad, with an offer of twenty pounds. and i'm a justice of the peace! cl'k, lass!" on went the mare; and i, who had been feeling like a needle in a bundle of hay, now shrank down within my wraps as though the night had a thousand eyes. we reached the village of anthony: and here, instead of holding on for torpoint and the ferry, mr. rogers struck aside into a lane on our right, so steep and narrow that he alighted and led the mare down, holding one of the lamps to guide her as she picked her steps. the lane ended beside a sheet of water, pitch-black under the shadow of a wooded shore, and glimmering beyond it with the reflections of a few stars. mr. rogers gave a whistle; and a soft whistle answered him. i heard a boat's nose grate on the shingle and take ground. "all right, sergeant?" "right, sir. got the boy?" "climb down, harry," whispered mr. rogers. "shake hands and good luck to you!" i was given a hand over the bows by a man whose face i could not see. the boat was full of men, and one dark figure handed me to another till i reached the stern-sheets. "give way, lads!" called a voice beside me, as the bow-man pushed us off. we were travelling fast when at a bend of the creek a line of lights shot into view--innumerable small sparks clustered low on the water ahead and shining steadily across it. i knew them at once. they were the lights of plymouth dock. "where are you taking me?" i cried. "that's no question for a soldier," said a voice which i recognised as the sergeant's. and one or two of the crew laughed. chapter xxi. i go campaigning with lord wellington. the vessel to which they rowed me was the _bute_ transport, bound for portugal with one hundred and fifty officers and men of the nd regiment, one hundred and twenty of the third battalion th rifles, and a young cornet and three farriers of the th light dragoons in charge of fifty remounts for that regiment. we weighed anchor at daybreak (the date, i may mention, was july th), and cleared the sound. at ten o'clock or thereabouts the wind fell, and for two days and nights we drifted aimlessly about the channel at the will of the tides, while the sergeant--a veteran named henderson, who had started twenty-five years before by blowing a bugle in the nd, and therefore served me as index and example of what by patience i might attain to--filled the most of my time between sleep and meals with lessons upon that instrument. from a hencoop abaft the mainmast (the _bute_ was a brig, by the way) i blew back inarticulate farewells to the shores receding from us imperceptibly, if at all; and so illustrated a profound remark of the war's great historian, that the english are a bellicose rather than a martial race, and by consequence sometimes find themselves committed to military enterprises without having counted the cost or made complete preparation. on the third day the wind freshened and blew dead foul, decimating the horses with sea-sickness, prostrating three-fourths of the men, and shaking the two regiments down into a sociability which outlasted their sufferings. to be sure my comrades of the nd (as, with a fearful joy, i named them to myself in secret), being veterans for the most part, recovered or recovering from wounds taken in the land to which they were returning with common memories of sir john moore, of benevente, calcabellos and corunna, treated the riflemen with that affable condescension which was all that could be claimed by third battalion youngsters with their soldiering before them. but the nd knew the th of old. and, veterans and youths, were they not bound to be enrolled together in that noble light division, the glory of which was already lifting above the horizon, soon to blaze across heaven? sergeant henderson did not suffer from seasickness. for no reward-- unless it be the fierce delight of tackling a difficulty for its own sake--he had sworn to make a bugler of me, given moderately bad weather: and when the evening of september nd brought us off the coast of portugal, he allowed me to shake hands over his success. early next morning we began to disembark at a place called figueira, by the mouth of the mondego river. i stepped ashore with a swelling heart. but i carried also a portentously swollen under-lip, with a crack in it which showed signs of festering. now there was a base hospital at figueira, to the surgeon in charge of which fell the duty of inspecting the men as they landed and detaining those who were sick or physically unfit. i need not say that his eye was arrested at once by my unfortunate lip. he examined it. "blood-poisoning," he announced. "nasty, if not attended to. detained for a week." he saw my eyes fill with tears at this blow, the more cruel because quite unexpected; and added not unkindly: "eh? what? in a hurry? never mind, my lad--you'll go up with the next draft i dare say. jericho won't fall between this and then." i was young, and never doubted that even so slight a promise must be remembered. still, that my merit might leave him no excuse for forgetting, i determined that it should not escape attention: and finding myself confined to hospital with a trifling hurt which in no way interfered with my activity, and being at once pounced upon by an over-worked and red-eyed orderly and pressed into service as emergency-man, nurse, and general bottle-washer for three over-crowded tents, i flung into my new duties a zeal which ended by undoing me. drummers might be wanted at the front, but meanwhile the hospital-camp was undoubtedly short-handed. and my hopes faded as, with the approach of christmas, wagon after wagon laden with sick soldiers crawled back to us from the low-lying country over which lord wellington had spread his forces between the agueda and the upper mondego--men shuddering with ague or bent double with rheumatism, and all bringing down the same tales of short food, sodden quarters, and arrears of pay. for three days, they told me, the army had gone without bread, and the commissariat crawled over unthreatened roads at the pace of five to nine miles a day. they cursed the war, the government at home, above all the portuguese and everything in portugal; and yet their hardships seemed heaven to me in comparison with the hospital in which, though its duties were frequently disgusting, i had plenty to eat and nothing to complain of but over-work. it was not until christmas that i won my release, and by a singular accident. it happened that after nightfall on the rd of december an ambulance train arrived of six wagons, all full of sick demanding instant attention; and, close upon these, four other wagons laden with cavalrymen, wounded more or less severely in a foraging excursion beyond the agueda, which had brought them into conflict with a casual party of marmont's dragoons. the weather was bitterly cold; the men, apart from this, were unfit for so long a journey and should have been attended to promptly at their own headquarters. to make matters worse, one of the wagons had been overturned six miles back on the frozen road, and the assistant-surgeon who, owing to the seriousness of the business, had been sent down in attendance, lost his balance completely. three of the poor fellows had succumbed as they lay, of cold, wounds and exhaustion, and a dozen others were in desperate case. our surgeons went to work at once, and until midnight i attended on them, preparing the lint, washing the blood-stained instruments, changing the water in the pails, and performing other necessary but more gruesome tasks which i need not particularise. at midnight the young cavalry surgeon, who had been freely dosed with brandy, professed himself ready to take over the minor casualties. the two hospital surgeons, by this time worn out, accepted the offer and withdrew. no one thought of me. i understand that about an hour later as i sat waiting for orders on the edge of an unoccupied bed (from which a dead man had been carried out a little before midnight) i must have dropped across it in a sleep of utter exhaustion. it appears too that the young doctor, finding me there a short while after, carried me out and laid me on the ground with my head against the hut. he never admitted this: for i had been attending upon him, off and on, since his arrival, and that he failed to recognise me might have been awkwardly accounted for. but i cannot believe (as certainly i do not remember) that of my own motion i crawled outside the hut and stretched myself on the frozen ground, or that, exhausted as i was, i could have walked ten yards in my sleep. at all events, the chill of the bitter dawn awoke me there; and with a yawn i stretched out both arms. my right hand encountered--what?-- the body of a man stretched beside me! still dazed and numb, i rolled over to my elbow, raised myself a little and peered into his face. it was pinched and cold. its eyes stared straight up at the dawn. from it my gaze travelled slowly over the faces of three other men laid out accurately alongside of him, feet to feet, head to head. i sank back, not yet comprehending, gazed up at the grey sky for a while, then slowly raised myself on my left elbow. on that side lay a score of sleepers, all flat on their backs, and all equally still. then i understood and leapt up with a scream. it was a line of corpses, and i had been laid out beside them for burial at dawn. a sleepy orderly--a friend of mine--poked his head out of the doorway of the next hut. i pointed to the spot where i had been lying. "they must ha' done it in the dark," he said, slowly regarding the bodies. i suppose that my story, spreading about the camp, at length penetrated to headquarters: for on christmas day, a transport arriving and landing some light guns and a detachment of artillery, i was sent forward with them towards villa del ciervo on the left bank of the agueda, where, by all accounts, the nd were posted. our battery was but six light six-pounders; yet even with these we moved over the frozen and slippery roads at a snail's pace, the men tearing their boots to ribbons as they hung on to the drag-ropes--for the artillery captain was a martinet and refused to lock the wheels, declaring that it would damage the carriages. of damage to his men he never seemed to think: and i, being fool enough to volunteer-- though my weight on the rope could have counted for next to nothing-- found myself on the second day without heels to my shoes, and on the third without shoes at all. nor is it likely that i had ever reached the agueda in time for the fighting had we not been met at coimbra by an order to leave our guns in the magazine there and hurry forward to ciudad rodrigo, where my comrades were required to work the -pounders which composed the bulk of lord wellington's siege-train. having been supplied with new boots from the stores in coimbra, we pushed on eastward through torrents of rain which converted every valley bottom into a quag, so that our march was scarcely less toilsome than before, and the men grumbled worse than they had when dragging the guns over the frozen hill-roads. they had been forced to leave their wagons behind at coimbra, and marched like infantry soldiers, each man carrying a haversack with four days' provisions, as well as an extra pair of boots. but what seemed to vex and deject them most was a rumour that quartermaster-general murray had been sent down from the front on leave of absence for england. they argued positively that, with murray absent, the commander-in-chief could not be intending any action of importance: they doubted that he had twenty siege-guns at his call even if he stripped almeida and left that fortress defenceless. moreover, who would open a siege in such a country, in the depth of such a winter as this? nevertheless we had no sooner passed the bridge of the coa than we discovered our mistake; the roads below almeida being choked with a continuous train of mule transports, tumbrils, light carts, and wagons heaped with fascines, gabions, long balks of timber, sheaves of spades and siege implements--all crawling southwards. our artillerymen were now halted to await and take charge of three brass guns said to be on their way down from pinhel under an escort of portuguese militia; and, taking leave of them, i was handed over to a company of the rd regiment--hurrying in from one of the outlying hamlets near celorico--with whom i reached on the th of january the squalid village of boden, in and around which the nd lay in face of the doomed fortress across the river. "here then is war at last," thought i that night, as i curled myself to sleep in a loft where sergeant henderson considerately found a corner for me under some pathetically empty fowl-roosts. sergeant henderson in his captain's absence had claimed me from a distracted adjutant who wanted to know where the devil i had come from, and why, and if i would kindly make myself scarce and leave him in peace--a display of temper pardonable in a man who had just come in wet to his middle from fording the river amid cannoning blocks of ice. here was war at last, and i was not long in making acquaintance with it. i awoke to find, by the light of the lantern swung from the roost overhead, the dozen men in the loft awake and pulling on their boots. they had lain in their sodden clothes all night: but of their boots, i found, they were as careful as dandies, and to grease them would hoard up a lump of fat even while their stomachs craved for it. sergeant henderson motioned me to pull on mine. from my precious bugle i had never parted, even to unsling it, since leaving figueira. and so i stood ready. we bundled on our great-coats, climbed down the ladder, and filed out into the street. it was dark yet, though i could not guess the hour; and bitter cold, with an east wind which seemed to set the very stars shivering. the men stamped their feet on the frozen road as we hurried to the alarm-post, and there i walked into a crowd of dark figures which closed around me at once. for a moment i supposed the whole army to be massed there in the darkness, and wondered foolishly if we were to assault ciudad rodrigo at once. a terrible murmur filled the night--the more terrible because, while the few words spoken near me were idle and jocular, it ran down the jostling crowd into endless darkness, gathering menace as it went. but the sergeant, gripping my shoulder, ordered me gruffly to keep close beside him, and promised to find me my place. the jostling grew regular, almost methodical, and by and by an officer came down the road carrying a lantern, and spoke with henderson for a moment. at a word from him the men began to number off. far up the road, other lanterns were moving and voices calling. then after a long pause, on the reason of which the company speculated in whispers, the troops ahead began to move and the order came down to us--"order arms--fix bayonets--shoulder arms!"--a pause--"by the right, quick march!" an hour later, still in darkness, we halted beside the agueda while company after company marched down into the water. a body of cavalry had been drawn across the upper edge of the ford, four deep--the horses' bodies forming a barrier against the swirling blocks of ice; and under this shelter we crossed, the water rising to my small ribs and touching my heart with a shiver that i recall as i write. but the sergeant's hand was on my collar and steadied me over. "how much farther?" i made bold to whisper to him as we groped our way up the bank. "three miles, maybe: that's as the crow flies. but you mustn't talk." and not another word did i say. we plodded on--not straight for the fortress, the distant lights of which seemed to be waiting for us, but athwart and, for a mile and more, almost away from it. by and by the road began to climb; and, a little later, we had left it and were crossing the shoulder of a grassy hill behind which the lights of ciudad rodrigo disappeared from view. here the dawn overtook us; and here at length, along the northern slope of the hill and close under its summit, we were halted. sergeant henderson gave a satisfied grunt. "good for _the_ division--the one and only!" he remarked. "now, for my part, i'm ready for breakfast." chapter xxii. on the greater tesson. i turned for a look behind us and below. at the foot of the slope, where daylight had just begun to touch the dark shadows, stood a line of mules--animals scarcely taller than the loads they carried, which a crowd of portuguese had already begun to unpack; and already, on the plateau to the left of us half a dozen markers, with a quartermaster, were mapping out a camp for the nd. they went to work so deliberately, and took such careful measurements with their long tapes, that even a tyro could no longer mistake this for an ordinary halt. i looked at sergeant henderson. word had just been given to the ranks to dismiss, and he returned my look with a humorous wink. "that'll do, eh?" he nodded towards the markers. "what does it mean?" i asked. "it means that we've done with cold baths, my son, and may leave 'em to the other divisions. what else it means you'll discover before you sleep, maybe." he glanced up at the ridge, towards which at a dozen different points our sentries were creeping--some of them escorted by knots of officers--and ducking low as they neared the sky-line. "may i go down and watch?" i asked again, pointing at the plateau; for i was young enough to find all operations of war amusing. "ay--if you won't get in the way and trip over the pegs. i'll be down there myself by 'n by with a fatigue party." i left him and strolled down the hill. the morning air was cold and the turf, on this north side of the hill, frozen hard underfoot. but i felt neither hunger nor weariness. here was war, and i was in it! as i drew near the plateau a young officer came walking across it and, halting beside the quartermaster, held him in talk for a minute. he wore the collar of his great-coat turned up high about his ears: but i recognised him at once. it was archibald plinlimmon. leaving the quartermaster, he strolled towards the edge of the plateau, hard by where i stood; halted again, and gazed down through his field-glasses upon the muleteers unloading beneath us; but by and by closed his glasses with a snap, faced round, and was aware of me. "hallo!" said he, as i saluted: but his voice was listless and i thought him looking wretchedly ill. "you're in number company, are you not? i heard that you'd joined." it struck me that at least he might have smiled and seemed glad to welcome me. he did indeed seem inclined to say something more, but hesitated, and fumbled as he slipped back the glasses into their cases. "are they looking after you?" he asked. i told him of the sergeant. "but are you well, sir?" i made bold to ask. he put the question aside. "henderson's a good man," he said: "i wish we had him in our company. ah," he broke off, "they won't be long pitching tents now!" he swung slowly on his heel and left me, at a pace almost as listless as his voice. i felt hurt, rebuffed. to be sure he was an officer now, and i a small bugler: still, without compromising himself, he might (i felt) have spoken more kindly. the fatigue party descended, the tents were brought up and distributed, and at a silent signal sprang up and expanded like lines of mushrooms. the camp was formed; and the nd, in high good humour, opened their haversacks and fell to their breakfast. the meal over, the men lit their pipes and stretched themselves within the tents to make up arrears of sleep. it does not take a boy long to learn how to snatch a nap even on half-thawed turf packed with moisture, and to manage it without claiming much room. we were eleven in our tent, not counting the sergeant--who had gone off on some errand which he did not explain, but which interested the men sufficiently to keep them awake for a while discussing it in low voices. i was at once too shy to ask questions and too sleepy to listen attentively. here was war, i told myself, and i was in it. to be sure, i had not yet seen a shot fired, nor--save for the infrequent boom of a gun beyond the hill--had i heard one: and yet all my ideas of war were undergoing a change. my uppermost sense-- odd as it may seem--was one of infinite protection. it seemed impossible that, with all these cheerful men about me, joking and swearing, i could come to much harm. it surprised me, after my months of yearning and weeks of tramping to reach this army, to discover how little my presence was regarded even in my own regiment. the men took me for granted, asking no questions. i might have strolled in upon them out of nowhere, with my hands in my pockets. and the officers, it appeared, were equally incurious. captain lockhart, commanding the company, had scarcely flung me a look. the colonel i had not seen: the adjutant had dismissed me to the devil: and archibald plinlimmon had treated me as i have told. all this indifference contained much comfort. i began to understand the restfulness of a great army--a characteristic left clean out of account in a boy's imaginings, who thinks of war as a series of combats and brilliant personal efforts at once far more glorious and more terrifying than the reality. so i dreamed, secure, until awakened by my comrades' voices, lifted all together and all excitedly questioning sergeant henderson, whose head and shoulders intruded through the flap-way. "light company and number ," he was announcing. "blasted favouritism!" swore the man next to me. "ain't there no other battalion company in the regiment, that number 's been picked for special twice now in four days?" "the major's sweet on 'em, that's why," snarled another. "i ain't saying nothing against the bobs. but what's the matter with _us_, i'd like to know? why number again? ugh, it makes me sick!" "our fun'll come later, lads," said the sergeant cheerfully. "when you reach _my_ years you'll have learnt to wait. now, if you'd asked _me_, i'd have chosen the grenadiers: they're every bit as good as a light company for this work." "ay--grenadiers and number . why not? it's cruel hard." i asked in my ignorance what was happening. my neighbour turned to me with a grin. "happening? why, you've a-lost your chance of death or victory, that's all. here you are, company bugler for twenty-four hours by the grace of heaven and the sergeant's contrivance, and because everyone's forgot you and because, as it happens, for twenty-four hours there's no bugling wanted. to-morrow you'll be found out and sent back to the band, where there's five supernumeraries waiting for your shoes. and the bandmaster'll cuff your head every day for months before you get such another chance. whereas, if no. company had been chosen for to-night, by to-morrow you'd have blown the charge, and half the drummers in the regiment would be blacking your eyes out of envy. see?" i did not, very clearly. "is there to be an attack to-night?" i asked. "and shan't we even see it?" "oh yes, we'll _see_ it fast enough. i reckon they won't go so far as to grudge us free seats for the show." sure enough, at eight o'clock, we formed up by companies and were marched over the dark crest of the hill and a short way down it in face of the lights of ciudad rodrigo. right below us, on our left, shone a detached light. we ourselves showed none. the word for silence in the ranks had been given at starting, and the captains spoke in the lowest of voices as they drew their companies together in battalion. the light company having been withdrawn, we found ourselves on the extreme left flank, parted by a few yards only from another dark mass of men--the rd, as a tallish young bugler whispered close beside me. "but how the hell do _you_ come here?" he went on, mistaking me in the darkness, i suppose, for one of the youngsters in the band. "shut your head, bugler," commanded a corporal close on my right. the men grounded arms and waited, their breath rising like a fog on the frozen air. their two tall ranks made a wall before us, shutting out all view of the lights in the valley. the short or supernumerary line of non-commissioned officers on our right stood motionless as a row of statues. suddenly a rocket shot up from below, arched its trail of light, and exploded: and on the instant the whole valley answered and exploded below us. between the detonations a cheer rang up the hillside and was drowned in the noise of musketry, as under a crackle of laughter. forgetting discipline, i crawled forward three paces and tried to peer between the legs of the rank in front, but was hauled back by the ear and soundly cursed. the musketry crackled on without intermission. away in ciudad rodrigo the walls seemed to open and vomit fireworks, shell after shell curving up and dropping into the valley. "glory be!" cried someone. "the old man's done it! the johnnies wouldn't be shelling their own works." "ah, be quiet with ye!" answered an irish voice; "and the fun not ten minutes old!" "he's done it, i say! whist now, see yonder--there's elder going down with his greasers! heh? what did i tell you?" "silence in the ranks!" commanded an officer, but his own voice shook with excitement, and we read that he believed the news to be true. "arrah now, sir," a man in the front rank wheedled softly, "it's against flesh and blood you're ordering us." "wait a moment, then. they've done it, i believe--but no cheering, mind!" what had been done was this. from the summit of the hill where we stood we looked into ciudad rodrigo over a lesser hill, and between these two (called the great and the lesser tesson) the french had fortified and palisaded a convent and built a lunette before it, protecting that side of the town where the ground was least rocky and could be worked by the sappers. upon the lunette before this convent of san francisco, colborne (our colonel of the nd) had now flung himself, with two companies from each of the light division regiments, and carried it with a rush: and this feat, made possible by our night march across the agueda and the negligence of the french sentries, in its turn gave the signal for the siege to open. the place was scarcely carried before elder had his portuguese at work spading a trench to the right of it and under what cover its walls afforded from the artillery of the town, which ceased not all night to pound away at the lost redoubt. the cacadores--seven hundred in all--toiled with a will under shot and shell; and when day broke a trench three feet deep and four wide had been opened and pushed for no less than six hundred yards towards the town! next night the portuguese were replaced by the first division, which had been marched over the agueda. while the light division cooked its food and enjoyed itself on mount tesson, the others had to cross and recross the river between their work and their quarters; and i fear that we took their misfortunes philosophically, feeling that our luck was deserved. to be sure i had been taken from my company and relegated to the band: but during the twelve days the siege lasted there was always a call for boys to watch the explosions from the town and warn the workmen when a shell was coming: and, on the whole, since ciudad rodrigo contained plenty of ammunition and did not spare it, i enjoyed myself amazingly. on the night of the th, while the first division dug at the trenches, our men helped with the building of three counter-batteries a little ahead of the convent; and, because the french guns began to make our hill uncomfortable, we shifted camp and laid a shallow trench from it, along which we could steal to work under fair cover. on the th the fourth division took over the siege trenches, and on the th the third division relieved: on the th came our turn. the day breaking with a thick fog, lord wellington determined to profit by it and hurry on the digging, which the bitter frost was now miserably impeding. to him, or to someone, it occurred that by scooping pits in front of the trenches our riflemen (the th) might give ease to the diggers by picking off the enemy's gunners. and with this object we were hurried down in force to take up the work as the third division dropped it. now i knew the north wilts to belong to this division, and it had occurred to me on the way down that as likely as not i might run across leicester. and keeping a sharp look-out as his regiment filed forth from the trench, i spied him before he caught sight of me. he recognised me at once; but instead of passing with a scowl (as i had expected) he treated me to a grin as nearly humorous as his sallow face allowed, and came to a halt. "d'ye know who's in there?" he asked, jerking his thumb back towards ciudad rodrigo. "no, sir," i answered, scarcely grasping the question, but quaking as this man always made me quake. "thought you mightn't. well then, our friend is in there." "our friend?" i echoed. "who?" "whitmore." his grin became ferocious now. "we have him, now--have him sure enough, this time--eh?" but how on earth could mr. whitmore have come in ciudad rodrigo? leicester read the question in my eyes, and answered it, pushing his face close to mine in the fog. "he's a deserter. if the river don't come down in flood, we'll have him sure enough. and it won't, you mark my words! two or three days of flood would let up marmont upon us and spoil everything. but this weather's going to hold, and--it's a bad death for deserters," he wound up, with a snarling laugh. "mr. whitmore a deserter? but how?" "ah, you've come to the right man to ask. i bear you no grudge, boy; and as for plinlimmon--how's _he_ doing, by the way?" "i've scarcely seen him since i joined. he passed you just now, didn't he?" "ay, i saw him. for a man in luck's way he carries a queer sort of face. what's wrong with him?" "nothing wrong that i know of. the men reckon him a good officer, too." "well, i'll be even with master archibald yet. you hear? but about whitmore now--i caught up with him in lisbon. you see, he'd got this money off the jew and he counted on another pocketful from that belcher woman. he always was a devil to get around women, 'specially the old ones. i don't know if you guessed it, that night, but he'd persuaded the old fool to run off and marry him. yes, and meantime he'd taken his passage in one of the falmouth packets, meaning to give her the slip--and give me the slip too--as soon as he'd laid hands on her purse. well, you headed him off that little plan; and to save his skin, as you know, he rounded on me. now what puzzles me is, how you let him slip?" i did not answer this. "the belcher woman had a hand in it, i'll lay odds. never mind-- don't you answer if you'd rather not. but when i caught up with him, he didn't escape _me_: that's to say, he won't: and it'll be a sight worse for him than if he hadn't tried." he paused again, and laughed to himself silently--a laugh unhealthy to watch. "i came on him in lisbon streets," he went on; "came on him from behind and put a hand on his shoulder. he's an almighty coward-- that's his secret--and the way he jumped did me good. 'recruit for the north wilts,' said i. he turned and his knees caved under him. 'wha--what do you mean by that?' says he"--and here leicester burlesqued the poor cold stammering knave to the life--"'oh, for the lord's sake, leicester, have mercy on me!' 'you'll see the kind of mercy you're going to get,' says i; 'but meantime you've a choice between hanging and coming along to join the north wilts.' 'but why should i join the north wilts?' he asked. 'well, to begin with,' i said, 'you're a dreadful coward, and there you'll have some chance to feel what it's really like. and what's more,' i said, 'i'll take care you're in my company, and i'm going to live beside you and give you hell. i'm going to eat beside you, sleep beside you, march beside you: and when things grow hot, and your lilywhite soul begins to shiver, i'll be close to you still--but _behind_ you, my daisy!' so i promised him, and, being a coward, he chose it. i tell you i kept my word too: it's lucky for you, boy, that i'm a connoisseur in my grudges. but whitmore--he'd betrayed me, you see. often and often i had him alone and crying! and i promised myself to be behind him on just such a job as we're in for--a night assault: oh, he'd have enjoyed that! but he couldn't stand it. at celorico he gave me the slip and deserted: and now he's in ciudad rodrigo, yonder, and the trap's closing, and--what's he feeling like, think you? eh? i know him: it'll get worse and worse for him till the end, and--it's a bad death for deserters." he paused, panting with hate and coughing the fog out of his lungs. i shrank away against the wall of the trench. "when he's done with, i won't say but what i'll turn my attention to you--or to plinlimmon. you know what plinlimmon was after--that morning--on the roof? he was there to steal." he eyed me. "yes," said i with sudden courage, "he was there to steal. and you were waiting below, to share profits." he fell back a pace, still eyeing me. "i'll have to find another way with you than with whitmore--that's evident," he said with a short laugh, and was gone. chapter xxiii. in ciudad rodrigo. two days later our breaching batteries opened on the town. it is not for me to describe this wonderful siege, the operations of which, though witnessing them in part, i did not understand in the least. i have read more than one book about it since, and could draw you a map blindfold and tell you where the counter-batteries stood, and where the lunette which colborne carried, and how far behind it lay the convent of san francisco; where the parallels ran, where the french brought down a howitzer, and where by a sortie they came near to cutting up a division. i could trace you the _fausse braye_ and the main walls, and put my finger on the angle where our guns pierced the greater breach, and carry it across to the tower where, by the lesser breach, our own storming-party of the light division climbed into the town. during the next five days i saw a many things shattered to lay the foundations of a fame which still is proved the sounder the closer men examine it--i mean lord wellington's: and in the end i, harry revel, contributed my mite to it in a splintered ankle. i understand now many things which were then a mere confused hurly-burly: and even now--having arrived at an age when men take stock of themselves and, casting up their accounts with life, cross out their vanities--i am proud to remember that along with the great craufurd, mackinnon, vandeleur, colborne our colonel, and napier, i took my unconsidered hurt. to this day you cannot speak the name of ciudad rodrigo to me but i hear my own bugle chiming with the rest below the breaches and swelling the notes of the advance, and my heart swells with it. but i tell you strictly what i saw, and i tell it for this reason only--that the story to which you have been listening points through those breaches, and within them has its end. to me, watching them day by day from the hillside, they appeared but trifling gaps in the fortifications. on the th i never dreamed that they were capable of assault; indeed, in the lesser breach to the left my inexpert eyes could detect no gap at all. what chiefly impressed me at this time was our enemy's superiority in ammunition. their guns fired at least thrice to our once. still holding myself strictly to what i saw, i can tell you even less of the assault itself. i can tell, indeed, how, on the evening of the th, when we were looking forward to another turn at the trenches with the third division, general craufurd unexpectedly paraded us; and how, at a nod from him, major napier addressed us. "men of the light division," he said, "we assault to-night. i have the honour to lead the storming party, and i want a hundred volunteers from each regiment. those who will go with me, step forward." instantly the battalions surged forward--the press of the volunteers carrying us with them as if we would have marched on ciudad rodrigo with one united front. the major flung up a hand and turned to general craufurd. their eyes met, and they both broke out laughing. this much i saw and heard. and when, at six o'clock, they marched us down under the lee of san francisco, i saw lord wellington ride up, dismount, give over his horse to an orderly and walk past our column into the darkness. he was going to give the last directions to major napier and the storming party: but they were drawn up behind an angle of the convent wall; and we, the supporting columns, massed in the darkness two hundred yards in the rear, neither saw the conference nor caught more than the high clear tones of craufurd addressing his men for the last time. then, after many minutes of silence, suddenly the sky over the convent wall opened with a glare and shut again, and we heard the french guns tearing the night. the attack of the third division on our right had begun, and the noise of it was taken up by the th riflemen, spread wide in three companies to scour the _fausse braye_ between the two breaches, and keep the defenders busy along it. as the sound of the assault spread down to us, interrupted again and again by the explosion of shells, we were marched forward for two or three hundred yards and halted, put into motion and halted again. we could see the city now, opening and shutting upon us in fiery flashes; and, in the intervals, jet after jet of fire streamed from the rifles on our right. then someone shouted to us to advance at the double, and i ran blowing upon my bugle, for now the calls were sounding all about me. i had no thought of death in all this roar--the crowd seemed to close around and shut that out--until we came to the edge of the counterscarp facing the _fausse braye_: and by that time the worst of the danger had passed. the _fausse braye_ itself was dark, and the darker for a blaze of light behind it. our stormers had carried it and swept the defenders back into the true breach beside the tower. some stray bullets splashed among us as we toppled down the ditch and mounted the scarp--shots fired from heaven knows where, but probably from some french retreating along the top of the _fausse braye_. while we were mounting the scarp napier and his men must have carried the inner breach. at the top we thronged to squeeze through the narrow entrance, for all the world like a crowd elbowing its way into a theatre: and as i pressed into the skirts of the throng it seemed to suck me in and choke me. my small ribs caved inwards as we were driven through by the weight of men behind. the pressure eased, and an explosion threw a dozen of us to earth between the _fausse braye_ and the slope of rubble by which the stormers had climbed. i picked myself up--gripped my bugle--and ran for the slope, still blowing. a man of the rd gave me a hand and helped me up, for now we were stumbling among corpses. what had become of the stormers? some we were trampling under foot: the rest had swept on and into the town. "fifty-second to the left," said my friend as we gained the top of the rampart, catching up a cry which now sounded everywhere in the darkness. "forty-third to the right--fifty-second to the left!" i turned sharply to the left and ran from him. a rush of men overtook me. "this way!" they shouted, swerving aside from the line of the ramparts and sliding down the steep inner slope towards the town. they were mad for loot, but in my ignorance i supposed them to be obeying orders, and i turned aside and clambered down after them. we crossed a roadway and plunged into a dark and deserted street at the foot of which shone a solitary lamp. then i learned what my comrades were after. the first door they came to they broke down with their musket-butts. an old man was crouching behind it; and, dragging him out, they tossed him from one to another, jabbing at him with their bayonets. i ran on, shutting my ears to his screams. i was alone now; and, as it seemed, in a forsaken town. here and there a light shone beneath a house-door or through the chinks of a shutter. i _felt_ that behind the windows i passed ciudad rodrigo was awake and waiting for its punishment. behind me, along the ramparts, the uproar still continued. but the town, here and for the moment, i had to myself: and it was waiting, trembling to know what my revenge would be. i came next to a small open square; and was crossing it, when in the corner on my right a door opened softly, showing a lit passage within, and a moment later was as softly shut. scarcely heeding, i ran on; my feet sounding sharply on the frozen cobbles. and with that a jet of light leapt from under the door-sill across the narrow pavement, almost between my legs: and i pitched headlong, with a shattered foot. doubtless i fainted with the pain: for it could not have been--as it seemed--only a minute later that i opened my eyes to find the square crowded and bright with the glare of two burning houses. a herd of bellowing oxen came charging past the gutter where i lay, pricked on by a score of redcoats yelling in sheer drunkenness as they flourished their bayonets. two or three of them wore monks' robes flung over their uniforms, and danced idiotically, holding their skirts wide. i supposed it had been raining, for a flood ran through the gutter and over my broken ankle. in the light of the conflagration it showed pitch black, and by and by i knew it for wine flowing down from a whole cellarful of casks which a score of madmen were broaching as they dragged them forth from a house on the upper side of the square. a child--he could not have been more than four years old--ran screaming by me. from a balcony right overhead a soldier shot at him, missed, and laughed uproariously. then he reloaded and began firing among the bullocks, now jammed and goring one another at the entrance of a narrow alley. and his shots seemed to be a signal for a general salvo of random musketry. i saw a woman cross the roadway with a rifleman close behind her; he swung up his rifle, holding it by the muzzle, and clubbed her between the shoulders with the butt. all night these scenes went by me--these and scenes of which i cannot write; unrolled in the blaze of the houses which burnt on, as little regarded as i who lay in my gutter and watched them to the savage unending music of yells, musketry, and the roar of flames. in the height of it my ear caught the regular footfall of troops, and a squad of infantry came swinging round the corner. i supposed it to be a patrol sent to clear the streets and restore order. a small man in civilian dress--a portuguese, by his look--walked gingerly beside the sergeant in charge, chatting and gesticulating. and, almost in the same instant, i perceived that the men wore the uniform of the north wilts and that the sergeant he held in converse was george leicester. by the light of the flames he recognised me, shook off his guide and stepped forward. "hurt?" he asked. "here, step out, a couple of you, and take hold of this youngster. he's a friend of mine, and i've something to show him: something that will amuse him, or i'm mistaken." they hoisted me, not meaning to be rough, but hurting me cruelly nevertheless: and two of them made a "chair" with crossed hands; but they left my wounded foot dangling, and i swooned again with pain. when i came to, we were in a street--dark but for their lanterns-- between a row of houses and a blank wall, and against this wall they were laying me. the houses opposite were superior to any i had yet seen in ciudad rodrigo and had iron balconies before their first-floor windows, broad and deep and overhanging the house-doors. on one of these doors leicester was hammering with his side-arm, the portuguese standing by on the step below. no one answering, he called to two of his men, who advanced and, setting the muzzles of their muskets close against the keyhole, blew the door in. leicester snatched a lantern and sprang inside, the two men after him. the portuguese waited. the rest of the soldiers waited too, grounding arms--some in the roadway, others by the wall at the foot of which they had laid me. a minute passed--two minutes--and then with a crash a man sprang through one of the first-floor windows, flung a leg over the balcony rail, and hung a moment in air between the ledge and the street. the window through which he had broken was flung up and leicester came running after, grabbing at him vainly as he swung clear. there were two figures now on the balcony. a woman had run after leicester. she leaned for a moment with both hands on the balcony rail, and turned as if to run back. leicester caught her around the waist and held her so while she screamed--shrilly, again and again. the man dangled for a moment, dropped with a horrible thud, and answered with one scream only--but it was worse even than hers to hear. then the soldiers ran forward and flung themselves upon him. "hold the lantern higher, you fools!" shouted leicester, straining the woman to him, as she struggled and fought to get away. "over there, by the wall--i want to see his face! steady now, my beauty!" the woman sank in his arms as if fainting, and her screams ceased. there was a stool on the balcony and he seated himself upon it, easing her down and seating her on his knee. this brought his evil face level with the balcony rail; and the lanterns, held high, flared up at it. "out of the way, youngster!" one of the soldiers commanded grimly. "that wall's wanted." he dragged me aside as they pulled whitmore across the roadway. i think his leg had been broken by the fall. it trailed as they carried him, and when they set him against the wall it doubled under him and he fell in a heap. "turn up his face, anyway," commanded leicester from the balcony. "i want to see it! and when you've done, you can leave me with this beauty. hey, my lass? the show's waiting. sit up and have a look at him!" i saw whitmore's face as they turned it up, and the sight of it made me cover my eyes. i heard the men step out into the roadway, and set back their triggers. crouching against the wall, i heard the volley. as the echoes of it beat from side to side of the narrow street i looked again--not towards the wall--but upwards at the balcony, under which the men waved their lanterns as they dispersed, leaving the corpse where it lay. to my surprise leicester had released the woman. she was stealing back through the open window and i caught but a glimpse of her black head-veil in the wavering lights. but leicester still leaned forward with his chin on the balcony rail, and grinned upon the street and the wall opposite. i dragged myself from the spot. how long it took me i do not know; for i crawled on my belly, and there were pauses in my progress of which i remember nothing. but i remember that at some point in it there dawned upon me the certainty that this was the very street down which i had struck on my way from the ramparts. if not the same street, it must have been one close beside and running parallel with it: for at daybreak, with no other guidance than this certainty, i found myself back at the breach, nursing my foot and staring stupidly downward at the bodies on the slope. across the foot of it a young officer was picking his way slowly in the dawn. a sergeant followed him with a notebook and pencil, and two men with lanterns. they were numbering the corpses, halting now and again to turn one over and hold a light to his face, then to his badge. half-way down, between them and me, a stink-pot yet smouldered, and the morning air carried a horrible smell of singed flesh. as the dawn widened, one of the men opened his lantern and blew out the candle within it. the young officer--it was archibald plinlimmon--paused in his search and scanned the sky and the ramparts above. i sent down a feeble hail. he heard. his eyes searched along the heaped ruins of gabions, fascines, and dead bodies; and, recognising me, he came slowly up the slope. "hallo!" said he. "not badly hurt, i hope? i thought we'd cleared all the wounded. where on earth have you come from?" "from the town, sir." "we'll take you back to it, then. they've rigged up a couple of hospitals, and it's nearer than camp. besides, i doubt if there's an ambulance left to take you." he knelt and examined my foot. "hi, there!" he called down. "you--o'leary--come and help me with this boy! hurt badly, does it? never mind--we'll get you to hospital in ten minutes. but what on earth brought you crawling back here?" "mr. archibald!" i gasped, "i saw _him_!" "him?" "whitmore!" he stared at me. "you're off your head a bit, boy. you'll be all right when we get you to hospital." "but i saw him, sir! they shot him--against the wall. he was a deserter, and they hunted him out." "well, and what is that to me, if they did?" he turned his face away. "isabel, my wife, is dead," he said slowly. "dead?" "she is dead--and the child." he bowed his face, while i gazed at him incredulous, sick at heart. "if what you say is true," he said, lifting his eyes till, weary and desperate, they met mine, "she has been avenged to-night." "you shall see," i promised; and as the two soldiers picked me up and laid me along a plank, i made signs that they were to carry me as i directed. he nodded, and fell into pace beside my litter. the body of whitmore lay along the foot of the wall where it had fallen. but when we drew near, it was not at the body that i stared, putting out a hand and gripping archibald plinlimmon's arm. on the balcony opposite, george leicester still leaned forward and grinned down into the street. he did not move or glance aside even when archibald commanded the men to set me down; nor when he passed in at the open door and we waited; nor again when he stepped out on the balcony and called him by name. the corpse stared down still. for it was a corpse, with a woman's bodkin-dagger driven tight home between the shoulder-blades. and so, by an unknown sister's hand, isabel's wrongs had earthly vengeance. chapter xxiv. i exchange the laurel for the olive. thus, in hospital in ciudad rodrigo, ended my first campaign; and here in a few words may end my story. the surgeons, having their hands full, and detecting no opportunities of credit in a small bugler with a splintered ankle, sent me down to belem, splinters and splints and all, to recover: and at belem hospital, just as the surgeons were beginning to congratulate themselves that, although never likely to be fit again for active service, i might in time make a fairly active hospital orderly, the splinters began to work through the flesh; and for two months i lay on my back in bed and suffered more pain than has been packed into the rest of my life. the curious part of it was that, having extracted the final splinter, they promptly invalided me home. from the day i limped on board the _cumberland_ transport in the tagus, leaning on two crutches, i began to mend: and within twelve months--as may hereafter be recounted--i was back again, hale and hearty, marching with no perceptible limp, on the soil of spain. but i must not, after all, conclude in this summary fashion. and why? because scarcely had i set foot in the _cumberland_ when a voice from somewhere amidships exclaimed: "my blessed parliament!" i looked up and found myself face to face with--ben jope! "and you've grown!" he added, as we shook hands. "but ben, i thought you were married and settled?" he turned his eyes away uneasily. "whoever said so told you a thundering lie." "nobody told me," said i; "but when you left me, i understood--" "my lad," he interrupted hoarsely, "i couldn't do it. i went straight back, same as you saw me start--now don't say a word till you've heard the end o't!--i went straight back, and up to door without once looking back. there was a nice brass knocker to the door (i never denied the woman had some good qualities); so i fixed my eyes hard on it and said to myself, if there's peace to be found in this world--which was a bible text that came into my head--the heart that is humble, which is the case with me, may look for it here. and with that i shut my eyes and let fly at it, though every knock brought my heart into my mouth. now guess: who d'ye think answered the door? why, that ghastly boy of hers! there he stood, all freckles and pimples; and says he, grinning:" 'mr. benjamin jope moderately well, i hope.' "i couldn't stand it. i turned tail and ran for my life." "but was that quite honourable?" i asked. "ain't i tellin' you to wait till i've done? you don't suppose as it ended there, do you? no; i passed my word to that sister of mine, and my word i must keep. so i went back to symonds's--who was that pleased to see me again you'd have thought i'd been half round the world--and i ordered up three-pennorth of rum, and pens and ink to the same amount: and this is what i wrote, and i hope you'll get it by heart before you're in a hurry again to accuse ben jope of dishonourable conduct--'_respected madam_,' i wrote, '_this is to enquire if you'll marry me. better late than never, and please don't trouble to reply. i'll call for an answer when i wants it. yours to command, b. jope. n.b.: we might board the boy out_.' symonds found a messenger, and i told him on no account to wait for an answer. now, i hope you call that acting straight?" "well, but what was the answer?" i asked. he hung his head. "to tell you the truth, i ha'n't called for it yet. you notice i didn't specify no time; and being inclined for a v'yage just then, i tramped it down to falmouth and shipped aboard the _marlborough_, post office packet, for lisbon." "and you've been dodging at sea ever since," said i severely. "if you'd only seen that boy!" protested mr. jope. "i'll call with you and see him as soon as ever we reach plymouth," i said; "but you passed your word, and your word you must keep." "you're sure 'twill be safe for you at plymouth?" he asked, and (as i thought) a trifle mischievously. "how about that jew?" "oh, that's all cleared up!" he sighed. "some folks has luck. to be sure, he may be dead," he added, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "the jew?" "no, the boy." i could hold out no hope of this, and he consoled himself with anticipating the time we would spend together at symonds's. "for if you're invalided home, they'll discharge you on leave as soon as we reach port." "unless they keep me in hospital," said i. "then you'll have to make a cure of it on the voyage." "i feel like that, already. but the mischief is i've no home to go to." "there's symonds's." "i might give that as an address, to be sure." "damme!" cried ben, as a bright thought struck him, "why couldn't i adopt you?" "the lady might find that an inducement," said i modestly. "i wasn't exactly seeing it in that light," he confessed. "but, with a boy apiece, she and i might start fair. you could punch his head, brother like." the _cumberland_ weighed anchor on the nd of may, and dropped it again under staddon heights on the th of that month. to my delight, the garrison surgeon at plymouth pronounced me fit to travel: my foot only needed rest, he said; and he asked me where my home lay. i had anticipated this, and answered that a letter addressed to me under care miss amelia plinlimmon, at the genevan foundling hospital, would certainly find me. and so i was granted two months' leave of absence to recover from my wound. "but you don't mean to tell me," said mr. jope as we strolled down union street together, "that you haven't a home or relations in this world?" "neither one nor the other," said i; "but i have picked up a few friends." as he drew westward i noticed that he sensibly retarded his pace: but he had forsworn visiting symonds's until, as he put it, we knew the worst; and i marched him relentlessly up to the door of doom with its immaculate brass knocker. and when, facing it, he shut his eyes, i put out a hand and knocked for him. but it was i who shrank back when the door opened: for the person who opened it was--mr. george!--in pigtail and wooden leg unchanged, but in demeanour (so far as agitation allowed me to remark it) more saturnine than ever. "do the widow babbage live here?" stammered mr. jope. "she do not," answered mr. george slowly, and added, "worse luck!" "is--is she dead?" "no, she ain't," answered mr. george, and pulled himself up. "then what's the matter with her?" "there ain't nothing the matter with _her_, as i know by," answered mr. george once more, in a non-committal tone. "but i'm her 'usband." "you--mr. george?" i gasped. thereupon he recognised me, and his eyes grew round, yet expressed no immoderate surprise. "a nice dance _you've_ led everybody!" he said slowly: "but i was never hopeful about you, i'm thankful to say." "where is miss plinlimmon living?" i asked. "has she left the hospital too?" "she didn't leave it," he answered. "it left her. the hospital's scat." "eh?" "bust--sold up--come to an end. scougall's retired on the donations. he feathered _his_ nest. and miss plinlimmon's gone down into cornwall to live with a major brooks--a kind of relation of hers, so far as i can make out. they tell me she've come into money." i had a question on my lips, but mr. jope interrupted. "i haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir," he began politely, addressing mr. george, "and by the look of 'ee, you must date from before my time. but speakin' as one man to another, how do you get along with that boy?" the door was slammed in our faces. mr. jope and i regarded one another. "ben," said i, "it's urgent, or i wouldn't leave you. i must start at once for minden cottage." his face fell. "and i was planning a little kick-up at symonds's," he said ruefully; "a fiddle or two--to celebrate the occasion; nothing out o' the way. the first time you dropped on us, if you remember, we was not quite ourselves, owing to poor dear bill: and i'd ha' liked you to form a cheerfuller idea of the place. but if 'tis duty, my lad, england expec's and i'm not gainsaying. duty, is it?" "duty it is," said i. "you walked up to yours nobly, and i must walk on to mine." so we shook hands, and i turned my face westward for the ferry. i had over-calculated my strength, and limped sorely the last mile or two before reaching minden cottage. miss plinlimmon opened the door to me, and i forgot my pain for an instant and ran into her arms. but behind her lay an empty house. "the major is in the garden," she said. "you will find him greatly changed, i expect. even since my coming i have noticed the alteration." i walked through to the summer-house. the major was fingering his virgil, but laid it down and shook hands gravely. i had much to tell him, and he seemed to listen; but i do not think that he heard. miss plinlimmon--dear soul, unknowingly--had prepared for me the very room to which isabel had led me on the night of my first arrival, and in which she had knelt beside me. miss plinlimmon had scarcely known isabel, and i found her cheerfulness almost distressing when she came to wish me good night. "and i have composed a stanza upon you," she whispered, "if you care for such things any longer. but you must understand that it has been, so to speak, improvised, and--what with the supper and one thing and another--i have had no time to polish it." i said sleepily that, unpolished though it were, i wished to hear it thus; and here it is: "wounded hero, you were shattered in the ankle--do not start! much, much more it would have mattered in the immediate neighbourhood of the heart. the bullet sped comparatively wide; and you survive, to be old england's pride." [illustration: cover art] zoe by the author of 'laddie,' 'don,' 'pomona,' 'belle,' 'phoebe's hero,' 'miss toosey's mission,' 'tip cat,' etc. [transcriber's note: the british library integrated catalogue cites evelyn whitaker as the author of this book.] london: soho square. w. w. & r. chambers, limited edinburgh: high street [transcriber's note: the source book had varying page headers. they have been collected at the start of each chapter as an introductory paragraph, and here as the table of contents.] contents chapter i. the christening--an outlandish name--the organist's mistake--farm-work--tom and bill--the baby--baby and all chapter ii. mr robins--village choirs--edith--an elopement--a father's sorrow--an unhappy pair--the wanderer's return--father!--a daughter's entreater--no favourable answer--a sleepless pillow chapter iii. something on the doorstep--bill gray--is that a cat?--she's like mother--a baby's shoe--jane restless chapter iv. village evidence--'gray' on the brain--too well he knew--mr robins and the baby--he had not done badly chapter v. jane hard at work--clothes for the baby--jane returns--jane singing over her work--jane's selfish absorption--for a poor person's child--the organist in church chapter vi. the good baby--mr robins comes and goes--a secret power--mr robins happy--a naughty tiresome gal!--the gypsy child chapter vii. gray taken to the hospital--bill and the baby--mrs gray home again--edith, come home! chapter viii. preparation--the room furnished--mrs gray at work--the baby gone--the gypsy mother--the gypsy's story--a foolish fancy--something has happened--the real baby zoe. chapter i. the christening--an outlandish name--the organist's mistake--farm-work--tom and bill--the baby--baby and all 'hath this child been already baptised, or no?' 'no, she ain't; leastwise we don't know as how she 've been or no, so we thought as we 'd best have her done.' the clergyman who was taking mr clifford's duty at downside for that sunday, thought that this might be the usual undecided way of answering among the natives, and proceeded with the service. there were two other babies also brought that afternoon, one of which was crying lustily, so that it was not easy to hear what the sponsors answered; and, moreover, the officiating clergyman was a young man, and the prospect of holding that screaming, red-faced, little object made him too nervous and anxious to get done with it to stop and make further inquiries. the woman who returned this undecided answer was an elderly woman, with a kind, sunburnt, honest face, very much heated just now, and embarrassed too; for the baby in her arms prevented her getting at her pocket handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from her brow and pulling her bonnet on to its proper position on her head. the man beside her was also greatly embarrassed, and kept shuffling his large hob-nailed shoes together, and turning his hat round and round in his fingers. i think that really that hat was the chief cause of his discomfort, for he was so accustomed to have it on his head that he could not feel quite himself without it; and, indeed, his wife could hardly recognise him, as she had been accustomed to see him wearing it indoors and out during the twenty years of their married life; pushed back for meals or smoking, but always on his head, except in bed, and even there, report says, on cold winter nights, he had recourse to it to keep off the draught from that cracked pane in the window. his face, like his wife's, was weatherbeaten, and of the same broad, flat type as hers, with small, surprised, dazzled-looking, pale blue eyes, and a tangle of grizzled light hair under his chin. he was noticeable for the green smock-frock he wore, a garment which is so rapidly disappearing before the march of civilisation, and giving place to the ill-cut, ill-made coat of shoddy cloth, which is fondly thought to resemble the squire's. the christening party was completed by a hobbledehoy lad of about sixteen, who tried to cover his invincible shyness by a grin, and to keep his foolish eyes from the row of farm boys in the aisle, whose critical glances he felt in every pore. he was so like both father and mother, that there was no mistaking his parentage; but when mrs gray took off the shepherd's-plaid shawl in which the baby was wrapped, such a little dark head and swarthy face were exposed to view as might have made intelligent spectators (if there were any in downside church that afternoon, which i doubt) reflect on the laws of heredity and reversion to original types. 'name this child!' the clergyman had got successfully through his business with the roaring george augustus and the whimpering alberta florence, and had now the little, quiet, brown-faced baby in his arms. even a young and unmarried man was fain to confess that it was an unusually pretty little face that lay against his surplice, with a pointed chin, and more eyebrows and lashes than most young babies possess, and with dark eyes that looked up at him with a certain intelligence, recognisable even to an unprejudiced observer. 'name this child!' mrs gray had taken advantage of this opportunity to mop her forehead with her blue and white pocket handkerchief, and wrestle with her bonnet's unconquerable tendency to slip off behind, and the clergyman passed the question on to her husband, who fixed his eye on a bluebottle buzzing in one of the windows, and jerked out what sounded like 'joe.' 'i thought it was a girl,' whispered the clergyman. 'joe, did you say?' 'no, it ain't that 'zactly. here, 'liza, can't you tell the gentleman? you knows best what it be.' the next attempt sounded like 'sue,' and the clergyman suggested susan as the name, but that would not do. 'zola' seemed to him, though not a reader of french novels, unsuitable, and 'zero,' too, he could not quite appreciate. 'i can't make it out, an outlandish sorter name!' said gray, with a terrible inclination to put on his hat in the excitement of the moment, only checked by a timely nudge from his wife's elbow; 'here, ain't you got it wrote down somewheres? can't you show it up?' and after a lengthened rummage in a voluminous pocket, and the production of several articles irrelevant to the occasion--a thimble, a bit of ginger, and part of a tract--mrs gray brought to light a piece of paper, on which was written the name 'zoe.' 'zoe, i baptise thee'---- a sudden crash on the organ-pedals followed these words. mr robins, the organist, had, perhaps, been asleep and let his foot slip on to the pedals, or, perhaps, he had thought there was no wind in the instrument and that he could put his foot down with impunity. he was plainly very much ashamed of himself for what had happened, and it was only right that he should be, for, of course, it made all the school children giggle, and a good many of their elders too, who should have known better. the boy who blew the organ declared that he turned quite red and bent his head over the keys as if he were examining something on them, and he was evidently nervous and upset, for he made ever so many mistakes in the concluding parts of the service, and, to the great surprise and to the satisfaction of the blower, cut the voluntary at the end unusually short, ending it in an abrupt and discordant way, which, i am sorry to say, the blower described as 'a 'owl,' though any shock that the boy's musical taste sustained was compensated for by the feeling that he would be at home at least ten minutes earlier than usual to tea. now it so happened that mr robins was in the vestry when the christening party came in to give the particulars about the babies to be entered in the register. he had come to fetch a music-book, which, however, it appeared after all had been left at home; but the clergyman was glad of his help in making out the story of the little zoe who had just been baptised. i have spoken before of intelligent observers noticing and drawing arguments from the entire want of likeness between zoe and her parents; but all the observers on this occasion whether intelligent or not, with the exception of the officiating clergyman, were quite aware that zoe was not the grays' baby, but was a foundling child picked up one night by gray in his garden. of her antecedents nothing was known, and, of course, any sensible people would have sent her to the workhouse--every one agreed on this point and told the grays so; and yet, i think, half the women who were so positive and severe on mrs gray's folly would have done just the same. we do not half of us know how kind-hearted we are till we are tried, or perhaps it is our foolishness that we do not realise. gray was only a labourer with twelve shillings a week and a couple of pounds more at harvest; and, of course, in bad weather there was no work and no wages, which is the rule among the agricultural labourers about downside, as in many other parts, so did not present itself as a grievance to gray's mind, though, to be sure, in winter or wet seasons it was a hard matter to get along. but it was neighbours' fare, and none of them felt hardly used, for farmer benson, what with bad seasons and cattle plague, was not much better off than they were, and the men knew it. but out of these wages it was hardly to be expected of the most provident of people that anything could be laid by for old age or a rainy day; indeed, there seemed so many rainy days in the present that it was not easy to give much thought to those in the future. of course too the local provident club had come to utter and hopeless grief. is there any country place where this has not been the case? gray had paid into it regularly for years and had gone every whitmonday to its dinner, his one voluntary holiday during the year, on which occasion he took too much beer as a sort of solemn duty connected with his membership. when it collapsed he was too old to join another club, and so was left stranded. he bore it very philosophically; indeed, i think it was only on whitmonday that he felt it at all, as it seemed strange and unnatural to go to bed quite sober on that day, as he did on all other days of the year. on all other occasions he was a thoroughly sober man, perhaps, however, more from necessity than choice, as the beer supplied by farmer benson in the hayfield was of a quality on which, as the men said, you got 'no forrarder' if you drank a hogshead, and gray had no money to spare from the necessaries of life to spend on luxury, even the luxury of getting drunk. he was in one way better off than his neighbours from a worldly point of view, in that he had not a large family as most of them were blessed with; for children are a blessing, a gift and heritage that cometh of the lord, even when they cluster round a cold hearth and a scanty board. but gray had only two sons, the elder of whom, tom, we have seen at zoe's christening, and who had been at work four years, having managed at twelve to scramble into the fifth standard, and at once left school triumphantly, and now can neither read nor write, having clean forgotten everything drummed into his head, but earns three shillings and sixpence a week going along with farmer benson's horses, from five o'clock in the morning till six in the evening, the long wet furrows and heavy ploughed land having made havoc of his legs, as such work does with most plough-boys. the younger boy, bill, is six years younger and still at school, and having been a delicate child, or as his mother puts it, 'enjoying bad health,' is not promising for farm-work, and, being fond of his book and a favourite at school, his mother cherishes hopes of his becoming a school-teacher in days to come. but such is the perversity of human nature, that though many a downside mother with a family of little steps envied mrs gray her compact family and the small amount of washing attached to it, that ungrateful woman yearned after an occupant for the old wooden cradle, and treasured up the bits of baby things that had belonged to tom and bill, and nursed up any young thing that came to hand and wanted care, bringing up a motherless blind kitten with assiduous care and patience, as if the supply of that commodity was not always largely in excess of the demand, and lavishing more care on a sick lamb or a superfluous young pig than most of the neighbours' babies received. so when one evening in may, gray came in holding a bundle in his arms and poked it into her lap as she sat darning the holes in tom's stockings (she was not good at needlework, but she managed, as she said, to 'goblify' the holes), he knew pretty well that it was into no unwilling arms that he gave the baby. 'and a mercy it was as the darning-needle didn't run right into the little angel,' mrs gray always said in recounting the story. he had been down to the village to fetch some tobacco, for the grays' cottage was right away from the village, up a lane leading on to the hillside, and there were no other cottages near. tom was in bed, though it was not eight yet--but he was generally ready for bed when he had had his tea; and bill was up on the hill, a favourite resort of his, and especially when it was growing dark and the great indigo sky spread over him, with the glory of the stars coming out. 'he never were like other lads,' his mother used to say with a mixture of pride and irritation; 'always mooning about by himself on them old hills.' the cottage door stood open as it always did, and mrs gray sat there, plainly to be seen from the lane, with tom's gray stocking and her eyes and the tallow candle as near together as possible. she did not hear a sound, though she was listening for bill's return, and, even though tom's snores penetrated the numerous crevices in the floor above, they were hardly enough to drown other sounds. so there was no knowing when the bundle was laid just inside the cottage gate, not quite in the middle of the brick path, but on one side against the box edging, where a clump of daffodils nodded their graceful heads over the dark velvet polyanthus in the border. gray nearly stepped upon the bundle, having large feet, and the way of walking which covers a good deal of ground to right and left, a way which plough-driving teaches. mrs gray heard an exclamation. and then gray came in, and, as i have said, did his best to impale the bundle, baby and all, on the top of his wife's darning-needle. chapter ii. mr robins--village choirs--edith--an elopement--a father's sorrow--an unhappy pair--the wanderer's return--father!--a daughter's entreater--no favourable answer--a sleepless pillow the organist of downside, mr robins, lived in a little house close to the church. mr clifford the vicar was accounted very lucky by the neighbouring clergy for having such a man, and not being exposed to all the vagaries of a young schoolmaster, or, perhaps, still worse, schoolmistress, with all the latest musical fancies of the training colleges. neither had he to grapple with the tyranny of the leading bass nor the conceit and touchiness that seems inseparable from the tenor voice, since mr robins kept a firm and sensible hand on the reins, and drove that generally unmanageable team, a village choir, with the greatest discretion. but when mr clifford was complimented by his friends on the possession of such a treasure, he accepted their remarks a little doubtfully, being sometimes inclined to think that he would almost rather have had a less excellent choir and have had some slight voice in the matter himself. mr robins imported a certain solemnity into the musical matters of downside, which of course was very desirable as far as the church services were concerned; but when it came to penny-readings and village concerts, mr clifford and some of the parishioners were disposed to envy the pleasant ease of such festivities in other parishes, where, though the music was very inferior, the enjoyment of both performers and audience was far greater. mr robins, for one thing, set his face steadily against comic songs; and mr clifford in his inmost heart had an ungratified ambition to sing a certain song, called 'the three little pigs,' with which mr wilson in the next parish simply brought down the house on several occasions; though mr clifford felt he by no means did full justice to it, especially in the part where the old mother 'waddled about, saying "umph! umph! umph!" while the little ones said "wee! wee!"' to be sure mr wilson suffered for months after these performances from outbursts of grunting among his youthful parishioners at sight of him, and even at the sunday-school one audacious boy had given vent on one occasion to an 'umph!' very true indeed to nature, but not conducive to good behaviour in his class. but mr clifford did not know the after effects of mr wilson's vocal success. likewise mr robins selected very simple music, and yet exacted an amount of practising unheard of at bilton or stokeley, where, after one or two attempts, they felt competent to face a crowded schoolroom, and yell or growl out such choruses as 'the heavens are telling' or 'the hallelujah chorus,' with a lofty indifference to tune or time, and with their respective schoolmasters banging away at the accompaniment, within a bar or two of the singers, all feeling quite satisfied if they finished up altogether on the concluding chord or thereabouts, flushed and triumphant, with perspiration standing on their foreheads, and an expression of honest pride on their faces, as much as to say, 'there's for you. what do you think of that?' if success is to be measured by applause, there is no doubt these performances were most successful, far more so than the accurately rendered 'hardy norseman' or 'men of harlech' at downside, in which lights and shades, _pianos_ and _fortes_ were carefully observed, and any attempt on anyone's part, even the tenors, to distinguish themselves above the others was instantly suppressed. the result, from a musical point of view, was no doubt satisfactory; but the applause was of a very moderate character, and never accompanied by those vociferous 'angcores,' which are so truly gratifying to the soul of musical artistes. mr robins was a middle-aged man, looking older than he really was, as his hair was quite white. he had some small independent means of his own, which he supplemented by his small salary as organist, and by giving a few music lessons in the neighbourhood. he had been in his earlier years a vicar-choral at one of the cathedrals, and had come to downside twenty years ago, after the death of his wife, bringing with him his little girl, in whom he was entirely wrapt up. he spoilt her so persistently, and his housekeeper, mrs sands, was so gentle and meek-spirited, that the effect on a naturally self-willed child can easily be imagined; and, as she grew up, she became more and more uncontrollable. she was a pretty, gypsy-looking girl, inheriting her sweet looks from her mother, and her voice and musical taste from her father. there was more than one young farmer in the neighbourhood who cast admiring glances towards the corner of the church near the organ, where the organist's pretty daughter sat, and slackened the pace of his horse as he passed the clipped yew-hedge by the church, to catch a glimpse of her in the bright little patch of garden, or to hear her clear sweet voice singing over her work. but people said mr robins thought no one good enough for her, and though he himself had come of humble parentage, and in no way regarded himself, nor expected to be regarded as a gentleman, it was generally understood that no suitor except a gentleman would be acceptable for edith. and so it took every one by surprise, and no one more so than her father, when the girl took up with martin blake, the son of the blacksmith in the next village, who might be seen most days with a smutty face and leathern apron hammering away at the glowing red metal on the anvil. it would have been well for him if he had only been seen thus, with the marks of honest toil about him; but martin blake was too often to be seen at the 'crown,' and often in a state that anyone who loved him would have grieved to see; and he was always to be found at any race meetings and steeplechases and fairs in the neighbourhood, and, report said, was by no means choice in his company. to be sure he was good-looking and pleasant-mannered, and had a sort of rollicking, light-hearted way with him, which was very attractive; but still it seemed little short of infatuation on the part of edith robins to take up with a man whose character was so well known, and who was in every way her inferior in position and education. no doubt mr robins was very injudicious in his treatment of her when he found out what was going on, and as this was the first time in her life that edith's wishes had been crossed, it was not likely that she would yield without a struggle. the mere fact of opposition seemed to deepen what was at first merely an ordinary liking into an absorbing passion. it was perfectly useless to reason with her; she disbelieved all the stories to his discredit, which were abundant, and treated those who repeated them as prejudiced and ill-natured. it was in vain that mr robins by turns entreated and commanded her to give him up, her father's distress or anger alike seemed indifferent to her; and when he forbade martin to come near the place, and kept her as much as possible under his eye to prevent meetings between them, it only roused in her a more obstinate determination to have her own way in spite of him. she was missing one morning from the little bedroom which mrs sands loved to keep as dainty and pretty as a lady's, and from the garden where the roses and geraniums did such credit to her care, and from her place in the little church where her prayer-book still lay on the desk as she had left it the day before. she had gone off with martin blake to london, without a word of sorrow or farewell to the father who had been so foolishly fond of her, or to the home where her happy petted childhood had passed. it nearly broke her father's heart; it made an old man of him and turned his hair white, and it seemed to freeze or petrify all his kindliness and human sympathy. he was a proud, reserved man, and could not bear the pity that every one felt for him, or endure the well-meant but injudicious condolences, mixed with 'i told you so,' and 'i 've thought for a long time,' which the neighbours were so liberal with. even mr clifford's attempts at consolation he could hardly bring himself to listen to courteously, and jane sands' tearful eyes and quivering voice irritated him beyond all endurance. if there had been anyone to whom he could have talked unrestrainedly and let out all the pent-up disappointment and wounded love and tortured pride that surged and boiled within him, he might have got through it better, or rather it might have raised him, as rightly borne troubles do, above his poor, little, pitiful self, and nearer to god; but this was just what he could not do. he came nearest it sometimes in those long evenings of organ playing, of the length of which poor little jack davis, the blower, so bitterly complained, when the long sad notes wailed and sobbed through the little church like the voice of a weary, sick soul making its complaint. but even so he could not tell it all to god, though he had been given that power of expression in music, which must make it easier to those so gifted to cry unto the lord. but the music wailed itself into silence, and jack in his corner by the bellows waited terror-struck at the 'unked' sounds and the darkening church, till he ventured at last to ask: 'be i to blow, mister? i 'm kinder skeered like.' so the organist's trouble turned him bitter and hard, and changed his love for his daughter into cold resentment; he would not have her name mentioned in his presence, and he refused to open a letter she sent him a few weeks after her marriage, and bid jane sands send it back if she knew the address of the person who sent it. on her side, edith was quite as obstinate and resentful. she had no idea of humbling herself and asking pardon. she thought she had quite a right to do as she liked, and she believed her father would be too unhappy without her to bear the separation long. she very soon found out the mistake she had made--indeed, even in the midst of her infatuation about martin blake, i think there lurked a certain distrust of him, and they had not been married many weeks--i might almost say days--before this distrust was more than realised. his feelings towards her, too, had been mere flattered vanity at being preferred by such a superior sort of girl than any deeper feeling, and vanity is not a sufficiently lasting foundation for married happiness, especially when the cold winds of poverty blow on the edifice, and when the superior sort of girl has not been brought up to anything useful, and cannot cook the dinner, or iron a shirt, or keep the house tidy. when his father, the old blacksmith at bilton, died six months after they were married, martin wished to come back and take up the work there, more especially as work was hard to get in london and living dear; but edith would not hear of it, and opposed it so violently that she got her way, though martin afterwards maintained that this decision was the ruin of him, occasionally dating his ruin six months earlier, from his wedding. perhaps he was right, and he might have settled down steadily in the old home and among the old neighbours in spite of his fine-lady wife; but when he said so, edith was quick to remember and cast up at him the stories which she had disbelieved and ignored before, to prove in their constant wranglings that place and neighbourhood had nothing to do with his idleness and unsteadiness. no one ever heard much of these five years in london, for edith wrote no more after that letter was returned. those five years made little difference at downside, except in mr robins' white hair and set lined face; the little house behind the yew-hedge looked just the same, and jane sands' kind, placid face was still as kind and placid. some of the girls had left school and gone to service; some of the lads had developed into hobbledehoys and came to church with walking-sticks and well-oiled hair; one or two of the old folks had died; one or two more white-headed babies crawled about the cottage floors; but otherwise downside was just the same as it had been five years before, when, one june morning, a self-willed girl had softly opened the door under the honeysuckle porch and stepped out into the dewy garden, where the birds were calling such a glad good-morning as she passed to join her lover in the lane. but the flame of life burns quicker and fiercer in london than at downside, for that same girl, coming back after only five years in london, was so changed and aged and altered that--though, to be sure, she came in the dusk and was muffled up in a big shawl--no one recognised her, or thought for a moment of pretty, coquettish, well-dressed edith robins, when the weary, shabby-looking woman passed them by. she had lingered a minute or two by the churchyard gate, though tramps, for such her worn-out boots and muddy skirts proclaimed her, do not, as a rule, care for such music as sounded out from the church door, where mr robins was consoling himself for the irritation of choir-practice by ten minutes' playing. it was soon over, and jack davis, still blower, and not much taller than he was five years before, charged out in the rebound from the tension of long blowing, and nearly knocked over the woman standing by the churchyard gate in the shadow of the yew-tree, and made the baby she held in her arms give a feeble cry. 'now then, out of the way!' he shouted in that unnecessarily loud voice boys assume after church, perhaps to try if their lungs are still capable of producing such a noise after enforced silence. the woman made no answer, but after the boy had run off, went in and waited in the porch till the sound of turning keys announced that the organist was closing the organ and church for the night. but as his footsteps drew near on the stone pavement she started and trembled as if she had been afraid, and when he came out into the porch she shrank away into the shadow as if she wished to be unobserved. he might easily have passed her, for it was nearly dark from the yew-tree and the row of elms that shut out, the western sky, where the sunset was just dying away. his mind, too, was occupied with other things, and he was humming over the verse of a hymn the boys had been singing--'far from my heavenly home.' there was no drilling into them the proper rendering of the last pathetic words-- o guide me through the desert here, and bring me home at last. he quite started when a hand was laid upon his arm, and a voice, changed indeed, and weak, but still the voice that in old days--not so very old either--was the one voice for him in all the world, said: 'father!' i think just for one minute his impulse was to take her in his arms and forget the ingratitude and desertion and deceit, like the father in the parable whose heart went out to the poor prodigal while he was yet a long way off; but the next moment the cold, bitter, resentful feelings quenched the gentler impulse, and he drew away his arm from her detaining hold, and passed on along the flagged path as if he were unconscious of her presence, and this on the very threshold of his house, who so pitifully forgives the debts of his servants, forasmuch as they have not to pay. but he had not reached the churchyard gate before she was at his side again. 'stop,' she said; 'you must hear me. it's not for my own sake, it's the child. it's a little girl; the others were boys, and i didn't mind so much; if they 'd grown up, they might have got on somehow--but there! they 're safe anyhow--both of them in one week,' wailed the mother's voice, protesting against her own words that she did not mind about them. 'but this is a girl, and not a bit like him. she 's like me, and you used to say i was like mother. she's like mother, i 'm sure she is. there, just look at her. it's so dark, but you can see even by this light that she's not like the blakes.' she was fumbling to draw back the shawl from the baby's head with her disengaged hand, while with the other she still held a grip on his arm that was almost painful in its pressure; but he stood doggedly with his head turned away, and gave no sign of hearing what she said. 'he left me six months ago,' she went on, 'and i 've struggled along somehow. i don't want ever to see him again. they say he's gone to america, but i don't care. i don't mind starving myself, but it's the little girl--oh! i 've not come to ask you to take me in, though it wouldn't be for long,' and a wretched, hollow cough that had interrupted her words once or twice before, broke in now as if to confirm what she said; 'if you'd just take the child. she's a dear little thing, and not old enough at two months to have learnt any harm, and jane sands would be good to her, i know she would, for the sake of old times. and i'll go away and never come near to trouble you again--i 'll promise it. oh! just look at her! if it wasn't so dark you'd see she was like mother. why, you can feel the likeness if you just put your hand on her little face; often in the night i 've felt it, and i never did with the boys. she's very good, and she's too little to fret after me, bless her!--and she 'll never know anything about me, and needn't even know she has a father, and he 's not ever likely to trouble himself about her.' her voice grew more and more pleading and entreating as she went on, for there was not the slightest response or movement in the still figure before her, less movement even than in the old yew-tree behind, whose smaller branches, black against the sky where the orange of the sunset was darkening into dull crimson, stirred a little in the evening air. 'oh! you can't refuse to take her! see, i'll carry her as far as the door so that jane can take her, and then i 'll go clear away and never come near her again. you 'll have her christened, won't you? i 've been thinking all the weary way what she should be called, and i thought, unless you had a fancy for any other name' (a little stifled sigh at the thought of how dear one name used to be to him), 'i should like her to be zoe. just when she was born, and i was thinking, thinking of you and home and everything, that song of yours kept ringing in my head, "maid of athens," and the last line of every verse beginning with zoe. i can't remember the other words, but i know you said they meant "my life, i love you;" and zoe was life, and i thought when i'm gone my little girl would live my life over again, my happy old life with you, and make up to you for all the trouble her mother's been to you.' she stopped for want of breath and for the cough that shook her from head to foot, and at last he turned; but even in that dim light she could see his face plainly enough to know that there was no favourable answer coming from those hard set lips and from those cold steady eyes, and her hand dropped from his arm even before he spoke. 'you should have thought of this five years ago,' he said. 'i do not see that i am called upon to support martin blake's family. i must trouble you to let me pass.' she fell back against the trunk of the yew-tree as if he had struck her, and the movement caused the baby to wake and cry, and the sound of its little wailing voice followed him as he walked down the path and out into the road, and he could hear it still when he reached his own garden gate, where through the open door the light shone out from the lamp that jane sands was just carrying into his room, where his supper was spread and his armchair and slippers awaited him. in after days, remembering that evening, he fancied he had heard 'father' once more mingling with the baby's cry; but he went in and shut the door and drew the bolt and went into the cheerful, pleasant room, leaving outside the night and the child's cry and the black shadow of the church and the yew-tree. it was only the beginning of the annoyance, he told himself; he must expect a continued course of persecution, and he listened, while he made a pretence of eating his supper, for the steps outside and the knock at the door, which would surely renew the unwarrantable attempt to saddle him with the charge of the child. he listened too, as he sat after supper, holding up the newspaper in front of his unobservant eyes; and he listened most of the night as he tossed on his sleepless pillow--listened to the wind that had risen and moaned and sobbed round the house like a living thing in pain--listened to the pitiless rain that followed, pelting down on the ivy outside and on the tiles above his head, as if bent on finding its way in to the warm comfortable bed where he lay. chapter iii. something on the doorstep--bill gray--is that a cat?--she's like mother--a baby's shoe--jane restless but the annoyance for which mr robins had been preparing himself was not repeated; the persecution, if such had been intended, was not continued. as the days passed by he began to leave off listening and lying awake; he came out from his house or from the church without furtive glances of expectation to the right and left; he lost that constant feeling of apprehension and the necessity to nerve himself for resistance. he had never been one to gossip or concern himself with other people's matters, and jane sands had never brought the news of the place to amuse her master, as many in her place would have done; so now he had no way of knowing if his daughter's return had been known in the place, or what comments the neighbours passed on it. he fancied that jane looked a little more anxious than usual; but then her sister was lying ill at stokeley, and she was often there with her, so that accounted for her anxiety. it accounted, too, for her being away one evening a fortnight later, when mr robins coming in in the dusk found something laid on his doorstep. his thoughts had been otherwise occupied, but the moment his eyes fell on the shepherd's-plaid shawl wrapping the bundle at his feet, he knew what it was, and recognised a renewed attempt to coerce him into doing what he had vowed he would not. he saw it all in a minute, and understood that now jane sands was in the plot against him, and she had devised this way of putting the child in his path because she was afraid to come to him openly and say what she wanted. perhaps even now she was watching, expecting to see him fall into the trap they had set for him; but they should find they were very much mistaken. his first resolution was to fetch the police constable and get him to take the child right off to the workhouse, but on second thoughts he altered his purpose. such a step would set all the tongues in the place wagging, and, little as he cared for public opinion, it would not be pleasant for every one to be telling how he had sent his grandchild to the workhouse. grandchild? pshaw! it was martin blake's brat. the child was sleeping soundly, everything was quiet, the dusk was gathering thick and fast. why should he not put the child outside some other cottage, and throw the responsibility of disposing of it on someone else, and be clear of it himself altogether? the idea shaped itself with lightning rapidity in his brain, and he passed quickly in review the different cottages in the place and their inmates, and in spite of his indifference to martin blake's brat, he selected one where he knew a kindly reception, at any rate for the night, would be given. he knew more about the grays than of most of the village people. bill was a favourite of his, and had been with him that afternoon after school to fetch a book mr robins had promised to lend him. he was a bright, intelligent boy, and had a sweet voice, and the organist found him a more apt pupil than any of the others, and had taken some pains with him, and when he was ill the winter before had been to see him, and so had come to know his mother, and her liking for anything young and weak and tender. their cottage was at some distance, to be sure, and mr robins had not had much to do with babies of late years, and was a little distrustful of his ability to carry one so far without rousing it and so proclaiming its presence, but there was a path across the fields but little frequented, by which he could convey the child without much risk of being met and observed. and now the great thing to aim at was to carry out his plan as quickly as possible, before any one was aware of the child being at his house; and he gathered up the little warm bundle as gingerly as he knew how, and was on his way to the gate, when the sound of approaching steps along the road made him draw back and, unlocking the door, carry the child in. the steps stopped at the gate and turned in, and one of the choirmen came to the door. there were little movements and soft grumblings inside the shawl in the organist's arms, and he turned quite cold with apprehension. 'anyone at home?' sounded millet's jovial voice at the open door. ''evening, mr robins--are you there? all in the dark, eh? i wanted a couple of words with you about that song.' 'i 'll come directly,' sounded the organist's voice, with a curious jogging effect in it, such as millet was used to sometimes in his conversations with his wife at the children's bed-time. and then millet heard him go up-stairs, and it was some minutes before he came down again, and then in such a queer absent condition that if it had been any other man in the parish than mr robins, whose sobriety was unimpeachable, millet would have said that he had had a drop too much. he did not ask him in or strike a light, but stood at the door answering quite at haphazard, and showing such indifference on the vital question of a certain song suiting millet's voice, that that usually good-natured man was almost offended. 'well, i 'll wish you good evening,' he said at last (it seemed to robins that he had been hours at the door); 'perhaps you 'll just think it over and let me know. hullo!--is that a cat you have up there? i thought i heard something squeal out just then.' mr robins was not generally given to shaking hands--indeed, some of the choir thought he was too much stuck up to do so; but just then he seized millet's hand and shook it quite boisterously, at the same time advancing with the apparent intention of accompanying him in a friendly manner to the gate, a movement which compelled millet to back in the same direction, and cut short his farewell remarks, which frequently lasted for ten minutes or more. and all the way to the gate robins was talking much quicker and louder than was his usual custom, and he ended by almost pushing millet out at the gate, all the time expressing great pleasure at having seen him, and pressing him to come in again any evening he could spare the time, and have a pipe and a bit of supper with him--such unheard-of hospitality that millet went home quite persuaded that the old man was, as he expressed it to his wife, 'going off his chump;' so that it was quite a relief to meet him two days later at the choir practice as formal and distant in his manners as ever. meanwhile mr robins had hastened back to his bedroom where the baby lay asleep on his bed; for it had been really jane sands' cat whose voice millet heard, and not, as mr robins believed, the waking child's. it was quite dark up there, and he could only feel the warm, little heap on his bed, but he struck a match to look at it. the shawl had fallen away, showing its little dark head and round sleeping face, with one little fist doubled up against its cheek and half-open mouth, and the other arm thrown back, the tiny hand lying with the little moist, creased palm turned up. 'she's like mother, i 'm sure she is.' he remembered the words and scanned the small sleeping face. well, perhaps there was a likeness, the eyelashes and the gypsy tint of the complexion; but just then the match went out and the organist remembered there was no time to be wasted in trying to see likenesses in martin blake's brat. but just as he was lifting the baby cautiously from his bed, a sudden thought struck him. zoe was to be her name; well, it should be so, though he had no concern in her name or anything else; so he groped about for pencil and paper, and wrote the name in big printing letters to disguise his hand and make it as distinct as possible, though even so, as we have seen already, the name caused considerable perplexity to the sponsors. and then he pinned the paper on to the shawl, and taking the child in his arms set out across the field path to the grays' cottage. there was a cold air, though it was a may night, but the child lay warm against him, and he remembered how its mother had said she could feel the likeness even in the dark, and he could not resist laying his cold finger on the warm little cheek under the shawl; and then, angry with himself for the throb that the touch sent to his heart, hastened his steps, and had soon reached the grays' cottage and deposited his burden just inside the gate, where a few minutes after gray found it. he could see mrs gray plainly as she sat at her work: a pleasant, motherly face; but he did not linger to look at it, but turned away and retraced his steps along the field path home. he found himself shivering as he went; the air seemed to have grown more chilly and penetrating without that warm burden against his heart, and the unaccustomed weight had made his arms tremble. somehow the house looked dull and uncomfortable, though jane sands had come in and lighted the lamp, and was laying his supper. up-stairs there was a hollow on his bed where something had lain, and by the side of the bed he found a baby's woollen shoe, which might have betrayed him to jane if she had gone up-stairs. but though he put it out of sight directly, he felt sure that the whole matter was no secret from jane, and that she had been an accomplice in the trick that had been played on him, and he smiled to himself at the thought of how he had outwitted her, and of how puzzled she must be to know what had become of the baby. he did his best to appear as tranquil and composed as usual, as if nothing had happened to disturb the ordinary current of his life, and he forced himself to make a few remarks on indifferent subjects when she came into the room. she had evidently been crying, and was altogether in a nervous and upset condition. she forgot half the things he wanted at supper, and her hand trembled so that she nearly overturned the lamp. more than once she stopped and looked at him as if she were nerving herself to speak, and he knew quite well the question that was trembling on her lips. 'where is the child? master, where is the child?' but he would not help her in any way, and he quite ignored the agitation that was only too evident; and even when he went into the kitchen to fetch his pipe, and found her with her face buried in her arms on the kitchen table, shaking with irrepressible sobs, he retreated softly into the passage and called to her to bring the pipe, and when, after a long delay, she brought it in, he was apparently absorbed in his paper, and took no notice of her tear-stained face and quivering lips. he heard her stirring far into the night, and once she went into the little room next his that used to be his daughter's, and which no one had used since she left, and in the silence of the night again he could hear heartbreaking sobs half-stifled. 'poor soul! poor soul!' he said to himself. 'she's a good creature is jane, and no doubt she's bitterly disappointed. i 'll make it up to her somehow. she's a faithful, good soul!' he was restless and uncomfortable himself, and he told himself he had taken cold and was a bit feverish. it was feverish fancy, no doubt, that made him think the hollow where the child's light weight had rested was still perceptible, but this fancy outlasted the fever of that night and the cold that caused it, for there was hardly a night afterwards when mr robins did not detect its presence, even with all jane sands' thorough shaking of the feather-bed and careful spreading of sheets and blankets. if he dropped asleep for a minute that night the child was in his arms again, heavy as lead, weighing him down, down, down, into some unfathomable gulf, or he was feeling for it in the dark, and its face was cold as death; and more than once he woke with a start, feeling certain that a child's cry had sounded close to his bed. chapter iv. village evidence--'gray' on the brain--too well he knew--mr robins and the baby--he had not done badly there is certainly a penalty paid by people who keep entirely clear of gossip, though it is not by any means in proportion to the advantages they gain. the penalty is that when they particularly want to hear any piece of news, they are not likely to hear it naturally like other people, but must go out of their way to make inquiries and evince a curiosity which at once makes them remarkable. now every one in the village except mr robins heard of the baby found in the grays' garden, and discussed how it came there, but it was only by overhearing a casual word here and there that the organist gathered even so much as that the grays had resolved to keep the child, and were not going to send it to the workhouse. even bill gray knew the organist's ways too well to trouble him with the story, though he was too full of it himself to give his usual attention at the next choir practice, and, at every available pause between chant and hymn, his head and that of the boy next him were close together in deep discourse. it had occurred to mr robins' mind, in the waking moments of that restless night, that there might have been--nay, most probably was--some mark on the child's clothes which would lead to its identification, and, for the next few days, every glance in his direction, or, for the matter of that, in any other direction, was interpreted by him as having some covert allusion to this foundling grandchild of his; but the conversation of some men outside his yew-hedge, which he accidentally overheard one day, set his anxiety at rest. from this he gathered that it was generally supposed to be a child belonging to a gypsy caravan that had passed through the village that day. 'and i says,' said one of the men with that slow, emphatic delivery in which the most ordinary sentiments are given forth as if they were wisdom unheard and undreamt of before; 'and i don't mind who hears me, as gray did oughter set the perlice on to 'un to find the heartless jade as did 'un.' 'ay, sure! so he did oughter; but he ain't on gumption, gray ain't; never had neither, as have known him man and boy these fifty year.' 'my missus says,' went on the first speaker, 'as she seed a gypsy gal with just such a brat as this on her arm. she come round to parson's back door--my liza's kitchen gal there and telled her mother. she were one of them dressed-up baggages with long earrings and a yeller handkercher round her head, a-telling fortunes; coming round the poor, silly gals with her long tongue and sly ways. she went in here, too.' mr robins guessed, though he could not see the jerk of the thumb in his direction. 'mrs sands told me so herself--the organist's listening was quickened to yet sharper attention--'she says she had quite a job to get rid of her, and thought she were after the spoons belike. but she says as she'd know the gal again anywheres, and my missus says she'd pretty near take her davy to the child, though as i says, one brat's pretty much like another--haw, haw! though the women don't think it.' and the two men parted, laughing over this excellent joke. it was most curious how that little out-of-the-way house of the grays and its unremarkable inmates had suddenly become conspicuous; the very cottage was visible from all directions--from the churchyard gate, from the organist's garden, from various points along the stokeley road; but perhaps this may have been because mr robins had never cared to identify one thatched roof from another hitherto. as for the grays, they seemed to be everywhere; that man hoeing in the turnip-field was gray, that boy at the head of the team in the big yellow wagon was tom, and bill seemed to be all over the place, whistling along the road or running round the corner, or waiting to change his book at the organist's gate. if mr clifford spoke to mr robins it was about something to do with the grays, and even mr wilson of stokeley stopped him in the road to ask if some people called gray lived at downside. it was most extraordinary how these people, so insignificant a week ago, were now brought into prominence. even before mr robins had overheard that conversation he had had a fidgety sort of wish to go up to the grays' cottage, and now he made a pretext of asking for a book he had lent bill, but went before the school came out, so that only mrs gray was at home as he opened the gate and went up the path. it was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and mrs gray was sitting outside the door, making, plain as she was, a pretty picture with the shadows of the young vine-leaves over the door dappling her print gown and apron and the baby's little dark head and pink pinafore, a garment that had once been bill's, who had been of a more robust build than this baby, and moreover, had worn the pinafore at a more advanced age, so that the fit left a good deal to be desired, and the colour had suffered in constant visits to the wash-tub, and was not so bright as it had been originally. but altogether, the faded pinafore and the vine-leaf shadows, and the love in the woman's face, made a harmonious whole, and the song she was singing, without a note of sweetness or tune in it, did not jar on the organist's ear, as you might have supposed, knowing his critical and refined taste. 'good afternoon, mrs gray,' he said; 'i came for the book i lent your son the other day. why, is this your baby?' he added with unnecessarily elaborate dissimulation. 'i did not know you had any so young.' 'mine? lor' bless you, no. ain't you heard? why, i thought it was all over the place. gray, he found it in the garden just there where you be standing, a week ago come to-morrow. ain't she a pretty dear, bless her! and takes such notice too, as is wonderful. why, she's looking at you now as if she 'd aknown you all her life. just look at her! if she ain't smiling at you, a little puss!' 'where did she come from?' 'well, sure, who 's to know? there was some gypsy folks through the place, and there 've been a lot of tramps about along of milton fair, and there was one of 'em, they say, a week or two ago with just such a baby as this 'un. my master he 've made a few inquirements; but there! for my part i don't care if we don't hear no more of her folks, and gray's much of the same mind, having took a terrible fancy to the child. and it's plain as she ain't got no mother worth the name, as would leave her like that, and neglected too shameful. as there ain't no excuse, to my way of thinking, for a baby being dirty, let folks be as poor as they may.' somewhere deep down in mr robins's mind, unacknowledged to himself, there was a twinge of resentment at this reflection on the mother's treatment of the baby. 'she 's as sweet as a blossom now,' went on mrs gray, tossing the baby up, who laughed and crowed and stretched its arms. yes, he could see the likeness, he was sure of it; and it brought back to his mind with sudden vividness a young mother's look of pride and love as she held up her little girl for the father's admiration. mother and child had then been wonderfully alike, and in this baby he could trace a likeness to both. mrs gray went maundering on, as her manner was, interspersing her narrative with baby nonsense and endearments, and mr robins forgot his errand, which was, after all, only a pretext, and stood half-listening, and more than half back in the old days of memory, and once he so far forgot himself as to snap his fingers at the child, and touch one of its warm, little hands, which immediately closed round his finger with a baby's soft, tenacious grasp, from which it required a certain gentle effort to escape. 'a pleasant, chatty sort of man the organist,' mrs gray said, having talked nearly all the time herself, with only a word or two from him now and then as reply; 'and not a bit of pride about him, let folks say what they like. why, he stopped ever so long and had a deal to say; and there, bill, you just run down with the book, as he went off after all without it.' mr robins went home slowly across the fields in a curiously softened frame of mind. perhaps it was the soft west wind, fragrant with sweet spring scents of cowslips and cherry blossom, or the full glad sunshine on all the varied green of tree and hedge, a thousand tints of that 'shower of greennesses' poured down so lavishly by the giver of all good things; perhaps it was the larks springing up from the clover in such an ecstasy of song; or perhaps it was the clasp of a baby's hand on his finger. he noticed the spring beauty round him as he had not noticed such things for many a day, stooping to pick a big, tasselled, gold-freckled cowslip, and stopping to let a newly-fledged, awkward, young bird hop clumsily out of the way, with a sort of tenderness and consideration for young things unusual to him. his mind was more at rest than it had been for the last three weeks. the baby's crowing laughter seemed to drive out of his memory the wailing cry and the hollow cough and the sad, beseeching voice saying 'father,' and then the pitiless beating rain, which had been haunting him for the last three weeks. the sight of the baby, loved and cared for, had taken away a misgiving, which he had hardly been conscious of himself. after all, he had not done badly by the child. mrs gray was a kind motherly sort of body, and used to babies, which jane sands was not, and she would do well by the child, and he himself could see, without any one being the wiser, that the child did not want for anything, though he would not be held responsible in any way for it. chapter v. jane hard at work--clothes for the baby--jane returns--jane singing over her work--jane's selfish absorption--for a poor person's child--the organist in church there was one thing that puzzled mr robins extremely, and this was jane sands' behaviour. he was convinced that she had been a party to the trick that had been played off on him, and she was evidently full of some secret trouble and anxiety, for which he could only account by attributing it to her disappointment about the baby, and perhaps distrust of the care that would be taken of it by others. mr robins often discovered her in tears, and she was constantly going out for hours at a time, having always hitherto been almost too much of a stay-at-home. he suspected that these lengthened absences meant visits to the grays' cottage, and that baby-worship that women find so delightful; but he found out accidentally that she had never been near the cottage since the baby's arrival, and when he made an excuse of sending a book by her to bill to get her to go there, she met the boy at the bottom of the lane, and did not go on to the cottage. as to what he had overheard the men saying about the gypsy girl, he felt sure that jane had only said this to put people on the wrong scent, though, certainly, deception of any sort was very unlike her. once he found her sitting up late at night at work on some small frocks and pinafores, and he thought that at last the subject was coming to the surface, and especially as she coloured up and tried to hide the work when he came in. 'busy?' he said. 'you seem very hard at work. who are you working for?' 'a baby,' she stammered, 'a baby----that my sister's taking care of.' she was so red and confused that he felt sure she was saying what was not true, but he forgave her for the sake of the baby for whom he firmly believed the work was being done, and who, to be sure, when he saw it in mrs gray's arms, looked badly in want of clothes more fitted to its size than bill's old pinafores. he stood for a minute fingering the pink, spotted print of infantile simplicity of pattern, and listening to the quick click, click, of her needle as it flew in and out; but it was not till he had turned away and was half out of the kitchen, that she began a request that had been on the tip of her tongue all the time, but which she had not ventured to bring out while he stood at the table. 'i was going to ask--if you 'd no objection--seeing that they're no good to any one'---- now it was coming out, and he turned with an encouraging smile: 'well, what is it?' 'there are some old baby-clothes put away in a drawer up-stairs. they 're rough dried, and i've kept an eye on them, and took them out now and then to see as the moth didn't get in them'---- 'yes?' 'well, sir--this baby that i'm working for is terrible short of clothes, and i thought i might take a few of them for her'---- she did not look at him once as she spoke, or she might have been encouraged by the look on his face, which softened into a very benignant, kindly expression. 'to be sure! to be sure!' he said. 'i 've no objection to your taking some of them for the baby--at your sister's.' he spoke the last words with some meaning, and she looked quickly up at him and dropped her work as if tumultuous words were pressing to be spoken, but stopped them with an effort and went on with her work, only with heightened colour and trembling fingers. she was not slow to avail herself of his permission, for that very night, before she went to bed, he heard her in the next room turning out the drawer where the old baby-clothes had been stored away ever since little edith had discarded them for clothes of a larger size. and next morning she was up betimes, starching and ironing and goffering dainty little frills with such a look of love and satisfaction on her face, that he had not the heart to hint that she had availed herself somewhat liberally of his permission, and that less dainty care and crispness might do equally well for the baby, bundled up in mrs gray's kind but crumpling arms, to take the place of bill's faded pinafore. that afternoon he purposely took his way home over the hillside and down the lane by the grays' cottage, with a conviction that he should see the baby tricked out in some of those frilled and tucked little garments over which jane sands had lavished so much time and attention that morning. but to his surprise he saw her in much the same costume as before, only the pinafore this time was washed-out lavender instead of pink, and, as she was in bill's arms, and he, as the youngest of the family, being inexperienced in nursing, a more crumpled effect was produced than his mother had done. he could only conclude that jane had not found time yet to take the things, or that mrs gray was reserving them for a more showy occasion. but he found jane just returning as he came up to his house, and she looked far more hot and dusty than the short walk up the lane to the grays accounted for, but with a beaming look on her kind face that had not been there for many a day. 'well,' he said, 'jane, have you been to stokeley?' 'yes,' she said, 'and i took the things you were good enough to say the baby might have. they _were_ pleased.' she, too, spoke with a curious meaning in her voice and manner which somehow faded when she saw the want of response in his face. indeed there was a very distinct feeling of disappointment and irritation in his feelings. for after all those clothes had actually gone to some other baby. well! well! it is a selfish world after all, and each of us has his own interests which take him up and engross him. no doubt this little common child at stokeley was all in all to jane sands, and she was glad enough of a chance to pick all the best out of those baby clothes up-stairs that he remembered his young wife preparing so lovingly for her baby and his. it gave him quite a pang to think of some little sands or jenkins adorned with these tucks he had seen run so carefully and frills sewn so daintily. he had evidently given jane credit for a great deal more unselfishness and devotion to him and his than she really felt, for she had all the time been busy working and providing for her own people, when he had thought she was full of consideration for edith's child. pshaw! he had to pull himself together and take himself to task. for even in these few days he had grown to think of that little brown-faced, dark-eyed baby as his grandchild, instead of martin blake's brat. insensibly and naturally, too, the child had brought back the memory of its mother, first as baby, then as sweet and winsome little child; then as bright, wilful, coaxing girl, and, lastly, unless he kept his thoughts well in check, there followed on these brighter memories the shadow of a white worn woman under the yew-tree in the churchyard, and of a voice that said 'father.' that uninteresting child at stokeley apparently required a great supply of clothes, for jane sands was hard at work again that evening, and when he came in from the choir practice, he heard her singing over her work as she used to do in old days, and when he went in for his pipe, she looked up with a smile that seemed to expect a sympathetic response, and made no effort to conceal the work as she had done the day before. he stood morosely by the fireplace for a minute, shaking the ashes out of his pipe. 'you're very much taken up with that baby,' he said crossly; and she looked up quickly, thinking that perhaps he had a hole in his stocking, or a button off his shirt to complain of, as a consequence of her being engrossed in other work. but he went on without looking at her, and apparently deeply absorbed in getting an obstinate bit of ash out of the pipe bowl. 'there's a child at mrs gray's they say is very short of clothes. that baby, you know'---- 'that baby that was found in the garden,' jane said in such a curiously uninterested tone of voice that he could not resist glancing round at her; but she was just then engaged in that mysterious process of 'stroking the gathers,' which the intelligent feminine reader will understand requires a certain attention. if this indifference were assumed, jane sands was a much better actor and a more deceptive character than he had believed possible; if she were too entirely absorbed in her own people to give even a thought to her young mistress's baby, she was not the jane sands he thought he had known for the last twenty years. the only alternative was that she knew nothing about the baby having been left on his door-step, nor of the meeting with his daughter in the churchyard which had preceded it. what followed convinced him that this was the case, though it also a little favoured the other hypothesis of her selfish absorption in her own people. 'perhaps,' he said, 'you could look out some of those baby things up-stairs if there are any left.' 'what? i beg your pardon, sir. what did you say?' 'those baby clothes up-stairs that you gave to your sister's baby.' 'those!' she said, with a strange light of indignation in her eyes, more even than you would have expected in the most grasping and greedy person on a proposal that something should be snatched from her hungry maw and given to another. 'those! little miss edith's things! that her own mother made and that i 've kept so careful all these years in case miss edith's own should need them!' you see she forgot in the excitement of the moment that these were the very things she had been giving away so freely to that common little child at stokeley; but women are so inconsistent. 'well?' he said, as her breath failed her in this unusual torrent of remonstrance. 'why not?' 'for a little gypsy child! a foundling that nobody knows anything about! don't do it, master, don't! i couldn't abear to see it. here, let me get a bit of print and flannel and run together a few things for the child. i 'd rather do it a hundred times than that those things should be given away--and just now too!' it was very plain to mr robins that she did not know; but all the same he was half inclined to point out that it was not a much more outrageous thing to bestow these cherished garments on a foundling than on her sister's baby; but she was evidently so unconscious of her inconsistency in the matter that he did not know how to suggest it to her. 'i 'm going into stokeley to-morrow,' she went on, 'and if you liked i could get some print and make it a few frocks. i saw some very neat at fourpence three-farthings that would wash beautiful, and a good stout flannel at elevenpence. oh! not like that,' she said as he laid a finger on some soft saxony flannel with a pink edge which lay on the table. 'something more serviceable for a poor person's child.' well, perhaps it was better that jane should not know who the baby was of whom she spoke so contemptuously. a baby was none the better or healthier for being dressed up in frills and lace; and mrs gray was a thoroughly clean motherly woman, and would do well by the child. all the same, when jane came back from stokeley next day and unfolded the parcel she had brought from the draper's there, he could not help feeling that that somewhat dingy lavender, though it might wash like a rag, was, to say the least, uninteresting, and the texture of the flannel, even to his undiscriminating eye, was a trifle rough and coarse for baby limbs. he knew nothing (how should he?) of the cut and make of baby clothes, but somehow, these, under jane's scissors and needle, did not take such attractive proportions as those she had prepared for the other baby; nor did the stitches appear so careful and minute, though jane's worst enemy, if she had any, could not have accused her of putting bad work even into the hem of a duster, let alone a baby's frock. he also noticed that, industriously as she worked at the lavender print, her ardour was not sufficient to last beyond bedtime, and that, when the clock struck ten, her work was put away, without any apparent reluctance, even when, to all appearances, it was so near completion that anyone would have given the requisite ten minutes just from the mere desire of finishing. that sunday afternoon, when the curious name zoe, sounding across the church in the strange clergyman's voice, startled the organist, who had not expected the christening to take place that day, one of the distracting thoughts which made him make so many mistakes in the music, was wondering what jane sands would think of the name, and whether it would rouse any suspicion in her mind and enlighten her a little as to who the baby at mrs gray's really was. the name was full of memories and associations to him; surely it must be also a little to jane sands. but of all sunday afternoons in the year, she had chosen this to go over to stokeley church. why, parson and clerk were hardly more regular in their attendance than jane sands as a rule; it was almost an unheard-of thing for her seat to be empty. but to-day it was so, and the row of little boys whom her gentle presence generally awed into tolerable behaviour, indulged unchecked in all the ingenious naughtiness that infant mind and body are capable of in church. she came in rather late with his tea, apologising for having kept him waiting. 'it was christening sunday,' she said, and then she looked at him rather wistfully. perhaps she has heard, he thought; perhaps the neighbours have told her the name, and she is beginning to guess. 'and the baby has been called'---- she hesitated and glanced timidly at him. 'well?' he said encouragingly, 'what is the name?' 'edith,' she answered, 'was one name.' pshaw! it was the baby at her sister's she was talking of all the time! he turned irritably away. 'he can't bear to hear the name, even now; or, perhaps, he's cross at being kept waiting for tea,' thought jane sands. chapter vi. the good baby--mr robins comes and goes--a secret power--mr robins happy--a naughty tiresome gal!--the gypsy child as spring glided into summer, and june's long, bright, hay-scented days passed by, followed by july, with its hot sun pouring down on the ripening wheat and shaven hayfields, and on the trees, which had settled down into the monotonous green of summer, the little, brown-faced baby at the grays' throve and flourished, and entwined itself round the hearts of the kindly people in whose care providence, by the hands of the organist, had placed it. it grew close to them like the branches of the virginia creeper against a battered, ugly, old wall, putting out those dainty little hands and fingers that cling so close, not even the roughest wind or driving rain can tear them apart. gray, coming in dirty and tired in the evening, after a long day's work in the hayfield or carting manure, was never too tired, nor for the matter of that too dirty, to take the baby, and let it dab its fat hands on his face, or claw at his grizzled whiskers or slobber open-mouthed kisses on his cheeks. tom, who had bought a blue tie, let zoe scrabble at that vivid article, and pull the bit of southernwood out of his button-hole, and rumple his well-oiled locks out of all symmetry; while bill expended boundless ingenuity and time in cutting whistles, and fashioning whirligigs, which were summarily disposed of directly they got into the baby's hands. as for mrs gray, it is unnecessary to say that she was the most complete slave of all zoe's abject subjects, and the neighbours all agreed that she was downright silly-like over that little, brown-faced brat as was no better--no, nor nothing to hold a candle to my johnnie, or dolly, or bobby as the case might be. an unprejudiced observer might have thought that mrs gray had some reason for her high opinion of zoe, for she was certainly a very much prettier baby than the majority in downside, who were generally of the dumpling type, with two currants for eyes. and she was also a very good baby--'and easy enough too for anyone to be good,' would be the comment of any listening downside mother, 'when they always gets their own way!' which, however, is not so obvious a truth as regards babies under a year as it is of older people. certainly to be put to bed awake and smiling at seven o'clock, and thereupon to go to sleep, and sleep soundly, till seven o'clock next morning, shows an amount of virtue in a baby which is unhappily rare, though captious readers may attribute it rather to good health and digestion, which may also be credited, perhaps, with much virtue in older people. 'and i do say,' mrs gray was never tired of repeating to anyone who had patience to listen, 'as nothing wouldn't upset that blessed little angel, as it makes me quite uneasy thinking as how she's too good to live, as is only natural to mortal babies to have the tantrums now and then, if it 's only from stomach-ache.' the only person who seemed to sympathise in the grays' admiration for the baby was the organist. it was really wonderful, mrs gray said, the fancy he had taken to the child--'ay, and the child to him too, perking up and looking quite peart like, as soon as ever his step come along the path.' the wonder was mostly in the baby taking to him, in mrs gray's opinion, as there was nothing to be surprised at in anyone taking to the baby; but 'he, with no chick nor child of his own, and with that quiet kind of way with him as ain't general what children like; though don't never go for to tell me as mr robins is proud and stuck up, as i knows better.' there was a sort of fascination about the child to the organist, and when he found that no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion as to who the baby really was, or why he should be interested in it, he gave way more and more to the inclination to go to the grays' cottage, and watch the little thing, and trace the likeness that seemed every day to grow more and more strong to his dead wife and to her baby girl. perhaps anyone sharper and less simple than mrs gray might have grown suspicious of some other reason than pure, disinterested admiration for little zoe, as the cause which brought the organist so often to her house; and perhaps, if the cottage had stood in the village street, it might have occasioned remarks among the neighbours; but he had always, of late years, been so reserved and solitary a man that no notice was taken of his comings and goings, and if his way took him frequently over the hillside and down the lane--why, it was a very nice walk, and there was nothing to be surprised at. the only person who might have noticed where he went, and how long he sometimes lingered, was jane sands, and i cannot help thinking that in old days she would have done so; but then, as we have seen, she was not quite the same jane sands she used to be, or at any rate not quite what we used to fancy her, devoted above all things to her master and his interests, but much absorbed in her own matters, and in those stokeley friends of hers. she had asked for a rise in her wages too, which mr robins assented to; but without that cordiality he might have done a few months before, and he strongly suspected that when quarter-day came, the wages went the same way as those baby clothes, for there was certainly no outlay on her own attire, which, though always scrupulously neat, seemed to him more plain and a shade more shabby than it used to be. as the summer waxed and waned, the love for little zoe grew and strengthened in the organist's heart. it seemed a kind of possession, as if a spell had been cast on him; in old times it might have been set down to witchcraft; and, indeed, it seemed something of the sort to himself, as if a power he could not resist compelled him to seek out the child--to think of it, to dream of it, to have it so constantly in his mind and thoughts, that from there it found its way into his heart. to us, who know his secret, it may be explained as the tie of blood, the drawing of a man, in spite of himself, towards his own kith and kin; blood is thicker than water, and the organist could not reject this baby grandchild from his natural feelings, though he might from his house. and beyond and above this explanation, we may account for it, as we may for most otherwise unaccountable things, as being the leading of a wise providence working out a divine purpose. perhaps the punishment that was to come to the organist by the hands of little zoe--those fat, dimpled, brown hands, that flourished about in the air so joyously when he whistled a tune to her--began from the very first, for it was impossible to think of the child without thinking of the mother, and to look at zoe without seeing the likeness that his fond fancy made far plainer than it really was; and to think of the mother and to see her likeness was to remember that meeting in the churchyard, and the sad, pleading voice and hollow cough, and the cold denial he had given, and the beating rain and howling wind of that dreary night. he grew by degrees to excuse himself to himself, and to plead that he was taken unawares, and that, if she had not taken his answer as final, but had followed him to the house, he should certainly have relented. and then he went a step further. i think it was one july day, when the baby had been more than usually gracious to him, and he had ventured, in mrs gray's absence, to lift her out of the cradle and carry her down the garden path, finding her a heavier weight than when he had first taken her to the grays' cottage. she had clapped her hands at a great, velvet-bodied humble bee; she had nestled her curly head into his neck, and with the feeling of her soft breath on his cheek he had said to himself: 'if edith were to come back now, i would forgive her for the baby's sake, for zoe's sake.' he forgot that he had need to be forgiven too. 'she will come back,' he told himself, 'she will come back to see the child. she could not be content to hear nothing more of her baby and never to see her, in spite of what she said. and when she comes it shall be different, for zoe's sake.' he wondered if jane sands knew where edith was, or ever heard from her. he sometimes fancied that she did, and yet, if she knew nothing of the baby, it was hardly likely that she had any correspondence with the mother. he was puzzled, and more than once he felt inclined to let her into the secret, or at least drop some hint that might lead to its discovery. it pleased him to imagine her delight over edith's child, her pride in, and devotion to it; she would never rest till she had it under her care, and ousted mrs gray from all share in little zoe. and yet, whenever he had got so far in his inclination to tell jane, some proof of her absorption in that baby at stokeley, for whom he had a sort of jealous dislike, threw him back upon himself, and made him doubt her affection for her young mistress, and resolve to keep the secret to himself, at any rate for the present. he came the nearest telling her one day in august, when, as he was watering his flowers in the evening, mrs gray passed the gate with that very little zoe, who was so constantly in his thoughts. she had a little white sun-bonnet on, which jane sands had actually bestowed upon her--rather grudgingly, it is true, and only because there was some defect about it which made it unworthy of the pampered child at stokeley. zoe saw the organist, or, at least, mrs gray imagined that she did, for the cry she gave might equally well have been intended as a greeting to a pig down in the ditch. 'well a-never, who 'd a' thought! she see you ever so far off, bless her! and give such a jump as pretty near took her out of my arms. why there! mr robins don't want you, miss saucy, no one don't want such rubbige; a naughty, tiresome gal! as won't go to sleep, but keeps jumping and kicking and looking about till my arm's fit to drop with aching.' jane sands was sitting at work just outside the kitchen door at the side of the house. he had seen her there a minute ago when he filled the watering-can at the pump, and a sudden impulse came into his mind to show her the child. he did not quite decide what he should say, or what he should do, when the recognition, which he felt sure was unavoidable, followed the sight of the child; but he just yielded to the impulse, and took the child from mrs gray's arms and carried her round to the back-door. the recognition was even more instantaneous than he had expected. as he came round the corner of the house, with the little, white-bonneted girl in his arms, jane sprang up with a cry of glad surprise and delight, such as swept away in a moment all his doubt of her loyalty to him and his, and all his remembrance of her absorption in that little common child at stokeley. she made a step forward and then stood perfectly still, and the light and gladness faded out of her face, and her hands, that had been stretched out in delighted greeting, fell dull and lifeless to her sides. he said nothing, but held the child towards her; it was only natural that she should doubt, being so unprepared, but a second glance would convince her. 'i thought,' she said, looking the baby over, with what in a less kind, gentle face, might have been quite a hard, critical manner, 'i thought for a minute'---- 'well?' 'i was mistaken,' she said; 'of course i was mistaken.' and then she added to herself more than to him, 'it is not a bit like'---- 'look again,' he said, 'look again; don't you see a likeness?' 'likeness? oh, i suppose it's the gypsy child up at mrs gray's, and you mean the likeness to the woman who came here that day she was left; but i don't remember enough of her to say. it's plain the child's a gypsy. what a swarthy skin, to be sure!' why, where were her eyes? to mr robins it was little edith over again. he wondered that all the village did not see it and cry out on him. but it was not likely that after this his confidence should go further, and just then the child began a little grumble, and he took her back hastily to mrs gray with a disappointed, crest-fallen feeling. jane sands was conscious that her reception of the baby had not been satisfactory, and she tried to make amends by little complimentary remarks, which annoyed him more than her indifference. 'a fine, strong child, and does mrs gray great credit.' 'it's a nice bright little thing, and i daresay will improve as it grows older.' she could not imagine why the organist grunted in such a surly way in reply to these remarks, for what on earth could it matter to him what anyone thought of a foundling, gypsy child? chapter vii. gray taken to the hospital--bill and the baby--mrs gray home again--edith, come home! it was near the end of september that john gray broke his leg. they were thrashing out a wheat-rick at farmer benson's, and somehow he tumbled from the top of the rick, and fell with his leg bent under him, and found that he could not stand when he tried to struggle up to his feet. they ran to tell 'his missus,' who came straight off from the washtub, with the soapsuds still about her skinny red elbows, catching up zoe from the cradle as she passed, at sight of whom gray, in spite of the pain and the deadly faintness that was dimming his eyes and clutching his breath, made an effort to chirrup and snap his fingers at the little one. 'it's his innerds as is hurted,' explained one of the bystanders, with that wonderful openness and way of making the worst of everything that is found in that class. 'the spine of his back most like,' said another, 'like poor johnson, over to stokeley, as never walked another step arter his fall.' 'ay, he do look mortal bad! 'tis a terrible bad job!' 'cut off like a flower!' sighed one of the women. 'there, bear up, my dear,' to mrs gray, with whom she had not been on speaking terms for some weeks, owing to a few words about her cat's thieving propensities, 'dontee take on! i knows well enough what you feels, as is only three weeks since father was took with his fit.' 'don't be skeered, old gal,' sounded gray's voice, odd and unnatural to the ears of the hearers, and far away and independent to himself, 'i ain't so bad as that comes to'---- and then mercifully he became unconscious, for to go six miles with a broken leg in a cart without springs on the way to the hospital is not a joke, and the neighbours' kindly attempts to bring him round were happily unsuccessful. the worst part of that drive fell to the share of his wife, who sat holding his head on her lap as they jolted along, trying to keep the jars and bumps from jerking his leg, though all the time she firmly believed he was dead, and was already, in her dulled mind, making pitiful little arrangements about mourning and the funeral, and contemplating, with dreary equanimity, a widowed existence with three-and-sixpence a week for her and tom and bill and zoe to live upon. she never left zoe out of the calculation, even when it became most difficult to adjust the number of mouths to be fed with the amount of food to be put into them, and over this dark future fell the darker shadow of the workhouse, which closes the vista of life to most of the poor. no wonder they live entirely in the present, and shut their eyes persistently to the future! there was not much going back into the past when she was a girl and the 'master' a lad, and they went courting of a sunday afternoon along the green lanes. life had been too matter-of-fact and full of hard work to leave much sentiment even in memory. mr robins heard of the accident in the evening, and went up to the cottage, where he found bill taking care of zoe, who was having a fine time of it, having soon discovered that she had only to cry for anything that evening to get it, and that it was an occasion for displaying a will of her own in the matter of going to bed, and being preternaturally wide awake and inclined for a game, when on other nights she was quite content to be laid down in the wooden cradle, which was rapidly becoming too small for her increasing size. poor bill had been at school when the accident happened, and, of course, the neighbours had made the very worst of the matter, so the poor boy hardly knew what part of his father had not been crushed or injured, or if he had been killed on the spot, or had been taken barely alive to the hospital. the baby had been pushed into his arms, so that he could not go up to the farm, nor find tom to learn the rights of the matter; so that, when mr robins came into the cottage, he found both bill and the baby crying together, the fire out, and the kettle upset into the fender. 'give me the child,' the organist said. and bill obeyed, as he did at the choir practice when he was told to pass a hymn-book, and too miserable to wonder much at this new aspect of his master, and at seeing him take the baby as if he knew all about it, and sit down in father's arm-chair. 'see if you can't make the fire burn up,' he went on; 'the child's cold.' zoe seemed well content with her new nurse, and left off crying, and sat blinking gravely at the fire, which bill, much relieved at having something definite to do, soon roused up to a sparkling, crackling blaze with some dry sticks; while mr robins warmed her small, pink feet. bill would certainly have been surprised if he could have seen what was passing in the organist's mind, a proposal ripening into a firm resolve that he would take the child home that very night and tell jane who she was. let the village talk as it might, he did not mind; let them say what they pleased. he knew enough of village reports to guess that gray was not as badly hurt as every one declared; but still, even a trifling accident meant, at any rate, a week or two of very short commons at the cottage, perhaps less milk for the baby, or economy over fuel, and the september days were growing cold and raw, and there had been more than one frost in the mornings, and the baby's little toes were cold to his warm hand. mrs gray, too, would be occupied and taken up with her husband, and little zoe would be pushed about from one to another, and he had heard that there was scarlatina about, and the relieving officer had been telling him that very morning how careless the people were about infection. the cottage looked quite different in the blazing firelight, and bill, encouraged by the organist's presence, tidied up the place, where the washtub stood just as mrs gray had left it; and he set the kettle on to boil, so that when mrs gray and tom came in it presented quite a comfortable appearance. mrs gray came in tired and tearful, but decidedly hopeful, having left gray comfortably in bed with his leg set, and having received reassuring opinions from nurse and doctor: and the first alarm and apprehension being removed, there was a certain feeling of importance in her position as wife of the injured man, and excitement at a visit to the country town, both ways in a cart, which does not happen often in a life-time. the baby, thanks to the warmth and mr robins's nursing, had fallen asleep in his arms. mrs gray was so much confused and bewildered by the events of the day, that she would hardly have been surprised to see the queen with the crown on her head sitting there in the master's arm-chair, quite at home like, and holding the baby on one arm and the sceptre on the other; and tom was of too phlegmatic a disposition to be surprised at anything. so they made no remark, and mr robins laid the baby, still asleep, in bill's arms, and went away. such a beautiful, quiet september night, with great, soft stars overhead, and the scent of fallen leaves in the air; the path beneath his feet was soft with them, and as he passed under the elms which by daylight were a blaze of sunny gold, some leaves dropped gently on his head. 'to-morrow,' he said, 'i will bring little zoe home, and i will let her mother--i will let edith know that the child is with me, and that if she likes'---- it needed but a word, he felt sure, to bring the mother to the baby, the daughter to her father. he stood for a moment by the church-yard gate, close to the spot where that bitter, cruel parting had been, and fancied what the meeting would be. after all, what was his feeling for little zoe, and his imagination of what his little grandchild would be to him in the future, to the delight of having edith's arms round his neck and holding her to his heart once more? 'edith,' he whispered softly, as he turned away; 'edith, come home!' 'i wonder,' he said to jane sands that night; 'i wonder if you could find out an address for me?' she was folding up the tablecloth, and she stopped with a puzzled look. 'an address? whose?' 'well,' he said, without looking at her, 'i fancy there are still some of the blakes, (the word came out with a certain effort) 'living at bilton, and perhaps you could find out from them the address i want; or, perhaps,' he added quickly, for she understood now, and eager words were on her lips, 'perhaps you know. there! never mind now; if you know, you can tell me to-morrow.' chapter viii. preparation--the room furnished--mrs gray at work--the baby gone--the gypsy mother--the gypsy's story--a foolish fancy--something has happened--the real baby morning very often brings other counsels, but this was not the case with mr robins, for when he got up next day he was more than ever resolved to carry out his intention of bringing little zoe home, and letting her mother know that a welcome awaited her in her old home. he had not slept very much during the night, for his mind had been too full of the change that was coming in his life, and of the difference that the presence of edith and little zoe would make in the dull, old house. sad and worn and altered, was she! ah! that would soon pass away with kindness and care and happiness, and the cough that had sounded so hollow and ominous should be nursed away, and edith should be a girl again, a girl as she ought to be yet by right of her years; and those five years of suffering and estrangement should be altogether forgotten as if they had never been. he went into the bedroom next his, that had been edith's--that was to be edith's again--and, looking round it, noticed with satisfaction that jane had kept it just as it had been in the old days; and he pushed the bed a little to one side to make room for a cot to stand beside it, a cot which he remembered in the night as having stood for years in the lumber-room up in the roof, and which he now with much difficulty dragged out from behind some heavy boxes, and fitted together, wishing there had been time to give it a coat of paint, and yet glad, with a tremulous sort of gladness, that there was not, seeing that it would be wanted that very night. and just then jane sands came up to call him to breakfast, and stood looking from the cot to her master's dusty coat, with such a look of delighted comprehension on her face, that the organist felt that no words were needed to prepare her for what was going to happen. 'i thought,' he said, 'it had better be brought down.' 'where shall it go?' she asked. 'in miss----in the room next mine,' he said, 'and it will want a good airing.' 'shall i make up the bed too?' she asked. 'yes, you may as well.' 'oh, master,' she said, the tears shaking in her voice and shining in her eyes; 'will they be wanted soon? will they, maybe, be wanted to-night?' his own voice felt suspiciously shaky; his own eyes could not see the old cot, nor jane's beaming face quite plainly, so he only gave a gruff assent and turned away. 'what a good, kind creature she is!' he thought. 'what a welcome she will give edith and edith's little zoe!' during the morning he heard her up in the room sweeping and scrubbing, as if for these five years it had been left a prey to dust and dirt; and when he went out after dinner to give a lesson at bilton, she was still at it with an energy worthy of a woman, half her age. that stupid little girl at bilton, who generally found her music-lesson such an intolerable weariness to the flesh, and was conscious that it was no less so to her teacher, found the half-hour to-day quite pleasant. mr robins had never been so kind and cheerful, quite amusing, laughing at her mistakes, and allowing her to play just the things she knew best, and to get up in the middle of the lesson to go to the window and see a long procession of gypsy vans going by to smithurst fair. it was such a very beautiful day; perhaps it was this that produced such a good effect on the organist's temper. there had been a frost that morning, but it was not enough to strip the trees, but only to turn the elms a richer gold, and the beeches a warmer red, and the oaks a ruddier brown; while in the hedges the purple dogwood, and hawthorn, and bramble leaves made a wonderful variety of rich tints in the full bright sunshine, which set the birds twittering with a momentary delusion that it might be spring. he did not come back over the hill, and past the grays' cottage, for he was going to fetch the child that evening; but he came home by the road, meeting many more of those gypsy vans which had distracted his pupil's attention, and looking with kindliness on the swarthy men and bronze dark-eyed women, for the sake of little zoe, who had been so often called the gypsy baby. when he reached home he found the room prepared with all the care jane sands could lavish. he had thought when he went in that morning that it was just as edith had left it, and all in the most perfect order; but now the room was a bower of daintiness and cleanliness, and all edith's old treasures had been set out in the very order she used to arrange them--why! even her brush and comb were laid ready on the dressing-table, and a pair of slippers by the bedside, and a small bunch of autumn anemones and czar violets was placed in a little glass beside her books. he smiled, but with tears in his eyes, as he saw all these loving preparations. 'edith can hardly be here to-night,' he said to himself, 'but zoe will.' and he smoothed the pillow of the cot close to the bedside, and drew the curtain more closely over its head. he found his tea set ready for him when he came down, but jane sands had gone out, and he was rather glad of it, as she had watched him that morning with an eager expectant eye, and he did not know what to say to her. it would be easier when he brought the baby and actually put it into her arms. the sun had set when he had finished tea, a blaze of splendour settling down into dull purple and dead orange, leaving a stripe of pale-green sky over the horizon, flecked with a few soft brown clouds tinged with red. but envious night hastened to cover up and deaden the colours of the sky, and the almost equally gorgeous tints of tree and hedge; and, by the time mr robins reached the grays' cottage, darkness had settled down as deep as on that evening four months ago, when he carried the baby and left it there. now, as then, the cottage door was open, and mrs gray sat at work with the candle close to her elbow, every now and then giving a long sniff or a sigh, that made the tallow candle flicker and tremble. he had almost forgotten her husband's accident in his absorption in the baby; but these sniffs recalled it to his mind, and he thought he would give them a helping hand while gray was in the hospital. 'she has been kind to my little zoe,' he thought, 'and i will not forget it in a hurry. she shall come and see the child whenever she likes; and edith will be good to her, for she has been like a mother to the baby all these months.' close by where mrs gray sat he could see the foot of the old cradle and the rocker within reach of the woman's foot; but zoe must be asleep, for there was no rocking necessary, and mrs gray did not turn from her work to look at the child, though she stopped from time to time to wipe her eyes on her apron. 'she is taken up with her husband,' he said to himself; 'it is as well that i am going to take the child away, as she will have no thought to give her now.' and then he went into the cottage, with a tap on the open door to announce his presence. 'good evening, mrs gray,' he said in a subdued voice, so as not to wake the baby. but he might have spared himself this precaution, for the next glance showed him that the cradle was empty. 'bless you, mr robins,' the woman said, 'you give me quite a start, coming in so quiet like. but, there! i 'm all of a tremble, the leastest thing do terrify me. you might knock me down with a feather. first one thing and then another! the master yesterday and the baby to-day!' 'what!' he said, so sharp and sudden, that it stopped the flow of words for a moment. 'what do you mean! is the baby in bed up-stairs? what's the matter? it's not the scarlatina? not'---- 'bless you!' she said, 'why i thought you'd a-knowed. it ain't the scarlatina; the baby was as well and bonnie as ever when she went. she 've agone! her mother come and fetch her this very day, and took her right off. ay! but she were pleased to see how the little thing had got on, and she said as she 'd never forget my kindness, and how she'd bring her to see me whenever she come this way. but, there! i do miss her terrible. why, it's 'most worse than the master himself.' the organist hardly listened to what she was saying after the fact of the mother having come and fetched her away. edith had come for her baby! how had she known? why had she done it to-day? could jane have let her know? and had she come so quickly to take the child herself to her old home? his first impulse was to turn and hasten home; perhaps edith and zoe were there already, and would find him absent. but he could not go without a word to mrs gray, who was wiping her eyes in her apron and unconsciously rocking the empty cradle. 'you will often see her,' he said consolingly; 'she will not be very far away.' 'oh, i don't know about that; them gypsies go all over the place, up and down the country, and they don't always come back for the fairs; though she says as they don't often miss smithurst.' 'gypsies?' he said puzzled. 'ay, the mother 's a gypsy sure enough, and i've said it all along, and the child's the very image of her; there wasn't no doubt, when one saw the two together, as they was mother and child.' 'are you sure she was a gypsy?' he had often said in fun that edith was a regular little gypsy, but he would never have thought that any one could really mistake her for one; and besides, mrs gray must have known edith well enough at any rate by sight in the old days; and changed as she was, it was not beyond all recognition. 'oh, there wasn't no mistaking, and the van as she belonged to waited just outside the village, for i went down along with her and seed it, painted yeller with red wheels. i knowed zoe was gypsy born, for she'd one of them charms round her neck as i didn't meddle with, for they do say as there's a deal of power in them things, and that gypsies can't be drownded or ketch fevers and things as long as they keeps 'em.' mr robins sat down in the chair opposite mrs gray; an odd, cold sort of apprehension was stealing over him, and the pleasant dream of home and edith and zoe, in which he had been living through the day, was fading away with every word the woman said. 'the funny part of it were that she vowed and declared as she put the child at your door, and never came this way at all; leastways, from what she said it must abeen your house, for she said it was hard by the church and had a thick hedge, and that there was a kind sorter body as she see there in the morning, as must abeen mrs sands, and nobody else from her account. she said she was in a heap of trouble just then, her husband ill and a deal more, and she was pretty nigh at her wits' end, and that, without thinking twice what she were about, she wropt the baby up and laid it close agin the door of the house where she'd seen the kind-looking body. she would have it as it was there, say what i would; but, maybe, poor soul, she were mazed, and hardly knew where she were. 'she went to your house to-day, and mrs sands were quite put out with her, being busy too, and expecting company, and thought it were just her impidence; but there! i knows what trouble is, and how it just mazes a body, for i could no more tell where i went nor what i did yesterday than that table there. and another queer thing is as she didn't know nothing about the name, and neither she nor her husband can't read or write noways, so she couldn't have wrote it down, and she 'd never heard tell of such a name as zoe, and didn't like it neither. she'd always ameant it to be rachel, as had been her mother's name before her, and her grandmother's too.' 'are you quite certain she was the mother?' 'certain? why, you 'd only to see the two together to be sure of it. i'd not have let her go, not were it ever so, if it hadn't been as clear as daylight; and just now too, when i seems to want her for a bit of comfort.' and here mrs gray relapsed into her apron. mr robins sat for a minute looking at her in silence, and then got up, and without a word went out into the dark night, mechanically taking the way to his house, and then turning on to the high-road to smithurst, tramping along through the mud and dead leaves with a dull, heavy persistence. anything was better than going back to the empty silence of his house and jane sands' expectant face, and the pretty, white-curtained room with the cot all ready for little zoe, who was already miles away along that dark road before him, sleeping, perhaps, in some dirty gypsy van put up on some bit of waste land by the roadside, or, perhaps, surrounded by the noise and glare of the fair with its shows and roundabouts. his little zoe! he could not possibly have been so utterly deceived all through; the baby who had lain on his bed, whose little face he had felt as he carried her up to the grays' cottage in the dark, whom he had seen day after day, and never failed to notice the likeness, growing stronger with the child's growth. was it all a delusion? all the foolish fancy of a fond, old man? he tried hard to believe that it was impossible that he could have been so deceived, and yet from the very first he felt that it was so, and that the love that had been growing in his heart all these months had been lavished on a gypsy baby whose face most likely he should never see again. and all his plans for the future, his dreams of reparation, of tender reconciliation with edith, and of happy, peaceful days that would obliterate the memory of past trouble and alienation, they had all vanished with the gypsy baby; life was as empty as the cradle by mrs gray's side. where was he to find his daughter? where had she wandered that night when the pitiless rain fell and the sullen wind moaned? was that the last he should ever see of her, with the white, wan, pleading face under the yew-tree? and would that despairing voice, saying 'father!' haunt his ears till his dying day? and would the wailing cry that followed him as he went to his house that night be the only thing he should ever know of his grandchild, the real little zoe whom he had rejected? he was several miles away along the smithurst road when he first realised what he was doing, brought to the consciousness, perhaps, by the fact of being weary and footsore and wet through from a fine rain that had begun falling soon after he left the village. it must be getting late too; many of the cottages he passed showed no light from the windows, the inmates most likely being in bed. painfully and wearily he toiled back to downside; he seemed to have no spirit left to contend against even such trifling things as mud and inequalities in the road, and when a bramble straying from the hedge caught his coat and tore it, he could almost have cried in feeble vexation of spirit. downside street was all dark and quiet, but from the organist's house a light shone out from the open door and down the garden path, making a patch of light on the wet road. some one stood peering out into the darkness, and, at the sound of his dragging, stumbling footsteps, jane sands ran down to the gate. the long waiting had made her anxious, for she was breathless and trembling with excitement. 'where have you been?' she said; 'we got so frightened. why are you so late? oh, dearie me!' as she caught sight of his face. 'you 're ill! something has happened! there, come in, doee, now; you look fit to drop!' he pushed by her almost roughly into the house, and dropped down wearily into the arm-chair. he was too worn out and exhausted to notice anything, even the warmth and comfort of the bright fire and the supper ready on the table. he tossed his soaked hat on the ground, and leaning his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, sat bowed down with the feeling of utter wretchedness. day after day, night after night, till his life's end, plenty and comfort and neatness and respectability and warmth in dull monotony; while outside somewhere in the cold and rain, in poverty and want and wretchedness, wandered edith with the wailing baby in her arms. 'you can go to bed,' he said to jane sands; 'i don't want any supper.' she drew back and went softly out of the room, but some one else was standing there, looking down at the bowed white head with eyes fuller even of pity and tears than jane's had been; and then she, too, left the room, and with a raised finger to jane, who was waiting in the passage, she went up-stairs and, as if the way were well known to her, to the little room which had been got ready so uselessly for the organist's daughter. there, sheltered by the bed-curtain, was the cot where zoe was to have lain, and there, wonderful to relate, a child's dark head might be seen, deep in the soft pillow, deeper in soft sleep. and then this strangely presuming intruder in the organist's house softly took up the sleeping child, and wrapping a shawl round it, carried it, still sleeping, downstairs, the dark lashes resting on the round cheek flushed with sleep and of a fairer tint than gypsy zoe's, and the rosy mouth half-open. the organist still sat with his head in his hands, and did not stir as she entered, not even when she came and knelt down on the hearth in front of him. jane sands was unusually tiresome to-night, he thought; why could she not leave him alone? and then against his cold hands clasped over his face was laid something soft and warm and tender, surely a little child's hand! and a voice (a voice he had never thought to hear again till maybe it sounded as his accuser before the throne of grace) said: 'father, for zoe's sake.' the end. edinburgh; printed by w & r. chambers, limited. for younger boys and girls s. net.- little mary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . l. t. meade. squire's little girl . . . . . . . . . . . . l. t. meade. the green casket . . . . . . . . . . . . mrs molesworth. bewitched lamp . . . . . . . . . . . . . mrs molesworth. their happiest xmas . . . . . . . . . . . . edna lyall. lassie . . . . . . . . . . . . by the author of _laddie_. baby john . . . . . . . . . . by the author of _laddie_. zoe . . . . . . . . . . . . . by the author of _laddie_. wilfrid clifford . . . . . . . . . . . . edith c. kenyon. ernest's golden thread . . . . . . . . . edith c. kenyon. the little knight . . . . . . . . . . . edith c. kenyon. a fairy grandmother . . . . . . . . . . l. e. tiddeman. humble heroine . . . . . . . . . . . . . l. e. tiddeman. steadfast gabriel . . . . . . . . . . . mary howitt. uncle sam's money-box . . . . . . . . . mrs s. c. hall. swan's egg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . mrs s. c. hall. gramdmama's pockets . . . . . . . . . . mrs s. c. hall. wonderful stories . . . . . . . . . . . hans c. andersen. w. & r. chambers, limited, london and edinburgh. printed in great britain. w. & r. chambers, ltd., london and edinburgh. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) a sailor's lass by emma leslie, author of "the gipsy queen," "dearer than life," "gytha's message," etc. with five illustrations. second edition. london: s.w. partridge & co., , paternoster row. [illustration: "he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters."] contents. chapter i. one stormy night chapter ii. the fisherman's home chapter iii. tiny's hope chapter iv. tiny's treasure chapter v. on the sands chapter vi. bad times chapter vii. a tea meeting chapter viii. brighter days chapter i. one stormy night. "mother, we're afloat agin." it was a gruff, sleepy voice that spoke, and the old fisherman turned over and snored on, as though the fact of their home being afloat was of no consequence to him. his wife, however, was by no means so easy in her mind, for it was only during the equinoctial gales and an unusually high tide that their home was lifted from its moorings; and now it had been swinging and swaying for hours, and the rusty chains that held it fast to some posts were creaking and straining as though the next gust of wind would certainly carry them out to sea or drive them up the river, where they would inevitably be swamped in a very short time, for their boat-home was leaky at the bottom--had been a water-logged boat before the fisherman took possession of it and turned it into a quaint-looking cottage by running up some wooden walls along the sides, and roofing it in with planks and tarpaulin. thus converted into a dwelling-house, the boat had been secured, by four chains fixed to posts in the ground, on the top of a mud-bank that formed the boundary of the mouth of the river. the ocean itself was less than a quarter of a mile from where the old boat was moored, and so the poor woman might well be excused for growing more alarmed as the minutes went on and the gale increased, until the boat fairly rocked, and the children in the adjoining cabin began crying and screaming in their fright. "coomber! coomber!" she said at last, shaking her husband, and starting up in bed; for a sound more dreadful than the children's screams had made itself heard above the din of the wind and waves. "there's a ship, coomber, close in shore; i can hear the guns!" screamed his wife, giving him another vigorous shake. "ship! guns!" exclaimed the old fisherman, starting up in bed. the next minute he was on his feet, and working himself into his clothes. "she must be on the sand-bar if you heard the guns," he said. a sudden lurch of the boat almost pitched the old man forward, and the children's screams redoubled, while mrs. coomber hastily scrambled out of bed and lighted the lantern that hung against the wall. "what are yer going to do?" asked her husband, in some surprise; "women ain't no good in such work as this." "what are you going to do?" asked mrs. coomber, almost crying herself; "the boat will soon be adrift with this wind and tide, and we shall all be drowned like rats in a hole." "nay, nay, old woman, the boat was made taut enough before i brought you here, and you think she wouldn't have broke away before this if she was going to do it? don't be a stupid lubber," he added. "but the children, coomber, the children. i ain't afraid for myself," said the mother, with a sob. "well, well, the old boat'll hold the boys for many a day yet," said the fisherman; "you go in and stop their noise, while i get help for the poor souls that are surely perishing out there." "but what can you do for them?" asked his wife; "there ain't a boat besides ours at bermuda point, nor a man to help you manage it besides bob." "no, no; bob and i couldn't manage the boat in such a sea as this; but he shall go with me to fellness. bob! bob!" called his father, in the same breath. "aye, aye," came an answering shout from the adjoining cabin. "slip into your things as quick as you can; we must be off to fellness; there's a ship out there on the bar sands." "i'm a'most ready, dad; i heard mother call yer, and thought you'd let me go along," replied bob. before the fisherman put on his sou'-wester he took a black bottle from a recess, and after taking a hearty draught, he said, "it's lucky we've got a drop to-night," as he handed it to his wife; and with a parting word to her not to be afraid, he and bob stepped out of the boat-house door, to meet the full fury of the blast, that threatened at first to carry them off their legs. the three miles' walk to the little fishing village of fellness was no easy task such a wild night as this, for although the road was inland, it was fully exposed to the sea, and between the wilder outbreaks of the wind and rain they could hear the guns of distress, and occasionally see a rocket piercing the midnight blackness of the sky, appealing for help for the drowning men. at the coastguard station, midway between the point and the village, they found the men on the alert, and two volunteered to go with coomber and help man the boat. then the four plodded silently along the slushy road, for talking was next to impossible in such a gale, and it needed all the strength and energy they could muster to fight the wind and rain. they made their way to the beach as soon as they reached fellness, and, as they expected, found most of the men gathered there, watching the distressed vessel. "halloo! here's coomber from the point," said one, as the new-comers pushed their way in among them. "what are yer standing here for?" shouted coomber, in some impatience; "looking won't do her no good." "we can't do nothing else," said the man; "we've got rodwell's boat here--she's the best craft on this coast for such a trip, and we've made three tries in her, but it's no good; nothing could live in such a sea as this; we've been beat back every time, and well-nigh swamped." "well, mates, i don't say nothing but what yer may have tried; but suppose now one of yer had got a boy out in that there ship--_i've_ got a boy in that, or another, if he ain't gone to where there's no more sea," said the old fisherman, with a groan; and before he had done speaking, one or two had moved to where the boat had been dragged on to the low sandy shore. "we'll try again," they said, in quiet but determined voices. "let the youngsters go," said coomber, as two or three married men pressed forward; "them as has got wives ain't no call to go on such a trip as this. there'll be enough of us; there's me and bob, and rook and white came with us a purpose, and----" "but how about your wife, coomber?" interrupted one of the men. "oh, never you fear, lads; she'll not grudge me if i save her boy. now, lads, look here; seven of us'll be enough, and we've got four." there were so many volunteers for the three vacant places, that the men seemed on the point of quarrelling among themselves now for the privilege of joining in this dangerous errand; but by common consent coomber was constituted the leader of the party, and he chose three of the most stalwart of the single men, and the rest were allowed to run the boat down through the surf. then, with a loud cheer from all who stood on the shore, the seven brave men bent to their oars, and during a slight lull in the wind, they made a little headway towards the wreck. but the next minute they were beaten back again, and the boat well-nigh swamped. again they pushed off, but again were they driven back; and five times was this repeated, and thus an hour was lost in the fruitless endeavour to get away from the shore. at length the fury of the storm somewhat abated, and they were able to get away, but it was a long time before they could get near the dangerous bar sands, on which the vessel had struck, and when they did get there, the ship had disappeared. there was plenty of wreckage about--broken spars, fragments of masts and torn sail-cloth. "we're too late," groaned one of the men, as he peered through the darkness, trying to descry the hull of the vessel. they had not heard the guns or seen a rocket thrown up for some time. "they're all gone, poor fellows," said another, sadly; "we may as well go back now, before the gale freshens again." "oh, stop a bit; we'll look among this rubbish, and see what there is here; perhaps some of them are holding on to the floating timber," said coomber, who had frequently been out on a similar errand. they raised their voices together, and cried "hi! hi!" trying to outscream the wind; but it was of no use; there was no answering call for help, and after waiting about for some time, and going as near to the dangerous sands as they dared, they at length reluctantly turned their boat towards the shore, and began to row back. but before they had got far on their way, they descried the gleam of something white floating in front of them. "only a bit of sail-cloth," said one, as they paused in their rowing to concentrate all their attention upon the object. "let's make sure, mates," said coomber. "steady, now; mind your oars; let her float; it's coming this way, and we'll pick it up;" and in another minute coomber had reached over and seized the white bundle, which he found to be carefully lashed to a spar. "it's a child!" he exclaimed. "mates, we ain't come out for nothing, after all. now row for dear life," he said, as he carefully laid the bundle in the bottom of the boat. they could do nothing for it here, not even ascertain whether it was dead or alive; and they pulled for the shore with even greater eagerness than they had left it. the dawn was breaking before they got back, and they were welcomed with a shout from their waiting comrades, who were watching anxiously for the return of the boat. there was disappointment, however, in the little crowd of watchers when they saw only the brave crew returning from the perilous journey. "what, nothing!" exclaimed one of the men, as the boat drew close in shore. "only a child, and that may be dead," shouted one of the crew. "but i think it's alive," said coomber. "run, peters, and rouse up your missus; the womenfolk are better hands at such jobs than we are;" and as soon as he could leave the boat, he picked up the white bundle, and hurried after peters, leaving his companions to tell the story of their disappointment. mrs. peters was a motherly woman, and had already lighted a fire to prepare some breakfast for her husband, in readiness for his return from the beach, so the wet clothes were soon taken off the child, and they saw it was a little girl about five years old, fair and delicate-looking, decently, but not richly clad, with a small silver medal hung round her neck by a black ribbon. at first they feared the poor little thing was dead, for it was not until mrs. peters had well-nigh exhausted all her best-known methods for restoring the apparently drowned, that the little waif showed any sign of returning life. coomber stood watching with silent but intense anxiety the efforts of the dame to restore animation, not daring to join in the vigorous chafings and slappings administered, for fear his rough horny hands should hurt the tender blue-white limbs. for some time the woman was too much occupied with her task to notice his presence, but when her labour was rewarded by a faint sigh, and a slightly-drawn breath parted the pale lips, she heard a grunt of satisfaction behind her; and turning her head, she exclaimed, "what gowks men are, to be sure." "eh, what is it, dame?" said coomber, meekly; for he had conceived a wonderful respect for mrs. peters during the last ten minutes. "ha' you been a-standing there like a post all this while, and never put out yer hand to help save the child?" she said, reproachingly. "i couldn't, dame, i couldn't with such hands as these; but i'll do anything for you that i can," whispered the fisherman, as though he feared to disturb the child. "well, i want a tub of hot water," snapped mrs. peters. "you'll find the tub in the backyard, and the kettle's near on the boil. look sharp and get the tub, and then go upstairs and get a blanket off the bed." coomber soon brought the tub, and a pitcher of cold water that stood near, but it was not so easy for him to grope his way upstairs. the staircase was narrow and dark, and seemed specially contrived that the uninitiated might bump and bruise themselves. coomber, in his boat-home, having no such convenience or inconvenience in general use, found the ascent anything but easy, and the dame's sharp voice was heard calling for the blanket long before he had groped his way to the bedroom door. but what would he not do for that child whose faint wail now greeted his ears? he pushed on, in spite of thumps and knocks against unexpected corners, and when he had found the blanket, was not long in making his way down with it. "now what's to be done with her?" demanded the woman, as she lifted the little girl out of the water, and wrapped her in the blanket. "won't she drink some milk?" said coomber, scratching his head helplessly. "i dessay she will presently; but who's to keep her? you say there ain't none of the people saved from the wreck to tell who she belongs to?" "no, there ain't none of 'em saved, so i think i'll take her myself," said coomber. "you take her!" exclaimed the woman; "what will your wife say, do you think, to another mouth to fill, when there's barely enough now for what you've got--four hearty boys, who are very sharks for eating?" "well, dame, i've had a little gal o' my own, but ain't likely to have another unless i takes this one," said coomber, with a little more courage, "and so i ain't a-going to lose this chance; for i do want a little gal." "oh, that's all very well; but you ain't no call to take this child that's no ways your own. she can go to the workus, you know. peters'll take her by-and-by. her clothes ain't much, so her belongings ain't likely to trouble themselves much about her. yer can see by this trumpery medal she don't belong to rich folks; so my advice is, let her go to the workus, where she'll be well provided for." "no, no! the missus'll see things as i do, when i talk to her a bit. so if you'll take care of her for an hour or two, while i go home and get off these duds, and tell her about it, i'll be obliged;" and without waiting for the dame's reply, coomber left the cottage. [illustration] chapter ii. the fisherman's home. "why, mother, are you here?" coomber spoke in a stern, reproachful tone, for he had found his wife and the cowering children huddled together in the corner of the old shed where the family washing and various fish-cleaning operations were usually carried on; and the sight did not please him. "are yer all gone mad that yer sitting out there wi' the rain drippin' on yer, when yer might be dry an' comfortable, and have a bit o' breakfast ready for a feller when he comes home after a tough job such as i've had?" "i--i didn't know when you was coming to breakfast," said mrs. coomber, timidly, and still keeping close in the corner of the shed for fear her husband should knock her down; while the children stopped their mutual grumblings and complaints, and crept closer to each other behind their mother's skirts. "couldn't you ha' got it ready and waited wi' a bit o' fire to dry these duds?" exclaimed her husband. "but the boat, coomber, it wasn't safe," pleaded the poor woman. "we might ha' been adrift any minute." "didn't i tell yer she was safe, and didn't i ought to know when a boat's safe better nor you--a poor tool of a woman? come out of it," he added, impatiently, turning away. the children wondered that nothing worse than hard words fell to their share, and were somewhat relieved that the next question referred to bob, and not to their doings. "you say he ain't come home?" said coomber. "i ain't seen him since he went with you to fellness. ain't you just come from there?" said his wife, timidly. "of course i have, but bob ought to have been back an hour or so ago, for i had something to do in the village. come to the boat, and i'll tell you all about it," he added, in a less severe tone; for the thought of the child he had rescued softened him a little, and he led the way out of the washing-shed. the storm had abated now, and the boat no longer rocked and swayed, so that the children waded back through the mud without fear, while their father talked of the little girl he had left with dame peters at fellness. they listened to his proposal to bring her home and share their scanty meals with very little pleasure, and they wished their mother would say she could not have another baby; but instead of this mrs. coomber assented at once to her husband's plan of fetching the child from fellness that afternoon. the coombers were not a happy family, for the fisherman was a stern, hard man by nature, and since he had lost his little girl he had become harder, his neighbours said. at all events, his wife and children grew more afraid of him--afraid of provoking his stern displeasure by any of those little playful raids children so delight in; and every one of them looked forward to the day when they could run away from home and go to sea, as their grown-up brother had done. bob, the eldest now at home, was already contemplating taking this step very soon, and had promised to help dick and tom when they were old enough. it had been a startling revelation to bob to hear his father speak as he had done on the beach at fellness about his brother, for he had long ago decided that his father did not care a pin for any of them, unless it was for the baby sister who had died, and even of that he was not quite sure. he had made up his mind, as he walked through the storm that morning, that he would not go back again, but make his way to grimsby, or some other seaport town, after his business at fellness was done. but what he had heard on the beach from his father somewhat shook his purpose, and when he learned from dame peters afterwards, that the child they had rescued was to share their home, he thought he would go back again, and try to bear the hard life a little longer, if it was only to help his mother, and tell her his father did care for them a bit in spite of his stern, hard ways. perhaps mrs. coomber did not need to be told that her husband loved her and his children; at all events, she received bob's information with a nod and a smile, and a whispered word. "yer father's all right, and a rare good fisherman," she said; for in spite of the frequent unkindness she experienced, mrs. coomber was very fond of her husband. "ah, he's a good fisherman, but he'd be all the better if he didn't have so much of that bottle," grumbled bob; "he thinks a deal more about that than he does about us." it was true enough what bob said. if his father could not by any chance get his bottle replenished, wife and children had a little respite from their usual hard, driving life, and he was more civil to their only neighbours, who were at the farm about half a mile off; but once the bottle got filled again, he grew sullen and morose, or quarrelsome. he had recently made himself very disagreeable to farmer hayes in one of his irritable fits, a fact which suddenly recurred to his wife when she heard of the sick child being brought home to her to nurse, but she dared not mention it to her husband. when coomber brought the child that afternoon, he said, gaily: "here's a present for yer from the sea, mother; maybe she'll bring us good luck coming as she did." "it 'ud be better luck if we'd picked up a boat," muttered bob, who was standing near. "why, she ain't such a baby as you said," exclaimed mrs. coomber, as she unpinned the shawl in which she was wrapped; "she is about five." "five years old," repeated coomber; "but she'd talk if she was as old as that, and dame peters told me she'd just laid like a dead thing ever since she'd been there." "she's ill, that's what it is, poor little mite--ill and frightened out of her senses;" and mrs. coomber gathered her in her arms, and kissed the little white lips, and pressed her to her bosom, as only a tender mother can, while the boys stood round in wondering silence, and coomber dashed a tear from his eye as he thought of the little daughter lying in fellness churchyard. but he was ashamed of the love that prompted this feeling, and said hastily: "now, mother, we mustn't begin by spoiling her;" but then he turned away, and called bob to go with him and look after the boat. for several days the child continued very ill--too ill to notice anything, or to attempt to talk; but one day, when she was lying on mrs. coomber's lap before the fire, the boys mutely looking at her as she lay, she suddenly put up her little hands, and said in a feeble whisper, "dear faver dod, tate tare o' daddy and mammy, and tiny;" and then she seemed to drop off into a doze. the boys were startled, and mrs. coomber looked down hastily at the little form on her lap, for this was the first intimation they had had that the child could talk, although mrs. coomber fancied that she had showed some signs of recognising her during the previous day. "i say, did you hear that?" whispered dick. "was she saying her prayers, mother, like harry hayes does?" mrs. coomber nodded, while she looked down into the child's face and moved her gently to and fro to soothe her to sleep. "but, mother, ought she to say that? did you hear her? she said 'dear god,'" said dick, creeping round to his mother's side. mrs. coomber was puzzled herself at the child's words. they had awakened in her a far-off memory of days when she was a girl, and knelt at her mother's knee, and said, "our father," before she went to bed. but that was long before she had heard of bermuda point, or thought of having boys and girls of her own. when they came she had forgotten all about those early days; and so they had never been taught to say their prayers, or anything else, in fact, except to help their father with the boat, shoot wild-fowl in the winter, and gather samphire on the shore during the summer. she thought of this now, and half wished she had thought of it before. perhaps if she had tried to teach her children to pray, they would have been more of a comfort to her. perhaps jack, her eldest, would not have run away from home as he did, leaving them for years to wonder whether he was alive or dead, but sending no word to comfort them. the boys were almost as perplexed as their mother. the little they had heard of god filled them with terror, and so to hear such a prayer as this was something so startling that they could think and talk of nothing else until their father came in, when, as usual, silence fell on the whole family, for coomber was in a sullen mood now. the next day tiny, as she had called herself, was decidedly better. a little bed had been made up for her in the family living-room, and she lay there, quiet but observant, while mrs. coomber went about her work--cooking and cleaning and mending, and occasionally stopping to kiss the little wistful face that watched her with such quiet curiosity. "am i in a s'ip now?" the child asked at length, when mrs. coomber had kissed her several times. "you're in a boat, deary; but you needn't be afraid; our boat is safe enough." "i ain't afraid; dod is tatin' tare of me," said the child, with a little sigh. mrs. coomber wondered whether she was thinking of the storm; whether she could tell them who she was, and where her friends might be found; and she ventured to ask her several questions about this, but failed to elicit any satisfactory answer. the child was sleepy, or had forgotten what mrs. coomber thought she would be sure to remember; but it was evident she had taken notice of her surroundings during the last few days, for after a little while she said, "where's der boys--dat dick and tom?" mrs. coomber was amused. "they're out in the boat looking after the nets," she said. "when they toming home?" asked the little girl; "home to dis boat, i mean," she added. "oh, they'll come soon," replied mrs. coomber. "but, now, can't you tell me something about your mother and father, and where you lived, my deary?" she asked again. "i tomed in a s'ip, and 'ou my mammy now," said the child, looking round the cosy room with perfect content. "but where is your own mammy, who taught you to say your prayers?" asked mrs. coomber. the tears came into the sweet blue eyes for a minute as she said, "see dorn up dere, to tay in dod's house, and tiny do too if see a dood dal." mrs. coomber laid down the jacket she was patching, and kissed the serious little face. "is your mother dead, my deary?" she asked, while the tears shone in her own eyes. "see done to see daddy, and tell him about tiny," answered the child; from which mrs. coomber gathered that mother and father were both dead; and when her husband came home she told him what she had heard, which seemed to afford the old fisherman a good deal of satisfaction. "then she's ours safe enough, mother," he said, rubbing his hands, "and when she gets well she'll toddle about the old boat like our own little polly did." "but i thought you said peters was going to see the newspaper man to tell him to put something in the _stamford mercury_ about finding her, so that her friends should know she was saved, and come and fetch her." "i said her mother or father," interrupted coomber, sharply; "but if they're dead, there ain't anybody else likely to want such a little 'un, and so we may keep her, i take it. but peters shall go to the newspaper man, never fear," added coomber; "i don't want to rob anybody of the little 'un; but if nobody don't come in a week, why then, mary----" and coomber paused, and looked at his wife. "well, then, i'll get out little polly's things; they'll just about fit her," said mrs. coomber, hastily wiping her eyes with her apron for fear her husband should reproach her again for her tears. when the boys came in, the little girl said, shyly, "tome and tell me about the nets." dick looked at her, and then at his mother. "what does she mean?" he asked, drawing near the little bed where tiny lay. "she wants to know about the fishing," said mrs. coomber. "have you had a good take, dick?" asked his mother, rather anxiously, for she wanted some more milk for tiny, and her little secret store of halfpence was gone now. "oh, it ain't much," said dick; "bob has taken a few plaice to fellness, and i dessay he'll bring back some bread or some flour." "but i want some milk for the child; she can't eat bread and fish and potatoes now she's ill. couldn't you run up to the farm, dick, and ask mrs. hayes if she wants a bit o' fish, and i'll be thankful for a drop o' milk for it." but dick looked dubious. "i'd like to go," he said, "if it was only to have a word with harry hayes, and ask him about his rabbits; but father don't like the farm people now, and he said i was never to speak to them. you know they've had a quarrel." "well, what are we to do? they are our only neighbours, and they ain't a bad sort either, mrs. hayes is a kind soul, who has children of her own, and would let me have milk in a minute if she knew i wanted it for this poor little mite," said mrs. coomber, in perplexity as to the best thing to do. "i'll go, mother, if you can find any fish worth taking," at last said dick. mrs. coomber went and turned over what the boys had brought. the best had been picked out and sent to fellness, and what was left was not more than sufficient for themselves; but she carefully looked out the largest she could find and washed it. while she was doing this her husband came in. "it's a poor take to-day, mother," he said. "yes, and i wanted a bit extra, to get some milk for the child," said mrs. coomber; "but i think i can manage with this," she said, still busying herself with the fish, and not turning to look at her husband. "what are yer goin' to do wi' it?" he inquired. "i want to send dick up to the farm; mrs. hayes will give me some milk for it, i know," replied his wife, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact tone. [illustration: "'me likes 'ou,' she said." (_see page ._)] "and you'd send dick to that place when i said they shouldn't go near the house," said her husband, angrily. "take the fish and cook it for supper. not a bit o' my fish shall they have." "but the milk. what am i to do for the milk for the child now she's ill?" "what have yer done afore?" demanded her husband; and the poor woman was obliged to confess that she had taken milk from the man as he went past in his cart to the village each day since the child had been there. "she couldn't do wi'out milk," protested mrs. coomber. "how do you know she couldn't?" said her husband. "what business have you to spend money for milk--what business have you wi' money at all?" he inquired, suspiciously; for he saw in this wastefulness a cause for the recent strange scarcity of whisky; and he felt he had been deeply wronged. his quarrel with hayes had also been disregarded, and this made him further angry with his wife, and he strictly charged her never to have any more dealings with any of the farm people. "we can live very well without milk," he said. "i will feed the little 'un, and you'll see she can eat fish and bread as well as the rest of us." it was useless for mrs. coomber to protest against this; she knew if her husband made up his mind to do anything he would do it; but she almost dreaded supper-time coming, for she could not tell how tiny would like the proposed change in her nurse and diet. but as it happened the little girl was very pleased to be lifted out of bed and seated on coomber's knee at the table. "me likes 'ou," she said, patting his cheek with her little white hand; and she ate the fish and bread as though she was quite used to such food. [illustration] chapter iii. tiny's hope. the slant rays of the setting sun lay on the wide stretch of level sand surrounding bermuda point, for the tide was out, and had left it smooth, or slightly rippled as with tiny wavelets. standing at the very edge of the sands, with her eyes shaded, and her clothes blowing round her bare legs, was a little fair-haired girl. she was slender and delicate-looking still, in spite of the sun-browned arms and face. months had passed, but tiny was still at the point. she stood gazing seawards for some minutes, and then turned and walked slowly across the rippled sand. "i can't see him, dick," she said, in a disappointed tone. "oh, well, never mind," said the boy, who sat scooping the loose sand up in a heap, beyond the reach of the present ordinary tides. "have you filled both the baskets?" asked the little girl, as she waded through the loose dry sand to where the boy was sitting. "no, that i ain't," answered dick, "mother said you could pick the samphire to-day." "yes, but you said you'd help me," said the girl, walking steadily across the sand to the salt-marsh beyond. here the samphire grew in abundance, and the little girl set to work to fill the two large baskets that stood near. "you might come and help, dick," she called, hardly repressing a sob as she spoke. "look here, i'll help if you'll just come and make some more of them letters. you said you would, you know," added the boy, still piling up the sand. "oh, dick, you know i can't; you know i've forgot a'most everything since i've been here;" and this time the little girl fairly burst into tears, and sat down beside the half-filled baskets, and sobbed as though her heart would break. the boy's heart was touched at the sight of her distress, and he ran across to comfort her. "don't cry, tiny; i'll help yer, and then we'll try agin at the letters. i know three--a b c: you'll soon find out about the others, and make 'em in the sand for me." but tiny shook her head. "i'd know 'em if i had a book," she said, sadly; "ain't it a pity daddy ain't got one?" "what 'ud be the good of books to dad?" said dick. "harry hayes has got some, i know; but then he goes to school, and knows all about 'em. there, let's forget we see him with that book yesterday, for it ain't no good for us to think about it," concluded dick; for he did not like to see tiny's tears, and the easiest way of banishing them was to forget the original cause, he thought. but the little girl was not of the same opinion. she shook her head sadly as she said-- "i've forgot a'most everything my mother told me." "oh, that you ain't," contradicted the boy, "you never forget to say your prayers before you go to bed. i wonder you ain't forgot that; i should, i know." "how could you, dick, if you knew god was waiting to hear you?" said tiny, lifting her serious blue eyes to his face. "then why ain't he waiting to hear me?" asked dick. the question seemed to puzzle the little girl for a minute or two; but at length she said-- "he is, dick, i think; i'm a'most sure he's waiting for yer to begin." "then he's waited a good while," said dick, bluntly; and he got up and began to pull away at the samphire, by way of working off or digesting the wonderful thought. after working away in silence for some minutes, dick said-- "d'ye think god cares for us down here at bermuda point?" tiny paused, with her hands full of samphire. "why shouldn't he?" she said. "i know he cares for me. he loves me," she added, in a tone of triumph; "my mother told me so. she said he loved me just as well as she did." "i'd like to know whether he cares about me," said dick. "d'ye think yer could find out for us, tiny? yer see everybody likes you--mother, and father, and bob; and harry hayes showed you his book yesterday. you see you're a gal, and i think you're pretty," added dick, critically; "so it 'ud be a wonder if he didn't like you." "and why shouldn't he love you, dick?" said tiny. dick looked down at the patched, ragged, nondescript garments that served him as jacket and trousers, and then at his bare, sunburnt arms and legs. "well, i'm just dick of the point. i ain't a gal, and i ain't pretty." nobody could dispute the latter fact, which dick himself seemed to consider conclusive against any interest being taken in him, for he heaved a sigh as he returned to his work of picking the samphire. the sigh was not lost on tiny. "look here, dick," she said, "you ain't a gal, and p'r'aps you ain't pretty, but i love you;" and she threw her arms round his neck as he stooped over the basket. "i love yer, dick, and i'll find out all about it for yer. i'm a'most sure god loves yer too." "oh, he can't yet, yer know," said dick, drawing his arms across his eyes to conceal the tears that had suddenly come into them. "i don't never say no prayers nor nothing. i ain't never heerd about him, only when dad swears, till you come and said your prayers to him." "still, he might, yer know," said tiny; "but if you'll help, i'll find out all about it." "what can yer do?" asked dick. "well, i'll tell yer why i want dad to come home soon to-night," said tiny, resting her hands on the basket, and looking anxiously across the sea. "mother said he'd take the samphire by boat to fellness, and i thought perhaps he'd take me too." "well, s'pose he did?" said dick, who could see no connection between a visit to the village and the attainment of the knowledge they both desired. "why, then i might get a book," said tiny. "i'd go with dad to sell the samphire; and then we'd see the shops; and if he had a good take, and we got a lot of samphire, he'd have enough money to buy me a book, as well as the bread and flour and tea." dick burst into a loud laugh. "so this is your secret; this is what you've been thinking of like a little goose all day." tiny was half offended. "you needn't laugh," she said; "i shall do it, dick." "will yer?" he said, in a teasing tone. "if there wasn't no whisky, and there was bookshops at fellness, you might. why, what do you think the village is like?" he asked. "like? oh, i dunno! everything comes from fellness," added the little girl, vaguely. to the dwellers at the point, the little fishing-village was the centre of the universe; and tiny, with faint recollections of a large town, with broad streets, and rows of shops all brilliantly lighted at night, had formed magnificently vague notions of fellness as being something like this; and she had only got to go there, and it would be easy to coax the old fisherman to buy her a book, as she coaxed him to build her a castle in the sand, or take her on his knee and tell her tales of ships that had been wrecked on the bar sands. "but do you know what fellness is like?" persisted dick. "there ain't no shops at all--only one, where they sells flour, and bread, and 'bacca, and tea, and sugar, and soap. they has meat there sometimes; but i never sees no books, and i don't believe they ever has 'em there," concluded the boy. "perhaps they keeps 'em in a box where you can't see 'em," suggested tiny, who was very unwilling to relinquish her hope. "pigs might fly, and they will when they sells books at fellness," remarked dick. "where does harry hayes get his from?" suddenly asked the girl; and at the same moment she espied a speck on the horizon, which she decided was a fisherman's boat. "he's coming, dick, dad's coming," she exclaimed. "make haste--make haste and fill up the baskets;" and she tore away at the seaweed, piling it into the baskets as fast as her small hands would permit. "now we'll carry one down," she said, taking hold of the handle. "catch hold, dick;" for she wanted to be at the edge of the sands by the time the boat touched the shore. but dick was in no such hurry to meet his father. "there's plenty of time," he said, leisurely untying a knot in a piece of string. "no there isn't, dick; don't you know i'm going to fellness in the boat." "but you're afraid," said the boy; "ain't father tried to coax you lots o' times to go out with him, and yer never would? you'll just get to the edge, and when yer sees it rock a bit yer'll run away." "no, i won't, dick, this time," said the little girl. but as she spoke a shiver of fear and dread ran through her frame at the thought of the swaying boat. dick saw it, and laughed. "didn't i tell yer you was afraid," he said, in a mocking tone; "what's the good of going down there, when you're frightened?" "but i want a book, dick; i must learn to read, and find out what we want to know. oh, do make haste!" she added, as she saw the boat approaching the shore. dick was still laughing, but he helped her carry the basket, though he teased her as they went along about being frightened. they got across the sands with their samphire, just as coomber and bob were springing ashore. "oh, daddy, take me with yer to fellness," called tiny, shutting her eyes as she spoke that she might not see the treacherous waves and the swaying boat. "halloo, halloo! what now, deary?" exclaimed coomber. and it was wonderful to see the change in his hard face as he lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her. "she says she'll go," said dick, "but i don't believe she means it." "yes i do. you'll take me, daddy, won't yer--'cos i've picked a lot of samphire--all that, and another basketful up there? go and fetch it, bob, and daddy can put it in the boat. and i'm going, too." "so you shall, deary, so you shall," said the old fisherman, in a pleased tone, for he had often tried to coax her out with him on the sea; but the memory of that awful night on the bar sands still clung to her, and the sight of the boat, swayed about at the mercy of the waves, filled her with a nameless terror. "there won't be a storm, will there?" asked tiny, with a shiver of fear, as the fisherman carefully lifted her in and placed her beside the basket of samphire. "my deary, if i thought the wind 'ud be even a bit fresh to-night, i wouldn't take yer," said the fisherman, in an earnest tone. he had never been so tender with one of his own children--unless it was to the little girl lying in the churchyard--as he was to this little waif of the sea; and now, as he pushed off from the shore, he was careful to keep the old boat as steady as possible, and sat watching her little frightened face as he plied his oars. he kept as close to the beach, too, as he well could, just skirting the sand-banks, so that she should have the comfort of seeing the land all the way along. after a few minutes tiny grew less frightened, and ventured to ask a question about where they were going. "oh, i'll take yer to see dame peters while bob unloads the boat," said coomber, nodding at her in an approving manner. "and shall i see the shops?" asked tiny; for she did not believe what dick had told her. "shops, shops!" repeated the fisherman, resting on his oars for a minute to stare at the little girl. "well, there's a shop," he said, slowly; "but i don't see what you can want there." "do they sell books?" asked tiny, eagerly. for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "what does a little 'un like you know about books?" he said. "but i know of something they do sell, as 'll suit you a deal better; they sell sweets, and almond rock, as well as 'bacca and bread, and you shall have some, my deary." the fisherman expected a joyous outburst in anticipation of these unwonted dainties, but the little girl said slowly-- "don't they sell books, too, daddy? i'd rather have a book than almond rock," she added. "why, what do you want with a book, a little 'un like you?" said coomber, impatiently. "we both wants it, dick and me; we wants to find out whether god loves boys as well as gals." the fisherman looked at her serious little face for a minute, and then burst into a laugh again. "well, you are a rum 'un as ever i came across. did you hear that, bob?" he asked, appealing to his elder son, who was steering. bob turned his sulky face round. "what's she saying now?" he asked. "what was, it little 'un--whether god loved boys and gals, wasn't it?" asked the fisherman, who was highly amused at the question. "he don't love none of us, i can tell her that," said bob, sharply. "he forgot us long ago, if ever he knowed anything about us." "there, what d'ye think o' that, little 'un?" said the fisherman, pulling away at the oars. tiny looked perplexed for a minute or two, but at length she said: "i think god knows all about the point, 'cos he loves me, and he listens when i say my prayers. but s'pose i tell him," she suddenly added, as though the thought had just occurred to her; "i can ask him to bless you and mammy, and dick and bob. but i should like to get a book," she said, in conclusion. "oh, the sweets 'll do as well," said the fisherman, who saw little use in books. he might have humoured tiny in what he looked upon as a most extraordinary whim, but he never remembered seeing such a thing as a book in fellness all the years he had known the place. people might have books, some of them, at least, but they were not of much use to fisher-folks, and he rather despised them. the sun had gone down before they landed; but the moon was rising; and so, between daylight and moonlight, they would be able to get back without any difficulty, when the fish and samphire were disposed of. "now, bob, get her unloaded, while i take the little 'un up to see dame peters," said coomber, as he lifted tiny out of the boat. she was looking round eagerly in search of the houses and shops, for in spite of what she had been told, she could not divest herself of the idea that fellness was a grand, glorious place, where everything could be bought if people only had fish and seaweed enough; and surely two big baskets of samphire were sufficient to buy a book. but to her disappointment she saw only a few lounging fishermen and children--like herself and dick--instead of the crowds of people she had expected; and as for shops--well, she could see a row of stone cottages at a distance. there might be a dozen, perhaps, and a few sheds and outbuildings, but the rest of the landscape was flat and unoccupied as their own point; and at the sight tiny hid her face in the fisherman's neck and burst into tears. [illustration] chapter iv. tiny's treasure. "well, now, if you can make her out, it's more than i can," said coomber, pausing in the doorway of dame peters' cottage, after he had seated tiny by the old woman's fire. "oh, leave her here for half an hour; she'll be all right by the time you come back; there's no 'counting for children, and she may feel frightened a bit, for all she ain't cried till she got ashore." "it's just that that beats me," said the fisherman; "she's as lively as you please in the boat, but as soon as she gets out, down she pops her head, and begins to pipe her eye." "well, there, you go and look after perkins and the fish, and i'll see to her," said dame peters, a little impatiently; for she had some potatoes cooking for her husband's supper, and she knew they needed attention. after looking to these, she turned to tiny, who had dried her tears by this time, and sat watching the old woman. "d'ye like to see pictures, deary?" she asked; and at the same time she opened the top drawer of an old-fashioned chest of drawers, and brought out a print, which she laid on the table, and lifted tiny, chair and all, close up to look at it. pictures were not to be seen in every cottage a few years ago, as they may be now. the _band of hope review_ and _british workman_ had not been heard of in fellness at the time of which we write, and so dame peters was very choice of her picture, although she knew nothing about the reading at the back of it. tiny brightened up wonderfully when her eyes fell upon this treasure; but after looking at it for some minutes, while dame peters turned out the potatoes, she ventured to lift it up and look at the other side, and she exclaimed joyfully: "oh, it's a book! there's reading on it!" "what, what!" exclaimed the old woman, turning from the fireplace to see what had happened. "what is it, child?" "see, see, there's reading--g o d! what does that spell?" asked tiny, looking up in the old woman's face, her finger still resting on the word she had picked out. "bless the child, how should i know? s'pose it is some sort of reading, as you say; but i never learned a letter in my life." "and i've a'most forgot," said tiny, sadly; and then her finger roved over the printed page, and she found that she could remember most of the letters now she saw them again; but how to put them together was the difficulty. she had forgotten how to do this entirely. g o d spelt a word familiar enough to her at one time, but which of all the words she used now those letters were intended to signify, she could not remember. again and again her finger returned to the well-remembered letters, but beyond this her memory failed her; and she sat, with puckered brow and steadfast eyes, still looking at the printed page instead of the picture, when coomber came back. "oh, daddy, daddy, look here!" exclaimed tiny; "here's a book with reading!" "she's just sat and looked at them letters, as she calls 'em, ever since you've been gone," said dame peters, in a half-offended tone; for her picture was not valued as much as it ought to be, she thought. "oh, she's a rum 'un," said coomber. "well, now, are you ready, little 'un?" he asked. tiny looked up wistfully in the old woman's face. "couldn't i take this home, and show it to dick?" she asked, timidly, laying her hand on the print. "take my picture home!" exclaimed the old woman. coomber turned the paper over, and looked at it contemptuously. "peters got this when he went to grimsby, i s'pose?" he said. "yes, he did." "well now, couldn't you let her have it, and let peters bring you another?" said the fisherman, who was anxious that his darling should be gratified if possible. but the old woman was little more than a child herself over this picture, and was unwilling to part with it at first. at last she agreed to sell it to tiny for a basket of samphire, for this seaweed made a kind of pickle among the fisher-folk, and was of some marketable value, too, for it did not grow everywhere along the coast, although round bermuda point it flourished in great luxuriance. tiny was only too glad to obtain such a treasure on such easy terms, although she was paying about five times the value of it; and when it had been folded up and carefully stowed away in coomber's pocket, she was quite ready to go to the boat, although dame peters pressed them to stay and have some of the hot potatoes for supper. tiny seemed brimful of joy that night; and when she was seated in the boat, and they were rowing over the placid water, she so far forgot her fears as to begin singing. something in the surroundings had recalled to her mind the time when she used to sing nearly every night her mother's favourite hymn. it all came back to her as freshly as though she had sung it only last week; and her sweet young voice rang out bold and clear-- "star of peace to wanderers weary, bright the beams that smile on me; cheer the pilot's vision dreary, far, far at sea." she paused there, not feeling quite sure of the next verse; but coomber said quickly-- "go on, deary, go on; don't you know the next bit?" "i'll try," said tiny; and again the voice rang out in its childish treble-- "star of hope, gleam on the billow, bless the soul that sighs for thee; bless the sailor's lonely pillow, far, far at sea." "who told you that, deary?" asked the fisherman, eagerly, when she paused again. "my mother used to sing it every night. she used to say it was meant for daddy. and she told me i must always sing it, too, only somehow i've forgot everything since i came here." "never mind the rest, deary; try and think about that. it's just the song for a sailor and a sailor's lass." "that's just what my mother used to say--that i was a sailor's lass!" exclaimed tiny. "and she taught you just the right kind of a song. now try a bit more, deary," he added, coaxingly. "star of faith, when winds are mocking all his toil, he flies to thee; save him, on the billows rocking, far, far at sea." "i don't think i know any more," said the child, as she finished this verse. "well, you've done first-rate, deary; and mind, you must sing that song to me every night," he added. for a little while they went on in silence, and nothing could be heard but the gentle lap, lap of the waves at the side of the boat, until coomber said: "come, sing to us again about that sailor's star. bob, you try and pick it up as she sings," he added. so the verses were sung through again, and without a break this time; and tiny was able to recall the last verse, too, and sang-- "star divine, oh! safely guide him, bring the wanderer back to thee; sore temptations long have tried him, far, far at sea." "bravo, little 'un," exclaimed bob, who was completely charmed out of his sulky mood by the singing. "i say, bob," suddenly exclaimed coomber, "is the bottle up there?" "i ain't seen the bottle," sulkily responded the lad, his ill-humour returning at once. "i--i took it up, and told 'em to fill it," exclaimed coomber; and as he spoke he drew in his oars, and felt under the seat, and all round the boat. "i must ha' forgot it, thinking about the little 'un and her picture," he said, after searching round the boat in vain. "it's too late to go back," said bob; "it'll be dark soon." "ye-es, it's too late to go back with the child," said coomber, slowly and regretfully; though what he should do without his nightly dose of whisky he did not know. "sing again," whispered bob to tiny; and the next minute the little voice rang out once more its "star of peace." it brought peace to the angry fisherman--the more angry, perhaps, because he had nobody but himself to blame that the bottle had been left behind. before they landed the singing had worked its mysterious charm, and the fisherman had almost forgotten his anger, and his bottle, too. "you tie up the boat, and make haste in, bob," he said, as he took the little girl in his arms, and stepped out upon the shore. a light was shining in the window of the old boat-house, and tiny was all impatience to get home and show her treasure to dick. "take it out of your pocket, daddy, and give it to me," she said, as they were crossing the sands; and the moment the door was opened she ran in, exclaiming, "i've got it! i've got it, dick!" "hush, hush, deary; dick and tom have gone to bed, and both are fast asleep. come in and get your supper; it's been waiting ever so long for you." as she spoke, the poor woman cast several furtive glances at her husband, fearing that he was more than usually morose, as he had not spoken; but, to her surprise, he said, in a merry tone: "bless you, mother, the little 'un has got something better than supper. dame peters wanted her to stay and have some hot potatoes; but she was in such a hurry to be off with her prize that she wouldn't look at the potatoes." "i've got some reading," said tiny, in a delighted whisper, holding up her sheet of paper. "why, what's the good of that?" exclaimed mrs. coomber, in a disappointed tone. "nobody at the point can read, unless it's the hayes' at the farm." "and she'd better not let me catch her with any of them," put in coomber, sharply. "dick and me are going to learn to read by ourselves," announced tiny, spreading out her picture on the table. this would enhance its value to everybody, she thought, since dame peters set such store by it solely because of the picture. and so she did not venture to turn it over to con the letters on the other side until after bob had come in, and they had all looked at it. "what's it all about?" asked bob, turning to the smoking plate of fish which his mother had just placed on the table. "don't you see it's a kind man putting his hand on the boys' heads?" said tiny, rather scornfully. "oh, anybody can see that," said bob. "but what does it mean? that's what i want to know." but tiny could only shake her head as she gazed earnestly at the print. "i dunno what it is," she said, with a sigh. "come, come, you must put that away for to-night," said mrs. coomber; "you ought to have been in bed an hour ago;" and she would have taken the picture away, but tiny hastily snatched it up, and, carefully folding it, wrapped it in another piece of paper, and then begged that it might be put away in a drawer for fear it should be lost before the morning. mrs. coomber smiled as she took it from her hand. "i'll take care of it," she said, "and you go and get your supper." it was not often that the fisherman's family were up so late as this, but no one seemed in a hurry to go to bed. coomber himself was so good-tempered that his wife and bob forgot their habitual fear of him in listening to his account of how brave tiny had been, and how dame peters thought she was growing very fast. then tiny had to sing one verse of "star of peace," after she had finished her supper--mrs. coomber would not let her sing more than that, for she was looking very sleepy and tired--and then they all went to bed, with a strange, new feeling of peace and content, mrs. coomber vaguely wondering what had become of the whisky bottle, and wishing every night could be like this. as soon as her eyes were open the next morning tiny thought of her treasure, and crept into the boys' room to tell dick the wonderful news. but to her surprise she found the bed was empty; and, peeping into the kitchen, saw mrs. coomber washing up the breakfast things. "oh, mammy, what is the time?" she exclaimed, but yawning as she spoke. "oh, you're awake at last. make haste and put your clothes on, and come and have your breakfast," said mrs. coomber. "where's dick?" asked tiny. "he's helping daddy and bob with the net; and you can go, too, when you've had your breakfast. daddy wouldn't let the boys come and wake you 'cos you was so tired last night." "what are they doing to the net?" asked tiny, as she came to the table. "mending it, of course. daddy's going shrimping to-day." "what a bother that net is," said tiny. "daddy's always mending it." "yes, so he is, deary. it's old, you see, and we can't afford to get a new one." "i've got to get a lot of samphire to-day, and i promised dick i'd make some more letters for him in the sand," said tiny, meditatively. "but daddy wants you to help him with the net," suggested mrs. coomber. the little girl had always been so pliant, so amenable to control, that mrs. coomber was surprised to hear her say passionately-- "i won't do that nasty net. i must pick the samphire for dame peters, and show dick my picture, first;" and then she snatched up a basket, and ran out, not to the sands, where the fisherman and his boys sat mending the torn net, but away to the salt-marsh, where the seaweed grew thickest, and she could fill her basket most quickly. in an hour or two she came home, looking tired and cross. "ain't dick come home yet?" she asked, throwing herself on the floor. "they ain't done the net yet. tom came to fetch you a little while ago." "i don't want tom, i want dick. we're going to make some letters, and learn to read," said tiny. "you'd better leave the reading alone, if it makes you so cross," said mrs. coomber. "no, it don't make me cross; it's that nasty net." "but you always liked to help daddy wind the string and mend the net before. why don't you go to them now?" but tiny would not move. she lay on the floor, kicking and grumbling, because dick could not leave the net and come and see her picture. "you're a very naughty girl, tiny," said mrs. coomber at last; "and i don't see how you can think god will love you if you don't try to be good." the little girl sat up instantly, and looked earnestly into her face. "my other mammy used to say something like that," she said, slowly. and then she burst into tears, and ran and shut herself in the boys' bedroom. what passed there, mrs. coomber did not know; but, half an hour afterwards, as she glanced out of the little kitchen window, she saw her running across the sands to where the group of boys sat mending the old net; and she smiled as she thought of what her words had done. she did not know what a hard fight tiny had had with herself before she could make up her mind to give up her own way; she only thought how pleased her husband would be when he saw the child come running towards him, and that a fit of ill-humour, from which they would probably all have suffered, had been warded off by the little girl's conquest of herself. but neither tiny nor mrs. coomber ever forgot that day. a new element was introduced into the lives of the fisherman's family. the little girl learned her first lesson in self-control, and dick and tom began to master the difficulties of the alphabet; for, when the net was finished, and bob and his father waded out into the sea on their shrimping expedition, tiny ran and fetched her pretty picture to show the boys, and then they all set to work with bits of stick to make the letters in the sand. [illustration] chapter v. on the sands. tiny was somewhat disappointed as the days went on to find that her pupils, tom and dick, took less and less interest in learning the letters she marked in the sand, or pointed out on the paper. they teased her to know how to put the letters together and make them into words which they could understand. but, alas! labour as she would, tiny could not get over this difficulty even for herself. she had a dim idea that g o d spelt god, but she could not be quite sure--not sure enough to tell dick that it was so. it was enough, however, to quicken her own interest in what the lines of letters might be able to tell her if only she could solve the mystery of putting them into words, for doubtless they would clear up her anxiety as to whether god loved boys as well as girls. she did not spend her whole time poring over her picture. she gathered samphire, helped to sort the fish when it was brought in, or mend the much-despised net; but every day she spent some time diligently tracing out the letters she knew and spelling over g o d. she might have mastered the difficulty with very little trouble if the fisherman had been less obstinate in his quarrel with the farm people, for harry hayes and his sisters were often down on the sands, sometimes bringing their books with them, and dick, who longed to join them in their play, tried to persuade tiny to go and ask them to help her with the reading difficulty. "dad won't say anything to you, even if he should see you talking; but he won't see, and i won't tell," urged dick, one day, when the children from the farm were at play among the sandhills, and occasionally casting sidelong glances towards dick and tiny. but the little girl only shook her head. "i can't, dick," she said; "god wouldn't like it; mother told me that long ago." "but how is he to know if you don't tell him?" said the boy, in an impatient tone. "don't you know that god can see us all the time; that he's taking care of us always?" said tiny, slowly. "oh, come! what'll you tell us next?" said dick, looking over his shoulder with a gesture of fear. "he ain't here now, you know," he added. "yes he is," said the little girl, confidently; "mother said god was a spirit. i dunno what that is, but it's just as real as the wind. we can't see that you know, but it's real; and we can't see god, but he's close to us all the time." the boy crept closer to her while she was speaking. "what makes you talk like that?" he said, in a half-frightened tone. "what's a matter, dick?" she asked, not understanding his fear. "don't you like to think god is close to you, and all round you," she suddenly added, in surprise. dick shook his head. "nobody never thinks about god at bermuda point, so p'r'aps he don't come here," he said, at last, in a tone of relief. "oh, i say, tiny, look! harry hayes has got a book! let's go and see what it's about!" "well, we'll ask dad when he come home to-night, and p'r'aps he'll let us," said the little girl, turning resolutely to her own paper again. "oh, then, it's dad you're afraid of, and not god?" said dick. "afraid! what do you mean?" asked tiny. "god loves me, and takes care of me, and so does daddy; and if i was to talk to harry hayes, it would make him cross, and god doesn't like us to make people cross; and little gals has to do as they are told, you know." "oh yes; i know all about that," said dick; "but what do you suppose god thinks of dad when he makes himself cross with the whisky?" "oh! he's dreadfully sorry, dick, i know he is, for he makes me afraid of him sometimes, when he's had a big lot; and he's just the dearest daddy when he forgets to bring the bottle home from fellness." "ah, but that ain't often," grunted dick; "and if god wouldn't like you to talk to harry hayes, 'cos dad says you musn't, i'd like to know what he thinks of dad sometimes, that's all." and then dick ran away, for if he could not speak to the farm children, he liked to be near them when they came to play on the sands. a minute or two after dick had left her, tiny was startled by a sound close at hand, and, looking round, she saw coomber coming from the other side of the sandhill. "oh, dad, i thought you was out in the boat," she said. [illustration: "'i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun.'" (_see page ._)] "bob and tom have gone by themselves to-day, for i wanted to clean the gun ready for winter," said the fisherman, still rubbing at the lock with a piece of oiled rag. tiny looked up at him half shyly, half curiously, for if he had only been on the other side of the sand-ridge, he must have heard all she and dick had been talking about. but if he had heard the fisherman took no notice of what had passed. "come, i want you to sing a bit, while i rub away at this old gun," he said. "sing 'star of peace'; it'll sound first-rate out here;" as though he had never heard it out there before, when, as a matter of fact, scarcely a day passed but she sang it to please him. when she had finished, he said, quickly: "what do you think about that 'star of peace' deary? it's the sailor's star, you know, so i've got a sort of share in it like." "i think it means god. i'm a'most sure mother said it meant god," added the little girl. "ah, then, i don't think there's much share of it for me," said coomber, somewhat sadly; and he turned to rubbing his gun again, and began talking about it--how rusty he had found it, and how he would have to use it more than ever when winter came, for the boat was growing old, and would not stand much more knocking about by the rough wintry sea; so he and bob must shoot more wild birds, and only go out in calm weather when winter came. then half shyly, and with apparent effort, he brought the conversation round so as to include farmer hayes. "he ain't a bad sort, you know, tiny, if he could just remember that a fisherman is a bit proud and independent, though he may be poor; and if you could do one of them young 'uns a good turn any time, why, you're a sailor's lass, yer know, and a sailor is always ready to do a good turn to anybody." "yes, daddy," said tiny, slowly and thoughtfully; and then, after a minute's pause, she said: "daddy, i think harry or polly would just like to help me a bit with this reading." for answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "that's what you'd like, i s'pose?" he said, as he looked at her. "yes; i want to find out about this picture, and these letters tell all about it, i know--if i only could find out what they mean," said tiny, eagerly. "oh, well, when i'm gone indoors you can go and ask 'em if they'd like to help you," he said, with another short laugh. "maybe you'll be able to tell us all about it when winter comes, and it'll soon be here now," added the fisherman, with a sigh. never before had coomber looked forward with such dread to the winter. until lately he had always thought the fishing-boat would "last his time," as he used to say; but he had patched and repaired it so often lately, until at last the conviction had been forced upon him that it was worn out; and to be caught in a sudden squall on the open sea, would inevitably break her up, and all who were in her would meet with a watery grave. he was as brave as a lion; but to know that his boat was gradually going to pieces, and that its timbers might part company at almost any moment, made even his courage quail; especially when he thought of his wife, and the boys, and this little helpless girl. some hard things had been said at fellness about his folly in taking her upon his hands when she could without difficulty have been sent to the poorhouse. a girl was such a useless burden, never likely to be helpful in managing a boat, as a boy might be; and it was clear that no reward would ever be obtained from her friends, even if they were found, for her clothing made it evident that she was only the child of poor parents. this had been the reasoning among the fellness busybodies ever since coomber had announced his intention of taking the little girl home; but he was as obstinate in this as in most other things. he had followed his own will, or rather the god-like compassion of his own heart, in spite of the poverty that surrounded him, and the hard struggle he often had to get bread enough for his own children. "i'll just have to stay out a bit longer, or go out in the boat a bit oftener," he said, with a light laugh, when they attempted to reason him out of his project. he did not know then that the days of his boat were numbered; but he knew it now--knew that starvation stared them in the face, and at no distant date either. he could never hope to buy a new boat. it would cost over twenty pounds, and he seldom owned twenty pence over the day's stock of bread and other household necessaries. among these he counted his whisky; for that a fisherman could do his work without a daily supply of ardent spirits never entered his head. blue ribbon armies and temperance crusades had never been heard of, and it was a fixed belief among the fisher folk that a man could not work without drinking as well as eating, and drinking deeply, too. so coomber never thought of curtailing his daily allowance of grog to meet the additional expense of his household: he rather increased the allowance, that he might be able to work the boat better, as he fancied, and so catch more fish. when he forgot his bottle and left it at fellness, it struck him as something all but marvellous that he should be able to work the next day without his usual drams, but it had not convinced him that he could do without it all together. of its effect upon himself, in making him sullen, morose, and disagreeable, he was in absolute ignorance, and so the children's talk about it came upon him as a revelation. he knew that tiny sometimes shrank from and avoided him; but he had considered it a mere childish whim, not to be accounted for by anything in himself; and so to hear that she was absolutely afraid of him sometimes was something to make him think more deeply than he had ever done in his life before. but he did not say a word to tiny about this. when he had done rubbing his gun he carried it home, and tiny was left free to make acquaintance with the farm children. she walked shyly up to where they were sitting--polly reading, and harry throwing sand at dick, who had seated himself at a short distance, and was returning the salute. "would--wouldn't you like to tell me about these letters, please?" said tiny, holding out her paper to polly. "well, that's a rum way of asking," said harry, with a laugh. "suppose she wouldn't now, little 'un," he added. "then she mustn't," said tiny, stoutly; though the tears welled up to her eyes at the thought of all her hopes being overthrown just when they seemed about to be realised. "don't, harry; what a tease you are!" said his sister. "i should like to tell you, dear," she added, in a patronising tone. "come and sit down here, and tell me what you want." "it's what you want; don't forget that, polly, else she'll get her back up, and go off again," laughed her brother; but he was not sorry the embargo had been taken off their intercourse with the fisherman's family; for although he had had surreptitious dealings with boys sometimes, they had to be so watchful lest they should be discovered that the play was considerably hindered. now he understood that this advance on tiny's part was a direct concession from coomber himself, for he and the boys had long ago agreed to try and draw the little girl into some intimacy as the only way of breaking down the restrictions laid upon them. but tiny had proved obstinate. she had been asked again and again, but she had always returned the same answer: "daddy would let her some day, and then she would play with them." so harry hayes was perfectly aware that she had won the fisherman's consent at last, although no word had been said about it. when the girls were left to themselves, polly took up the picture and looked at it, then turned it over and read, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls." at this point tiny interrupted her by laying her hand on her arm, and saying eagerly: "are you quite sure that is what it says?" "why, don't you think i can read?" said polly, in a half-offended tone. but the subject was new to her, and so she was anxious to read further, and turned to the page again and read on. at the bottom was a line or two in smaller print, and polly read these longer words with a touch of pride: "jesus said, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of god." "then this must be jesus, and these are the little children," concluded polly, as she turned over the paper to look at the picture again. the two girls sat and looked at it and talked about it for a few minutes, and then tiny said wistfully: "will you show me now how you make up them nice words?" "oh, it's easy enough if you know the letters; but you must learn the letters first," said polly; and she proceeded to tell tiny the name of each; and the little girl had the satisfaction of knowing now that she had remembered them quite correctly, and that g o d did spell god, as she had surmised. she was not long now in putting other words together; and before she went home she was able to spell out the first two lines of the printed page, for they were all easy words, and intended for beginners. what a triumph it was to tiny to be able to read out to the fisherman's family what she had learned on the sands that day. she was allowed to have the candle all to herself after supper, and they sat round the table looking at each other in wondering amazement as her little finger travelled along the page, and she spelt out the wonderful news, "'god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls.' it's true, dick, what i told you, ain't it?" she said, in a tone of delighted satisfaction. dick scratched his head, and looked round at his father, wondering what he would think or say. for a minute or two the fisherman smoked his pipe in silence. at length, taking it from his mouth, he said, in a slow, meditative fashion: "well, little 'un, i s'pose if it's printed that way it's true; and if it is, why i s'pose we've all got a share in that 'star of peace' we was talking about to-day." tiny did not quite follow his train of thought; but she nodded her head, and then proceeded to tell them what she had heard about the picture, and the conclusion she and polly had arrived at upon the subject--that jesus, the kind, loving man of the picture, had come to show them how kind god was to them. [illustration] chapter vi. bad times. winter around bermuda point was at all times a dreary season, and the only thing its few inhabitants could hope for was that its reign might be as short as possible. a fine, calm autumn was hailed as a special boon from heaven by the fisher-folk all round the coast, and more especially by the lonely dwellers at the point. a fine autumn enabled coomber to go out in his boat until the time for shooting wild fowl began, and the children could play on the sands, or gather samphire, instead of being penned up in the house half the time. but when the weather was wild and wet, and the salt marshes lay under water, that meant little food and much discomfort, frequent quarrels, and much bitterness to the fisherman's family. this autumn the weather was more than usually boisterous; and long before the usual time the old boat had to be drawn up on to the bank, for fear the waves should dash it to pieces. the fisherman sometimes went to fellness, on the chance of picking up a stray job, for it was only the state of his boat, and his anxiety to keep it together as long as possible, that prevented him braving the perils of the sea; and so he sometimes got the loan of another boat, or helped another fisherman with his; and then, rough though they might be, these fisher-folk were kind and helpful to each other, and if they could not afford to pay money for a job, they could pay for it in bread or flour, or potatoes, perhaps, and so they would generally find coomber something to do, that they might help him, without hurting him. but there was little work that could be done in such bad weather as this, and he knew it, and his proud, independent spirit could not brook to accept even a mouthful of bread that he had not earned; and so there were many weary days spent at home, or sauntering round the coast with his gun, on the look-out for a stray wild fowl. tiny often went to bed hungry, and woke up feeling faint and sick; and although she never forgot to say her prayers, she could not help thinking sometimes that god must have forgotten her. she read her paper to dick, and he and tom had both learned to spell out some of the words, and she read to herself again and again the divine assurance, "god is good to all: he loves both boys and girls;" but then, as dick said sometimes, bermuda point was such a long way from anywhere, and he might forget there were any boys and girls living there. when she was very hungry, and more than usually depressed, tiny thought dick must be right, but even then she would not admit such a thought to others. when she saw mrs. coomber in tears, because she had no food to prepare for her hungry children, she would steal up to her, pass her little arm round the poor woman's neck, and whisper, "god is good; he'll take care of us, mammy; he'll send us some supper, if he can't send us any dinner;" and the child's hopeful words often proved a true prophecy, for sometimes when coomber had been out all day without finding anything that could be called food, he would, when returning, manage to secure a wild duck, perhaps, or a couple of sea magpies, or a few young gulls. nothing came amiss to the young coombers at any time, and just now a tough stringy gull was a dainty morsel. it threatened to be an unusually hard and long winter, and at last mrs. coomber ventured to suggest that tiny should be taken to the poorhouse, at least until the spring, when she could come back again. "look at her poor little white face," said the woman, with her apron to her eyes; "i'm afraid she'll be ill soon, and then what can we do?" "time enough to talk about that when she is ill," said coomber, gruffly, as he took up his gun and went out. they were generally able to keep a good fire of the drift-wood and wreckage that was washed ashore, for unfortunately there was scarcely a week passed but some noble vessel came to grief on the perilous bar sands during the more boisterous weather. once, when they were at their wits' end for food, and bob had begged his mother to boil some samphire for supper, tiny was fortunate enough to discover an unopened cask which the sea had cast up the night before, and left high and dry behind the ridge of sandhills. she was not long fetching bob and the boys to see her treasure trove; all sorts of wild speculations passing through her mind as to what it could contain as she ran shouting-- "bob! bob! dick! dick! come and see what i've found." [illustration: "'dick, dick, come and see what i've found.'" (_see page ._)] the boys were not long in making their appearance, and bob fetched a hatchet, and soon broke open the cask; and oh! what joy for the starving children--it was full of ship biscuits! "oh, dick, didn't i tell you this morning god hadn't forgotten us?" said tiny, in a quavering voice, when bob announced what the cask contained. "oh, yes," said dick, "so you did;" but he was too hungry to think of anything but the biscuits now--too hungry even to shout his joy, as he would have done at another time. as soon as they could be got at, he handed one to tiny, and then tom and dick helped themselves, filling their pockets and munching them at the same time; but tiny, though she nibbled her biscuit as she went, ran at once to tell mrs. coomber of her wonderful discovery; and she, scarcely daring to believe that such good news could be true, ran out at once to see for herself, and met the boys, who confirmed tiny's tale. but she must see the cask for herself, and then she ate and filled her apron, and shed tears, and thanked god for this wonderful gift all at the same time. then she told the boys to come and fetch some baskets at once, to carry them home in, and she would sort them over, for some were soaked with sea-water, but others near the middle were quite dry. bob took a bagful and went in search of his father along the coast, and everybody was busy carrying or sorting or drying the biscuits, for they had to be secured before the next tide came in, or they might be washed away again. when coomber came home, bringing a couple of sea-gulls he had shot, he was fairly overcome at the sight of the biscuits. "daddy, it was god that sent 'em," said tiny, in an earnest, joyful whisper. the fisherman drew his sleeve across his eyes. "seems as though it must ha' been, deary," he said; "for how that cask ever came ashore without being broken up well-nigh beats me." "god didn't let it break, 'cos we wanted the biscuits," said tiny confidently; "yer see, daddy, he ain't forgot us, though bermuda point is a long way from anywhere." the biscuits lasted them for some time, for as the season advanced coomber was able to sell some of the wild ducks he shot, and so potatoes, and flour, and bread could be brought at fellness again. if the fisherman could only have believed that whisky was not as necessary as bread, they might have suffered less privation; but every time he got a little money for his wild fowl, the bottle had to be replenished, even though he took home but half the quantity of bread that was needed; and so tiny sometimes was heard to wish that god would always send them biscuits in a tub, and then daddy couldn't drink the stuff that made him so cross. mrs. coomber smiled and sighed as she heard tiny whisper this to dick. she, too, had often wished something similar--or, at least, that her husband could do without whisky. now, as the supply of wild fowl steadily increased, he came home more sullen than ever. his return from fellness grew to be a dread even to tiny at last; and she and dick used to creep off to bed just before the time he was expected to return, leaving bob and tom to bear the brunt of whatever storm might follow. he seldom noticed their absence, until one night, when, having drunk rather more than usual, he was very cross on coming in, and evidently on the look-out for something to make a quarrel over. "where's dick and the gal?" he said, as he looked round the little kitchen, after flinging himself into a chair. "they're gone to bed," said his wife, timidly, not venturing to look up from her work. "then tell 'em to get up." "i--i dunno whether it 'ud be good for tiny," faltered the poor woman; "she's got a cold now, and--and----" "are you going to call 'em up, or shall i go and lug 'em out of bed?" demanded the angry, tipsy man. "but, coomber," began his wife. "there, don't stand staring like that, but do as i tell you," interrupted the fisherman; "i won't have 'em go sneaking off to bed just as i come home. i heard that little 'un say one day she was afraid of me sometimes. afraid, indeed; i'll teach her to be afraid," he repeated, working himself into a passion over some maudlin recollection of the children's talk in the summer-time. his wife saw it would be of no use reasoning with him in his present mood, and so went to rouse the children without further parley. they were not asleep, and so were prepared for the summons, as they had overheard what had been said. "oh mammy, must i come?" said tiny, her teeth chattering with fear, as she slipped out of bed. "don't be afraid, deary--don't let him see you're frightened," whispered mrs. coomber; "slip your clothes on as quick as you can, and come and sing 'star of peace' to him; then he'll drop off to sleep, and you can come to bed again." "i will--i will try," said the child, trying to force back her tears and speak bravely. but in spite of all her efforts to be brave, and not look as though she was frightened, she crept into the kitchen looking cowed and half-bewildered with terror, and before she could utter a word of her song, coomber pounced upon her. "what do yer look like that for?" he demanded; "what business have you to be frightened of me?" tiny turned her white face towards him, and ventured to look up. "i--i----" "she's going to sing 'star of peace,'" interposed mrs. coomber; "let her come and sit over here by the fire." "you let her alone," roared her husband; "she's a-going to do what i tell her. come here," he called, in a still louder tone. tiny ventured a step nearer, but did not go close to him. "are you coming?" he roared again; then, stretching out his hand, he seized her by the arm, and dragged her towards him, giving her a violent shake as he did so. "there--now sing!" he commanded, placing her against his knee. the child stared at him with a blank, fascinated gaze. once he saw her lips move, but no sound came from them; and after waiting a minute he dashed her from him with all the strength of his mad fury. there was a shriek from mrs. coomber, and screams from the boys, but poor little tiny uttered no sound. they picked her up from where she had fallen, or rather had been thrown, and her face was covered with blood; but she uttered no groan--gave no sign of life. "oh, she's dead! she's dead!" wailed dick, bending over her as she lay in his mother's arms. the terrible sight had completely sobered coomber. "did i do it? did i do that?" he asked, in a changed voice. "why, yer know yer did," growled bob; "or leastways the whisky in yer did it. i've often thought you'd do for mother, or one of us; but i never thought yer'd lift yer hand agin a poor little 'un like that." coomber groaned, but made no reply. "hold your tongue, bob," commanded his mother; for she could see that her husband was sorry enough now for what he had done. "what's to be done, mother?" he asked, in a subdued voice; "surely, surely i haven't killed the child!" but mrs. coomber feared that he had, and it was this that paralysed all her faculties. "i don't know what to do," she said, helplessly, wiping away the blood that kept flowing from a deep gash on tiny's forehead. "couldn't you give her some water?" said dick, who did not know what else to suggest. coomber meekly fetched a cupful from the pan outside, and mrs. coomber dipped her apron in it, and bathed tiny's face; and in a minute or two dick saw, to his great delight, that she drew a faint, fluttering breath. coomber saw it too, and the relief was so great that he could not keep back his tears. "please god he'll spare us his little 'un, i'll never touch another drop of whisky," he sobbed, as he leaned over his wife's chair, and watched her bathe the still pallid face. "open the door, dick, and let her have a breath of fresh air; and don't stand too close," said his mother, as tiny drew another faint breath. the door was opened, and the boys stood anxiously aside, watching the faint, gasping breath, until at last tiny was able to swallow a little of the water; and then they would have closed round her again, but their mother kept them off. "would a drop o' milk do her good?" whispered coomber after a time; but she was sensible enough to recognise his voice, and shuddered visibly. he groaned as he saw it; but drew further back, so that she should not see him when she opened her eyes. "give me the sticking-plaster, dick," said his mother, when tiny had somewhat revived. mrs. coomber was used to cuts and wounds, and could strap them up as cleverly as a surgeon. it was not the sight of the ugly cut that had frightened her, but the death-like swoon, which she did not understand. "how about the milk, mother?" coomber ventured to ask, after tiny's forehead was strapped up and bandaged. again came that shudder of fear, and the little girl crept closer to the sheltering arms. "don't be frightened, deary; daddy won't hurt you now." "don't let him come," whispered tiny; but coomber heard the whisper, and it cut him to the heart, although he kept carefully in the background as he repeated his question. "would yer like a little milk, deary?" asked mrs. coomber. "there ain't no money to buy milk," said tiny, in a feeble, weary tone. but coomber crept round the back of the kitchen, so as to keep out of sight, took up the bottle of whisky he had brought home, and went out. he brought a jug of milk when he came back. "you can send for some more to-morrow, and as long as she wants it," he said, as he stood the jug on the table. [illustration] chapter vii. a tea meeting. tiny was very ill the next day--too ill to get up, or to notice what was passing around her. mrs. coomber, who had had very little experience of sickness, was very anxious when she saw tiny lying so quiet and lifeless-looking, the white bandage on her forehead making her poor little face look quite ghastly in its paleness. the fisherman had crept into the room before he went out, to look at her while she was asleep, and the sight had made his heart ache. "i never thought i could ha' been such a brute as to hurt a little 'un like that," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and speaking in a whisper to his wife. "it was the whisky," said his wife, by way of comforting him. but coomber would not accept even this poor comfort. "i was a fool to take so much," he said. "wus than a fool, for i knowed it made me savage as a bear; and yet i let it get the mastery of me. but it's the last, mother; i took the bottle to the farm last night, and they're going to let me have the value of it in milk for the little 'un, and please god she gets well again, it's no more whisky i'll touch." it was not easy for a man like coomber to make such a promise, and still more difficult to keep it. for the first few days, while tiny was very ill, it was not so hard to send bob and tom to fellness, with the teal and widgeon he had shot; but when she began to get better, and the craving for the drink made itself felt, then began the tug of war. during the first few days of the little girl's illness, the fisherman kept carefully out of her sight, though he longed to see her once more, and hear her say she had forgiven him the cruel blow he had dealt to her. tiny, too, longed for him to come and see her in the daytime; but as it grew dusk the longing passed away, and every night, as the hour drew near when he usually came back from fellness, a positive dread and terror of him seized her, and she would lie shivering and holding mrs. coomber's hand whenever she heard his voice in the kitchen. mrs. coomber tried to persuade her husband to go and see the child in the daytime; but he only shook his head. "she hates me, and i don't deserve to see her agin," he said, gloomily. he returned the same answer again and again, when pressed to go in and see her before he went out with his gun in the morning. at length, as he sat at breakfast one day, he was startled by tiny creeping up to him, just as she had slipped out of bed. "oh, daddy, why didn't you come to me?" she said, with a little gasping sob, throwing her arms round his neck. "my deary, my deary," he said, in a choking voice, gathering her in his arms, and kissing her, while the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. "oh, daddy, don't you love me," said tiny; "that you didn't come to see me all these days?" "love you, my deary? ah, you may well ask that, after what i've done to yer; but it was just because i did love yer that i kept away from yer," he went on; "i thought you'd never want to see yer cruel old daddy any more; and as for me, why i'd punish myself by not trying to see yer, or get back your love. that's just how it was, deary," said the fisherman, as he looked tenderly at the little pallid face. "but, daddy, i love you, and i wanted you all the days," said tiny, nestling closer to him as she spoke. "bless you, deary, i believe you're one of god's own bairns, as well as a sailor's lass," said coomber. "i wanted you all the days, daddy; but--but--don't--come--at--night," she added, in a hesitating tone. "i know what you mean; mother's told me, little 'un," he said, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, and sighing. "i can't help it, daddy, i can't help it," said the little girl, with a sob. "well, i s'pose not; but you needn't be afraid now, you know. i've done with the bottle now; and it wasn't me you was afraid of, mother said, but the whisky." tiny nodded. "yes, that's it," she said; "and i shan't be afraid long if i know you don't have it now;" and from that time the little girl set herself strenuously to overcome the terror and dread that nightly crept over her; but still it was some time before she could endure coomber's presence after dusk. meanwhile pinching want was again making itself felt in the household. for some reason known only to themselves, the teal and widgeon did not come within range of the fisherman's gun just now; and sometimes, after a whole day spent in the punt, or among the salt marshes along the coast, only a few unsaleable old gulls would reward coomber's toil. they were not actually uneatable by those who were on the verge of starvation; but they were utterly unfit for a child like tiny, in her present weak, delicate condition; and again the question of sending her to the poorhouse until the spring was mooted by mrs. coomber. her husband did not refuse to discuss it this time when it was mentioned, and it was evident that he himself had thought of it already, for he said, with a groan-- "it seems as though god wasn't going to let me keep the little 'un, though she's getting on a bit, for never have i had such a bad shooting season as this since i knocked the little 'un down. it seems hard, mother; what do you think?" but mrs. coomber did not know what to think; she only knew that poor little tiny was often hungry, although she never complained. they had eaten up all the store of biscuits by this time; and although dick and tom often spent hours wandering along the shore, in the hope of finding another wonderful treasure-trove, nothing had come of their wanderings beyond the usual harvest of drift wood that enabled them to keep a good fire in the kitchen all day. at length it was decided that coomber should take tiny to the poorhouse, and ask the authorities to keep her until this bitter winter was over; and then, when the spring came, and the boat could go out once more, he would fetch her home again. but it was not without many tears that this proposal was confided to tiny, the fisherman insisting--though he shrank from the task himself--that she should be told what they thought of doing. "she is a sailor's lass, and it's only fair to her," he said, as he left his wife to break the news to tiny. she was overwhelmed at the thought of being separated from those who had been so kind to her, and whom she had learned to love so tenderly, but with a mighty effort she choked back her tears, for she saw how grieved mrs. coomber was; though she could not help exclaiming: "oh! if god would only let me stay with you, and daddy, and dick!" her last words to dick before she started were in a whispered conference, in which she told him to pray to god every day to let her come back soon. "i will, i will!" said dick through his tears; "i'll say what you told me last night--i'll say it every day." and then coomber and tiny set out on their dreary walk to fellness, reaching it about the middle of the afternoon. bob and tom had let their old friends know that their father had given up the whisky, and now he, foolish man, felt half afraid and half ashamed to meet them; but he was obliged to go, for he wanted peters to go with him, and tell the workhouse people about the rescue of the little girl, for fear they should refuse to take her in unless his story was confirmed. coomber explained this to his friend in a rather roundabout fashion, for he had not found peters on the shore, as he had expected, and where he could have stated his errand in a few words. he had found instead that all the village was astir with the news of a tea-meeting, that was to take place that afternoon in the chapel, and that peters, who was "something of a methody," as coomber expressed it, had gone to help in the preparations. he was astonished to see coomber when he presented himself, and still more to hear the errand he had come upon. he scratched his head, and looked pityingly at the little girl, who held fast to coomber's hand. "well now, mate, i'm in a fix," he said, slowly, and pointing round the room; "i've got all these forms to move, and to fix up the tables for 'em by four o'clock; but if you'll stay and lend a hand, why, you and the little 'un 'll be welcome to stay to tea, i know; it's free to all the village to-day," he added, "and the more that come, the better we shall like it." coomber looked at tiny, and saw how wistfully her eyes rested on a pile of cakes that stood near; and that look decided him. "would you like to have some of it?" he said, with a faint smile. the little girl's face flushed with joy at the prospect of such a treat. "oh, daddy! if i could only take dick some, too," she said. both the men laughed, but peters said, "well, well, we'll see what we can do; come in here while daddy helps me with the forms;" and he led the way into a small room, where several of the fishermen's wives were cutting bread and butter. peters whispered a word to one of them, and she seated tiny by the fire, and gave her some bread and butter at once. when the tea was all ready, and the company began to arrive, coomber fetched tiny to sit with him, and the two had a bountiful tea, and such cake as the little girl had not tasted for a long time. but she would not eat much. she took what was given to her, but slipped most of it into coomber's pocket, that he might take it home to dick, for the little girl thought they would go on to the poorhouse as soon as tea was over. but while the tea-things were being cleared away, and they were preparing for the meeting that was to follow, the fisherman drew her aside, and whispered: "i do believe god has heard what you've been a-praying for, deary, for peters has heard of a job of work for me since i've been here." "oh, daddy! and we shall go home together again," exclaimed tiny, looking round for her bonnet at once. "yes, but not jest yet. there's to be some preaching or somethin', and--and--little 'un, i've been a bad man, and i dunno as god'll have anything to do wi' helping such a tough customer to be any better; but if he would--" and here coomber drew his sleeve across his eyes, and turned his head aside to hide his emotion. the little girl threw her arms round his neck, and drew his face close to hers. "oh, daddy, he will! he will!" she whispered, earnestly; "he loves you, and he's been waiting all this long time for you to love him; and you will, won't you, now, you know?" but there was no time for coomber to reply, for the people were taking their seats again, and peters touched him on the shoulder, motioning him to do the same. the two sat down, feeling too eager for shyness, or to notice that others were looking at them. a hymn was sung, and a prayer followed, and then coomber began to feel disappointed, for he was hungering to hear something that might set his doubts at rest. at length he heard the words that have brought help and gladness to so many souls: "god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." then followed a simple address, enlarging upon the text, and an exhortation to accept god's offer of salvation. "the lord jesus christ himself said: 'come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest,'" continued the speaker, "and in his name i beg each one of you to become reconciled to god. he is waiting: he is willing to receive each one of you." these were his closing words, and coomber, who had listened with eager, rapt attention, stayed only for the people to move towards the door, and then followed the speaker into the little vestry. "beg pardon, sir," he said, pausing at the door, "but 'tain't often as i gets the chance of hearing such words as i've heard from you to-night, and so i hopes you'll forgive me if i asks for a bit more. i'm a bad man. i begins to see it all now; but--but----" "my friend, if you feel that you are a sinner, then you are just one of those whom the lord jesus died to redeem. he came to seek and to save those who are lost--to redeem them from sin. he gave his life--dying upon the cross, a shameful, painful death--not, mark me, that they may continue in sin. to say we believe in god, and to live in sin, makes our belief of no effect. we must learn of christ, or he will have died in vain for us. we must learn of him, and he will help us to overcome our love of drink, our selfishness, and sullenness, and ill-temper;" for the gentleman knew something of coomber, and so particularised the sins he knew to be his easily besetting ones. "and you think he'd help me? you see, sir, he's done a deal for me lately, bad as i am," said coomber, twisting his hat in his hand. "help you! ah, that he will. if he gave his only son, what do you think he will withhold? 'what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him.'" "and what are the good things that i'm to ask for," said coomber. "i know what the asking means; this little 'un here has taught me that praying is asking god; and though i ain't never done it afore, i'll begin now." "do, my man. ask that the holy spirit may be given you, to lead you, and teach you, and guide you into all truth. without his help you can do nothing; but, seeking his help, trusting in his guidance, you will be enabled to overcome every difficulty and obstacle, however hard it may be." "and you think god will forgive me all the past?" "my brother, christ died--he shed his precious blood, to wash away our sin, to set our conscience free from guilt, and to assure us beyond a doubt of the perfect love of god towards us." the words spoken fell into prepared soil, for coomber had been hungering and thirsting after righteousness, and he went home that night feeling that he had been fed. what a happy walk home that was for tiny and the fisherman! as he left the little chapel at fellness, a basket, well filled with the odds and ends left from the tea-meeting, had been handed to coomber to take home, and peters whispered, as he went out: "i've heard of another job for yer, so be along in good time in the morning, mate." to describe mrs. coomber's joy, when her husband walked in with tiny asleep in his arms, and also with the basket of bread and butter, would be impossible. "god has given us the little 'un back, mother," he said, placing the child in his wife's arms. "he's been good to me, better than i deserved, only the lord jesus christ has died for me, and that explains it all." his heart was full of joy and gratitude to-night, and he forgot his usual shyness, and told his wife of the good news he had heard at fellness, both for body and soul. "now, mother," he said, as he concluded, "you and i must both begin a new life. we must ask god to help us like this little 'un, and we must teach our boys to do the same. we owe it all to her," he added, as he kissed tiny, "for if she hadn't come among us, we might never have heard about god down here at bermuda point." [illustration] chapter viii. brighter days. the dreary winter came to an end at last, and with the first spring days there was a general bustle of preparation in the fisherman's family, for boat and nets alike required overhauling, and there would be a good deal of repairing to do before the old boat would be fit for further use. bob's face was fast losing its sullen, defiant, angry look, and he was whistling as merrily as a lark one morning, when he and coomber went to remove the tarpaulin that had been covered over the boat during the winter; but the whistling suddenly ceased when the boat was uncovered, for, with all their care, the winter's storms had worked sad havoc with the little craft. seams were starting, ribs were bulging, and there were gaping holes, that made coomber lift his hat and scratch his head in consternation. "this'll be a tough job, bob," he said. "aye, aye, dad, it will that," said the lad, carefully passing his finger down where one rib seemed to be almost rotten. a few months before coomber would have raved and blustered, and sworn it was all bob's fault, but since that tea-meeting at fellness he had been a changed man--old things had passed away, and all things had become new; and none felt this more than bob. it was a blessed change for him, and he had given up all thoughts of running away now, if the old boat could only be patched up and made serviceable. but it was a problem whether this could ever be done effectually enough to make it seaworthy. "if i'd only found out ten years ago that i could do better without the whisky than with it, we might ha' got a new boat afore this, bob," said the fisherman, with a sigh. "aye, aye, and had jack with us, too, dad," bob ventured to remark. he had not dared to mention his brother's name for years, but he had thought a good deal of him lately, wishing he could come home, and see the blessed change that had been wrought in his father. the old fisherman lifted his head, and there was a look of bitter anguish in his face, as he said: "hark ye, lad, i'd give all the days of my life to bring jack back. the thought of him is making yer mother an old woman afore her time, and i can't help it now; it's too late, too late;" and the old fisherman covered his face and groaned. "there now, father, ain't i heard you say it was never too late to repent?" "aye, lad, that you have, and the precious blood of christ can take away the guilt of our sin; but, mark me, not even god himself can do away with the consequences of sin. hard as they may be, and truly and bitterly as we may repent, the past can't be undone; and as we sow we must reap. poor jack! poor jack! if i could only know where he was. why, it's nigh on ten years since he went away, and never a storm comes but i'm thinking my boy may be in it, and wanting help." bob recalled what had passed on fellness sands the night they rescued tiny, and which had helped him often since to bear with his father's gruff, sullen ways and fierce outbursts of temper; but he would not say any more just now, only he thought that but for that tea-meeting his father would now be mourning the loss of two sons; for he had made up his mind to leave home when it was decided to take tiny to the poorhouse. they were working at the boat a few days after this, caulking, and plugging, and tarring, when tiny, who had been playing on the sandhills a little way off, came running up breathless with some news. [illustration: tiny and the old man. (_see page ._)] "oh, daddy! there's a little ugly, old man over there, and he says my name is coomber. is it, daddy?" the fisherman lifted his hat and scratched his head, looking puzzled. strange to say, this question of the little girl's name had never suggested itself to anybody before, living as they did in this out-of-the-way spot. she was "tiny," or "deary," or "the little 'un," and no need had arisen for any other name; and so, after scratching his head for a minute, he said: "well, deary, if i'm your daddy, i s'pose your name is coomber. but who is the old man?" he asked; for it was not often that strangers were seen at bermuda point, even in summer-time. "i dunno, daddy; but he says he knowed my mother when she was a little gal like me." coomber dropped the tar-brush he was using, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. had somebody come to claim the child after all? he instinctively clutched her hand for a minute, but the next he told her to go home, while he went to speak to the stranger. he found a little, neatly-dressed old man seated on one of the sandhills, and without a word of preface he began: "you've come after my little gal, i s'pose?" the old man smiled. "what's your name, my man?" he said, taking out a pocket-book, and preparing to write. "coomber." "coomber!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his book in his surprise. "why, yes; what should it be?" said the fisherman. "didn't you tell my little tiny that you knew her name was coomber? but how you came to know----" "why, i never saw you before that i know of," interrupted the other, sharply; "so how do you suppose i should know your name? i told the child i knew her name was matilda coomber, for she is the very image of her mother when she was a girl, and she was my only daughter." "oh, sir, and you've come to fetch her!" gasped the fisherman. the stranger took out his snuff-box, and helped himself to a pinch. "well, i don't know so much about that," he said, cautiously; "i am her grandfather, and i thought, when i picked up that old newspaper the other day, and read about her being saved, i'd just like to come and have a look at her. i was pretty sure she was my tilly's little one, by the description of the silver medal she wore, for i'd given it to her mother just before she ran away to get married to that sailor coomber." "oh, sir, a sailor, and his name was coomber! where is he? what was he like?" asked the fisherman, eagerly. "he was drowned before his wife died; she never held up her head afterwards, the people tell me. i never saw her after she was married, and swore i'd never help her or hers; but when she was dying she wrote and told me she was leaving a little girl alone in the world, and had left directions for it to be brought to me after her death. with this letter she sent her own portrait, and that of her husband and child, begging me to keep them for the child until she grew up. a day or two after came another letter, saying she was dead, and a neighbour was coming from grimsby to london by ship, and would bring the child to me; but i never heard or saw anything of either, and concluded she was drowned, when, about a month ago, an old newspaper came in my way, and glancing over it, i saw the account of a little girl being saved from a wreck, and where she might be heard of. i went to the place, and they sent me here, and the minute i saw the child, i knew her for my tilly's." the old man had talked on, but coomber had comprehended very little of what was said. he stood looking half-dazed for a minute or two after the stranger had ceased speaking. at length he gathered his wits sufficiently to say: "have you got them pictures now?" "yes," said the old man, promptly, taking out his pocket-book as he spoke. "here they are; i took care to bring 'em with me;" and he brought out three photographs. coomber seized one instantly. "it is him! it is my jack!" he gasped. "oh, sir, tell me more about him." "i know nothing about him, i tell you," said the other, coldly; "i never saw or spoke to my daughter after she married him; but i'm willing to do something for the little child, seeing it was my girl's last wish." "the child," repeated coomber. "do you mean to say little tiny is my jack's child?" "well, yes, of course i do. what else could i mean?" replied the other. "then--then i'm her grandfather, and have as much right to her as you have," said the fisherman, quickly. the stranger shrugged his shoulders. "well, i s'pose you have," he said; "i'm not going to dispute it. i'm willing to do my duty by her. but mind, i'm not a rich man--not a rich man," he added. coomber was puzzled for a minute to know what he meant, and was about to say that he wanted no payment for keeping tiny; but the other lifted his hand in a commanding manner, and exclaimed: "now, hear me first. let me have my say, and then, perhaps, we can come to terms about the matter. you've got a wife, i s'pose, that can look after this child. i haven't; and if she came to me, i shouldn't know what to do with her. well now, that being the case, she'd better stay here--for the present at least; she's happy enough, i s'pose; and i'll pay you twenty pounds a year as my share towards her expenses." coomber was about to exclaim indignantly against this, and protest that he would accept no payment; but just then he caught sight of bob and the old boat, and the thought of what that money would enable him to do kept him silent a little longer. "well now," resumed the old man, "if that plan suits you, we'll come to business at once. you've had her about eighteen months now, so there's about thirty pounds due. you see i'm an honest man, and mean to do the just thing by her," he added. "thirty pounds!" repeated coomber, to whom such a sum seemed immense wealth. but the other mistook the exclamation for one of discontent, and so he said, quickly, "well now, i'll throw you ten pounds in, as i hear you were the one that saved her, and pay you the next six months in advance. that'll make it a round fifty; but i won't go a penny farther. now will that satisfy you?" satisfy him? coomber was debating with himself whether he ought to take a farthing, considering what a rich blessing the little girl had been to him. it was only the thought of the bitter winter they had just passed through, and that, if he could get a new boat, he could better provide for the child, that made him hesitate, lest in refusing it he should do tiny a wrong. at length, after a pause, during which he had silently lifted his heart in prayer to god, he said: "well, sir, for the little 'un's sake i'll take your offer. but, look you, i shall use this money as a loan that is to be returned; and as i can save it, i shall put it in the bank for her." the other shrugged his shoulders. "you can do as you like about that. i shall come and see the child sometimes, and----" "do, sir, do, god bless her! to think she's my jack's child!" interrupted coomber, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. "do you know, sir, where my boy went down?" he asked, in a tremulous voice. but the other shook his head. "i tell you i know nothing of my daughter after she married; but she sent me a box with some letters and these portraits, and some other odds and ends, to be kept for her little matilda. i'll send you them if you like;" and the old man rose as he spoke. "can you go with me to fellness now, and settle this business about the money?" he added. "but don't you want to see tiny?" exclaimed coomber, who could not understand his willingness to give up his claim to the child. "i have seen her. we had a long talk here before you came. you may tell her that her grandfather west will come and see her sometimes. and now, if you'll follow me as quickly as you can to the village, we'll settle this business;" and as he spoke, mr. west turned towards the road, leaving coomber still half-dazed with astonishment. "bob, bob," he called at last, "i've got to go to the village. a strange thing has happened here to-day, and i want to get my wits a bit together before i tell your mother. but you needn't do much to the boat till i come back, for it may be we shall have a new one after all." bob looked up in his father's face, speechless with surprise. he spoke of having a new boat as though it was a very sad business. but his next words explained it. "i've heard of jack," he said; "no storms will trouble him again;" and then the fisherman burst forth into heart-breaking sobs and groans, and bob shed a few tears, although he felt heartily ashamed of them. "now go back, bob, and tell your mother i've gone to fellness; and if i ain't home by five o'clock, you come and meet me, for i shall have some money to carry--almost a fortune, bob." having heard so much, bob wanted to hear more, and so walked with his father for the first mile along the road, listening to the strange tale concerning tiny. then he went back, and told the news to the astonished group at home; and so, before coomber returned, his wife had got over the first outburst of grief for the death of her son, and she and bob had had time to talk calmly over the whole matter. they had decided that the money must be used in such a way as would give the little girl the greatest benefit from it, and that she must go to school, if possible. "now, if dad could buy a share in one of the bigger boats where he and i could work, wouldn't it be better than buying a little one for ourselves?" suggested bob; "then we could go and live at fellness, and tiny could go to school--sunday-school as well as week-day." "and dick, too," put in tiny. "yes, and we should all go to god's house on sunday," said mrs. coomber, drying her eyes. strange to say, a similar project had been suggested to coomber by his old friend peters, who knew a man who wanted to sell his share in one of the large fishing-boats, and was asking forty pounds for it. "that will leave us ten pounds, mother, to buy the children some new clothes, and take us to fellness. what do you say to it now?" asked her husband, after they had talked it over. "why, it seems too good to be true," said the poor woman, through her tears. "but oh! if only poor jack was here!" she sighed. her husband shook his head, and was silent for a minute or two; but at length he said: "god has been very good to us when we had no thought of him. i always knew the little 'un must be a sailor's lass, but to think that she should be our jack's own child is wonderful. the old gentleman had made quite sure of it before he came here--he wouldn't part with his money unless he'd been sure, i know; and now she's ours, just as much as dick and bob is. and we'll take good care of her, god bless her, and him for sending her to us." * * * * * the rest of my story is soon told. the fisherman and his family removed to fellness, and brighter days dawned for them than they had ever hoped to see. when the box arrived from mr. west, containing the letter and papers relating to the latter years of their son's life, they found that he had become a true christian through his wife's influence. he had also learned to read and write; and in the last letter sent to his wife before his death, he told her he meant to go and see his parents as soon as he returned from that voyage. alas! he never did return; but the "little lass," of whom he spoke so lovingly, became god's messenger to his old home, and the joy and comfort of his parents' hearts. printed by cooke & halsted, the moorfields press, london, e.c. page images generously made available by kentuckiana digital library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through kentuckiana digital library. see http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc= &idno=b - - &view=toc the angel of the tenement by george madden martin [illustration] new york bonnell, silver & co. copyright by bonnell, silver & co., . contents. chapter page i. the advent of the angel ii. the entertainers of the angel iii. introduces the little major iv. the angel becomes a fairy v. the angel rescues mr. tomlin vi. the major superintends the angel's education vii. miss ruth makes the acquaintance of old g. a. r. viii. the angel meets an old friend ix. mary carew is tempted x. the major obeys orders xi. tells of the tenement's christmas the angel of the tenement. chapter i. the advent of the angel. the ladies of the tenement felt that it was a matter concerning the reputation of the house. therefore on this particular hot july morning they were gathered in the apartment of miss mary carew and miss norma bonkowski, if one small and dingy room may be so designated, and were putting the matter under discussion. miss carew, tall, bony, and more commonly known to the tenement as miss c'rew, of somewhat tart and acrid temper, being pressed for her version of the story, paused in her awkward and intent efforts at soothing the beautiful, fair-haired child upon her lap and explained that she was stepping out her door that morning with her water-bucket, thinking to get breakfast ready before miss bonkowski awoke, when a child's frightened crying startled her, coming from a room across the hall which for some weeks had been for rent. "at that," continued miss carew, moved to unwonted loquacity, and patting the child industriously while she addressed the circle of listening ladies, "at that, 'sure as life!' says i, and stepped across and opened the door, an' there, settin' on this shawl, its eyes big like it had jus' waked up, an' cryin' like to break its heart, was this here baby. i picked her right up an' come an' woke norma, but it's nothin' we can make out, 'ceptin' she's been in that there room all night." many were the murmurs and ejaculations from the circle of wondering ladies, while miss bonkowski, a frowzy-headed lady in soiled shirt waist and shabby skirt, with a small waist and shoulders disproportionately broad; and with, moreover, a dab of paint upon each high-boned cheek,--nothing daunted by previous failures, leaned forward and putting a somewhat soiled finger beneath the child's pretty chin, inquired persuasively, "and isn't the darling going to tell its norma its name?" miss bonkowski spoke airily and as if delivering a part. but this the good ladies forgave, for was not this same miss norma the flower that shed an odor of distinction over the social blossoming of the whole tenement? was not miss bonkowski a chorus lady at the garden opera house? so her audience looked on approvingly while miss norma snapped her fingers and chirruped to the baby encouragingly. "and what is the darling's name?" she repeated. the little one, her pitiful sobbing momentarily arrested, regarded miss bonkowski with grave wonder. "didn't a know i are angel?" she returned in egotistical surprise. "sure an' it's the truth she's spakin', fer it's the picter of an angel she is," cried mrs. o'malligan, she of the first-floor front, who added a tidy sum to her husband's earnings by taking in washing, and in consequence of the size of these united incomes, no less than that of her big heart, was regarded with much respect by the tenement, "just look at the swate face of her, would ye, an' the loikes of her illegant gown!" "won't it tell its norma where it came from? who brought the dearie here and left it in the naughty room? tell its norma," continued miss bonkowski, on her knees upon the bare and dirty floor, and eyeing the dainty embroidery and examining the quality of the fine white dress while she coaxed. "yosie brought angel--" the child began, then as if the full realization of the strangeness of it all returned at mention of that familiar name, the baby turned her back on norma and pulling at mary carew's dress imperatively, gazed up into that lady's thin, sharp face, "angel wants her mamma,--take angel to her mamma," she commanded, even while her baby chin was quivering and the big eyes winking to keep back the tears. "sure an' it shall go to its mammy," returned mrs o'malligan soothingly, "an' whir was it ye left her, me angel?" "yes, tell its norma where it left its mamma," murmured miss bonkowski coaxingly. "yosie bring angel way a way," explained the baby obediently. "yosie say angel be a good girl and her come yite back. where yosie,--angel wants yosie to come now," and the plaintive little voice broke into a sob, as the child looked from one to the other of the circle beseechingly. the ladies exchanged pitying glances while the persevering miss norma rattled an empty spool in a tin cup violently to distract the baby's thoughts. "and how old is angel?" she continued. again the tears were checked, while the grave, disapproving surprise which miss bonkowski's ignorance seemed to call forth, once more overspread the small face, "didn't a know her are three?" she returned reprovingly, reaching for the improvised and alluring plaything. "yes, yes," murmured miss bonkowski apologetically, "angel is three years old, of course, a great, big girl." "a gwate, big girl," repeated the baby, nodding her pretty head approvingly, "that what yosie say," then with abrupt change of tone, "where her breakfast, her wants her milk!" "an' she shall have it, sure," cried mrs. o'malligan promptly, and retired out the door with heavy haste, while miss bonkowski hospitably turned to bring forth what the apartment could boast in the way of breakfast. meanwhile the other ladies withdrew to the one window of the small room to discuss the situation. "that's it, i'm sure," one was saying, while she twisted up her back hair afresh, "for my man, he says he saw a woman pass our door yesterday afternoon, kinder late, an' go on up steps with a young 'un in her arms. he never seen her come back, he says, but mis' tomlin here, she says, she seen a woman dressed nice, come down afterwards seemin' in a hurry, but she didn't have no child, didn't you say, mis' tomlin?" thus appealed to, timid little mrs. tomlin shifted her wan-faced, fretting baby from one arm to the other and asserted the statement to be quite true. "an'ther case of desartion," pronounced mrs. o'malligan, having returned meanwhile with a cup filled with a thin blue liquid known to the tenement as _milk_, "a plain case of desartion, an' whut's to be done about it, i niver can say!" "done!" cried miss bonkowski, on her knees before mary and the child, crumbling some bread into the milk, "and what are the police for but just such cases?" the other ladies glanced apprehensively at mrs. o'malligan, that lady's bitter hatred of these guardians of the public welfare being well known, since that day when three small o'malligans were taken in the act of relieving a passing italian gentleman of a part of his stock of bananas. mrs. o'malligan had paid their fines in the city court, had thrashed them around as many times as her hot irish temper had rekindled at the memory, but had never forgiven the police for the disgrace to the family of o'malligan. and being the well-to-do personage of the tenement, it should be remarked that mrs. o'malligan's sentiments were generally deferred to, if not always echoed by her neighbors. "an' is it the polace ye'd be a-callin' in?" she burst forth volubly, reproach and indignation written upon the round red face she turned upon miss norma, "the polace? an' would ye be turnin' over the darlin' to the loikes of thim, to be locked up along with thaves an' murtherers afore night?" and, as a chorus of assenting murmurs greeted her, with her broad, flat foot thrust forward and hands upon her ample hips, mrs. o'malligan hurried on. "the polace is it ye say? an' who but these same polace, i ask ye, was it, gettin' this tiniment,--as has always held it's head up respectable,--a-gettin' this tiniment in the noospapers last winter along of that case of small-pox, an' puttin' a yellow flag out, an afther that nobody a-willin' to give me their washin', an miss c'rew here as could get no pants to make, an' yerself, miss norma, darlint, an' no disrespect to you a-spakin' out so bold, a-layin' idle because of no thayater a-willin' to have ye. an' wasn't it thim same polace crathurs, too, i'm askin' ye, as took our rainwather cistern away along of the fevers breakin' out, they made bold to say, the desaivin' crathers,--an' me a-niver havin' me washin' white a-since, for ye'll aisy see why, usin' the muddy wather as comes from that hydranth yirselves!" mrs. o'malligan glanced around triumphantly, shook her head and hurried on. "an' agin, there's little joey. who was it but the polace as come arristin' the feyther of the boy for batin' of his own wife, and him sint up for a year, an' she a-dyin' along of bein' weakly an' nobody to support her, an' joey left in this very tiniment an orphan child! don't ye be a-callin' in no polace for the loikes of this swate angel choild, miss norma darlint, don't ye be doin' it! an' the most of thim once foine irish gintlemen, bad luck to the loikes of thim!" mrs. o'malligan paused,--she was obliged to,--for breath, whereupon miss bonkowski very amiably hastened to declare she meant no harm, having absolutely no knowledge of the class whatever, "except," with arch humor, "as presented on the stage, where, as everybody who had seen them there knew, they were harmless enough, goodness knows!" and the airy chorus lady shrugged her shoulders and smiled at her own bit of pleasantry. "but for the matter of that, i still think something ought to be done, and what other means can we find for restoring the lost innocent?" and miss norma tossed her frizzled blonde head, quite enjoying, if the truth be told, the touch of romance about the affair. for once she seemed to be meeting, in real life, a situation worthy of the boards of the garden opera house, in whose stage vernacular a missing child was always a "lost innocent." "if we do not call on the police, mrs. o'malligan, how are we to ever find the child's mother?" here mary carew looked up, and there was something like a metallic click about mary's hard, dry tones as she spoke, for the years she had spent in making jeans pantaloons at one dollar and a half a dozen had not been calculated to sweeten her tones to mellowness, nor to induce her to regard human nature with charity. "don't you understand?" she said bluntly, "all the huntin' in the world ain't goin' to find a mother what don't mean to be found?" "but what makes you so sure she don't?" persisted miss bonkowski, letting the child take possession of spoon and cup, and quite revelling in the further touch of the dramatic developing in the situation. unconsciously mary pressed the child to her as she spoke. "it's as plain as everything else that's wrong and hard in this world," she said, and each word clicked itself off with metallic sharpness and decision, "the mother brought the child here late yesterday, waited until it was asleep in the room over there, then went off and left it. why she chose this here particular tenement we don't know and likely never will, though i ain't no doubt myself there's a reason. it ain't a pretty story or easy to understand but it's common enough, and you'll find that mother never means to be found, an' in as big a city as this 'n', tain't no use to try." "i will not--cannot--believe it," murmured norma--in her best stage tones. then she turned again to the child. "and how did it come here, dearie? has baby a papa--where is baby's papa?" the little one rattled the tin spoon around the sides of the cup. "papa bye," she returned chasing a solitary crumb intently. "yosie sick, mamma sick, tante sick, but angel, her ain't sick when she come way a way on--on--" a worried look flitted over the flushed little face, and she looked up at norma expectantly as if expecting her to supply the missing word, "on,--angel come way a way on--_vaisseau_--" at last with baby glee she brought the word forth triumphantly, "papa bye and angel and mamma and tante and yosie come way a way on _vaisseau_!" "you see," said mary carew, looking at norma, and the others shook their heads sadly. miss bonkowski accepted the situation. "though what a vasso is, or a tante either, is beyond me to say," she murmured. "but what is goin' to be done with her, then?" ventured little mrs. tomlin, holding her own baby closer as she spoke. there was a pause which nobody seemed to care to break, during which more than one of the women saw the child on mary's knee through dim eyes which turned the golden hair into a halo of dazzling brightness. then norma got up and began to clear away the remains of breakfast and to clatter the crockery from stove and table together for washing, while mary carew, avoiding the others' glances, busied herself by awkwardly wiping the child's mouth and chin with a corner of her own faded cotton dress. submitting as if the process was a matter of course, the baby gazed meanwhile into mary's colorless, bony and unlovely face. perhaps the childish eyes found something behind its hardness not visible to older and less divining insight, for one soft hand forthwith stole up to the hollow cheek, while the other pulled at the worn sleeve for attention. "what a name?" the clear little voice lisped inquiringly. poor mary looked embarrassed, but awkwardly lent herself to the caress as if, in spite of her shamefacedness, she found it not unpleasant. the baby's eyes regarded her with sad surprise. "a got no name, poor--poor--a got no name," then she broke forth, and as if quite overcome with the mournfulness of mary's condition, the little head burrowed back into the hollow of the supporting arm, that she might the better gaze up and study the face of this object for pity and wonder. poor mary carew--would that some one of the hundreds of un-mothered and unloved little ones in the great city had but found it out sooner--her starved heart had been hungering all her life, and now her arms closed about the child. "i reckon i'll keep her till somebody comes for her," she said with a kind of defiance, as if ashamed of her own weakness, "it'll only mean," with a grim touch of humor in her voice, "it'll only mean a few more jean pantaloons a week to make any how." "we'll share her keep between us alike, mary carew," declared norma, haughtily, with a real, not an affected toss, of the frizzed head now, "what is your charge, is mine too, i'd have you know!" "sure, an' we'll all do a part for the name of the house," said mrs. o'malligan, "an' be proud." and the other ladies agreeing to this more or less warmly, the matter was considered as settled. "an' as them as left her know where she is," said mary carew, the click quite decided again in her tones, "if they want her, they know where to come and get her--but--you hear to what i say, norma, they'll never come!" chapter ii. the entertainers of the angel. it was one thing for the good ladies of the tenement to settle the matter thus, but another entirely for the high-spirited, passionate little stranger,--bearing every mark of refined birth and good breeding in her finely-marked features, her straight, slim white body, her slender hands and feet, her dainty ways and fearless bearing,--to adapt herself to the situation. the first excitement over, her terror and fright returned, and the cry went up unceasingly in lisping english interspersed with words utterly unintelligible to the two distracted ladies, begging to be taken to that mother of whom mary carew entertained so poor an opinion. it was in vain that good woman, with a tenderness and patience quite at variance with her harsh tones, rocked, petted, coaxed and tried to satisfy with vague promises of "to-morrow." in vain did norma, no less earnestly now that the touch of romance had faded into grim responsibility, whistle and sing and snap her fingers, the terror was too real, the sense of loss too poignant, the baby heart refused to be comforted, and it was only when exhaustion came that the child would moan herself to sleep in mary's arms. so passed several days, the baby drooping and pining, but clinging to mary through it all, with a persistency which, while it won her heart entirely, sadly interfered with the progress of jean pantaloons. as for the more material norma, whose time, free from the requirements of her profession, had hitherto been largely given to reshaping her old garments in imitations of the ever-changing fashions, finding that the baby clung to mary, she bore no malice, but good-naturedly turned her skill toward making the poor accommodations of their room meet the needs of the occasion, and in addition appointed herself maid to her small ladyship. and an arduous task it ultimately proved, for, as the child gradually became reconciled and began to play about, a dozen times a day a little pair of hands were stretched toward norma and a sweet, tearful voice proclaimed in accents of anguished grief, "angel's hands so-o-o dirty!"--which indeed they were each time, her surroundings being of that nature which rubbed off at every touch. indeed so pronounced was the new inmate's dislike to dirt, that mary, sensitive to criticism, took to rising betimes these hot mornings and making the stuffy room sweet with cleanliness. not so easy a task as one might imagine either, in an apartment which combined kitchen, laundry, bedroom, dining-room and the other conveniences common to housekeeping in a � space, as evidenced by the presence of a stove, a table with a tub concealed beneath, a machine, a bed, a washstand, two chairs, and a gayly decorated bureau, norma's especial property, set forth with bottles of perfumery, a satin pin-cushion and a bunch of artificial flowers in a vase. and in putting the room thus to rights, when it is considered that every drop of water used upon floor, table or window, had to be carried up four flights of stairs, the sincerity of mary's conversion to the angelic way of regarding things cannot be doubted. nor, if mary's word can be taken, were these efforts wasted upon her little ladyship, who, awakened by the bustle on the very first occasion of mary's crusade against the general disorder, sat up in the crib donated by mrs. o'malligan,--the last of the o'malligans being now in trousers,--and hung over the side with every mark of approving interest. and happy with something to love and an object to work for, mary continued to scrub on with a heart strangely light. "and i couldn't slight the corners if i wanted to," she told her neighbors, "with them great solemn eyes a-watchin' an' a-follerin' me." it was on a morning following one of these general upheavals and straightenings that the three sat down to breakfast, the two ladies feeling unwontedly virtuous and elegant by reason of their clean surroundings. the angel seeming brighter and more willing to leave mary's side, norma put her into one of their two chairs, and herself sat on the bed. but no sooner had the baby grabbed her cracked mug than her smooth forehead began to pucker, and, setting it down again, she regarded norma earnestly. "didn't a ought to _say_ something?" she demanded, and her eyes grew dark with puzzled questioning. "and what should you say, darling?" returned norma, leaning over to crumble some bread into the milk which a little judicious pinching in other directions made possible for the child. the baby studied her bread and milk intently. "jesus"--she lisped, then hesitated, and her worried eyes sought norma's again,--"jésus"--then with a sudden joyful burst of inspiration, "amen," she cried and seized her mug triumphantly. "it's a blessing she is asking," said norma with tears in her eyes, "i know, for i've seen it done on the stage, though what with the food being pasteboard cakes and colored plaster fruit, i never took much stock in it before," and she laughed somewhat unsteadily. "bread and butter, come to supper," sang the baby with sudden glee, "that what tante says.--where angel's tante?" and with the recollection her face changed, and the pretty pointed chin began to quiver. a moment of indecision, and she slipped down from her chair. "kiss angel bye," she commanded, tugging at mary's skirts, "her goin' to tante," the little face fierce with determination, every curl bobbing with the emphatic nods of the little head, "kiss her bye, c'rew," and the wild sobs began again. so passed a week, but, for all the added care and responsibility, the longer this wayward, imperious little creature, with the hundred moods for every hour, was hers, the less was mary carew disposed to consider the possibility of any one coming to claim her. not so with the blonde-tressed chorus lady, who combined more of worldly wisdom with her no less kindly heart. patiently she tried to win the child's further confidence, to stimulate the baby memory, to unravel the lisped statements. but it was in vain. smiles indeed, she won at length, through tears, and little sad returns to her playful sallies, but the little one's words were too few, her ideas too confused, for norma to learn anything definite from her lispings. but norma was not satisfied. "my heart misgives me," she murmured in the tragic accents she so loved to assume,--one evening as she pinned on her cheap and showy lace hat and adjusted its wealth of flowers, preparatory to starting to the garden opera house, "my heart misgives me. it seems to me it is our duty, mary, to do something about this,--to report it--somehow,--somewhere"--she ended vaguely. "hadn't i better speak to a policeman after all?" mary carew drew the child,--drowsing in her arms,--to her quickly. "no," she said, and her thin, bony face looked almost fierce, "no, for if you did and they couldn't find her people, which you know as well as i do they couldn't, do you s'pose they'd give her back to us? they'd put her in a refuge or 'sylum, that's what they'd do, where, while maybe she'd have more to eat, she'd be enough worse off, a-starvin' for a motherin' word!" miss bonkowski, abashed at mary's fierce attack, made an attempt to speak, but mary, vehemently interrupting, hurried on: "i know whereas i speak, norma bonkowski, i know, i know. i've gone through it all myself. i ain't never told you," and the knobby face burned a dull red, "i was county poor, where i come from in the state, an' sent to th' poor-house at four years old, myself, and i know, norma, the miseries whereas i speak of. and the lord helpin' me," with grim solemnity, "an' since he sent you here huntin' a room, an' since he helped me get the machine, hard to run as it is, somehow i'm believin' more he's the lord of us poor folks too,--an' him a-helpin' me to turn out one more pair of pants a day, i'll never be the means of puttin' no child in a refuge no-how an' no time. an' there it is, how i feel about it!" miss bonkowski turned from a partial view of herself such as the abbreviated glass to her bureau afforded. "well," she said amiably, "coming as i did from across the ocean as a child," and she nodded her head in the supposed direction of the atlantic, "and, until late years, always enjoying a good home, what with father getting steady work as a scene-painter, as i've told you often, and me going on in the chorus off and on, and having my own bit of money, i don't really know about the asylums in this country. but i have heard say they are so fine, people ain't against deserting their children just to get 'em in such places knowin' they'll be educated better'n they can do themselves." mary's pale eyes blazed. "do you mean, norma bonkowski," she demanded angrily, "that you'd rather she should go?" miss bonkowski shrugged her shoulders somewhat haughtily. "how you do talk, mary! you know i don't,--but neither do i believe she is any deserted child, and it's worrying me constant, what we ought to do. poor as i am, and what with father dying and the manager cutting my salary as i get older,--i'll admit it to you, mary, though i wouldn't have him know i'm having another birthday to-day--" with a laugh and a shrug, "why, as i say, i am pretty poor, but every cent i've got is yours and the child's, and you know it, mary carew," and the good-hearted chorus-lady, with a reproachful backward glance at her room-mate, flounced out the door, leaving the re-assured mary to sew, by the light of an ill-smelling lamp, until her return from the theatre near midnight. chapter iii. introduces the little major. while the fine, embroidered dress in which the angel had made her appearance was all mrs. o'malligan had claimed it as to daintiness and quality, after a few days' wear, its daintiness gave place to dirt, its quality thinned to holes. upon this the tenement was called into consultation. the angel must be clothed, but what, even from its cosmopolitan wardrobe, could the house produce suitable for angelic wear? many lands indeed were represented by the inmates who now called its shelter home, but none from that country where angels are supposed to have their being. "on my word," quoth miss bonkowski to the ladies gathered in the room at her bidding, and miss norma gave an eloquent shrug and elevated her blackened eyebrows as she spoke, "on my word i believe her little heart would break if she had to stay in dirty, ragged clothes very long. such a darling for being washed and curled, such a precious for always cleaning up! it makes me sure she must be different,"--miss norma was airy but she was also humble, recognizing perhaps her own inherent shrinking from too frequent an application of soap and water--"she's something different, born and bred, from such as me!" but at this the ladies murmured. miss bonkowski had been their pride, their boast, nor did their allegiance falter now, even in the face of the angel's claims to superiority. miss bonkowski was not ungrateful for this expression of loyalty, which she acknowledged with a smile, as she tightened the buckle on the very high-heeled and coquettish slipper she was rejuvenating, but she protested, nevertheless, that all this did not alter the fact that the angel must be clothed. "as fer th' dirt," said the energetic mrs. o'malligan, on whose ample lap the angel was at that moment sitting in smiling friendliness, "sure an' i'll be afther washin' her handful uv clothes ivery wake, meself, an' what with them dozens of dresses i'm doin' fer mrs. tony's childers all th' time, it's surely a few she'd be a-givin' me, whin i tell her about th' darlint, an' me a niver askin' fer nothin' at all, along of all mine bein' boys. sure an' i'll be a-beggin' her this very day, i will, whin i carry me washin' home." and mrs. o'malligan being as good as her word, and mrs. tony successfully interviewed, the good irish lady returned home in triumph bearing a large bundle of cast-off garments, and at once summoned the tenement to her apartments. the first arrived ladies were already giving vent to their appreciation of the tony generosity when miss carew and miss bonkowski arrived, mary's bony face, in deference to the angelic prejudices now ruling her, red and smarting from an energetic application of the same soap as ministered to her room's needs, but beaming with a grim pride as she bore the radiant angel, wild with delight at getting out of her narrow quarters. yielding to the popular voice, though not without reluctance, mary placed her darling in mrs. o'malligan's lap, and the process of exhibiting and trying on the garments began at once. for a time her small ladyship yielded graciously, until seeing her pretty feet bared that the little stockings and half worn shoes might be fitted, she suddenly cast her eyes about the circle of ladies, and won by the pretty, dark beauty of young mrs. repetto, the tenement's bride of a month's standing, imperiously demanded that lady to take the pink toes to market. overcome with having the public attention thus drawn upon her, pretty mrs. repetto in the best italian-english she could muster, confessed her inability to either understand or comply, whereupon the baby, bearing no malice in her present high good-humor, proceeded to take them herself. "this little pig went to market," the angelic accents declared, while her ladyship smiled sweetly upon mrs. repetto, and mary carew breathlessly motioned for silence with all the pride of a doting parent. "this little pig stayed home--" the ladies on the outskirts pressed near that they too might hear. "this little pig had bread and cheese," whereupon mrs. repetto recovering, went down on her knees to be nearer the scene of exploit. "this little pig had none;" the interest now was breathless, and as the last little pig went squeaking home the ladies nearest fell upon the darling and covered her with kisses. "an' it's jus' that smart she is, all the time," declared mary carew proudly, "an' 'taint like she's showin' off, either, is it, norma?" when at last the trying on was over, and the tony generosity was sufficiently enlarged upon, the ladies, as is the way with the best of the sex, fell into a mild gossip before separating. and while racy bits of tenement shortcomings were being handed around, the small object of this gathering, too young, alas, to know the joys denied her because of her limited abilities to understand the nature of the conversation, slipped down from mrs. o'malligan's lap, and eluding mary's absent hold, proceeded to journey about the room, until reaching the open door, she took her way, unobserved, out of the o'malligan first floor front and leaving its glories of red plush furniture and lace curtains behind her, forthwith made her way out the hall door into the street. the hot, garbage-strewn pavements and sunbaked gutters swarmed with the sons and daughters of the tenement. directly opposite its five-storied front was the rear entrance to the fourth regiment armory. and there, at that moment, a sad-eyed, swarthy italian,--swinging his hand-organ down on the asphalt pavement in front of the armory's open doors, was beginning to grind out his melodies. and with the first note, children came running, from doorstep and curb, from sidewalk and gutter, while, at the same moment, in the open door of the armory appeared a small, chubby-cheeked boy, who had upon his head a soldier cap so much too large for him as to cover the tips of his ears entirely, and who, moreover, wore, buckled about his waist, a belt gay as to trimmings and glittering with silver finishings. if the fourth regiment boasted a company of lilliputian guards here surely was a member. the angel, in the tenement door, was enchanted. how different a world from that upstairs room under the roof! she kept step to the music and nodded her head to the fascinating little boy in the armory door. and the sharp eyes of that young gentleman had no sooner espied the nodding little creature in the doorway opposite, than heels together, head erect, up went a quick hand to the military cap. the angel was being saluted, and while her ignorance of the fact prevented her appreciating that honor, the friendliness of the little boy was alluring. down the steps she came, her little feet tripping to the measure of the music, her skirts outheld, and flitting across the pavement and over the curb, she made for the group of children in the street. cobblestones, however, being strange to the baby feet, up those dancing members tripped and down the angel fell, just as a wagon came dashing around the corner of the streets. out rushed the small boy from the armory door, and, scattering the crowd around the organ, caught the fallen angel by the arm, and raised his hand with an air of authority, as, with a grin, the driver on the wagon drew up his horse and surveyed the group, and the sad-eyed italian, recognizing the superior attraction, shouldered his organ and moved on. "hello," cried the man on the wagon seeing the child was not hurt, "yer can soak me one if it ain't little joe! where'd yer git dem togs, kid? what'r' yer goin' in fer anyhow, baby perlice?" the region in the neighborhood of joey's waist swelled with pride, and his chubby face bore a look of wounded dignity. "there ain't no perlice about this yere, bill, it's a sojer i be, see?" being pressed by bill to explain himself, joey unbent. "yer see, bill, dad ain't never showed up fer to git me--seen anything of dad since he got out, bill?" bill nodded. "what's he up to now?" queried joey. "shovin' the queer," admitted bill laconically, "nabbed right off an' in the cooler waitin' his turn, yer won't be troubled by him fer quite a spell, i'll give yer dat fer a pointer, see?" joey saw, and for the space of half a second seemed somewhat sobered by the intelligence. "i guessed as much," said he, "yer see, after he got nabbed first, mammy she--yer didn't know as mammy took an' died, did yer, bill?" and joey faltered and let the angel take possession of his cap and transfer it to her own curly head while the tenement children applauded with jeering commendation, seeing there was a standing feud between joey and the rest of the juvenile populace over its possession. "no," bill allowed, he did not know it, but, seeing that she was always ailing, bill was in no wise surprised. "an'--an' since then, i'm stayin' over ter th' arm'ry wid old g. a. r. yer know him, bill, old g. a. r. what takes care of th' arm'ry. he was there afore yer left th' grocery." bill remembered the gentleman. "i stays wid him an' he drills me an' makes me scrub, hully gee, how he do make me wash meself, bill! an' there's one sojer-man, th' cap'n, he give me these togs, he did, an' he tol' old g. a. r. to lem'me eat along wid him over ter dutchy's res'traunt," nodding toward a cheap eating-house at the corner, "an' he'd stand fer it. they calls me major, all of 'em to th' arm'ry, bill, see?" and joey was waxing voluble indeed, when he turned to see the mob of jeering children make off up the street, his cap in their midst, while the wailing angel was being rescued from under the horse's very hoofs by mary carew. joey put his spirit of inquiry before even his cap. "is she er angel, say?" he inquired of miss carew, turning his back on bill without ceremony who with a grin and a nod to the group of tenement ladies at the door, drove off, "i heerd yer had er angel over there, but i didn't know as it was straight, what they was givin' me, see?" "that's what she is, the darling yonder," declared miss bonkowski from the curbstone, nodding airily, "you've got it straight this time, joey. and if what peter o'malligan says about your picking her up just now is so, you're welcome to come over some time and play with her." "yes, it's true," supplemented mary carew, trying to pacify the struggling angel in her arms who, gazing after the children, showed a decided inclination to descend to human level and mingle with them of earth, "it's true an' that's jus' what she is,--the angel of this tenement, an', as norma says, you're free to come over and play with her, though there ain't many of you i'd say it to;" and with that the tall, gaunt mary bearing the baby, followed norma into the house and up the narrow, broken stairs, and along the dark halls past door after door closed upon its story of squalor and poverty, until, at last, panting with the child's weight, she reached their own abode under the roof. "which," as mary had been wont, in the past, to observe, "was about as near heaven as the poor need look to get." but now, for some reason, these bitter speeches were growing less frequent on mary carew's lips since she opened her door to entertain an angel. chapter iv. the angel becomes a fairy. july passed, and in august, the heat in the room beneath the roof set the air to shimmering like a veil before the open window, and mary carew, gasping, found it harder and harder to make that extra pair of jean pantaloons a day. and, as though the manager at the garden opera house had divined that miss bonkowski had left another birthday behind her, like milestones along the way, that lady's salary received a cut on the first day of august. at best, the united incomes of the two made but a meagre sum, and there was nothing for it now but to reduce expenses. the rent being one thing that was never cut, the result was a scantier allowance of food. moreover, the mortals seeing to it that their heavenly visitant had her full craving satisfied, it was small wonder that the bones in mary's face pressed more like knobs than ever against the tight-drawn skin, or that the spirits of the airy, hopeful, buoyant norma flagged. indeed, had not the warm-hearted, loving little creature, repaid them with quick devotion, filling their meagre lives with new interests and affections, despair or worse--regret for their generous impulse--must now have seized their hearts. invitations, too, grew rare, from the other ladies of the tenement, bidding the little stranger whose simple friendliness and baby dignity had won them all, to dine or to sup, for hard times had fallen upon them also. a strike at a neighboring foundry, the shutting down of the great rolling-mill by the river had sent their husbands home for a summer vacation, with, unfortunately, no provision for wages, a state of affairs forbidding even angels' visits, when the angel possessed so human a craving for bread. even mrs. o'malligan, whose chief patron, mrs. tony, together with her children and their dozens of dresses, had gone for a summer outing, had no more on her table than her own family could dispose of. but the angel,--"'eaving bless her," as mrs. tomlin was wont to observe when the angel, coming to see the baby, would stand with grave wonder, touching the pallid little cheek with a rosy finger to make the baby smile,--the angel noted nothing of all this. even the memory of "_mamma_" was fading, and mary, norma, the tenement, the friendly children swarming staircase and doorway, were fast becoming her small world. with instinct born of her profession, the chorus-lady had long ago recognized the wonderful grace and buoyancy of the child's every movement, and to her surprise found that the baby had quite a knowledge of dancing. "who taught you how, my precious?" she would ask, when the child, as if from the very love of motion, would catch and spread her skirts, and, with pointed toe, trip about the room, "tell your norma who taught the darling how to dance?" the baby glancing over her shoulder, with the little frown of displeasure that always greeted such ignorance on norma's part, had but one reply: "tante," she would declare, and continue her measured walk about the floor. so, for pastime, norma began teaching her the figures of a dance then on the boards at the opera house, to which her little ladyship lent herself with readiness. the motions, sometimes approaching the grotesque in the lean and elderly chorus-lady as she bobbed about the limited space, courtesying, twirling, pirouetting, her blonde hair done up in kids,--herself in the abbreviated toilet of pink calico sack and petticoat reserved for home hours, changed to unconscious grace and innocent abandon in the light, clean-limbed child, who learned with quickness akin to instinct, and who seemed to follow norma's movements almost before they were completed. "it is wonderful--amazing!" miss bonkowski would exclaim, pausing for breath, "it is _genius_," and her voice would pause and fall reverently before the words, and the lesson would be resumed with greater enthusiasm than before. but many were the days when, norma away at rehearsal and mary carew, hot, tired, alas, even cross,--totally irresponsive to anything but the stitching of jean pantaloons,--the angel would grow tired of the stuffy room and long for the forbidden dangers and delights of tenement sidewalks. then, often, with nothing else to do, she would catch up her tiny skirts and whirl herself into the dance norma had taught her, in and out among the furniture crowding the room, humming little broken snatches of music for herself, bending, swaying, her bright eyes full of laughter as they met mary's tired ones, her curls bobbing, until breathless, hot and weary she would drop on the floor and fall asleep, her head pillowed on her soft dimpled arm. but on one of these long, hot mornings when the heat seemed to stream in as from a furnace at the window and even the flies buzzed languidly, the angel was seized with another idea for passing time. her vocabulary of tenement vernacular was growing too, and she chattered unceasingly. "c'rew, didn't a fink angel might go find her mamma?" she demanded on this particular morning. "to-morrow," said c'rew, and the click in her tired voice sounded even above the whirring of the heavy machine, for c'rew's head ached and her back ached, and possibly her heart ached too, for herself and norma and the child and poor people in one-windowed tenement rooms in general. "didn't a fink she might go play with little joey?" "no," said mary decidedly, and she leaned back wearily and pushed her thin, colorless hair off her hot, throbbing temples, "no, you played down on the pavement with joey an' th' rest yesterday, an the sun made you sick. but," with haste to avert the cloud lowering over the baby face, "if you'll be real good an' not worry her, you can go down an' see mrs. o'malligan." fair weather prevailed again on the pretty face, and at mary's word the angel was at the open door, tugging at the chair placed crossways to keep her from venturing out unobserved, and with a sigh and a guilty look at the pile of unfinished work, mary rose and carried her down to the good irish lady's door, and, with a word, hurried back. mrs. o'malligan, big, beaming and red, smiled a moist but hearty welcome from over her tubs toward the little figure in the faded gingham standing shyly in the open doorway. "an' it's proud to see ye i am, me angel," she declared, "though there's never a childer in call to be playin' wid ye." but the angel, nothing daunted, smiled back in turn, and climbed into a chair, and the two forthwith fell into friendly conversation, though it is doubtful if either understood one-half of what the other was talking about. presently mrs. o'malligan, with many apologies, went out into the back court to hang out the last of the family wash, and on her return, stopping short in the doorway, her jolly red face spread into a responsive smile. "the saints presarve us," she cried, "would ye look at the child?" for in the tub of blue rinsing water sat the gleeful angel, water trickling from her yellow hair and from every stitch of clothing, while her evident enjoyment of the cool situation found a response in mrs. o'malligan's kind and indulgent heart. "angel take a baf," was the smiling though superfluous explanation which came from the infant undine. "an' it's right ye are," laughed mrs. o'malligan, "an' sure i'll be afther givin' ye a rale wan meself," and filling an empty tub with clean water, the brisk lady soon had the baby stripped to her firm, white skin and standing in the tub. and what with the splashings of the naughty feet, and the wicked tumbles into the soap-suds every time the mischievous little body was rinsed, and mrs. o'malligan's "whist, be aisy," and "it's a tormentin' darlint ye are," they heard nothing of the knocks at the door or the calls, nor knew that miss bonkowski, in street dress and hat, had entered, until she stood beside them with an armful of clean clothes. "was there ever such luck," she cried excitedly, "to find her all washed and just ready! mary said she was here, and so i just brought her clean clothes down with me to save a trip back upstairs. wipe her quickly, please," and with hands and tongue going, miss norma explained that one of the children in the juvenile dance on the boards at the garden opera house had been suddenly taken ill, and a matinée advertised for the next day. "and it happens lucky enough," she went on, addressing the ladies who, catching wind of the excitement, had speedily gathered about the doorway, "it just happens i have been teaching her this very dance, and if she don't get frightened, i believe she will be able to take the place." so saying, miss bonkowski gave a pull out and a last finishing pat to the strings of the embroidered muslin bonnet the child had worn on her first appearance, and taking her, clean, dainty, smiling and expectant, into her arms, miss norma plunged out of the comparative coolness of the tenement hallway into the glare of the august sun. but all this while the little brain was at work. "goin' to angel's mamma,--her goin' to her mamma," suddenly the child broke forth as norma hurried along the hot streets, and the little hand beat a gleeful tattoo as it rested on norma's shoulder. norma paused on the crowded sidewalk, to take breath beneath the shade of a friendly awning. "not to-day, my angel," she panted, "to-day your norma is going to take her precious where there are ever so many nice little girls for her to dance with." "angel likes to dance with little girls, norma," admitted the baby, while norma made ready to thread her way across the street through the press of vehicles. "i'll not say one word to her about being frightened," reflected the wise chorus lady, "and she's such an eager little darling, thinking of other things and trying to do her best, maybe she won't think of it. if she can only keep the place while that child is sick,--what a help the money would be!"--and the usually hopeful norma sighed as she hurried in the side entrance of the handsome stone building known to the public as the garden opera house. * * * * * the next afternoon, at the garden opera house, as the bell rang for the curtain to rise, mary carew, in best attire of worn black dress and cheap straw hat, was putting the angel into the absent fairy's cast-off shell, which consisted of much white tarlatan as to skirts and much silver tinsel as to waist, with a pair of wonderful gauzy wings at sight of which the angel was enraptured. miss bonkowski being, as she expressed it, "on in the first scene," mary carew had been obliged to forsake jean pantaloons for the time being and come to take charge of the child, who in her earnest, quick, enthusiastic little fashion had done her part and gone through the rehearsal better even than the sanguine norma had hoped, and after considerable drilling had satisfied the authorities that she could fill the vacancy. as for the angel, in her friendly fashion she had enjoyed herself hugely, accepting the homage of the other children like a small queen, graciously permitting herself to be enthused over by the various ladies who, like norma, constituted "the chorus," and carrying home numerous offerings, from an indigestible wad of candy known as "an all-day-sucker," given her by her fairy-partner, to a silver quarter given her by the blonde and handsome tenor. "she is the most fascinating little creature i ever met in my life," the prima donna had cried to the excited miss bonkowski, who had never been addressed by that great personage before,--"did you ever see such heavenly eyes,--not blue--violet--and such a smile--like the sun through tears! who is she,--where did she come from? such grace,--such poise!" the angel's story was recited to quite an audience, in miss bonkowski's most dramatic manner. but long before the chorus lady had finished, the great singer, lending but a wandering attention after the few facts were gathered, had coaxed the child into her silken lap, and with the mother touch which lies in every real woman's fingers from doll-baby days upward, was fondling and re-touching the rings of shining hair, and, with the mother-notes which a child within one's arms brings into every womanly woman's voice, was cooing broken endearments into the little ear. meanwhile the angel gazed into the beautiful face with the calm and critical eyes of childhood. but what she saw there must have satisfied, for, with a sigh of content, she finally settled back against the encircling arm. "pretty lady," was her candid comment. "angel loves her." flattered and praised as she had been, it is doubtful if the great singer had ever received a tribute to her charms that pleased her more. "bring her to my room to-morrow to dress her," she said to miss bonkowski in soft, winning tones that were nevertheless a command, unpinning the two long-stemmed roses she wore and putting them in the baby fingers, "and bring her early, mind!" and so it was that mary carew, nervous and awkward, was there now, doing her best to dress the excited little creature, whom nothing could keep still a second at a time. "thank you, ma'am," mary managed to breathe as the great personage, turning the full radiance of her beauty upon the bewildered seamstress, took the necklace of flashing jewels from her maid's fingers and bade her help mary. the great lady laughed. "you're nervous, aren't you?" she said good-humoredly, too human not to be pleased at this unconscious tribute on mary's part. "if the child can only do it right, ma'am," said mary, in a voice she hardly knew for her own, overcome this by graciousness no less than by the splendor. "right," said the lady, clasping a bracelet upon her round, white arm, and settling her trailing draperies preparatory to going on, "right! of course she will, who ever heard of an angel going wrong!" and laughing she sailed away. "now," cried miss bonkowski, rushing in a little later, "give her to me, quick, mary! if you stand right here in the wings you can see nicely," and the excited lady, wonderful as to her blonde befrizzlement, gorgeous as to pink skirt, blue bodice and not the most cleanly of white waists, bore the angel, like a rosebud in a mist of gauze, away. left alone amid the bustle and confusion mary stood where norma had directed, gazing out upon the stage like one in a dream. never in all her colorless life had she been in the midst of such bewildering splendors before. was it any wonder that norma bonkowski was different from the rest of the tenement when she shared such scenes daily? still further dazed by the music and the glimpses she could catch of the brilliantly lighted house, mary held her breath and clasped her hands as she gazed out on the stage where, across the soft green, from among the forest trees, into the twilighted opening, glided the fairies; waving their little arms, tripping slowly as if half-poised for flight, listening, bending, swaying, whirling, faster, swifter, they broke into "the grand spectacular ballet of the fairies," as the advertisements of the opera phrased it. faster, swifter still, noiselessly they spun, here, there, in, out, in bewildering maze until, as the red and yellow lights cast upon the stage changed into green, their footsteps slackened, faltered, their heads, like tired flowers, drooped, and each on its mossy bank of green,--the fairies sank to sleep. all? all but one; one was left, in whose baby mind was fixed an unfaltering supposition that she must dance, as she had done alone, over and over again at the rehearsals for her tiny benefit, until the music stopped. so, while norma bonkowski wrung her hands and the stage manager swore, and all behind the scenes was confusion and dismay, the angel danced on. the prima donna whose place it now was, as the forsaken princess, lost in the forest, to happen upon the band of sleeping fairies, waited at her entrance, watching the child as, catching and spreading her fan-like skirts of gauze, she bent, swayed, flitted to and fro, her eyes big and earnest with intentness to duty, her yellow hair flying, all unconscious, in the fierce glare of the colored lights, of the sea of faces in the house before her. with a sudden flash of intuition norma bonkowski flew to the manager. "stop the music, make them stop," she begged. he glared at her savagely, but nevertheless communicated the order to the orchestra, and as the music waned to a mere wailing of the violin, the little dancer, rosy, hot, tired, whirled slower, slower,--then sank on her bed of green, and like her companions feigned sleep with the cunning pretence of childhood. but not even then could the prima donna make her appearance, for, in the storm of applause which followed, the revived efforts of the orchestra were drowned. the face of the manager broadened into smiles, norma bonkowski fell against mary carew with tears of relief, and the prima donna with good-natured readiness stepped upon the stage, lifted the now frightened child who, at the noise, had sprung up in alarm, and carried her out to the footlights, the other children peeping, but too well drilled, poor dears, to otherwise stir. the audience paused. "wave bye-bye to the little girl over there," whispered the prima donna with womanly readiness, nodding toward the nearest box, filled with children eagerly enjoying "the children's opera of the princess blondina and the fairies." though frightened and ready to cry, the angel waved her hand obediently, and the prima donna, nodding and smiling in the unaffected fashion which was half her own charm, carried the child off the stage amid applause as enthusiastic as she herself was used to receiving. it had all taken place in a very few minutes, but as the smiling singer said, handing the angel over to the manager, even in those few moments, "she has made the hit of the season," then, turning, re-entered the stage, her voice, with its clear bell-like tones, filling the house with the song, "blondina awakening the fairies." nor did it end with this, for the angel was forthwith engaged, at what seemed to norma and mary a fabulous price, to repeat her solo dance at every wednesday and saturday matinée during the further run of the opera. chapter v. the angel rescues mr. tomlin. it was on the afternoon that mary carried back her week's completed work that norma, receiving an unexpected summons to the opera house, was obliged, though with many misgivings, to leave the angel in the charge of joey. "but what else could i do," she reasoned afterward, "with mrs. o'malligan out and mrs. tomlin sick, and nobody else willing, it appeared, to see to her?" true, she had cautioned joey, over and over again about keeping the child away from the window, and about staying right in the room until her return; but, notwithstanding, norma could hardly have gotten to the corner before joey, promptly forgetting his promise, and finding the room a dull playground, was enticing his charge into the hall and straightway down the stairs. at the bottom of the second flight, the two children came upon mr. tomlin entertaining two gentlemen callers. only the week before, the tenement had been called upon to mourn with the tomlins, whose baby had been carried away in a little coffin after the fashion of tenement babies when the thermometer climbs up the scale near to one hundred. and since then, mrs. tomlin, refusing to be comforted, had taken to her bed, thus making it necessary for her husband to receive his company in the hall. the callers, who, together with their host, were sitting on the steps, moved aside to allow the children to pass. the larger of the gentlemen was unpleasantly dirty, with a ragged beard and a shock of red hair. the other was a little man with quick black eyes and a pleasant smile. passing these by, the angel paused on the step above mr. tomlin and slipped her arms around his neck. "pick a back, my tomlin," she sweetly commanded in the especially imperious tones she reserved for mr. tomlin's sex, "get up, horsey." the good-natured giant, for such her tomlin was, shouldered her as one would some precious burden liable to break, grinned, stood up and obediently trotted the length of the hall and back. joey, meanwhile, legs apart, stood eyeing the visitors attentively. "keep up that kind of talk," the dirty gentleman was urging, "and we've got him. he's worth any three of ordinary strength, and he's a favorite with the men, too." here the horse and his rider returned. "what a got in a pocket for angel?" the young autocrat proceeded to demand when lifted down. of all her masculine subjects in the tenement, mr. tomlin was her veriest slave. he produced a soiled but gay advertising picture. her ladyship put out her hand. "but you must give us a dance fer it," coaxed mr. tomlin, anxious to display the talent of the tenement. "she's the young 'un as dances at the op'ry house, the kid is," he explained to his visitors, "they've had her pictoor in the papers, too. miss bonkowski, the chorus-lady upstairs, she's got one of them, came out in a sunday supplement, though i can't say i see the likeness myself." at this, the two gentlemen, who had seemed decidedly bored than otherwise at the interruption, deigned to bestow a moment of their attention upon the beautiful child in the faded gingham dress. "she got skeered to the theyater the other day," put in joey, "an' most cried when they clapped so, an' they promised her anything she wanted if she wouldn't next time----" "and her didn't cwy," declared the baby, turning a pair of indignantly reproachful eyes upon joey, "her danced, her didn't cwy." "ain't yer goin' to dance fer us now?" coaxed mr. tomlin. "no," said the angel naughtily, then relenting at sight of her tomlin's face, "her'll sing, her won't dance." the pleasant gentleman, thinking, perhaps to please mr. tomlin, or maybe to get rid of them the sooner, produced a red ribbon badge. "ef ze will sing," he said, showing his white teeth as he smiled, "ze shall hav it." turning to view this new party, her ladyship treated him to a brief examination, but evidently approving of him, began to sing with no more ado: "je suis si l'enfant gaté tra la la la, tra la la, car je les aime les petits patés. et les confitures, si vous voulez me les donner je suis très bien obligé, tra la la la, tra la la, tra la la la, tra la la." only a word here and there could have been intelligible, but their effect upon the pleasant gentleman was instantaneous. he broke into a torrent of foreign exclamations and verbosity, showing his teeth and gesticulating with his hands. a strange light came into the baby's face and she held out her arms to the little man entreatingly. "oui, oui," she cried, a spot of red burning on each cheek, "you take angel to her mamma, take angel to her mamma!" but here the door of the tomlin's room opened hastily, and the neighbor who was sitting with the sick woman thrust out her head. "she's talkin' mighty wild an' out her head," she said, "you'd better come to her." mr. tomlin rose hastily, while the dark little man, yielding to the child's entreaties, took her in his arms. but the red-headed gentleman laid a dirty hand on mr. tomlin's arm. "just as i was saying," he said, as if resuming a broken-off conversation, "no doctor, no medicine. why? no work, no wages. why? the heel of the rich man grinding the poor to the earth." mr. tomlin hesitated. "it's entirely a meeting of union men. no violence advocated. a mass-meeting to discuss appointing committees to demand work." "ze outcry of ze oppressed," put in the pleasant gentleman, looking out from behind the angel's fair little head, and showing his white teeth in his smile, "in zer union ees zere only strength." mr. tomlin's door opened still more violently. "she's a-beggin' as you'll get her some ice," announced the neighbor, "she says she's burnin' up." "god a'mighty!" burst forth the giant, "i ain't got a cent on earth to get her nothin'," and he turned toward the two men fiercely, his great brows meeting over his sullen eyes, "yes, i'll come, you can count on me," and he went in the door. "liberty square by the statue, four o'clock," called the dirty gentleman after him, while the pleasant gentleman put the angel hastily down. "adieu, mon enfant," he cried, showing his teeth as he smiled back over his shoulder, and followed his companion down the stairs. in time joey and his weeping charge also reached the bottom. not a word of the conversation had escaped the sharp ears of the major. "it's past two, now," he soliloquized, "an' he said liberty square, four o'clock. i know where the statoo is. yer follows the cars from front of th' arm'ry an' they goes right there, 'cause that's where the cap'n's office is. don'tcher cry no more, angel," with insinuating coaxing in his tones, "i'll take yer there if yer wanter go." the angel slipped her hand in his obediently, and the two forthwith proceeded to leave the neighborhood of the tenement behind them, undeterred by the friendly overtures of petey o'malligan and his colleagues to join in with their pastimes. "we ain't got no time fer foolin'," confided joey, hurrying her along, "there'll be flags an' hollerin', an' we wanter get there in time." on reaching the car line the small major was obliged to slacken his speed, for, while, in a measure, the angel had caught the spirit of his enthusiasm, yet her legs refused to keep pace with his haste. "ef yer was still ter heaven, angel," the major pondered, as they stood on the street corner getting breath, "yerz wouldn't need ter use yer legs at all, would yer? yer'd jus' take out an' fly across this yere street, waggins an' trucks an' all, wouldn't yer?" the angel cast her eyes upon him doubtfully. "that's what my mammy tol' me about angels," joey declared stoutly. "angel didn't a never fly," nevertheless the baby stated with conviction. joey looked disappointed, and even unconvinced. then his face brightened. "that's 'cause you was too little, like that canary at th' res't'rant what ain't got its feathers yet. you was too little fer yer wings to have growed afore you come away," and his lively imagination having thus settled the problem, the two continued their way. "yer see how it is," he observed presently, evidently having been revolving the subject in his busy brain, "ef mis' tomlin had th' doctor an' some ice, she'd get well, she would, an' mr. tomlin, he's goin' to this yere meetin' to see about work, so's he can get 'em fer her. but 'tain't no use fer workin' men to beg for work these yere days," he added with a comical air of wisdom. "i heerd old g. a. r. say, i did, to a man what comes ter talk politics wid him, that beggin' th' rich people to help yer was jus' like buttin' yer head agin a brick wall, so what good's it goin' ter do if he does go?" the angel nodded amiably, and slipped her hand in joey's that she might the better keep up. they had passed the region of small shops and were passing through a better portion of the city. before a tall stone house, one of a long row, a girl stood singing, while a boy played an accompaniment on a harp. as joey and his charge reached them, a lady, with a group of children clustered about her, threw some pennies out the window to the young musicians. "did yer see that, angel," demanded joey, "did yer ketch onter that little game? we c'n do that. i c'n whis'le an' you c'n sing, an' we'll make 'nough to get mis' tomlin th' ice ourselves. if yer do," continued the wily joey, "i tell yer what,--we'll go home on the cable cars, we will." and he hurried his small companion along the sunny sidewalks, still following the line of the cable cars, until they came to a business street again, this time of large and handsome stores. here, before the most imposing, joey paused, and cast a calculating eye upon the stream of shoppers passing in and out. "now, angel, sing," he commanded. the footsore, tired angel, hot and cross, declined to do it. "her wants to sit down an' west," she declared. "we'll sit down out there on ther curbstone an' rest soon as yer sing some," promised the major. so, taking up their stand on the flagging outside the entrance of the big store, the bare-headed angel, in her worn gingham frock, highbred and beautiful as a little princess, despite it, struck up with as much effect as a bird's twitter might make. finding that his whistle in no way corresponded to the song, joey wisely contented himself with holding out his soldier's cap. two such babies, one with so innocent, and the other with so comically knowing a smile, could not but attract attention. some laughed, some sighed, some stopped to question, many dropped pennies and some put nickels, and even a dime or two into joey's cap, while one stout and good-humored woman opened the paper bag she carried and put a sponge cake in each hand. but at this point, seeing that the policeman in charge of the crossing had more than once cast a questioning eye upon them, joey decided to move on. "we'll have ter hurry anyhow," he observed, "ter get to ther speakin' in time. if you'll come on, angel, 'thout restin', i'll tell yer what,--i'll buy yer a banana, i will, first ones we see." and the weary angel, thus beguiled, dragged her tired feet along in joey's wake. * * * * * the slanting rays from the setting sun were falling across liberty square, on the statue of that great american who declared all men to be created equal, on the sullen faces of hundreds of idle men who stood beneath its shadow, listening to speech after speech from various speakers, speeches of a nature best calculated to coax the smouldering resentment in their hearts into a blaze. on the outskirts of the park-like square a small boy was urging a smaller girl to hurry. "angel's legs won't go no more," the diminutive female was wailing as her companion dragged her along. meanwhile the impassioned words of the last oration were being echoed and emphasized by mutterings and imprecations. the mob, in fact, was beginning to respond, just as its promoters had intended that it should, and as their dangerous eloquence continued to pour forth, the emotions of the crowd accordingly grew fiercer, louder, until from sullen mutterings, the applauding echoes grew to clamor and uproar. and following the impassioned harangue of the last speaker upon the program--a red-haired gentleman, unpleasantly dirty--the cheers gave place to groans, the groans grew to threats, to curses, and the confusion spread like the roar of a coming storm. suddenly above the noise, came the measured tramp of feet. in the momentary lull succeeding, "the police, the police," a voice rang out on the silence, and the single cry swelled to a roar from hundreds of throats, and as suddenly died away to an expectant silence. at that a voice, loud with authority, rang out upon the stillness, "in the name of the commonwealth," the measured words declared, "i command you to immediately and peaceably disperse!" the answer came in a chorus of jeers, hoots, yells of derision, and the howling mob began to seize whatever promised to be a weapon of defense or attack. growing in numbers as dusk fell, the crowd now was spreading back into the surrounding streets. merchants who had not already done so, were hurriedly closing their stores. the cars were blocked, and foot travellers fleeing in all directions. from the thickest of the crowd, a mighty creature of bone and muscle, a giant in height and breadth, grasping an iron support twisted from a bench, had forced his way out to the street, and now was using it to pry up the bricks from the sidewalk, which in turn were seized by his companions. above the uproar and confusion the voice of authority, ringing out its words of command, was heard again. head and shoulders above the crowd, the giant stood erect, waving his iron bar above his head. "at 'em, men," he cried, "at 'em before they fire!" but as he paused, another cry arose, a frightened, childish wail, that came from a very diminutive female clinging to his knees. "my tomlin," it cried. the giant's arm dropped, and as the crowd swept on and left him standing, mr. tomlin looked down to behold the angel, and holding fast to her, the badly frightened but defiant personage of joey. the giant caught the angel up in his arms. "hold on to my coat," he cried to joey, and speedily, such of the crowd as had not swept by in their charge against the police, fell back on either side before mr. tomlin's mighty fist. fighting desperately, he reached the edge, and seizing joey, dragged him across the car tracks as the crash of stones, the breaking of glass, the sharp crack of firearms, told of the meeting of the forces behind him. howls of rage, of pain, of defiance answered, followed by further crashing of stones and splintering of glass in street lights and car windows, and not until they were several squares removed from the scene of action did mr. tomlin pause. he then laid a heavy hand on joey. "by all that's--" he began. but joey was ready for him, and hastily began to pour his earnings from his jacket pocket in a pile upon the flagging. "me an' angel made it a-singin' on the street fer to get ice fer mis' tomlin," the wily one explained. and the tender-hearted giant, gazing from one small figure to the other, forthwith began to sob like a child. and, oh, the rejoicings of the distracted tenement when the lost angel was returned! and how joey was seized and violently threatened to be as violently forgiven. mrs. tomlin, given ice to her heart's content, fell asleep, blessing the angel for having rescued her husband from the almost certain hands of the law. and when, next day, it was learned that various and sundry of mr. tomlin's friends, among them the red-haired gentleman and his dark companion, had been arrested, while mr. tomlin was safe at home, the angel became more than ever the pride and idol of the tenement. "there's some'n' mighty wrong," mr. tomlin was heard arguing soon after, "for a man with the bone and muscle to 'em as i've got, wantin' work an' willin' to do anything, yet havin' to starve--but whatever it is as is wrong, i'm thinkin' mobs ain't the way to right it." "an' if he'd only hed th' sinse to make the furrin' gintleman as could talk the gibberish to question th' angel choild," said mrs. o'malligan indignantly, "sure an' we moight have larned all about her by this toime, entoirely, for there's mony a thing she's tried to tell us an' can't for the want of a worrud. but foind me a man of yer as does any thinkin' 'thout his woman there to prompt him," she quoth contemptuously, "an' i'll foind ye a polaceman as isn't a meddler in other folks' affairs, as this yere mob is jist anither provin' of." chapter vi. the major superintends the angel's education. "it's a nice, cool morning," said the ever sanguine miss bonkowski to joey, one day late in september, "so, if you will give me your solemn promise--" and miss norma paused impressively, emphasizing her words with nods of her blonde head, "not to go to any speakings, nor yet to the dock to fish, nor to any fires, or to a procession, even if it's right around the corner," and miss norma drew breath as she finished the enumerating of his various exploits, "why, angel here can play with you until mary carew comes down to get her." the major--his cap a little more battered, his belt somewhat the worse from constant wear, but clean as to face and hands, having just emerged from the morning inspection of the armory janitor, better known to the neighborhood as old g. a. r.--treated miss bonkowski to a salute and a confidential wink, and edged up to the smiling angel's side. "yer jus' leave her wid me," he responded reassuringly, "an' i ain't goin' to do nothin' as ain't square." and miss norma, whose faith in human nature, phoenix-like, ever sprang up anew from the blighted hopes of former trust, accordingly turned her darling over to joey and hurried off. "for she's obliged to have some one to play with and to get some fresh air somehow," the chorus-lady argued for her own re-assuring, though it remains a mystery as to how she could deceive herself into considering the garbage-scented atmosphere of the neighborhood as fresh, "and joey's by far the best of the lot around here." meanwhile, the small subject of all this solicitude, in clean frock and smiling good-humor, responded at once to joey's proposal, and the two sat down on the curbstone. in the constant companionship of their two months' acquaintance, the little major's growing interest in the angel had assumed almost fatherly proportions. hitherto this zeal had taken itself out in various expeditions for her entertainment similar to the one ending in mr. tomlin's rescue. to-day it was produced in the shape of a somewhat damaged peach purchased with a stray penny. but the angel, in her generous fashion, insisting on a division of the dainty, joey at first stoutly declining, weakened and took half, seeing to it, however, that his was the damaged side. "when yer was up there," he observed unctiously as he devoured his portion--and he nodded his round little head toward that foggy and smoky expanse about them, popularly believed by the population about the tenement to be the abode of angels--"when yer was up there, yer had these kinder things every day, didn't yer?" if her small ladyship's word could be taken for it, in that other life still remembered by her, she had everything, even to hoky-poky ad libitum, to her heart's content, though her testimony framed itself into somewhat more halting and uncertain english. "what did yer do up there, anyhow?" queried joey curiously. "danced," the angel declared, daintily devoting herself to her portion of the peach, "her danced and--her danced." this earthly vocation seemed to fail to appeal to joey's imagination. "nothin' else?" he demanded anxiously. "didn't yer never do nothin' else?" but the angel had fallen to poking the green contents of the gutter with a stick, and seemed to find the present more fascinating to contemplate than the past. "didn't yer never go nowhere?" persisted joey. "her went to school," the angel admitted, or so it sounded to joey. "what 'ud yer do at school?" he inquired. "danced," was the angel's unmistakable announcement. joey looked disgusted, but soon recovered and fell to revolving a new idea in his fertile young brain. "i know where there is a school," he remarked. "i've never went, but i hung on ter the window-sill an' looked in, an' if yer went ter school up there, yer oughter be goin' down here, see!" and forthwith joey arose. amiable as her small ladyship usually was, on this occasion, seeing determination written on joey's small countenance, she rebelled. "angel yants to stay here," the young lady declared, continuing to poke at the contents of the gutter. "i don't wanter make her cry," argued joey wisely, then cast about in his mind for an inducement. "they have parties to that school, they do," finally he observed, "fer i seen 'em settin' 'round tables an' eatin' one day." the guileless infant rose to the bait at once, and dropped her stick and slipped her confiding hand in joey's. "angel likes to have parties," she declared, and thus lured on, she forthwith followed joey down the street. * * * * * "some one to see me," repeated pretty miss stannard, of the darcy college settlement's free kindergarten, and laying down her blocks she went to the door. on the steps outside the entrance stood a small, chubby-cheeked boy smiling up out of knowing brown eyes from beneath a soldier's cap many sizes too large for him, while behind him stood a slender, graceful child with wonderful shining hair, and eyes equally as smiling. the small boy treated the tall, pretty young lady to a most confiding nod and a wink. "i've brought her ter school," he remarked. "oh, have you?" returned the young lady laughing, "then i'd better invite you in, i suppose," and she led the way toward the entry-room where hung some dozens of shabby hats and bonnets. "and what is your name?" she inquired. "her name is angel, it is," responded the little fellow briskly, with emphasis on the pronoun, as if to let the young lady understand at once that her interest need extend no further than to the prospective pupil. "didn't a know i are angel?" queried the smiling cherub with her accustomed egotistical surprise. "and what is your other name?" questioned miss stannard smiling. "she ain't got no more," returned the escort succinctly. "and what is yours?" "mine--oh, i'm just the major, i am," with off-hand loftiness. "indeed? and where do you live, major?" "fourth reg'ment arm'ry," responded the major glibly. "and the little girl,--angel--you said--" the major looked somewhat surprised, "they come from heaven,--angels do, yer know," he remarked, staring a little at the tall young lady's want of such knowledge. "yes," responded the pretty lady gently, "but where is she living now?" "round by me," said the small boy briefly, showing some restlessness. "with her father and mother?" the major, staring again, shook his head, and poor miss stannard, despairing, of learning anything definite from this source, asked if he would take her there after kindergarten, and began to untie the little girl's cap. evidently gratified at this attention to his charge, the major said that he would, and followed the two into the large, sunny room adjoining. "the children are just going on the circle," said the pretty young lady, "won't you take my other hand and go too." the major drew back hastily. "she's come ter school," he declared indicating the angel, "there ain't no school in it fer me. i'm a sojer, i am." "then have a chair, sir, and watch us," said the young lady, with amused eyes, as she brought out a little red chair with polite hospitality. the young gentleman graciously accepting it, the angel was forthwith borne away to join the circle of children about the ring, and to miss stannard's surprise, with no more ado, joined in the game like one familiar with it all, waving her small hands, singing gaily and, when her turn arrived, flitting gaily about the circle until the sash strings of her little faded dress sailed straight out behind her. and the game at an end, without waiting for direction or guidance, the newcomer marched with the other children about the big room and took her place with them at one of the tables spread with entrancing green and yellow papers. and here, absorbed in directing the work at her own table, and her two assistant teachers equally absorbed at theirs, miss stannard was presently aroused by a nudge from 'tildy peggins, the freckle-faced young person employed in a capacity of janitress and nursery maid. "look a-yonder to that young willain, miss ruth," urged 'tildy, whose sentiments regarding the infant populace refused, despite all the efforts of her employers, to be tempered by kindergarten views. miss stannard looked up hastily, and so did the twenty pairs of eyes about her table. from the depths of one pocket the major had produced a cigarette, and from the mixed contents of another he had extracted a match, and as the twenty pairs of eyes fell on him, a fascinating curl of blue smoke was just issuing from his lips. 'tildy peggins folded her arms on her flat chest and gave vent to a groan. already, with her gloomy views on kindergarten regeneration versus innate depravity, she foresaw the contamination of every half-subjugated small masculine in the room. miss stannard, with a shake of her head at 'tildy, coughed slightly. instantly the eyes of the school left the major and fixed themselves expectantly on her pretty face. "i thought you wanted to be a soldier, major," she observed, addressing the small gentleman. "i is goin' to be," returned that unabashed gentleman, calmly sticking a thumb in his belt, and in so doing pushing his jacket aside, so as to further expose the military trappings about his round little person, "i's a-goin' to be a sojer in the fourth regiment." "no, indeed," said miss ruth, "the members of the fourth regiment are gentlemen, and a gentleman would never have smoked in here without asking if he might." the major looked somewhat moved out of his usual imperturbability. the curl of offending smoke ceased. "i know a soldier," miss ruth went on calmly, "and what is more, he is a member of the fourth regiment, but he never would have done such a thing as you are doing." the cigarette trembled in the major's irresolute fingers. "and even if you had asked first," the steady voice went on, "i would have said no, for such a thing as smoking is never allowed in this room." the major's irresolute brown eyes met miss stannard's resolute brown ones. then the cigarette went out the open window behind him and the work at the tables went on. presently miss ruth looked up again. "won't you come," she said pleasantly, touching a pile of the gay papers. "are you not tired?" the major shook his head decidedly. "no, he would not," and finding a chip among the apparently inexhaustible stores of his pockets, he next produced a knife boasting an inch of blade and went to whittling upon 'tildy's immaculate floor. miss ruth saw it all, and presently saw the chip fall to the floor and the round head begin to nod. then, with 'tildy peggins' gloomy and disapproving eye upon her at this act of overture, she crossed the room. "major," said miss ruth, just a little plaintively, perhaps, "do you suppose you could do something for me?" the major was wide awake on the instant. "these papers," explained miss ruth, while 'tildy from her work of washing windows, shook her disapproving head, "put all like this in a pile on the table here, and all like this over here, and this color,--here," and before miss stannard had gotten over to her table again, the major was deep in the seductive fascinations of kindergarten. it was when the three teachers, with 'tildy's help, had at last distributed the sixty hats, hoods, and caps, and started the loitering groups on their homeward ways, that pretty miss stannard, putting on her own hat, addressed her new pupils. "now, major, i am ready," she said, and the three accordingly turned their steps toward the neighborhood of the tenement. miss ruth's small escort had quite an idea of the proper thing to do, and pointed out the landmarks as the three went along, the angel's friendly hand slipped confidingly into that of her new friend. "i did hear as so many died in this yere house of the fevers this summer," joey remarked cheerfully, pointing to a wretched-looking tenement building they were passing; "they'll give yer a room there now fer nothin' to git a good name fer the house agin." miss ruth shivered as they passed. the major next nodded toward a dingy saloon. "here's where i take a schooner an' a free lunch sometimes," he remarked confidentially. the tall young lady's brown eyes danced as she glanced down at the small person of the major. "and how old are you, major?" she inquired. "ha'f pas' seven, the cap'n an' old g. a. r., they say." "the captain? old g. a. r.?" "uh, huh! the cap'n's a good 'un, he is. he gim' me these yere togs, he did, an' he told old g. a. r. i might sleep to th' arm'ry, see?" miss ruth saw, and was just about to pursue the subject of old g. a. r., when the angel dropped her hand and with a gleeful cry ran ahead, and miss stannard looked up to behold two females bearing down upon them. miss bonkowski and mrs. o'malligan in fact, nor did they pause in their haste, until the angel was safe in norma's embrace and the major anything but safe, in the clutches of the irate irish lady. "an' it's yerself, ye limb, an' plaze to tell us whut ye mane by it?" the loud-voiced mrs. o'malligan demanded, "a-runnin' off with the childer agin, an' the whole tiniment out huntin' an' her niver to be found at all, at all?" but the sweet-faced, tall young lady coming to his rescue, the two women softened, and reaching the tenement, insisted on miss stannard coming in, and hearing the angel's story. and on the way up to miss bonkowski's apartment, she learned that the tenement, that morning, had been convulsed from cellar to garret, by the great honor bestowed upon it. for who but the prima donna, the great personage of norma's professional world, had just driven away in her carriage after a visit of an hour and the angel never to be found at all! "an' ma'am," explained mary carew, her bony face swollen with crying, when miss stannard had been installed in one of the two chairs of the apartment, "an' ma'am, it was fer th' angel she come. a offerin' norma an' me anything we'd name to give her up, such a fancy as she's taken to her, an' wantin' her fer her own." "and you, what did you say?" asked miss ruth, gently, watching mary with tender eyes as she held the beautiful, chattering little creature so jealously in her arms, and thinking as she watched, of the life and reputation commonly accorded the great singer. "say?" came from miss bonkowski quickly, her befrizzled blonde tresses fairly a-tremble with her intensity, and sticking the hat-pin recklessly in and out of the lace hat she had taken off, "what did we say, you ask, and knowing, as you and every body must, the kind of life and future it would mean for a child that takes to things like this 'n does! with all her money and her soft, winning ways, it is better, far better, for the child with her disposition, to starve along with mary an' me, than grow up to that, if it was nothing more to be afraid of than being left to servants and hotel people and dragged around from place to place in such a life as it is. not that i mean, ma'am," and miss bonkowski spoke with quick pride, "that being in the profession need to make any body what they shouldn't be, for i know plenty of 'em of the best, and am one myself, though only a chorus, but what with what's said about this one, even with her good heart and generous ways, she's not the one to have our angel, though she meant it for the best." "an' she said," mary carew took it up, "as how norma's gettin' old, and 'll be dropped afore long from the chorus, an' she offered her, she did, in this very room, a' here before me, to buy out a costumer as is leavin' the business, an' start norma in for herself, along of her knowin' how to run a business such as that." "and oh girls," declared miss stannard as she told this part of the story to her assistant teachers afterward, "it was the bravest thing i've met among the poor people yet. think of the courage of those two women, with poverty grimmer than they have yet known, ahead of them in all probability, yet determined to resist the temptation because they are assured it is not well for the child. picture making jean pantaloons, year in, year out, at barely living wages, yet having the courage to put the matter so resolutely aside. after that, i could not bring myself to tell them they had done wrong in the beginning in not notifying the authorities. of course there is some mystery about it. i cannot for a moment accept their explanation of it. the child, beyond question, is well born and has been carefully trained. and she goes about among all the strange, queer inmates of that tenement house as fearlessly as a little queen. but, oh, the one that is a chorus-singer! if you could see her! so lean, so sallow, so airy and full of manner. but i will never laugh at another elderly chorus-singer again in my life, she is grand, she's heroic," and the pretty kindergartner threaded gay worsteds into needles with a vigor which lent emphasis to her words. "she's powerful stuck up, too," asserted the gloomy tones of 'tildy peggins, and she shook her mournful head, as she moved about straightening the disordered room for the next day, "there's a man lives in our tenement wanted to keep comp'ny with her, but, la, she tossed her yellow head at his waffle cart, she did, an' she said if he'd had a settled h'occupation she might a thought about it in time, but she couldn't bring herself to consider a perambulating business, an' that was all there was to it. la, maybe she is grand an' 'eroic, but she's got a 'aughty 'eart, too, that woman has!" chapter vii. miss ruth makes the acquaintance of old g. a. r. the angel, as the cooler weather came on, being suitably clothed by miss stannard and the invisible though still generous mrs. tony, and the good ladies of the tenement seeing that she was properly fed, her little ladyship continued to thrive, and to pursue her way, sweet and innocent, in the midst of squalor, poverty and wickedness such as mary and norma could not always hide, even from her baby eyes. true to the promise these ladies had made, she appeared regularly at kindergarten in the charge of her faithful squire, the major, whose own interest in the daily work had never flagged since the day he first agreed to help miss stannard. it was with surprise, therefore, that, late in november, miss ruth noted the absence of the two for several successive days. "childern's obliged to get wore out fiddlin' with beads an' paper an' such, in time," said the perverse and unconverted 'tildy peggins. "that's the reason they's constant droppin' off, an' new ones comin' in. there ain't enough willainy in kindergarten to keep their minds h'occupied. they's pinin' for the streets long afore you'd h'ever believe it,--their 'earts ain't satisfied with beads and paper, childern's obliged to have a little willainy mixed in." but despite 'tildy's pessimistic views, on the fifth morning of their absence, miss ruth had just determined to send around to the tenement, when a knock summoned her to the door. outside stood the smiling angel, in her little winter cloak and hood, her hand in that of a very large, very grizzled, and very military-looking man, who greeted miss stannard with a salute reminding her at once of joey. "what has become of my friend, the major?" she inquired, ushering them into the school-room. "joey couldn't come," explained the angel, mournfully. "it was to tell you about him, ma'am, i stepped around," replied the man, gazing admiringly about the bright room, with its pictures, its growing plants, its tables, and dozens of little red chairs. "it is a pretty place now, i must say, and it's no wonder the little chap likes to come here. he's been that worried, and fretting so about the little one not getting to school, that i promised him i'd march her 'round here every day if he'd call a halt on his fretting." "he is sick, then?" miss ruth inquired. "well, it didn't seem as if it was enough to lay him off duty," responded the man, as he regarded miss ruth with friendly gaze; "he's a knowin' little shaver, the major is, and great on tryin' to help me." "are you the friend that he calls old g. a. r.?" inquired miss ruth, with sudden intuition, as she smiled back into the weather-beaten face. the old soldier chuckled. "he's told you about that, has he? 'old g. a. r.!' great name, ain't it?" "why does he call you by it?" "grand army of the republic, ma'am. i'm a member, and i reckon i do anecdote about it overmuch at times. the reg'ment round there, they dubbed me that." "and the major?" "that's right, ma'am, for'ard march! i'm gettin' to it. he was in the arm'ry with me, the other day, a-pretendin' to help me clean up, and he fell off one of the cannon he was monkeyin' round. he didn't seem so bad hurt, at first, but somehow, after i come to think it over, he hasn't seemed to want to move round since, so i lay it to that." "have you had a doctor to see him?" asked miss ruth, waving the groups of arriving children on to 'tildy's care. "no, ma'am, i haven't. the officer that took the fancy to the little chap and pays for his eatin' along with me at the restaurant, he's been out of town for six weeks, and after leaving the baby here, i am on my way to his office now, to see if he has got back," and he stepped toward the door. "i will take angel home and stop by there and see joey," said miss ruth. "we'll be happy to have you, ma'am," and with a salute, the old soldier marched out the door. * * * * * "indade, miss ruthie, an' it's proud i am to go wid ye," said mrs. o'malligan some hours later, in response to miss ruth's request to go over to the armory with her, "just ye wait till i starts the angel choild up the steps," and mrs. o'malligan accordingly, was soon accompanying miss ruth through the big door of the armory. the old soldier met them and led the way into a neat box of a room, very orderly, very spotless. here, on a cot, lay the major, his eyes turned to meet them expectantly. it was quite pitiful to see how these few days had changed him into the white little chap looking up from the pillow. "well, major," began miss ruth, cheerily, and at sound of her bright, animated voice, a figure in the shadow on the other side of the cot looked up. "why, mr. dilke," cried miss ruth, at sight of the young and very properly attired gentleman who stood up to greet her. the young gentleman came round and shook hands with evident pleasure. "so you are the wonderful '_teacher_,' miss stannard?" "and you are the '_cap'n_'?" retorted miss ruth. here the major, as he would have phrased it, "caught on." "she said yer was a gentleman what wouldn't a-smoked before ladies, she did," volunteered joey. miss ruth blushed and laughed and blushed again. "well, he wouldn't, joey," she reiterated stoutly. whereupon the boyishly smooth face of mr. dilke colored too, and being very big and blonde and diffident, he blushed very red indeed, while joey, seeing something up, tried to wink his roguish eyes but failed for very weakness and found them full of tears instead. "where does it hurt?" asked miss ruth gently, leaning over him. the major winked indignantly. "sojers aint goin' to make no fuss if does hurt, old g. a. r. he says so!" old g. a. r. in the background gave vent to a sudden chuckle. "obey your superior officers, major, afore anything," he corrected. "faith i'll jist take him in me lap an' say whir he's hurted for meself," said mrs. o'malligan briskly and forthwith laid her energetic hand upon the little fellow. at her well meant but rough handling, the child cried out, turning white to the lips. "howly mither, forgive me," cried mrs. o'malligan. miss ruth turned away to hide her tears. "have you had a doctor yet?" she inquired. "no, i had just gotten here a moment ahead of you," explained mr. dilke. "well," said miss ruth, decidedly, "whether it proves serious or not, he ought to go to st. luke's and be properly nursed, and if there happens to be a free cot vacant, i will have no trouble getting him in." mr. dilke turned quickly. "don't stop for that," he said, "use me,--i mean,--don't let the cost of it interfere,--i'll be very glad,--you know----" miss ruth beamed at the young man whom she knew to be very rich indeed. "just take charge of a free kindergarten, mr. dilke, if you ever really want to properly appreciate your blessings and privileges," she said, "i am never so sordid in my desire for wealth, as when i stand helpless, with the knowledge of the suffering around me, that money can remedy or at least, alleviate." "let me walk with you to st. luke's," begged mr. dilke, "and you can tell me something more about it all if you will." and leaving joey to mrs. o'malligan, until their return, the two started off. "you've evidently been very good to joey," miss stannard remarked graciously, as they went along. mr. dilke blushed furiously, "who? i? no more than the other men in the regiment. now a fellow could hardly help liking the little chap, could he?" and he regarded his pretty companion as if seeking justification in her answer. "how did it ever begin?" inquired miss stannard. "through the old man--the janitor, you know. the boy's mother was a daughter of a dead soldier, comrade to old g. a. r. good for nothing husband, and that sort of thing, you know, and always runnin' to old g. a. r. for protection and help too, i suspect. when she died, the old fellow didn't have the money, and appealed to some of us fellows to help bury her. and then, it turned out, here was the boy. first we agreed to his staying at the armory a day or so, then a week, then longer, and by that time the knowing little monkey had made his own cause good. here we are,--and we'll just arrange, while here, to take a doctor back with us." it was late that afternoon that miss ruth, having remained to see the major safely asleep after his removal to st. luke's hospital, came down the steps of that institution with her pretty eyes all dim with crying, the doctor's words ringing in her ears, "poor little chap," he had said, "it's merely a question of time." chapter viii. the angel meets an old friend. a few days later mrs. o'malligan, in her best attire, and miss bonkowski, also gotten up regardlessly even to an added bloom upon her cheeks, sallied forth in the face of the first snowfall, to take the angel to st. luke's hospital, where, by appointment, miss ruth was to meet them. when in time they reached the building and miss stannard led the way up to the children's ward, a white-capped nurse came forward between the rows of little beds each with its child occupant, her finger on her lips. "he is so much weaker to-day," she explained, "i would say he had better not see any one, except that he will fret, so please stay only a few moments," and she led them to where joey lay, his white bed shut off from his little neighbors by a screen. his eyes were closed and a young resident physician was standing by the bed. "we thought he was going for a while this morning," whispered the nurse, but, low as she spoke, the major heard. a ghost of a twinkle was in his brown eyes as they opened and sought the doctor's. "i fooled 'em that time, didn't i, doc?" he demanded, and one trembling lid attempted its old-time wink. "you wanted angel, joey dear," said miss ruth, "and she has come to see you." the angel's face was full of doubt and trouble, her eyes dark with gathering tears. frightened at this something she half-divined, but could not understand, she drew near doubtfully. "angel loves her joey, her does," she asserted, however, as if in refutation of her fears. "show her--my--gun," whispered joey, and from the table where his eyes could feast upon it, the nurse lifted a small rifle. "the cap'n give it ter me,--so i could be a--member of th' reg'ment--_now_--see? ain't it a dandy--angel?" the child nodded gravely, but all the while her little breast was heaving with the gathering sobs. seeing miss norma also in tears, miss ruth motioned her to take the angel ahead, and leaving mrs. o'malligan speaking to the nurse, miss ruth followed slowly after, talking with the doctor as she went. a moment later, the ward was startled by a cry from the hall beyond, "yosie,--angel's yosie!" miss ruth and the doctor hurried out. in the hall in a rolling chair sat a young woman to whose knees the angel was clinging, amid sobs and little cooing cries of joy. "yosie, angel's yosie." "poor girl!" ejaculated the young doctor, "this may lead to her identification. we do not even know her name," he explained to miss stannard. "a case of paralysis,--almost helpless. never has spoken since brought here. yes," in answer to miss ruth's eager inquiries, "she has gotten so that she can make signs for yes and no." at once miss stannard turned to the girl, from whose lap norma was trying to draw the expostulating angel. "do you know angel?" she asked, her hand on the child as she spoke. there was a slight affirmative droop to the eyelids, while the gaze beneath was fixed imploringly on miss ruth. "are you rosy?" she asked. "my yosie, it _is_ my yosie!" declared the angel, with one of her little bursts of baby rage, pulling away from norma and stamping her foot, frantic that any doubt should exist. at this point, mrs. o'malligan, who had been following in her comfortable fashion, unconscious of any excitement, drew near. suddenly there was an excited cry from that lady. "howly mither, an' it's mrs. buckley's own sister, rosy o'brien, fer sure!" the wild eyes of the sick girl turned towards mrs. o'malligan with signs of recognition. the doctor repeated his story. "she must have been angel's nurse," said miss stannard. "an' was it the darlint's nurse ye war, rosy o'brien?" inquired mrs. o'malligan. "yes," signalled the eyelids, whereupon mrs. o'malligan, swaying her body to and fro, and clapping her hands, burst forth suddenly, "i say through wid it all, i say through wid it all! ye brought the angel choild to the tiniment wid ye to say your sister, now, didn't ye, rosy, me jewel?" the good irish lady waited for the affirmative droop from the eager eyes. "an' maybe ye found the door locked, an' not knowin' yer sister had moved away an' miss johnson, what goes to the car stables a-cleanin' by the day, livin' in her room now, ye set the choild down in the empty room a-nixt to it, an' run down to ask me as to whir yer sister had gone, now, didn't ye, rosy o'brien?" and mrs. o'malligan's garlanded bonnet fell over one ear in the good soul's excitement. thus far apparently she was right. "an' i wasn't to home, for sure i niver seen ye," ventured mrs. o'malligan, her hands now on her hips as she gazed at the girl and pondered. she was right again. "an' what happened thin, i niver can say no further!" the doctor, referring to a note book, spoke next. "she was brought here," he said, "on the seventh of last july, about six o'clock in the evening, having been knocked down by a horse at the corner of camden and lisiden streets." "whist!" cried mrs. o'malligan, her shawl fallen to the floor, her bonnet now hanging by the strings down her back, "that's our own corner, an' it's as plain to me now as the nose on yer face! not findin' me to home, ye were runnin' over to the grocery to find out from yer sister's husband's brother bill whativer had become of the family!" the sharp irish lady had hit it again, and miss ruth here interrupted to ask miss bonkowski if she could remember the date on which the child had been found in the vacant room. after some thought and debate, miss norma declared it to have been on the morning of the eighth of july, because her own birthday came on the fifteenth and she remembered remarking the child had then been with them a week. but here the whole party came to a standstill, and the wild, imploring look came back in poor rosy o'brien's eyes. the doctor laid his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "don't fret, my girl, it will all come right now in time. it is no wonder," turning to miss stannard, "she has been so slow getting better. i have said a hundred times the girl had something on her mind." miss ruth turned to rosy again. "does the child's mother, or do her people live here in the city?" she inquired. the eyelids failed to move, which according to the doctor meant _no_. "what will we do," sighed miss ruth, "for the more the child is asked, the more perplexed we get, and now----" "sure an' we'll ask mrs. buckley, rosy's sister, an' she'll tell us all about it," said the practical mrs. o'malligan. "i remember well of her tellin' me of the foine wages rosy was a-gittin; along of her goin' off so fur wid some rich lady as a nurse." at this hopeful point the doctor interfered, thinking best to prevent any further exciting of his patient, and accordingly wheeled her back to her ward, leaving the others to soothe the terror of the child, at seeing hope vanish with rosy. pausing outside the big hospital in a trembling and excited little group, miss stannard detailed her plans. as the snow was coming down steadily, miss bonkowski should return to the tenement at once with the excited, sobbing child, and mrs. o'malligan should take miss ruth to find mrs. buckley, the sister of poor rosy o'brien. * * * * * "and do you know," explained miss ruth that evening, to mr. dilke, who had fallen into a way of calling quite frequently indeed, of late, "and do you know, this woman, this mrs. buckley would not believe us, but insisted that her sister, rosy o'brien, as well as the child her sister had nursed, were drowned in that terrible ferry-boat disaster last july. after what seemed to me hours of catechising, i got the story from her. "a year ago, as i finally found out, her sister, this same rosy o'brien, went south with a mr. and mrs. de leon breaux, whose child she had been nursing at narragansett during the summer. "this spring, mrs. buckley, living then in the tenement where the child was afterward found, received a letter from rosy, saying she would be in the city with her mistress for a few days in july on their way to the seashore for the summer. "meanwhile mrs. buckley moved, and being unable to write, left her new address with mrs. o'malligan. but the summer passing and no rosy appearing, in september mrs. buckley grew anxious and got a friend to write to the breaux' address for her, inclosing a letter to rosy. "in answer came a reply from mr. breaux, which letter mrs. buckley showed me. it stated that on the seventh of last july rosy o'brien and the child, '_our little angelique_,' the letter called her, had been drowned while crossing the river on the ferry. "mrs. breaux and her young sister, with rosy o'brien and the child, had reached the city the day before, having come by steamer from new orleans, their home. "according to the statement of a waiter at the hotel. rosy, tired of waiting for the return of the two ladies from a shopping expedition, and having been promised the afternoon, started off soon after lunch with the child, saying that she was going across the river on the ferry to see her sister. this was the last seen of them. "mr. breaux hurried north in response to his wife's summons, and some days following the ferry disaster, which occurred shortly after the girl left the hotel, a body was found in the river, which from its black cashmere dress, white apron and plain gold ring, was identified as that of poor rosy. "the girl had been taken on the recommendation of a former mistress and, as so often is the case, the breaux' knew neither the name nor the address of this sister, and having,--in addition to the papers being filled with the matter,--advertised in vain, the body was buried and, despairing finally of recovering their child's body, they returned south. though don't think," said pretty ruth suddenly regarding mr. dilke's attentive face while she laughed, "that i received the story from mrs. buckley in any such direct fashion. such people are not only illogical and irrelevant, they are secretive,--if ever you have to do with them as my work leads me to, you'll understand what i mean. but to continue with mrs. buckley. in order to convince her that neither rosy nor the child, despite her evidence, were dead, i took her straight back to the hospital, and as she then admitted rosy to be rosy, any lingering doubts were put at rest. and now you see why i was so relieved when you came this evening. mother has no better business head than i have, and i want you to help me determine how best to let these breaux know the child is alive." but mr. dilke, though far from a stupid young man, confessed himself a little dazed by miss ruth's rapid and excited story. whereupon, laughing, she went over it again, adding, "and here is the address and the name is de leon breaux, and how shall we word the telegram?" and after much speculation the following was written and sent: "nurse-girl, rose o'brien, found in hospital, paralyzed. child safe and well. "van alstine dilke, "hotel st. george." chapter ix. mary carew is tempted. when norma, on reaching home with the tired child, finished her story, which, truth to tell, lost nothing of its dramatic possibilities in her telling, mary carew looked up with her face so set and white that norma, who had been too intent in her recital to notice the gradual change in the other's manner, was startled. "don't take on so, mary," she cried, removing the child's wraps as she spoke, "i've always warned you she wasn't any deserted child, haven't i?" but there was a real tenderness in norma's voice as she reminded the other of it. "you'd better get your supper," mary replied, "it's near time for you to be going," and she pushed her work aside and held out her arms for the child, her face softening as it did for nothing else in the world. tired, cold, dazed with crying, the drooping little soul crept into mary's arms, which closed hungrily and held her close as the sobs began to come again. unlike her usual self, mary let norma prepare the supper unaided, while she sat gazing down on the flushed little face pillowed on her arm, and drew off the broken shoes, chafing and rubbing the cold, tired feet with her hand. she wanted no supper, she declared shortly in response to norma's call, but on being pressed, came to the table and drank a little tea thirstily, and fed the sleepy child from her own plate. "now don't take on so, mary, don't fret about it while i'm gone," norma begged as she hurried off to her nightly duties. "i'll miss her just as much as you, if it does turn out that we have to give her up, and for the darling's own sake, mary, we ought to be glad to think she's going back to her own." but mary, laying the sleeping child down in the crib, burst forth as the door closed, "an' it's norma bonkowski can tell me i ought to be glad! she can tell me that, and then say she'll miss her the same as me! it's little then she knows about my feelings,--for it'll be to lose the one bright thing outer my life as has ever come in it. 'go back to her own!' like as not her own's a mother like them fine ones i see on the avenoos as leaves their little ones to grow up with hired nurses. 'give her up--give--her up--' norma says so easy like,--when every word chokes me--" and struggling against her sobs, mary fell on her knees beside the crib, burying her face in the covers, "an' i must go on sittin' here day after day sewin', an' my precious one gone; stitchin' an' stitchin', one day jus' like another stretchin' on ahead, long as life itself, an' no little feet a-patterin' up the stairs, an' no little voice a-callin' on me,--nothin' to live for, nothin' to keep me from thinkin' an' thinkin' till i'm nigh to goin' crazy with the stitchin'--give her up?"--a wild look was on mary's face as she raised it suddenly, a desperate one in her eyes--"i'll not give her up--she's mine----" for a moment she gazed at the flushed face framed about with the sunny hair, then she rose, and, moving about the room with feverish haste, she gathered together certain of the garments which hung from nails about the walls, and rolled them into a bundle. then from between the mattress and the boards of the bed she drew an old purse, and counted its contents. "two dollars and seventy-five,--eighty-five, ninety,--that's mine,--the rest is norma's," and she returned the remainder to the hiding-place. then, putting on her own hat and shawl, she lifted the drowsy child, still dressed, and slipping on her cloak, rolled her in addition, in the shawl found with her that july morning almost five months before. then grimly picking up child and bundle, with one guilty, frightened look about the room that for so many years had meant home to her, she went out the door and hurried cautiously down the steps and out into the snowy night. * * * * * it was half-past twelve when norma bonkowski, returning, climbed the stairs of the tenement wearily. she was cold, for her clothes were thin; she was tired, for the day had been a hard one; she was dispirited, for the manager had been more than usually sharp and critical of her performance that night. when she entered her door the room was dark. the lamp had burned itself out and the room was filled with the sickening smell. the fire, too, was out, save for a few red embers. with a sudden realization that something was wrong, norma groped about the littered mantel-shelf for a match, then hastily lit an end of candle. bed and crib were empty, half the nails bare of their garments. "gone!" cried norma, beginning to wring her hands. intuitively she felt what had happened. desperate at the thought of losing her darling, mary carew had fled. but in a moment a re-assuring look replaced the fright on the blue, pinched features. "i know mary better than she knows herself," declared the optimistic norma, "she'll be back," and tossing her blonde head resolutely, she threw aside her hat and cape and began to rekindle the fire. "i'll put on the tea-kettle, too," she told herself, "and be real comfortable and extravagant for once, and have a cup of tea ready when they come," for the good lady had no intention of going to bed, assuring herself she would not sleep if she did. so, moving about, she refilled the lamp, and drawing the machine nearer the stove, began to sew where mary had left off. "i wonder how she thinks to make a livin'," norma asked herself, smiling grimly, "seein' the machine's left behind. poor mary! i know her too well, she'll be back before morning." one, two,--then three, a neighboring church clock tolled, and norma stitched and waited, stitched and waited. several times she fell asleep, her head upon the machine, to awake with a start, hurry to the door and listen. a little before four she heard a step, and running to the door caught poor mary as she staggered in, half-sinking with her burdens. taking the frightened, wailing child and putting her down by the fire, norma dragged mary to a chair. "hush," she commanded, when mary tried to speak, "i know--i understand," and for once regardless of the child's comfort, she dragged the sodden shoes from mary's feet, drew off the wet skirts and wrapped her in anything, everything, warm she could find. by this time mary was sobbing wildly, and norma, half-distracted, turned to draw the tea and to toast some slices of the stale bread she had waiting. "now," she said, jerking the table around before mary, then sitting down and taking up the child, "you drink that, mary carew, before you dare to say one word!" the child responded promptly to the warmth and food and began to chatter. "c'rew did take angel away, norma, and it was cold and angel cwied, and c'rew cwied, but the nice lady sang." "i tried to run off with her," sobbed mary, "but the lord stood right in my way an' turned me back." "whatever do you mean, mary?" demanded norma. "just that, just what i said. i was a-runnin' off so's to keep her fer my own, an' th' lord stopped me an' sent me back." the child, nodding on norma's knee like a rosy little mandarin, caught the sacred name. "i p'ay the lord mine and joey's and eve'ybody's soul to keep," she murmured with drowsy effort, thinking c'rew was urging her to say the little prayer miss ruth had taught her. "he will, he will," said mary carew with awed emphasis, "if ever i doubted it before, norma, i know now he will. i had been walkin' a good while after i left here, for i had laid my plans hasty-like, to cross the river an' get a room on the other side, for i was jus' outer my head, norma, along of the thought of losin' her,--an' as i said, i had been walkin' i don' know how long, plannin' as i went, when the darlin' woke up, an' begun to cry. an' jus' then a man opened a door to come out of a place as had a great sign up, an' in the light as come out with him, he caught sight of us. "'haven't you no place to go fer shelter, my poor woman?' he says, for i was kinder breathless, an' pantin', fer the darlin' an' the bundle was a weight to carry. but i was that tired out, i couldn't say nothin' but jus' begin to cry. seem' which he says, 'this is one of the all-night-missions, come in an' i will see if you may stay until morning.' "thinkin' as how th' child might be sufferin' with the cold, i follered him in, a-plannin' to leave at daylight an' get across the river. i set down on a bench where he pointed me, an' when i got my breath i begun to look around. "it was a nice place, norma, with picters round th' walls an' a good fire an' people sittin' round listenin' to a man talkin', an' when he stopped, a lady begun to sing a song about some sheep as were lost. "angel here, she had stopped crying soon as she got warm, an' now she set up, peart an' smilin', pleased to death with the singin'. an' when she was done her song, the lady went to talkin', an' right along, norma, she was talkin' straight at me. it mus' have been th' lord as tol' her to do it, else how did she know? "'rachel,' says she, an' i reckon this rachel's another poor such a one as me, don't you, norma?--'rachel a cryin' for her children an' there wasn't any comfort for her because they weren't there!' that's how she begun. 'there isn't no love,' she said, 'no love on earth like the love a mother has for her child, you might take it away,' she said, 'an' try to fill its place with money an' everything good in life, but you can't make her stop wantin' her child an' thinkin' about it, not if you was to separate them fifty years; or you might try to beat it out of a mother or starve it out of her, but if the mother love had ever been there, it'd be there still.' that's what she said, norma. an' she s'posed like the child was lost an' she said, 'even if there was a lot of children besides that a one, would she stay at home, contented like, with them as was safe? no,' she said, 'that mother wouldn't, she'd start out and go hunt for the one as was lost,--even to faintin' along the way, till she found the child or give up an' died. that's how the lord cares for us'--she said, but i didn't hear no more after that, for i jus' set there turned like to stone, goin' over what she said, the darlin' asleep again in my lap. an' seems like i must a set there for hours, norma, fightin' against the lord. "'an' if you as ain't her mother wants her so,' at last, somethin' inside says to me, 'how much more must th' mother what's lost her want her?' and at that, norma, the lord won an' i got up an' come back with the child." chapter x. the major obeys orders. "he's going fast." so the nurse whispered to miss stannard, as with mr. dilke and old g. a. r., she came in that december afternoon. as the three neared the little bed, shut off by the screens from the rest of the ward, they found the angel already there in the arms of a tall, dark gentleman, while by joey's pillow knelt a slender lady with shining hair and grave, sweet eyes like the angel's. the major tried to smile a welcome. "they've come--ter--carry--angel home, they have," he whispered, "her dad--an' her--mammy." the white hand of the angel's "mammy," took joey's softly and her eyes were full of tears. "joey is going home too," she said. the major's eyes wandered questioningly "the big--angel's--come to get th' little angel--but--my mammy--ain't come--to get me?" "she has not come, joey dear," the soft voice explained, "because she is waiting for you. joey is going to her." the little voice was very weak now,--very wistful. "goin'--now?" asked the major. "yes, joey." his whisper could hardly be understood when after a long pause, he spoke again. "i--want--th' cap'n--ter--gimme--th'--order,--'cause-- i--b'long--ter--th' reg'ment." "what order, major?" came from the captain huskily. "old--g.--a.--r.--he knows--" the major's voice could just be caught now. old g. a. r. who had given the order to those little feet so many times, knew and understood, and his big voice rolled out with suspicious unsteadiness now,--"attention--company!--forward--" then the old soldier's voice broke as the little eyelids fluttered. old g. a. r. could not go on. "--march!" came softly from van alstine dilke, and with a ghost of his old, roguish smile the major's eyes closed, as he obeyed orders. chapter xi. tells of the tenement's christmas. the angel had but a week in which to prepare christmas for the tenement, but with the help of her marshaled forces she did it. with such a company of grateful assistants as her father, her mother, and the pretty young aunt or "tante" as the angel called her, all things seemed possible. a christmas tree it was decreed by her small ladyship her tenement should have, and mrs. o'malligan's first floor front, failing entirely in height or breadth to accommodate it, mr. dilke came forward and offered miss angelique the armory in the name of the fourth regiment. and such a tree! how it towered to the oaken roof and lost itself among the beams, and laden, festooned, and decorated, how proudly it spread its great branches out to the balconies! mrs. o'malligan, alone, of all the tenement, was let into the secret, and when it was finally disclosed, how the hearts of the favored fluttered as the angel delivered her invitations,--every lady, every lady's husband, and every son and daughter of the tenement being bidden to come. not to steal in at the back door, as if the armory was ashamed of its guests, but to walk proudly around the square and enter boldly in at the front doors of the building. all of which tended to raise the self-respect of the tenement, whose spirits went up very high indeed. and on that eventful christmas day, when the guests who were bidden had arrived, it was discovered that the object most desired of each good lady's heart, was to be found on, or around the base of that tree. perhaps if mrs. o'malligan had explained the meanings of the many mysterious conferences that had taken place lately in her first floor front, the ladies might better have understood. there was a pretty carpet, as well as lace curtains, long the desire of little mrs. tomlins' ambition, the set of "chiny" dishes dear to another good lady, a dress for this one, a bonnet, a nice rocking chair for that,--with new hats, pipes and tobacco around for the men,--and in addition for mr. tomlin, an entire suit of clothes and an overcoat, did that wonderful tree shed upon his proud shoulders. candy, nuts, and fruit were there in abundance, open to all, while the children paused,--awed, under a deluge of toys such as their eyes had never beheld the likeness of before. nor was this all,--for somewhere about that tree, hung a document, which being delivered, revealed to miss norma bonkowski that she was now the owner and proprietor of that same costumer's establishment she had so coveted,--while a most innocent and ordinary looking little book bearing mary carew's name told the secret of a sum of money safely in bank, so sufficient that never again need that grim phantom, the poor-house, threaten to overshadow the end as it had the beginning of mary's life. as for mrs. o'malligan,--who had so successfully betrayed the secrets of her neighbors, she was the most surprised of all to find her own discovered. for, learning that the o'malligans' savings toward "a house of our own over th' river wid a goat an' a bit of a pig-sty," still lacked a small sum of being sufficient, the angel had accordingly completed the amount. and then the tenement, weary with the accumulations of pleasure and surprise, had taken itself home. no one had been forgotten. even the sixty little kindergartens, through the combined munificence of mr. dilke and the angel, were, according to the gloomy prophecies of 'tildy peggins as she waited upon them at the feast, "a stuffed to their little stomicks' heverlastin' undoin'." and old g. a. r., from the depths of a new arm-chair, tried to solace his lonely old heart with whiffs of fragrant tobacco from a wonderful new pipe. neither was joey forgotten in this time of rejoicing, for st. luke's was made glad that christmas day when the fourth regiment endowed a child cot's "in memory of the little major." even rosy o'brien, whose one act of unfaithfulness had been so terribly punished, was made happy by the news her little angelique brought her, that now since she was freed of her wearing secret, her health would begin to return. and in time it did, and long after, when her tongue could again frame its words, she dictated such a letter of contrition and remorse to mrs. breaux, that that gentle heart's last feelings against her were forgotten. in this letter, too, the poor girl related the happenings of the afternoon when she left the hotel. allured by the shop windows, she and her charge had stopped so often that on reaching the river, they learned of the accident which had just taken place in mid-river. at this, the girl had hurried back and crossed by the bridge. on reaching the tenement finally, and finding her sister's door locked, and beginning to feel anxious about returning, on the impulse of the moment, that she might go down the faster, being breathless with the climb up the steep and broken stairs, she set the tired and sleepy child down on her shawl in the adjoining room, whose door stood open, and hurried down to find mrs. o'malligan and beg a scrap of paper to write a few lines to put under her sister's door. again fate was against her. mrs. o'malligan's door was locked, and she determined to run across to the corner grocery to beg a bit of paper and pencil from mr. buckley's brother bill who clerked there, and learn something of the absent family. and here, while crossing the street in nervous haste, she had been knocked down in a press of vehicles,--and so the long chapter of strange accidents was set going. * * * * * a few days after christmas the prima donna of the garden opera house was found in her luxurious sitting-room, by her maid, face downward on the couch,--in tears, the result of a state of mind, caused, as it proved, by a visit from the little angelique and her beautiful mother. "how can i ever thank you for your generous impulse," mrs. breaux had said, in impulsive, sweet fashion, taking the wayward, beautiful, young creature's hand in hers, "or how can i ever be grateful enough to the good god for surrounding my darling with such love and preserving her, as he has done, from the evils of this terrible city," and she had cried and trembled even then, with the child there against her knee, calling and prattling to the green and yellow parrot on his gilded perch. "if only some one could have understood all the poor child tried to tell," said the prima donna, "but her dear, funny little lisp--" "it is no wonder they could not," cried the mother in quick exoneration of her child's tenement friends, "her speech was a comical mixture of her father's french, my english, and the nurse's irish brogue,--even mr. breaux gave up often in despair, and would turn for me to interpret." it followed, then, that angelique had been brought to tell the great singer good-bye, and in speaking of her first meeting with her at the opera house, the prima donna referred to the child's wonderful grace, her poise. "she has more than talent," the professional woman said, "she has genius." "it is a love of motion born in her," replied the mother, "my sisters have it before her. angelique danced actually before she could talk, and my sister took her to dancing school and kindergarten when she was little more than a baby, because it seemed such a pleasure to the child." and then it so happened the singer was led to speak of her own life, of her wretched, motherless childhood, her poverty, the discovery of her voice and her subsequent success. "a success that sometimes seems but ashes in my mouth," she sobbed, as the young mother gathered her in her arms and comforted her with words which to her impulsive, untaught, undisciplined heart were as "apples of gold," and which sank too deep to ever be forgotten. and it was following this visit that her maid found her in tears. * * * * * pretty miss stannard sighed, as with mr. dilke in attendance, she was walking up from the station, having seen angelique, her mother, father, and tante off for their southern home. "how nice," she sighed, "for them to have been able to show their gratitude as they have; money can do anything." but mr. dilke, who, of late had had reason to question the desirability of being a rich young man, since the conscientious and analytical young person by his side had returned an unfavorable answer to a certain matrimonial proposition on his part, alleging her inability to determine how far her affections were biased by sordidness. so mr. dilke shook his head and took a sidelong glance at his companion's pretty profile. "no, money cannot," he returned promptly in refutation of her statement, "all mine cannot give me the one thing that makes the rest seem worth while." "nor would you want that one thing if it could," returned miss stannard quite as promptly, though what little of her profile mr. dilke could catch sight of now, so attractive did something prove across the way--grew a beautiful rosy red as she spoke,--"no, money could not give you that. i've thought and thought until i am quite--convinced--of that--though if you just could be poor,--real nice and poverty-stricken long enough to test me,--i'd always feel safer--you know----" and when, in time, a successor was found to supply miss stannard's place at the darcy settlement's free kindergarten, it was to see the angel in her beautiful southern home that mr. van alstine took his pretty, young wife. and there, whom did they find,--her face all softened and transfigured with happiness, tending her beloved charge with jealous care--but mary carew! the end. * * * * * sunbeam stories and others. by annie flint. _with cover design by dora wheeler keith, and seven full-page illustrations by dora wheeler keith, meredith nugent and izora c. chandler._ _square, mo. cloth, $ . ._ ------ "there is a touch of pure poetic fancy in each of the tales, and the sunbeams here invested with life and tiny human forms, are lovable and mirth-provoking imps.... the children, too, are real children, and there is no mawkish sentimentality, but an unforced, tender pathos in the story of little tom riley, who was 'mos twelve,' but who had a heart big enough for a man, and so skilfully is it told that a child may read and miss much of the sadness of it. in and out and everywhere play the sunbeams, as merry, mischievous and kindly a set of sprites as any in the realms of fairyland."--_the sun_, new york. in these stories, the sunbeams are made to talk and laugh and play, just like children. they are delightful. sometimes when they are naughty, father sun shuts them up in a cloud all day, where it is wet and rainy, and then they get good and promise not to tease and be bad any more. and then he lets them out, and they come down among the flowers and children and make everything bright and happy. the fancy is pretty, and we are sure the little children will thoroughly enjoy the little sunbeams. pretty pictures and fine press-work and paper, make it a beautiful book.--_christian observer_, louisville, ky. "the stories are fascinating--rivalling the best works of imagination. for purity and simplicity of style and diction, they are classic."--locke richardson. ------ bonnell, silver & co., publishers, west d street, new york. the log of the lady gray. by louise seymour houghton. _cloth. price cents._ ------ the "ship's company" that embarked one may morning for a holiday cruise on the "cat-boat" _lady gray_, consisted according to "the log," of the skipper, two cabin-boys, one ship's clerk, one small child, and two supernumeraries. the ship's clerk, who kept "the log," was a young girl, the small child was a much younger girl, and the supernumeraries were two dolls, who came in for a fair share of adventure, although they did not, like the others, suffer from "short commons," or join in the welcome meal of "hoe cake and sorghum," with difficulty obtained from the half famished "company." the story is one for young people; it is pleasantly told, and will be appreciated, especially by those who are interested in good books for children. the "log of lady gray" is a bright little record of the cruise of a party in a cat-boat with enigmas, riddles, and other verbal amusements to give variety.--_public opinion._ the book abounds in fun and frolic, and suggestions of a sweet and happy daily life.--_the evangelist._ the book is full of sprightly good things.--_herald and presbyter._ ------ bonnell, silver & co., publishers, west d street, new york. none none note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the daughter of anderson crow by george barr mccutcheon author of _beverly of graustark_, _jane cable_, etc. with illustrations by b. martin justice new york dodd, mead and company [illustration: anderson crow] contents chapter i. anderson crow, detective ii. the pursuit begins iii. the culprits iv. anderson rectifies an error v. the babe on the doorstep vi. reflection and deduction vii. the mysterious visitor viii. some years go by ix. the village queen x. rosalie has plans of her own xi. elsie banks xii. the spelling-bee xiii. a tinkletown sensation xiv. a case of mistaken identity xv. rosalie disappears xvi. the haunted house xvii. wicker bonner, harvard xviii. the men in the sleigh xix. with the kidnapers xx. in the cave xxi. the trap-door xxii. jack, the giant killer xxiii. tinkletown's convulsion xxiv. the flight of the kidnapers xxv. as the heart grows older xxvi. the left ventricle xxvii. the grin derisive xxviii. the blind man's eyes xxix. the mysterious questioner xxx. the hemisphere train robbery xxxi. "as you like it" xxxii. the luck of anderson crow xxxiii. bill briggs tells a tale xxxiv. elsie banks returns xxxv. the story is told xxxvi. anderson crow's resignation illustrations anderson crow (frontispiece) "'safe for a minute or two at least,' he whispered" "a baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets" "september brought elsie banks" "the teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night" "'what is the meaning of all this?'" the haunted house wicker bonner "rosalie was no match for the huge woman" "she shrank back from another blow which seemed impending" "left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse" "'i think i understand, rosalie'" "'i beg your pardon,' he said humbly'" "it was a wise, discreet old oak" "the huge automobile had struck the washout" chapter i anderson crow, detective he was imposing, even in his pensiveness. there was no denying the fact that he was an important personage in tinkletown, and to the residents of tinkletown that meant a great deal, for was not their village a perpetual monument to the american revolution? even the most generalising of historians were compelled to devote at least a paragraph to the battle of tinkletown, while some of the more enlightened gave a whole page and a picture of the conflict that brought glory to the sleepy inhabitants whose ancestors were enterprising enough to annihilate a whole company of british redcoats, once on a time. notwithstanding all this, a particularly disagreeable visitor from the city once remarked, in the presence of half a dozen descendants (after waiting twenty minutes at the post-office for a dime's worth of stamps), that tinkletown was indeed a monument, but he could not understand why the dead had been left unburied. there was excellent cause for resentment, but the young man and his stamps were far away before the full force of the slander penetrated the brains of the listeners. anderson crow was as imposing and as rugged as the tallest shaft of marble in the little cemetery on the edge of the town. no one questioned his power and authority, no one misjudged his altitude, and no one overlooked his dignity. for twenty-eight years he had served tinkletown and himself in the triple capacity of town marshal, fire chief and street commissioner. he had a system of government peculiarly his own; and no one possessed the heart or temerity to upset it, no matter what may have been the political inducements. it would have been like trying to improve the laws of nature to put a new man in his place. he had become a fixture that only dissolution could remove. be it said, however, that dissolution did not have its common and accepted meaning when applied to anderson crow. for instance, in discoursing upon the obnoxious habits of the town's most dissolute rake--alf reesling--anderson had more than once ventured the opinion that "he was carrying his dissolution entirely too far." and had not anderson crow risen to more than local distinction? had not his fame gone abroad throughout the land? not only was he the marshal of tinkletown at a salary of $ a year, but he was president of the county horse-thief detectives' association and also a life-long delegate to the state convention of the sons of the revolution. along that line, let it be added, every parent in tinkletown bemoaned the birth of a daughter, because that simple circumstance of origin robbed the society's roster of a new name. anderson crow, at the age of forty-nine, had a proud official record behind him and a guaranteed future ahead. doubtless it was of this that he was thinking, as he leaned pensively against the town hitching-rack and gingerly chewed the blade of wire-grass which dangled even below the chin whiskers that had been with him for twenty years. the faraway expression in his watery-blue eyes gave evidence that he was as great reminiscently as he was personally. so successful had been his career as a law preserver, that of late years no evil-doer had had the courage to ply his nefarious games in the community. the town drunkard, alf reesling, seldom appeared on the streets in his habitual condition, because, as he dolefully remarked, he would deserve arrest and confinement for "criminal negligence," if for nothing else. the marshal's fame as a detective had long since escaped from the narrow confines of tinkletown. he was well known at the county seat, and on no less than three occasions had his name mentioned in the "big city" papers in connection with the arrest of notorious horse-thieves. and now the whole town was trembling with a new excitement, due to the recognition accorded her triple official. on monday morning he had ventured forth from his office in the long-deserted "calaboose," resplendent in a brand-new nickel-plated star. by noon everybody in town knew that he was a genuine "detective," a member of the great organisation known as the new york imperial detective association; and that fresh honour had come to tinkletown through the agency of a post-revolution generation. the beauty of it all was that anderson never lost a shred of his serenity in explaining how the association had implored him to join its forces, even going so far as to urge him to come to new york city, where he could assist and advise in all of its large operations. and, moreover, he had been obliged to pay but ten dollars membership fee, besides buying the blazing star for the paltry sum of three dollars and a quarter. every passer-by on this bright spring morning offered a respectful "howdy" to anderson crow, whose only recognition was a slow and imposing nod of the head. once only was he driven to relinquish his pensive attitude, and that was when an impertinent blue-bottle fly undertook to rest for a brief spell upon the nickel-plated star. never was blue-bottle more energetically put to flight. but even as the tinkletown pooh-bah posed in restful supremacy there were rushing down upon him affairs of the epoch-making kind. up in the clear, lazy sky a thunderbolt was preparing to hurl itself into the very heart of tinkletown, and at the very head of anderson crow. afterward it was recalled by observing citizens that just before noon--seven minutes to twelve, in fact--a small cloud no bigger than the proverbial hand crossed the sun hurriedly as if afraid to tarry. at that very instant a stranger drove up to the hitching-rack, bringing his sweat-covered horse to a standstill so abruptly in front of the marshal's nose that that dignitary's hat fell off backward. "whoa!" came clearly and unmistakably from the lips of the stranger who held the reins. half a dozen loafers on the post-office steps were positive that he said nothing more, a fact that was afterward worth remembering. "here!" exclaimed anderson crow wrathfully. "do you know what you're doin', consarn you?" "i beg pardon," everybody within hearing heard the young man say. "is this the city of tinkletown?" he said "city," they could swear, every man's son of them. "yes, it is," answered the marshal severely. "what of it?" "that's all. i just wanted to know. where's the store?" "which store?" quite crossly. the stranger seemed nonplussed at this. "have you more than--oh, to be sure. i should say, where is the _nearest_ store?" apologised the stranger. "well, this is a good one, i reckon," said mr. crow laconically, indicating the post-office and general store. "will you be good enough to hold my horse while i run in there for a minute?" calmly asked the new arrival in town, springing lightly from the mud-spattered buggy. anderson crow almost staggered beneath this indignity. the crowd gasped, and then waited breathlessly for the withering process. "why--why, dod-gast you, sir, what do you think i am--a hitchin'-post?" exploded on the lips of the new detective. his face was flaming red. "you'll have to excuse me, my good man, but i thought i saw a hitching-rack as i drove up. ah, here it is. how careless of me. but say, i won't be in the store more than a second, and it doesn't seem worth while to tie the old crow-bait. if you'll just watch him--or her--for a minute i'll be greatly obliged, and--" "watch your own horse," roared the marshal thunderously. "don't get huffy," cried the young man cheerily. "it will be worth a quarter to you." "do you know who i am?" demanded anderson crow, purple to the roots of his goatee. "yes, sir; i know perfectly well, but i refuse to give it away. here, take the bit, old chap, and hold dobbin for about a minute and half," went on the stranger ruthlessly; and before anderson crow knew what had happened he was actually holding the panting nag by the bit. the young man went up the steps three at a time, almost upsetting uncle gideon luce, who had not been so spry as the others in clearing the way for him. the crowd had ample time in which to study the face, apparel and manner of this energetic young man. that he was from the city, good-looking and well dressed, there was no doubt. he was tall and his face was beardless; that much could be seen at a glance. somehow, he seemed to be laughing all the time--a fact that was afterward recalled with some surprise and no little horror. at the time, the loungers thought his smile was a merry one, but afterward they stoutly maintained there was downright villainy in the leer. his coat was very dusty, proving that he had driven far and swiftly. three or four of the loungers followed him into the store. he was standing before the counter over which mr. lamson served his soda-water. in one hand he held an envelope and in the other his straw hat. george ray, more observant than the rest, took note of the fact that it was with the hat that he was fanning himself vigorously. "a plain vanilla--please rush it along," commanded the stranger. mr. lamson, if possible slower than the town itself, actually showed unmistakable signs of acceleration. tossing off the soda, the stranger dried his lips with a blue-hemmed white handkerchief. "is this the post-office?" he asked. "yep," said mr. lamson, who was too penurious to waste words. "anything here for me?" demanded the newcomer. "i'll see," said the postmaster, and from force of habit began looking through the pile of letters without asking the man's name. mr. lamson knew everybody in the county. "nothing here," taking off his spectacles conclusively. "i didn't think there was," said the other complacently. "give me a bottle of witch hazel, a package of invisible hair-pins and a box of parlor matches. quick; i'm in a hurry!" "did you say hat-pins?" "no, sir; i said hair-pins." "we haven't any that ain't visible. how would safety-pins do?" "never mind; give me the bottle and the matches," said the other, glancing at a very handsome gold watch. "is the old man still holding my horse?" he called to a citizen near the door. seven necks stretched simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the affirmative. the stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. "needn't mind wrapping up the bottle," he said. "don't you care for these matches?" asked mr. lamson in mild surprise. "i'll donate them to the church," said the other, tossing a coin upon the counter and dashing from the store. the crowd ebbed along behind him. "gentle as a lamb, isn't he?" he called to anderson crow, who still clutched the bit. "much obliged, sir; i'll do as much for you some day. if you're ever in new york, hunt me up and i'll see that you have a good time. what road do i take to crow's cliff?" "turn to your left here," said anderson crow before he thought. then he called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow. "how far is it from here?" "mile and a half," again answered mr. crow helplessly. this time he almost swore under his breath. "but he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders. "why can't he?" demanded the marshal. "bridge over turnip creek is washed out. did you forget that?" "of course not," promptly replied mr. crow, who _had_ forgotten it; "but, dang it, he c'n swim, can't he?" "you say the bridge is gone?" asked the stranger, visibly excited. "yes, and the crick's too high to ford, too." "well, how in thunder am i to get to crow's cliff?" "there's another bridge four miles upstream. it's still there," said george ray. anderson crow had scornfully washed his hands of the affair. "confound the luck! i haven't time to drive that far. i have to be there at half-past twelve. i'm late now! is there no way to get across this miserable creek?" he was in the buggy now, whip in hand, and his eyes wore an anxious expression. some of the men vowed later that he positively looked frightened. "there's a foot-log high and dry, and you can walk across, but you can't get the horse and buggy over," said one of the men. "well, that's just what i'll have to do. say, mr. officer, suppose you drive me down to the creek and then bring the horse back here to a livery stable. i'll pay you well for it. i must get to crow's cliff in fifteen minutes." "i'm no errant-boy!" cried anderson crow so wrathfully that two or three boys snickered. "you're a darned old crank, that's what you are!" exclaimed the stranger angrily. everybody gasped, and mr. crow staggered back against the hitching-rail. "see here, young man, none o' that!" he sputtered. "you can't talk that way to an officer of the law. i'll--" "you won't do anything, do you hear that? but if you knew who i am you'd be doing something blamed quick." a dozen men heard him say it, and they remembered it word for word. "you go scratch yourself!" retorted anderson crow scornfully. that was supposed to be a terrible challenge, but the stranger took no notice of it. "what am i to do with this horse and buggy?" he growled, half to himself. "i bought the darned thing outright up in boggs city, just because the liveryman didn't know me and wouldn't let me a rig. now i suppose i'll have to take the old plug down to the creek and drown him in order to get rid of him." nobody remonstrated. he looked a bit dangerous with his broad shoulders and square jaw. "what will you give me for the outfit, horse, buggy, harness and all? i'll sell cheap if some one makes a quick offer." the bystanders looked at one another blankly, and at last the concentrated gaze fell upon the pooh-bah of the town. the case seemed to be one that called for his attention; truly, it did not look like public property, this astounding proposition. "what you so derned anxious to sell for?" demanded anderson crow, listening from a distance to see if he could detect a blemish in the horse's breathing gear. at a glance, the buggy looked safe enough. "i'm anxious to sell for cash," replied the stranger; and anderson was floored. the boy who snickered this time had cause to regret it, for mr. crow arrested him half an hour later for carrying a bean-shooter. "i paid a hundred dollars for the outfit in boggs city," went on the stranger nervously. "some one make an offer--and quick! i'm in a rush!" "i'll give five dollars!" said one of the onlookers with an apologetic laugh. this was the match that started fire in the thrifty noddles of tinkletown's best citizens. before they knew it they were bidding against each other with the true "horse-swapping" instinct, and the offers had reached $ . when the stranger unceremoniously closed the sale by crying out, "sold!" there is no telling how high the bids might have gone if he could have waited half an hour or so. uncle gideon luce afterward said that he could have had twenty-four dollars "just as well as not." they were bidding up a quarter at a time, and no one seemed willing to drop out. the successful bidder was anderson crow. "you can pay me as we drive along. jump in!" cried the stranger, looking at his watch with considerable agitation. "all i ask is that you drive me to the foot-log that crosses the creek." chapter ii the pursuit begins fifteen minutes later anderson crow was parading proudly about the town. he had taken the stranger to the creek and had seen him scurry across the log to the opposite side, supplied with directions that would lead him to the nearest route through the swamps and timberland to crow's cliff. the stranger had anderson's money in his pocket; but anderson had a very respectable sort of driving outfit to show for it. his wife kept dinner for him until two o'clock, and then sent the youngest crow out to tell her father that he'd have to go hungry until supper-time. it is no wonder that anderson failed to reach home in time for the midday meal. he started home properly enough, but what progress could he make when everybody in town stopped him to inquire about the remarkable deal and to have a look at the purchase. without a single dissenting voice, tinkletown said anderson had very much the "best of the bargain." george ray meant all right when he said, "a fool for luck," but he was obliged to explain thoroughly the witticism before the proud mr. crow could consider himself appeased. it was not until he pulled up in front of the _weekly banner_ establishment to tell the reporter "the news" that his equanimity received its first jar. he was quite proud of the deal, and, moreover, he enjoyed seeing his name in the paper. in the meantime almost everybody in tinkletown was discussing the awful profligacy of the stranger. it had not occurred to anybody to wonder why he had been in such a hurry to reach crow's cliff, a wild, desolate spot down the river. "the hoss alone is worth fifty dollars easy," volunteered mr. crow triumphantly. the detective's badge on his inflated chest seemed to sparkle with glee. "say, anderson, isn't it a little queer that he should sell out so cheap?" asked harry squires, the local reporter and pressfeeder. "what's that?" demanded anderson crow sharply. "do you think it's really true that he bought the nag up at boggs city?" asked the sceptic. mr. crow wallowed his quid of tobacco helplessly for a minute or two. he could feel himself turning pale. "he said so; ain't that enough?" he managed to bluster. "it seems to have been," replied harry, who had gone to night school in albany for two years. "well, what in thunder are you talking about then?" exclaimed anderson crow, whipping up. "i'll bet three dollars it's a stolen outfit!" "you go to halifax!" shouted anderson, but his heart was cold. something told him that harry squires was right. he drove home in a state of dire uncertainty and distress. somehow, his enthusiasm was gone. "dang it!" he said, without reason, as he was unhitching the horse in the barn lot. "hey, mr. crow!" cried a shrill voice from the street. he looked up and saw a small boy coming on the run. "what's up, toby?" asked mr. crow, all a-tremble. he knew! "they just got a telephone from boggs city," panted the boy, "down to the _banner_ office. harry squires says for you to hurry down--buggy and all. it's been stole." "good lord!" gasped anderson. his badge danced before his eyes and then seemed to shrivel. quite a crowd had collected at the _banner_ office. there was a sudden hush when the marshal drove up. even the horse felt the intensity of the moment. he shied at a dog and then kicked over the dashboard, upsetting anderson crow's meagre dignity and almost doing the same to the vehicle. "you're a fine detective!" jeered harry squires; and poor old anderson hated him ever afterward. "what have you heerd?" demanded the marshal. "there's been a terrible murder at boggs city, that's all. the chief of police just telephoned to us that a farmer named grover was found dead in a ditch just outside of town--shot through the head, his pockets rifled. it is known that he started to town to deposit four hundred dollars hog-money in the bank. the money is missing, and so are his horse and buggy. a young fellow was seen in the neighbourhood early this morning--a stranger. the chief's description corresponds with the man who sold that rig to you. the murderer is known to have driven in this direction. people saw him going almost at a gallop." it is not necessary to say that tinkletown thoroughly turned inside out with excitement. the whole population was soon at the post-office, and everybody was trying to supply anderson crow with wits. he had lost his own. "we've got to catch that fellow," finally resolved the marshal. there was a dead silence. "he's got a pistol," ventured some one. "how do you know?" demanded mr. crow keenly. "did y' see it?" "he couldn't ha' killed that feller 'thout a gun." "that's a fact," agreed anderson crow. "well, we've got to get him, anyhow. i call for volunteers! who will join me in the search?" cried the marshal bravely. "i hate to go to crow's cliff after him," said george ray. "it's a lonesome place, and as dark as night 'mong them trees and rocks." "it's our duty to catch him. he's a criminal, and besides, he's killed a man," said crow severely. "and he has twenty-one dollars of your money," added harry squires. "i'll go with you, anderson. i've got a revolver." "look out there!" roared anderson crow. "the blamed thing might go off!" he added as the reporter drew a shiny six-shooter from his pocket. the example set by one brave man had its influence on the crowd. a score or more volunteered, despite the objections of their wives, and it was not long before anderson crow was leading his motley band of sleuths down the lane to the foot-log over which the desperado had gone an hour before. it was at the beginning of the man-hunt that various citizens recalled certain actions and certain characteristics of the stranger which had made them suspicious from the start. his prodigal disposition of the box of matches impressed most of them as reckless dare-devilism; his haste, anxiety, and a single instance of mild profanity told others of his viciousness. one man was sure he had seen the stranger's watch chain in farmer grover's possession; and another saw something black on his thumb, which he now remembered was a powder stain. "i noticed all them things," averred anderson crow, supreme once more. "but what in thunder did he want with those hair-pins?" inquired george ray. "never mind," said anderson mysteriously. "you'll find out soon enough." "do you know anderson?" some one asked. "of course i do," responded the marshal loftily. "well, what were they for, then?" "i'm not givin' any clews away. you just wait a while and see if i'm not right." and they were satisfied that the detective knew all about it. after crossing the foot-log the party was divided as to which direction it should take. the marshal said the man had run to the southeast, but for some inexplicable reason quite a number of the pursuers wanted to hunt for him in the northwest. finally it was decided to separate into posses of ten, all to converge at crow's cliff as soon as possible. there were enough double-barrelled shotguns in the party to have conquered a pirate crew. at the end of an hour anderson crow and his delegation came to the narrow path which led to the summit of crow's cliff. they were very brave by this time. a small boy was telling them he had seen the fugitive about dinner-time "right where you fellers are standin' now." "did he have any blood on him?" demanded anderson crow. "no, sir; not 'less it was under his clothes." "did he say anythin' to you?" "he ast me where this path went to." "see that, gentlemen!" cried anderson. "i knew i was right. he wanted--" "well, where did he go?" demanded harry squires. "i said it went to the top of the clift. an' then he said, 'how do you git to the river?' i tole him to go down this side path here an' 'round the bottom of the hill." "didn't he go up the cliff?" demanded the marshal. "no, sir." "well, what in thunder did he ask me where the cliff was if he--" "so he went to the river, eh?" interrupted squires. "come on, men; he went down through this brush and bottomland." "he got lost, i guess," volunteered the boy. "what!" "'cause he yelled at me after he'd gone in a-ways an' ast--an' ast--" the boy paused irresolutely. "asked what?" "he ast me where in h---- the path was." "by ginger, that's him, right out an' out!" exclaimed mr. crow excitedly. "'nen he said he'd give me a quarter if i'd show him the way; so i--" "did he give you the quarter?" questioned one of the men. "yep. he'd a roll of bills as big as my leg." everybody gasped and thought of grover's hog-money. "you went to the river with him?" interrogated the reporter. "i went as fur as the clearin', an' then he tole me to stop. he said he could find the way from there. after that he run up the bank as if some one was after him. there was a boat waitin' fer him under the clift." "did he get into it?" cried squires. "he tole me not to look or he'd break my neck," said the boy. the posse nervously fingered its arsenal. "but you _did_ look?" "yep. i seen 'em plain." "them? was there more than one?" "there was a woman in the skift." "you don't say so!" gasped squires. "dang it, ain't he tellin' you!" anderson ejaculated scornfully. the boy was hurried off at the head of the posse, which by this time had been reinforced. he led the way through the dismal thickets, telling his story as he went. "she was mighty purty, too," he said. "the feller waved his hat when he seen her, an' she waved back. he run down an' jumped in the boat, an' 'nen--'nen--" "then what?" exploded anderson crow. "he kissed her!" "the d---- murderer!" roared crow. "he grabbed up the oars and rowed 'cross an' downstream. an' he shuck his fist at me when he see i'd been watchin'," said the youngster, ready to whimper now that he realised what a desperate character he had been dealing with. "where did he land on the other side?" pursued the eager reporter. "down by them willer trees, 'bout half a mile down. there's the skift tied to a saplin'. cain't you see it?" sure enough, the stern of a small boat stuck out into the deep, broad river, the bow being hidden by the bushes. "both of 'em hurried up the hill over yender, an' that's the last i seen of 'em," concluded the lad. anderson crow and his man-hunters stared helplessly at the broad, swift river, and then looked at each other in despair. there was no boat in sight except the murderer's, and there was no bridge within ten miles. while they were growling a belated detachment of hunters came up to the river bank greatly agitated. "a telephone message has just come to town sayin' there would be a thousand dollars reward," announced one of the late arrivals; and instantly there was an imperative demand for boats. "there's an old raft upstream a-ways," said the boy, "but i don't know how many it will kerry. they use it to pole corn over from mr. knoblock's farm to them big summer places in the hills up yender." "is it sound?" demanded anderson crow. "must be or they wouldn't use it," said squires sarcastically. "where is it, kid?" the boy led the way up the river bank, the whole company trailing behind. "sh! not too loud," cautioned anderson crow. fifteen minutes later a wobbly craft put out to sea, manned by a picked crew of determined citizens of tinkletown. when they were in midstream a loud cry came from the bank they had left behind. looking back, anderson crow saw excited men dashing about, most of them pointing excitedly up into the hills across the river. after a diligent search the eyes of the men on the raft saw what it was that had created such a stir at the base of crow's cliff. "there he is!" cried anderson crow in awed tones. there was no mistaking the identity of the coatless man on the hillside. a dozen men recognised him as the man they were after. putting his hands to his mouth, anderson crow bellowed in tones that savoured more of fright than command: "say!" there was no response. "will you surrender peaceably?" called the captain of the craft. there was a moment of indecision on the part of the fugitive. he looked at his companion, and she shook her head--they all saw her do it. then he shouted back his reply. [illustration: then he shouted back his reply] chapter iii the culprits "ship ahoy!" shouted the coatless stranger between his palms. "surrender or we'll fill you full of lead!" called anderson crow. "who are you--pirates?" responded the fugitive with a laugh that chilled the marrow of the men on the raft. "i'll show you who we are!" bellowed anderson crow. "send her ashore, boys, fast. the derned scamp sha'n't escape us. dead er alive, we must have him." as they poled toward the bank the woman grasped the man by the arm, dragging him back among the trees. it was observed by all that she was greatly terrified. moreover, she was exceedingly fair to look upon--young, beautiful, and a most incongruous companion for the bloody rascal who had her in his power. the raft bumped against the reedy bank, and anderson crow was the first man ashore. "come on, boys; follow me! see that your guns are all right! straight up the hill now, an' spread out a bit so's we can surround him!" commanded he in a high treble. "'but supposin' he surrounds us," panted a cautious pursuer, half way up the hill. "that's what we've got to guard against," retorted anderson crow. the posse bravely swept up to and across the greensward; but the fox was gone: there was no sight or sound of him to be had. it is but just to say that fatigue was responsible for the deep breath that came from each member of the pursuing party. "into the woods after him!" shouted anderson crow. "hunt him down like a rat!" in the meantime a coatless young man and a most enticing young woman were scampering off among the oaks and underbrush, consumed by excitement and no small degree of apprehension. "they really seem to be in earnest about it, jack," urged the young woman insistently, to offset his somewhat sarcastic comments. "how the dickens do you suppose they got onto me?" he groaned. "i thought the tracks were beautifully covered. no one suspected, i'm sure." "i told you, dear, how it would turn out," she cried in a panic-stricken voice. "good heavens, marjory, don't turn against me! it all seemed so easy and so sure, dear. there wasn't a breath of suspicion. what are we to do? i'll stop and fight the whole bunch if you'll just let go my arm." "no, you won't, jack barnes!" she exclaimed resolutely, her pretty blue eyes wide with alarm. "didn't you hear them say they'd fill you full of lead? they had guns and everything. oh, dear! oh, dear! isn't it horrid?" "the worst of it is they've cut us off from the river," he said miserably. "if i could have reached the boat ahead of them they never could have caught us. i could distance that old raft in a mile." "i know you could, dear," she cried, looking with frantic admiration upon his broad shoulders and brawny bare arms. "but it is out of the question now." "never mind, sweetheart; don't let it fuss you so. it will turn out all right, i know it will." "oh, i can't run any farther," she gasped despairingly. "poor little chap! let me carry you?" "you big ninny!" "we are at least three miles from your house, dear, and surrounded by deadly perils. can you climb a tree?" "i can--but i won't!" she refused flatly, her cheeks very red. "then i fancy we'll have to keep on in this manner. it's a confounded shame--the whole business. just as i thought everything was going so smoothly, too. it was all arranged to a queen's taste--nothing was left undone. bracken was to meet us at his uncle's boathouse down there, and--good heavens, there was a shot!" the sharp crack of a rifle broke upon the still, balmy air, as they say in the "yellow-backs," and the fugitives looked at each other with suddenly awakened dread. "the fools!" grated the man. "what do they mean?" cried the breathless girl, very white in the face. "they are trying to frighten us, that's all. hang it! if i only knew the lay of the land. i'm completely lost, marjory. do you know precisely where we are?" "our home is off to the north about three miles. we are almost opposite crow's cliff--the wildest part of the country. there are no houses along this part of the river. all of the summer houses are farther up or on the other side. it is too hilly here. there is a railroad off there about six miles. there isn't a boathouse or fisherman's hut nearer than two miles. mr. bracken keeps his boat at the point--two miles south, at least." "yes; that's where we were to have gone--by boat. hang it all! why did we ever leave the boat? you can never scramble through all this brush to bracken's place; it's all i can do. look at my arms! they are scratched to--" "oh, dear! it's dreadful, jack. you poor fellow, let me--" "we haven't time, dearest. by thunder, i wouldn't have those rubes head us off now for the whole county. the jays! how could they have found us out?" "some one must have told." "but no one knew except the brackens, you and i." "i'll wager my head bracken is saying hard things for fair down the river there." "he--he--doesn't swear, jack," she panted. [illustration: "'safe for a minute or two at least,' he whispered"] "why, you are ready to drop! can't you go a step farther? let's stop here and face 'em. i'll bluff 'em out and we'll get to bracken's some way. but i _won't_ give up the game! not for a million!" "then we can't stop. you forget i go in for gymnasium work. i'm as strong as anything, only i'm--i'm a bit nervous. oh, i knew something would go wrong!" she wailed. they were now standing like trapped deer in a little thicket, listening for sounds of the hounds. "are you sorry, dear?" "no, no! i love you, jack, and i'll go through everything with you and for you. really," she cried with a fine show of enthusiasm, "this is jolly good fun, isn't it? being chased like regular bandits--" "sh! drop down, dear! there's somebody passing above us--hear him?" they crawled into a maze of hazel bushes with much less dignity than haste. two men sped by an instant later, panting and growling. "safe for a minute or two at least," he whispered as the crunching footsteps were lost to the ear. "they won't come back this way, dear." "they had guns, jack!" she whispered, terrified. "i don't understand it, hanged if i do," he said, pulling his brows into a mighty scowl. "they are after us like a pack of hounds. it must mean something. lord, but we seem to have stirred up a hornet's nest!" "oh, dear, i wish we were safely at--" she paused. "at home?" he asked quickly. "at bracken's," she finished; and if any of the pursuers had been near enough he might have heard the unmistakable suggestion of a kiss. "i feel better," he said, squaring his shoulders. "now, let me think. we must outwit these fellows, whoever they are. by george, i remember one of them! that old fellow who bought the horse is with them. that's it! the horse is mixed up in this, i'll bet my head." they sat upon the ground for several minutes, he thinking deeply, she listening with her pretty ears intent. "i wonder if they've left anybody to guard our boat?" he said suddenly. "come on, marjory; let's investigate! by george, it would be just like them to leave it unprotected!" once more they were moving cautiously through the brush, headed for the river. mr. jack barnes, whoever he was and whatever his crime, was a resourceful, clever young man. he had gauged the intelligence of the pursuers correctly. when he peered through the brush along the river bank he saw the skiff in the reeds below, just as they had left it. there was the lunch basket, the wee bit of a steamer trunk with all its labels, a parasol and a small handbag. "goody, goody!" marjory cried like a happy child. "don't show yourself yet, dearie. i'll make sure. they may have an ambuscade. wait here for me." he crept down the bank and back again before she could fully subdue the tremendous thumping his temerity had started in her left side. "it's safe and sound," he whispered joyously. "the idiots have forgotten the boat. quick, dear; let's make a dash for it! their raft is upstream a hundred yards, and it is also deserted. if we can once get well across the river we can give them the laugh." "but they may shoot us from the bank," she protested as they plunged through the weeds. "they surely wouldn't shoot a woman!" he cried gayly. "but you are not a woman!" "and i'm not afraid of mice or men. jump in!" off from the weeds shot the light skiff. the water splashed for a moment under the spasmodic strokes of the oarsman, and then the little boat streaked out into the river like a thing of life. marjory sat in the stern and kept her eyes upon the bank they were leaving. jack barnes drove every vestige of his strength into the stroke; somehow he pulled like a man who had learned how on a college crew. they were half way across the broad river before they were seen from the hills. the half dozen men who lingered at the base of crow's cliff had shouted the alarm to their friends on the other side, and the fugitives were sighted once more. but it was too late. the boat was well out of gunshot range and making rapid progress downstream in the shelter of the high bluffs below crow's cliff. jack barnes was dripping with perspiration, but his stroke was none the feebler. "they see us!" she cried. "don't wriggle so, marjory--trim boat!" he panted. "they can't hit us, and we can go two miles to their one." "and we can get to bracken's!" she cried triumphantly. a deep flush overspread her pretty face. "hooray!" he shouted with a grin of pure delight. far away on the opposite bank anderson crow and his sleuths were congregating, their baffled gaze upon the man who had slipped out of their grasp. the men of the posse were pointing at the boat and arguing frantically; there were decided signs of dispute among them. finally two guns flew up, and then came the puffs of smoke, the reports and little splashes of water near the flying skiff. "oh, they are shooting!" she cried in a panic. "and rifles, too," he grated, redoubling his pull on the oars. other shots followed, all falling short. "get down in the bottom of the boat, marjory. don't sit up there and be--" "i'll sit right where i am," she cried defiantly. anderson crow waved to the men under crow's cliff, and they began to make their arduous way along the bank in the trail of the skiff. part of the armed posse hurried down and boarded the raft, while others followed the chase by land. "we'll beat them to bracken's by a mile," cried jack barnes. "if they don't shoot us," she responded. "why, oh, why are they so intent upon killing us?" "they don't want you to be a widow and--break a--lot of hearts," he said. "if they--hit me now you--won't be--dangerous as a--widow." "oh, you heartless thing! how can you jest about it? i'd--i'd go into mourning, anyway, jack," she concluded, on second thought. "we are just as good as married, you see." "it's nice--of you to say it, dear--but we're a long--way from--bracken's. gee! that was close!" a bullet splashed in the water not ten feet from the boat. "the cowards! they're actually trying to kill us!" for the first time his face took on a look of alarm and his eyes grew desperate. "i can't let them shoot at you, marjory, dear! what the dickens they want i don't know, but i'm going to surrender." he had stopped rowing and was making ready to wave his white handkerchief on high. "never!" she cried with blazing eyes. "give me the oars!" she slid into the other rowing seat and tried to snatch the oars from the rowlocks. "bravo! i could kiss you a thousand times for that. come on, you indians! you're a darling, marjory." again the oars caught the water, and jack barnes's white handkerchief lay in the bottom of the boat. he was rowing for dear life, and there was a smile on his face. the raft was left far behind and the marksmen were put out of range with surprising ease. fifteen minutes later the skiff shot across the river and up to the landing of bracken's boathouse, while a mile back in the brush anderson crow and his men were wrathfully scrambling in pursuit. "hey, bracken! jimmy!" shouted jack barnes, jumping out upon the little wharf. marjory gave him her hands and was whisked ashore and into his arms. "run into the boathouse, dear. i'll yank this stuff ashore. where the dickens is bracken?" the boathouse door opened slowly and a sleepy young man looked forth. "i thought you'd never come," he yawned. "wake up, you old loafer! we're here and we are pursued! where are george and amy?" cried mr. barnes, doing herculean duty as a baggage smasher. "pursued?" cried the sleepy young man, suddenly awake. "yes, and shot at!" cried marjory, running past him and into the arms of a handsome young woman who was emerging from the house. "we've no time to lose, jimmy! they are on to us, heaven knows how. they are not more than ten minutes behind us. get it over with, jimmy, for heaven's sake! here, george, grab this trunk!" chapter iv anderson rectifies an error in a jiffy the fugitives and their property were transferred to the interior of the roomy boathouse, the doors bolted, and george crosby stationed at a window to act as lookout. "is it your father?" demanded the rev. james bracken, turning to marjory. young mrs. crosby was looking on eagerly. "mr. brewster is at home and totally oblivious to all this," cried jack barnes. "i don't know what it means. here's the license, jimmy. are you ready, marjory?" "this is rather a squeamish business, jack--" began the young minister in the negligée shirt. he was pulling on his coat as he made the remark. "oh, hurry, jimmy; please hurry!" cried marjory brewster. "don't wait a second, jimmy bracken!" cried amy crosby, dancing with excitement. "you can't go back on them now!" three minutes later there was no marjory brewster, but there was a mrs. john ethelbert barnes--and she was kissing her husband rapturously. "now, tell us everything," cried mrs. crosby after the frantic congratulations. the reverend "jimmy" bracken, of the eleventh presbyterian church, was the only one who seemed uncertain as to his position. in the first place, old judge brewster was a man of influence in the metropolis, from which all had fled for a sojourn in the hills. he and his daughter were episcopalians, but that made them none the less important in the eyes of "jimmy" bracken. in the second place, jack barnes was a struggling lawyer, in the year of our lord , and possessed of objectionable poverty. the young men had been room-mates at college. friendship had overcome discretion in this instance, at least. the deed being done, young mr. bracken was beginning to wonder if it had not been overdone, so to speak. "i wish somebody would tell me!" exclaimed jack barnes, with a perplexed frown. "the beastly jays shot at us and all that. you'd think i was an outlaw. and they blazed away at marjory, too, hang them!" marjory, too excited to act like a blushing bride, took up the story and told all that had happened. george crosby became so interested that he forgot to keep guard. "this is a funny mess!" he exclaimed. "there's something wrong--" "hey, you!" came a shout from the outside. "there they are!" cried marjory, flying to her husband's side. "what are we to do?" "you mean, what are they to do? we're married, and they can't get around that, you know. let 'em come!" cried the groom exultantly. "you don't regret it, do you, sweetheart?" quite anxiously. she smiled up into his eyes, and he felt very secure. "what do you fellows want?" demanded crosby from the window. anderson crow was standing on the river bank like a true napoleon, flanked by three trusty riflemen. "who air you?" asked anderson in return. he was panting heavily, and his legs trembled. "none of your business! get off these grounds at once; they're private!" "none o' your sass, now, young man; i'm an officer of the law, an' a detective to boot! we sha'n't stand any nonsense. the place is surrounded and he can't escape! where is he?" "that's for you to find out if you're such a good detective! this is david bracken's place, and you can find him at his home on the hilltop yonder!" "ask him what we've done, george," whispered barnes. "we ain't after mr. bracken, young feller, but you know what we _do_ want! he's in there--you're shielding him--we won't parley much longer! send him out!" said anderson crow. "if you come a foot nearer you'll get shot into the middle of kingdom come!" shouted crosby defiantly. the inmates gasped, for there was not a firearm on the place. "be careful!" warned the reverend "jimmy" nervously. "goin' to resist, eh? well, we'll get him; don't you worry; an' that ornery female o' hisn', too!" "did you hear that?" exclaimed jack barnes. "let me get at the old rat." he was making for the door when the two women obstructed the way. both were frantic with fear. "but he called you a female!" roared he. "well, i _am_!" she wailed miserably. "who is it you want?" asked crosby from the window. "that's all right," roared anderson crow; "purduce him at once!" "is this the fellow?" and crosby dragged the reverend "jimmy" into view. there was a moment's inspection of the cadaverous face, and then the sleuths shook their heads. "not on your life!" said mr. crow. "but he's in there--ike smalley seen him an' his paramount go up the steps from the landin'! 'twon't do no good to hide him, young feller; he's--" "well, let me tell you something. you are too late--they're married!" cried crosby triumphantly. "i don't give a cuss if they're married and have sixteen children!" shouted the exasperated crow, his badge fairly dancing. "he's got to surrender!" "oh, he does, eh?" "yes, sir-ee-o-bob; he's got to give up, dead or alive! trot him out lively, now!" "i don't mind telling you that mr. barnes is here; but i'd like to know why you're hunting him down like a wild beast, shooting at him and miss--i mean mrs. barnes. it's an outrage!" "oh, we ain't the on'y people that can kill and slaughter! she's just as bad as he is, for that matter--an' so are you and that other lantern-jawed outlaw in there." the reverend "jimmy" gasped and turned a fiery red. "did he call me a--say!" and he pushed crosby aside. "i'd have you to understand that i'm a minister of the gospel--i am the reverend james bracken, of--" a roar of laughter greeted his attempt to explain; and there were a few remarks so uncomplimentary that the man of cloth sank back in sheer hopelessness. "well, i'll give them reason to think that i'm something of a desperado," grated the reverend "jimmy," squaring his shoulders. "if they attempt to put foot inside my uncle's house i'll--i'll smash a few heads." "bravo!" cried mrs. crosby. she was his cousin, and up to that time had had small regard for her mild-mannered relative. "he can preach the funeral!" shouted ike smalley. by this time there were a dozen men on the bank below. "i give you fair warning," cried anderson crow impressively. "we're goin' to surround the house, an' we'll take that rascal if we have to shoot the boards into sawdust!" "but what has he done, except to get married?" called crosby as the posse began to spread out. "do you s'pose i'm fool enough to tell you if you don't know?" said anderson crow. "just as like as not you'd be claimin' the thousand dollars reward if you knowed it had been offered! spread out, boys, an' we'll show 'em dern quick!" there was dead silence inside the house for a full minute. every eye was wide and every mouth was open in surprise and consternation. "a thousand dollars reward!" gasped jack barnes. "then, good lord, i _must_ have done something!" "what _have_ you been doing, jack barnes?" cried his bride, aghast. "i must have robbed a train," said he dejectedly. "well, this is serious, after all," said crosby. "it's not an eloper they're after, but a desperado." "a kidnaper, perhaps," suggested his wife. "what are we to do?" demanded jack barnes. "first, old man, what have you actually done?" asked the reverend "jimmy." "nothing that's worth a thousand dollars, i'm dead sure," said barnes positively. "by george, marjory, this is a nice mess i've led you into!" "it's all right, jack; i'm happier than i ever was before in my life. we ran away to get married, and i'll go to jail with you if they'll take me." "this is no time for kissing," objected crosby sourly. "we must find out what it all means. leave it to me." it was getting dark in the room, and the shadows were heavy on the hills. while the remaining members of the besieged party sat silent and depressed upon the casks and boxes, crosby stood at the window calling to the enemy. "is he ready to surrender?" thundered anderson crow from the shadows. then followed a brief and entirely unsatisfactory dialogue between the two spokesmen. anderson crow was firm in his decision that the fugitive did not have to be told what he had done; and george crosby was equally insistent that he had to be told before he could decide whether he was guilty or innocent. "we'll starve him out!" said anderson crow. "but there are ladies here, my good man; you won't subject them to such treatment!" "you're all of a kind--we're going to take the whole bunch!" "what do you think will happen to you if you are mistaken in your man?" "we're not mistaken, dang ye!" "he could sue you for every dollar you possess. i know, for i'm a lawyer!" "now, i'm sure you're in the job with him. i s'pose you'll try to work in the insanity dodge! it's a nest of thieves and robbers! say, i'll give you five minutes to surrender; if you don't, we'll set fire to the derned shanty!" "look here, boys," said jack barnes suddenly, "i've done nothing and am not afraid to be arrested. i'm going to give myself up." of course there was a storm of protest and a flow of tears, but the culprit was firm. "tell the old fossil that if he'll guarantee safety to me i'll give up!" anderson was almost too quick in promising protection. "ask him if he will surrender and make a confession to me--i am anderson crow, sir!" was the marshal's tactful suggestion. "he'll do both, mr. crow!" replied crosby. "we've got to take the whole bunch of you, young man. you're all guilty of conspiracy, the whole caboodle!" "but the ladies, you darned old rube--they can't--" "looky here, young feller, you can't dictate to me. i'll have you to--" "we'll all go!" cried mrs. crosby warmly. "to the very end!" added the new mrs. barnes. "what will your father say?" demanded the groom. "he'll disown me anyway, dear, so what's the difference?" "it's rather annoying for a minister--" began the reverend "jimmy," putting on his hat. "we'll beg off for you!" cried mrs. crosby ironically. "but i'm going to jail, too," finished he grimly. "all right," called crosby from the window; "here we come!" and forth marched the desperate quintet, three strapping young men and two very pretty and nervous young women. they were met by anderson crow and a dozen armed men from tinkletown, every one of them shaking in his boots. the irrepressible mrs. crosby said "boo!" suddenly, and half the posse jumped as though some one had thrown a bomb at them. "now, i demand an explanation of this outrage," said jack barnes savagely. "what do you mean by shooting at me and my--my wife and arresting us, and all that?" "you'll find out soon enough when you're strung up fer it," snarled anderson crow. "an' you'll please hand over that money i paid fer the hoss and buggy. i'll learn you how to sell stolen property to me." "oh, i'm a horse-thief, am i? this is rich. and they'll string me up, eh? next thing you'll be accusing me of killing that farmer up near boggs city." "well, by gosh! you're a cool one!" ejaculated anderson crow. "i s'pose you're goin' ter try the insanity dodge." "it's lucky for me that they caught him," said barnes as the herd of prisoners moved off toward the string of boats tied to mr. bracken's wharf. "come off!" exclaimed squires, the reporter, scornfully. "we're onto you, all right, all right." "what! do you think i'm the man who--well, holy mackerel! say, you gravestones, don't you ever hear any news out here? wake up! they caught the murderer at billsport, not more than five miles from your jay burg. i was driving through the town when they brought him in. that's what made me late, dear," turning to marjory. "yes, and i'll bet my soul that here comes some one with the news," cried george crosby, who had heard nothing of the tragedy until this instant. a rowboat containing three men was making for the landing. somehow, anderson crow and his posse felt the ground sinking beneath them. not a man uttered a sound until one of the newcomers called out from the boat: "is anderson crow there?" "yes, sir; what is it?" demanded crow in a wobbly voice. "your wife wants to know when in thunder you're comin' home." by this time the skiff was bumping against the landing. "you tell her to go to halifax!" retorted anderson crow. "is that all you want?" "they nabbed that murderer up to billsport long 'bout 'leven o'clock," said alf reesling, the town drunkard. "we thought we'd row down and tell you so's you wouldn't be huntin' all night for the feller who--hello, you got him, eh?" "are you fellers lyin'?" cried poor anderson crow. "not on your life. we knowed about the captcher over in town just about half an hour after you started 'cross the river this afternoon." "you--four hours ago? you--you--" sputtered the marshal. "an' why didn't you let us know afore this?" "there was a game o' baseball in hasty's lot, an'--" began one of the newcomers sheepishly. "well, i'll be gosh-whizzled!" gasped anderson crow, sitting down suddenly. * * * * * an hour and a half later mr. and mrs. john ethelbert barnes were driven up to judge brewster's country place in mr. david bracken's brake. they were accompanied by mr. and mrs. george crosby, and were carrying out the plans as outlined in the original programme. "where's papa?" marjory tremulously inquired of the footman in the hallway. "he's waitin' for you in the library, miss--i should say mrs. barnes," replied the man, a trace of excitement in his face. "mrs. barnes!" exclaimed four voices at once. "who told you, william?" cried marjory, leaning upon jack for support. "a mr. anderson crow was here not half an hour ago, ma'am, to assure mr. brewster as to how his new son-in-law was in nowise connected with the murder up the way. he said as how he had personally investigated the case, miss--ma'am, and mr. brewster could rely on his word for it, mr. jack was not the man. he told him as how you was married at the boathouse." "yes--and then?" cried marjory eagerly. "mr. brewster said that mr. jack wasn't born to be hanged, and for me to have an extry plate laid at the table for him to-night," concluded william with an expressive grin. chapter v the babe on the doorstep it was midnight in tinkletown, many months after the events mentioned in the foregoing chapters, and a blizzard was raging. the february wind rasped through the bare trees, shrieked around the corners of lightless houses and whipped its way through the scurrying snow with all the rage of a lion. the snow, on account of the bitter cold in the air, did not fly in big flakes, but whizzed like tiny bullets, cutting the flesh of men and beasts like the sting of wasps. it was a good night to be indoors over a roaring fire or in bed between extra blankets. no one, unless commanded by emergency, had the temerity to be abroad that night. the crow family snoozed comfortably in spite of the calliope shrieks of the wind. the home of the town marshal was blanketed in peace and the wind had no terrors for its occupants. they slept the sleep of the toasted. the windows may have rattled a bit, perhaps, and the shutters may have banged a trifle too remorselessly, but the crows were not to be disturbed. the big, old-fashioned clock in the hall downstairs was striking twelve when anderson crow awoke with a start. he was amazed, for to awake in the middle of the night was an unheard-of proceeding for him. he caught the clang of the last five strokes from the clock, however, and was comforting himself with the belief that it was five o'clock, after all, when his wife stirred nervously. "are you awake, anderson?" she asked softly. "yes, eva, and it's about time to get up. it jest struck five. doggone, it's been blowin' cats and dogs outside, ain't it?" he yawned. "five? it's twelve-now, don't tell me you counted the strokes, because i did myself. ain't it queer we should both git awake at this unearthly hour?" "well," murmured he sleepily now that it was not five o'clock, "it's a mighty good hour to go back to sleep ag'in, i reckon." "i thought i heard a noise outside," she persisted. "i don't blame you," he said, chuckling. "it's been out there all night." "i mean something besides the wind. sounded like some one walkin' on the front porch." "now, look here, eva, you ain't goin' to git me out there in this blizzard--in my stockin' feet--lookin' fer robbers--" "just the same, anderson, i'm sure i heard some one. mebby it's some poor creature freezin' an' in distress. if i was you, i'd go and look out there. please do." "doggone, eva, if you was me you'd be asleep instid of huntin' up trouble on a night like this. they ain't nothin' down there an' you--but, by cracky! mebby you're right. supposin' there is some poor cuss out there huntin' a place to sleep. i'll go and look;" and mr. crow, the most tender-hearted man in the world, crawled shiveringly but quickly from the warm bed. in his stocking feet--anderson slept in his socks on those bitter nights--he made his way down the front stairs, grumbling but determined. mrs. crow followed close behind, anxious to verify the claim that routed him from his nest. "it may be a robber," she chattered, as he pulled aside a front window curtain. anderson drew back hastily. "well, why in thunder didn't you say so before?" he gasped. "doggone, eva, that's no way to do! he might 'a' fired through the winder at me." "but he's in the house by this time, if it was a robber," she whispered. "he wouldn't stand out on the porch all night." "that's right," he whispered in reply. "you're a good deducer, after all. i wish i had my dark lantern. thunderation!" he stubbed his toe against the sewing machine. there is nothing that hurts more than unintentional contact with a sewing machine. "why in sixty don't you light a light, eva? how can i--" "listen!" she whispered shrilly. "hear that? anderson, there's some one walkin' on the porch!" "'y gosh!" faltered he. "sure as christmas! you wait here, eva, till i go upstairs an' put on my badge and i'll--" "i'll do nothing of the kind. you don't ketch me stayin' down here alone," and she grabbed the back of his nightshirt as he started for the stairs. "sho! what air you afeerd of? i'll get my revolver, too. i never did see such a coward'y calf as--" just then there was a tremendous pounding on the front door, followed by the creaking of footsteps on the frozen porch, a clatter down the steps, and then the same old howling of the wind. the crows jumped almost out of their scanty garments, and then settled down as if frozen to the spot. it was a full minute before anderson found his voice--in advance of mrs. crow at that, which was more than marvellous. "what was that?" he chattered. "a knock!" she gasped. "some neighbour's sick." "old mrs. luce. oh, goodness, how my heart's going!" "why don't you open the door, eva?" "why don't you? it's your place." "but, doggone it, cain't you see--i mean feel--that i ain't got hardly any clothes on? i'd ketch my death o' cold, an' besides--" "well, i ain't got as much on as you have. you got socks on an'--" "but supposin' it's a woman," protested he. "you wouldn't want a woman to see me lookin' like this, would you? go ahead an'--" "i suppose you'd like to have a man see me like this. i ain't used to receivin' men in--but, say, whoever it was, is gone. didn't you hear the steps? open the door, anderson. see what it is." and so, after much urging, anderson crow unbolted his front door and turned the knob. the wind did the rest. it almost blew the door off its hinges, carrying mr. and mrs. crow back against the wall. a gale of snow swept over them. "gee!" gasped anderson, crimping his toes. mrs. crow was peering under his arm. "look there!" she cried. close to the door a large bundle was lying. "a present from some one!" speculated mr. crow; but some seconds passed before he stooped to pick it up. "funny time fer santy to be callin' 'round. wonder if he thinks it's next christmas." "be careful, anderson; mebby it's an infernal machine!" cried his wife. "well, it's loaded, 'y ginger," he grunted as straightened up in the face of the gale. "shut the door, eva! cain't you see it's snowin'?" "i'll bet it was joe ramsey leavin' a sack o' hickor' nuts fer us," she said eagerly, slamming the door. "you better bolt the door. he might change his mind an' come back fer 'em," observed her husband. "it don't feel like hickor' nuts. why, eva, it's a baskit--a reg'lar clothes baskit. what in thunder do--" "let's get a light out by the kitchen fire. it's too cold in here." together they sped to the kitchen with the mysterious offering from the blizzard. there was a fire in the stove, which anderson replenished, while eva began to remove the blankets and packing from the basket, which she had placed on the hearth. anderson looked on eagerly. "lord!" fell from the lips of both as the contents of the basket were exposed to their gaze. a baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets, sound asleep and happy. for an interminable length of time the crows, _en dishabille_, stood and gazed open-mouthed and awed at the little stranger. ten minutes later, after the ejaculations and surmises, after the tears and expletives, after the whole house had been aroused, anderson crow was plunging amiably but aimlessly through the snowstorm in search of the heartless wretch who had deposited the infant on his doorstep. his top boots scuttled up and down the street, through yards and barn lots for an hour, but despite the fact that he carried his dark lantern and trailed like an indian bloodhound, he found no trace of the wanton visitor. in the meantime, mrs. crow, assisted by the entire family, had stowed the infant, a six-weeks-old girl, into a warm bed, ministering to the best of her ability to its meagre but vociferous wants. there was no more sleep in the crow establishment that night. the head of the house roused a half dozen neighbours from their beds to tell them of the astounding occurrence, with the perfectly natural result that one and all hurried over to see the baby and to hear the particulars. early next morning tinkletown wagged with an excitement so violent that it threatened to end in a municipal convulsion. anderson crow's home was besieged. the snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house was "tracked" with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators. altogether, it was a sensation unequalled in the history of the village. through it all the baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by mrs. crow and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a mysterious stranger. the missionary societies wanted to do something heroic, but mrs. crow headed them off; the sewing circle got ready to take charge of affairs, but mrs. crow punctured the project; figuratively, the churches ached for a chance to handle the infant, but mrs. crow stood between. and all tinkletown called upon anderson crow to solve the mystery before it was a day older. "it's purty hard to solve a mystery that's got six weeks' start o' me," said anderson despairingly, "but i'll try, you bet. the doggone thing's got a parent or two somewhere in the universe, an' i'll locate 'em er explode somethin'. i've got a private opinion about it myself." whatever this private opinion might have been, it was not divulged. possibly something in connection with it might have accounted for the temporary annoyance felt by nearly every respectable woman in tinkletown. the marshal eyed each and every one of them, irrespective of position, condition or age, with a gleam so accusing that the godliest of them flushed and then turned cold. so knowing were these equitable looks that before night every woman in the village was constrained to believe the worst of her neighbour, and almost as ready to look with suspicion upon herself. one thing was certain--business was at a standstill in tinkletown. the old men forgot their chess and checker games at the corner store; young men neglected their love affairs; women forgot to talk about each other; children froze their ears rather than miss any of the talk that went about the wintry streets; everybody was asking the question, "whose baby is it?" but the greatest sensation of all came late in the day when mrs. crow, in going over the garments worn by the babe, found a note addressed to anderson crow. it was stitched to the baby's dress, and proved beyond question that the strange visitor of the night before had selected not only the house, but the individual. the note was to the point. it said: "february , . "anderson crow: to your good and merciful care an unhappy creature consigns this helpless though well-beloved babe. all the world knows you to be a tender, loving, unselfish man and father. the writer humbly, prayerfully implores you to care for this babe as you would for one of your own. it is best that her origin be kept a secret. care for her, cherish her as your own, and at the end of each year the sum of a thousand dollars will be paid to you as long as she lives in your household as a member thereof. do not seek to find her parents. it would be a fool's errand. may god bless you and yours, and may god care for and protect rosalie--the name she shall bear." obviously, there was no signature and absolutely no clew to the identity of the writer two telegraph line repairers who had been working near crow's house during the night, repairing damage done by the blizzard, gave out the news that they had seen a cloaked and mysterious-looking woman standing near the methodist church just before midnight, evidently disregarding the rage of the storm. the sight was so unusual that the men paused and gazed at her for several minutes. one of them was about to approach her when she turned and fled down the side street near by. "was she carryin' a big bundle?" asked anderson crow. the men replied in the negative. "then she couldn't have been the party wanted. the one we're after certainly had a big bundle." "but, mr. crow, isn't it possible that these men saw her after she left the basket at--" began the presbyterian minister. "that ain't the way i deduce it," observed the town detective tartly. "in the first place, she wouldn't 'a' been standin' 'round like that if the job was over, would she? wouldn't she 'a' been streakin' out fer home? 'course she would." "she may have paused near the church to see whether you took the child in," persisted the divine. "but she couldn't have saw my porch from the back end of the church." "nobody said she was standing back of the church," said the lineman. "what's that? you don't mean it?" cried anderson, pulling out of a difficulty bravely. "that makes all the difference in the world. why didn't you say she was in front of the church? cain't you see we've wasted time here jest because you didn't have sense 'nough to--" "anybody ought to know it 'thout being told, you old rube," growled the lineman, who was from boggs city. "here, now, sir, that will do you! i won't 'low no man to--" "anderson, be quiet!" cautioned mrs. crow. "you'll wake the baby!" this started a new train of thought in anderson's perplexed mind. "mebby she was waitin' there while some one--her husband, fer instance--was leavin' the baskit," volunteered isaac porter humbly. "don't bother me, ike; i'm thinkin' of somethin' else," muttered anderson. "husband nothin'! do you s'pose she'd 'a' trusted that baby with a fool husband on a terrible night like that? ladies and gentlemen, this here baby was left by a _female_ resident of this very town." his hearers gasped and looked at him wide-eyed. "if she has a husband, he don't know he's the father of this here baby. don't you see that a woman couldn't 'a' carried a heavy baskit any great distance? she couldn't 'a' packed it from boggs city er new york er baltimore, could she? she wouldn't 'a' been strong enough. no, siree; she didn't have far to come, folks. an' she was a woman, 'cause ain't all typewritin' done by women? you don't hear of men typewriters, do you? people wouldn't have 'em. now, the thing fer me to do first is to make a house-to-house search to see if i c'n locate a typewritin' machine anywheres. get out of the way, toby. doggone you boys, anyhow, cain't you see i want ter get started on this job?" "say, anderson," said harry squires, the reporter, "i'd like to ask if there is any one in tinkletown, male or female, who can afford to pay you a thousand dollars a year for taking care of that kid?" "what's that?" slowly oozed from anderson's lips. "you heard what i said. say, don't you know you can bring up a kid in this town for eleven or twelve dollars a year?" "you don't know what you're talkin' about," burst from anderson's indignant lips, but he found instant excuse to retire from the circle of speculators. a few minutes later he and his wife were surreptitiously re-reading the note, both filled with the fear that it said $ . instead of $ . chapter vi reflection and deduction "by gum, it does say a thousand," cried anderson, mightily relieved. "harry squires is a fool. he said jest now that it could be did fer eleven or twelve dollars. don't you suppose, eva, that the mother of this here child knows what it costs to bring 'em up? of course she does. when i find her i'll prove it by her own lips that she knows. but don't bother me any more, eva; i got to git out an' track her down. this is the greatest job i've had in years." "see here, anderson," said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat stealthily, "let's go slow about this thing. what do you want to find her for?" "why--why, doggone it, eva, what air you talkin' about?" began he in amazement. "well, it's just this way: i don't think we can earn a thousand dollars a year easier than takin' care of this child. don't you see? suppose we keep her fer twenty years. that means twenty thousand dollars, don't it? it beats a pension all to pieces." "well, by ginger!" gasped anderson, vaguely comprehending. "fifty years would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn't it. gee whiz, eva!" "i don't imagine we can keep her that long." "no," reflectively; "the chances are she'd want ter git married inside of that time. they always-- "'tain't that, anderson. you an' me'd have to live to be more'n a hundred years old." "that's so. we ain't spring chickens, are we, deary?" she put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture in the kindly old eyes. "i love to hear you call me 'deary,' anderson. we never get too old for that." he coughed and then patted her hand rather confusedly. anderson had long since forgotten the meaning of sentiment, but he was surprised to find that he had not forgotten how to love his wife. "shucks!" he muttered bravely. "we'll be kissin' like a couple of young jay birds first thing we know. doggone if it ain't funny how a baby, even if it is some one else's, kinder makes a feller foolisher'n he intends to be." hand in hand they watched the sleeping innocent for several minutes. finally the detective shook himself and spoke: "well, eva, i got to make a bluff at findin' out whose baby it is, ain't i? my reputation's at stake. i jest have to investigate." "i don't see that any harm can come from that, anderson," she replied, and neither appreciated the sarcasm unintentionally involved. "i won't waste another minute," he announced promptly. "i will stick to my theory that the parents live in tinkletown." "fiddlesticks!" snorted mrs. crow disgustedly, and then left him to cultivate the choleric anger her exclamation had inspired. "doggone, i wish i hadn't patted her hand," he lamented. "she didn't deserve it. consarn it, a woman's always doin' something to spoil things." and so he fared forth with his badges and stars, bent on duty, but not accomplishment. all the town soon knew that he was following a clew, but all the town was at sea concerning its character, origin, and plausibility. a dozen persons saw him stop young mrs. perkins in front of lamson's store, and the same spectators saw his feathers droop as she let loose her wrath upon his head and went away with her nose in the air and her cheeks far more scarlet than when boreas kissed them, and all in response to a single remark volunteered by the faithful detective. he entered lamson's store a moment later, singularly abashed and red in the face. "doggone," he observed, seeing that an explanation was expected, "she might 'a' knowed i was only foolin'." a few minutes later he had alf reesling, the town sot, in a far corner of the store talking to him in a most peremptory fashion. it may be well to mention that alf had so far forgotten himself as to laugh at the marshal's temporary discomfiture at the hands of mrs. perkins. "alf, have you been havin' another baby up to your house without lettin' me know?" demanded anderson firmly. "anderson," replied alf, maudlin tears starting in his eyes, "it's not kind of you to rake up my feelin's like this. you know i been a widower fer three years." "i want you to understand one thing, alf reesling. a detective never _knows_ anything till he proves it. let me warn you, sir, you are under suspicion. an' now, let me tell you one thing more. doggone your ornery hide, don't you ever laugh ag'in like you did jest now er i'll--" just then the door flew open with a bang and edna crow, anderson's eldest, almost flopped into the store, her cap in her hand, eyes starting from her head. she had run at top speed all the way from home. "pop," she gasped. "ma says fer you to hurry home! she says fer you to _run_!" anderson covered the distance between lamson's store and his own home in record time. indeed, edna, flying as fast as her slim legs could twinkle, barely beat her father to the front porch. it was quite clear to mr. crow that something unusual had happened or mrs. crow would not have summoned him so peremptorily. she was in the hallway downstairs awaiting his arrival, visibly agitated. before uttering a word she dragged him into the little sitting-room and closed the door. they were alone. "is it dead?" he panted. "no, but what do you think, anderson?" she questioned excitedly. "i ain't had time to think. you don't mean to say it has begun to talk an' c'n tell who it is," he faltered. "heavens no--an' it only six weeks old." "well, then, what in thunder _has_ happened?" "a _detective_ has been here." "good gosh!" "yes, a _real_ detective. he's out there in the kitchen gettin' his feet warm by the bake-oven. he says he's lookin' for a six-weeks-old baby. anderson, we're goin' to lose that twenty thousand." "don't cry, eva; mebby we c'n find another baby some day. has he seen the--the--it?" anderson was holding to the stair-post for support. "not yet, but he says he understands we've got one here that ain't been _tagged_--that's what he said--'tagged.' what does he mean by that?" "why--why, don't you see? just as soon as he tags it, it's _it_. doggone, i wonder if it would make any legal difference if i tagged it first." "he's a queer-lookin' feller, anderson. says he's in disguise, and he certainly looks like a regular scamp." "i'll take a look at him an' ast fer his badge." marshal crow paraded boldly into the kitchen, where the strange man was regaling the younger crows with conversation the while he partook comfortably of pie and other things more substantial. "are you mr. crow?" he asked nonchalantly, as anderson appeared before him. "i am. who are you?" "i am hawkshaw, the detective," responded the man, his mouth full of blackberry pie. "gee whiz!" gasped anderson. "eva, it's the celebrated hawkshaw." "right you are, sir. i'm after the kid." "you'll have to identify it," something inspired anderson to say. "sure. that's easy. it's the one that was left on your doorstep last night," said the man glibly. "well, i guess you're right," began anderson disconsolately. "boy or girl?" demanded mrs. crow, shrewdly and very quickly. she had been inspecting the man more closely than before, and woman's intuition was telling her a truth that anderson overlooked. mr. hawkshaw was not only very seedy, but very drunk. "madam," he responded loftily, "it is nothing but a mere child." "i'll give you jest one minute to get out of this house," said mrs. crow sharply, to anderson's consternation. "if you're not gone, i'll douse you with this kettle of scalding water. open the back door, edna. he sha'n't take his dirty self through my parlour again. _open that door, edna!_" edna, half paralysed with astonishment, opened the kitchen door just in time. mr. hawkshaw was not so drunk but he could recognise disaster when it hovered near. as she lifted the steaming kettle from the stove he made a flying leap for the door. the rush of air that followed him as he shot through the aperture almost swept edna from her feet. in ten seconds the tattered hawkshaw was scrambling over the garden fence and making lively if inaccurate tracks through last year's cabbage patch. chapter vii the mysterious visitor the entire crow family watched him in stupefaction until he disappeared down the lane that led to hapgood's grove. it was then, and not until then, that anderson crow took a breath. "good lord, eva, what do you mean?" he gasped. "mean?" she almost shrieked. "anderson crow, didn't you recognise that feller? he ain't no more detective than you er me. he's the self-same tramp that you put in the calaboose last week, and the week before, too. i thought i'd seen his ugly face before. he's--" "great jumpin' geeswax!" roared the town marshal. "i recollect him now. he's the one that said he'd been exposed to smallpox an' wanted to be kept where it was warm all winter. well, i'll be--i'll be--" "don't say it, pa. he said it fer you when he clumb over that barb-wire fence out there," cried edna gleefully. several days of anxiety and energy followed this interesting episode. in that time two tramps attempted to obtain food and shelter at crow's home, one on the plea that he was the father of the unfortunate child, the other as an officer for the foundlings' home at boggs city. three babies were left on the doorstep--two in one night--their fond mothers confessing fessing by letters that they appreciated anderson's well-known charitable inclinations and implored him to care for their offspring as if they were his own. the harassed marshal experienced some difficulty in forcing the mothers to take back their children. in each instance he was reviled by the estimable ladies, all of whom accused him of being utterly heartless. mrs. crow came to his rescue and told the disappointed mothers that the scalding water was ready for application if they did not take their baskets of babies away on short order. it may be well for the reputation of tinkletown to mention that one of the donors was mrs. raspus, a negro washerwoman who did work for the "dagoes" engaged in building the railroad hard by; another was the wife of antonio galli, a member of the grading gang, and the third was mrs. pool, the widow of a fisherman who had recently drowned himself in drink. it is quite possible that anderson might have had the three infants on his hands permanently had not the mothers been so eager to know their fate. they appeared in person early the next morning to see if the babies had frozen to death on the doorstep. mrs. pool even went so far as to fetch some extra baby clothes which she had neglected to drop with her male. mrs. raspus came for her basket, claiming it was the only one she had in which to "tote" the washing for the men. after these annoying but enlivening incidents anderson was permitted to recover from his daze and to throw off symptoms of nervous prostration. tinkletown resumed its tranquil attitude and the checker games began to thrive once more. little rosalie was a week older than when she came, but it was five weeks before anything happened to disturb the even tenor of the foster-father's way. he had worked diligently in the effort to discover the parents of the baby, but without result. two or three exasperated husbands in tinkletown had threatened to blow his brains out if he persisted in questioning their wives in his insinuating manner, and one of the kitchen girls at the village inn threw a dishpan at him on the occasion of his third visit of inquiry. a colored woman in the employ of the baptist minister denied that rosalie was her child, but when he insisted, agreed with fine sarcasm to "go over an' have a look at it," after his assurance that it was perfectly white. "eva, i've investigated the case thoroughly," he said at last, "an' there is no solution to the mystery. the only thing i c'n deduce is that the child is here an' we'll have to take keer of her. now, i wonder if that woman really meant it when she said we'd have a thousand dollars at the end of each year. doggone, i wish the year was up, jest to see." "we'll have to wait, anderson, that's all," said mrs. crow. "i love the baby so it can't matter much. i'm glad you're through investigatin'. it's been most tryin' to me. half the women in town don't speak to me." it was at the end of rosalie's fifth week as a member of the family that something happened. late one night when anderson opened the front door to put out the cat a heavily veiled woman mounted the steps and accosted him. in some trepidation he drew back and would have closed the door but for her eager remonstrance. "i must see you, mr. crow," she cried in a low, agitated voice. "who are you?" he demanded. she was dressed entirely in black. "i came to see you about the baby." "that won't do, madam. there's been three tramps here to hornswoggle us an' i--" "i _must_ see her, mr. crow," pleaded the stranger, and he was struck by the richness of her voice. "mighty queer, it seems to me," he muttered hesitatingly. "are you any kin to it?" "i am very much interested." "by giminy, i believe you're the one who left her here," cried the detective. "are you a typewriter?" "i'll answer your questions if you'll allow me to step inside. it is very cold out here." anderson crow stood aside and the tall, black figure entered the hall. he led her to the warm sitting-room and gave her a chair before the "base-burner." "here, mr. crow, is an envelope containing two hundred and fifty dollars. that proves my good faith. i cannot tell you who i am nor what relation i bear to the baby. i am quite fully aware that you will not undertake to detain me, for it is not an easy matter to earn a thousand dollars a year in this part of the world. i am going abroad next week and do not expect to return for a long, long time. try as i would, i could not go without seeing the child. i will not keep you out of bed ten minutes, and you and your wife may be present while i hold rosalie in my arms. i know that she is in good hands, and i have no intention of taking her away. please call mrs. crow." anderson was too amazed to act at once. he began to flounder interrogatively, but the visitor abruptly checked him. "you are wasting time, mr. crow, in attempting to question my authority or identity. no one need know that i have made this visit. you are perfectly secure in the promise to have a thousand dollars a year; why should you hesitate? as long as she lives with you the money is yours. i am advancing the amount you now hold in order that her immediate wants may be provided for. you are not required to keep an account of the money paid to you. there are means of ascertaining at once whether she is being well cared for and educated by you, and if it becomes apparent that you are not doing your duty, she shall be removed from your custody. from time to time you may expect written instructions from--from one who loves her." "i jest want to ast if you live in tinkletown?" anderson managed to say. "i do not," she replied emphatically. "well, then, lift your veil. if you don't live here i sha'n't know you." "i prefer to keep my face covered, mr. crow; believe me and trust me. please let me see her." the plea was so earnest that anderson's heart gave a great thump of understanding. "by ginger, you are her mother!" he gasped. mrs. crow came in at this juncture, and she was much quicker at grasping the situation than her husband. it was in her mind to openly denounce the woman for her heartlessness, but her natural thriftiness interposed. she would do nothing that might remove the golden spoon from the family mouth. the trio stole upstairs and into the warm bedchamber. there, with anderson crow and his wife looking on from a remote corner of the room, the tall woman in black knelt beside the crib that had housed a generation of crows. the sleeping rosalie did not know of the soft kisses that swept her little cheek. she did not feel the tears that fell when the visitor lifted her veil, nor did she hear the whisperings that rose to the woman's lips. "that is all," murmured the mysterious stranger at last, dropping her veil as she arose. she staggered as she started for the door, but recovered herself instantly. without a word she left the room, the crows following her down the stairs in silence. at the bottom she paused, and then extended her hands to the old couple. her voice faltered as she spoke. "let me clasp your hands and let me tell you that my love and my prayers are forever for you and for that little one up there. thank you. i know you will be good to her. she is well born. her blood is as good as the best. above all things, mrs. crow, she is not illegitimate. you may easily suspect that her parents are wealthy or they could not pay so well for her care. some day the mystery surrounding her will be cleared. it may not be for many years. i can safely say that she will be left in your care for twenty years at least. some day you will know why it is that rosalie is not supposed to exist. god bless you." she was gone before they could utter a word. they watched her walk swiftly into the darkness; a few minutes later the sound of carriage wheels suddenly broke upon the air. anderson crow and his wife stood over the "base-burner," and there were tears in their thoughtful eyes. "she said twenty years, eva. let's see, this is . what would that make it?" "about or , anderson." "well, i guess we c'n wait if other people can," mused he. then they went slowly upstairs and to bed. chapter viii some years go by tinkletown as a unit supported anderson in his application for guardianship papers. they were filed immediately after the secret visit of the mysterious woman; the circuit court at boggs city, after hearing the evidence, at once entered the appointment of mr. crow. when the court asked in mild surprise why he did not adopt the child, anderson and eva looked at each other sheepishly and were silent for a full minute. then anderson spoke up a bit huskily: "well, you see, judge, her name would have to be crow, an' while it's a good name an' an honoured one, it don't jest seem to fit the young 'un. she 'pears to be more of a canary than a crow, figuratively speakin', and eva an' me jest decided we'd give her a different sort of a last name if we could find one. seems to me that rosie canary would be a good one, but eva an' the childern are ag'in me. they've decided to call her rosalie gray, an' i guess that about settles it. if you don't mind, i reckon that name c'n go in the records. besides, you must recollect that she's liable to have a lot of property some time, an' it seems more fit fer me to be guardian than foster-father if that time ever comes. it'll be easier to say good-bye if she keers to leave us." that same day anderson deposited two hundred and fifty dollars to his credit in the first national bank, saying to his wife as he walked away from the teller's window, "i guess rosalie cain't starve till the bank busts, an' maybe not then." of course tinkletown knew that a sum of money had been paid to anderson, but no one knew that it had been handed to him in person by an interested party. had anderson and his wife even whispered that such a visit had occurred, the town would have gone into a convulsion of wrath; the marshal's pedestal would have been jerked out from under him without compunction or mercy. eva cautioned him to be more than silent on the subject for the child's sake as well as for their own, and anderson saw wisdom in her counselling. he even lagged in his avowed intention to unravel the mystery or die in the attempt. a sharp reminder in the shape of an item in the _banner_ restored his energies, and he again took up the case with a vigour that startled even himself. anything in the shape of vigour startled his wife. harry squires, the reporter, who poked more or less fun at anderson from time to time because he had the "power of the press behind him," some weeks later wrote the following item about the "baby mystery," as he called it, in large type: "there is no news in regard to the child found upon the doorstep of our esteemed fellow-citizen anderson crow, last february. the item concerning its discovery first appeared in the columns of the _banner_, as will be remembered by our many readers. detective crow promised developments some time ago, but they have not showed up. it is rumoured that he has a new clew, but it cannot be substantiated. the general impression is that he does not know whether it is a boy or girl. we advise mr. crow to go slow. he should not forget the time when he arrested mr. john barnes, two years ago, for the murder of mr. grover, and afterward found that the young gent was merely eloping with judge brewster's daughter, which was no crime. we saw the girl. those of our readers who were alive at the time doubtless recall the excitement of that man-hunt two years ago. mr. barnes, as innocent as a child unborn, came to our little city engaged in the innocent pastime of getting married. at the same time it was reported that a murder had been committed in this county. mr. crow had his suspicions aroused and pursued mr. barnes down the river and arrested him. it was a fine piece of detective work. but, unfortunately for mr. crow, the real murderer had been caught in the meantime. mr. barnes was guilty only of stealing judge brewster's daughter and getting married to her. the last heard of them they were happy in new york. they even forgave mr. crow, it is reported. it is to be hoped that our clever detective will soon jump down upon the heartless parents of this innocent child, but it is also to be hoped that he think at least four times before he leaps." to say that the foregoing editorial disturbed the evenness of mr. crow's temper would be saying nothing at all. in the privacy of his barn lot anderson did a war dance that shamed tecumseh. he threatened to annihilate harry squires "from head to foot," for publishing the base slander. "doggone his hide," roared poor anderson, "fer two cents i'd tell all i know about him bein' tight up at boggs city three years ago. he couldn't walk half an inch that time without staggerin'. anyhow, i wouldn't have chased mr. barnes that time if it hadn't been fer harry squires. he egged me on, doggone his hide. if he didn't have that big typesetter from albany over at the _banner_ office to back him up i'd go over an' bust his snoot fer him. after all the items i've give him, too. that's all the thanks you git fer gittin' up news fer them blamed reporters. but i'll show him! i wonder what he'd think if i traced that baby right up to his own--_what's_ that, eva? well, now, you don't know anything about it neither, so keep your mouth shet. harry squires is a purty sly cuss. mebby it's his'n. you ain't supposed to know. you jest let me do my own deducin'. i don't want no blamed woman tellin' me who to shadder. an' you, too, edner; get out of the way, consarn ye! the next thing _you'll_ be tellin' me what to do--an' me your father, too!" and that is why anderson crow resumed his search for the parents of rosalie gray. not that he hoped or expected to find them, but to offset the pernicious influence of harry's "item." for many days he followed the most highly impossible clews, some of them intractable, to supply a rather unusual word of description. in other words, they reacted with a vigour that often found him unprepared but serene. consequences bothered anderson but little in those days of despised activity. it is not necessary to dwell upon the incidents of the ensuing years, which saw rosalie crawl from babyhood to childhood and then stride proudly through the teens with a springiness that boded ill for father time. regularly each succeeding february there came to anderson crow a package of twenty dollar bills amounting to one thousand dollars, the mails being inscrutable. the crow family prospered correspondingly, but there was a liberal frugality behind it all that meant well for rosalie when the time came for an accounting. anderson and eva "laid by" a goodly portion of the money for the child, whom they loved as one of their own flesh and blood. the district school lessons were followed later on by a boarding-school education down state, and then came the finishing touches at miss brown's in new york. rosalie grew into a rare flower, as dainty as the rose, as piquant as the daisy. the unmistakable mark of the high bred glowed in her face, the fine traces of blue blood graced her every movement, her every tone and look. at the time that she, as well as every one else in tinkletown, for that matter, was twenty years older than when she first came to anderson's home, we find her the queen of the village, its one rich human possession, its one truly sophisticated inhabitant. anderson crow and his wife were so proud of her that they forgot their duty to their own offspring; but if the crow children resented this it was not exhibited in the expressions of love and admiration for their foster-sister. edna crow, the eldest of the girls--anderson called her "edner"--was rosalie's most devoted slave, while roscoe, the twelve-year-old boy, who comprised the rear rank of anderson's little army, knelt so constantly at her shrine that he fell far behind in his studies, and stuck to the third reader for two years. anderson had not been idle in all these years. he was fast approaching his seventieth anniversary, but he was not a day older in spirit than when we first made his acquaintance. true, his hair was thinner and whiter, and his whiskers straggled a little more carelessly than in other days, but he was as young and active as a youth of twenty. hard times did not worry him, nor did domestic troubles. mrs. crow often admitted that she tried her best to worry him, but it was like "pouring water on a duck's back." he went blissfully on his way, earning encomiums for himself and honours for tinkletown. there was no grave crime committed in the land that he did not have a well-defined scheme for apprehending the perpetrators. his "deductions" at lamson's store never failed to draw out and hold large audiences, and no one disputed his theories in public. the fact that he was responsible for the arrest of various hog, horse, and chicken thieves from time to time, and for the continuous seizure of the two town drunkards, tom folly and alf reesling, kept his reputation untarnished, despite the numerous errors of commission and omission that crept in between. that rosalie's mysterious friends--or enemies, it might have been--kept close and accurate watch over her was manifested from time to time. once, when anderson was very ill with typhoid fever, the package of bills was accompanied by an unsigned, typewritten letter. the writer announced that mr. crow's state of health was causing some anxiety on rosalie's account--the child was then six years old--and it was hoped that nothing serious would result. another time the strange writer, in a letter from paris, instructed mr. crow to send rosalie to a certain boarding school and to see that she had french, german, and music from competent instructors. again, just before the girl went to new york for her two years' stay in miss brown's school, there came a package containing $ for her own personal use. rosalie often spoke to anderson of this mysterious sender as the "fairy godmother"; but the old marshal had a deeper and more significant opinion. perhaps the most anxious period in the life of anderson crow came when rosalie was about ten years old. a new sheriff had been elected in bramble county, and he posed as a reformer. his sister taught school in tinkletown, and rosalie was her favourite. she took an interest in the child that was almost the undoing of mr. crow's prosperity. imagining that she was befriending the girl, the teacher appealed to her brother, the sheriff, insisting that he do what he could to solve the mystery of her birth. the sheriff saw a chance to distinguish himself. he enlisted the help of an aggressive prosecuting attorney, also new, and set about to investigate the case. the two officers of the law descended upon tinkletown one day and began to ask peremptory questions. they went about it in such a high-handed, lordly manner that anderson took alarm and his heart sank like lead. he saw in his mind's eye the utter collapse of all his hopes, the dashing away of his cup of leisure and the upsetting of the "fairy godmother's" plans. pulling his wits together, he set about to frustrate the attack of the meddlers. whether it was his shrewdness in placing obstacles in their way or whether he coerced the denizens into blocking the sheriff's investigation does not matter. it is only necessary to say that the officious gentleman from boggs city finally gave up the quest in disgust and retired into the oblivion usual to county officials who try to be progressive. it was many weeks, however, before anderson slept soundly. he was once more happy in the consciousness that rosalie had been saved from disaster and that he had done his duty by her. "i'd like to know how them doggone jays from boggs city expected to find out anything about that child when i hain't been able to," growled mr. crow in lamson's store one night. "if they'll jest keep their blamed noses out of this affair i'll find out who her parents are some day. it takes time to trace down things like this. i guess i know what i'm doin', don't i, boys?" "that's what you do, anderson," said mr. lamson, as anderson reached over and took a handful of licorice drops from the jar on the counter. chapter ix the village queen the spring of brought rosalie back to tinkletown after her second and last year with miss brown in new york city. the sun seemed brighter, the birds sang more blithely, the flowers took on a new fragrance and the village spruced up as if sunday was the only day in the week. the young men of the town trembled when she passed them by, and not a few of them grew thin and haggard for want of food and sleep, having lost both appetite and repose through a relapse in love. her smile was the same as of yore, her cheery greetings the same, and yet the village swains stood in awe of this fine young aristocrat for days and days. gradually it dawned upon them that she was human, after all, despite her new york training, and they slowly resumed the old-time manner of courting, which was with the eyes exclusively. a few of the more venturesome--but not the more ardent--asked her to go walking, driving, or to the church "sociables," and there was a rivalry in town which threatened to upset commerce. there was no theatre in tinkletown, but they delighted in her descriptions of the gorgeous play-houses in new york. the town hall seemed smaller than ever to them. the younger merchants and their clerks neglected business with charming impartiality, and trade was going to "rack and ruin" until rosalie declined to marry george rawlins, the minister's son. he was looked upon as the favoured one; but she refused him in such a decisive manner that all others lost hope and courage. it is on record that the day after george's _congé_ tinkletown indulged in a complete business somersault. never before had there been such strict attention to customers; merchants and clerks alike settled down to the inevitable and tried to banish rosalie's face from the cost tags and trading stamps of their dull, mercantile cloister. even tony brink, the blacksmith's 'prentice, fell into the habits of industry, but with an absent-mindedness that got him kicked through a partition in the smithy when he attempted to shoe the fetlock of mr. martin's colt instead of its hoof. the crow family took on a new dignity. anderson gave fifty dollars to the foreign missionary society of the presbyterian church, claiming that a foreign education had done so much for his ward; and mrs. crow succeeded in holding two big afternoon teas before rosalie could apply the check rein. one night anderson sat up until nearly ten o'clock--an unheard-of proceeding for him. rosalie, with the elder crow girls, edna and susie, had gone to protracted meeting with a party of young men and women. the younger boys and girls were in bed, and mrs. crow was yawning prodigiously. she never retired until anderson was ready to do likewise. suddenly it dawned upon her that he was unusually quiet and preoccupied. they were sitting on the moonlit porch. "what's the matter, anderson? ain't you well?" she asked at last. "no; i'm just thinkin'," he responded, rather dismally. "doggone, i cain't get it out of my head, eva." "can't get what out?" "about rosalie." "well, what about her?" "that's jest like a woman--always fergittin' the most important things in the world. don't you know that the twenty years is up?" "of course i know it, but 'tain't worryin' me any. she's still here, ain't she? nobody has come to take her away. the thousand dollars came all right last february, didn't it? well, what's the use worryin'?" "mebbe you're right, but i'm skeered to death fer fear some one will turn up an' claim her, er that a big estate will be settled, er somethin' awful like that. i don't mind the money, eva; i jest hate to think of losin' her, now that she's such a credit to us. besides, i'm up a stump about next year." "well, what happens then?" "derned if i know. that's what's worryin' me." "i don't see why you--" "certainly you don't. you never do. i've got to do all the thinkin' fer this fambly. next year she's twenty-one years old an' her own boss, ain't she? i ain't her guardeen after that, am i? what happens then, i'd like to know." "you jest have to settle with the court, pay over to her what belongs to her and keep the thousand every spring jest the same. her people, whoever they be, are payin' you fer keepin' her an' not her fer stayin' here. 'tain't likely she'll want to leave a good home like this 'un, is it? don't worry till the time comes, anderson." "that's jest the point. she's lived in new york an' she's got used to it. she's got fine idees; even her clothes seem to fit different. now, do you s'pose that fine-lookin' girl with all her new york trimmin's 's goin' to hang 'round a fool little town like this? not much! she's goin' to dig out o' here as soon's she gits a chance; an' she's goin' to live right where her heart tells her she belongs--in the metropolees of new york. she don't belong in no jim-crow town like this. doggone, eva, i hate to see 'er go!" there was such a wail of bitterness in the old constable's remark that mrs. crow felt the tears start to her own eyes. it was the girl they both wanted, after all--not the money. rosalie, coming home with her party some time afterward, found the old couple still seated on the porch. the young people could not conceal their surprise. "counting the stars, pop?" asked edna crow. "he's waiting for the eclipse," bawled noisy ed higgins, the grocer's clerk. "it's due next winter. h'are you, anderson?" "how's that?" was anderson's rebuke. "i mean mr. crow," corrected ed, with a nervous glance at rosalie, who had been his companion for the evening. "oh, i'm jest so-so," remarked anderson, mollified. "how was the party?" "it wasn't a party, daddy crow," laughed rosalie, seating herself in front of him on the porch rail. "it was an experience meeting. alf reesling has reformed again. he told us all about his last attack of delirium tremens." "you don't say so! well, sir, i never thought alf could find the time to reform ag'in. he's too busy gittin' tight," mused anderson. "but i guess reformin' c'n git to be as much a habit as anythin' else." "i think he was a little woozy to-night," ventured 'rast little. "a little what?" "drunk," explained 'rast, without wasting words. 'rast had acquired the synonym at the business men's carnival in boggs city the preceding fall. sometimes he substituted the words "pie-eyed," "skeed," "lit up," etc., just to show his worldliness. after the young men had departed and the crow girls had gone upstairs with their mother rosalie slipped out on the porch and sat herself down upon the knee of her disconsolate guardian. "you are worried about something, daddy crow," she said gently. "now, speak up, sir. what is it?" "it's time you were in bed," scolded anderson, pulling his whiskers nervously. "oh, i'm young, daddy. i don't need sleep. but you never have been up as late as this since i've known you." "i was up later'n this the time you had the whoopin'-cough, all right." "what's troubling you, daddy?" "oh, nothin'--nothin' at all. doggone, cain't a man set out on his own porch 'thout--" "forgive me, daddy. shall i go away and leave you?" "gosh a'mighty, no!" he gasped. "that's what's worryin' me--oh, you didn't mean forever. you jest meant to-night? geminy crickets, you did give me a skeer!" he sank back with a great sigh of relief. "why, i never expect to leave you forever," she cried, caressing his scanty hair. "you couldn't drive me away. this is home, and you've been too good to me all these years. i may want to travel after a while, but i'll always come back to you, daddy crow." "i'm--i'm mighty glad to hear ye say that, rosie. ye see--ye see, me an' your ma kinder learned to love you, an'--an--" "why, daddy crow, you silly old goose! you're almost crying!" "what's that? now, don't talk like that to me, you little whipper-snapper, er you go to bed in a hurry. i never cried in my life," growled anderson in a great bluster. "well, then, let's talk about something else--me, for instance. do you know, daddy crow, that i'm too strong to live an idle life. there is no reason why i shouldn't have an occupation. i want to work--accomplish something." anderson was silent a long time collecting his nerves. "you wouldn't keer to be a female detective, would you?" he asked drily. chapter x rosalie has plans of her own "do be serious, daddy. i want to do something worth while. i could teach school or--" "not much! you ain't cut out fer that job. don't you know that ever'body hates school-teachers when they're growed up? jerusalem, how i still hate old rachel kidwell! an' yet she's bin dead nigh onto thirty years. she was my first teacher. you wasn't born to be hated by all the boys in the district. i don't see what put the idee of work inter your head you got 'bout eight thousand dollars in the bank an'--" "but i insist that the money is yours, daddy. my fairy godmother paid it to you for keeping, clothing, and educating me. it is not mine." "you talk like i was a boardin' school instead o' bein' your guardeen. no, siree; it's your money, an' that ends it. you git it when you're twenty-one." "we'll see, daddy," she replied, a stubborn light in her dark eyes. "but i want to learn to do something worth while. if i had a million it would be just the same." "you'll have something to do when you git married," observed he sharply. "nonsense!" "i s'pose you're goin' to say you never expect to git married. they all say it--an' then take the first feller 'at comes along." "i didn't take the first, or the second, or the third, or the--" "hold on! gosh a'mighty, have you had that many? well, why don't you go into the matrimonial agent's business? that's an occupation." "oh, none of them was serious, daddy," she said naïvely. "you could have all of the men in the county!" he declared proudly. "only," he added quickly, "it wouldn't seem jest right an' proper." "there was a girl at miss brown's a year ago who had loads of money, and yet she declared she was going to have an occupation. nobody knew much about her or why she left school suddenly in the middle of a term. i liked her, for she was very nice to me when i first went there, a stranger. mr. reddon--you've heard me speak of him--was devoted to her, and i'm sure she liked him. it was only yesterday i heard from her. she is going to teach school in this township next winter." "an' she's got money?" "i am sure she had it in those days. it's the strangest thing in the world that she should be coming here to teach school in no. . congressman ritchey secured the appointment for her, she says. the township trustee--whatever his name is--for a long time insisted that he must appoint a teacher from tinkletown and not an outsider. i am glad she is coming here because--well, daddy, because she is like the girls i knew in the city. she has asked me to look up a boarding place for next winter. do you know of any one, daddy, who could let her have a nice room?" "i'll bet my ears you'd like to have your ma take her in right here. but i don't see how it c'n be done, rosie-posie. there's so derned many of us now, an'--" "oh, i didn't mean that, daddy. she couldn't come here. but don't you think mrs. jim holabird would take her in for the winter?" "p'raps. she's a widder. she might let her have jim's room now that there's a vacancy. you might go over an' ast her about it to-morrer. it's a good thing she's a friend of yourn, rosalie, because if she wasn't i'd have to fight her app'intment." "why, daddy!" reproachfully. "well, she's a foreigner, an' i don't think it's right to give her a job when we've got so many home products that want the place an' who look unpopular enough to fill the bill. i'm fer home industry every time, an' 'specially as this girl don't appear to need the place. i don't see what business congressman ritchey has foolin' with our school system anyhow. he'd better be reducin' the tariff er increasin' the pensions down to washington." "i quite agree with you, daddy crow," said rosalie with a diplomacy that always won for her. she knew precisely how to handle her guardian, and that was why she won where his own daughters failed. "and now, good-night, daddy. go to bed and don't worry about me. you'll have me on your hands much longer than you think or want. what time is it?" anderson patted her head reflectively as he solemnly drew his huge silver time-piece from an unlocated pocket. he held it out into the bright moonlight. "geminy crickets!" he exclaimed. "it's forty-nine minutes to twelve!" anderson crow's policy was to always look at things through the small end of the telescope. the slow, hot summer wore away, and to rosalie it was the longest that she ever had experienced. she was tired of the ceaseless twaddle of tinkletown, its flow of "missions," "sociables," "buggy-horses," "george rawlin's new dress-suit," "harvesting," and "politics"--for even the children talked politics. nor did the assiduous attentions of the village young men possess the power to shorten the days for her--and they certainly lengthened the nights. she liked them because they were her friends from the beginning--and rosalie was not a snob. not for the world would she have hurt the feelings of one poor, humble, adoring soul in tinkletown; and while her smile was none the less sweet, her laugh none the less joyous, in her heart there was the hidden longing that smiled only in dreams. she longed for the day that was to bring elsie banks to live with mrs. holabird, for with her would come a breath of the world she had known for two years, and which she had learned to love so well. in three months seven men had asked her to marry them. of the seven, one only had the means or the prospect of means to support her. he was a grass-widower with five grown children. anderson took occasion to warn her against widowers. "why," he said, "they're jest like widders. you know dave smith that runs the tavern down street, don't you? well, doggone ef he didn't turn in an' marry a widder with seven childern an' a husband, an' he's led a dog's life ever sence." "seven children and a husband? daddy crow!" "yep. her derned husband wouldn't stay divorced when he found out dave could support a fambly as big as that. he figgered it would be jest as easy to take keer of eight as seven, so he perlitely attached hisself to dave's kitchen an' started in to eat hisself to death. dave was goin' to have his wife apply fer another divorce an' leave the name blank, so's he could put in either husband ef it came to a pinch, but i coaxed him out of it. he finally got rid of the feller by askin' him one day to sweep out the office. he could eat all right, but it wasn't natural fer him to work, so he skipped out. next i heerd of him he had married a widder who was gittin' a pension because her first husband fit fer his country. the government shet off the pension jest as soon as she got married ag'in, and then that blamed cuss took in washin' fer her. he stayed away from home on wash-days, but as every day was wash-day with her, he didn't see her by daylight fer three years. she died, an' now he's back at dave's ag'in. he calls dave his husband-in-law." it required all of anderson's social and official diplomacy to forestall an indignation meeting when it was announced that a stranger, miss banks, had been selected to teach school no. . there was some talk of mobbing the township trustee and board of county commissioners, but anderson secured the names of the more virulent talkers and threatened to "jail" them for conspiracy. "why, anderson," almost wailed george ray, "that girl's from the city. what does she know about grammar an' history an' all that? they don't teach anything but french an' italian in the cities an' you know it." "pshaw!" sniffed anderson. "i hate grammar an' always did. i c'n talk better italian than grammar right now, an' i hope miss banks will teach every child in the district how to talk french. you'd orter hear rosalie talk it. besides, rosie says she's a nice girl an'--an' needs the job." anderson lied bravely, but he swallowed twice in doing it. [illustration: "september brought elsie banks"] september brought elsie banks to make life worth living for rosalie. the two girls were constantly together, talking over the old days and what the new ones were to bring forth, especially for miss gray, who had resumed wood carving as a temporary occupation. miss banks was more than ever reluctant to discuss her own affairs, and rosalie after a few trials was tactful enough to respect her mute appeal. it is doubtful if either of the girls mentioned the name of big, handsome tom reddon--tom, who had rowed in his college crew; but it is safe to say that both of them thought of him more than once those long, soft, autumn nights--nights when tinkletown's beaux were fairly tumbling over themselves in the effort to make new york life seem like a flimsy shadow in comparison. chapter xi elsie banks aderson crow stood afar off--among the bleak, leafless trees of badger's grove--and gazed thoughtfully, even earnestly, upon the little red schoolhouse with its high brick chimney and snow-clad roof. a biting january wind cut through his whiskers and warmed his nose to a half-broiled shade of red. on the lapel of his overcoat glistened his social and official badges, augmented by a new and particularly shiny emblem of respect bestowed by the citizens of tinkletown. at first it had been the sense of the town to erect a monument in recognition of his part in the capture of the bramble county horse-thief gang, but a thrifty and considerate committee of five substituted a fancy gold badge with suitable inscriptions on both sides, extolling him to the skies "long before he went there hisself" (to quote uncle gideon luce, whose bump of perception was a stubborn prophet when it came to picking out the site of mr. crow's heaven). for a full half hour the marshal of tinkletown had been standing among the trees surveying the schoolhouse at the foot of the slope. if his frosted cheeks and watery eyes ached for the warmth that urged the curls of smoke to soar away from the chimney-top, his attitude did not betray the fact. he was watching and thinking, and when anderson thought of one thing he never thought of another at the same time. "it'll soon be recess time," he reflected. "then i'll step down there an' let on to be makin' a social call on the schoolma'am. by gum, i believe she's the one! it'll take some tarnation good work to find out the truth about her, but i guess i c'n do it all right. the only thing i got to guard ag'inst is lettin' anybody else know of the mystery surroundin' her. gosh! it'll surprise some of the folks 'round here, 'specially rosalie. an' mebby the township trustee won't be sorry he give the school this year to a strange girl instid o' to jane rankin er effie dickens! congressman ritchey hadn't no business puttin' his nose into our affairs anyhow, no matter if this here teacher is a friend of his fambly. he's got some kind a holt on these here trustees--'y gosh, i'd like to know what 'tis. he c'n jest wrap 'em round his finger an' make 'em app'int anybody he likes. must be politics. there, it's recess! i'll jest light out an' pay the schoolhouse a little visit." inside a capacious and official pocket of mr. crow's coat reposed a letter from a law firm in chicago. it asked if within the last two years a young woman had applied for a position as teacher in the township schools at tinkletown. a description accompanied the inquiry, but it was admitted she might have applied under a name not her own, which was marion lovering. in explanation, the letter said she had left her home in chicago without the consent of her aunt, imbued with the idea that she would sooner support herself than depend upon the charity of that worthy though wealthy relative. the aunt had recently died, and counsel for the estate was trying to establish proof concerning the actions and whereabouts of miss lovering since her departure from chicago. the young woman often had said she would become a teacher, a tutor, a governess, or a companion, and it was known that she had made her way to that section of the world presided over by anderson crow--although the distinguished lawyers did not put it in those words. a reward of five hundred dollars for positive information concerning the "life of the girl" while in "that or any other community" was promised. miss banks's appointment came through the agency of the district's congressman, in whose home she had acted as governess for a period. moreover, she answered the description in that she was young, pretty, and refined. anderson crow felt that he was on the right track; he was now engaged in as pretty a piece of detective business as had ever fallen to his lot, and he was not going to spoil it by haste and overconfidence. just why anderson crow should "shadow" the schoolhouse instead of the teacher's temporary place of abode no one could possibly have known but himself--and it is doubtful if _he_ knew. he resolved not to answer the chicago letter until he was quite ready to produce the girl and the proof desired. "i'd be a gol-swiggled fool to put 'em onter my s'picions an' then have 'em cheat me out of the reward," he reflected keenly. "you cain't trust them chicago lawyers an inch an' a half. doggone it, i'll never fergit that feller who got my pockit-book out to central park that time. he tole me positively he was a lawyer from chicago, an' had an office in the y.m.c.a. building. an' the idee of him tellin' me he wanted to see if my pockit-book had better leather in it than hisn!" the fact that the school children, big and little, loved miss banks possessed no point of influence over their elders of the feminine persuasion. they turned up their tinkletown noses and sniffed at her because she was a "vain creature," who thought more of "attractin' the men than she did of anything else on earth." and all this in spite of the fact that she was the intimate friend of the town goddess, rosalie gray. everybody in school no. over the age of seven was deeply, jealously in love with miss banks. many a frozen snowball did its deadly work from ambush because of this impotent jealousy. but the merriest rivalry was that which developed between ed higgins, the beau brummel of tinkletown, and 'rast little, whose father owned the biggest farm in bramble county. if she was amused by the frantic efforts of each suitor to outwit the other she was too tactful to display her emotion. perhaps she was more highly entertained by the manner in which tinkletown femininity paired its venom with masculine admiration. "mornin', miss banks," was anderson's greeting as he stamped noisily into the room. he forgot that he had said good-morning to her when she stopped in to see rosalie on her way to the schoolhouse. the children ceased their outdoor game and peered eagerly through the windows, conscious that the visit of this dignitary was of supreme importance. miss banks looked up from the papers she was correcting, the pucker vanishing from her pretty brow as if by magic. "good-morning, mr. crow. what are you doing away out here in the country? jimmy"--to a small boy--"please close the door." anderson had left it open, and it was a raw january wind which followed him into the room. "'scuse me," he murmured. "seems i ain't got sense enough to shet a door even. my wife says--but you don't keer to hear about that, do you? oh, i jest dropped in," finally answering her question. he took a bench near the big stove and spread his hands before the sheet-iron warmth. "lookin' up a little affair, that's all. powerful chilly, ain't it?" "very." she stood on the opposite side of the stove, puzzled by this unexpected visit, looking at him with undisguised curiosity. "ever been to chicago?" asked anderson suddenly, hoping to catch her unawares. "oh, yes. i have lived there," she answered readily. he shifted his legs twice and took a hasty pull at his whiskers. "that's what i thought. why don't you go back there?" "because i'm teaching school here, mr. crow." "well, i reckon that's a good excuse. i thought mebby you had a different one." "what do you mean?" "oh, i dunno. i jest asked." "you are a detective, are you not?" asked miss banks, smiling brightly and with understanding. "oh, off an' on i do a little detectin'. see my badge?" "am i suspected of a heinous crime?" she asked so abruptly that he gasped. "won't you take off your cap, mr. crow?" he removed it sheepishly. "lord, no!" he exclaimed in confusion. "i mean the crime--not the cap. well, i guess i'll be goin'. school's goin' to take up, i reckon. see you later, miss banks." he restored his cap to its accustomed place and was starting toward the door, a trifle dazed and bewildered. "what is it that you wish to find out, mr. crow?" she suddenly called to him. he halted and faced about so quickly that his reply came like a shot out of a gun. "i'm on the lookout fer a girl--an' she'll be's rich's crowses if i c'n only find 'er. i dassent tell 'er name jest now," he went on, slowly retracing his steps, "'cause i don't want people--er her either, fer that matter--to git onter my scheme. but you jest wait." he was standing very close to her now and looking her full in the face. "you're sure you don't know anythin' 'bout her?" "why, how should i know? you've told me nothing." "you've got purty good clothes fer a common school-teacher," he flung at her in an aggressive, impertinent tone, but the warm colour that swiftly rose to her cheeks forced him to recall his words, for he quickly tempered them with, "er, at least, that's what all the women folks say." "oh, so some one has been talking about my affairs? some of your excellent women want to know more about me than--" "don't git excited, miss banks," he interrupted; "the women ain't got anythin' to do with it--i mean, it's nothin' to them. i--" "mr. crow," she broke in, "if there is anything you or anybody in tinkletown wants to know about me you will have to deduce it for yourself. i believe that is what you call it--deduce? and now good-bye, mr. crow. recess is over," she said pointedly; and mr. crow shuffled out as the children galloped in. that evening ed higgins and 'rast little came to call, but she excused herself because of her correspondence. in her little upstairs room she wrote letter after letter, one in particular being voluminous. mrs. holabird, as she passed her door, distinctly heard her laugh aloud. it was a point to be recalled afterward with no little consideration. later she went downstairs, cloaked warmly, for a walk to the post-office. ed higgins was still in the parlour talking to the family. he hastily put in his petition to accompany her, and it was granted absently. then he surreptitiously and triumphantly glanced through the window, the scene outside pleasing him audibly. 'rast was standing at the front gate talking to anderson crow. miss banks noticed as they passed the confused twain at the gate that anderson carried his dark lantern. "any trace of the heiress, mr. crow?" she asked merrily. "doggone it," muttered anderson, "she'll give the whole snap away!" "what's that?" asked 'rast. "nothin' much," said anderson, repairing the damage. "ed's got your time beat to-night, 'rast, that's all!" "i could 'a' took her out ridin' to-night if i'd wanted to," lied 'rast promptly. "i'm goin' to take her to the spellin'-bee to-morrow night out to the schoolhouse." "did she say she'd go with you?" "not yet. i was jest goin' to ast her to-night." "mebby ed's askin' her now." "gosh dern it, that's so! maybe he is," almost wailed 'rast; and anderson felt sorry for him as he ambled away from the gate and its love-sick guardian. chapter xii the spelling-bee young mr. higgins found his companion bubbling over with vivacity. her pretty chin was in the air and every word bore the promise of a laugh. he afterward recalled one little incident of their walk through the frosty night, and repeated it to anderson crow with more awe than seemed necessary. they were passing the town pump on their way to the post-office. the street was dark and deserted. "gosh!" said ed, "i bet the town pump's froze up!" "it doesn't seem very cold," she said brightly. "gee! it's below zero! i bet 'rast thinks it's pretty doggone cold up there by your gate." "poor 'rast! his mother should keep him indoors on nights like this." ed laughed loud and long and a tingle of happiness shot through his erstwhile shivering frame. "i'm not a bit cold," she went on. "see--feel my hand. i'm not even wearing mittens." ed higgins gingerly clasped the little hand, but it was withdrawn at once. he found it as warm as toast. words of love surged to his humble lips; his knees felt a tendency to lower themselves precipitously to the frozen sidewalk; he was ready to grovel at her feet--and he wondered if they were as warm as toast. but 'rast little came up at that instant and the chance was lost. "doggone!" slipped unconsciously but bitterly from ed's lips. "can i be your company to the spellin'-bee to-morrow night, miss banks?" burst unceremoniously from the lips of the newcomer. "thank you, 'rast. i was just wondering how i should get out to the schoolhouse. you are very kind. we'll go in the bob-sled with the holabirds." "doggone!" came in almost a wail from poor ed. he could have killed 'rast for the triumphant laugh that followed. in the meantime anderson crow was preparing to crawl in between the icy sheets at home. mrs. crow was "sitting up" with old mrs. luce, who was ill next door. "she's a girl with a past," reflected anderson. "she's a mystery, that's what she is; but i'll unravel her. she had a mighty good reason fer sawin' me off out there to-day. i was gittin' too close home. she seen i was about to corner her. by gum, i hope she don't suspect nothin'! she's found out that ed higgins has a good job down to lamson's store, an' she's settin' her cap fer him. it shows she'd ruther live in the city than in the country--so it's all up with 'rast. that proves she's from chicago er some other big place. ed's gettin' eight dollars a week down there at lamson's. by gum, that boy's doin' well! i used to think he wouldn't amount to nothin'. it shows that the best of us git fooled in a feller once in a while. to-morrow night i'll go out to the spellin'-match, an' when the chanct comes i'll sidle up to her an' whisper her real name in her ear. i bet four dollars an' a half that'll fetch her purty prompt. doggone, these here sheets air cold! it's forty below zero right here in this bed." anderson crow soon slept, but he did not dream of the tragedy the next night was to bring upon tinkletown, nor of the test his prowess was to endure. the next night and the "spellin'-bee" at school no. came on apace together. it was bitterly cold and starlight. by eight o'clock the warm schoolhouse was comfortably filled with the "spellers" of the neighbourhood, their numbers increased by competitors from tinkletown itself. in the crowd were men and women who time after time had "spelled down" whole companies, and who were eager for the conflict. they had "studied up" on their spelling for days in anticipation of a hard battle in the words. mrs. borum and mrs. cartwill, both famous for their victories and for the rivalry that existed between them, were selected as captains of the opposing sides, and miss banks herself was to "give out" the words. the captains selected their forces, choosing alternately from the anxious crowd of grown folks. there were no children there, for it was understood that big words would be given out--words children could not pronounce, much less spell. the teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night. she was dressed as no other woman in bramble county, except rosalie gray, could have attired herself--simply, tastefully, daintily. her face was flushed and eager and the joy of living glowed in every feature. ed higgins and 'rast little were struck senseless, nerveless by this vision of health and loveliness. anderson crow stealthily admitted to himself that she was a stranger in a strange land; she was not of tinkletown or any place like it. just as the captains were completing their selections of spellers the door opened and three strangers entered the school-room, overcoated and furred to the tips of their noses--two men and a woman. as miss banks rushed forward to greet them--she had evidently been expecting them--the startled assemblage caught its breath and stared. to the further amazement of every one, rosalie hastened to her side and joined in the effusive welcome. every word of joyous greeting was heard by the amazed listeners and every word from the strangers was as distinct. surely the newcomers were friends of long standing. when their heavy wraps were removed the trio stood forth before as curious an audience as ever sat spellbound. the men were young, well dressed and handsome; the woman a beauty of the most dashing type. tinkletown's best spellers quivered with excitement. [illustration: "the teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night"] "ladies and gentlemen," said miss banks, her voice trembling with eagerness, "let me introduce my friends, mrs. farnsworth, mr. farnsworth, and mr. reddon. they have driven over to attend the spelling-match." ed higgins and 'rast little observed with sinking hearts that it was mr. reddon whom she led forward by the hand, and they cursed him inwardly for the look he gave her--because she blushed beneath it. "you don't live in boggs city," remarked mr. crow, appointing himself spokesman. "i c'n deduce that, 'cause you're carrying satchels an' valises." "mr. crow is a famous detective," explained miss banks. anderson attempted to assume an unconscious pose, but in leaning back he missed the end of the bench, and sat sprawling upon the lap of mrs. harbaugh. as mrs. harbaugh had little or no lap to speak of, his downward course was diverted but not stayed. he landed on the floor with a grunt that broke simultaneously with the lady's squeak; a fraction of a second later a roar of laughter swept the room. it was many minutes before quiet was restored and the "match" could be opened. mrs. cartwill chose mrs. farnsworth and her rival selected the husband of the dashing young woman. mr. reddon firmly and significantly announced his determination to sit near the teacher "to preserve order," and not enter the contest of words. possibly it was the presence of the strangers that rattled and unnerved the famed spellers of both sides, for it was not long until the lines had dwindled to almost nothing. three or four arrogant competitors stood forth and valiantly spelled such words as "popocatepetl," "tschaikowsky," "terpsichorean," "yang-tse-kiang," "yseult," and scores of words that could scarcely be pronounced by the teacher herself. but at last, just as the sleepy watchers began to nod and yawn the hardest, mrs. cartwill stood alone and victorious, her single opponent having gone down on the word "sassafras." anderson crow had "gone down" early in the match by spelling "kerosene" "kerry-seen." ed higgins followed with "ceriseen," and 'rast little explosively had it "coal-oil." during the turmoil incident to the dispersing of the gathered hosts miss banks made her way to 'rast little's side and informed him that the farnsworths were to take her to mrs. holabird's in their big sleigh. 'rast was floored. when he started to remonstrate, claiming to be her "company," big tom reddon interposed and drew miss banks away from her lover's wrath. "but i'm so sorry for him, tom," she protested contritely. "he _did_ bring me here--in a way." "well, i'll take you home another way," said good-looking mr. reddon. it was also noticed that rosalie gray had much of a confidential nature to say to miss banks as they parted for the evening, she to go home in blucher peabody's new sleigh. 'rast and ed higgins almost came to blows out at the hitch-rack, where the latter began twitting his discomfited rival. anderson crow kept them apart. "i'll kill that big dude," growled 'rast. "he's got no business comin' here an' rakin' up trouble between me an' her. you mark my words, i'll fix him before the night's over, doggone his hide!" at least a dozen men, including alf reesling, heard this threat, and not one of them was to forget it soon. anderson crow noticed that mrs. holabird's bob-sled drove away without either miss banks or 'rast little in its capacious depths. miss banks announced that her three friends from the city and she would stay behind and close the schoolhouse, putting everything in order. it was friday night, and there would be no session until the following monday. mr. crow was very sleepy for a detective. he snored all the way home. the next morning two farmers drove madly into tinkletown with the astounding news that some one had been murdered at schoolhouse no. . in passing the place soon after daybreak they had noticed blood on the snow at the roadside. the school-room door was half open and they entered. blood in great quantities smeared the floor near the stove, but there was no sign of humanity, alive or dead. miss banks's handkerchief was found on the floor saturated. moreover, the school-teacher was missing. she had not returned to the home of mrs. holabird the night before. to make the horror all the more ghastly, anderson crow, hastening to the schoolhouse, positively identified the blood as that of miss banks. chapter xiii a tinkletown sensation sensations came thick and fast in tinkletown during the next few hours. investigation proved that 'rast little was nowhere to be found. he had not returned to his home after the spelling-bee, nor had he been seen since. mrs. holabird passed him in the road on her way home in the "bob-sled." in response to her command to "climb in" he sullenly said he was going to walk home by a "short cut" through the woods. a farmer had seen the stylish farnsworth sleigh driving north furiously at half-past eleven, the occupants huddled in a bunch as if to protect themselves from the biting air. the witness was not able to tell "which was which" in the sleigh, but he added interest to the situation by solemnly asserting that one of the persons in the rear seat was "bundled up" more than the rest, and evidently was unable to sit erect. according to his tale, the figure was lying over against the other occupant of the seat. he was also, positive that there were three figures in the front seat! who was the extra person? was the question that flashed into the minds of the listeners. a small boy came to the schoolhouse at nine o'clock in the morning with 'rast little's new derby hat. he had picked it up at the roadside not far from the schoolhouse and in the direction taken by the farnsworth party. anderson gave orders that no word of the catastrophe be carried to rosalie, who was reported to be ill of a fever the next morning after the spelling-bee. she had a cough, and the doctor had said that nothing should be said or done to excite her. the crowd at the schoolhouse grew larger as the morning passed everybody talked in whispers; everybody was mystified beyond belief. all eyes were turned to anderson crow, who stood aloof, pondering as he had never pondered before. in one hand he held miss banks's bloody handkerchief and in the other a common school text-book on physiology. his badges and stars fairly revelled in their own importance. "don't pester him with questions," warned isaac porter, addressing alf reesling, the town drunkard, who had just arrived. "but i got something i want to say to him," persisted alf eagerly. two or three strong men restrained him. "thunderation, alf," whispered elon jones, "cain't you see he's figurin' something out? you're liable to throw him clear off the track if you say a word to him." "well, this is something he'd oughter know," almost whimpered alf, rubbing his frozen ears. "sh!" muttered the bystanders, and poor alf subsided. he was unceremoniously hustled into the background as mr. crow moved from the window toward the group. "gentlemen," said anderson gravely, "there is somethin' wrong here." it is barely possible that this was not news to the crowd, but with one accord they collectively and severally exchanged looks of appreciation. "i've been readin' up a bit on the human body, an' i've proved one thing sure in my own mind." "you bet you have, anderson," said elon jones. "it's all settled. let's go home." "settled nothin'!" said the marshal. "it's jest begun. here's what i deduce: miss banks has been foully dealt with. ain't this her blood, an' ain't she used her own individual handkerchief to stop it up? it's blood right square from her heart, gentlemen!" "i don't see how--" began ed higgins; but anderson silenced him with a look. "of course _you_ don't, but you would if you'd 'a' been a detective as long's i have. what in thunder do you s'pose i got these badges and these medals fer? fer _not_ seem' how? no, siree! i got 'em fer _seein_' how; that's what!" "but, andy--" "don't call me 'andy,'" commanded mr. crow. "well, then, anderson, i'd like to know how the dickens she could use her own handkerchief if she was stabbed to the heart," protested ed. he had been crying half the time. anderson was stunned for the moment. "why--why--now, look here, ed higgins, i ain't got time to explain things to a derned idgit like you. everybody else understands _how_, don't you?" and he turned to the crowd. everybody said yes. "well, that shows what a fool you are, ed. don't bother me any more. i've got work to do." "say, anderson," began alf reesling from the outer circle, "i got something important to tell--" "who is that? alf reesling?" cried anderson wrathfully. "yes; i want to see you private, anderson. its important," begged alf. "how many times have i got to set down on you, alf reesling?" exploded anderson. "doggone, i'd like to know how a man's to solve mysteries if he's got to stand around half the time an' listen to fambly quarrels. tell yer wife i'll--" "this ain't no family quarrel. besides, i ain't got no wife. it's about this here--" "that'll do, now, alf! not another word out of you!" commanded anderson direfully. "but, dern you, anderson," exploded alf, "i've got to tell you--" but anderson held up a hand. "don't swear in the presence of the dead," he said solemnly. "you're drunk, alf; go home!" and alf, news and all was hustled from the schoolhouse by a self-appointed committee of ten. "now, we'll search fer the body," announced anderson. "git out of the way, bud!" "i ain't standin' on it," protested twelve-year-old bud long. "well, you're standin' mighty near them blood-stains an'--" "yes, 'n ain't blood a part of the body?" rasped isaac porter scornfully; whereupon bud faded into the outer rim. "first we'll look down cellar," said mr. crow. "where's the cellar at?" "there ain't none," replied elon jones. "what? no cellar? well, where in thunder did they hide the body, then?" "there's an attic," ventured joe perkins. a searching party headed by anderson crow shinned up the ladder to the low garret. no trace of a body was to be found, and the searchers came down rather thankfully. then, under mr. crow's direction, they searched the wood piles, the woods, and the fields for many rods in all directions. at noon they congregated at the schoolhouse. alf reesling was there. "find it?" said he thickly, with a cunning leer. he had been drinking. anderson was tempted to club him half to death, but instead he sent him home with joe perkins, refusing absolutely to hear what the town drunkard had to say. "well, you'll wish you'd listened to me," ominously hiccoughed alf; and then, as a parting shot, "i wouldn't tell you now fer eighteen dollars cash. you c'n go to thunder!" it was _lèse majesté_, but the crowd did nothing worse than stare at the offender. before starting off on the trail of the big sleigh, anderson sent this message by wire to the lawyers in chicago: "_i have found the girl you want, but the body is lost. would you just as soon have her dead as alive_? "anderson crow." in a big bob-sled the marshal and a picked sextette of men set off at one o'clock on the road over which the sleigh had travelled many hours before. anderson had failed to report the suspected crime to the sheriff at boggs city and was working alone on the mystery. he said he did not want anybody from town interfering with his affairs. "say, andy--anderson," said harry squires, now editor of the _banner_, "maybe we're hunting the wrong body and the wrong people." "what do you mean?" "well, ain't 'rast little missing? maybe he's been killed, eh? and say, ain't there some chance that he did the killing? didn't he say he was going to murder that city chap? well, supposing he did. we're on the wrong track, ain't we?" "doggone you, harry, that don't fit in with my deductions," wailed anderson. "i wish you'd let me alone. 'rast may have done the killin', but it's our place to find the body, ain't it? whoever has been slew was taken away last night in the sleigh. s'posin it was mr. reddon! well, consarn it, ain't he got a body same as anybody else? we've just got to find somebody's body, that's all. we've got to prove the corpus deelicti. drive up, bill!" with a perseverance that spoke well for the detective's endurance, but ill for his intelligence, the "bob" sped along aimlessly. it was ridiculous to think of tracking a sleigh over a well-travelled road, and it was not until they reached the cross-roads that harry squires suggested that inquiries be made of the farmers in the neighbourhood. after diligent effort, a farmer was discovered who said he had heard the sleigh bells at midnight, and, peering from his window, had caught a glimpse of the party turning south at the cross-roads. "jest as i thought!" exclaimed anderson. "they went south so's to skip boggs city. boys, they've got her body er 'rast's body er that other feller's body with 'em, an' they're skootin' down this pike so's to get to the big bridge. my idee is that they allowed to drop the body in the river, which ain't friz plum over." "gee! we ain't expected to search all over the bottom of the river, are we, anderson?" shivered isaac porter, the pump repairer. "_i_ ain't," said the leader, "but i can deputise anybody i want to." and so they hurried on to the six-span bridge that crossed the ice-laden river. as they stood silent, awed and shivering on the middle span, staring down into the black water with its navy of swirling ice-chunks, even the heart of anderson crow chilled and grew faint. "boys," he said, "we've lost the track! not even a bloodhound could track 'em in that water." "bloodhound?" sniffed harry squires. "a hippopotamus, you mean." they were hungry and cold, and they were ready to turn homeward. anderson said he "guessed" he'd turn the job over to the sheriff and his men. plainly, he was much too hungry to do any more trailing. besides, for more than an hour he had been thinking of the warm wood fire at home. bill rubley was putting the "gad" to the horses when a man on horseback rode up from the opposite end of the bridge. he had come far and in a hurry, and he recognised anderson crow. "say, anderson!" he called, "somebody broke into colonel randall's summer home last night an' they're there yet. got fires goin' in all the stoves, an' havin' a high old time. they ain't got no business there, becuz the place is closed fer the winter. aleck burbank went over to order 'em out; one of the fellers said he'd bust his head if he didn't clear out. i think it's a gang!" a hurried interview brought out the facts. the invaders had come up in a big sleigh long before dawn, and--but that was sufficient. anderson and his men returned to the hunt, eager and sure of their prey. darkness was upon them when they came in sight of colonel randall's country place in the hills. there were lights in the windows and people were making merry indoors; while outside the pursuing nemesis and his men were wondering how and where to assault the stronghold. "i'll jest walk up an' rap on the door," said anderson crow, "lettin' on to be a tramp. i'll ast fer somethin' to eat an' a place to sleep. while i'm out there in the kitchen eatin' you fellers c'n sneak up an' surround us. then you c'n let on like you're lookin' fer me because i'd robbed a hen-roost er something, an' that'll get 'em off their guard. once we all git inside the house with these shotguns we've got 'em where we want 'em. then i'll make 'em purduce the body." "don't we git anythin' to eat, too?" demanded isaac porter faintly. "the horses ain't had nothin' to eat, ike," said anderson. "ain't you as good as a horse?" chapter xiv a case of mistaken identity detective crow found little difficulty in gaining admittance to colonel randall's summer home. he had secreted his badge, and it was indeed a sorry-looking tramp who asked for a bite to eat at the kitchen door. three or four young women were busy with chafing dishes in this department of the house, and some good-looking young men were looking on and bothering them with attentions. in the front part of the house a score of people were laughing and making merry. "gosh!" said the new tramp, twisting his chin whiskers, "how many of you are there?" "oh, there are many more at home like us," trilled out one of the young women gaily. "you're just in time, you poor old thing, to have some of the bride-to-be's cake." "i guess i'm in the wrong house," murmured anderson blankly. "is it a weddin'?" "no; but there will be one before many days. it's just a reunion. how i wish rosalie gray were here!" cried another girl. just then there was a pounding on the door, and an instant later isaac porter stalked in at the head of the posse. "throw up your hands!" called anderson, addressing himself to the posse, the members of which stopped in blank amazement. some of them obligingly stuck their hands on high. "what do you want here?" "we--we--we're lookin' fer a tramp who said he robbed a hen roost," faltered isaac porter. "what is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the dining-room, and the flabbergasted tinkletownians turned to face colonel randall himself, the owner of the house. "derned if i know!" muttered anderson crow; and he spoke the truth. "why, it's anderson crow!" cried a gay young voice. "jumpin' jehosophat!" ejaculated the detective; "it's the body!" "the school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised tinkletownians, as with their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood stains. but no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy. in the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her, stood before them as pretty as a picture. at her side was tom reddon, and a dozen guests of the house fell in behind them. "did rosalie tell you?" demanded miss banks. "the mean thing! she said she wouldn't." "ro--rosalie!" gasped anderson; "tell me what?" nervously. "that i was--was coming over here with tom. didn't she tell you?" "i should say not. if she'd told me you don't suppose i'd'a' driv' clear over here in this kinder weather fer nothin', do you? thunder! did she know 'bout it?" "certainly, mr. crow. she helped with the plans." "well, good gosh a'mighty! an' we was a-keepin' from her the awful news fer fear 'twould give her a backset." "awful news! what do you mean? oh, you frighten me terribly!" "doggone! i don't believe rosalie was sick at all," continued anderson, quite regardless of the impatience of his listeners; "she jest wanted to keep from answerin' questions. she jest regularly let everybody believe you had been slaughtered, an' never opened her mouth." "slaughtered!" cried half a dozen people. "sure! hain't you heard 'bout the murder?" "murder?" apprehensively from the excited new yorkers. "yes--the teacher of schoolhouse no. was brutally butchered las--las--night--by--" [illustration: "what is the meaning of all this?"] "go slow, anderson! better hold your horses!" cautioned harry squires. "don't forget the body's alive and kic--" and stopping short, in the hope that his break might escape the school-teacher's attention, he confusedly substituted, "and here." anderson's jaw dropped, but the movement was barely perceptible, the discomfiture temporary, for to the analytical mind of the great detective the fact that a murder had been committed was fully established by the discovery of the blood. that a body was obviously necessary for the continuance of further investigations he frankly acknowledged to himself; and not for one instant would any supposition or explanation other than assassination be tolerated. and it was with unshaken conviction that he declared: "well, somebody was slew, wasn't they? that's as plain's the nose on y'r face. don't you contradict me, harry squires. i guess anderson crow knows blood when he sees it." "do you mean to tell me that you've been trailing us all day in the belief that some one of us had killed somebody?" demanded tom reddon. harry squires explained the situation, anderson being too far gone to step into the breach. it may be of interest to say that the tinkletown detective was the sensation of the hour. the crowd, merry once more, lauded him to the skies for the manner in which the supposed culprits had been trailed, and the marshal's pomposity grew almost to the bursting point. "but how about that blood?" he demanded. "yes," said harry squires with a sly grin, "it was positively identified as yours, miss banks." "well, it's the first time i was ever fooled," confessed anderson glibly. "i'll have to admit it. the blood really belonged to 'rast little. boys, the seegars are on me." "no, they're on me," exclaimed tom reddon, producing a box of perfectos. "but, miss banks, you are wanted in chicago," insisted anderson. reddon interrupted him. "right you are, my dear sherlock, and i'm going to take her there as soon as i can. it's what i came east for." "ain't--i mean, wasn't you miss lovering?" muttered anderson crow. "good heavens, no!" cried miss banks. "who is she--a shoplifter?" "i'll tell you the story, mr. crow, if you'll come with me," said mr. farnsworth, stepping forward with a wink. in the library he told the tinkletown posse that tom reddon had met miss banks while she was at school in new york. he was a chicago millionaire's son and she was the daughter of wealthy new york people. her mother was eager to have the young people marry, but the girl at that time imagined herself to be in love with another man. in a pique she left school and set forth to earn her own living. a year's hardship as governess in the family of congressman ritchey and subsequent disillusionment as a country school-teacher brought her to her senses and she realised that she cared for tom reddon after all. she and miss gray together prepared the letter which told reddon where she could be found, and that eager young gentleman did the rest. he had been waiting for months for just such a message from her. the night of the spelling-match he induced her to come to colonel randall's, and now the whole house-party, including miss banks, was to leave on the following day for new york. the marriage would take place in a very few weeks. "i'll accept your explanation," said mr. crow composedly as he took a handful of cigars. "well, i guess i'll be startin' back. it's gettin' kind o' late-like." there was a telegram at the livery stable for him when he reached that haven of warmth and rest in tinkletown about dawn the next day. it was from chicago and marked "charges collect." * * * * * "what girl and whose body," it said, "do you refer to? miss lovering has been dead two years, and we are settling the estate in behalf of the other heirs. we were trying to establish her place of residence. never mind the body you have lost." * * * * * "doggone," said anderson, chuckling aloud, "that was an awful good joke on 'rast, wasn't it?" the stablemen stood around and looked at him with jaws that were drooping helplessly. the air seemed laden with a sombre uncertainty that had not yet succeeded in penetrating the nature of marshal crow. "is it from her?" finally asked ike smith hoarsely, his lips trembling. "from what her?" "rosalie." "thunder, no! it's from my lawyers in chicago." "ain't you--ain't you heerd about it?" half groaned ike, moving away as if he expected something calamitous. "what the dickens are you fellers drivin' at?" demanded anderson. the remainder of his posse deserted the red-hot stove and drew near with the instinctive feeling that something dreadful had happened. "ro--rosalie has been missin' sence early last night. she was grabbed by some feller near mrs. luce's, chucked into a big wagon an' rushed out of town before ros crow could let out a yell. clean stole her--look out! ketch him, joe!" anderson dropped limply into a hostler's arms. chapter xv rosalie disappears things had happened in tinkletown that night. alf reesling finally found some one who would listen to his story. he told the minister and the minister alarmed the town. to be brief, alf admitted that 'rast little was at his house in the outskirts of the village, laid up with a broken arm and a bad cut in the top of his head. "he came crawlin' up to my place about six o'clock in the mornin'," explained alf, "an' i took the poor cuss in. that's what i wanted to tell anderson, but the old rip wouldn't listen to me. seems as though 'rast waited around the schoolhouse last night to git a crack at that feller from town. miss banks and her three friends set around the stove in the schoolhouse for about an hour after the crowd left, an' 'rast got so cold he liked to died out there in the woodshed. "purty soon they all come out, an' 'rast cut acrost the lot to git inside the house by the fire. he was so derned cold that he didn't feel like crackin' anybody. when they wasn't lookin' he sneaked inside. jest as he was gittin' ready to hug the stove he heard miss banks an' one of the men comin' back. he shinned up the ladder into the garret just in time. in they come an' the feller lit a lamp. 'rast could hear 'em talkin'. she said good-bye to the schoolhouse forever, an' the feller kissed her a couple of times. 'rast pretty nigh swore out loud at that. then she said she'd leave a note in her desk fer the trustees, resignin' her job, er whatever she called it. he heard her read the note to the man, an' it said somethin' about goin' away unexpected to git married. 'rast says ef anderson had looked in the desk he'd have found the note. "then she packed up some books an' her an' the feller went out. 'rast was paralysed. he heerd the sleigh-bells jingle an' then he come to. he started down the ladder so quick that he missed his hold and went kerslam clear to the bottom. doggone ef he didn't light on his head, too. he don't know how long he laid there, but finally he was resurrected enough to crawl over by the stove. his arm was broke an' he was bleedin' like a stuck hog. miss banks had left her handkerchief on the desk, an' he says he tried to bind up his head with it, but it was too infernal small. somehow he got outside an' wandered around half crazy fer a long time, finally pullin' up at my house, derned nigh froze to death an' so weak he couldn't walk no more. he'd lost his hat an' his ear muffs an' his way all at the same time. if anderson had let me talk this mornin' he'd 'a' knowed there wasn't no murder. it was just a match." hours passed before anderson was himself again and able to comprehend the details of the story which involved the disappearance of his ward. it slowly filtered through his mind as he sat stark-eyed and numb before the kitchen fire that this was the means her mysterious people had taken to remove her from his custody. the twenty years had expired, and they had come to claim their own. there was gloom in the home of anderson crow--gloom so dense that death would have seemed bright in comparison. mrs. crow was prostrated, anderson in a state of mental and physical collapse, the children hysterical. all tinkletown stood close and ministered dumbly to the misery of the bereaved ones, but made no effort to follow or frustrate the abductors. the town seemed as helpless as the marshal, not willingly or wittingly, but because it had so long known him as leader that no one possessed the temerity to step into his place, even in an hour of emergency. a dull state of paralysis fell upon the citizens, big and little. it was as if universal palsy had been ordained to pinch the limbs and brains of tinkletown until the hour came for the rehabilitation of anderson crow himself. no one suggested a move in any direction--in fact, no one felt like moving at all. everything stood stockstill while anderson slowly pulled himself together; everything waited dumbly for its own comatose condition to be dispelled by the man who had been hit the hardest. it was not until late in the afternoon that blucher peabody, the druggist, awoke from his lethargy and moved as though he intended to take the initiative. "blootch" was rosalie's most persistent admirer. he had fallen heir to his father's apothecary shop and notion store, and he was regarded as one of the best catches in town. he approached the half-frozen crowd that huddled near old mrs. luce's front gate. in this crowd were some of the prominent men of the town, young and old; they left their places of business every half hour or so and wandered aimlessly to the now historic spot, as if drawn by a magnet. just why they congregated there no one could explain and no one attempted to do so. presumably it was because the whole town centred its mind on one of two places--the spot where rosalie was seized or the home of anderson crow. when they were not at mrs. luce's gate they were tramping through anderson's front yard and into his house. "say," said "blootch" so loudly that the crowd felt like remonstrating with him, "what's the use of all this?" no one responded. no one was equal to it on such short notice. "we've got to do something besides stand around and whisper," he said. "we've got to find rosalie gray." "but good gosh!" ejaculated isaac porter, "they've got purty nigh a day's start of us." "well, that don't matter. anderson would do as much for us. let's get a move on." "but where in thunder will we hunt?" murmured george ray. "to the end of the earth," announced blootch, inflating his chest and slapping it violently, a strangely personal proceeding, which went unnoticed. he had reached the conclusion that his chance to be a hero was at hand and not to be despised. here was the opportunity to outstrip all of his competitors in the race for rosalie's favour. it might be confessed that, with all his good intentions, his plans were hopelessly vague. the group braced up a little at the sound of his heroic words. "but the derned thing's round," was the only thing ed higgins could find to say. ed, as fickle as the wind, was once more deeply in love with rosalie, having switched from miss banks immediately after the visit to colonel randall's. "aw, you go to guinea!" was blootch's insulting reply. nothing could be more disparaging than that, but ed failed to retaliate. "let's appoint a committee to wait on anderson and find out what he thinks we'd better do." "but anderson ain't--" began some one. blootch calmly waived him into silence. "what he wants is encouragement, and not a lot of soup and broth and lemonade. he ain't sick. he's as able-bodied as i am. every woman in town took soup to him this noon. he needs a good stiff drink of whiskey and a committee to cheer him up. i took a bottle up to 'rast little last night and he acted like another man." at last it was decided that a committee should first wait on anderson, ascertaining his wishes in the premises, and then proceed to get at the bottom of the mystery. in forming this committee the wise men of the town ignored mr. peabody, and he might have been left off completely had he not stepped in and appointed himself chairman. the five good men and true descended upon the marshal late in the afternoon, half fearful of the result, but resolute. they found him slowly emerging from his spell of lassitude. he greeted them with a solemn nod of the head. since early morning he had been conscious of a long stream of sympathisers passing through the house, but it was not until now that he felt equal to the task of recognising any of them. his son roscoe had just finished telling him the story of the abduction. roscoe's awestruck tones and reddened eyes carried great weight with them, and for the tenth time that day he had his sisters in tears. with each succeeding repetition the details grew until at last there was but little of the original event remaining, a fact which his own family properly overlooked. "gentlemen," said anderson, as if suddenly coming from a trance, "this wasn't the work of tinkletown desperadoes." whereupon the committee felt mightily relieved. the marshal displayed signs of a returning energy that augured well for the enterprise. after the chairman had impressively announced that something must be done, and that he was willing to lead his little band to death's door--and beyond, if necessary--mr. crow pathetically upset all their hopes by saying that he had long been expecting such a calamity, and that nothing could be done. "they took the very night when i was not here to pertect her," he lamented. "it shows that they been a-watchin' me all along. the job was did by persons who was in the employ of her family, an' she has been carried off secretly to keep me from findin' out who and what her parents were. don't ye see? her mother--or father, fer that matter--couldn't afford to come right out plain an' say they wanted their child after all these years. the only way was to take her away without givin' themselves away. it's been the plan all along. there ain't no use huntin' fer her, gentlemen. she's in new york by this time, an' maybe she's ready fer a trip to europe." "but i should think she'd telegraph to you," said blootch. "telegraph yer granny! do you s'pose they'd 'a' stole her if they intended to let her telegraph to anybody? not much. they're spiritin' her away until her estate's settled. after a while it will all come out, an' you'll see if i ain't right. but she's gone. they've got her away from me an'--an' we got to stand it, that's all. i--i--cain't bear to think about it. it's broke my heart mighty ne--near. don't mind me if--i--cry, boys. you would, too, if you was me." as the committee departed soon after without any plan of action arising from the interview with the dejected marshal, it may be well to acquaint the reader with the history of the abduction, as told by roscoe crow and his bosom friend, bud long, thoroughly expurgated. according to instructions, no one in the crow family mentioned the strange disappearance of elsie banks to rosalie. nor was she told of the pursuit by the marshal and his posse. the girl, far from being afflicted with a fever, really now kept in her room by grief over the departure of her friend and companion. she was in tears all that night and the next day, suffering intensely in her loss. rosalie did not know that the teacher was to leave tinkletown surreptitiously until after the spelling-bee. the sly, blushing announcement came as a shock, but she was loyal to her friend, and not a word in exposure escaped from her lips. of course, she knew nothing of the sensational developments that followed the uncalled-for flight of elsie banks. shortly after the supper dishes had been cleared away rosalie came downstairs and announced that she was going over to read to old mrs. luce, who was bedridden. her guardian's absence was not explained to her, and she did not in the least suspect that he had been away all day on a fool's errand. roscoe and bud accompanied her to mrs. luce's front door, heavily bound by promises to hold their tongues regarding miss banks. "we left her there at old mis' luce's," related roscoe, "an' then went over to robertson's pond to skate. she tole us to stop in fer her about nine o'clock, didn't she, bud? er was it eight?" he saw the necessity for accuracy. "ten," corrected bud deliberately. "well, pop, we stopped fer her, an'--an'--" "stop yer blubberin', roscoe," commanded anderson as harshly as he could. "an' got her," concluded roscoe. "she put on her shawl an' mittens an' said she'd run us a race all the way home. we all got ready to start right in front of old mis' luce's gate. bud he stopped an' said, 'here comes tony brink.' we all looked around, an' sure enough, a heavy-set feller was comin' to'rds us. it looked like tony, but when he got up to us i see it wasn't him. he ast us if we could tell him where mr. crow lived--" "he must 'a' been a stranger," deduced anderson mechanically. "--an' bud said you lived right on ahead where the street lamps was. jest then a big sleigh turned out of the lane back of mis' luce's an' drove up to where we was standin'. bud was standin' jest like this--me here an' rosalie a little off to one side. s'posin' this chair was her an'--" "yes--yes, go on," from anderson. "the sleigh stopped, and there was two fellers in it. there was two seats, too." "front and back?" "yes, sir." "i understand. it was a double-seated one," again deduced the marshal. "an' nen, by gum, 'fore we could say jack robinson, one of the fellers jumped out an' grabbed rosalie. the feller on the groun', he up an' hit me a clip in the ear. i fell down, an' so did bud--" "he hit me on top of the head," corrected bud sourly. "i heerd rosalie start to scream, but the next minute they had a blanket over her head an' she was chucked into the back seat. it was all over in a second. i got up, but 'fore i could run a feller yelled, 'ketch him!' an' another feller did. 'don't let 'em get away,' said the driver in low, hissin' tones--" "regular villains," vowed anderson. "yes, sir. 'don't let 'em git away er they'll rouse the town.' 'what'll we do with 'em?' asked the feller who held both of us. 'kill 'em?' gosh, i was skeered. neither one of us could yell, 'cause he had us by the neck, an' he was powerful strong. 'chuck 'em in here an' i'll tend to 'em,' said the driver. next thing we knowed we was in the front of the sleigh, an' the whole outfit was off like a runaway. they said they'd kill us if we made a noise, an' we didn't. i wish i'd'a' had my rifle, doggone it! i'd'a' showed 'em." "they drove like thunder out to'rds boggs city fer about two mile," said bud, who had been silent as long as human nature would permit. "'nen they stopped an' throwed us out in the road. 'go home, you devils, an' don't you tell anybody about us er i'll come back here some day an' give you a kick in the slats.' "slats?" murmured anderson. "that's short fer ribs," explained bud loftily. "well, why couldn't he have said short ribs an' been done with it?" complained anderson. "then they whipped up an' turned off west in the pike," resumed bud. "we run all the way home an' tole mr. lamson, an' he--" "where was rosalie all this time?" asked anderson. "layin' in the back seat covered with a blanket, jest the same as if she was dead. i heerd 'em say somethin' about chloroformin' her. what does chloroform smell like, mr. crow?" "jest like any medicine. it has drugs in it. they use it to pull teeth. well, what then?" "well," interposed roscoe, "mr. lamson gave the alarm, an' nearly ever'body in town got out o' bed. they telegraphed to boggs city an' all around, but it didn't seem to do no good. them horses went faster'n telegraphs." "did you ever see them fellers before?" "no, sir; but i think i'd know 'em with their masks off." "was they masked?" "their faces were." "oh, my poor little rosalie!" sobbed old anderson hopelessly. chapter xvi the haunted house days passed without word or sign from the missing girl. the marshal haunted the post-office and the railroad station, hoping with all his poor old heart that word would come from her; but the letter was not there, nor was there a telegram at the station when he strolled over to that place. the county officials at boggs city came down and began a cursory investigation, but anderson's emphatic though doleful opinions set them quite straight, and they gave up the quest. there was nothing to do but to sit back and wait. in those three days anderson crow turned greyer and older, although he maintained a splendid show of resignation. he had made a perfunctory offer of reward for rosalie, dead or alive, but he knew all the time that it would be fruitless. mark riley, the bill-poster, stuck up the glaring reward notices as far away as the telegraph poles in clay county. the world was given to understand that $ reward would be paid for rosalie's return or for information leading to the apprehension and capture of her abductors. there was one very mysterious point in connection with the affair--something so strange that it bordered on the supernatural. no human being in bramble county except the two boys had seen the double-seated sleigh. it had disappeared as if swallowed by the earth itself. "well, it don't do any good to cry over spilt milk," said anderson bravely. "she's gone, an' i only hope she ain't bein' mistreated. i don't see why they should harm her. she's never done nobody a wrong. like as not she's been taken to a comfortable place in new york, an' we'll hear from her as soon as she recovers from the shock. there ain't no use huntin' fer her, i know, but i jest can't help nosin' around a little. mebby i can git some track of her. i'd give all i got in this world to know that she's safe an' sound, no matter if i never see her ag'in." the hungry look in his eyes deepened, and no one bandied jests with him as was the custom in days gone by. * * * * * there were not many tramps practising in that section of the state. anderson crow proudly announced that they gave tinkletown a wide berth because of his prowess; but the vagabond gentry took an entirely different view of the question. they did not infest the upper part of the state for the simple but eloquent reason that it meant starvation to them. the farmers compelled the weary wayfarer to work all day like a borrowed horse for a single meal at the "second table." there was no such thing as a "hand-out," as it is known in the tramp's vocabulary. it is not extraordinary, therefore, that tramps found the community so unattractive that they cheerfully walked miles to avoid it. a peculiarly well-informed vagrant once characterised the up-state farmer as being so "close that he never shaved because it was a waste of hair." it is hardly necessary to state, in view of the attitude of both farmer and tramp, that the misguided vagrant who wandered that way was the object of distinct, if not distinguished, curiosity. in the country roads he was stared at with a malevolence that chilled his appetite, no matter how long he had been cultivating it on barren soil. in the streets of tinkletown, and even at the county seat, he was an object of such amazing concern that he slunk away in pure distress. it was indeed an unsophisticated tramp who thought to thrive in bramble county even for a day and a night. in front of the general store and post-office at tinkletown there was a sign-post, on which anderson crow had painted these words: "no tramps or live stock allowed on these streets. by order of a. crow, marshal." the live stock disregarded the command, but the tramp took warning. on rare occasions he may have gone through some of the houses in tinkletown, but if he went through the streets no one was the wiser. anderson crow solemnly but studiously headed him off in the outskirts, and he took another direction. twice in his career he drove out tramps who had burglarised the houses of prominent citizens in broad daylight, but what did it matter so long as the "hoboes" were kept from desecrating the main street of the town? mr. crow's official star, together with his badge from the new york detective agency, his sons of the revolution pin, and his g.a.r. insignia, made him a person to be feared. if the weather became too hot for coat and vest the proud dignitary fastened the badges to his suspenders, and their presence glorified the otherwise humble "galluses." on the fourth day after the abduction marshal crow was suddenly aroused from his lethargy by the news that the peace and security of the neighbourhood was being imposed upon. "the dickens you say!" he observed, abandoning the perpetual grip upon his straggling chin whiskers. "yes, sir," responded the excited small boy, who, with two companions, had run himself quite out of breath all over town before he found the officer at harkin's blacksmith shop. "well, dang 'em!" said mr. crow impressively. "we was skatin' in the marsh when we heerd 'em plain as day," said the other boy. "you bet i'm nuvver goin' nigh that house ag'in." "sho! bud, they ain't no sech thing as ghosts," said mr. crow; "it's tramps." "you know that house is ha'nted," protested bud. "wasn't ole mrs. rank slew there by her son-in-law? wasn't she chopped to pieces and buried there right in her own cellar?" "thunderation, boy, that was thirty year ago!" "well, nobody's lived in the ha'nted house sence then, has they? didn't jim smith try to sleep there oncet on a bet, an' didn't he hear sech awful noises 'at he liked to went crazy?" insisted bud. [illustration: the haunted house] "i _do_ recollect that jim run two mile past his own house before he could stop, he was in sech a hurry to git away from the place. but jim didn't _see_ anything. besides, that was twenty year ago. ghosts don't hang aroun' a place when there ain't nothin' to ha'nt. her son-in-law was hung, an' she ain't got no one else to pester. i tell you it's tramps." "well, we just thought we'd tell you, mr. crow," said the first boy. in a few minutes it was known throughout the business centre of tinkletown that tramps were making their home in the haunted house down the river, and that anderson crow was to ride forth on his bicycle to rout them out. the haunted house was three miles from town and in the most desolate section of the bottomland. it was approachable only through the treacherous swamp on one side or by means of the river on the other. not until after the murder of its owner and builder, old johanna rank, was there an explanation offered for the existence of a home in such an unwholesome locality. federal authorities discovered that she and her son-in-law, dave wolfe, were at the head of a great counterfeiting gang, and that they had been working up there in security for years, turning out spurious coins by the hundred. one night dave up and killed his mother-in-law, and was hanged for his good deed before he could be punished for his bad ones. for thirty years the weather-beaten, ramshackle old cabin in the swamp had been unoccupied except by birds, lizards, and other denizens of the solitude--always, of course, including the ghost of old mrs. rank. inasmuch as dave chopped her into small bits and buried them in the cellar, while her own daughter held the lantern, it was not beyond the range of possibility that certain atoms of the unlamented johanna were never unearthed by the searchers. it was generally believed in the community that mrs. rank's spirit came back every little while to nose around in the dirt of the cellar in quest of such portions of her person as had not been respectably interred in the village graveyard. mysterious noises had been heard about the place at the dead hour of night, and ghostly lights had flitted past the cellar windows. all tinkletown agreed that the place was haunted and kept at a most respectful distance. the three small boys who startled marshal crow from his moping had gone down the river to skate instead of going to school. they swore that the sound of muffled voices came from the interior of the cabin, near which they had inadvertently wandered. although dave wolfe had been dead thirty years, one of the youngest of the lads was positive that he recognised the voice of the desperado. and at once the trio fled the 'cursed spot and brought the horrifying news to anderson crow. the detective was immediately called upon to solve the ghostly mystery. marshal crow first went to his home and donned his blue coat, transferring the stars and badges to the greasy lapel of the garment. he also secured his dark lantern and the official cane of the village, but why he should carry a cane on a bicycle expedition was known only to himself. followed by a horde of small boys and a few representative citizens of tinkletown on antiquated wheels, mr. crow pedalled majestically off to the south. skirting the swamp, the party approached the haunted house over the narrow path which ran along the river bank. once in sight of the dilapidated cabin, which seemed to slink farther and farther back into the dense shadows of the late afternoon, with all the diffidence of the supernatural, the marshal called a halt and announced his plans. "you kids go up an' tell them fellers i want to see 'em," he commanded. the boys fell back and prepared to whimper. "i don't want to," protested bud. "why don't you go an' tell 'em yourself, anderson?" demanded isaac porter, the pump repairer. "thunderation, ike, who's runnin' this thing?" retorted anderson crow. "i got a right to deputise anybody to do anything at any time. don't you s'pose i know how to handle a job like this? i got my own idees how to waylay them raskils, an' i reckon i been in the detectin' business long enough to know how to manage a gol-derned tramp, ain't i? how's that? who says i ain't?" "nobody said a word, anderson," meekly observed jim borum. "well, i _thought_ somebody did. an' i don't want nobody interferin' with an officer, either. bud, you an' them two heffner boys go up an' tell them loafers to step down here right spry er i'll come up there an' see about it." "gosh, mr. crow, i'm a-skeered to!" whimpered bud. the heffner boys started for home on a dead run. "askeered to?" sniffed anderson. "an' your great-grand-dad was in the revolution, too. geminy crickets, ef you was my boy i'd give you somethin' to be askeered of! now, bud, nothin' kin happen to you. ain't i here?" "but suppose they won't come when i tell 'em?" "yes, 'n' supposin' 'tain't tramps, but ghosts?" volunteered mr. porter, edging away with his bicycle. it was now quite dark and menacing in there where the cabin stood. as the outcome of half an hour's discussion, the whole party advanced slowly upon the house, anderson crow in the lead, his dark lantern in one hand, his cane in the other. half way to the house he stopped short and turned to bud. "gosh dern you, bud! i don't believe you heerd any noise in there at all! there ain't no use goin' any further with this, gentlemen. the dern boys was lyin'. we might jest as well go home." and he would have started for home had not isaac porter uttered a fearful groan and staggered back against a swamp reed for support, his horrified eyes glued upon a window in the log house. the reed was inadequate, and isaac tumbled over backward. for a full minute the company stared dumbly at the indistinct little window, paralysis attacking every sense but that of sight. at the expiration of another minute the place was deserted, and anderson crow was the first to reach the bicycles far up the river bank. every face was as white as chalk, and every voice trembled. mr. crow's dignity asserted itself just as the valiant posse prepared to "straddle" the wheels in mad flight. "hold on!" he panted. "i lost my dark lantern down there. go back an' git it, bud." "land o' mighty! did y'ever see anythin' like it?" gasped jim borum, trying to mount a ten-year-old boy's wheel instead of his own. "i'd like to have anybody tell me there ain't no sech things as ghosts," faltered uncle jimmy borton, who had always said there wasn't. "let go, there! ouch!" the command and subsequent exclamation were the inevitable results of his unsuccessful attempt to mount with elon jones the same wheel. "what'd i tell you, anderson?" exclaimed isaac porter. "didn't i say it was ghosts? tramps nothin'! a tramp wouldn't last a second up in that house. it's been ha'nted fer thirty years an' it gits worse all the time. what air we goin' to do next?" even the valiant mr. crow approved of an immediate return to tinkletown, and the posse was trying to disentangle its collection of bicycles when an interruption came from an unsuspected quarter--a deep, masculine voice arose from the ice-covered river hard by, almost directly below that section of the bank on which anderson and his friends were herded. the result was startling. every man leaped a foot in the air and every hair stood on end; bicycles rattled and clashed together, and ed higgins, hopelessly bewildered, started to run in the direction of the haunted house. chapter xvii wicker bonner, harvard "hello, up there!" was what the deep, masculine voice shouted from the river. anderson crow was the first to distinguish the form of the speaker, and he was not long in deciding that it was far from ghost-like. with a word of command he brought his disorganised forces out of chaos and huddled them together as if to resist attack. "what's the matter with you?" he demanded, addressing his men in a loud tone. "don't get rattled!" "are you speaking to me?" called the fresh voice from below. "who are you?" demanded mr. crow in return. "nobody in particular. what's going on up there? what's the fuss?" "come up an' find out." then mr. crow, observing that the man below was preparing to comply, turned and addressed his squad in low, earnest tones. "this feller will bear watchin'. he's mixed up in this thing somehow. else why is he wanderin' around here close to the house? i'll question him." "by gosh, he ain't no ghost!" murmured ed higgins, eyeing the newcomer as he crawled up the bank. "say, did y' see me a minute ago? if you fellers had come on, i was goin' right up to search that house from top to bottom. was you all askeered to come?" "aw, you!" said anderson crow in deep scorn. the next instant a stalwart young fellow stood before the marshal, who was eyeing him keenly, even imperiously. the newcomer's good-looking, strong-featured face was lighted up by a smile of surpassing friendliness. "it's lonesome as thunder down here, isn't it? glad to see you, gentlemen. what's up--a bicycle race?" "no, sir; we got a little business up here, that's all," responded anderson crow diplomatically. "what air you doin' here?" "skating. my name is wicker bonner, and i'm visiting my uncle, congressman bonner, across the river. you know him, i dare say. i've been hanging around here for a week's hunting, and haven't had an ounce of luck in all that time. it's rotten! aha, i see that you are an officer, sir--a detective, too. by george, can it be possible that you are searching for some one? if you are, let me in on it. i'm dying for excitement." the young man's face was eager and his voice rang true. besides, he was a tall, athletic chap, with brawny arms and a broad back. altogether, he would make a splendid recruit, thought anderson crow. he was dressed in rough corduroy knickerbockers, the thick coat buttoned up close to his muffled neck. a woollen cap came down over his ears and a pair of skates dangled from his arm. "yes, sir; i'm a detective, and we are up here doin' a little investigatin'. you are from chicago, i see." "what makes you think so?" "can't fool me. i c'n always tell. you said, 'i've _bean_ hangin',' instead of 'i've _ben_ hangin'.' see? they say _bean_ in chicago. ha! ha! you didn't think i could deduce that, did you?" "i'll confess that i didn't," said mr. bonner with a dry smile. "i'm from boston, however." "sure," interposed isaac porter; "that's where the beans come from, anderson." "well, that's neither here nor there," said mr. crow, hastily changing the subject. "we're wastin' time." "stayin' here, you mean?" asked ed higgins, quite ready to start. involuntarily the eyes of the posse turned toward the house among the willows. the stranger saw the concerted glance and made inquiry. whereupon mr. crow, assisted by seven men and five small boys, told mr. wicker bonner, late of harvard, what had brought them from tinkletown to the haunted house, and what they had seen upon their arrival. young bonner's face glowed with the joy of excitement. "great!" he cried, fastening his happy eyes upon the hated thing among the trees. "let's search the place. by george, this is glorious!" "not on your life!" said ed higgins. "you can't get me inside that house. like as not a feller'd never come out alive." "well, better men than we have died," said mr. bonner tranquilly. "come on; i'll go in first. it's all tommy-rot about the place being haunted. in any event, ghosts don't monkey around at this time of day. it's hardly dusk." "but, gosh dern it," exploded anderson crow, "we seen it!" "i seen it first," said isaac porter proudly. "but i heerd it first," peeped up master bud. "you've all been drinking hard cider or pop or something like that," said the brawny scoffer. "now, see here, you're gittin' fresh, an--" began the marshal, swelling up like a pigeon. "look out behind!" sang out mr. bonner, and anderson jumped almost out of his shoes, besides ripping his shirt in the back, he turned so suddenly. "jeemses river!" he gasped. "never turn your back on an unknown danger," cautioned the young man serenely. "be ready to meet it." "if you're turned t'other way you c'n git a quicker start if you want to run," suggested jim borum, bracing himself with a fresh chew of tobacco. "what time is it?" asked wicker bonner. anderson crow squinted up through the leafless treetops toward the setting sun; then he looked at the shadow of a sapling down on the bank. "it's about seven minutes past five--in the evenin'," he said conclusively. bonner was impolite enough to pull out his watch for verification. "you're a minute fast," he observed; but he looked at anderson with a new and respectful admiration. "he c'n detect anything under the sun," said porter with a feeble laugh at his own joke. "well, let's go up and ransack that old cabin," announced bonner, starting toward the willows. the crowd held back. "i'll go alone if you're afraid to come," he went on. "it's my firm belief that you didn't see anything and the noise you boys heard was the wind whistling through the trees. now, tell the truth, how many of you saw it?" "i did," came from every throat so unanimously that jim borum's supplemental oath stood out alone and forceful as a climax. "then it's worth investigating," announced the boston man. "it is certainly a very mysterious affair, and you, at least, mr. town marshal, should back me up in the effort to unravel it. tell me again just what it was you saw and what it looked like." "i won't let no man tell me what my duties are," snorted anderson, his stars trembling with injured pride. "of course i'm going to solve the mystery. we've got to see what's inside that house. i thought it was tramps at first." "well, lead on, then; i'll follow!" said bonner with a grin. "i thought you was so anxious to go first!" exclaimed anderson with fine tact. "go ahead yourself, ef you're so derned brave. i dare you to." bonner laughed loud enough to awaken every ghost in bramble county and then strode rapidly toward the house. anderson crow followed slowly and the rest straggled after, all alert for the first sign of resistance. "i wish i could find that derned lantern," said anderson, searching diligently in the deep grass as he walked along, in the meantime permitting bonner to reach the grim old doorway far in advance of him. "come on!" called back the intrepid leader, seeing that all save the marshal had halted. "you don't need the lantern. it's still daylight, old chap. we'll find out what it was you all saw in the window." "that's the last of him," muttered isaac porter, as the broad back disappeared through the low aperture that was called a doorway. there were no window sashes or panes in the house, and the door had long since rotted from the hinges. "he'll never come out. let's go home," added ed higgins conclusively. "are you coming?" sang out bonner from the interior of the house. his voice sounded prophetically sepulchral. "consarn it, cain't you wait a minute?" replied anderson crow, still bravely but consistently looking for the much-needed dark lantern. "it's all right in here. there hasn't been a human being in the house for years. come on in; it's fine!" anderson crow finally ventured up to the doorway and peeped in. bonner was standing near the tumbledown fireplace, placidly lighting a cigarette. "this is a fine job you've put up on me," he growled. "i thought there would be something doing. there isn't a soul here, and there hasn't been, either." "thunderation, man, you cain't see ghosts when they don't want you to!" said anderson crow. "it was a ghost, that's settled. i knowed it all the time. nothin' human ever looked like it, and nothin' alive ever moaned like it did." by this time the rest of the party had reached the cabin door. the less timorous ventured inside, while others contented themselves by looking through the small windows. "well, if you're sure you really saw something, we'd better make a thorough search of the house and the grounds," said bonner, and forthwith began nosing about the two rooms. the floors were shaky and the place had the odour of decayed wood. mould clung to the half-plastered walls, cobwebs matted the ceilings, and rotted fungi covered the filth in the corners. altogether it was a most uninviting hole, in which no self-respecting ghost would have made its home. when the time came to climb up to the little garret bonner's followers rebelled. he was compelled to go alone, carrying the lantern, which one of the small boys had found. this part of the house was even more loathsome than below, and it would be impossible to describe its condition. he saw no sign of life, and retired in utter disgust. then came the trip to the cellar. again he had no followers, the tinkletown men emphatically refusing to go down where old mrs. rank's body had been buried. bonner laughed at them and went down alone. it was nauseous with age and the smell of damp earth, but it was cleaner there than above stairs. the cellar was smaller than either of the living rooms, and was to be reached only through the kitchen. there was no exit leading directly to the exterior of the house, but there was one small window at the south end. bonner examined the room carefully and then rejoined the party. for some reason the posse had retired to the open air as soon as he left them to go below. no one knew exactly why, but when one started to go forth the others followed with more or less alacrity. "did you see anything?" demanded the marshal. "what did old mrs. rank look like when she was alive?" asked bonner with a beautifully mysterious air. no one answered; but there was a sudden shifting of feet backward, while an expression of alarmed inquiry came into every face. "don't back into that open well," warned the amused young man in the doorway. anderson crow looked sharply behind, and flushed indignantly when he saw that the well was at least fifty feet away. "i saw something down there that looked like a woman's toe," went on bonner very soberly. "good lord! what did i tell you?" cried the marshal, turning to his friends. to the best of their ability they could not remember that anderson had told them anything, but with one accord the whole party nodded approval. "i fancy it was the ghost of a toe, however, for when i tried to pick it up it wriggled away, and i think it chuckled. it disappear--what's the matter? where are you going?" it is only necessary to state that the marshal and his posse retreated in good order to a distant spot where it was not quite so dark, there to await the approach of wicker bonner, who leisurely but laughingly inspected the exterior of the house and the grounds adjoining. finding nothing out of the ordinary, except as to dilapidation, he rejoined the party with palpable displeasure in his face. "well, i think i'll go back to the ice," he said; "that place is as quiet as the grave. you are a fine lot of jokers, and i'll admit that the laugh is on me." but bonner was mystified, uncertain. he had searched the house thoroughly from top to bottom, and he had seen nothing unusual, but these men and boys were so positive that he could not believe the eyes of all had been deceived. "this interests me," he said at last. "i'll tell you what we'll do, mr. crow. you and i will come down here to-night, rig up a tent of some sort and divide watch until morning. if there is anything to be seen we'll find out what it is. i'll get a couple of straw mattresses from our boathouse and--" "i've got rheumatiz, mr. bonner, an' it would be the death o' me to sleep in this swamp," objected anderson hastily. "well, i'll come alone, then. i'm not afraid. i don't mean to say i'll sleep in that old shack, but i'll bunk out here in the woods. no human being could sleep in that place. will any one volunteer to keep me company?" silence. "i don't blame you. it does take nerve, i'll confess. my only stipulation is that you shall come down here from the village early to-morrow morning. i may have something of importance to tell you, mr. crow." "we'll find his dead body," groaned old mr. borton. "say, mister," piped up a shrill voice, "i'll stay with you." it was bud who spoke, and all tinkletown was afterward to resound with stories of his bravery. the boy had been silently admiring the bold sportsman from boston town, and he was ready to cast his lot with him in this adventure. he thrilled with pleasure when the big hero slapped him on the back and called him the only man in the crowd. at eight o'clock that night bonner and the determined but trembling bud came up the bank from the river and pitched a tent among the trees near the haunted house. from the sledge on the river below they trundled up their bedding and their stores. bud had an old single-barrel shotgun, a knife and a pipe, which he was just learning to smoke; bonner brought a navajo blanket, a revolver and a heavy walking stick. he also had a large flask of whiskey and the pipe that had graduated from harvard with him. at nine o'clock he put to bed in one of the chilly nests a very sick boy, who hated to admit that the pipe was too strong for him, but who felt very much relieved when he found himself wrapped snugly in the blankets with his head tucked entirely out of sight. bud had spent the hour in regaling bonner with the story of rosalie gray's abduction and his own heroic conduct in connection with the case. he confessed that he had knocked one of the villains down, but they were too many for him. bonner listened politely and then--put the hero to bed. bonner dozed off at midnight. an hour or so later he suddenly sat bolt upright, wide awake and alert. he had the vague impression that he was deathly cold and that his hair was standing on end. chapter xviii the men in the sleigh let us go back to the night on which rosalie was seized and carried away from mrs. luce's front gate, despite the valiant resistance of her youthful defenders. rosalie had drooned thackeray to the old lady until both of them were dozing, and it was indeed a welcome relief that came with roscoe's resounding thumps on the front door. mrs. luce was too old to be frightened out of a year's growth, but it is perfectly safe to agree with her that the noise cost her at least three months. desperately blue over the defection of elsie banks, rosalie had found little to make her evening cheerful indoors, but the fresh, crisp air set her spirits bounding the instant she closed mrs. luce's door from the outside. we have only to refer to roscoe's lively narrative for proof of what followed almost instantly. she was seized, her head tightly wrapped in a thick cloak or blanket; then she was thrown into a sleigh, and knew nothing more except a smothering sensation and the odour of chloroform. when she regained consciousness she was lying on the ground in the open air, dark night about her. three men were standing nearby, but there was no vehicle in sight. she tried to rise, but on account of her bonds was powerless to do so. speech was prevented by the cloth which closed her lips tightly. after a time she began to grasp the meaning of the muttered words that passed between the men. "you got the rig in all right, bill--you're sure that no one heard or saw you?" were the first questions she could make out, evidently arising from a previous report or explanation. "sure. everybody in these parts goes to bed at sundown. they ain't got nothing to do but sleep up 'ere." "nobody knows we had that feller's sleigh an' horses out--nobody ever will know," said the big man, evidently the leader. she noticed they called him sam. "next thing is to git her across the river without leavin' any tracks. we ain't on a travelled road now, pals; we got to be careful. i'll carry her down to the bank; but be sure to step squarely in my footprints--it'll look like they were made by one man. see?" "the river's froze over an' we can't be tracked on the ice. it's too dark, too, for any one to see us. go ahead, sammy; it's d---- cold here." the big man lifted her from the ground as if she were a feather, and she was conscious of being borne swiftly through a stretch of sloping woodland down to the river bank, a journey of two or three hundred yards, it seemed. here the party paused for many minutes before venturing out upon the wide expanse of frozen river, evidently making sure that the way was clear. rosalie, her senses quite fully restored by this time, began to analyse the situation with a clearness and calmness that afterward was the object of considerable surprise to her. instead of being hysterical with fear, she was actually experiencing the thrill of a real emotion. she had no doubt but that her abductors were persons hired by those connected with her early history, and, strange as it may seem, she could not believe that bodily harm was to be her fate after all these years of secret attention on the part of those so deeply, though remotely, interested. somehow there raced through her brain the exhilarating conviction that at last the mystery of her origin was to be cleared away, and with it all that had been as a closed book. no thought of death entered her mind at that time. afterward she was to feel that death would be most welcome, no matter how it came. her captors made the trip across the river in dead silence. there was no moon and the night was inky black. the exposed portions of her face tingled with cold, but she was so heavily wrapped in the blanket that her body did not feel the effects of the zero weather. at length the icy stretch was passed, and after resting a few minutes, sam proceeded to ascend the steep bank with her in his arms. why she was not permitted to walk she did not know then or afterward. it is possible, even likely, that the men thought their charge was unconscious. she did nothing to cause them to think otherwise. again they passed among trees, sam's companions following in his footprints as before. another halt and a brief command for davy to go ahead and see that the coast was clear came after a long and tortuous struggle through the underbrush. twice they seemed to have lost their bearings in the darkness, but eventually they came into the open. "here we are!" grunted sam as they hurried across the clearing. "a hard night's work, pals, but i guess we're in easy street now. go ahead, davy, an' open the trap!" davy swore a mighty but sibilant oath and urged his thick, ugly figure ahead of the others. a moment later the desperadoes and their victim passed through a door and into a darkness even blacker than that outside. davy was pounding carefully upon the floor of the room in which they stood. suddenly a faint light spread throughout the room and a hoarse, raucous voice whispered: "have you got her?" "get out of the way--we're near froze," responded davy gruffly. "get down there, bill, and take her; i'm tired carryin' this hundred and twenty pounder," growled sam. the next instant rosalie was conscious of being lowered through a trap door in the floor, and then of being borne rapidly through a long, narrow passage, lighted fitfully by the rays of a lantern in the hands of a fourth and as yet unseen member of the band. "there!" said bill, impolitely dropping his burden upon a pile of straw in the corner of the rather extensive cave at the end of the passage; "wonder if the little fool is dead. she ought to be coming to by this time." "she's got her eyes wide open," uttered the raucous voice on the opposite side; and rosalie turned her eyes in that direction. she looked for a full minute as if spellbound with terror, her gaze centred at the most repulsive human face she ever had seen--the face of davy's mother. the woman was a giantess, a huge, hideous creature with the face of a man, hairy and bloated. her unkempt hair was grey almost to whiteness, her teeth were snags, and her eyes were almost hidden beneath the shaggy brow. there was a glare of brutal satisfaction in them that appalled the girl. for the first time since the adventure began her heart failed her, and she shuddered perceptibly as her lids fell. "what the h---- are you skeering her fer like that, ma," growled davy. "don't look at her like that, or--" "see here, my boy, don't talk like that to me if you don't want me to kick your head off right where you stand. i'm your mother, davy, an'--" "that'll do. this ain't no time to chew the rag," muttered sam. "we're done fer. get us something to eat an' something to drink, old woman; give the girl a nifter, too. she's fainted, i reckon. hurry up; i want to turn in." "better untie her hands--see if she's froze," added bill savagely. roughly the old woman slashed the bonds from the girl's hands and feet and then looked askance at sam, who stood warming his hands over a kerosene stove not far away. he nodded his head, and she instantly untied the cloth that covered rosalie's mouth. "it won't do no good to scream, girl. nobody'll hear ye but us--and we're your friends," snarled the old woman. "let her yell if she wants to, maude. it may relieve her a bit," said sam, meaning to be kind. instinctively rosalie looked about for the person addressed as maude. there was but one woman in the gang. maude! that was the creature's name. instead of crying or shrieking, rosalie laughed outright. at the sound of the laugh the woman drew back hastily. "by gor!" she gasped; "the--she's gone daffy!" the men turned toward them with wonder in their faces. bill was the first to comprehend. he saw the girl's face grow sober with an effort, and realised that she was checking her amusement because it was sure to offend. "aw," he grinned, "i don't blame her fer laughin'! say what ye will, maude, your name don't fit you." "it's as good as any name--" began the old hag, glaring at him; but sam interposed with a command to her to get them some hot coffee while he had a talk with the girl. "set up!" he said roughly, addressing rosalie. "we ain't goin' to hurt you." rosalie struggled to a sitting posture, her limbs and back stiff from the cold and inaction. "don't ask questions, because they won't be answered. i jest want to give you some advice as to how you must act while you are our guest. you must be like one of the family. maybe we'll be here a day, maybe a week, but it won't be any longer than that." "would you mind telling me where i am and what this all means? why have you committed this outrage? what have i done--" she found voice to say. he held up his hand. "you forget what i said about askin' questions. there ain't nothin' to tell you, that's all. you're here and that's enough." "well, who is it that has the power to answer questions, sir? i have some right to ask them. you have--" "that'll do, now!" he growled. "i'll put the gag back on you if you keep it up. so's you won't worry, i want to say this to you: your friends don't know where you are, and they couldn't find you if they tried. you are to stay right here in this cave until we get orders to move you. when the time comes we'll take you to wherever we're ordered, and then we're through with you. somebody else will have the say. you won't be hurt here unless you try to escape--it won't do you any good to yell. it ain't a palace, but it's better than the grave. so be wise. all we got to do is to turn you over to the proper parties at the proper time. that's all." "is the person you speak of my--my mother or my father?" rosalie asked with bated breath. chapter xix with the kidnapers sam stared at her, and there was something like real amazement in his eyes. "yer mother or father?" he repeated interrogatively. "wha--what the devil can they have to do with this affair? i guess they're askin' a lot of questions themselves about this time." "mr. and mrs. crow are not my parents," she said; and then shrewdly added, "and you know it, sir." "i've heard that sayin' 'bout a child never knowin' its own father, but this business of both the father and mother is a new one on me. i guess it's the chloroform. give us that booze, bill. she's dippy yet." he tried to induce her to swallow some of the whiskey, but steadfastly she refused, until finally, with an evil snarl, sam commanded the giantess to hold her while he forced the burning liquor down her throat. there was a brief struggle, but rosalie was no match for the huge woman, whose enormous arms encircled her; and as the liquid trickled in upon her tongue she heard above the brutal laughter of the would-be doctors the hoarse voice of bill crying: "don't hurt her, sam! let 'er alone!" "close yer face! don't you monkey in this thing, bill briggs. i'll--well, you know. drink this, damn you!" sputtering and choking, her heart beating wildly with fear and rage, rosalie was thrown back upon the straw by the woman. her throat was burning from the effects of the whiskey and her eyes were blinded by the tears of anger and helplessness. "don't come any of your highfalutin' airs with me, you little cat," shrieked the old woman, rubbing a knee that rosalie had kicked in her struggles. "lay still there," added sam. "we don't want to hurt you, but you got to do as i tell you. understand? not a word, now! gimme that coffee-pot, davy. go an' see that everything's locked up an' we'll turn in fer the night. maude, you set up an' keep watch. if she makes a crack, soak her one." "you bet i will. she'll find she ain't attendin' no sunday-school picnic." "no boozin'!" was sam's order as he told out small portions of whiskey. then the gang ate ravenously of the bacon and beans and drank cup after cup of coffee. later the men threw themselves upon the piles of straw and soon all were snoring. the big woman refilled the lantern and hung it on a peg in the wall of the cave; then she took up her post near the square door leading to the underground passage, her throne an upturned whiskey barrel, her back against the wall of the cave. she glared at rosalie through the semi-darkness, frequently addressing her with the vilest invectives cautiously uttered--and all because her victim had beautiful eyes and was unable to close them in sleep. [illustration: "rosalie was no match for the huge woman"] rosalie's heart sank as she surveyed the surroundings with her mind once more clear and composed. after her recovery from the shock of contact with the old woman and sam she shrank into a state of mental lassitude that foretold the despair which was to come later on. she did not sleep that night. her brain was full of whirling thoughts of escape, speculations as to what was to become of her, miserable fears that the end would not be what the first impressions had made it, and, over all, a most intense horror of the old woman, who dozed, but guarded her as no dragon ever watched in the days of long ago. the cave in which they were housed was thirty or forty feet from side to side, almost circular in shape, a low roof slanting to the rocky floor. here and there were niches in the walls, and in the side opposite to the entrance to the passageway there was a small, black opening, leading without doubt to the outer world. the fact that it was not used at any time during her stay in the cave led her to believe it was not of practical use. two or three coal-oil stoves were used to heat the cave and for cooking purposes. there were several lanterns, a number of implements (such as spades, axes, crowbars, sledges, and so forth), stool-kegs, a rough table, which was used for all purposes known to the dining-room, kitchen, scullery and even bedchamber. sam slept on the table. horse blankets were thrown about the floor in confusion. they served as bedclothes when the gang slept. at other times they might as well have been called doormats. one of the niches in the wall was used as the resting place for such bones or remnants as might strike it when hurled in that direction by the occupants. no one took the trouble to carefully bestow anything in the garbage hole, and no one pretended to clean up after the other. the place was foul smelling, hot and almost suffocating with the fumes from the stoves, for which there seemed no avenue of escape. hours afterward, although they seemed drawn out into years, the men began to breathe naturally, and a weird silence reigned in the cave. they were awake. the venerable maude emerged from her doze, looked apprehensively at sam, prodded the corner to see that the prize had not faded away, and then began ponderously to make preparations for a meal, supposedly breakfast. meagre ablutions, such as they were, were performed in the "living room," a bucket of water serving as a general wash-basin. no one had removed his clothing during the night, not even his shoes. it seemed to her that the gang was in an ever-ready condition to evacuate the place at a moment's notice. rosalie would not eat, nor would she bathe her face in the water that had been used by the quartette before her. bill briggs, with some sense of delicacy in his nature, brought some fresh water from the far end of the passageway. for this act he was reviled by his companions. "it's no easy job to get water here, briggs," roared sam. "we got to be savin' with it." "well, don't let it hurt you," retorted bill. "i'll carry it up from the river to-night. you won't have to do it." "she ain't any better'n i am," snorted maude, "and nobody goes out to bring me a private bath, i take notice. get up here and eat something, you rat! do you want us to force it down you--" "if she don't want to eat don't coax her," said sam. "she'll soon get over that. we was only hired to get her here and get her away again, and not to make her eat or even wash. that's nothing to us." "well, she's got to eat or she'll die, and you know, sam welch, that ain't to be," retorted the old woman. "she'll eat before she'll die, maudie; don't worry." "i'll never eat a mouthful!" cried rosalie, a brave, stubborn light in her eyes. she was standing in the far corner drying her face with her handkerchief. "oho, you can talk again, eh? hooray! now we'll hear the story of her life," laughed big sam, his mouth full of bacon and bread. rosalie flushed and the tears welled to her eyes. all day long she suffered taunts and gibes from the gang. she grew to fear davy's ugly leers more than the brutal words of the others. when he came near she shrank back against the wall; when he spoke she cringed; when he attempted to touch her person she screamed. it was this act that brought sam's wrath upon davy's head. he won something like gratitude from the girl by profanely commanding davy to confine his love to looks and not to acts. "she ain't to be harmed," was sam's edict. "that goes, too." "aw, you go to--" began davy belligerently. "what's that?" snarled sam, whirling upon him with a glare. davy slunk behind his mother and glared back. bill moved over to sam's side. for a moment the air was heavy with signs of an affray. rosalie crouched in her corner, her hand over her ears, her eyes closed. there was murder in davy's face. "i'll break every bone in your body!" added sam; but bill laconically stayed him with a word. "rats!" it was brief, but it brought the irate sam to his senses. trouble was averted for the time being. "davy ain't afraid of him," cried that worthy's mother shrilly. "you bet i ain't!" added davy after a long string of oaths. sam grinned viciously. "there ain't nothin' to fight about, i guess," he said, although he did not look it. "we'd be fools to scrap. everything to lose and nothin' to gain. all i got to say, davy, is that you ain't to touch that girl." "who's goin' to touch her?" roared davy, bristling bravely. "an' you ain't to touch her nuther," he added. the day wore away, although it was always night in the windowless cave, and again the trio of men slept, with maude as guard. exhausted and faint, rosalie fell into a sound sleep. the next morning she ate sparingly of the bacon and bread and drank some steaming coffee, much to the derisive delight of the hag. "you had to come to it, eh?" she croaked. "had to feed that purty face, after all. i guess we're all alike. we're all flesh and blood, my lady." the old woman never openly offered personal violence to the girl. she stood in some fear of the leader--not physical fear, but the strange homage that a brute pays to its master. secretly she took savage delight in treading on the girl's toes or in pinching her arms and legs, twisting her hair, spilling hot coffee on her hands, cursing her softly and perpetrating all sorts of little indignities that could not be resented, for the simple reason that they could not be proved against her. her word was as good as rosalie's. hourly the strain grew worse and worse. the girl became ill and feverish with fear, loathing and uncertainty. her ears rang with the horrors of their lewdness, her eyes came to see but little, for she kept them closed for the very pain of what they were likely to witness. in her heart there grew a constant prayer for deliverance from their clutches. she was much too strong-minded and healthy to pray for death, but her mind fairly reeled with the thoughts of the vengeance she would exact. the third day found the gang morose and ugly. the confinement was as irksome to them as it was to her. they fretted and worried, swore and growled. at nightfall of each day sam ventured forth through the passage and out into the night. each time he was gone for two or three hours, and each succeeding return to the vile cave threw the gang into deeper wrath. the word they were expecting was not forthcoming, the command from the real master was not given. they played cards all day, and at last began to drink more deeply than was wise. two desperate fights occurred between davy and sam on the third day. bill and the old woman pulled them apart after both had been battered savagely. "she's sick, sam," growled bill, standing over the cowering, white-faced prisoner near the close of the fourth day. sam had been away nearly all of the previous night, returning gloomily without news from headquarters. "she'll die in this d---- place and so will we if we don't get out soon. look at her! why, she's as white as a sheet. let's give her some fresh air, sammy. it's safe. take her up in the cabin for a while. to-night we can take her outside the place. good lord, sammy, i've got a bit of heart! i can't see her die in this hole. look at her! can't you see she's nearly done for?" after considerable argument, pro and con, it was decided that it would be safe and certainly wise to let the girl breathe the fresh air once in a while. that morning sam took her into the cabin through the passage. the half hour in the cold, fresh air revived her, strengthened her perceptibly. her spirits took an upward bound. she began to ask questions, and for some reason he began to take notice of them. it may have been the irksomeness of the situation, his own longing to be away, his anger toward the person who had failed to keep the promise made before the abduction, that led him to talk quite freely. chapter xx in the cave "it's not my fault that we're still here," he growled in answer to her pathetic appeal. "i've heard you prayin' for daddy crow to come and take you away. well, it's lucky for him that he don't know where you are. we'd make mincemeat of that old jay in three minutes. don't do any more prayin'. prayers are like dreams--you have 'em at night and wonder why the next day. now, look 'ere, miss gray, we didn't do this rotten job for the love of excitement. we're just as anxious to get out of it as you are." "i only ask why i am held here and what is to become of me?" said rosalie resignedly. she was standing across the table from where he sat smoking his great, black pipe. the other members of the gang were lounging about, surly and black-browed, chafing inwardly over the delay in getting away from the cave. "i don't know why you've been held here. i only know it's d---- slow. i'd chuck the job, if there wasn't so much dust in it for me." "but what is to become of me? i cannot endure this much longer. it is killing me. look! i am black and blue from pinches. the old woman never misses an opportunity to hurt me." "she's jealous of you because you're purty, that's all. women are all alike, hang 'em! i wouldn't be in this sort of work if it hadn't been for a jealous wife." he puffed at his pipe moodily for a long time, evidently turning some problem over and over in his mind. at last, heaving a deep sigh, and prefacing his remarks with an oath, he let light in upon the mystery. "i'll put you next to the job. can't give any names; it wouldn't be square. you see, it's this way: you ain't wanted in this country. i don't know why, but you ain't." "not wanted in this country?" she cried blankly. "i don't stand in any one's way. my life and my love are for the peaceful home that you have taken me from. i don't ask for anything else. won't you tell your employer as much for me? if i am released, i shall never interfere with the plans of--" "'tain't that, i reckon. you must be mighty important to somebody, or all this trouble wouldn't be gone through with. the funny part of it is that we ain't to hurt you. you ain't to be killed, you know. that's the queer part of it, ain't it?" "i'll admit it has an agreeable sound to me," said rosalie, with a shadow of a smile on her trembling lips. "it seems ghastly, though." "well, anyhow, it's part of somebody's scheme to get you out of this country altogether. you are to be taken away on a ship, across the ocean, i think. paris or london, mebby, and you are never to come back to the united states. never, that's what i'm told." [illustration: "she shrank back from another blow which seemed impending"] rosalie was speechless, stunned. her eyes grew wide with the misery of doubt and horror, her lips moved as if forming the words which would not come. before she could bring a sound from the contracted throat the raucous voice of old maude broke in: "what are you tellin' her, sam welch? can't you keep your face closed?" she called, advancing upon him with a menacing look. "aw, it's nothin' to you," he retorted, but an uncomfortable expression suddenly crept into his face. a loud, angry discussion ensued, the whole gang engaging. three to one was the way it stood against the leader, who was forced to admit, secretly if not publicly, that he had no right to talk freely of the matter to the girl. in vain she pleaded and promised. her tears were of no avail, once sam had concluded to hold his tongue. angry with himself for having to submit to the demands of the others, furious because she saw his surrender, sam, without a word of warning, suddenly struck her on the side of the head with the flat of his broad hand, sending her reeling into the corner. dazed, hurt and half stunned, she dropped to her knees, unable to stand. with a piteous look in her eyes she shrank back from another blow which seemed impending. bill briggs grasped his leader's arm and drew him away, cursing and snarling. late in the afternoon, bill was permitted to conduct her into the cabin above, for a few minutes in the air, and for a glimpse of the failing sunlight. she had scarcely taken her stand before the little window when she was hastily jerked away, but not before she thought she had perceived a crowd of men, huddling among the trees not far away. a scream for help started to her lips; but bill's heavy hand checked it effectually. his burly arm sent her scuttling toward the trap-door; and a second later she was below, bruised from the fall and half fainting with disappointment and despair. brief as the glimpse had been, she was positive she recognised two faces in the crowd of men--anderson crow's and ed higgins's. it meant, if her eyes did not deceive her, that the searchers were near at hand, and that dear, old daddy crow was leading them. her hopes flew upward and she could not subdue the triumphant glance that swept the startled crowd when bill breathlessly broke the news. absolute quiet reigned in the cave after that. maude cowed the prisoner into silence with the threat to cut out her tongue if she uttered a cry. later, the tramp of feet could be heard on the floor of the cabin. there was a sound of voices, loud peals of laughter, and then the noise made by some one in the cellar that served as a blind at one end of the cabin. after that, dead silence. at nightfall, sam stealthily ventured forth to reconnoitre. he came back with the report that the woods and swamps were clear and that the searchers, if such they were, had gone away. "the house, since davy's grandma's bones were stored away in that cellar for several moons, has always been thought to be haunted. the fools probably thought they saw a ghost--an' they're runnin' yet." then for the first time rosalie realised that she was in the haunted cabin in the swamp, the most fearsome of all places in the world to tinkletown, large and small. not more than three miles from her own fireside! not more than half an hour's walk from daddy crow and others in the warmth of whose love she had lived so long! "it's gettin' too hot here for us," growled sam at supper. "we've just got to do something. i'm going out to-night to see if there's any word from the--from the party. these guys ain't all fools. somebody is liable to nose out the trap-door before long and there'll be hell to pay. they won't come back before to-morrow, i reckon. by thunder, there ought to be word from the--the boss by this time. lay low, everybody; i'll be back before daybreak. this time i'm a-goin' to find out something sure or know the reason why. i'm gettin' tired of this business. never know what minute the jig's up, nor when the balloon busts." again he stole forth into the night, leaving his companions more or less uneasy as to the result, after the startling events of the afternoon. hour after hour passed, and with every minute therein, rosalie's ears strained themselves to catch the first sound of approaching rescuers. her spirits fell, but her hopes were high. she felt sure that the men outside had seen her face and that at last they had discovered the place in which she was kept. it would only be a question of time until they learned the baffling secret of the trap-door. her only fear lay in the possibility that she might be removed by her captors before the rescuers could accomplish her delivery. her bright, feverish, eager eyes, gleaming from the sunken white cheeks, appealed to bill briggs more than he cared to admit. the ruffian, less hardened than his fellows, began to feel sorry for her. eleven o'clock found the trio anxious and ugly in their restlessness. there was no sleep for them. davy visited the trap over a hundred times that night. his mother, breaking over the traces of restraint, hugged the jug of whiskey, taking swig after swig as the vigil wore on. at last davy, driven to it, insisted upon having his share. bill drank but little, and it was not long before rosalie observed the shifty, nervous look in his eyes. from time to time he slyly appropriated certain articles, dropping them into his coat pocket. his ear muffs, muffler, gloves, matches, tobacco and many chunks of bread and bacon were stowed stealthily in the pockets of his coat. at last it dawned upon her that bill was preparing to desert. hope lay with him, then. if he could only be induced to give her an equal chance to escape! mother and son became maudlin in their--not cups, but jug; but davy had the sense to imbibe more cautiously, a fact which seemed to annoy the nervous bill. "i must have air--fresh air," suddenly moaned rosalie from her corner, the strain proving too great for her nerves. bill strode over and looked down upon the trembling form for a full minute. "take me outside for just a minute--just a minute, please. i am dying in here." "lemme take her out," cackled old maude. "i'll give her all the air she wants. want so--some air myself. lemme give her air, bill. have some air on me, pardner. lemme--" "shut up, maude!" growled bill, glancing uneasily about the cave. "i'll take her up in the cabin fer a couple of minutes. there ain't no danger." davy protested, but bill carried his point, simply because he was sober and knew his power over the half-stupefied pair. davy let them out through the trap, promising to wait below until they were ready to return. "are you going away?" whispered rosalie, as they passed out into the cold, black night. "sh! don't talk, damn you!" he hissed. "let me go too. i know the way home and you need have no fear of me. i like you, but i hate the others. please, please! for god's sake, let me go! they can't catch me if i have a little start." "i'd like to, but i--i dassent. sam would hunt me down and kill me--he would sure. i am goin' myself--i can't stand it no longer." "have pity! don't leave me alone with them. oh, god, if you--" moaning piteously, she pleaded with him; but he was obdurate, chiefly through fear of the consequences. in his heart he might have been willing to give her the chance, but his head saw the danger to itself and it was firm. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he whispered in the end. "i'll take you back there and then i'll go and tell your friends where you are and how to help you. honest! honest, i will. i know it's as broad as it is long, but i'd rather do it that way. they'll be here in a couple of hours and you'll be free. nobody will be the wiser. curse your whining! shut up! damn you, get back in there! don't give me away to davy, and i'll swear to help you out of this." a minute or two later, he dragged her back into the cabin, moaning, pleading, and crying from the pain of a sudden blow. ten minutes afterward he went forth again, this time ostensibly to meet sam; but rosalie knew that he was gone forever. chapter xxi the trap-door a sickly new moon threw vague ghostly beams across the willow-lined swamp, out beyond the little cabin that stood on its border. through the dense undergrowth and high among the skeleton treetops ugly shadows played with each other, while a sepulchral orchestra of wind and bough shrieked a dirge that flattened in bonner's ears; but it was not the weird music of the swamp that sent the shudder of actual terror through the frame of the big athlete. a series of muffled, heartbreaking moans, like those of a woman in dire pain, came to his ears. he felt the cold perspiration start over his body. his nerves grew tense with trepidation, his eyes wide with horror. instinctively, his fingers clutched the revolver at his side and his gaze went toward the black, square thing which marked the presence of the haunted house. the orchestra of the night seemed to bring its dirge to a close; a chill interlude of silence ensued. the moans died away into choking sobs, and bonner's ears could hear nothing else. a sudden thought striking him, he rolled out of his bed and made his way to bud's pile of blankets. but the solution was not there. the lad was sound asleep and no sound issued from his lips. the moans came from another source, human or otherwise, out there in the crinkling night. carefully making his way from the tent, his courage once more restored but his flesh still quivering, bonner looked intently for manifestations in the black home of johanna rank. he half expected to see a ghostly light flit past a window. it was intensely dark in the thicket, but the shadowy marsh beyond silhouetted the house into a black relief. he was on all fours behind a thick pile of brush, nervously drawing his pipe from his pocket, conscious that he needed it to steady his nerves, when a fresh sound, rising above the faint sobs, reached his ears. then the low voice of a man came from some place in the darkness, and these words rang out distinctly: "damn you!" he drew back involuntarily, for the voice seemed to be at his elbow. the sobs ceased suddenly, as if choked by a mighty hand. the listener's inclination was to follow the example of anderson crow and run madly off into the night. but beneath this natural panic was the soul of chivalry. something told him that a woman out there in the solitude needed the arms of a man; and his blood began to grow hot again. presently the silence was broken by a sharp cry of despair: "have pity! oh, god--" moaned the voice that sent thrills through his body--the voice of a woman, tender, refined, crushed. his fingers gripped the revolver with fresh vigor, but almost instantly the rustling of dead leaves reached his ears: the man and his victim were making their way toward the house. bonner crouched among the bushes as if paralysed. he began to comprehend the situation. in a vague sort of way he remembered hearing of tinkletown's sensation over at his uncle's house, where he was living with a couple of servants for a month's shooting. the atmosphere had been full of the sensational abduction story for several days--the abduction of a beautiful young woman and the helpless attitude of the relatives and friends. like a whirlwind the whole situation spread itself before him; it left him weak. he had come upon the gang and their victim in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, far from the city toward which they were supposed to have fled. he had the solution in his hands and he was filled with the fire of the ancients. a light appeared in the low doorway and the squat figure of a man held a lantern on high. an instant later, another man dragged the helpless girl across the threshold and into the house. even as bonner squared himself to rush down upon them the light disappeared and darkness fell over the cabin. there was a sound of footsteps on the floor, a creaking of hinges and the stealthy closing of a door. then there was absolute quiet. bonner was wise as well as brave. he saw that to rush down upon the house now might prove his own as well as her undoing. in the darkness, the bandits would have every advantage. for a moment he glared at the black shadow ahead, his brain working like lightning. "that poor girl!" he muttered vaguely. "damn beasts! but i'll fix 'em, by heaven! it won't be long, my boys." his pondering brought quick results. crawling to bud's cot, he aroused him from a deep sleep. inside of two minutes the lad was streaking off through the woods toward town, with instructions to bring anderson crow and a large force of men to the spot as quickly as possible. "i'll stand guard," said wicker bonner. as the minutes went by bonner's thoughts dwelt more and more intently upon the poor, imprisoned girl in the cabin. his blood charged his reason and he could scarce control the impulse to dash in upon the wretches. then he brought himself up with a jerk. where was he to find them? had he not searched the house that morning and was there a sign of life to be found? he was stunned by this memory. for many minutes he stood with his perplexed eyes upon the house before a solution came to him. he now knew that there was a secret apartment in the old house and a secret means of entrance and exit. with this explanation firmly impressed upon his mind, wicker bonner decided to begin his own campaign for the liberation of rosalie gray. it would be hours before the sluggish anderson crow appeared; and bonner was not the sort to leave a woman in jeopardy if it was in his power to help her. besides, the country people had filled him with stories of miss gray's beauty, and they found him at an impressionable and heart-free age. the thrill of romance seized him and he was ready to dare. he crept up to the doorway and listened. reason told him that the coast was clear; the necessity for a sentinel did not exist, so cleverly were the desperadoes under cover. after a few moments, he crawled into the room, holding his breath, as he made his way toward the cellar staircase. he had gone but a few feet when the sound of voices came to him. slinking into a corner, he awaited developments. the sounds came from below, but not from the cellar room, as he had located it. a moment later, a man crawled into the room, coming through a hole in the floor, just as he had suspected. a faint light from below revealed the sinister figure plainly, but bonner felt himself to be quite thoroughly hidden. the man in the room spoke to some one below. "i'll be back in half an hour, davy. i'll wait fer sam out there on the point. he ought to have some news from headquarters by this time. i don't see why we have to hang around this place forever. she ought to be half way to paris by now." "they don't want to take chances, bill, till the excitement blows over." "well, you an' your mother just keep your hands off of her while i'm out, that's all," warned bill briggs. the trap-door was closed, and bonner heard the other occupant of the room shuffle out into the night. he was not long in deciding what to do. here was the chance to dispose of one of the bandits, and he was not slow to seize it. there was a meeting in the thicket a few minutes later, and bill was "out of the way" for the time being. wicker bonner dropped him with a sledge-hammer blow, and when he returned to the cabin bill was lying bound and gagged in the tent, a helpless captive. his conqueror, immensely satisfied, supplied himself with the surplus ends of "guy ropes" from the tent and calmly sat down to await the approach of the one called sam, he who had doubtless gone to a rendezvous "for news." he could well afford to bide his time. with two of the desperadoes disposed of in ambuscade, he could have a fairly even chance with the man called davy. it seemed hours before he heard the stealthy approach of some one moving through the bushes. he was stiff with cold, and chafing at the interminable delay, but the approach of real danger quickened his blood once more. there was another short, sharp, silent struggle near the doorway, and once more wicker bonner stood victorious over an unsuspecting and now unconscious bandit. sam, a big, powerful man, was soon bound and gagged and his bulk dragged off to the tent among the bushes. "now for davy," muttered bonner, stretching his great arms in the pure relish of power. "there will be something doing around your heart, miss babe-in-the-woods, in a very few minutes." he chuckled as he crept into the cabin, first having listened intently for sounds. for some minutes he lay quietly with his ear to the floor. in that time he solved one of the problems confronting him. the man davy was a son of old mrs. rank's murderer, and the "old woman" who kept watch with him was his mother, wife of the historic david. it was she who had held the lantern, no doubt, while david wolfe chopped her own mother to mincemeat. this accounted for the presence of the gang in the haunted house and for their knowledge of the underground room. bonner's inspiration began to wear off. pure luck had aided him up to this stage, but the bearding of david in his lair was another proposition altogether. his only hope was that he might find the man asleep. he was not taking the old woman into consideration at all. had he but known it, she was the most dangerous of all. his chance, he thought, lay in strategy. it was impossible to open the trap-door from above, he had found by investigation. there was but one way to get to miss gray, and that was by means of a daring ruse. trusting to luck, he tapped gently on the floor at the spot where memory told him the trap-door was situated. his heart was thumping violently. there was a movement below him, and then the sound of some one handling the bolts in the door. bonner drew back, hoping against hope that a light would not be shown. in one hand he held his revolver ready for use; in the other his heavy walking stick. his plans were fully developed. after a moment the trap was lifted partially and a draft of warm air came out upon him. chapter xxii jack, the giant killer "that you, sam?" half whispered a man's voice. there was no light. "sh!" hissed bonner, muffling his voice. "is everybody in?" "bill's waitin' fer you outside. ma an' me are here. come on down. what's up?" "how's the girl?" "bellerin' like a baby. ma's with her in the cave. hurry up! this thing's heavy." for reply bonner seized the edge of the door with his left hand, first pushing his revolver in his trousers' pocket. then he silently swung the heavy cane through the air and downward, a very faint light from below revealing the shock head of davy in the aperture. it was a mighty blow and true. davy's body fell away from the trap, and a second later bonner's dropped through the hole. he left the trap wide open in case retreat were necessary. pausing long enough to assure himself that the man was unconscious and bleeding profusely, and to snatch the big revolver from davy's person, bonner turned his attention to the surroundings. perhaps a hundred feet away, at the end of a long, low passage, he saw the glimmer of a light. without a second's hesitation he started toward it, feeling that the worst of the adventure was past. a shadow coming between him and the light, he paused in his approach. this shadow resolved itself into the form of a woman, a gigantic creature, who peered intently up the passage. "what's the matter, davy?" she called in raucous tones. "you damn fool, can't you do anything without breaking your neck? i reckon you fell down the steps? that you, sam?" receiving no answer, the woman clutched the lantern and advanced boldly upon bonner, who stood far down the passage, amazed and irresolute. she looked more formidable to him than any of the men, so he prepared for a struggle. "halt!" he cried, when she was within ten feet of him. "don't resist; you are surrounded!" the woman stopped like one shot, glared ahead as if she saw him for the first time, and then uttered a frightful shriek of rage. dashing the lantern to the ground, she raised her arm and fired a revolver point blank at bonner, despite the fact that his pistol was covering her. he heard the bullet crash into the rotten timbers near his ear. contrary to her design, the lantern was not extinguished. instead, it lay sputtering but effective upon the floor. before bonner could make up his mind to shoot at the woman she was upon him, firing again as she came. he did not have time to retaliate. the huge frame crushed down upon him and his pistol flew from his hand. as luck would have it, his free hand clutched her revolver, and she was prevented from blowing his brains out with the succeeding shots, all of which went wild. then came a desperate struggle. bonner, a trained athlete, realised that she was even stronger than he, more desperate in her frenzy, and with murder in her heart. as they lunged to and fro, her curses and shrieks in his ear, he began to feel the despair of defeat. she was beating him down with one mighty arm, crushing blows, every one of them. then came the sound which turned the tide of battle, for it filled him with a frenzy equal to her own. the scream of a woman came down through the passage, piteous, terror-stricken. he knew the fate of that poor girl if his adversary overcame him. the thought sent his blood hot and cold at once. infuriatedly, he exerted his fine strength, and the tide turned. panting and snarling, the big woman was battered down. he flung her heavily to the ground and then leaped back to pick up his revolver, expecting a renewal of the attack. for the first time he was conscious of intense pain in his left leg. the woman made a violent effort to rise, and then fell back, groaning and cursing. "you've done it! you've got me!" she yelled. "my leg's broke!" then she shrieked for davy and bill and sam, raining curses upon the law and upon the traitor who had been their undoing. bonner, his own leg wobbling and covered with blood, tried to quiet her, but without success. he saw that she was utterly helpless, her leg twisted under her heavy body. her screams of pain as he turned her over proved conclusively that she was not shamming. her hip was dislocated. the young man had sense enough left to return to davy before venturing into the cave where miss gray was doubtless in a dead faint. the man was breathing, but still unconscious from the blow on the head. bonner quickly tied his hands and feet, guarding against emergencies in case of his own incapacitation as the result of the bullet wound in his leg; then he hobbled off with the lantern past the groaning amazon in quest of rosalie gray. it did not occur to him until afterward that single handed he had overcome a most desperate band of criminals, so simply had it all worked out up to the time of the encounter with the woman. a few yards beyond where the old woman lay moaning he came upon the cave in which the bandits made their home. holding the lantern above his head, bonner peered eagerly into the cavern. in the farthest corner crouched a girl, her terror-struck eyes fastened upon the stranger. "how do you do, miss gray," came the cheery greeting from his lips. she gasped, swept her hand over her eyes, and tried piteously to speak. the words would not come. "the long-prayed-for rescue has come. you are free--that is, as soon as we find our way out of this place. let me introduce myself as jack, the giant killer--hello! don't do that! oh, the devil!" she had toppled over in a dead faint. how wicker bonner, with his wounded leg, weak from loss of blood, and faint from the reaction, carried her from the cave through the passage and the trap-door and into the tent can only be imagined, not described. he only knew that it was necessary to remove her from the place, and that his strength would soon be gone. the sun was tinting the east before she opened her eyes and shuddered. in the meantime he had stanched the flow of blood in the fleshy part of his leg, binding the limb tightly with a piece of rope. it was an ugly, glancing cut made by a bullet of large calibre, and it was sure to put him on crutches for some time to come. even now he was scarcely able to move the member. for an hour he had been venting his wrath upon the sluggish anderson crow, who should have been on the scene long before this. two of his captives, now fully conscious, were glaring at their companions in the tent with hate in their eyes. rosalie gray, wan, dishevelled, but more beautiful than the reports had foretold, could not at first believe herself to be free from the clutches of the bandits. it took him many minutes--many painful minutes--to convince her that it was not a dream, and that in truth he was wicker bonner, gentleman. sitting with his back against a tent pole, facing the cabin through the flap, with a revolver in his trembling hand, he told her of the night's adventures, and was repaid tenfold by the gratitude which shone from her eyes and trembled in her voice. in return she told him of her capture, of the awful experiences in the cave, and of the threats which had driven her almost to the end of endurance. "oh, oh, i could love you forever for this!" she cried in the fulness of her joy. a rapturous smile flew to bonner's eyes. "forever begins with this instant, miss gray," he said; and without any apparent reason the two shook hands. afterward they were to think of this trivial act and vow that it was truly the beginning. they were young, heart-free, and full of the romance of life. "and those awful men are really captured--and the woman?" she cried, after another exciting recital from him. sam and bill fairly snarled. "suppose they should get loose?" her eyes grew wide with the thought of it. "they can't," he said laconically. "i wish the marshal and his bicycle army would hurry along. that woman and davy need attention. i'd hate like the mischief to have either of them die. one doesn't want to kill people, you know, miss gray." "but they were killing me by inches," she protested. "ouch!" he groaned, his leg giving him a mighty twinge. "what is it?" she cried in alarm. "why should we wait for those men? come, mr. bonner, take me to the village--please do. i am crazy, absolutely crazy, to see daddy crow and mother. i can walk there--how far is it?--please come." she was running on eagerly in this strain until she saw the look of pain in his face--the look he tried so hard to conceal. she was standing straight and strong and eager before him, and he was very pale under the tan. "i can't, miss gray. i'm sorry, you know. see! where there's smoke there's fire--i mean, where there's blood there's a wound. i'm done for, in other words." "done for? oh, you're not--not going to die! are you hurt? why didn't you tell me?" whereupon she dropped to her knees at his side, her dark eyes searching his intently, despair in them until the winning smile struggled back into his. the captives chuckled audibly. "what can i--what shall i do? oh, why don't those men come! it must be noon or--" "it's barely six a.m., miss gray. don't worry. i'm all right. a cut in my leg; the old woman plugged me. i can't walk, you know--but--" "and you carried me out here and did all that and never said a word about--oh, how good and brave and noble you are!" when anderson crow and half of tinkletown, routed out _en masse_ by bud, appeared on the scene an hour or two later, they found wicker bonner stretched out on a mattress, his head in rosalie's lap. the young woman held his revolver in her hand, and there was a look in her face which said that she would shoot any one who came to molest her charge. two helpless desperadoes lay cursing in the corner of the tent. anderson crow, after an hour of deliberation and explanation, fell upon the bound and helpless bandits and bravely carted the whole lot to the town "calaboose." wicker bonner and his nurse were taken into town, and the news of the rescue went flying over the county, and eventually to the four corners of the land, for congressman bonner's nephew was a person of prominence. bonner, as he passed up the main street in peabody's sleigh on the way to anderson crow's home, was the centre of attraction. he was the hero of the hour, for was not rosalie gray herself, pale and ill with torture, his most devoted slave? what else could tinkletown do but pay homage when it saw bonner's head against her shoulder and anderson crow shouting approval from the bob-sled that carried the kidnapers. the four bandits, two of them much the worse for the night's contact with wicker bonner, were bundled into the lock-up, a sadly morose gang of ghosts. "i owe you a thousand dollars," said anderson to bonner as they drew up in front of the marshal's home. all tinkletown was there to see how mrs. crow and the family would act when rosalie was restored to them. the yard was full of gaping villagers, and there was a diffident cheer when mrs. crow rushed forth and fairly dragged rosalie from the sleigh. "blootch" peabody gallantly interposed and undertook to hand the girl forth with the grace of a chesterfield. but mrs. crow had her way. "i'll take it out in board and lodging," grinned wicker bonner to anderson as two strong men lifted him from the sleigh. "where's bud?" demanded anderson after the others had entered the house. "he stayed down to the 'calaboose' to guard the prisoners," said "blootch." "nobody could find the key to the door and nobody else would stay. they ain't locked in, but bud's got two revolvers, and he says they can only escape over his dead body." chapter xxiii tinkletown's convulsion anderson crow was himself once more. he was twenty years younger than when he went to bed the night before. his joy and pride had reached the bursting point--dignity alone prevented the catastrophe. "what do you expect to do with the gang, mr. crow?" asked bonner, reclining with amiable ease in the marshal's morris chair. he was feeling very comfortable, despite "doc" smith's stitches; and he could not help acknowledging, with more or less of a glow in his heart, that it was nice to play hero to such a heroine. "well, i'll protect 'em, of course. nobody c'n lynch 'em while i'm marshal of this town," anderson said, forgetful of the fact that he had not been near the jail, where master bud still had full charge of affairs, keyless but determined. "i'll have to turn them over to the county sheriff to-day er to-morrow, i reckon. this derned old calaboose of ourn ain't any too safe. that's a mighty desperit gang we've captured. i cain't remember havin' took sech a mob before." "has it occurred to you, mr. crow, that we have captured only the hirelings? their employer, whoever he or she may be, is at large and probably laughing at us. isn't there some way in which we can follow the case up and land the leader?" "'y gosh, you're right," said anderson. "i thought of that this mornin', but it clean skipped my mind since then. there's where the mistake was made, mr. bonner. it's probably too late now. you'd oughter thought about the leader. seems to me--" "why, daddy crow," cried rosalie, a warm flush in her cheeks once more, "hasn't mr. bonner done his part? hasn't he taken them single-handed and hasn't he saved me from worse than death?" "i ain't castin' any insinyations at him, rosalie," retorted anderson, very sternly for him. "how _can_ you talk like that?" "i'm not offended, miss gray," laughed bonner. "we all make mistakes. it has just occurred to me, however, that mr. crow may still be able to find out who the leader is. the prisoners can be pumped, i dare say." "you're right ag'in, mr. bonner. it's funny how you c'n read my thoughts. i was jest goin' down to the jail to put 'em through the sweat cell." "sweat cell? you mean sweat box, mr. crow," said bonner, laughing in spite of himself. "no, sir; it's a cell. we couldn't find a box big enough. i use the cell reserved fer women prisoners. mebby some day the town board will put in a reg'lar box, but, so far, the cell has done all right. i'll be back 'bout supper-time, eva. you take keer o' rosalie. make her sleep a while an' i guess you'd better dose her up a bit with quinine an'--" "i guess i know what to give her, anderson crow," resented his wife. "go 'long with you. you'd oughter been lookin' after them kidnapers three hours ago. i bet bud's purty nigh wore out guardin' them. he's been there ever sence nine o'clock, an' it's half-past two now." "roscoe's helpin' him," muttered anderson, abashed. at that instant there came a rush of footsteps across the front porch and in burst ed higgins and "blootch" peabody, fairly gasping with excitement. "hurry up, anderson--down to the jail," sputtered the former; and then he was gone like the wind. "blootch," determined to miss nothing, whirled to follow, or pass him if possible. he had time to shout over his shoulder as he went forth without closing the door: "the old woman has lynched herself!" it would now be superfluous to remark, after all the convulsions tinkletown had experienced inside of twenty-four hours, that the populace went completely to pieces in face of this last trying experiment of fate. with one accord the village toppled over as if struck by a broadside and lay, figuratively speaking, writhing in its own gore. stupefaction assailed the town. then one by one the minds of the people scrambled up from the ashes, slowly but surely, only to wonder where lightning would strike next. not since the days of the american revolution had the town experienced such an incessant rush of incident. the judgment day itself, with gabriel's clarion blasts, could not be expected to surpass this productive hour in thrills. it was true that old maude had committed suicide in the calaboose. she had been placed on a cot in the office of the prison and dr. smith had been sent for, immediately after her arrival; but he was making a call in the country. bud long, supported by half a dozen boys armed with revolutionary muskets, which would not go off unless carried, stood in front of the little jail with its wooden walls and iron bars, guarding the prisoners zealously. the calaboose was built to hold tramps and drunken men, but not for the purpose of housing desperadoes. even as the heroic bud watched with persevering faithfulness, his charges were planning to knock their prison to smithereens and at the proper moment escape to the woods and hills. they knew the grated door was unlocked, but they imagined the place to be completely surrounded by vengeful villagers, who would cut them down like rats if they ventured forth. had they but known that bud was alone, it is quite likely they would have sallied forth and relieved him of his guns, spanked him soundly and then ambled off unmolested to the country. all the morning old maude had been groaning and swearing in the office, where she lay unattended. bud was telling his friends how he had knocked her down twice in the cave, after she had shot six times and slashed at him with her dagger, when a sudden cessation of groans from the interior attracted the attention of all. "doc" smith arrived at that juncture and found the boys listening intently for a resumption of the picturesque profanity. it was some time before the crowd became large enough to inspire a visit to the interior of the calaboose. as became his dignity, bud led the way. the old woman, unable to endure the pain any longer, and knowing full well that her days were bound to end in prison, had managed, in some way, to hang herself from a window bar beside her bed, using a twisted bed sheet. she was quite dead when "doc" made the examination. a committee of the whole started at once to notify anderson crow. for a minute it looked as though the jail would be left entirely unguarded, but bud loyally returned to his post, reinforced by roscoe and the doctor. upon mr. crow's arrival at the jail, affairs assumed some aspect of order. he first locked the grate doors, thereby keeping the fiery david from coming out to see his mother before they cut her down. a messenger was sent for the coroner at boggs city, and then the big body was released from its last hanging place. "doggone, but this is a busy day fer me!" said anderson. "i won't have time to pump them fellers till this evenin'. but i guess they'll keep. 'what's that, blootch?" "i was just goin' to ask bud if they're still in there," said blootch. "are they, bud?" asked anderson in quick alarm. "sure," replied bud with a mighty swelling of the chest. even blootch envied him. "she's been dead jest an hour an' seven minutes," observed anderson, gingerly touching the dead woman's wrist. "doggone, i'm glad o' one thing!" "what's that, anderson?" "we won't have to set her hip. saved expense." "but we'll have to bury her, like as not," said isaac porter. "yes," said anderson reflectively. "she'll have to be buried. but--but--" and here his face lightened up in relief--"not fer a day er two; so what's the use worryin'." when the coroner arrived, soon after six o'clock, a jury was empanelled and witnesses sworn. in ten minutes a verdict of suicide was returned and the coroner was on his way back to boggs city. he did not even know that a hip had been dislocated. anderson insisted upon a post-mortem examination, but was laughed out of countenance by the officious m.d. "i voted fer that fool last november," said anderson wrathfully, as the coroner drove off, "but you c'n kick the daylights out of me if i ever do it ag'in. look out there, bud! what in thunder are you doin' with them pistols? doggone, ain't you got no sense? pointin' 'em around that way. why, you're liable to shoot somebody--" "aw, them ain't pistols," scoffed bud, his mouth full of something. "they're bologny sausages. i ain't had nothin' to eat sence last night and i'm hungry." "well, it's dark out here," explained anderson, suddenly shuffling into the jail. "i guess i'll put them fellers through the sweat box." "the _what?_" demanded george ray. "the sweat-box--b-o-x, box. cain't you hear?" "i thought you used a cell." "thunderation, no! nobody but country jakes call it a cell," said anderson in fine scorn. the three prisoners scowled at him so fiercely and snarled so vindictively when they asked him if they were to be starved to death, that poor anderson hurried home and commanded his wife to pack "a baskit of bread and butter an' things fer the prisoners." it was nine o'clock before he could make up his mind to venture back to the calaboose with his basket. he spent the intervening hours in telling rosalie and bonner about the shocking incident at the jail and in absorbing advice from the clear-headed young man from boston. "i'd like to go with you to see those fellows, mr. crow," was bonner's rueful lament. "but the doctor says i must be quiet until this confounded thing heals a bit. together, i think we could bluff the whole story out of those scoundrels." "oh, never you fear," said the marshal; "i'll learn all there is to be learnt. you jest ask alf reesling what kind of a pumper i am." "who is alf reesling?" "ain't you heerd of him in boston? why, every temperance lecturer that comes here says he's the biggest drunkard in the world. i supposed his reputation had got to boston by this time. he's been sober only once in twenty-five years." "is it possible?" "that was when his wife died. he said he felt so good it wasn't necessary to get drunk. well, i'll tell you all about it when i come back. don't worry no more, rosalie. i'll find out who's back of this business an' then we'll know all about you. it's a long lane that has no turn." "them prisoners must be mighty near starved to death by this time, anderson," warned mrs. crow. "doggone, that's so!" he cried, and hustled out into the night. the calaboose was almost totally dark--quite so, had it not been for the single lamp that burned in the office where the body of the old woman was lying. two or three timid citizens stood afar off, in front of thompson's feed yard, looking with awe upon the dungeon keep. anderson's footsteps grew slower and more halting as they approached the entrance to the forbidding square of black. the snow creaked resoundingly under his heels and the chill wind nipped his muffless ears with a spitefulness that annoyed. in fact, he became so incensed, that he set his basket down and slapped his ears vigorously for some minutes before resuming his slow progress. he hated the thought of going in where the dead woman lay. suddenly he made up his mind that a confession from the men would be worthless unless he had ear witnesses to substantiate it in court. without further deliberation, he retraced his steps hurriedly to lamson's store, where, after half an hour's conversation on the topics of the day, he deputised the entire crowd to accompany him to the jail. "where's bud?" he demanded sharply. "home in bed, poor child," said old mr. borton. "well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain't he here to--" began anderson, but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he expected bud to act as leader in the expedition. "i wanted him to jot down notes," he substituted. editor squires volunteered to act as secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing tongue could utter. "well, go ahead, then," said anderson, pushing him forward. harry led the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary; few in the crowd could keep pace with him. a majority fell hopelessly behind, in fact. straight into the office walked harry, closely followed by blootch and the marshal. maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied the centre of the floor. without a word, the party filed past the gruesome, silent thing and into the jail corridor. it was as dark as erebus in the barred section of the prison; a cold draft of air flew into the faces of the visitors. "come here, you fellers!" called anderson bravely into the darkness; but there was no response from the prisoners. for the very good reason that some hours earlier they had calmly removed a window from its moorings and by this time were much too far away to answer questions. chapter xxiv the flight of the kidnapers searching parties were organised and sent out to scour the country, late as it was. swift riders gave the alarm along every roadway, and the station agent telegraphed the news into every section of the land. at boggs city, the sheriff, berating anderson crow for a fool and tinkletown for an open-air lunatic asylum, sent his deputies down to assist in the pursuit. the marshal himself undertook to lead each separate and distinct posse. he was so overwhelmed by the magnitude of his misfortune that it is no wonder his brain whirled widely enough to encompass the whole enterprise. be it said to the credit of tinkletown, her citizens made every reasonable effort to recapture the men. the few hundred able-bodied men of the town rallied to the support of their marshal and the law, and there was not one who refused to turn out in the cold night air for a sweeping search of the woods and fields. rosalie, who had been awakened early in the evening by mr. crow's noisy preparations for the pursuit, came downstairs, and instantly lost all desire to sleep. bonner was lying on a couch in the "sitting-room," which now served as a temporary bedchamber. "if you'll just hand me those revolvers, mr. crow," said he, indicating the two big automatics he had taken from davy and bill, "i'll stand guard over the house as best i can while you're away." "stand guard? what fer? nobody's goin' to steal the house." "we should not forget that these same rascals may take it into their heads to double on their tracks and try to carry miss gray away again. with her in their possession they'll receive their pay; without her their work will have been for nothing. it is a desperate crowd, and they may think the plan at least worth trying." rosalie's grateful, beaming glance sent a quiver that was not of pain through bonner's frame. "don't worry about that," said the marshal. "we'll have 'em shot to pieces inside of an hour an' a half." "anderson, i want you to be very careful with that horse pistol," said his wife nervously. "it ain't been shot off sence the war, an' like as not it'll kill you from behind." "gosh blast it, eva!" roared anderson, "don't you suppose i know which end to shoot with?" and away he rushed in great dudgeon. edna crow sat at the front window, keeping watch for hours. she reported to the other members of the household as each scurrying band of searchers passed the place. bonner commanded rosalie to keep away from the windows, fearing a shot from the outside. from time to time roscoe replenished the big blaze in the fireplace. it was cosey in the old-fashioned sitting-room, even though the strain upon its occupants was trying in the extreme. great excitement came to them when the figure of a man was seen to drop to the walk near the front gate. at first it was feared that one of the bandits, injured by pursuers, had fallen to die, but the mournful calls for help that soon came from the sidewalk were more or less reassuring. the prostrate figure had a queer habit from time to time of raising itself high enough to peer between the pickets of the fence, and each succeeding shout seemed more vigorous than the others. finally they became impatient, and then full of wrath. it was evident that the stranger resented the inhospitality of the house. "who are you?" called edna, opening the window ever so slightly. whereupon the man at the gate sank to the ground and groaned with splendid misery. "it's me," he replied. "who's me?" "'rast--'rast little. i think i'm dyin'." there was a hurried consultation indoors, and then roscoe bravely ventured out to the sidewalk. "are you shot, 'rast?" he asked in trembling tones. "no; i'm just wounded. is rosalie in there?" "yep. she's--" "i guess i'll go in, then. dern it! it's a long walk from our house over here. i guess i'll stay all night. if i don't get better to-morrow i'll have to stay longer. i ought to be nursed, too." "rosalie's playin' nurse fer mr. bonner," volunteered roscoe, still blocking the gate through which 'rast was trying to wedge himself. "mr. who?" "bonner." "well," said 'rast after a moment's consideration, "he ought to be moved to a hospital. lemme lean on you, roscoe. i can't hardly walk, my arm hurts so." mr. little, with his bandages and his hobble, had joined in the expedition, and was not to be deterred until faintness overcame him and he dropped by the wayside. he was taken in and given a warm chair before the fire. one long look at bonner and the newcomer lapsed into a stubborn pout. he groaned occasionally and made much ado over his condition, but sourly resented any approach at sympathy. finally he fell asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of the way. plainly, 'rast had forgotten miss banks in the sudden revival of affection for rosalie gray. the course of true love did not run smoothly in tinkletown. the searchers straggled in empty handed. early morning found most of them asleep at their homes, tucked away by thankful wives, and with the promises of late breakfasts. the next day business was slow in asserting its claim upon public attention. masculine tinkletown dozed while femininity chattered to its heart's content. there was much to talk about and more to anticipate. the officials in all counties contiguous had out their dragnets, and word was expected at any time that the fugitives had fallen into their hands. but not that day, nor the next, nor any day, in fact, did news come of their capture, so tinkletown was obliged to settle back into a state of tranquility. some little interest was aroused when the town board ordered the calaboose repaired, and there was a ripple of excitement attached to the funeral of the only kidnaper in captivity. it was necessary to postpone the oyster supper at the methodist church, but there was some consolation in the knowledge that it would soon be summer-time and the benighted africans would not need the money for winter clothes. the reception at the minister's house was a fizzle. he was warned in time, however, and it was his own fault that he received no more than a jug of vinegar, two loaves of bread and a pound of honey as the result of his expectations. it was the first time that a "pound" party had proven a losing enterprise. anderson crow maintained a relentless search for the desperadoes. he refused to accept wicker bonner's theory that they were safe in the city of new york. it was his own opinion that they were still in the neighbourhood, waiting for a chance to exhume the body of davy's mother and make off with it. "don't try to tell me, mr. bonner, that even a raskil like him hasn't any love fer his mother," he contended. "davy may not be much of a model, but he had a feelin' fer the woman who bore him, an' don't you fergit it." "why, daddy crow, he was the most heartless brute in the world!" cried rosalie. "i've seen him knock her down more than once--and kick her, too." "a slip of the memory, that's all. he was probably thinkin' of his wife, if he has one." at a public meeting the town board was condemned for its failure to strengthen the jail at the time anderson made his demand three years before. "what's the use in me catchin' thieves, and so forth, if the jail won't hold 'em?" anderson declared. "i cain't afford to waste time in runnin' desperite characters down if the town board ain't goin' to obstruct 'em from gittin' away as soon as the sun sits. what's the use, i'd like to know? where's the justice? i don't want it to git noised aroun' that the on'y way we c'n hold a prisoner is to have him commit suicide as soon as he's arrested. fer two cents i'd resign right now." of course no one would hear to that. as a result, nearly five hundred dollars was voted from the corporation funds to strengthen and modernise the "calaboose." it was the sense of the meeting that a "sweat box" should be installed under mr. crow's supervision, and that the marshal's salary should be increased fifty dollars a year. after the adoption of this popular resolution mr. crow arose and solemnly informed the people that their faith in him was not misplaced. he threw the meeting into a state of great excitement by announcing that the kidnapers would soon be in the toils once more. in response to eager queries he merely stated that he had a valuable clew, which could not be divulged without detriment to the cause. everybody went home that night with the assurance that the fugitives would soon be taken. anderson promised the town board that he would not take them until the jail was repaired. it was almost a fortnight before wicker bonner was able to walk about with crutches. the wound in his leg was an ugly one and healed slowly. his uncle, the congressman, sent up a surgeon from new york, but that worthy approved of "doc" smith's methods, and abruptly left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse, rosalie gray. congressman bonner's servants came over every day or two with books, newspapers, sweetmeats, and fresh supplies from the city, but it was impossible for them to get any satisfaction from the young man in reply to their inquiries as to when he expected to return to the big house across the river. bonner was beginning to hate the thought of giving up rosalie's readings, her ministrations, and the no uncertain development of his own opinions as to her personal attractiveness. "i don't know when i'll be able to walk, watkins," he said to the caretaker. "i'm afraid my heart is affected." bonner's enforced presence at anderson crow's home was the source of extreme annoyance to the young men of the town. "blootch" peabody created a frightful scandal by getting boiling drunk toward the end of the week, so great was his dejection. as it was his first real spree, he did not recover from the effect for three days. he then took the pledge, and talked about the evils of strong drink with so much feeling at prayer meeting that the women of the town inaugurated a movement to stop the sale of liquor in the town. as peabody's drug store was the only place where whiskey could be obtained, "blootch" soon saw the error of his ways and came down from his pedestal to mend them. bonner was a friend in need to anderson crow. the two were in consultation half of the time, and the young man's opinions were not to be disregarded. he advanced a theory concerning the motives of the leader in the plot to send rosalie into an exile from which she was not expected to return. it was his belief that the person who abandoned her as a babe was actuated by the desire to possess a fortune which should have been the child's. the conditions attending the final disposition of this fortune doubtless were such as to make it unwise to destroy the girl's life. the plotter, whatever his or her relation to the child may have been, must have felt that a time might come when the existence of the real heiress would be necessary. either such a fear was the inspiration or the relationship was so dear that the heart of the arch-plotter was full of love for the innocent victim. "who is to say, miss gray," said bonner one night as they sat before the fire, "that the woman who left you with mr. crow was not your own mother? suppose that a vast estate was to be yours in trust after the death of some rich relative, say grandparent. it would naturally mean that some one else resented this bequest, and probably with some justice. the property was to become your own when you attained a certain age, let us say. don't you see that the day would rob the disinherited person of every hope to retain the fortune? even a mother might be tempted, for ambitious reasons, to go to extreme measures to secure the fortune for herself. or she might have been influenced by a will stronger than her own--the will of an unscrupulous man. there are many contingencies, all probable, as you choose to analyse them." "but why should this person wish to banish me from the country altogether? i am no more dangerous here than i would be anywhere in europe. and then think of the means they would have employed to get me away from tinkletown. have i not been lost to the world for years? why--" "true; but i am quite convinced, and i think mr. crow agrees with me, that the recent move was made necessary by the demands of one whose heart is not interested, but whose hand wields the sceptre of power over the love which tries to shield you. any other would have cut off your life at the beginning." "that's my idee," agreed anderson solemnly. "i don't want the fortune!" cried rosalie. "i am happy here! why can't they let me alone?" "i tell you, miss gray, unless something happens to prevent it, that woman will some day give you back your own--your fortune and your name." "i can't believe it, mr. bonner. it is too much like a dream to me." "well, doggone it, rosalie, dreams don't last forever!" broke in anderson crow. "you've got to wake up some time, don't you see?" chapter xxv as the heart grows older bonner's eagerness to begin probing into the mystery grew as his strength came back to him. he volunteered to interest his uncle in the matter, and through him to begin a systematic effort to unravel the tangled ends of rosalie's life. money was not to be spared; time and intelligence were to be devoted to the cause. he knew that rosalie was in reality a creature of good birth and worthy of the name that any man might seek to bestow upon her--a name given in love by a man to the woman who would share it with him forever. the days and nights were teaching him the sacredness of a growing attachment. he was not closing his eyes to the truth. it was quite as impossible for big, worldly wick bonner to be near her and not fall a victim, as it was for the crude, humble youth of tinkletown. his heart was just as fragile as theirs when it bared itself to her attack. her beauty attracted him, her natural refinement of character appealed to him; her pureness, her tenderness, her goodness, wrought havoc with his impressions. fresh, bright, as clear-headed as the june sunshine, she was a revelation to him--to bonner, who had known her sex in all its environments. his heart was full of her, day and night; for day and night he was wondering whether she could care for him as he knew he was coming to care for her. one day he received a telegram. it was from his mother and his sister, who had just reached boston from bermuda, and it carried the brief though emphatic information that they were starting to tinkletown to nurse and care for him. bonner was thrown into a panic. he realised in the instant that it would be impossible for them to come to mr. crow's home, and he knew they could not be deceived as to his real condition. his mother would naturally insist upon his going at once to bonner place, across the river, and on to boston as soon as he was able; his clever sister would see through his motives like a flash of lightning. young mr. bonner loved them, but he was distinctly bored by the prospect of their coming. in some haste and confusion, he sent for "doc" smith. "doctor, how soon will i be able to navigate?" he asked anxiously. "right now." "you don't say so! i don't feel strong, you know." "well, your leg's doing well and all danger is past. of course, you won't be as spry as usual for some time, and you can't walk without crutches, but i don't see any sense in your loafing around here on that account. you'd be safe to go at any time, mr. bonner." "look here, doctor, i'm afraid to change doctors. you've handled this case mighty well, and if i went to some other chap, he might undo it all. i've made up my mind to have you look out for me until this wound is completely healed. that's all right, now. i know what i'm talking about. i'll take no chances. how long will it be until it is completely healed?" "a couple of weeks, i suppose." "well, i'll stay right here and have you look at it every day. it's too serious a matter for me to trifle with. by the way, my mother is coming up, and i dare say she'll want me to go to boston. our family doctor is an old fossil and i don't like to trust him with this thing. you'll be doing me a favour, doctor, if you keep me here until i'm thoroughly well. i intend to tell my mother that it will not be wise to move me until all danger of blood poisoning is past." "blood poisoning? there's no danger now, sir." "you never can tell," said bonner sagely. "but i'd be a perfect fool, mr. bonner, if there were still danger of that," complained the doctor. "what sort of a doctor would they consider me?" "they'd certainly give you credit for being careful, and that's what appeals to a mother, you know," said bonner still more sagely. "besides, it's _my_ leg, doctor, and i'll have it treated my way. i think a couple of weeks more under your care will put me straight. mother has to consider me, that's all. i wish you'd stop in to-morrow and change these bandages, doctor; if you don't mind--" "doc" smith was not slow. he saw more than bonner thought, so he winked to himself as he crossed over to his office. at the corner he met anderson crow. "say, anderson," he said, half chuckling, "that young bonner has had a relapse." "thunderation!" "he can't be moved for a week or two." "will you have to cut it off?" "the leg?" "certainly. that's the only thing that pains him, ain't it?" "i think not. i'm going to put his heart in a sling," said smith, laughing heartily at what he thought would be taken as a brilliant piece of jesting. but he erred. anderson went home in a great flurry and privately cautioned every member of the household, including rosalie, to treat bonner with every consideration, as his heart was weak and liable to give him great trouble. above all, he cautioned them to keep the distressing news from bonner. it would discourage him mightily. for a full week anderson watched bonner with anxious eyes, writhing every time the big fellow exerted himself, groaning when he gave vent to his hearty laugh. "have you heard anything?" asked bonner with faithful regularity when anderson came home each night. he referred to the chase for the fugitives. "nothin' worth while," replied anderson dismally. "uncle jimmy borton had a letter from albany to-day, an' his son-in-law said three strange men had been seen in the albany depot the other day. i had uncle jimmy write an' ast him if he had seen anybody answerin' the description, you know. but the three men he spoke of took a train for new york, so i suppose they're lost by this time. it's the most bafflin' case i ever worked on." "has it occurred to you that the real leader was in this neighbourhood at the time? in boggs city, let us say. according to rosa--miss gray's story, the man sam went out nightly for instructions. well, he either went to boggs city or to a meeting place agreed upon between him and his superior. it is possible that he saw this person on the very night of my own adventure. now, the thing for us to do is to find out if a stranger was seen in these parts on that night. the hotel registers in boggs city may give us a clew. if you don't mind, mr. crow, i'll have this new york detective, who is coming up to-morrow, take a look into this phase of the case. it won't interfere with your plans, will it?" asked bonner, always considerate of the feelings of the good-hearted, simple-minded old marshal. "not at all, an' i'll help him all i can, sir," responded anderson magnanimously. "here, eva, here's a letter fer rosalie. it's the second she's had from new york in three days." "it's from miss banks. they correspond, anderson," said mrs. crow. "and say, eva, i've decided on one thing. we've got to calculate on gittin' along without that thousand dollars after this." "why, an--der--son crow!" "yep. we're goin' to find her folks, no matter if we do have to give up the thousand. it's no more'n right. she'll be twenty-one in march, an' i'll have to settle the guardeenship business anyhow. but, doggone it, mr. bonner, she says she won't take the money we've saved fer her." "she has told me as much, mr. crow. i think she's partly right. if she takes my advice she will divide it with you. you are entitled to all of it, you know--it was to be your pay--and she will not listen to your plan to give all of it to her. still, i feel that she should not be penniless at this time. she may never need it--she certainly will not as long as you are alive--but it seems a wise thing for her to be protected against emergencies. but i dare say you can arrange that between yourselves. i have no right to interfere. was there any mail for me?" "yep. i almost fergot to fork it over. here's one from your mother, i figger. this is from your sister, an' here's one from your--your sweetheart, i reckon. i deduce all this by sizin' up the--" and he went on to tell how he reached his conclusions, all of which were wrong. they were invitations to social affairs in boston. "but i got somethin' important to tell you, mr. bonner. i think a trap is bein' set fer me by the desperadoes we're after. i guess i'm gittin' too hot on their trail. i had an ananymous letter to-day." "a what?" "ananymous letter. didn't you ever hear of one? this one was writ fer the express purpose of lurin' me into a trap. they want to git me out of the way. but i'll fool 'em. i'll not pay any attention to it." "goodness, anderson, i bet you'll be assassinated yet!" cried his poor wife. "i wish you'd give up chasin' people down." "may i have a look at the letter, mr. crow?" asked bonner. anderson stealthily drew the square envelope from his inside pocket and passed it over. "they've got to git up purty early to ketch me asleep," he said proudly. bonner drew the enclosure from the envelope. as he read, his eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched, but his face was politely sober as he handed the missive back to the marshal. "looks like a trap, don't it?" said anderson. "you see there ain't no signature. the raskils were afraid to sign a name." "i wouldn't say anything to miss gray about this if i were you, mr. crow. it might disturb her, you know," said bonner. "that means you, too, eva," commanded anderson in turn. "don't worry the girl. she mustn't know anything about this." "i don't think it's a trap," remarked eva as she finished reading the missive. bonner took this opportunity to laugh heartily. he had held it back as long as possible. what anderson described as an "ananymous" letter was nothing more than a polite, formal invitation to attend a "house warming" at colonel randall's on the opposite side of the river. it read: "mr. and mrs. d.f. randall request the honour of your presence at a house warming, friday evening, january , --, at eight o'clock. rockden-of-the-hills." "it is addressed to me, too, anderson," said his wife, pointing to the envelope. "it's the new house they finished last fall. anonymous letter! fiddlesticks! i bet there's one at the post-office fer each one of the girls." "roscoe got some of the mail," murmured the marshal sheepishly. "where is that infernal boy? he'd oughter be strapped good and hard fer holdin' back letters like this," growled he, eager to run the subject into another channel. after pondering all evening, he screwed up the courage and asked bonner not to tell any one of his error in regard to the invitation. roscoe produced invitations for his sister and rosalie. he furthermore announced that half the people in town had received them. "there's a telegram comin' up fer you after a while, mr. bonner," he said. "bud's out delivering one to mr. grimes, and he's going to stop here on the way back. i was at the station when it come in. it's from your ma, and it says she'll be over from boggs city early in the morning." "thanks, roscoe," said bonner with an amused glance at rosalie; "you've saved me the trouble of reading it." "they are coming to-morrow," said rosalie long afterward, as the last of the crows straggled off to bed. "you will have to go away with them, won't you?" "i'm an awful nuisance about here, i fancy, and you'll be glad to be rid of me," he said softly, his gaze on the blazing "back-log." "no more so than you will be to go," she said so coolly that his pride suffered a distinct shock. he stole a shy glance at the face of the girl opposite. it was as calm and serene as a may morning. her eyes likewise were gazing into the blaze, and her fingers were idly toying with the fringe on the arm of the chair. "by george!" he thought, a weakness assailing his heart suddenly; "i don't believe she cares a rap!" chapter xxvi the left ventricle the next day mrs. bonner and miss bonner descended upon tinkletown. they were driven over from boggs city in an automobile, and their advent caused a new thrill of excitement in town. half of the women in tinkletown found excuse to walk past mr. crow's home some time during the day, and not a few of them called to pay their respects to mrs. crow, whether they owed them or not, much to that estimable lady's discomfiture. wicker's mother was a handsome, aristocratic woman with a pedigree reaching back to babylon or some other historic starting place. her ancestors were tories at the time of the american revolution, and she was proud of it. her husband's forefathers had shot a few british in those days, it is true, and had successfully chased some of her own ancestors over to long island, but that did not matter in these twentieth century days. mr. bonner long since had gone to the tomb; and his widow at fifty was quite the queen of all she surveyed, which was not inconsiderable. the bonners were rich in worldly possessions, rich in social position, rich in traditions. the daughter, just out in society, was a pretty girl, several years younger than wicker. she was the idol of his heart. this slip of a girl had been to him the brightest, wittiest and prettiest girl in all the world. now, he was wondering how the other girl, who was not his sister, would compare with her when they stood together before him. naturally, mrs. crow and her daughters sank into a nervous panic as soon as these fashionable women from boston set foot inside the humble home. they lost what little self-possession they had managed to acquire and floundered miserably through the preliminaries. but calm, sweet and composed as the most fastidious would require, rosalie greeted the visitors without a shadow of confusion or a sign of gaucherie. bonner felt a thrill of joy and pride as he took note of the look of surprise that crept into his mother's face--a surprise that did not diminish as the girl went through her unconscious test. "by george!" he cried jubilantly to himself, "she's something to be proud of--she's a queen!" later in the day, after the humble though imposing lunch (the paradox was permissible in tinkletown), mrs. bonner found time and opportunity to express her surprise and her approval to him. with the insight of the real aristocrat, she was not blind to the charms of the girl, who blossomed like a rose in this out-of-the-way patch of nature. the tact which impelled rosalie to withdraw herself and all of the crows from the house, giving the bonners an opportunity to be together undisturbed, did not escape the clever woman of the world. "she is remarkable, wicker. tell me about her. why does she happen to be living in this wretched town and among such people?" whereupon bonner rushed into a detailed and somewhat lengthy history of the mysterious miss gray, repeating it as it had come to him from her own frank lips, but with embellishments of his own that would have brought the red to her cheeks, could she have heard them. his mother's interest was not assumed; his sister was fascinated by the recital. "who knows," she cried, her dark eyes sparkling, "she may be an heiress to millions!" "or a princess of the royal blood!" amended her mother with an enthusiasm that was uncommon. "blood alone has made this girl what she is. heaven knows that billions or trillions could not have overcome the influences of a lifetime spent in--in winkletown--or is that the name? it doesn't matter, wicker--any name will satisfy. frankly, i am interested in the girl. it is a crime to permit her to vegetate and die in a place like this." "but, mother, she loves these people," protested bonner lifelessly. "they have been kind to her all these years. they have been parents, protectors--" "and they have been well paid for it, my son. please do not misunderstand me, i am not planning to take her off their hands. i am not going to reconstruct her sphere in life. not by any means. i am merely saying that it is a crime for her to be penned up for life in this--this desert. i doubt very much whether her parentage will ever be known, and perhaps it is just as well that it isn't to be. still, i am interested." "mamma, i think it would be very nice to ask her to come to boston for a week or two, don't you?" suggested edith bonner, warmly but doubtfully. "bully!" exclaimed wicker, forgetting in his excitement that he was a cripple. "have her come on to stop a while with you, ede. it will be a great treat for her and, by george, i'm inclined to think it maybe somewhat beneficial to us." "your enthusiasm is beautiful, wicker," said his mother, perfectly unruffled. "i have no doubt you think boston would be benefited, too." "now, you know, mother, it's not just like you to be snippish," said he easily. "besides, after living a while in other parts of the world, i'm beginning to feel that population is not the only thing about boston that can be enlarged. it's all very nice to pave our streets with intellect so that we can't stray from our own footsteps, but i rather like the idea of losing my way, once in a while, even if i have to look at the same common, old sky up there that the rest of the world looks at, don't you know. i've learned recently that the same sun that shines on boston also radiates for the rest of the world." "yes, it shines in tinkletown," agreed his mother serenely. "but, my dear--" turning to her daughter--"i think you would better wait a while before extending the invitation. there is no excuse for rushing into the unknown. let time have a chance." "by jove, mother, you talk sometimes like anderson crow. he often says things like that," cried wicker delightedly. "dear me! how can you say such a thing, wicker?" "well, you'd like old anderson. he's a jewel!" "i dare say--an emerald. no, no--that was not fair or kind, wicker. i unsay it. mr. crow and all of them have been good to you. forgive me the sarcasm. mr. crow is perfectly impossible, but i like him. he has a heart, and that is more than most of us can say. and now let us return to earth once more. when will you be ready to start for boston? to-morrow?" "heavens, no! i'm not to be moved for quite a long time--danger of gangrene or something of the sort. it's astonishing, mother, what capable men these country doctors are. dr. smith is something of a marvel. he--he--saved my leg." "my boy--you don't mean that--" his mother was saying, her voice trembling. "yes; that's what i mean. i'm all right now, but, of course, i shall be very careful for a couple of weeks. one can't tell, you know. blood poisoning and all that sort of thing. but let's not talk of it--it's gruesome." "indeed it is. you must be extremely careful, wicker. promise me that you will do nothing foolish. don't use your leg until the doctor--but i have something better. we will send for dr. j----. he can run up from boston two or three times--" "nothing of the sort, mother! nonsense! smith knows more in a minute than j---- does in a month. he's handling the case exactly as i want him to. let well enough alone, say i. you know j---- always wants to amputate everything that can be cut or sawed off. for heaven's sake, don't let him try it on me. i need my legs." it is not necessary to say that mrs. bonner was completely won over by this argument. she commanded him to stay where he was until it was perfectly safe to be moved across the river, where he could recuperate before venturing into the city of his birth. moreover, she announced that edith and she would remain in boggs city until he was quite out of danger, driving over every day in their chartered automobile. it suddenly struck bonner that it would be necessary to bribe "doc" smith and the entire crow family, if he was to maintain his position as an invalid. "doc" smith when put to the test lied ably in behalf of his client (he refused to call him his patient), and mrs. bonner was convinced. mr. crow and eva vigorously protested that the young man would not be a "mite of trouble," and that he could stay as long as he liked. "he's a gentleman, mrs. bonner," announced the marshal, as if the mother was being made aware of the fact for the first time. "mrs. crow an' me have talked it over, an' i know what i'm talkin' about. he's a perfect gentleman." "thank you, mr. crow. i am happy to hear you say that," said mrs. bonner, with fine tact. "you will not mind if he stops here a while longer then?" "i should say not. if he'll take the job, i'll app'int him deputy marshal." "i'd like a picture of you with the badge and uniform, wick," said edith with good-natured banter. just before the two ladies left for boggs city that evening bonner managed to say something to edith. "say, ede, i think it would be uncommonly decent of you to ask miss gray down to boston this spring. you'll like her." "wicker, if it were not so awfully common, i'd laugh in my sleeve," said she, surveying him with a calm scrutiny that disconcerted. "i wasn't born yesterday, you know. mother was, perhaps, but not your dear little sister. cheer up, brother. you'll get over it, just like all the rest. i'll ask her to come, but--please don't frown like that. i'll suspect something." during the many little automobile excursions that the two girls enjoyed during those few days in tinkletown, miss bonner found much to love in rosalie, much to esteem and a great deal to anticipate. purposely, she set about to learn by "deduction" just what rosalie's feelings were for the big brother. she would not have been surprised to discover the telltale signs of a real but secret affection on rosalie's part, but she was, on the contrary, amazed and not a little chagrined to have the young girl meet every advance with a joyous candour, that definitely set aside any possibility of love for the supposedly irresistible brother. miss edith's mind was quite at rest, but with the arrogant pride of a sister, she resented the fact that any one could know this cherished brother and not fall a victim. perversely, she would have hated rosalie had she caught her, in a single moment of unguardedness, revealing a feeling more tender than friendly interest for him. sophisticated and world-wise, the gay, careless miss bonner read her pages quickly--she skimmed them--but she saw a great deal between the lines. if her mother had been equally discerning, that very estimable lady might have found herself immensely relieved along certain lines. bonner was having a hard time of it these days. it was worse than misery to stay indoors, and it was utterly out of the question for him to venture out. his leg was healing with disgusting rashness, but his heart was going into an illness that was to scoff at the cures of man. and if his parting with his mother and the rosy-faced young woman savoured of relief, he must he forgiven. a sore breast is no respecter of persons. they were returning to the hub by the early morning train from boggs city, and it was understood that rosalie was to come to them in june. let it be said in good truth that both mrs. bonner and her daughter were delighted to have her promise. if they felt any uneasiness as to the possibility of unwholesome revelations in connection with her birth, they purposely blindfolded themselves and indulged in the game of consequences. mrs. bonner was waiting in the automobile, having said good-bye to wicker. "i'll keep close watch on him, mrs. bonner," promised anderson, "and telegraph you if his condition changes a mite. i ast 'doc' smith to-day to tell me the real truth 'bout him, an'--" "the real truth? what do you mean?" she cried, in fresh alarm. "don't worry, ma'am. he's improvin' fine, 'doc' says. he told me he'd be out o' danger when he got back to boston. his heart's worryin' 'doc' a little. i ast 'im to speak plain an' tell me jest how bad it's affected. he said: 'at present, only the left ventricle--whatever that be--only the left one is punctured, but the right one seems to need a change of air.'" chapter xxvii the grin derisive "i like your ma," said anderson to wicker, later in the evening. "she's a perfect lady. doggone, it's a relief to see a rich woman that knows how to be a lady. she ain't a bit stuck up an' yet she's a reg'lar aristocrat. did i ever tell you about what happened to judge courtwright's wife? no? well, it was a long time ago, right here in tinkletown. the judge concluded this would be a good place fer a summer home--so him an' her put up a grand residence down there on the river bluff. it was the only summer place on this side of the river. well, of course mrs. courtwright had to turn in an' be the leader of the women in this place. she lorded it over 'em an' she give 'em to understand that she was a queen er somethin' like that an' they was nothin' but peasants. an' the derned fool women 'lowed her to do it, too. seems as though her great-grandfather was a 'squire over in england, an' she had a right to be swell. well, she ruled the roost fer two summers an' nobody could get near her without a special dispensation from the almighty. she wouldn't look at anybody with her eyes; her chin was so high in the air that she had to look through her nose. "her husband was as old as methoosalum--that is, he was as old as methoosalum was when he was a boy, so to speak--an' she had him skeered of his life. but i fixed her. at the end of the second summer she was ready to git up an' git, duke er no duke. lemme me give you a tip, wick. if you want to fetch a queen down to your level, jest let her know you're laughin' at her. well, sir, the judge's wife used to turn up her nose at me until i got to feelin' too small to be seen. my pride was wallerin' in the dust. finally, i thought of a scheme to fix her. every time i saw her, i'd grin at her--not sayin' a word, mind you, but jest lookin' at her as if she struck me as bein' funny. well, sir, i kept it up good an' strong. first thing i knowed, she was beginnin' to look as though a bee had stung her an' she couldn't find the place. i'd ketch her stealin' sly glances at me an' she allus found me with a grin on my face--a good, healthy grin, too. "there wasn't anything to laugh at, mind you, but she didn't know that. she got to fixin' her back hair and lookin' worried about her clothes. 'nen she'd wipe her face to see if the powder was on straight, all the time wonderin' what in thunder i was laughin' at. if she passed in her kerridge she'd peep back to see if i was laughin'; and i allus was. i never failed. all this time i wasn't sayin' a word-jest grinnin' as though she tickled me half to death. gradually i begin to be scientific about it. i got so that when she caught me laughin', i'd try my best to hide the grin. course that made it all the worse. she fidgeted an' squirmed an' got red in the face till it looked like she was pickled. doggone, ef she didn't begin to neglect her business as a great-granddaughter! she didn't have time to lord it over her peasants. she was too blame busy wonderin' what i was laughin' at. [illustration: "it was a wise, discreet old oak"] "'nen she begin to look peaked an' thin. she looked like she was seem' ghosts all the time. that blamed grin of mine pursued her every minute. course, she couldn't kick about it. that wouldn't do at all. she jest had to bear it without grinnin'. there wasn't anything to say. finally, she got to stayin' away from the meetin's an' almost quit drivin' through the town. everybody noticed the change in her. people said she was goin' crazy about her hack hair. she lost thirty pounds worryin' before august, and when september come, the judge had to take her to a rest cure. they never come back to tinkletown, an' the judge had to sell the place fer half what it cost him. fer two years she almost went into hysterics when anybody laughed. but it done her good. it changed her idees. she got over her high an' mighty ways, they say, an' i hear she's one of the nicest, sweetest old ladies in boggs city nowadays. but blootch peabody says that to this day she looks flustered when anybody notices her back hair. the lord knows i wa'n't laughin' at her hair. i don't see why she thought so, do you?" bonner laughed long and heartily over the experiment; but rosalie vigorously expressed her disapproval of the marshal's methods. "it's the only real mean thing i ever heard of you doing, daddy crow!" she cried. "it was cruel!" "course you'd take her part, bein' a woman," said he serenely. "mrs. crow did, too, when i told her about it twenty years ago. women ain't got much sense of humour, have they, wick?" he was calling him wick nowadays; and the young man enjoyed the familiarity. the days came when bonner could walk about with his cane, and he was not slow to avail himself of the privilege this afforded. it meant enjoyable strolls with rosalie, and it meant the elevation of his spirits to such heights that the skies formed no bounds for them. the town was not slow to draw conclusions. every one said it would be a "match." it was certain that the interesting boston man had acquired a clear field. tinkletown's beaux gave up in despair and dropped out of the contest with the hope that complete recovery from his injuries might not only banish bonner from the village, but also from the thoughts of rosalie gray. most of the young men took their medicine philosophically. they had known from the first that their chances were small. blootch peabody and ed higgins, because of the personal rivalry between themselves, hoped on and on and grew more bitter between themselves, instead of toward bonner. [illustration: "'i beg your pardon,' he said humbly"] anderson crow and eva were delighted and the misses crow, after futile efforts to interest the young man in their own wares, fell in with the old folks and exuberantly whispered to the world that "it would be perfectly glorious." roscoe was not so charitable. he was soundly disgusted with the thought of losing his friend bonner in the hated bonds of matrimony. from his juvenile point of view, it was a fate that a good fellow like bonner did not deserve. even rosalie was not good enough for him, so he told bud long; but bud, who had worshipped rosalie with a hopeless devotion through most of his short life, took strong though sheepish exceptions to the remark. it seemed quite settled in the minds of every one but bonner and rosalie themselves. they went along evenly, happily, perhaps dreamily, letting the present and the future take care of themselves as best they could, making mountains of the past--mountains so high and sheer that they could not be surmounted in retreat. bonner was helplessly in love--so much so, indeed, that in the face of it, he lost the courage that had carried him through trivial affairs of the past, and left him floundering vaguely in seas that looked old and yet were new. hourly, he sought for the first sign of love in her eyes, for the first touch of sentiment; but if there was a point of weakness in her defence, it was not revealed to the hungry perception of the would-be conqueror. and so they drifted on through the february chill, that seemed warm to them, through the light hours and the dark ones, quickly and surely to the day which was to call him cured of one ill and yet sorely afflicted by another. through it all he was saying to himself that it did not matter what her birth may have been, so long as she lived at this hour in his life, and yet a still, cool voice was whispering procrastination with ding-dong persistency through every avenue of his brain. "wait!" said the cool voice of prejudice. his heart did not hear, but his brain did. one look of submission from her tender eyes and his brain would have turned deaf to the small, cool voice--but her eyes stood their ground and the voice survived. the day was fast approaching when it would be necessary for him to leave the home of mr. crow. he could no longer encroach upon the hospitality and good nature of the marshal--especially as he had declined the proffered appointment to become deputy town marshal. together they had discussed every possible side to the abduction mystery and had laid the groundwork for a systematic attempt at a solution. there was nothing more for them to do. true to his promise, bonner had put the case in the hands of one of the greatest detectives in the land, together with every known point in the girl's history. tinkletown was not to provide the solution, although it contained the mystery. on that point there could be no doubt; so, mr. bonner was reluctantly compelled to admit to himself that he had no plausible excuse for staying on. the great detective from new york had come to town, gathered all of the facts under cover of strictest secrecy, run down every possible shadow of a clew in boggs city, and had returned to the metropolis, there to begin the search twenty-one years back. "four weeks," bonner was saying to her reflectively, as they came homeward from their last visit to the abandoned mill on turnip creek. it was a bright, warm february morning, suggestive of spring and fraught with the fragrance of something far sweeter. "four weeks of idleness and joy to me--almost a lifetime in the waste of years. does it seem long to you, miss gray--oh, i remember, i am to call you rosalie." "it seems that i have known you always instead of for four weeks," she said gently. "they have been happy weeks, haven't they? my--our only fear is that you haven't been comfortable in our poor little home. it's not what you are accustomed--" "home is what the home folks make it," he said, striving to quote a vague old saying. he was dimly conscious of a subdued smile on her part and he felt the fool. "at any rate, i was more than comfortable. i was happy--never so happy. all my life shall be built about this single month--my past ends with it, my future begins. you, rosalie," he went on swiftly, his eyes gleaming with the love that would not be denied, "are the spirit of life as i shall know it from this day forth. it is you who have made tinkletown a kingdom, one of its homes a palace. don't turn your face away, rosalie." but she turned her face toward him and her dark eyes did not flinch as they met his, out there in the bleak old wood. "don't, please don't, wicker," she said softly, firmly. her hand touched his arm for an instant. "you will understand, won't you? please don't!" there was a world of meaning in it. his heart turned cold as ice, the blood left his face. he understood. she did not love him. "yes," he said, his voice dead and hoarse, "i think i understand, rosalie. i have taken too much for granted, fool that i am. bah! the egotism of a fool!" "you must not speak like that," she said, her face contracted by pain and pity. "you are the most wonderful man i've ever known--the best and the truest. but--" and she paused, with a wan, drear smile on her lips. "i understand," he interrupted. "don't say it. i want to think that some day you will feel like saying something else, and i want to hope, rosalie, that it won't always be like this. let us talk about something else." but neither cared to speak for what seemed an hour. they were in sight of home before the stony silence was broken. "i may come over from bonner place to see you?" he asked at last. he was to cross the river the next day for a stay of a week or two at his uncle's place. "yes--often, wicker. i shall want to see you every day. yes, every day; i'm sure of it," she said wistfully, a hungry look in her eyes that he did not see, for he was staring straight ahead. had he seen that look or caught the true tone in her voice, the world might not have looked so dark to him. when he did look at her again, her face was calm almost to sereneness. "and you will come to boston in june just the same?" "if your sister and--and your mother still want me to come." [illustration: "'i think i understand, rosalie'"] she was thinking of herself, the nameless one, in the house of his people; she was thinking of the doubts, the speculations--even the fears that would form the background of her welcome in that proud house. no longer was rosalie gray regarding herself as the happy, careless foster-child of anderson crow; she was seeing herself only as the castaway, the unwanted, and the world was growing bitter for her. but bonner was blind to all this; he could not, should not know. "you know they want you to come. why do you say that?" he asked quickly, a strange, dim perspective rising before him for an instant, only to fade away before it could be analysed. "one always says that," she replied with a smile. "it is the penalty of being invited. your sister has written the dearest letter to me, and i have answered it. we love one another, she and i." "rosalie, i am going to write to you," said he suddenly; "you will answer?" "yes," she told him simply. his heart quickened, but faltered, and was lost. "i had a long letter from elsie banks to-day," she went on with an indifference that chilled. "oh," he said; "she is your friend who was or is to marry tom reddon, i believe. i knew him at harvard. tell me, are they married?" "no. it was not to take place until march, but now she writes that her mother is ill and must go to california for several months. mr. reddon wants to be married at once, or before they go west, at least; but she says she cannot consent while her mother requires so much of her. i don't know how it will end, but i presume they will be married and all go to california. that seems the simple and just way, doesn't it?" "any way seems just, i'd say," he said. "they love one another, so what's the odds? do you know reddon well?" "i have seen him many times," she replied with apparent evasiveness. "he is a--" but here he stopped as if paralysis had seized him suddenly. the truth shot into his brain like a deadly bolt. everything was as plain as day to him now. she stooped to pick up a slim, broken reed that crossed her path, and her face was averted. "god!" was the cry that almost escaped his lips. "she loves reddon, and he is going to marry her best friend!" cold perspiration started from every pore in his body. he had met the doom of love--the end of hope. "he has always loved her," said rosalie so calmly that he was shocked by her courage. "i hope she will not ask him to wait." rosalie never understood why bonner looked at her in amazement and said: "by jove, you are a--a marvel, rosalie!" chapter xxviii the blind man's eyes bonner went away without another word of love to her. he saw the futility of hoping, and he was noble enough to respect her plea for silence on the subject that seemed distasteful to her. he went as one conquered and subdued; he went with the iron in his heart for the first time--deeply imbedded and racking. bonner came twice from the place across the river. anderson observed that he looked "peaked," and rosalie mistook the hungry, wan look in his face for the emaciation natural to confinement indoors. he was whiter than was his wont, and there was a dogged, stubborn look growing about his eyes and mouth that would have been understood by the sophisticated. it was the first indication of the battle his love was to wage in days to come. he saw no sign of weakening in rosalie. she would not let him look into her brave little heart, and so he turned his back upon the field and fled to boston, half beaten, but unconsciously collecting his forces for the strife of another day. he did not know it then, nor did she, but his love was not vanquished; it had met its first rebuff, that was all. tinkletown was sorry to see him depart, but it thrived on his promise to return. every one winked slyly behind his back, for, of course, tinkletown understood it all. he would come back often and then not at all--for the magnet would go away with him in the end. the busybodies, good-natured but garrulous, did not have to rehearse the story to its end; it would have been superfluous. be it said here, however, that rosalie was not long in settling many of the speculators straight in their minds. it seemed improbable that it should not be as they had thought and hoped. the news soon reached blootch peabody and ed higgins, and, both eager to revive a blighted hope, in high spirits, called to see rosalie on the same night. it is on record that neither of them uttered two dozen words between eight o'clock and ten, so bitterly was the presence of the other resented. march came, and with it, to the intense amazement of anderson crow, the ever-mysterious thousand dollars, a few weeks late. on a certain day the old marshal took rosalie to boggs city, and the guardianship proceedings were legally closed. listlessly she accepted half of the money he had saved, having refused to take all of it. she was now her own mistress, much to her regret if not to his. "i may go on living with you, daddy crow, may i not?" she asked wistfully as they drove home through the march blizzard. "this doesn't mean that i cannot be your own little girl after to-day, does it?" "don't talk like that, rosalie gray, er i'll put you to bed 'thout a speck o' supper," growled he in his most threatening tones, but the tears were rolling down his cheeks at the time. "do you know, daddy, i honestly hope that the big city detective won't find out who i am," she said after a long period of reflection. "cause why?" "because, if he doesn't, you won't have any excuse for turning me out." "i'll not only send you to bed, but i'll give you a tarnation good lickin' besides if you talk like--" "but i'm twenty-one. you have no right," said she so brightly that he cracked his whip over the horse's back and blew his nose twice for full measure of gratitude. "well, i ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' i'm beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n i am," said he proudly. "he isn't half as good!" she cried. "i mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically. "so do i," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him. there was a letter at home for her from edith bonner. it brought the news that wicker was going south to recuperate. his system had "gone off" since the accident, and the march winds were driving him away temporarily. rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still, cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. he had not written to her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to him, after all. now she was troubled and grieved that she should have entertained the fear. edith went on to say that her brother had seen the new york detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling on in the belief that chance would open the way for him. rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness left her cheek as the weeks went by. her every thought was with the man who had gone to the southland. she loved him as she loved life, but she could not confess to him then or thereafter unless providence made clear the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. when finally there came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far south, the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her heart. her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew faster than the spring itself. friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each epistle--for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. she was praying, hungering, longing for june to come--sweet june and its tender touch--june with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. now she was forgetting the wish which had been expressed to anderson crow on the drive home from boggs city. in its place grew the fierce hope that the once despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right to stand among others without shame and despair. "hear from wick purty reg'lar, don't you, rosalie?" asked anderson wickedly, one night while blootch was there. the suitor moved uneasily, and rosalie shot a reproachful glance at anderson, a glance full of mischief as well. "he writes occasionally, daddy." "i didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said blootch. "i did not say regularly, blucher." "he writes sweet things to beat the band, i bet," said blootch with a disdain he did not feel. "what a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly. "well, i guess i'll be goin'," exploded blootch wrathfully; "it's gittin' late." "he won't sleep much to-night," said anderson, with a twinkle in his eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller. "say, rosalie, there's somethin' been fidgetin' me fer quite a while. i'll blurt it right out an' have it over with. air you in love with wick bonner?" she started, and for an instant looked at him with wide open eyes; then they faltered and fell. her breath came in a frightened, surprised gasp and her cheeks grew warm. when she looked up again, her eyes were soft and pleading, and her lips trembled ever so slightly. "yes, daddy crow, i love him," she almost whispered. "an' him? how about him?" "i can't answer that, daddy. he has not told me." "well, he ought to, doggone him!" "i could not permit him to do so if he tried." "what! you wouldn't permit? what in tarnation do you mean?" "you forget, daddy, i have no right to his love. it would be wrong--all wrong. good-night, daddy," she cried, impulsively kissing him and dashing away before he could check her, but not before he caught the sound of a half sob. for a long time he sat and stared at the fire in the grate. then he slapped his knee vigorously, squared his shoulders and set his jaw like a vise. arising, he stalked upstairs and tapped on her door. she opened it an inch or two and peered forth at him--a pathetic figure in white. "don't you worry, rosalie," he gulped. "it will be all right and hunky dory. i've just took a solemn oath down stairs." "an oath, daddy?" "yes, sir; i swore by all that's good and holy i'd find out who your parents are ef it took till doomsday. you shall be set right in the eyes of everybody. now, if i was you, i'd go right to sleep. there ain't nothin' to worry about. i've got another clew." she smiled lovingly as he ambled away. poor old anderson's confidence in himself was only exceeded by his great love for her. at last june smiled upon rosalie and she was off for boston. her gowns were from albany and her happiness from heaven--according to a reverential tinkletown impression. for two weeks after her departure, anderson crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns. this humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of boston social life. it has to deal with the adventures of anderson crow and rosalie gray in so far as they pertain to a place called tinkletown. the joys and pleasures that rosalie experienced during that month of june were not unusual in character. the loneliness of anderson crow was not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every one else. suffice to say that the bonners, _mère, fils_ and _fille_, exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the girl--and they succeeded. the usual gaiety, the same old whirl of experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being entertained, fêted and admired. she was a success--a pleasure in every way--not only to her hosts but to herself. if there was a cloud hanging over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the wiser; the silver lining was always visible. once while she was driving with the bonners she saw a man whom she knew, but did not expect to ever look upon again. she could not be mistaken in him. it was sam welch, chief of the kidnapers. he was gazing at her from a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before bonner could set the police on his trail. commencement day at cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men--the men famous in every branch of study and athletics. among them was handsome tom reddon. he came to see her at the bonner home. elsie banks was to return in september from honolulu, and they were to be married in the fall. wicker bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her eyes, but none appeared. that night she told him, in reply to an impulsive demand, that she did not care for reddon, that she never had known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him. "have you ever been in love, rosalie?" he asked ruthlessly. "yes," she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes. "and could you never learn to love any one else?" "i think not, wicker," she said ever so softly. "i beg your pardon," he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn. "i should not have asked." and so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his eyes. chapter xxix the mysterious questioner july brought rosalie's visit to an end, and once more tinkletown basked in her smiles and yet wondered why they were so sad and wistful. she and bonner were much nearer, far dearer to one another than ever, and yet not one effort had been made to bridge the chasm of silence concerning the thing that lay uppermost in their minds. she only knew that anderson crow had not "run down" his clew, nor had the new york sleuth reported for weeks. undoubtedly, the latter had given up the search, for the last heard of him was when he left for europe with his wife for a pleasure trip of unknown duration. it looked so dark and hopeless to her, all of it. had bonner pressed his demands upon her at the end of the visit in boston, it is possible--more than possible--that she would have faltered in her resolution. after all, why should she deprive herself of happiness if it was held out to her with the promise that it should never end? the summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about tinkletown, but in the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and invigorating. people began to hurry to their country homes from the distant cities. before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich. lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills, famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the world lived. in the hills now were the randalls, the farnsworths, the brackens, the brewsters, the van wagenens, the rolfes and a host of others. tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in their traps and brakes and automobiles--but it is extremely doubtful if they saw tinkletown in passing. anderson crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own importance. in his old age he was becoming fastidious. only in the privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from dawn till dark, on the street or off. his badges were pinned neatly to his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. his dignity was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. in these new days he was considerate--and patronising. was he not one of the wealthiest men in town--with his six thousand dollars laid by? was he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen? was he not, above all, a close friend of the bonners? the bonners were to spend august in the congressman's home across the big river. this fact alone was enough to stir the crow establishment to its most infinitesimal roots. rosalie was to be one of the guests at the house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious. they revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of delight. with the coming of the bonners, anderson once more revived his resolution to unravel the mystery attending rosalie's birth. for some months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the man she loved, the old marshal's devotion took fire and he swore daily that the mystery should be cleared "whether it wanted to be or not." he put poor old alf reesling through the "sweat box" time and again, and worthless tom folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal was shadowing him so persistently. "alf," demanded anderson during one of the sessions, "where were you on the night of february , ? don't hesitate. speak up. where were you? aha, you cain't answer. that looks suspicious." "you bet i c'n answer," said alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. "i was in tinkletown." "what were you doin' that night?" "i was sleepin'." "at what time? keerful now, don't lie." "what time o' night did they leave her on your porch?" demanded alf in turn. "it was jest half past 'leven." "you're right, anderson. that's jest the time i was asleep." "c'n you prove it? got witnesses?" "yes, but they don't remember the night." "then it may go hard with you. alf, i still believe you had somethin' to do with that case." "i didn't, anderson, so help me." "well, doggone it, somebody did," roared the marshal. "if it wasn't you, who was it? answer that, sir." "why, consarn you, anderson crow, i didn't have any spare children to leave around on doorsteps. i've allus had trouble to keep from leavin' myself there. besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn't it? well, consarn it, i'm not a woman, am i? look at my whiskers, gee whiz! i--" "i didn't say you left the baskit, alf; i only said you'd somethin' to do with it. i remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around the place that night." in an instant anderson was sniffing the air. "consarn ye, the same smell as now--yer drunk." "tom folly drinks, too," protested alf. "he drinks martini cocktails." "don't you?" "not any more. the last time i ordered one was in a dutch eatin' house up to boggs city. the waiter couldn't speak a word of english, an' that's the reason i got so full. every time i ordered 'dry martini' he brought me three. he didn't know how to spell it. no, sir, anderson; i'm not the woman you want. i was at home asleep that night. i remember jest as well as anything, that i said before goin' to bed that it was a good night to sleep. i remember lookin' at the kitchen clock an' seein' it was jest eighteen minutes after eleven. 'nen i said--" "that'll be all for to-day, alf," interrupted the questioner, his gaze suddenly centering on something down the street. "you've told me that six hundred times in the last twenty years. come on, i see the boys pitchin' horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop. i'll pitch you a game fer the seegars." "i cain't pay if i lose," protested alf. "i know it," said anderson; "i don't expect you to." the first day that bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant rosalie in the place across the river, found anderson full of a new and startling sensation. he stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into the stable, far from the house. somehow, in spite of his smiles, bonner was looking older and more serious. there was a set, determined expression about his mouth and eyes that struck anderson as new. "say, wick," began the marshal mysteriously, "i'm up a stump." "what? another?" "no; jest the same one. i almost got track of somethin' to-day--not two hours ago. i met a man out yander near the cross-roads that i'm sure i seen aroun' here about the time rosalie was left on the porch. an' the funny part of it was, he stopped me an' ast me about her. doggone, i wish i'd ast him his name." "you don't mean it!" cried bonner, all interest. "asked about her? was he a stranger?" "i think he was. leastwise, he said he hadn't been aroun' here fer more'n twenty year. y'see, it was this way. i was over to lem hudlow's to ask if he had any hogs stole last night--lem lives nigh the poorhouse, you know. he said he hadn't missed any an' ast me if any hogs had been found. i tole him no, not that i knowed of, but i jest thought i'd ask; i thought mebby he'd had some stole. you never c'n tell, you know, an' it pays to be attendin' to business all the time. well, i was drivin' back slow when up rode a feller on horseback. he was a fine-lookin' man 'bout fifty year old, i reckon, an' was dressed in all them new-fangled ridin' togs. 'ain't this mr. crow, my old friend, the detective?' said he. 'yes, sir,' said i. 'i guess you don't remember me,' says he. i told him i did, but i lied. it wouldn't do fer him to think i didn't know him an' me a detective, don't y'see? "we chatted about the weather an' the crops, him ridin' longside the buckboard. doggone, his face was familiar, but i couldn't place it. finally, he leaned over an' said, solemn-like: 'have you still got the little girl that was left on your porch?' you bet i jumped when he said that. 'yes,' says i, 'but she ain't a little girl now. she's growed up.' 'is she purty?' he ast. 'yes,' says i, 'purty as a speckled pup!' 'i'd like to see her,' he said. 'i hear she was a beautiful baby. i hope she is very, very happy.' 'what's that to you?' says i, sharp-like. 'i am very much interested in her, mr. crow,' he answered. 'poor child, i have had her in mind for a long time,' he went on very solemn. i begin to suspect right away that he had a lot to do with her affairs. somehow, i couldn't help thinkin' i'd seen him in tinkletown about the time she was dropped--left, i mean. "'you have given her a good eddication, i hope,' said he. 'yes, she's got the best in town,' said i. 'the thousand dollars came all right every year?' 'every february.' 'i should like to see her sometime, if i may, without her knowin' it, mr. crow.' 'an' why that way, sir?' demanded i. 'it would probably annoy her if she thought i was regardin' her as an object of curiosity,' said he. 'tell her fer me,' he went on' gittin' ready to whip up, 'that she has an unknown friend who would give anything he has to help her.' goshed, if he didn't put the gad to his horse an' gallop off 'fore i could say another word. i was goin' to ask him a lot of questions, too." "can't you remember where and under what circumstances you saw him before?" cried bonner, very much excited. "i'm goin' to try to think it up to-night. he was a rich-lookin' feller an' he had a heavy black band aroun' one of his coat sleeves. wick, i bet he's the man we want. i've made up my mind 'at he's her father!" bonner impatiently wormed all the information possible out of the marshal, especially as to the stranger's looks, voice, the direction taken when they parted company and then dismally concluded that an excellent opportunity had been hopelessly lost. anderson said, in cross-examination, that the stranger had told him he "was leavin' at once fer new york and then going to europe." his mother had died recently. "i'll try to head him off at boggs city," said bonner; and half an hour later he was off at full speed in the big machine for the county seat, a roundabout way to bonner place. the new york train had gone, but no one had seen a man answering the description of anderson's interviewer. "i'm sorry, rosalie," said bonner some time later. he was taking her for a spin in the automobile. "it was a forlorn hope, and it is also quite probable that mr. crow's impressions are wrong. the man may have absolutely no connection with the matter. i'll admit it looks interesting, his manner and his questions, and there is a chance that he knows the true story. in any event, he did not go to new york to-day and he can't get another train until to-morrow. i'll pick up mr. crow in the morning and we'll run up here to have a look at him if he appears." "i think it is a wild goose chase, wicker," rosalie said despairingly. "daddy crow has done such things before." "but this seems different. the man's actions were curious. he must have had some reason for being interested in you. i am absolutely wild with eagerness to solve this mystery, rosalie. it means life to me." "oh, if you only could do it," she cried so fervently, that his heart leaped with pity for her. "i love you, rosalie. i would give my whole life to make you happy. listen, dearest--don't turn away from me! are you afraid of me?" he was almost wailing it into her ear. "i--i was only thinking of the danger, wicker. you are not watching the road," she said, flushing a deep red. he laughed gaily for the first time in months. "it is a wide road and clear," he said jubilantly. "we are alone and we are merely drifting. the machine is alive with happiness. rosalie--rosalie, i could shout for joy! you _do_ love me? you will be my wife?" she was white and silent and faint with the joy of it all and the pain of it all. joy in the full knowledge that he loved her and had spoken in spite of the cloud that enveloped her, pain in the certainty that she could not accept the sacrifice. for a long time she sat staring straight down the broad road over which they were rolling. "wicker, you must not ask me now," she said at last, bravely and earnestly. "it is sweet to know that you love me. it is life to me--yes, life, wicker. but, don't you see? no, no! you must not expect it. you must not ask it. don't, don't, dear!" she cried, drawing away as he leaned toward her, passion in his eyes, triumph in his face. "but we love each other!" he cried. "what matters the rest? i want you--_you!_" "have you considered? have you thought? i have, a thousand times, a thousand bitter thoughts. i cannot, i will not be your--your wife, wicker, until--" in vain he argued, pleaded, commanded. she was firm and she felt she was right if not just. underneath it all lurked the fear, the dreadful fear that she may have been a child of love, the illegitimate offspring of passion. it was the weight that crushed her almost to lifelessness; it was the bar sinister. "no, wicker, i mean it," she said in the end resolutely. "not until i can give you a name in exchange for your own." "your name shall one day be bonner if i have to wreck the social system of the whole universe to uncover another one for you." the automobile had been standing, by some extraordinary chance, in the cool shade of a great oak for ten minutes or more, but it was a wise, discreet old oak. chapter xxx the hemisphere train robbery anderson crow lived at the extreme south end of tinkletown's principal thoroughfare. the "calaboose" was situated at the far end of main street, at least half a mile separating the home of the law and the home of the lawless. marshal crow's innate love for the spectacular alone explains the unneighbourliness of the two establishments. he felt an inward glory in riding or walking the full length of the street, and he certainly had no reason to suspect the populace of disregarding the outward glory he presented. the original plan of the merchantry comprehended the erection of the jail in close proximity to the home of its chief official, but mr. crow put his foot flatly and ponderously upon the scheme. with the dignity which made him noticeable, he said he'd "be doggoned ef he wanted to have people come to his own dooryard to be arrested." by which, it may be inferred, that he expected the evil-doer to choose his own arresting place. mr. and mrs. crow were becoming thrifty, in view of the prospect that confronted them, to wit: the possible marriage of rosalie and the cutting off of the yearly payments. as she was to be absent for a full month or more, anderson conceived the idea of advertising for a lodger and boarder. by turning roscoe out of his bed, they obtained a spare room that looked down upon the peony beds beyond the side "portico." mr. crow was lazily twisting his meagre chin whiskers one morning soon after rosalie's departure. he was leaning against the town pump in front of the post-office, the sun glancing impotently off the bright badge on the lapel of his alpaca coat. a stranger came forth from the post-office and approached the marshal. "is this mr. crow?" he asked, with considerable deference. "it is, sir." "they tell me you take lodgers." "depends." "my name is gregory, andrew gregory, and i am here to canvass the neighbourhood in the interest of the human life insurance company of penobscot. if you need references, i can procure them from new york or boston." the stranger was a tall, lean-faced man of forty or forty-five, well dressed, with a brusque yet pleasant manner of speech. his moustache and beard were black and quite heavy. mr. crow eyed him quietly for a moment. "i don't reckon i'll ask fer references. our rates are six dollars a week, board an' room. childern bother you?" "not at all. have you any?" "some, more or less. they're mostly grown." "i will take board and room for two weeks, at least," said mr. gregory, who seemed to be a man of action. for almost a week the insurance agent plied his vocation assiduously but fruitlessly. the farmers and the citizens of tinkletown were slow to take up insurance. they would talk crops and politics with the obliging mr. gregory, but that was all. and yet, his suavity won for him many admirers. there were not a few who promised to give him their insurance if they concluded to "take any out." only one man in town was willing to be insured, and he was too old to be comforting. mr. calligan was reputed to be one hundred and three years of age; and he wanted the twenty-year endowment plan. gregory popularised himself at the crow home by paying for his room in advance. moreover, he was an affable chap with a fund of good stories straight from broadway. at the post-office and in lamson's store he was soon established as a mighty favourite. even the women who came to make purchases in the evening,--a hitherto unknown custom,--lingered outside the circle on the porch, revelling in the second edition of the "arabian nights." "our friend, the detective here," he said, one night at the close of the first week, "tells me that we are to have a show in town next week. i haven't seen any posters." "mark riley's been goin' to put up them bills sence day 'fore yesterday," said anderson crow, with exasperation in his voice, "an he ain't done it yet. the agent fer the troupe left 'em here an' hired mark, but he's so thunderation slow that he won't paste 'em up 'til after the show's been an' gone. i'll give him a talkin' to to-morrer." "what-fer show is it?" asked jim borum. "somethin' like a circus on'y 'tain't one," said anderson. "they don't pertend to have animals." "don't carry a menagerie, i see," remarked gregory. "'pears that way," said anderson, slowly analysing the word. "i understand it is a stage performance under a tent," volunteered the postmaster. "that's what it is," said harry squires, the editor, with a superior air. "they play 'as you like it,' by shakespeare. it's a swell show. we got out the hand bills over at the office. they'll be distributed in town to-morrow, and a big batch of them will be sent over to the summer places across the river. the advance agent says it is a high-class performance and will appeal particularly to the rich city people up in the mountains. it's a sort of open-air affair, you know." and then mr. squires was obliged to explain to his fellow-townsmen all the known details in connection with the approaching performance of "as you like it" by the boothby company, set for tinkletown on the following thursday night. hapgood's grove had been selected by the agent as the place in which the performance should be given. "don't they give an afternoon show?" asked mrs. williams. "sure not," said harry curtly. "it isn't a museum." "of course not," added anderson crow reflectively. "it's a troupe." the next morning, bright and early, mark riley fared forth with paste and brush. before noon, the board fences, barns and blank walls of tinkletown flamed with great red and blue letters, twining in and about the portraits of shakespeare, manager boothby, rosalind, orlando, and an extra king or two in royal robes. a dozen small boys spread the hand bills from the _banner_ presses, and tinkletown was stirred by the excitement of a sensation that had not been experienced since forepaugh's circus visited the county seat three years before. it went without saying that manager boothby would present "as you like it" with an "unrivalled cast." he had "an all-star production," direct from "the leading theatres of the universe." when mark riley started out again in the afternoon for a second excursion with paste and brush, "slapping up" small posters with a celerity that bespoke extreme interest on his part, the astonished populace feared that he was announcing a postponement of the performance. instead of that, however, he was heralding the fact that the hemisphere trunk line and express company would gladly pay ten thousand dollars reward for the "apprehension and capture" of the men who robbed one of its richest trains a few nights before, seizing as booty over sixty thousand dollars in money, besides killing two messengers in cold blood. the great train robbery occurred in the western part of the state, hundreds of miles from tinkletown, but nearly all of its citizens had read accounts of the deed in the weekly paper from boggs city. "i seen the item about it in mr. gregory's new york paper," said anderson crow to the crowd at lamson's. "gee whiz, it must 'a' been a peach!" said isaac porter, open-mouthed and eager for details. whereupon marshal crow related the story of the crime which stupefied the world on the morning of july st. the express had been held up in an isolated spot by a half-dozen masked men. a safe had been shattered and the contents confiscated, the perpetrators vanishing as completely as if aided by satan himself. the authorities were baffled. a huge reward was offered in the hope that it might induce some discontented underling in the band to expose his comrades. "are you goin' after 'em, anderson?" asked old mr. borton, with unfailing faith in the town's chief officer. "them fellers is in asia by this time," vouchsafed mr. crow scornfully, forgetting that less than a week had elapsed since the robbery. he flecked a fly from his detective's badge and then struck viciously at the same insect when it straightway attacked his g.a.r. emblem. "i doubt it," said mr. lamson. "like as not they're right here in this state, mebby in this county. you can't tell about them slick desperadoes. hello, harry! has anything more been heard from the train robbers?" harry squires approached the group with something like news in his face. "i should say so," he said. "the darned cusses robbed the state express last night at vanderskoop and got away with thirteen hundred dollars. say, they're wonders! the engineer says they're only five of them." "why, gosh dern it, vanderskoop's only the fourth station west of boggs city!" exclaimed anderson crow, pricking up his official ear. "how in thunder do you reckon they got up here in such a short time?" "they probably stopped off on their way back from asia," drily remarked mr. lamson; but it passed unnoticed. "have you heard anything more about the show, harry?" asked jim borum. "is she sure to be here?" what did tinkletown care about the train robbers when a "show" was headed that way? "sure. the press comments are very favourable," said harry. "they all say that miss marmaduke, who plays rosalind, is great. we've got a cut of her and, say, she's a beauty. i can see myself sitting in the front row next thursday night, good and proper." "say, anderson, i think it's a dern shame fer mark riley to go 'round pastin' them reward bills over the show pictures," growled isaac porter. "he ain't got a bit o' sense." with one accord the crowd turned to inspect two adjacent bill boards. mark had either malignantly or insanely pasted the reward notices over the nether extremities of rosalind as she was expected to appear in the forest of arden. there was a period of reflection on the part of an outraged constituency. "i don't see how he's goin' to remove off them reward bills without scraping off her legs at the same time," mused anderson crow in perplexity. two housewives of tinkletown suddenly deserted the group and entered the store. and so it was that the train robbers were forgotten for the time being. but marshal crow's reputation as a horse-thief taker and general suppressor of crime constantly upbraided him. it seemed to call upon him to take steps toward the capture of the train robbers. all that afternoon he reflected. tinkletown, seeing his mood, refrained from breaking in upon it. he was allowed to stroke his whiskers in peace and to think to his heart's content. by nightfall his face had become an inscrutable mask, and then it was known that the president of bramble county's horse-thief detective association was determined to fathom the great problem. stealthily he went up to the great attic in his home and inspected his "disguises." in some far-off period of his official career he had purchased the most amazing collection of false beards, wigs and garments that any stranded comedian ever disposed of at a sacrifice. he tried each separate article, seeking for the best individual effect; then he tried them collectively. it would certainly have been impossible to recognise him as anderson crow. in truth, no one could safely have identified him as a human being. "i'm goin' after them raskils," he announced to andrew gregory and the whole family, as he came down late to take his place at the head of the supper table. "ain't you goin' to let 'em show here, pop?" asked roscoe in distress. "show here? what air you talkin' about?" "he means the train robbers, roscoe," explained the lad's mother. the boy breathed again. "they are a dangerous lot," volunteered gregory, who had been in albany for two days. "the papers are full of their deeds. cutthroats of the worst character." "i'd let them alone, anderson," pleaded his wife. "if you corner them, they'll shoot, and it would be jest like you to follow them right into their lair." "consarn it, eva, don't you s'pose that i c'n shoot, too?" snorted anderson. "what you reckon i've been keepin' them loaded revolvers out in the barn all these years fer? jest fer ornaments? not much! they're to shoot with, ef anybody asks you. thunderation, mr. gregory, you ain't no idee how a feller can be handicapped by a timid wife an' a lot o' fool childern. i'm almost afeard to turn 'round fer fear they'll be skeered to death fer my safety." "you cut yourself with a razor once when ma told you not to try to shave the back of your neck by yourself," said one of the girls. "she wanted you to let mr. beck shave it for you, but you wouldn't have it that way." "do you suppose i want an undertaker shavin' my neck? i'm not that anxious to be shaved. beck's the undertaker, mr. gregory." "well, he runs the barber shop, too," insisted the girl. during the next three days tinkletown saw but little of its marshal, fire chief and street commissioner. that triple personage was off on business of great import. early, each morning, he mysteriously stole away to the woods, either up or down the river, carrying a queer bundle under the seat of his "buckboard." two revolvers, neither of which had been discharged for ten years, reposed in a box fastened to the dashboard. anderson solemnly but positively refused to allow any one to accompany him, nor would he permit any one to question him. farmers coming to town spoke of seeing him in the lanes and in the woods, but he had winked genially when they had asked what he was trailing. "he's after the train robbers," explained all tinkletown soberly. whereupon the farmers and their wives did not begrudge anderson crow the chicken dinners he had eaten with them, nor did they blame him for bothering the men in the fields. it was sufficient that he found excuse to sleep in the shade of their trees during his still hunt. "got any track of 'em?" asked george ray one evening, stopping at anderson's back gate to watch the marshal unhitch his thankful nag. patience had ceased to be a virtue with george. "any track of who?" asked mr. crow with a fine show of innocence. "the robbers." "i ain't been trackin' robbers, george." "what in thunder have you been trackin' all over the country every day, then?" "i'm breakin' this colt," calmly replied the marshal, with a mighty wink at old betty, whom he had driven to the same buckboard for twenty years. as george departed with an insulted snort, andrew gregory came from the barn, where he had been awaiting the return of mr. crow." "i'm next to something big," he announced in a low tone, first looking in all directions to see that no one was listening. "gosh! did you land mr. farnsworth?" "it has nothing to do with insurance," hastily explained the agent. "i've heard something of vast importance to you." "you don't mean to say the troupe has busted?" "no--no; it is in connection with--with--" and here mr. gregory leaned forward and whispered something in anderson's ear. mr. crow promptly stopped dead still in his tracks, his eyes bulging. betty, who was being led to the water trough, being blind and having no command to halt, proceeded to bump forcibly against her master's frame. chapter xxxi "as you like it" "you--don't--say--so! whoa! dang ye! cain't you see where you're goin', you old rip?" betty was jerked to a standstill. "what have you heerd?" asked anderson, his voice shaking with interest. "i can't tell you out here," said the other cautiously. "put up the nag and then meet me in the pasture out there. we can sit down and talk and not be overheard." "i won't be a minute. here, you roscoe! feed betty and water her first. step lively, now. tell your ma we'll be in to supper when we git good an' ready." anderson and andrew gregory strode through the pasture gate and far out into the green meadow. once entirely out of hearing, gregory stopped and both sat down upon a little hillock. the agent was evidently suppressing considerable excitement. "those train robbers are in this neighbourhood," he said, breaking a long silence. anderson looked behind involuntarily. "i don't mean that they are in this pasture, mr. crow. you've been a good friend to me, and i'm inclined to share the secret with you. if we go together, we may divide the ten-thousand-dollar reward, because i'm quite sure we can land those chaps." "what's your plan?" asked anderson, turning a little pale at the thought. before going any further into the matter, gregory asked anderson if he would sign a paper agreeing to divide the reward equally with him. this point was easily settled, and then the insurance man unfolded his secret. "i have a straight tip from a friend in new york and he wouldn't steer me wrong. the truth about him is this: he used to work for our company, but took some money that didn't belong to him. it got him a sentence in the pen. he's just out, and he knows a whole lot about these robbers. some of them were in sing sing with him. the leader wanted him to join the gang and he half-way consented. his duty is to keep the gang posted on what the officers in new york are doing. see?" "of course," breathed anderson. "well, my friend wants to reform. all he asks is a slice of the reward. if we capture the gang, we can afford to give him a thousand or so, can't we?" "of course," was the dignified response. "here's his letter to me. i'll read it to you." in the gathering dusk gregory read the letter to the marshal of tinkletown. "now, you see," he said, at the close of the astounding epistle, "this means that if we observe strict secrecy, we may have the game in our hands. no one must hear a word of this. they may have spies right here in tinkletown. we can succeed only by keeping our mouths sealed." "tighter'n beeswax," promised anderson crow. briefly, the letter to andrew gregory was an exposure of the plans of the great train-robber gang, together with their whereabouts on a certain day to come. they were to swoop down on tinkletown on the night of the open-air performance of "as you like it," and their most desperate coup was to be the result. the scheme was to hold up and rob the entire audience while the performance was going on. anderson crow was in a cold perspiration. the performance was but three days off, and he felt that he required three months for preparation. "how in thunder are we goin' to capture that awful gang, jest you an' me?" he asked, voicing his doubts and fears. "we'll have to engage help, that's all." "we'll need a regiment." "don't you think it. buck up, old fellow, don't be afraid." "afeerd? me? i don't know what it is to be skeered. didn't you ever hear about how i landed them fellers that kidnaped my daughter rosalie? well, you jest ast some one 'at knows about it. umph! i guess that was a recommend fer bravery. but these fellers will be ready fer us, won't they?" "we can trick them easily. i've been thinking of a plan all afternoon. we don't know just where they are now, so we can't rake them in to-night. we'll have to wait until they come to us. my plan is to have a half-dozen competent private detectives up from new york. we can scatter them through the audience next thursday night, and when the right time comes we can land on every one of those fellows like hawks on spring chickens. i know the chief of a big private agency in new york, and i think the best plan is to have him send up some good men. it won't cost much, and i'd rather have those fearless practical men here than all the rubes you could deputise. one of 'em is worth ten of your fellow-citizens, mr. crow, begging your pardon for the remark. you and i can keep the secret and we can do the right thing, but we would be asses to take more tinkletown asses into our confidence. if you'll agree, i'll write to mr. pinkerton this evening. he can have his men here, disguised and ready for work, by thursday afternoon. if you don't mind, i'd like to have you take charge of the affair, because you know just how to handle thieves, and i don't. what say you?" anderson was ready and eager to agree to anything, but he hesitated a long time before concluding to take supreme charge of the undertaking. mr. gregory at once implored him to take command. it meant the success of the venture; anything else meant failure. "but how'n thunder am i to know the robbers when i see 'em?" demanded the marshal, nervously pulling bluegrass up by the roots. "you'll know 'em all right," said andrew gregory. thursday came and with it the "troupe." anderson crow had not slept for three nights, he was so full of thrills and responsibility. bright and early that morning he was on the lookout for suspicious characters. gregory was to meet the detectives from new york at half-past seven in the evening. by previous arrangement, these strangers were to congregate casually at tinkletown inn, perfectly diguised as gentlemen, ready for instructions. the two arch-plotters had carefully devised a plan of action. gregory chuckled secretly when he thought of the sensation tinkletown was to experience--and he thought of it often, too. the leading members of boothby's all star company "put up" at the inn, which was so humble that it staggered beneath this unaccustomed weight of dignity. the beautiful miss marmaduke (in reality, miss cora miller) was there, and so were miss trevanian, miss gladys fitzmaurice, richmond barrett (privately jackie blake), thomas j. booth, francisco irving, ben jefferson and others. the inn was glorified. all tinkletown looked upon the despised old "eating house" with a reverence that was not reluctant. the manager, a busy and preoccupied person, who looked to be the lowliest hireling in the party, came to the inn at noon and spread the news that the reserved seats were sold out and there was promise of a fine crowd. whereupon there was rejoicing among the all star cast, for the last legs of the enterprise were to be materially strengthened. "we won't have to walk back home," announced mr. jackie blake, that good-looking young chap who played orlando. "glorious shakespeare, thou art come to life again," said ben jefferson, a barn-stormer for fifty years. "i was beginning to think you were a dead one." "and no one will seize our trunks for board," added miss marmaduke cheerfully. she was a very pretty young woman and desperately in love with mr. orlando. "if any one seized orlando's trunks, i couldn't appear in public to-night," said mr. blake. "orlando possesses but one pair of trunks." "you might wear a mackintosh," suggested mr. booth. "or borrow trunks of the trees," added mr. irving. "they're off," growled mr. jefferson, who hated the puns he did not make. "let's dazzle the town, cora," said jackie blake; and before tinkletown could take its second gasp for breath, the leading man and woman were slowly promenading the chief and only thoroughfare. "by ginger! she's a purty one, ain't she?" murmured ed higgins, sole clerk at lamson's. he stood in the doorway until she was out of sight and remained there for nearly an hour awaiting her return. the men of tinkletown took but one look at the pretty young woman, but that one look was continuous and unbroken. "if this jay town can turn up enough money to-night to keep us from stranding, i'll take off my hat to it for ever more," said jackie blake. "boothby says the house is sold out," said miss marmaduke, a shade of anxiety in her dark eyes. "oh, how i wish we were at home again." "i'd rather starve in new york than feast in the high hills," said he wistfully. the idols to whom tinkletown was paying homage were but human, after all. for two months the boothby company had been buffeted from pillar to post, struggling hard to keep its head above water, always expecting the crash. the "all-stars" were no more than striving young thespians, who were kept playing throughout the heated term with this uncertain enterprise, solely because necessity was in command of their destinies. it was not for them to enjoy a summer in ease and indolence. "never mind, dear," said she, turning her green parasol so that it obstructed the intense but complimentary gaze of no less than a dozen men; "our luck will change. we won't be barn-storming for ever." "we've one thing to be thankful for, little woman," said jackie, his face brightening. "we go out again this fall in the same company. that's luck, isn't it? we'll be married as soon as we get back to new york and we won't have to be separated for a whole season, at least." "isn't it dear to think of, jackie sweetheart? a whole season and then another, and then all of them after that? oh, dear, won't it be sweet?" it was love's young dream for both of them. "hello, what's this?" exclaimed orlando the thousandth, pausing before a placard which covered the lower limbs of his pictorial partner. "ten thousand dollars reward! great scott, cora, wouldn't i like to catch those fellows? great, eh? but it's a desperate gang! the worst ever!" just then both became conscious of the fact that some one was scrutinising them intently from behind. they turned and beheld anderson crow, his badges glistening. "how are you, officer?" said jackie cheerily. miss marmaduke, in her happiness, beamed a smile upon the austere man with the chin whiskers. anderson was past seventy, but that smile caused the intake of his breath to almost lift him from the ground. "first rate, thanks; how's yourself? readin' the reward notice? lemme tell you something. there's goin' to be somethin' happen tarnation soon that will astonish them fellers ef--" but here anderson pulled up with a jerk, realising that he was on the point of betraying a great secret. afraid to trust himself in continued conversation, he abruptly said: "good afternoon," and started off down the street, his ears tingling. "queer old chap, isn't he?" observed jackie, and immediately forgot him as they strolled onward. that evening tinkletown swarmed with strangers. the weather was fine, and scores of the summer dwellers in the hills across the river came over to see the performance, as the advance agent had predicted. bluff top hotel sent a large delegation of people seeking the variety of life. there were automobiles, traps, victorias, hay-racks, and "sundowns" standing all along the street in the vicinity of hapgood's grove. it was to be, in the expansive language of the press agent, "a cultured audience made up of the élite of the community." late in the afternoon, a paralysing thought struck in upon the marshal's brain. it occurred to him that this band of robbers might also be engaged to carry off rosalie gray. after all, it might be the great dominant reason for their descent upon the community. covered with a perspiration that was not caused by heat, he accosted wicker bonner, the minute that gentleman arrived in town. rosalie went, of course, to the crow home for a short visit with the family. "say, wick, i want you to do me a favour," said anderson eagerly, taking the young man aside. "i cain't tell you all about it, 'cause i'm bound by a deathless oath. but, listen, i'm afraid somethin's goin' to happen to-night. there's a lot o' strangers here, an' i'm nervous about rosalie. somebody might try to steal her in the excitement. now i want you to take good keer of her. don't let 'er out o' your sight, an' don't let anybody git 'er away from you. i'll keep my eye on her, too. promise me." "certainly, mr. crow. i'll look out for her. that's what i hope to do all the rest of--' "somethin's liable to happen," mr. crow broke in, and then quietly slipped away. bonner laughed easily at the old man's fears and set them down as a part of his whimsical nature. later, he saw the old man near the entrance as the party passed inside the inclosure. the bonner party occupied prominent seats in front, reserved by the marshal. there were ten in the group, a half-dozen young boston people completing the house party. the side walls of a pavilion inclosed the most beautiful section of the grove. in one end were the seats, rapidly filling with people. at the opposite end, upon mother earth's green carpet, was the stage, lighted dimly by means of subdued spot lights and a few auxiliary stars on high. there was no scenery save that provided by nature herself. an orchestra of violins broke through the constant hum of eager voices. anderson crow's heart was inside the charmed inclosure, but his person was elsewhere. simultaneously, with the beginning of the performance of "as you like it," he was in his own barn-loft confronting andrew gregory and the five bewhiskered assistants from new york city. gregory had met the detectives at the inn and had guided them to the marshal's barn, where final instructions were to be given. for half an hour the party discussed plans with anderson crow, speaking in low, mysterious tones that rang in the marshal's ears to his dying day. "we've located those fellows," asserted mr. gregory firmly. "there can be no mistake. they are already in the audience over there, and at a signal will set to work to hold up the whole crowd. we must get the drop on them, mr. crow, don't do that! you don't need a disguise. keep those yellow whiskers in your pocket. the rest of us will wear disguises. these men came here disguised because the robbers would be onto them in a minute if they didn't. they know every detective's face in the land. if it were not for these beards and wigs they'd have spotted pinkerton's men long ago. now, you know your part in the affair, don't you?" "yes, sir," respectfully responded anderson, his chin whisker wobbling pathetically. "then we're ready to proceed. it takes a little nerve, that's all, but we'll soon have those robbers just where we want them," said andrew gregory. the second act of the play was fairly well under way when orlando, in the "green room," remarked to the stage director: "what's that old rube doing back here, ramsay? why, hang it, man, he's carrying a couple of guns. is this a hold-up?" at the same instant rosalind and two of the women came rushing from their dressing tent, alarmed and indignant. miss marmaduke, her eyes blazing, confronted the stage director. "what does this mean, mr. ramsay?" she cried. "that old man ordered us out of our dressing-room at the point of a revolver, and--see! there he is now doing the same to the men." it was true. anderson crow, with a brace of horse pistols, was driving the players toward the centre of the stage. in a tremulous voice he commanded them to remain there and take the consequences. a moment later the marshal of tinkletown strode into the limelight with his arsenal, facing an astonished and temporarily amused audience. his voice, pitched high with excitement, reached to the remotest corners of the inclosure. behind him the players were looking on, open-mouthed and bewildered. to them he loomed up as the long-dreaded constable detailed to attach their personal effects. the audience, if at first it laughed at him as a joke, soon changed its view. commotion followed his opening speech. chapter xxxii the luck of anderson crow "don't anybody attempt to leave this tent!" commanded mr. crow, standing bravely forth with his levelled revolvers. the orchestra made itself as small as possible, for one of the guns wavered dangerously. "don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. the train robbers are among you." there were a few feminine shrieks, a volume of masculine "whats!" a half-hearted and uncertain snigger, and a general turning of heads. "keep your seats!" commanded anderson. "they can't escape. i have them surrounded. i now call upon all robbers present to surrender in the name of the law. surrender peaceful and you will not he damaged; resist and we'll blow you to hell an' gone, even at the risk of injurin' the women and childern. the law is no respecter of persons. throw up your hands!" he waited impressively, but either through stupefaction or obstinacy the robbers failed to lift their hands. "you're cornered, you golderned scamps!" shouted anderson crow, "an' you might jest as well give up! twenty pinkerton men are here from new york city, an' you can't escape! throw up your hands!" "the damned old fool is in earnest," gasped judge brewster, from across the river. "he's crazy!" cried congressman bonner. "let everybody in this crowd throw up their hands!" called a firm, clear voice from the entrance. at the same instant five bewhiskered individuals appeared as if by magic with drawn revolvers, dominating the situation completely. the speaker was andrew gregory, the insurance agent. "now, what have you got to say?" cried anderson gaily. "i guess me an' the detectives have you cornered all right, ain't we?" the audience sat stupefied, paralysed. while all this was going on upon the inside, a single detective on the outside was stealthily puncturing the tires of every automobile in the collection, mr. bracken's huge touring car being excepted for reasons to be seen later on. "good heavens!" groaned old judge brewster. a half dozen women fainted and a hundred men broke into a cold perspiration. "hands up, everybody!" commanded andrew gregory. "we can take no chances. the train robbers are in this audience. they came to hold up the entire crowd, but we are too quick for you, my fine birds. the place is surrounded!" "mr. gregory, the insurance--" began anderson crow, but he was cut short. "mr. crow deserves great credit for this piece of detective work. his mere presence is a guaranty of safety to those of you who are not thieves. you all have your hands up? thanks. mr. crow, please keep those actors quiet. now, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always an easy matter to distinguish thieves from honest men. i will first give the desperadoes a chance to surrender peaceably. no one steps forward? very well. keep your hands up, all of you. the man who lowers his hands will be instantly regarded as a desperado and may get a bullet in his body for his folly. the innocent must suffer with the guilty. mr. crow, shall we proceed with the search?" "yes, sir; go right ahead, and be quick," replied anderson crow. "very well, then, in the name of the law, my men will begin the search. they will pass among you, ladies and gentlemen, and any effort to retard their progress will be met with instant--well, you know." before the petrified audience could fully realise what was taking place, three of the detectives were swiftly passing from person to person, stripping the women of their jewels, the men of their money and their watches. a half-hearted protest went up to anderson crow, but it was checked summarily by the "searching party." it was well for the poor marshal that he never knew what the audience thought of him at that ghastly moment. it was all over in five minutes. the detectives had searched every prosperous-looking person in the audience, under the very nose and guns of marshal crow, and they were sardonically bidding the assemblage a fond good-bye from the flapping doorway in the side wall. andrew gregory addressed the crowd, smiling broadly. "we found a good many more robbers in the crowd than we could conveniently handle, ladies and gentlemen. in fact, i never came across such a rare collection of hold-up men outside of wall street. the only perfectly honest man in tinkletown to-night is anderson crow, your esteemed marshal. believe me, he is ridiculously honest. he may be a damn fool, but he is honest. don't blame him. thanking you, one and all, for your generous help in our search for the train robbers, we bid you an affectionate farewell. we may meet again if you travel extensively on express trains. good-night!" with a taunting laugh, andrew gregory dropped the flap and leaped after his companions. bracken's chauffeur lay senseless by the roadside, and one of the "detectives" sat in his seat. even as the audience opened its collective mouth to shout its wrath and surprise, the big touring car, with six armed men aboard, leaped away with a rush. down the dark road it flew like an express train, its own noise drowning the shouts of the multitude, far behind. bonner, recovering from his stupefaction and rage, led the pursuit, first commanding rosalie to hurry home with the women and lock herself safely indoors. anderson crow, realising what a dupe he had been in the hands of the clever scoundrels, was covered with fear and shame. the outraged crowd might have killed him had not his escape been made under cover of darkness. shivering and moaning in abject misery, the pride of tinkletown fled unseeing, unthinking into the forest along the river. he was not to know until afterward that his "detectives" had stripped the rich sojourners of at least ten thousand dollars in money and jewels. it is not necessary to say that the performance of "as you like it" came to an abrupt end, because it was not as they liked it. everybody knew by this time that they had seen the celebrated "train robbers." jackie blake was half dressed when he leaped to his feet with an exclamation so loud that those preceding it were whispers. "holy smoke!" fell from his lips; and then he dashed across the green to the women's dressing tent. "cora! cora! come out!" "i can't," came back in muffled tones. "then good-bye; i'm off!" he shouted. that brought her, partially dressed, from the tent. "say, do you remember the river road we walked over to-day? well, those fellows went in that direction, didn't they? don't you see? aren't you on? the washout! if they don't know about it the whole bunch is at the bottom of the ravine or in the river by this time! mum's the word! there's a chance, darling; the reward said 'dead or alive!' i'm off!" she tried to call him back, but it was too late. with his own revolver in his hand, the half orlando, half blake, tore down the rarely travelled river road south. behind him tinkletown raved and wailed over the great calamity, but generally stood impotent in the face of it all. but few felt inclined to pursue the robbers. blake soon had the race to himself. it was a mile or more to the washout in the road, but the excitement made him keen for the test. the road ran through the woods and along the high bluff that overlooked the river. he did not know it, but this same road was a "short cut" to the macadam pike farther south. by taking this route the robbers gave boggs city a wide berth. blake's mind was full of the possibilities of disaster to the over-confident fugitives. the washout was fresh, and he was counting on the chance that they were not aware of its existence. if they struck it even at half speed the whole party would be hurled a hundred feet down to the edge of the river or into the current itself. in that event, some, if not all, would be seriously injured. as he neared the turn in the road, his course pointed out to him by the stars above, he was startled half out of his boots by the sudden appearance of a man, who staggered from the roadside and wobbled painfully away, pleading for mercy. "halt, or i'll shoot!" called jackie blake, and the pathetic figure not only halted, but sat down in the middle of the road. "for the lord's sake, don't shoot!" groaned a hoarse voice. "i wasn't in cahoots with them. they fooled me--they fooled me." it was anderson crow, and he would have gone on interminably had not jackie blake stopped him short. "you're the marshal, eh? the darned rube--" "yes, i'm him. call me anything, only don't shoot. who are you?" groaned anderson, rising to his knees. he was holding his revolvers by the muzzles. "never mind who i am. i haven't time. say, you'd better come with me. maybe we can head off those villains. they came this way and--" "show 'em to me," roared anderson, recognising a friend. rage surged up and drove out the shame in his soul. "i'll tackle the hull caboodle, dang 'em!" and he meant it, too. blake did not stop to explain, but started on, commanding mr. crow to follow. with rare fore-thought the marshal donned his yellow beard as he panted in the trail of the lithe young actor. the latter remembered that the odds were heavily against him. the marshal might prove a valuable aid in case of resistance, provided, of course, that they came upon the robbers in the plight he was hoping for. "where the dickens are you a-goin'?" wheezed the marshal, kicking up a great dust in the rear. the other did not answer. his whole soul was enveloped in the hope that the washout had trapped the robbers. he was almost praying that it might be so. the reward could be divided with the poor old marshal if-- he gave a yell of delight, an instant later, and then began jumping straight up and down like one demented. anderson crow stopped so abruptly that his knees were stiff for weeks. jackie blake's wild dream had come true. the huge automobile had struck the washout, and it was now lying at the base of the bluff, smashed to pieces on the rocks! by the dim light from the heavens, blake could see the black hulk down there, but it was too dark to distinguish other objects. he was about to descend to the river bank when anderson crow came up. "what's the matter, man?" panted he. "they're down there, don't you see it? they went over the bluff right here--come on. we've got 'em!" "hold on!" exclaimed anderson, grasping his arm. "don't rush down there like a danged fool. if they're alive they can plug you full of bullets in no time. let's be careful." "by thunder, you're right. you're a wise old owl, after all. i never thought of that. let's reconnoitre." tingling with excitement, the two oddly mated pursuers descended stealthily by a roundabout way. they climbed over rocks and crept through underbrush until finally they came to a clear spot not twenty feet from where the great machine was lying, at the very edge of the swift, deep current. they heard groans and faint cries, with now and then a piteous oath. from their hiding place they counted the forms of four men lying upon the rocks, as if dead. the two held a whispered consultation of war, a plan of action resulting. "surrender!" shouted jackie blake, standing forth. he and anderson had their pistols levelled upon the prostrate robbers. for answer there were louder groans, a fiercer oath or two and then a weak, pain-struck voice came out to them: "for god's sake, get this machine off my legs. i'm dying. help! help! we surrender!" ten minutes later, the jubilant captors had released the miserable andrew gregory from his position beneath the machine, and had successfully bound the hands and feet of five half-unconscious men. gregory's legs were crushed and one other's skull was cracked. the sixth man was nowhere to be found. the disaster had been complete, the downfall of the great train robbers inglorious. looking up into the face of anderson crow, gregory smiled through his pain and said hoarsely: "damned rotten luck; but if we had to be taken, i'm glad you did it, crow. you're a good fool, anyway. but for god's sake, get me to a doctor." "dang it! i'm sorry fer you, mr. gregory--" began anderson, ready to cry. "don't waste your time, old man. i need the doctor. are the others dead?" he groaned. "i don't know," replied jackie blake. "some of them look like it. we can't carry you up that hill, but we'll do the next best thing. marshal, i'll stay here and guard the prisoners while you run to the village for help--and doctors." "and run fast, anderson," added gregory. "you always were so devilish slow. don't walk-trot." soon afterward, when anderson, fagged but overjoyed, hobbled into the village, the excited crowd was ready to lynch him, but with his first words the atmosphere changed. "where is jackie blake?" sobbed a pretty young woman, grasping the proud marshal's arm and shaking him violently. "derned if i know, ma'am. was he stole?" she made him understand, and together, followed by the actors, the audience and the whole town, they led the way to the washout, the fair rosalind dragging the overworked hero of the hour along at a gait which threatened to be his undoing. later on, after the five bandits had been carried to the village, jackie blake gladly informed his sweetheart that they could have easy sailing with the seven thousand dollars he expected. anderson crow had agreed to take but three thousand dollars for his share in the capture. one of the robbers was dead. the body of the sixth was found in the river weeks afterward. "i'm glad i was the first on the ground," said blake, in anticipation of the reward which was eventually to be handed over to him. "but anderson crow turned out to be a regular trump, after all. he's a corker!" he was speaking to wicker bonner and a crowd of new yorkers. tinkletown began to talk of a monument to anderson crow, even while he lived. the general opinion was that it should be erected while he was still able to enjoy it and not after his death, when he would not know anything about its size and cost. "by gosh! 'twas a great capture!" swelling perceptibly. "i knowed they couldn't escape me. dang 'em! they didn't figger on me, did they? pshaw! it was reediculus of 'em to think they c'd fool me entirely, although i'll have to confess they did fool me at first. it was a desprit gang an' mighty slick." "you worked it great, anderson," said george ray. "did you know about the washout?" "did i know about it?" snorted anderson witheringly. "why, good gosh a'mighty, didn't i purty near run my legs off to git there in time to throw down the barricade before they could get there with mr. bracken's automobile? thunderation! what a fool question!" chapter xxxiii bill briggs tells a tale tinkletown fairly bubbled with excitement. at last the eyes of the world were upon it. news of the great sensation was flashed to the end of the earth; every detail was gone into with harrowing minuteness. the hemisphere company announced by telegraph that it stood ready to hand over the ten thousand dollars; and the sheriff of bramble county with all the united states deputy marshals within reach raced at once to tinkletown to stick a finger in the pie. the morning after the "great pavilion robbery," as it was called in the _banner_, anderson crow and bonner fared forth early to have a look at the injured desperadoes, all of whom were safely under guard at the reincarnated calaboose. fifty armed men had stood guard all night long, notwithstanding the fact that one robber was dead and the others so badly injured that they were not expected to survive the day. a horseman passed the marshal and his friend near the post-office, riding rapidly to the north. he waved his crop pleasantly to them and bonner responded. anderson stopped stock still and tried to speak, but did not succeed for a full minute; he was dumb with excitement. "that's him!" he managed to gasp. "the feller i saw the other day--the man on horseback!" "that?" cried bonner, laughing heartily. "why, that is john e. barnes, the lawyer and probably a united states senator some day. good heavens, mr. crow, you've made a bad guess of it this time! he is staying with judge brewster, his father-in-law." "what! well, by geminy! i thought i knowed him," cried anderson. "they cain't fool me long, wick--none of 'em. he's the same feller 'at run away with judge brewster's daughter more'n twenty year ago. 'y gosh, i was standin' right on this very spot the first time i ever see him. he sold me a hoss and buggy--but i got the money back. i arrested him the same day." "arrested john barnes?" in amazement. "yep--fer murder--only he wasn't the murderer. we follered him down the river--him an' the girl--to bracken's place, but they were married afore we got there. doggone, that was a busy day! some blamed good detective work was did, too. i--" "and mr. barnes was interested in rosalie?" asked bonner suddenly. "how could he have known anything about her?" "that's what puzzles me. she came here about two years after the elopement more er less, but i don't remember ever seein' him after that time." "it's very strange, mr. crow," reflected bonner soberly. "he has a son, i know. his wife died a year or so after the boy's birth. young barnes is about twenty-one, i think at this time. by george! i've heard it said that barnes and his wife were not hitting it off very well. they say she died of a broken heart. i've heard mother speak of it often. i wonder--great heavens, it isn't possible that rosalie can be connected in any way with john barnes? anderson crow, i--i wonder if there is a possibility?" bonner was quivering with excitement, wonder--and--unbelief. "i'm workin' on that clew," said anderson as calmly as his tremors would permit. he was thrilled by the mere suggestion, but it was second nature for him to act as if every discovery were his own. "ever sence i saw him on the road up there, i've been trackin' him. i tell you, wick, he's my man. i've got it almost worked out. just as soon as these blamed robbers are moved to boggs city, er buried, i'm goin' over an' git the truth out of mr. barnes. i've been huntin' him fer twenty-one years." anderson, of course, was forgetting that barnes had slipped from his mind completely until bonner nudged his memory into life. "it's a delicate matter, mr. crow. we must go about it carefully," said bonner severely. "if mr. barnes is really interested in her, we can't find it out by blundering; if he is not interested, we can't afford to drag him into it. it will require tact--" "thunderation, don't you suppose i know that?" exploded anderson. "detectives are allers tackin'. they got to, y' see, ef they're goin' to foller half a dozen clews at oncet. gee whiz, wick, leave this thing to me! i'll git at the bottom of it inside o' no time." "wait a few days, mr. crow," argued bonner, playing for time. "don't hurry. we've got all we can do now to take care of the fellows you and that young actor captured last night." the young man's plan was to keep anderson off the trail entirely and give the seemingly impossible clew into the possession of the new york bureau. "i don't know what i'd 'a' done ef it hadn't been fer that young feller," said the marshal. "he was right smart help to me last night." bonner, who knew the true story, suppressed a smile and loved the old man none the less for his mild deception. they entered the "calaboose," which now had all the looks and odours of a hospital. a half-dozen doctors had made the four injured men as comfortable as possible. they were stretched on mattresses in the jail dining-room, guarded by a curious horde of citizens. "that's gregory!" whispered anderson, as they neared the suffering group. he pointed to the most distant cot. "that's jest the way he swore last night. lie must 'a' shaved in the automobile last night," though gregory had merely discarded the false whiskers he had worn for days. "wait!" exclaimed bonner, stopping short beside the first cot. he stooped and peered intently into the face of the wounded bandit. "by george!" "what's up?" "as i live, mr. crow, this fellow was one of the gang that abducted rosalie gray last winter. i can swear to it. don't you remember the one she tried to intercede for? briggs! that's it! briggs!" the injured man slowly opened his eyes as the name was half shouted. a sickly grin spread slowly over his pain-racked face. "she tried to intercede fer me, did she?" he murmured weakly. "she said she would. she was square." "you were half decent to her," said bonner. "how do you happen to be with this gang? another kidnaping scheme afloat?" "no--not that i know of. ain't you the guy that fixed us? say, on the dead, i was goin' to do the right thing by her that night. i was duckin' the gang when you slugged me. honest, mister, i was goin' to put her friends next. say, i don't know how bad i'm hurt, but if i ever git to trial, do what you can fer me, boss. on the dead, i was her friend." bonner saw pity in anderson's face and rudely dragged him away, although bill's plea was not addressed to the old marshal. "wait for me out here, mr. crow," said he when they reached the office. "you are overcome. i'll talk to him." he returned at once to the injured man's cot. "look here, briggs, i'll do what i can for you, but i'm afraid it won't help much. what do the doctors say?" "if they ain't lyin', i'll be up an' about in a few weeks. shoulder and some ribs cracked and my legs stove up. i can't move. god, that was an awful tumble!" he shuddered in memory of the auto's leap. "is sam or davy in this gang?" "no; davy's at blackwell's island, an' sam told me he was goin' to canada fer his health. jim courtney is the leader of this gang. he sailed under the name of gregory. that's him swearin' at the rubes." "the thing for you to do is to make a clean breast of it, briggs. it will go easier with you." "turn state's evidence? what good will that do when we was all caught with the goods?" "if you will tell us all of the inside facts concerning the abduction i'll guarantee that something can be done to lighten your sentence. i am congressman bonner's nephew." "so? i thought you was the swellest hold-up man i ever met, that night out in the woods. you'd do credit to sam welch himself. i'll tell you all i know, pardner, but it ain't a great deal. it won't do me any good to keep my mouth shut now, an', if you say so, it may help me to squeal. but, fer the lord's sake, have one of these rotten doctors give me something to make me sleep. don't they know what morphine is for?" growling and cursing at the doctors, bill was moved into the office. anderson came in from the dining-room at that juncture, visibly excited. "i've got a confession from gregory," he said. "he confesses that he oughter be hung." "what!" "that's what he said--'y ginger. here's his very words, plain as day: 'i oughter be hung half a dozen times.' 'what fer?' says i. 'fer bein' sech a damned ass,' said he. 'but that ain't a hangable offence,' said i. you know, i kinder like gregory, spite of all. 'it's the worst crime in the world,' said he. 'then you confess you've committed it?' said i, anxious to pin him right down to it, y' see.' 'ou bet i do. ef they hang me it'll be because i'm a drivelling idiot, an' not because i've shot one er two in my time. nobody but an ass could be caught at it, an' that's why i feel so infernal guilty. look here, mr. crow, ever' time you see a feller that's proved himself a downright ass, jest take him out an' lynch him. he deserves it, that's all i've got to say. the greatest crime in the world is criminal neglect.' don't bother me now, wick; i'm going to write that down an' have him sign it." "look here, pard," said bill briggs, laboriously breaking in upon their conversation; "i want to do the right thing by you an' her as fer as i can. you've been good to me, an' i won't fergit it. besides, you said you'd make things easy fer me if i told you what i knowed about that job last winter. well, i'd better tell it now, 'cause i'm liable to pass in my checks before these doctors git through with me. an' besides, they'll be haulin' me off to the county seat in a day or two. now, this is dead straight, i'm goin' to give you. maybe it won't help you none, but ' give you a lead." "go on," cried bonner breathlessly. "well, sam welch come to me in branigan's place one night--that's in fourt' avenue--an' says he's got a big job on. we went over to davy wolfe's house an' found him an' his mother--the old fairy, you remember. well, to make it short, sam said it was a kidnaping job an' the wolfes was to be in on it because they used to live in this neighbourhood an' done a lot of work here way back in the seventies. there was to be five thousand dollars in the job if we got that girl safe on board a ship bound fer europe. sam told us that the guy what engineered the game was a swell party an' a big boy in politics, finance, society an' ever'thin' else. he could afford to pay, but he didn't want to be seen in the job. nobody but sam ever seen his face. sam used to be in politics some. jest before we left new york to come up here, the swell guy comes around to davy's with another guy fer final orders. see? it was as cold as h---- as the dickens--an' the two of 'em was all muffled up so's we couldn't get a pipe at their mugs. one of 'em was old--over fifty, i guess--an' the other was a young chap. i'm sure of that. "they said that one or the other of 'em would be in this neighbourhood when the job was pulled off; that one thousand dollars would be paid down when we started; another thousand when we got 'er into the cave; and the rest when we had 'er at the dock in new york--alive an' unhurt. see? we was given to understand that she was to travel all the rest of 'er life fer 'er health. i remember one thing plain: the old man said to the young 'un: 'she must not know a thing of this, or it will ruin everything.' he wasn't referrin' to the girl either. there was another woman in the case. they seemed mighty anxious to pull the job off without this woman gettin' next. "well, we got ready to start, and the two parties coughed up the thousand plunks--that is, the young 'un handed it over to sam when the old 'un told him to. sam took three hundred and the rest of us two hundred a piece. when they were lookin' from the winder to see that nobody on the streets was watchin' the house, i asked sam if he knowed either of them by name. he swore he didn't, but i think he lied. but jest before they left the house, i happened to look inside of the old boy's hat--he had a stiff dicer. there was a big gilt letter in the top of it." "what was that letter?" demanded bonner eagerly. "it was a b." bonner looked at anderson as if the floor were being drawn from under his feet. "the young chap said somethin' low to the old 'un about takin' the night train back to the university an' comin' down again saturday." "to the university? which one? did he mention the name?" cried bonner. "no. that's all he said." "good heavens, if it should be!" said bonner as if to himself. "well, we come up here an' done the job. you know about that, i guess. sam saw the young feller one night up at boggs city, an' got instructions from him. he was to help us git 'er away from here in an automobile, an' the old man was to go across the ocean with 'er. that's all i know. it didn't turn out their way that time, but sam says it's bound to happen." bonner, all eagerness and excitement, quickly looked around for anderson, but the marshal had surreptitiously left the room. then, going over to the door, he called for anderson crow. bud long was there. "anderson left five minutes ago, mr. bonner, hurryin' like the dickens, too," he said. "he's gone to hunt up a feller named barnes. he told me to tell you when you came out." chapter xxxiv elsie banks returns bonner, considerably annoyed and alarmed by the marshal's actions, made every effort to turn him back before he could ruin everything by an encounter with mr. barnes. he sent men on bicycles and horseback to overtake him; but the effort was unsuccessful. mr. crow had secured a "ride" in an automobile which had brought two newspaper correspondents over from boggs city. they speeded furiously in order to catch a train for new york, but agreed to drop the marshal at the big bridge, not more than a mile from judge brewster's place. chagrined beyond expression, he made ready to follow anderson with all haste in his own machine. rosalie hurriedly perfected preparations to accompany him. she was rejoining the house party that day, was consumed by excitement over the situation, and just as eager as bonner to checkmate the untimely operations of poor old anderson crow. the marshal had more than half an hour's start of them. bonner was his own chauffeur and he was a reckless one to-day. luck was against him at the outset. the vigorous old detective inspired to real speed, for the first time in his lackadaisacal life, left the newspaper men at the bridge nearly three-quarters of an hour before bonner passed the same spot, driving furiously up the hill toward judge brewster's. "if your bothersome old daddy gets his eyes on barnes before i can head him off, dearest, the jig will be up," groaned bonner, the first words he had spoken in miles. "barnes will be on his guard and ready for anything. the old--pardon me, for saying it--the old jay ought to know the value of discretion in a case like this." "poor old daddy," she sighed, compassion in her heart. "he thinks he is doing it for the best. wicker, i hope it is--it is not mr. barnes," she added, voicing a thought which had been struggling in her mind for a long time. "why not, dearest?" "it would mean one of two things. either he does not want to recognise me as his child--or cannot, which is even worse. wicker, i don't want to know the truth. i am afraid--i am afraid." she was trembling like a leaf and there was positive distress in her eyes, eyes half covered by lids tense with alarm. "don't feel that way about it, dear," cried he, recovering from his astonishment and instantly grasping the situation as it must have appeared to her. "to tell you the truth, i do not believe that mr. barnes is related to you in any way. if he is connected with the case at all, it is in the capacity of attorney." "but he is supposed to be an honourable man." "true, and i still believe him to be. it does not seem possible that he can be engaged in such work as this. we are going altogether on supposition--putting two and two together, don't you know, and hoping they will stick. but, in any event, we must not let any chance slip by. if he is interested, we must bring him to time. it may mean the unravelling of the whole skein, dear. don't look so distressed. be brave. it doesn't matter what we learn in the end, i love you just the same. you shall be my wife." "i _do_ love you, wicker. i will always love you." "dear little sweetheart!" they whirled up to the lodge gate at judge brewster's place at last, the throbbing machine coming to a quick stop. before he called out to the lodge keeper, bonner impulsively drew her gloveless hand to his lips. "nothing can make any difference now," he said. the lodge keeper, in reply to bonner's eager query, informed them that mr. barnes had gone away ten or fifteen minutes before with an old man who claimed to be a detective, and who had placed the great lawyer under arrest. "good lord!" gasped bonner with a sinking heart. "it's an outrage, sir! mr. barnes is the best man in the world. he never wronged no one, sir. there's an 'orrible mistake, sir," groaned the lodge keeper. "judge brewster is in boggs city, and the man wouldn't wait for his return. he didn't even want to tell mr. barnes what 'e was charged with." "did you ever hear of anything so idiotic?" roared bonner. rosalie was white and red by turn. "what direction did they take?" "the constable told mr. barnes he'd 'ave to go to tinkletown with 'im at once, sir, even if he 'ad to walk all the way. the old chap said something, sir, about a man being there who could identify him on sight. mr. barnes 'ad to laugh, sir, and appeared to take it all in good humour. he said he'd go along of 'im, but he wouldn't walk. so he got his own auto out, sir, and they went off together. they took the short cut, sir, by the ferry road, 'eaded for tinkletown. mr. barnes said he'd be back before noon, sir--if he wasn't lynched." "it's all over," groaned bonner dejectedly. something had slipped from under his feet and he was dangling in space, figuratively speaking. "there's nothing to do, rosalie, except to chase them down. mr. crow has ruined everything. i'll leave you at bonner place with mother and edith, and i'll hurry back to tinkletown." the excitement was too much for rosalie's nerves. she was in a state of physical collapse when he set her down at his uncle's summer home half an hour later. leaving her to explain the situation to the curious friends, he set speed again for tinkletown, inwardly cursing anderson crow for a meddling old fool. in the meantime tinkletown was staring open-mouthed upon a new sensation. the race between anderson and bonner was hardly under way when down the main street of the town came a jaded team and surrey. behind the driver sat a pretty young woman with an eager expression on her pale face, her gaze bent intently on the turn in the street which hid anderson crow's home from view. beside the young woman lounged another of her sex, much older, and to all appearances, in a precarious state of health. the young men along the street gasped in amazement and then ventured to doff their timid hats to the young woman, very much as if they were saluting a ghost. few of them received a nod of recognition from elsie banks, one-time queen of all their hearts. roscoe crow bounded out to the gate when he saw who was in the carriage, first shouting to his mother and sisters, who were indoors receiving congratulations and condolences from their neighbours. miss banks immediately inquired if she could see rosalie. "she ain't here," said roscoe. "she's away fer a month--over at the bonners'. he's her feller, you know. ma! here's miss banks! edner! sue!" mrs. crow and the girls flew out to the gate, babbling their surprise and greetings. "this is my mother," introduced the young lady. "we have just come from new york, mrs. crow. we sail for england this week, and i must see rosalie before we go. how can we get to mr. bonner's place?" "it's across the river, about twelve miles from here," said mrs. crow. "come in and rest yourselves. you don't have to go back to-day, do you? ain't you married yet?" "no, mrs. crow," responded elsie, with a stiff, perfunctory smile. "thank you, we cannot stop. it is necessary that we return to new york to-night, but i must see rosalie before going. you see, mrs. crow, i do not expect to return to america. we are to live in london forever, i fear. it may be the last chance i'll have to see rosalie. i must go on to bonner place to-day. but, dear me, i am so tired and hot, and it is so far to drive," she cried ruefully. "do you know the way, driver?" the driver gruffly admitted that he did not. roscoe eagerly bridged the difficulty by offering to act as pathfinder. at first mrs. banks tried to dissuade her daughter from undertaking the long trip, but the girl was obstinate. her mother then flatly refused to accompany her, complaining of her head and heart. in the end the elder lady decided to accept mrs. crow's invitation to remain at the house until elsie's return. "i shall bring rosalie back with me, mother," said elsie as she prepared to drive away. mrs. banks, frail and wan, bowed her head listlessly and turned to follow her hostess indoors. with roscoe in the seat with the driver, the carriage started briskly off down the shady street, headed for the ferry road and bonner place. to return to anderson crow and his precipitancy. just as the lodge keeper had said, the marshal, afoot and dusty, descended upon mr. barnes without ceremony. the great lawyer was strolling about the grounds when his old enemy arrived. he recognised the odd figure as it approached among the trees. "hello, mr. crow!" he called cheerily. "are you going to arrest me again?" he advanced to shake hands. "yes, sir; you are my prisoner," said anderson, panting, but stern. "i know you, mr. barnes. it won't do you any good to deny it." "come in and sit down. you look tired," said barnes genially, regarding his words as a jest; but anderson proudly stood his ground. "you can't come any game with me. it won't do you no good to be perlite, my man. this time you don't git away." "you don't mean to say you are in earnest?" cried barnes. "i never joke when on duty. come along with me. you c'n talk afterward. your hirelin' is in jail an' he c'n identify you; so don't resist." "wait a moment, sir. what is the charge?" "i don't know yet. you know better'n i do what it is." "look here, mr. crow. you arrested me the first time i ever saw you, and now you yank me up again, after all these years. haven't you anything else to do but arrest me by mistake? is that your only occupation?" anderson sputtered indignantly. driven to it, he informed john barnes that he was charged with kidnaping, attempted murder, polygamy, child desertion, and nearly everything else under the sun. barnes, at first indignant, finally broke into a hearty laugh. he magnanimously agreed to accompany his captor to tinkletown. not only that, but he provided the means of transportation. to the intense dismay of the servants, he merrily departed with mr. crow, a prisoner operating his own patrol wagon. the two were smoking the captive's best cigars. "it's mighty nice of you, mr. barnes, to let us use your autermobile," said anderson, benignly puffing away as they bowled off through the dust. "it would 'a' been a long walk. i'll speak a good word fer you fer this." "don't mention it, old chap. i rather enjoy it. it's been uncommonly dull up here. i did not get away as soon as i expected, you see. so i am charged with being rosalie's father, eh? and deserting her? and kidnaping her? by jove, i ought to be hung for all this!" "'tain't nothin' to laugh at, my friend. you ought to be ashamed of yourself. i was onto you the day you stopped me in the road an' ast about her. what a fool you was. reg'lar dead give-away." "see here, mr. crow, i don't like to upset your hopes and calculations," said barnes soberly. "i did that once before, you remember. that was years ago. you were wrong then, and you are wrong now. shall i tell you why i am interested in this pretty waif of yours?" "it ain't necessary," protested the marshal. "i'll tell you just the same. my son met her in new york while he was at school. he heard her story from mutual friends and repeated it to me. i was naturally interested, and questioned you. he said she was very pretty. that is the whole story, my dear sir." "that's all very purty, but how about the b in your hat?" "i don't understand. oh, you mean the political bee?" "politics, your granny! i mean the 'nitial that briggs saw. no; hold on! don't answer. don't say anything that'll incriminate yourself." "i never had an initial in my hat, and i don't know briggs. mr. crow, you are as crazy as a loon." he prepared to bring the machine to a standstill. "i'm going home. you can ride back with me or get out and walk on, just as you please." "hold on! don't do that! i'll see that you're paid fer the use of the machine. besides, consarn ye, you're my prisoner." this was too much for barnes. he laughed long and loud, and he did not turn back. just beyond the ferry they turned aside to permit a carriage to pass. a boy on the box with the driver shouted frantically after them, and anderson tried to stop the machine himself. "stop her!" he cried; "that's roscoe, my boy. hold on! who's that with him? why, by cracky, it's miss banks! gee whiz, has she come back here to teach again? whoa! turn her around, mr. barnes. they are motionin' fer us to come back. 'pears to be important, too." barnes obligingly turned around and ran back to where the carriage was standing. an hour later the automobile rolled into the driveway at bonner place, and anderson crow, a glorious triumph in his face, handed miss banks from the tonneau and into the arms of rosalie gray, who at first had mistaken the automobile for another. pompous to the point of explosion, anderson waved his hand to the party assembled on the veranda, strolled around to mr. barnes's seat and acquired a light for his cigar with a nonchalance that almost overcame his one-time prisoner, and then said, apparently to the whole world, for he addressed no one in particular: "i knowed i could solve the blamed thing if they'd jest give me time." chapter xxxv. the story is told elsie banks had a small and select audience in mrs. bonner's room upstairs. she had come from new york--or from california, strictly speaking--to furnish the narrative which was to set rosalie gray's mind at rest forever-more. it was not a pleasant task; it was not an easy sacrifice for this spirited girl who had known luxury all her life. her spellbound hearers were mrs. bonner and edith, wicker bonner, anderson crow, rosalie, and john e. barnes, who, far from being a captive of the law, was now miss gray's attorney, retained some hours before by his former captor. "i discharge you, sir," anderson had said, after hearing miss bank's statement in the roadway. "you are no longer a prisoner. have you anything to say, sir?" "nothing, mr. crow, except to offer my legal services to you and your ward in this extraordinary matter. put the matter in my hands, sir, and she shall soon come into her own, thanks to this young lady. i may add that, as i am not in the habit of soliciting clients, it is not my intention in this instance to exact a fee from your ward. my services are quite free, given in return, mr. crow, for the magnanimous way in which you have taken me into your confidence ever since i have known you. it is an honour to have been arrested by you; truthfully it is no disgrace." in the privacy of mrs. bonner's sitting-room, elsie banks, dry-eyed and bitter, told the story of her life. i cannot tell it as she did, for she was able to bring tears to the eyes of her listeners. it is only for me to relate the bare facts, putting them into her words as closely as possible. rosalie gray, faint with astonishment and incredulity, a lump in her throat that would not go down, and tears in her eyes, leaned back in an easy-chair and watched her unhappy friend. "i shall provide mr. barnes with proof of everything i say," said miss banks. "there can be no difficulty, rosalie dear, in confirming all that i have to tell. if you will permit me to relate the story without interruption and afterward let me go my way without either pity or contempt, i shall be, oh, so grateful to you all--especially to you, dear rosalie. believe me i love you with my whole soul. "i have come to you voluntarily, and my mother, who is in tinkletown, in resigning herself to the calls of conscience, is now happier than she has ever been before. a more powerful influence than her own will or her own honour, an influence that was evil to the core, inspired her to countenance this awful wrong. it also checkmated every good impulse she may have had to undo it in after years. that influence came from oswald banks, a base monster to whom my mother was married when i was a year old. my mother was the daughter of lord abbott brace, but married my own father, george stuart, who was a brilliant but radical newspaper writer in london, against her father's wish. for this he cast her off and disinherited her. grandfather hated him and his views, and he could not forgive my mother even after my father died, which was two years after their marriage. "lord richard brace, my mother's only brother, married the daughter of the duchess of b----. you, rosalie, are lady rosalie brace of brace hall, w--shire, england, the true granddaughter of general lord abbott brace, one of the noblest and richest men of his day. please let me go on; i cannot endure the interruptions. the absolute, unalterable proof of what i say shall be established through the confession of my own mother, in whose possession lies every document necessary to give back to you that which she would have given to me. "your mother died a few weeks after you were born, and sir richard, who loved my mother in the face of his father's displeasure, placed you in her care, while he rushed off, heart-broken, to find solace in egypt. it is said that he hated you because you were the cause of her death. on the day after your birth, old lord brace changed his will and bequeathed a vast amount of unentailed property to you, to be held in trust by your father until you were twenty-one years of age. i was almost two years old at the time, and the old man, unexpectedly compassionate, inserted a provision which, in the event that you were to die before that time, gave all this money to me on my twenty-first birthday. the interest on this money, amounting to five thousand pounds annually, was to go to you regularly, in one case, or to me, in the other. oswald banks was an american, whom my mother had met in london several years prior to her first marriage. he was the london representative of a big pennsylvania manufacturing concern. he was ambitious, unscrupulous and clever beyond conception. he still is all of these and more, for he is now a coward. "well, it was he who concocted the diabolical scheme to one day get possession of your inheritance. he coerced my poor mother into acquiescense, and she became his wretched tool instead of an honoured wife and helpmate. one night, when you were three weeks old, the house in which we lived was burned to the ground, the inmates narrowly escaping. so narrow was the escape, in fact, that you were said to have been left behind in the confusion, and the world was told, the next day, that the granddaughter of lord brace had been destroyed by the flames. "the truth, however, was not told. my stepfather did not dare to go so far as to kill you. it was he who caused the fire, but he had you removed to a small hotel in another part of the city some hours earlier, secretly, of course, but in charge of a trusted maid. my mother was responsible for this. she would not listen to his awful plan to leave you in the house. but you might just as well have died. no one was the wiser and you were given up as lost. a week later, my mother and mr. banks started for america. you and i were with them, but you went as the daughter of a maid-servant--ellen hayes. "this is the story as my mother has told it to me after all these years. my stepfather's plan, of course, was to place you where you could never be found, and then to see to it that our grandfather did not succeed in changing his will. moreover, he was bound and determined that he himself should be named as trustee--when the fortune came over at lord brace's death. that part of it turned out precisely as he had calculated. let me go on a few months in advance of my story. lord brace died, and the will was properly probated and the provisions carried out. brace hall and the estates went to your father and the bequest came to me, for you were considered dead. my stepfather was made trustee. he gave bond in england and america, i believe. in any event, the fortune was to be mine when i reached the age of twenty-one, but each year the income, nearly twenty-five thousand dollars, was to be paid to my stepfather as trustee, to be safely invested by him. my mother's name was not mentioned in the document, except once, to identify me as the beneficiary. i can only add to this phase of the hateful conspiracy, that for nineteen years my stepfather received this income, and that he used it to establish his own fortune. by investing what was supposed to be my money, he has won his own way to wealth. "mr. banks decided that the operations were safest from this side of the atlantic. he and my mother took up their residence in new york, and it has been their home ever since. he spent the first half year after your suspected death in london, solely for the purpose of establishing himself in lord brace's favour. within a year after the death of lord brace your father was killed by a poacher on the estate. he had but lately returned from egypt, and was in full control of the lands and property attached to brace hall. if my stepfather had designs upon brace hall, they failed, for the lands and the title went at once to your father's cousin, sir harry brace, the present lord. "so much for the conditions in england then and now. i now return to that part of the story which most interests and concerns you. my poor mother was compelled, within a fortnight after we landed in new york, to give up the dangerous infant who was always to hang like a cloud between fortune and honour. the maid-servant was paid well for her silence. by the way, she died mysteriously soon after coming to america, but not before giving to my mother a signed paper setting forth clearly every detail in so far as it bore upon her connection with the hateful transaction. conscience was forever at work in my mother's heart; honour was constantly struggling to the surface, only to be held back by fear of and loyalty to the man she loved. "it was decided that the most humane way to put you out of existence was to leave you on the doorstep of some kindly disposed person, far from new york. my stepfather and my mother deliberately set forth on this so-called mission of mercy. they came north, and by chance, fell in with a resident of boggs city while in the station at albany. they were debating which way to turn for the next step. my mother was firm in the resolve that you should be left in the care of honest, reliable, tender-hearted people, who would not abuse the trust she was to impose. the boggs city man said he had been in albany to see about a bill in the legislature, which was to provide for the erection of a monument in tinkletown--where a revolutionary battle had been fought. it was he who spoke of anderson crow, and it was his stories of your goodness and generosity, mr. crow, that caused them to select you as the man who was to have rosalie, and, with her, the sum of one thousand dollars a year for your trouble and her needs. "my mother's description of that stormy night in february, more than twenty-one years ago, is the most pitiful thing i have ever listened to. together they made their way to tinkletown, hiring a vehicle in boggs city for the purpose. mr. banks left the basket on your porch while mother stood far down the street and waited for him, half frozen and heartsick. then they hurried out of town and were soon safely on their way to new york. it was while my stepfather was in london, later on, that mother came up to see rosalie and make that memorable first payment to mr. crow. how it went on for years, you all know. it was my stepfather's cleverness that made it so impossible to learn the source from which the mysterious money came. "we travelled constantly, always finding new places of interest in which my mother's conscience could be eased by contact with beauty and excitement. gradually she became hardened to the conditions, for, after all, was it not her own child who was to be enriched by the theft and the deception? mr. banks constantly forced that fact in upon her mother-love and her vanity. through it all, however, you were never neglected nor forgotten. my mother had your welfare always in mind. it was she who saw that you and i were placed at the same school in new york, and it was she who saw that your training in a way was as good as it could possibly be without exciting risk. "of course, i knew nothing of all this. i was rolling in wealth and luxury, but not in happiness. instinctively i loathed my stepfather. he was hard, cruel, unreasonable. it was because of him that i left school and afterward sought to earn my own living. you know, rosalie, how tom reddon came into my life. he was the son of william reddon, my stepfather's business partner, who had charge of the western branch of the concern in chicago. we lived in chicago for several years, establishing the business. mr. banks was until recently president of the banks & reddon iron works. last year, you doubtless know, the plant was sold to the great combine and the old company passed out of existence. this act was the result of a demand from england that the trust under which he served be closed and struck from the records. it was his plan to settle the matter, turn the inheritance over to me according to law, and then impose upon my inexperience for all time to come. the money, while mine literally, was to be his in point of possession. "but he had reckoned without the son of his partner. tom reddon in some way learned the secret, and he was compelled to admit the young man into all of his plans. this came about some three years ago, while i was in school. i had known tom reddon in chicago. he won my love. i cannot deny it, although i despise him to-day more deeply than i ever expect to hate again. he was even more despicable than my stepfather. without the faintest touch of pity, he set about to obliterate every chance rosalie could have had for restitution. time began to prove to me that he was not the man i thought him to be. his nature revealed itself; and i found i could not marry him. besides, my mother was beginning to repent. she awoke from her stupor of indifference and strove in every way to circumvent the plot of the two conspirators, so far as i was concerned. the strain told on her at last, and we went to california soon after my ridiculous flight from tinkletown last winter. it was not until after that adventure that i began to see deep into the wretched soul of tom reddon. "then came the most villainous part of the whole conspiracy. reddon, knowing full well that exposure was possible at any time, urged my stepfather to have you kidnaped and hurried off to some part of the world where you could never be found. even reddon did not have the courage to kill you. neither had the heart to commit actual murder. it was while we were at colonel randall's place that the abduction took place, you remember. mr. banks and tom reddon had engaged their men in new york. these desperadoes came to boggs city while tom was here to watch their operations. all the time mr. crow was chasing us down reddon was laughing in his sleeve, for he knew what was to happen during the marshal's absence. you know how successfully he managed the job. it was my stepfather's fault that it did not succeed. "my mother, down in new york, driven to the last extreme, had finally turned on him and demanded that he make restitution to rosalie gray, as we had come to know her. of course, there was a scene and almost a catastrophe. he was so worried over the position she was taking, that he failed to carry out his part of the plans, which were to banish rosalie forever from this country. you were to have been taken to paris, dear, and kept forever in one of those awful sanitoriums. they are worse than the grave. in the meantime, the delay gave mr. bonner a chance to rescue you from the kidnapers. "shortly after reaching new york i quarrelled with thomas reddon, and my mother and i fled to california. he followed us and sought a reconciliation. i loathed him so much by this time, that i appealed to my mother. it was then that she told me this miserable story, and that is why we are in tinkletown to-day. we learned in some way of the plot to kidnap you and to place you where you could not be found. the inhuman scheme of my stepfather and his adviser was to have my mother declared insane and confined in an asylum, where her truthful utterances could never be heard by the world, or if they were, as the ravings of a mad woman. "the day that we reached new york my mother _placed_ the documents and every particle of proof in her possession in the hands of the british consul. the story was told to him and also to certain attorneys. a member of his firm visited my stepfather and confronted him with the charges. that very night mr. banks disappeared, leaving behind him a note, in which he said we should never see his face again. tom reddon has gone to europe. my mother and i expect to sail this week for england, and i have come to ask rosalie to accompany us. i want her to stand at last on the soil which knows her to be rosalie brace. the fortune which was mine last week is hers to-day. we are not poor, rosalie dear, but we are not as rich as we were when we had all that belonged to you." chapter xxxvi anderson crow's resignation some days later anderson crow returned to tinkletown from new york, where he had seen rosalie bonner and her husband off for england, accompanied by mrs. banks and elsie, who had taken passage on the same steamer. he was attired in a brand-new suit of blue serge, a panama hat, and patent-leather shoes which hurt his feet. moreover, he carried a new walking stick with a great gold head and there was a huge pearl scarf-pin in his necktie besides all this, his hair and beard had been trimmed to perfection by a holland house barber. every morning his wife was obliged to run a flatiron over his trousers to perpetuate the crease. altogether anderson was a revelation not only to his family and to the town at large, but to himself as well. he fairly staggered every time he got a glimpse of himself in the shop windows. all day long he strolled about the street, from store to store, or leaned imposingly against every post that presented itself conveniently. naturally he was the talk of the town. "gee-mi-nently!" ejaculated alf reesling, catching sight of him late in the day. "is that the president?" "it's anderson crow," explained blootch peabody. "who's dead?" demanded alf. "what's that got to do with it?" "why, whose clothes is he wearin'?" pursued alf, utterly overcome by the picture. "you'd better not let him hear you say that," cautioned isaac porter. "he got 'em in new york. he says young mr. bonner give 'em to him fer a weddin' present. rosalie give him a pearl dingus to wear in his cravat, an' derned ef he don't have to wear a collar all the time now. that lawyer barnes give him the cane. gee whiz! he looks like a king, don't he?" at that moment anderson approached the group in front of lamson's store. he walked with a stateliness that seemed to signify pain in his lower extremities more than it did dignity higher up. "how fer out do you reckon they are by this time, blootch?" he asked earnestly. "'bout ten miles further than when you asked while ago," responded blootch, consulting his watch. "well, that ought to get 'em to liverpool sometime soon then. they took a powerful fast ship. makes it in less 'n six days, they say. let's see. they sailed day before yesterday. they must be out sight o' land by this time." "yes, unless they're passin' some islands," agreed blootch. "thunderation! what air you talkin' about?" said anderson scornfully. "cuby an' porty rico's been passed long ago. them islands ain't far from boston. don't you remember how skeered the boston people were durin' the war with spain? feared the spanish shells might go a little high an' smash up the town? islands nothin'! they've got away out into deep water by this time, boys. 'y gosh, i'm anxious about rosalie. s'posin' that derned boat struck a rock er upset er somethin'! they never could swim ashore." "oh, there's no danger, anderson," said mr. lamson. "those boats are perfectly safe. i suppose they're going to telegraph you when they land." "no, they're goin' to cable, wick says. doggone, i'm glad it's all settled. you don't know how hard i've worked all these years to find out who her parents was. course i knowed they were foreigners all the time, but rosalie never had no brogue, so you c'n see how i was threw off the track. she talked jest as good american as we do. i was mighty glad when i finally run miss banks to earth." the crowd was in no position to argue the point with him. "that miss banks is a fine girl, boys. she done the right thing. an' so did my rosalie--i mean lady rosalie. she made elsie keep some of the money. mr. barnes is goin' to england next week to help settle the matter for lady rosalie. he says she's got nearly a million dollars tied up some'eres. it's easy sailin', though, 'cause mrs. banks says so. did you hear what rosalie said when she got convinced about bein' an english lady?" "no; what did she say?" "she jest stuck up that derned little nose o' hern an' said: 'i am an american as long as i live.'" "hooray!" shouted alf reesling, throwing isaac porter's new hat into the air. the crowd joined in the cheering. "did i ever tell you how i knowed all along that it was a man who left rosalie on the porch?" asked anderson. "why, you allus told me it was a woman," said alf. "you accused me of bein' her." "shucks! woman nothin'! i knowed it was a man. here's somethin' you don't know, alf. i sized up the foot-prints on my front steps jest after she--i mean he--dropped the basket. the toes turned outward, plain as day, right there in the snow." he paused to let the statement settle in their puzzled brains. "don't you know that one hunderd percent of the women turn their toes in when they go upstairs? to keep from hookin' into their skirts? thunder, you oughter of thought of that, too!" some one had posted anderson on this peculiarly feminine trait, and he was making the best of it. incidentally, it may be said that every man in tinkletown took personal observations in order to satisfy himself. "any one seen pastor macfarlane?" went on anderson. "wick bonner give me a hunderd dollar bill to give him fer performin' the ceremony up to our house that night. g'way, ed higgins! i'm not goin' 'round showin' that bill to people. if robbers got onto the fact i have it, they'd probably try to steal it. i don't keer if you ain't seen that much money in one piece. that's none of my lookout. say, are you comin' to the town meetin' to-night?" they were all at the meeting of the town board that night. it was held, as usual, in odd fellows' hall, above peterson's dry-goods store, and there was not so much as standing room in the place when the clerk read the minutes of the last meeting. word had gone forth that something unusual was to happen. it was not idle rumour, for soon after the session began, anderson crow arose to address the board. "gentlemen," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "i have come before you as i notified you i would. i hereby tender my resignation as marshal of tinkletown, street commissioner and chief of the fire department--an' any other job i may have that has slipped my mind. i now suggest that you app'int mr. ed higgins in my place. he has wanted the job fer some time, an' says it won't interfere with his business any more than it did with mine. i have worked hard all these years an' i feel that i ought to have a rest. besides, it has got to be so that thieves an' other criminals won't visit tinkletown on account o' me, an' i think the town is bein' held back considerable in that way. what's the use havin' a marshal an' a jail ef nobody comes here to commit crimes? they have to commit 'em in new york city er chicago nowadays, jest because it's safer there than it is here. look at this last case i had. wasn't that arranged in new york? well, it shouldn't be that way. even the train robbers put up their job in new york. i feel that the best interests of the town would be served ef i resign an' give the criminals a chance. you all know ed higgins. he will ketch 'em if anybody kin. i move that he be app'inted." the motion prevailed, as did the vote of thanks, which was vociferously called for in behalf of anderson crow. "you honour me," said the ex-marshal, when the "ayes" died away. "i promise to help marshal higgins in ever' way possible. i'll tell him jest what to do in everything. i wish to say that i am not goin' out of the detective business, however. i'm goin' to open an agency of my own here. all sorts of detective business will be done at reasonable prices. i had these cards printed at the _banner_ office to-day, an' mr. squires is goin' to run an ad. fer me fer a year in the paper." he proudly handed a card to the president of the board and then told the crowd that each person present could have one by applying to his son roscoe, who would be waiting in the hallway after the meeting. the card read: "anderson crow, detective. all kinds of cases taken and satisfaction guaranteed. berth mysteries a specialty." mrs. bonner, upon hearing of his resignation the next day, just as she was leaving for boston, drily remarked to the congressman: "i still maintain that anderson crow is utterly impossible." no doubt the entire world, aside from the village of tinkletown, agrees with her in that opinion. mike greene and the little greene schoolhouse (http://www.users.nac.net/mgreene/homer_greene_museum.html) for supplying missing pages for this rare book. burnham breaker by homer greene author of "the blind brother" to my father, whose gray hairs i honor, and whose perfect manhood i revere, this volume is affectionately inscribed by the author. honesdale, penn., sept. , . contents. chapter i. a surprise in the screen-room ii. a strange visitor iii. a brilliant scheme iv. a set of resolutions v. in search of a mother vi. breaking the news vii. rhyming joe viii. a friend in need ix. a friend indeed x. at the bar of the court xi. the evidence in the case xii. at the gates of paradise xiii. the purchase of a lie xiv. the angel with the sword xv. an eventful journey xvi. a block in the wheel xvii. gentlemen of the jury xviii. a writ of habeas corpus xix. back to the breaker xx. the fire in the shaft xxi. a perilous passage xxii. in the power of darkness xxiii. a stroke of lightning xxiv. at the dawn of day chapter i. a surprise in the screen-room. the city of scranton lies in the centre of the lackawanna coal-field, in the state of pennsylvania. year by year the suburbs of the city creep up the sides of the surrounding hills, like the waters of a rising lake. standing at any point on this shore line of human habitations, you can look out across the wide landscape and count a score of coal-breakers within the limits of your first glance. these breakers are huge, dark buildings that remind you of castles of the olden time. they are many-winged and many-windowed, and their shaft-towers rise high up toward the clouds and the stars. about the feet of those in the valley the waves of the out-reaching city beat and break, and out on the hill-sides they stand like mighty fortresses built to guard the lives and fortunes of the multitudes who toil beneath them. but they are not long-lived. like human beings, they rise, they flourish, they die and are forgotten. not one in hundreds of the people who walk the streets of scranton to-day, or who dig the coal from its surrounding hills, can tell you where burnham breaker stood a quarter of a century ago. yet there are men still living, and boys who have grown to manhood, scores of them, who toiled for years in the black dust breathed out from its throats of iron, and listened to the thunder of its grinding jaws from dawn to dark of many and many a day. these will surely tell you where the breaker stood. they are proud to have labored there in other years. they will speak to you of that time with pleasant memories. it was thought to be a stroke of fortune to obtain work at burnham breaker. it was just beyond the suburbs of the city as they then were, and near to the homes of all the workmen. the vein of coal at this point was of more than ordinary thickness, and of excellent quality, and these were matters of much moment to the miners who worked there. then, the wages were always paid according to the highest rate, promptly and in full. but there was something more, and more important than all this, to be considered. robert burnham, the chief power in the company, and the manager of its interests, was a man whose energetic business qualities and methods did not interfere with his concern for the welfare of his employees. he was not only just, but liberal and kind. he held not only the confidence but the good-will, even the affection, of those who labored under him. there were never any strikes at the burnham mines. the men would have considered it high treason in any one to advocate a strike against the interests of robert burnham. yet it was no place for idling. there were, no laggards there. men had to work, and work hard too, for the wages that bought their daily bread. even the boys in the screen-room were held as closely to their tasks as care and vigilance could hold them. theirs were no light tasks, either. they sat all day on their little benches, high up in the great black building, with their eyes fixed always on the shallow streams of broken coal passing down the iron-sheathed chutes, and falling out of sight below them; and it was their duty to pick the particles of slate and stone from out these moving masses, bending constantly above them as they worked. it was not the physical exertion that made their task a hard one; there was not much straining of the joints or muscles, not even in the constant bending of the body to that one position. neither was it that their tender hands were often cut and bruised by the sharp pieces of the coal or the heavy ones of slate. but it was hard because they were boys; young boys, with bounding pulses, chafing at restraint, full to the brim with life and spirit, longing for the fresh air, the bright sunlight, the fields, the woods, the waters, the birds, the flowers, all things beautiful and wonderful that nature spreads upon the earth to make of it a paradise for boys. to think of all these things, to catch brief glimpses of the happiness of children who were not born to toil, and then to sit, from dawn to mid-day and from mid-day till the sun went down, and listen to the ceaseless thunder of moving wheels and the constant sliding of the streams of coal across their iron beds,--it was this that wearied them. to know that in the woods the brooks were singing over pebbly bottoms, that in the fields the air was filled with the fragrance of blossoming flowers, that everywhere the free wind rioted at will, and then to sit in such a prison-house as this all day, and breathe an atmosphere so thick with dust that even the bits of blue sky framed in by the open windows in the summer time were like strips of some dark thunder-cloud,--it was this, this dull monotony of dizzy sight and doleful sound and changeless post of duty, that made their task a hard one. there came a certain summer day at burnham breaker when the labor and confinement fell with double weight upon the slate-pickers in the screen-room. it was circus day. the dead-walls and bill-boards of the city had been gorgeous for weeks and weeks with pictures heralding the wonders of the coming show. by the turnpike road, not forty rods from where the breaker stood, there was a wide barn the whole side of which had been covered with brightly colored prints of beasts and birds, of long processions, of men turning marvellous somersaults, of ladies riding, poised on one foot, on the backs of flying horses, of a hundred other things to charm the eyes and rouse anticipation in the breasts of boys. every day, when the whistle blew at noon, the boys ran, shouting, from the breaker, and hurried, with their dinner-pails, to the roadside barn, to eat and gaze alternately, and discuss the pictured wonders. and now it was all here; beasts, birds, vaulting men, flying women, racing horses and all. they had seen the great white tents gleaming in the sunlight up in the open fields, a mile away, and had heard the distant music of the band and caught glimpses of the long procession as it wound through the city streets below them. this was at the noon hour, while they were waiting for the signal that should call them back into the dust and din of the screen-room, where they might dream, indeed, of circus joys while bending to their tasks, but that was all. there was much wishing and longing. there was some murmuring. there was even a rash suggestion from one boy that they should go, in spite of the breaker and the bosses, and revel for a good half-day in the pleasures of the show. but this treasonable proposition was frowned down without delay. these boys had caught the spirit of loyalty from the men who worked at burnham breaker, and not even so great a temptation as this could keep them from the path of duty. when the bell rang for them to return to work, not one was missing, each bench had its accustomed occupant, and the coal that was poured into the cars at the loading-place was never more free from slate and stone than it was that afternoon. but it was hot up in the screen-room. the air was close and stifling, and heavy with the choking dust. the noise of the iron-teethed rollers crunching the lumps of coal, and the bang and rattle of ponderous machinery were never before so loud and discordant, and the black streams moving down their narrow channels never passed beneath these dizzy boys in monotony quite so dull and ceaseless as they were passing this day. suddenly the machinery stopped. the grinding and the roaring ceased. the frame-work of the giant building was quiet from its trembling. the iron gates that held back the broken coal were quickly shut and the long chutes were empty. the unexpected stillness was almost startling. the boys looked up in mute astonishment. through the dust, in the door-way at the end of the room, they saw the breaker boss and the screen-room boss talking with robert burnham. then mr. burnham advanced a step or two and said:-- "boys, mr. curtis tells me you are all here. i am pleased with your loyalty. i had rather have the good-will and confidence of the boys who work for me than to have the money that they earn. now, i intend that you shall see the circus if you wish to, and you will be provided with the means of admission to it. mr. curtis will dismiss you for the rest of the day, and as you pass out you will each receive a silver quarter as a gift for good behavior." for a minute the boys were silent. it was too sudden a vision of happiness to be realized at once. then one little fellow stood up on his bench and shouted:-- "hooray for mr. burnham!" the next moment the air was filled with shouts and hurrahs so loud and vigorous that they went echoing through every dust-laden apartment of the huge building from head to loading-place. then the boys filed out. one by one they went through the door-way, each, as he passed, receiving from mr. burnham's own hand the shining piece of silver that should admit him to the wonders of the "greatest show on earth." they spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech. but their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of coming pleasure. and the one who enjoyed it more than all the others was robert burnham. it is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. but it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor logic can ever hope to falsify. the last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from those who had preceded him. the faces of all of them were black with coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. but this one had just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape. "why, my boy!" exclaimed mr. burnham, "you have cut your hand. let me see." "'taint much, sir," the lad replied; "i often cut 'em a little. you're apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." the man had the little hand in his and bent to examine the wound. "that's quite a cut," he said, "as clean as though it had been made with a knife. come, let's wash it off and fix it up a little." he led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail, dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand. "that shows it's good coal, sir," said the boy, "poor coal wouldn't make such a clean cut as that. the better the coal the sharper 'tis." "thank you," said mr. burnham, smiling. "taking the circumstances into consideration, i regard that as the best compliment for our coal that i have ever received." the hand had been washed off as well as water without soap could do it. "i guess that's as clean as it'll come," said the boy. "it's pirty hard work to git 'em real clean. the dirt gits into the corners so, an' into the chaps an' cuts, an' you can't git it all out, not even for sunday." the man was looking around for something to bind up the wound with. "have you a handkerchief?" he asked. the boy drew from an inner pocket what had once been a red bandanna handkerchief of the old style, but alas! it was sadly soiled, it was worn beyond repair and crumpled beyond belief. "'taint very clean," he said, apologetically. "you can't keep a han'kerchy very clean a-workin' in the breaker, it's so dusty here." "oh! it's good enough," replied the man, noticing the boy's embarrassment, and trying to reassure him, "it's plenty good enough, but it's red you see, and red won't do. here, i have a white one. this is just the thing," he added, tearing his own handkerchief into strips and binding them carefully about the wounded hand. "there!" giving the bandage a final adjustment; "that will be better for it. now, then, you're off to the circus; good-by." the lad took a step or two forward, hesitated a moment, and then turned back. the breaker boss and the screen-room boss were already gone and he was alone with mr. burnham. "would it make any dif'rence to you," he asked, holding up the silver coin, "if i spent this money for sumpthin' else, an' didn't go to the circus with it?" "why, no!" said the man, wonderingly, "i suppose not; but i thought you boys would rather spend your money at the circus than to spend it in almost any other way." "oh! i'd like to go well enough. i al'ays did like a circus, an' i wanted to go to this one, 'cause it's a big one; but they's sumpthin' else i want worse'n that, an' i'm a-tryin' to save up a little money for it." robert burnham's curiosity was aroused. here was a boy who was willing to forego the pleasures of the circus that he might gratify some greater desire; a strong and noble one, the man felt sure, to call for such a sacrifice. visions of a worn-out mother, an invalid sister, a mortgaged home, passed through his mind as he said: "and what is it you are saving your money for, my boy, if i am at liberty to ask?" "to'stablish my'dentity, sir." "to do what?" "to'stablish my'dentity; that's what uncle billy calls it." "why, what's the matter with your identity?" "i ain't got any; i'm a stranger; i don't know who my 'lations are." "don't know--who--your relations are! why, what's your name?" "ralph, that's all; i ain't got any other name. they call me ralph buckley sometimes, 'cause i live with uncle billy; but he ain't my uncle, you know,--i only call him uncle billy 'cause i live with him, an'--an' he's good to me, that's all." at the name "ralph," coming so suddenly from the lad's lips, the man had started, turned pale, and then his face flushed deeply. he drew the boy down tenderly on the bench beside him, and said:-- "tell me about yourself, ralph; where do you say you live?" "with uncle billy,--bachelor billy they call him; him that dumps at the head, pushes the cars out from the carriage an' dumps 'em; don't you know billy buckley?" the man nodded assent and the boy went on:-- "he's been awful good to me, uncle billy has; you don't know how good he's been to me; but he ain't my uncle, he ain't no 'lation to me; i ain't got no 'lations 'at i know of; i wish't i had." the lad looked wistfully out through the open window to the far line of hills with their summits veiled in a delicate mist of blue. "but where did billy get you?" asked mr. burnham. "he foun' me; he foun' me on the road, an' he took me in an' took care o' me, and he didn't know me at all; that's where he's so good. i was sick, an' he hired widow maloney to tend me while he was a-workin', and when i got well he got me this place a-pickin' slate in the breaker." "but, ralph, where had you come from when billy found you?" "well, now, i'll tell you all i know about it. the first thing 'at i 'member is 'at i was a-livin' with gran'pa simon in philadelphy. he wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused me so. i don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an' when i wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't give me nothin' to eat; an' i'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' i wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. well, you see, i couldn't stan' it, an' one day i run away. i wouldn't 'a' run away if i could 'a' stood it, but i _couldn't_ stan' it no longer. gran'pa simon wasn't there when i run away. he used to go off an' leave me with ole sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very well, an' she couldn't follow me. i slep' with buck the bootblack that night, an' nex' mornin', early, i started out in the country. i was 'fraid they'd find me if i stayed aroun' the city. it was pirty near afternoon 'fore i got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she give me sumpthin' to eat. i wanted to git away from the city fur's i could, an' day-times i walked fast, an' nights i slep' under the big trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things to eat. an' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon he give me a ride, an' then i went everywhere with the circus, an' i worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; i worked real hard too, a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, only jest once. well, w'en we got here to scranton i got sick, an' they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause i wasn't any good to 'em, an' they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' i laid down up there along the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then uncle billy, he happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. he lives in part o' widow maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got nobody but me, an' i ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. that's why they call him bachelor billy, 'cause he ain't never got married. oh! he's been awful good to me, uncle billy has, awful good!" and the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance. the man had not once stirred during this recital. his eyes had been fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest. "well, ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. and is that all you know about yourself? have you no clew to your parentage or birthplace?" "no, sir; not any. that's what i want to find out when i git money enough." "how much money have you now?" "about nine dollars, countin' what i'll save from nex' pay day." "and how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?" "hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. the lawyer he keeps half the money, an' gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he finds out all about you. uncle billy says that's the way. he says if you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything." "and suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?" "well, i don't know; i'd give a lot of it to uncle billy, i guess, an' some to widow maloney, an'--an' i'd go to the circus, an'--but i wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if i could have folks like other boys have. if i could only have a mother, that's what i want worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like mothers are, you know; if i could only jest have that, i wouldn't want nothin' else, not never any more." the man turned his face away. "and wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked. "oh, yes, i would; but i _could_ git along without a father, a real father. uncle billy's been a kind o' father to me; but i ain't never had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what i want now, an" i want 'em very bad. seems, sometimes, jes' as if i _couldn't_ wait; jes' as if i couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. don't--don't you s'pose the things we can't have is the things we want worst?" "yes, my boy: yes. you've spoken a truth as old as the ages. that which i myself would give my fortune for i can never have. i mean my little boy who--who died. i cannot have him back. his name too was ralph." for a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. the child was awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion. at last ralph said, rising:-- "well, i mus' go now an' tell uncle billy." mr. burnham rose in his turn. "yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry. what! you're not going? oh! yes, you _must_ go. here, here's a silver dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the quarter. yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money, "yes, you _must_ take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when you come to your own. and wait! i want to help you in that matter of establishing your identity. come to my office, and we'll talk it over. let me see; to-day is tuesday. friday we shall shut down the screens a half-day for repairs. come on friday afternoon." "thank you, sir; yes, sir, i will." "all right; good-by!" "good-by, sir!" when ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others. leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the people as they passed in, stood an old man. he was shabbily dressed, his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on his forehead. he was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough gave conclusive evidence of his disease. but 'he had a pair of sharp gray eyes that looked out from under the brim of his hat, and gave close scrutiny to every one who passed by. the breaker boys, who had gone into the tent in a body some minutes earlier, had attracted his attention and aroused his interest. by and by his eyes rested upon ralph, who stood back in the line, awaiting the forward movement of the crowd. the old man started perceptibly at sight of the boy, and uttered an ejaculation of surprise, which ended in a cough. he moved forward as if to meet him; then, apparently on second thought, he retreated to his post. but he kept his eyes fixed on the lad, who was coming slowly nearer, and his thin face took on an expression of the deepest satisfaction. he turned partly aside, however, as the boy approached him, and stood with averted countenance until the lad had passed through the gate. ralph was just in time. he had no sooner got in and found a seat, with the other breaker boys, away up under the edge of the tent, than the grand procession made its entrance. there were golden chariots, there were ladies in elegant riding habits and men in knightly costumes, there were prancing steeds and gorgeous banners, elephants, camels, monkeys, clowns, a moving mass of dazzling beauty and bright colors that almost made one dizzy to look upon it; and through it all the great band across the arena poured its stirring music in a way to make the pulses leap and the hands and feet keep time to its sounding rhythm. then came the athletes and the jugglers, the tight-rope walkers and the trapeze performers, the trained dogs and horses, the clowns and the monkeys, the riding and the races; all of it too wonderful, too mirthful, too complete to be adequately described. at least, this was what the breaker boys thought. after the performance was ended, they went out to the menagerie tent, in a body, to look at the animals. one of the boys became separated from the others, and stood watching the antics of the monkeys, and laughing gleefully at each comical trick performed by the grave-faced little creatures. looking up, he saw an old man standing by him; an old man with sharp gray eyes and dusty clothes, who leaned heavily upon a cane. "curious things, these monkeys," said the old man. "ain't they, though!" replied the boy. "luk at that un, now!--don't he beat all? ain't he funny?" "very!" responded the old man, gazing across the open space to where ralph stood chattering with his companions. "sonny," said he, "can you tell me who that boy is, over yonder, with his hand done up in a white cloth?" "that boy w'ats a-talkin' to jimmy dooley, you mean?" "yes, the one there by the lion's cage." "you mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?" "yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?" "oh, that's ralph." "ralph who?" "ralph nobody. he ain't got no other name. he lives with bachelor billy." "is--is bachelor billy his father?" "naw; he ain't got no father." "does he work with you in the mines?" "in the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. he sets nex' to me." "how long has he been working there?" "oh, i donno; couple o' years, i guess. you want to see 'im? i'll go call 'im." "no; i don't care to see him. don't call him; he isn't the boy i'm looking for, any way." "there! he's a-turnin' this way now. i'll have 'im here in a minute; hey, ralph! ralph! here he comes." but the old man was gone. he had disappeared suddenly and mysteriously. a little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. he was smiling, and muttering to himself. "found him at last!" he exclaimed, in a whisper, "found him at last! it'll be all right now; only be cautious, simon! be cautious!" chapter ii. a strange visitor. it was the day after the circus. robert burnham sat in his office on lackawanna avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. as he laid the last letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy, dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for the joys to come. the pleasure he had found in his generous deed stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even now in the light of his kindly face. he had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy ralph. it had awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. he had spoken to his wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and whose name was--ralph! both wife and daughter had listened eagerly to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the screen-room. but he had already resolved to do this, and more. the mystery surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. obscure and humble though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to which his parentage entitled him. the more he thought on this subject, the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. his fatherly nature was aroused and eager for action. there was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he lived to this boy's age. it was not alone in the name, but something also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and brought no unfamiliar sound. the thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life. by and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him. then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby clothes, leaning on a cane. he was breathing heavily, apparently from the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing. he seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table from mr. burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by his side, and laid his cane across it. when he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said: "excuse me. a little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of coughing. this is mr. robert burnham, i suppose?" "that is my name," answered burnham, regarding his visitor with some curiosity. "ah! just so; you don't know me, i presume?" "no, i don't remember to have met you before." "it's not likely that you have, not at all likely. my name is craft, simon craft. i live in philadelphia when i'm at home." "ah! philadelphia is a fine city. what can i do for you, mr. craft?" "that isn't the question, sir. the question is, what can _i_ do for _you_?" the old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door, which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat. "well," said mr. burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?" "much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention for a few moments." "my time is at your disposal," replied burnham, smiling, and leaning back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and i am all attention; proceed." thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only a languid curiosity. this coal magnate was accustomed to being interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and often enjoyed short interviews with them. this one had opened the conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. but his very next words dispelled this idea and aroused robert burnham to serious attention. "do you remember," the old man asked, "the cherry brook bridge disaster that occurred near philadelphia some eight years ago?" "yes," replied burnham, straightening up in his chair, "i do; i have good reason to remember it. were you on that train?" "i was on that train. terrible accident, wasn't it?" "terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed." "wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and burned up after they went down, would it?" "the fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me these questions?" "you were on board, i believe, you and your wife and your child, and all went down. isn't that so?" "yes, it is so. but why, i repeat, are you asking me these questions? it is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, i assure you." craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:-- "you and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not, just as the fire was creeping up to you?" the old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by calling up painful memories. receiving no answer to his question, he continued:-- "but the boy, the boy ralph, he perished, didn't he? was burned up in the wreck, wasn't he?" "stop!" exclaimed burnham. "you have said enough. if you have any object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at once; if not, i have no time to listen to you further." "i have an object," replied craft, deliberately, "a most important object, which i will disclose to you if you will be good enough to answer my question. your boy ralph was burned up in the wreck at cherry bridge, wasn't he?" "yes, he was. that is our firm belief; what then?" "simply this, that you are mistaken." "what do you mean?" "your boy is not dead." burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. his face took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his lips. "you are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof of it." "i say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "i saw him--yesterday." "then, bring him to me. bring him to me and i will believe you." burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary hopelessness on his face. "you have no faith in me," said craft. "mere perversity might make you fail to recognize the child. suppose i show you further proofs of the truth of what i say." "very well; produce them." the old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and placed it on the table before him. the exertion brought on a spasm of coughing. when he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel. then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook it out and held it up for robert burnham to look at. it was a little flannel cloak. it had once been white, but it was sadly stained and soiled now. the delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned, the edges of which were still black and crumbling. "do you recognize it?" asked the old man. burnham seized it with both hands. "it is his!" he exclaimed. "it is ralph's! he wore it that day. where did you get it? where did you get it, i say?" craft did not reply. he was searching in his hand-bag for something else. finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of velvet and lace, and laid it on the table. this, too, was grasped by burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon with loving eyes. "do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now that i have some knowledge of what i am talking about?" his listener did not answer the question. his mind seemed to be far away. he said, finally:-- "there--there was a locket, a little gold locket. it had his father's picture in it. did--did you find that?" the visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket. the father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears. "it was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell me now--where did you get them?" "i came by them honestly, mr. burnham, honestly; and i have kept them faithfully. but i will tell you the whole story. i think you are ready now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly." the old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the table, cleared his throat, and began:-- "it was may , . i'd been out in the country at my son's, and was riding into the city in the evening. i was in the smoking-car. along about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. i got up and went out with the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. i hurried down the bank and did what i could to help those in the wreck, but it was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to do anything. then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. but i heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had struck across the rear one, and i climbed up there at the risk of my life and looked in. the fire gave some light by this time, and i saw a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly still. a sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. then the child cried again; i saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out just as the fire caught in his cloak. i jumped down into the water with him, and put out the fire and saved him. he wasn't hurt much. it was your boy ralph. by this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had to get up on the bank. "i took the child around among the people there, and tried to find out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him. he wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was ralph. i took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and the next morning i went out to the scene of the accident to try to discover some clew to his identity. but i couldn't find out anything about him; nothing at all. the day after that i was taken sick. the exertion, the exposure, and the wetting i had got in the water of the brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. it was several months before i got around again as usual, and i am still suffering, you see, from the results of that sickness. after that, as my time and means and business would permit, i went out and searched for the boy's friends. it is useless for me to go into the details of that search, but i will say that i made every effort and every sacrifice possible during five years, without the slightest success. in the meantime the child remained with me, and i clothed him and fed him and cared for him the very best i could, considering the circumstances in which i was placed. "about three years ago i happened to be in scranton on business, and, by the merest chance, i learned that you had been in the cherry brook disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's name was ralph. following up the clew, i became convinced that this boy was your son. i thought the best way to break the news to you was to bring you the child himself. with that end in view, i returned immediately to philadelphia, only to find ralph--missing. he had either run away or been stolen, i could not tell which. i was not able to trace him. three months later i heard that he had been with a travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. after that i lost track of him entirely for about three years. now, however, i have found him. i saw him so lately as yesterday. he is alive and well." several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it. robert burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was really alive. "why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that i might have assisted you in the search for him?" craft hesitated a moment. "i did not dare to," he said. i was afraid you would blame me too severely for not taking better care of him, and i was hoping every day to find him myself." "well, let that pass. where is he now? where is the boy who, you say, is my son?" "pardon me, sir, but i cannot tell you that just yet. i know where he is. i can bring him to you on two days' notice. but, before i do that, i feel that, in justice to myself, i should receive some compensation, not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you." burnham's brow darkened. "ah! i see," he said. "this is to be a money transaction. your object is to get gain from it. am i right?" "exactly. my motive is not wholly an unselfish one, i assure you." "still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?" "i do, certainly." "well, then, what is your proposition? name it." "yes, sir. after mature consideration, i have concluded that three thousand dollars is not too large a sum." "well, what then?" "i am to receive that amount when i bring your son to you." "but suppose i should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the person whom you will bring?" "then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me." burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "listen!" he exclaimed, earnestly. "if you will bring my boy to me, alive, unharmed, my own boy ralph, i will give you twice three thousand dollars." "in cash?" "in cash." "it's a bargain. you shall see him within two days. but--you may change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure me?" "certainly." mr. burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following contract:-- "this agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of june, , between simon craft of the city of philadelphia, party of the first part, and robert burnham of the city of scranton, party of the second part, both of the state of pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said craft agrees to produce to the said burnham, within two days from this date, the son of the said robert burnham, named ralph, in full life, and in good health of body and mind. and thereupon the said burnham, provided he recognizes as his said son ralph the person so produced, agrees to pay to the said craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand dollars. witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid. "robert burnham." [l.s.] "there!" said burnham, handing the paper to craft; "that will secure you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement. but let me be plain with you. if you are deceiving me or trying to deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do so, you will surely regret it. and if that child be really in life, and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, i promise you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. now you understand; go bring the boy." the old man did not answer. he was holding the paper close to his eyes, and going over it word by word. "yes," he said, finally; "i suppose it's all right. i'm not very familiar with written contracts, but i'll venture it." burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down the floor. "when will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?" "my dear sir, do not be in too great haste; i am not gifted with miraculous powers. i will bring the boy here or take you to him within two days, as i have agreed." "well, then, to-day is tuesday. will you have him here by friday? friday morning?" "by friday afternoon, at any rate." the old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited, and putting them back into his hand-bag. finally, burnham's attention was attracted to this proceeding. "why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? you have no right to those things; they are mine." "oh no! they are mine. they shall be given to you some time perhaps; but, for the present, they are mine." "stop! you shall not have them. those things are very precious to me. put them down, i say; put them down!" "very well. you may have these or--your boy. if you force these things from me, you go without your child. now take your choice." old simon was very calm and firm. he knew his ground, and knew that he could afford to be domineering. his long experience in sharp practice had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a contest like this, always has the best of it. and he was too shrewd not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech. he was, therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when burnham exclaimed, vehemently:-- "i'll have you arrested, sir! i'll force you to disclose your secret! i'll have you punished by the hand of the law!" "the hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are guilty of no crime," responded craft, coolly; "and there is no criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. poverty is my worst crime. i have done nothing except for your benefit. now, mr. burnham you are excited. calm yourself and listen to reason. don't you see that if i were to give those things to you i would be putting out of my hands the best evidence i have of the truth of my assertions?" "but i have seen you produce them. i will not deny that you gave them to me." "ah! very good; but you may die before night! what then?" "die before night! absurd! but keep the things; keep them. i can do without them if you will restore the child himself to me. when did you say you would bring him?" "friday afternoon." "until friday afternoon, then, i wait." "very well, sir; good day!" "good day!" the old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully behind him. robert burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were striving for the mastery within him. for eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. the terrible wreck at cherry brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers might bloom above them. the last search had been made, the last clew followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. still, the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after all be living. and now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the cloak and the locket. did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope, destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last? but what if the man's story were true? what if the boy were really in life? what if in two days' time the father should clasp his living child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! ah! his mother. she would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to her, if only for a day. but she had been taught early to believe that he was dead it was better than to torture her heart with hopes that could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. now, now, if he dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was alive, was found, was coming back to them! ah! if he only dared! the sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as he walked. it was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly strength that held mastery in his heart. there was a sudden commotion in the outer office. men were talking in an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:-- "there's been an accident in the breaker mine, mr. burnham." "what kind of an accident?" "explosion of fire-damp." "what about the men?" "it is not known yet how many are injured." "tell james to bring the horses immediately; i will go there." "james is waiting at the door now with the team, sir." mr. burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife, took his hat and went out and down the steps. "send dr. gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made ready to start. the fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and stopped at the mouth of the shaft. many people had already assembled, and others were coming from all directions. women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were there, with pale faces and beseeching words. there was much confusion. it was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth of the shaft. men were busy clearing a space about the opening when robert burnham arrived. "how did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his wagon. "where was it?" "up in the north tier, sir. we don't know how it happened. some one must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp, an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the chambers where the men was a-workin'. i can't account for it in no other way." "has any one come out from there?" "yes, billy williams. he was a-comin' out when it went off. we found him up in the headin', senseless. he ain't come to yet." "and the others?" "we've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we couldn't stan' it; we had to come out." "how many men are up there?" "five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out." the carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. it was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their unfortunate comrades. they were almost choked to death themselves, with the foul air of the mine. one of them recovered sufficiently to speak. "we got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but the after-damp got--so bad--we--" he reeled and fell, speechless and exhausted. the crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying. people were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. women whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out desperately that some one should go down to the rescue. "stand back, my friends," said burnham, facing the people, "stand back and give these men air, and leave us room to work. we shall do all in our power to help those who are below. if they can be saved, we shall save them. trust us and give us opportunity to do it. now, men, who will go down? i feel that we shall get to them this time and bring them out. who volunteers?" a dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; sturdy, strong-limbed men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic resolution gleaming from their eyes. "good! we want but eight. take the aprons of the women; give us the safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!" burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going down. one of them cried out to him:-- "don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!" "i'll not ask men to go where i dare not go myself," he said; "slack off!" for an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness. it was ralph. after the first moment of surprise his employer recognized him. "ralph!" he exclaimed, "ralph, why have you done this?" "i couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "i had to come. please don't send me back." "but it's a desperate trip. these men are taking their lives in their hands." "i know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so little as mine. they've all got folks to live an' work for, an' i ain't. i'll go where they don't dare. please let me help!" the men who were clustered on the carriage looked down on the boy in mute astonishment. his slight figure was drawn up to its full height; his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes shone the fire of resolution. some latent spirit of true knighthood had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature, and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old were ever prompted to perform. to those who looked upon him thus, the dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed to them almost as though a messenger from god were standing in their midst. but robert burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he saw a likeness to himself that startled him. men see things in moments of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. he thought of craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like a flash of light. this boy was his son. for the moment, all other thoughts, motives, desires were blotted from his mind. his desperate errand was lost to sight. the imperilled miners were forgotten. "ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "ralph, i have found you!" but the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not know what it meant. the carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off. the shock at stopping brought burnham to himself. this was no time, no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. he would do that--afterward. duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now. "men," he said, "are you ready? here, soak the aprons; ralph, take this; now then, come on!" up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts. they knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate and in pain. they knew that the spaces through which they must pass to reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." but they hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate errand. a half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." the great wheel turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would yield up to them. the carriage rose swiftly to the surface. on it four men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in their midst. the body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. then a boy staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched arms of bachelor billy. "ralph!" cried the man, "ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child! brandy, quick!" after a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the people who were looking down on him. then he remembered what had happened. "mr. burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?" "yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im. did ye fin' the air bad?" the child lay back with a sigh of relief. "yes," he said, "very bad. we got to 'em though; we found 'em an' brought 'em out. i carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along 'ithout me." the carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who had suffered from the fire. they were blackened, burned, disfigured, but living. one of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:-- "whaur is he? whaur's robert burnham? i'll gi' ma life for his, an' ye'll save his to 'im. ye mus' na let 'im dee. mon! he done the brawest thing ye ever kenned. he plungit through the belt o' after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. did ye ever hear the like? he's worth a thousan' o' us. i say ye mus' na let 'im dee!" over at the breaker office there was silence. the doctor and his helpers were there with robert burnham, and the door was closed. every one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life and death. the story of burnham's bravery had gone out through the assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were turned toward the little room wherein he lay. men spoke in whispers; women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy. there were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth to prolong this noble life for just one day. still, there was silence at the office. it grew ominous. a great hush had fallen on the multitude. the sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist, and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth. then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came outside and stood upon the steps. his head was bared and his eyes were filled with tears. he turned to those who stood near by, and whispered, sadly:-- "he is dead." chapter iii. a brilliant scheme. lackawanna avenue is the principal thoroughfare in the city of scranton. anthracite avenue leads from it eastwardly at right angles. midway in the second block, on the right side of this last named street, there stood, twenty years ago, a small wooden building, but one story in height. it was set well back from the street, and a stone walk led up to the front door. on the door-post, at the left, was a sign, in rusty gilt letters, reading:-- john r. sharpman, attorney at law. on the morning following his interview with robert burnham, simon craft turned in from anthracite avenue, shuffled along the walk to the office door, and stood for a minute examining the sign, and comparing the name on it with the name on a bit of paper that he held in his hand. "that's the man," he muttered; "he's the one;" and he entered at the half-opened door. inside, a clerk sat, busily writing. "mr. sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to craft's question. "take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes." the old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing. in less than half an hour sharpman came in. he was a tall, well-built man, forty years of age, smooth-faced, with a clerical cast of countenance, easy and graceful in manner, and of pleasant address. after a few words relating to a certain matter of business, the clerk said to his employer,-- "this man has been waiting some time to see you, mr. sharpman." the lawyer advanced to craft, and shook hands with him in a very friendly way. "good-morning, sir," he said. "will you step into my office, sir?" he ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy, cushioned chair to sit in. sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. rich and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. he had a pleasant word for every one. his success at the bar was due, in no small degree, to his apparent frankness and friendliness toward all men. the fact that these qualities were indeed apparent rather than real, did not seem to matter; the general effect was the same. his personal character, so far as any one knew, was beyond reproach. but his reputation for shrewdness, for sharp practice, for concocting brilliant financial schemes, was general. it was this latter reputation that had brought simon graft to him. this morning sharpman was especially courteous. he regretted that his visitor had been obliged to wait so long. he spoke of the beautiful weather. he noticed that the old man was in ill health, and expressed much sorrow thereat. finally he said: "well, my friend, i am at your service for any favor i can do you." craft was not displeased with the lawyer's manner. on the contrary, he rather liked it. but he was too shrewd and far-sighted to allow himself to be carried away by it. he proceeded at once to business. he took from an inner pocket of his coat the paper that robert burnham had given to him the day before, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to sharpman. "i want your opinion of this paper," he said. "is it drawn up in legal shape? is it binding on the man that signed it?" sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked up at craft in unfeigned surprise. "my dear sir!" he said, "did you know that robert burnham died last night?" the old man started from his chair in sudden amazement. "died!" he exclaimed. "robert burnham--died!" "yes; suffocated by foul air in his own mine. it was a dreadful thing." craft dropped into his chair again, his pale face growing each moment more pale and gaunt, and stared at the lawyer in silence. finally he said: "there must be some mistake. i saw him only yesterday. he signed that paper in my presence as late as four o'clock." "very likely," responded sharpman: "he did not die until after six. oh, no! there is no mistake. it was this robert burnham. i know his signature." the old man sat for another minute in silence, keen disappointment written plainly on his face. then a thought came to him. "don't that agreement bind his heirs?" he gasped, "or his estate? don't somebody have to pay me that money, when i bring the boy?" the lawyer took the paper up, and re-read it. "no;" he said. "the agreement was binding only on burnham himself. it calls for the production of the boy to him personally; you can't produce anything to a dead man." old simon settled back in his chair, a perfect picture of gaunt despair. sharpman continued: "this is a strange case, though. i thought that child of burnham's was dead. do you mean to say that the boy is still living?" "yes; that's it. he wasn't even hurt. of course he's alive. i know it." "can you prove it?" "certainly!" the lawyer gazed at his visitor, apparently in doubt as to the man's veracity or sanity, and again there was silence. finally craft spoke. another thought had come to him. "the boy's mother; she's living, ain't she?" "burnham's widow? yes; she's living." "then i'll go to her! i'll make a new contract with her. the money'll be hers, now. i'll raise on my price! she'll pay it. i'll warrant she'll pay it! may be it's lucky for me, after all, that i've got her to deal with instead of her husband!" even sharpman was amazed and disgusted at this exhibition of cruel greed in the face of death. "that's it!" continued the old man in an exulting tone; "that's the plan. i'll go to her. i'll get my money--i'll get it in spite of death!" he rose from his chair, and grasped his cane to go, but the excitement had brought on a severe fit of coughing, and he was obliged to resume his seat until it was over. this delay gave sharpman time to think. "wait!" he said, when the old man had finally recovered; "wait a little. i think i have a plan in mind that is better than yours--one that will bring you in more cash." "more cash?" craft was quiet and attentive in a moment. the word "cash" had a magical influence over him. sharpman arose, closed the door between the two rooms tightly, and locked it. "some one might chance to intrude," he explained. then he came back, sat down in front of his visitor, and assumed an attitude of confidence. "yes," he said, "more cash; ten times as much." "well, what's your plan?" asked the old man, somewhat incredulously. "let me tell you first what i know," replied the lawyer. "i know that mrs. burnham believes this boy to be dead; believes it with her whole mind and heart. you would find it exceedingly difficult to convince her to the contrary. she would explain away your proofs: she would fail to recognize the child himself. such an errand as you propose would be little better than useless." sharpman paused. "well, what's your plan?" repeated craft, impatiently. the lawyer assumed a still more confidential attitude. "listen! burnham died rich. his wealth will mount well up into the hundreds of thousands. he leaves a widow and one daughter, a little girl. this boy, if he is really burnham's son, is entitled to one third of the personal property absolutely, to one third of the real estate at once, and to one fourth of the remainder at his mother's death. do you understand?" old simon nodded. this was worth listening to. he began to think that this shrewd lawyer was going to put him in the way of making a fortune after all. sharpman continued: "now, the boy is a minor. he must have a guardian. the mother would be the guardian preferred by law; but if, for any reason, she should fail to recognize the boy as her son, some one else must be appointed. it will be the duty of the guardian to establish his ward's identity in case it should be disputed, to sue for his portion of the estate, if necessary, and to receive and care for it till the boy reaches his majority. the usual guardian's commission is five per cent, retainable out of the funds of the estate. do you see how the management of such an estate would be a fortune to a guardian, acting within the strict letter of the law?" craft nodded again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. he saw that a scheme was being opened up to him that outrivalled in splendid opportunities any he had ever thought of. after a pause sharpman asked, glancing furtively at his client:-- "do you think, mr. craft, that you could take upon your shoulders the duties and responsibilities attendant upon such a trust? in short, could you act as this boy's guardian?" "yes, no doubt of it"; responded the old man, eagerly. "why, i would be the very person. i am his nearest friend." "very well; that's my opinion, too. now, then, as to the boy's identity. there must be no mistake in proving that. what proof have you? tell me what you know about it." thus requested, craft gave to the lawyer a detailed account of the disaster at the bridge, of the finding and keeping of ralph, of his mysterious disappearance, and of the prolonged search for him. "day before yesterday," continued the old man, "i was watching the crowds at the circus,--i knew the boy was fond of circuses,--an who should go by me into the tent but this same ralph. i made sure he was the identical person, and yesterday i went to robert burnham, and got that paper." "indeed! where does the boy live? what does he do?" "why, it seems that he works at picking slate, in burnham's own breaker, and lives with one bachelor billy, a simple-minded old fellow, without a family, who took the boy in when he was abandoned by the circus." "good!" exclaimed the lawyer; "good! we shall have a capital case. but wait; does mrs. burnham know of your interview with her husband, or about this paper?" "i don't know. i left the man at his office, alone." "at what hour?" "well, about half-past four, as nearly as i can judge." "then it's not at all probable that she knows. he went from his office directly to the breaker, and died before she could see him." "well, how shall we begin?" said craft, impatiently. "what's the first thing to be done?" visions of golden thousands were already floating before his greedy eyes. "we shall not begin at all, just yet," said sharpman. "we'll wait till the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed away. it wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have been filed." a look of disappointment came into old simon's face. the lawyer noticed it. "you mustn't be in too much of a hurry," he said. "all good things come slowly. now, i'll tell you what i propose to do. after this excitement has passed over, and the lady's mind has become somewhat settled, i will go to her myself, and say to her frankly that you believe her son to be still alive. of course, she'll not believe me. indeed, i shall be very careful to put the matter in such a shape that she will not believe me. i will say to her, however, that you have employed me to prosecute your claim for services to the child, and that it will be necessary to have a guardian appointed against whom such action may be taken. i will suggest to her that if she will acknowledge the boy to be her son, she will be the proper person to act as his guardian. of course, she will refuse to do either. the rest is easy. we will go into court with a petition setting forth the facts in the case, stating that the boy's mother has refused to act as his guardian, and asking for your appointment as such. do you see?" "oh, yes! that's good; that's very good, indeed." "but, let me see, though; you'll have to give bonds. there's the trouble. got any money, or any rich friends?" "neither; i'm very poor, very poor indeed, mr. sharpman." "ah! that's awkward. we can do nothing without bondsmen. the court wouldn't let us touch a penny of that fund without first giving good bonds.". the look of disappointment and trouble had returned into the old man's face. "ain't there some way you could get bonds for me?" he asked, appealingly. "well, yes, i suppose i might procure bondsmen for you; i suppose i might go on your bond myself. but you see no one cares to risk his fortune in the hands of a total stranger that way. we don't know you; we don't know what you might do." "oh! i should be honest, mr. sharpman, perfectly honest and discreet; and you should not suffer to the value of a cent, not a single cent." "no doubt your intentions are good enough, my dear sir, but it requires great skill to handle so large an estate properly, and a single error in judgment on your part might cost thousands of dollars. good intentions and promises are well enough in their way, but they are no security against misfortune, you see. i guess we'll have to drop the scheme, after all." sharpman arose and walked the floor in apparent perplexity, while craft, resting his hands on his cane, and staring silently at the lawyer, tried to conceive some plan to prevent this golden opportunity from eluding his grasp. finally sharpman stopped. "craft," he said, "i'll tell you what i'll do. if you will give me a power of attorney to hold and manage all the funds of the trust until the boy shall have attained his majority, i'll get the necessary bonds for you." craft thought a moment. the proposition did not strike him favorably. "that would be putting the whole thing out of my hands into yours," he said. "ah! but you would still be the boy's guardian, with right to use all the money that in your judgment should be necessary, to maintain and educate him according to his proper station in life. for this purpose i would agree to pay you three thousand dollars on receipt of the funds, and three thousand dollars each year thereafter, besides your guardian's commission, which would amount to eight or ten thousand dollars at least. i would also agree to pay you a liberal sum for past services, say two or three thousand dollars. you would have no responsibility whatever in the matter. i would be liable for any mistakes you might make. you could use the money as you saw fit. what do you say?" the scheme appeared to simon craft to be a very brilliant one. he saw a great fortune in it for himself, if he could only depend on the lawyer's promises. "will you give me a writing to this effect?" he asked. "certainly; we shall have a mutual agreement." "then i'll do it. you'll get the lion's share i can see that easy enough; but if you'll do what you say you will, i shan't complain. then will i have a right to take the boy again?" "yes, after your appointment; but i don't think i would, if i were you. if he is contented and well off, you had better let him stay where he is. he might give you the slip again. how old is he now?" "i don't know exactly; somewhere between ten and twelve, i think." "well, his consent to the choice of a guardian is not necessary; but i think it would be better, under the circumstances, if he would go into court with us, and agree to your appointment. do you think he will?" old simon frowned savagely. "yes, he will," he exclaimed. "i'll make him do it. i've made him do harder things than that; it's a pity if i can't make him do what's for his own benefit now!" he struck the floor viciously with his cane. "easy," said the lawyer, soothingly, "easy; i fear the boy has been his own master too long to be bullied. we shall have to work him in a different way now. i think i can manage it, though. i'll have him come down here some day, after we get mrs. burnham's refusal to acknowledge him, and i'll explain matters to him, and show him why it's necessary that you should take hold of the case. i'll use logic with him, and i'll wager that he'll come around all right. you must treat boys as though they were men, craft. they will listen to reason, and yield to persuasion, but they won't be bullied, not even into a fortune. by the way, i don't quite understand how it was, if burnham was searching energetically for the boy, and you were searching with as much energy for the boy's father all those years, that you didn't meet each other sooner." craft looked up slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows. "may i speak confidentially?" he asked. "certainly." "well, then, i didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends, for the first year or two. time increases the value of some things, you know--lost children, particularly. i knew there was money back of the boy by the looks of his clothes. i kept matters pretty well covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him call me 'grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near losing everything. now, do you see?" sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "you're a shrewd man, craft," he said. but the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to be in store for him. "what's to be done now?" he asked. "ain't there something we can start on?" "no; we can do nothing until after i have seen the widow, and that will be a couple of months yet at least. in the meantime, you must not say a word to any one about this matter. the boy, especially, must not know that you have been here. come again about the first of september. in the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the boy's identity. we mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue." "i'll have proof enough, no fear of that. the only thing i don't like about the business is this waiting. i'm pretty bad here," placing his bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long i'll last." "oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said sharpman, heartily, taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "a--are you pretty well off for money? would trifling loan be of any benefit to you?" "why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in very handy indeed." sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills from it, folded them together, and placed them into craft's trembling fingers. "there," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything about that till we come into our fortune." old simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. the two men shook hands again at the outer door, and craft trudged down the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised money. sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. if the old man's story were true--he proposed to take steps immediately to satisfy himself upon that point--then he saw no reason why he should not have the management of a large estate. of course there would be opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled to relinquish his hold. as for simon craft, he should use him so far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object. after that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose. and as for ralph, if he were really robert burnham's son, he would be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would not be entitled to wealth. there was no use, therefore, in being over-conscientious on his account. it was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of money and reputation, sharpman resolved to make the most of it. chapter iv. a set of resolutions. it was the morning of the third day after the disaster at burnham shaft. the breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face. they had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the privilege had been granted. grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere. had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been a constant reminder. as robert burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was universally mourned. the miners at burnham shaft felt that they had especial cause for grief. he had a way of coming to the mines and looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. he knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of kindly greeting for each one whom he met. when he came among them out of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of cheeriness and comfort. and, after he had gone, you could hear these men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of his presence had so lightened their labors. the bosses caught this spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at burnham breaker and in the burnham mines, among all who labored there in any way whatever. but the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon this man as their especial friend. he sympathized with them. he seemed to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day above those moving streams of coal. he always had kind words for them, and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their tasks. they regarded him with something of that affection which a child has for a firm, kind parent. moreover, they looked upon him as a type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his poor ability, should strive to climb. even in his death he had set for them a shining mark of manly bravery. he had died to rescue others. if he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. but he was dead. they had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time. they would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was, but--they would see it. they had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker, under the shadow of a great oak-tree. there were forty of them. they were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure, patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best. there was no loud talking among them. there were no tricks being played; there was no shouting, no laughter. they were all sober-faced, earnest, and sorrowful. one of the boys spoke up and said: "tell you what i think, fellows; i think we ought to pass res'lutions like what the miners they done." "res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?" "w'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil, w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al." then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly organized. many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew something about parliamentary organization. "i move't ralph buckley, he be chairman," said one. "i second the move," said another. the motion was put, and ralph was unanimously elected as chairman. "they ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against the tree in order to face the assemblage. "we got jest time to 'lect a sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions." "i move't jimmie donnelly be sec'etary." "i second jimmie donnelly." "all you who want jimmie donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right han's an' say yi." there was a chorus of yi's. "i move't ed. williams be treasher." then the objector rose. "aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher. w'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money." "you got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful gushing, "you got to have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions, neither!" the discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination of ed. williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried. "now," said another young parliamentarian, "i move't the chairman pint out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions." this motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and ralph designated three boys in the company, one of whom, joe foster, had more than an ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and, while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper, the meeting took a recess. it was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer, and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it. there was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. one thought they should begin by saying, "know all men by these presents." "but we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we had it ain't no time to give any presents." joe foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"we, the breaker boys, of burnham breaker, in mass meeting met"-- after that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the end. "you two write your names on to it," said jack murphy; "i won't put mine down; two's enough." "oh! we've all got to sign it," said joe foster; "a majoriky ain't enough to make a paper like this stan' law." "well, i don't b'lieve i'll sign it," responded jack; "i don't like the res'lutions very well, anyway." "why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, i know! you can't write your name. "well, i guess i could, maybe, if i wanted to, but i don't want to; i'm 'fraid i'd spile the looks o' the paper. you's fellows go ahead an' sign it." "i'll tell you what to do," said joe; "i'll write your name jest as good as i can, an' then you can put your solemn cross on top of it, an' that'll make it jest as legal as it can be got." so they arranged it in that way. joe signed jack murphy's name in his very best style, and then jack took the pen and under joe's explicit directions, drew one line horizontally through the name and another line perpendicularly between the two words of it, and joe wrote above it: "his solem mark." this completed the resolutions, and the committee hurried back with them to the impatient assembly. the meeting was called to order again, and joe foster read the resolutions. "that's jest the way i feel about it," said ralph, "jest the way that paper reads. he couldn't 'a' been no better to us, no way. boys," he continued, earnestly, forgetting for the time being his position, "do you 'member 'bout his comin' into the screen-room last tuesday an' givin' us each a quarter to go t' the circus with? well, i'd cut my han' that day on a piece o' coal, an' it was a-bleedin' bad, an' he see it, an' he asked me what was the matter with it, an' i told 'im, an' he took it an' washed it off, he did, jest as nice an' careful; an' then what d'ye think he done? w'y he took 'is own han'kerchy, his own han'kerchy, mind ye, an' tore it into strips an' wrapped it roun' my han' jest as nice--jest as nice--" and here the memory of this kindness became so vivid in ralph's mind that he broke down and cried outright. "it was jes' like 'im," said one in the crowd; "he was always a-doin' sumpthin' jes' like that. d'ye 'member that time w'en i froze my ear, an' he give me money to buy a new cap with ear-laps on to it?" the recital of this incident called from another the statement of some generous deed, and, in the fund of kindly reminiscence thus aroused, the resolutions came near to being wholly forgotten. but they were remembered, finally, and were called up and adopted, and it was agreed that the chairman should carry them and present them to whoever should be found in charge at the house. then, with ralph and joe foster leading the procession, they started toward the city. reaching laburnum avenue, they marched down that street in twos until they came to the burnham residence. there was a short consultation there, and then they all passed in through the gate to the lawn, and ralph and joe went up the broad stone steps to the door. a kind-faced woman met them there, and ralph said: "we've come, if you please, the breaker boys have come to--to--" the woman smiled sweetly, and said: "yes, we've been expecting you; wait a moment and i will see what arrangements have been made for you." joe foster nudged ralph with his elbow, and whispered:-- "the res'lutions, ralph, the res'lutions; now's the time; give 'em to her." but ralph did not hear him. his mind was elsewhere. as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light in the hall, and he saw the winding staircase with its richly carved posts, the beauty of the stained-glass windows, the graceful hangings, the broad doors, the pictures, and the flowers, there came upon him a sense of strange familiarity with the scene. it seemed to him as though sometime, somewhere, he had seen it, known it all before. the feeling was so sudden and so strong that it made him faint and dizzy. the kind-featured woman saw the pallor on his face and the tremor on his lips, and led him to a chair. she ascribed his weakness to sorrow and excitement, and the dread of looking on a dead face. "poor boy!" she said. "i don't wonder at it; he was more than generous to us all." but joe, afraid that the resolutions he had labored on with so much diligence would be forgotten, spoke of them again to ralph. "oh, yes," said ralph, with a wan smile, "oh, yes! here's the res'lutions. that's the way the breaker boys feel--the way it says in this paper; an' we want mrs. burnham to know." "i'll take it to her," said the woman, receiving from ralph's hands the awkwardly folded and now sadly soiled paper. "you will wait here a moment, please." she passed up the broad staircase, by the richly colored window at the landing, and was lost to sight; while the two boys, sitting in the spacious hall, gazed, with wondering eyes, upon the beauty which surrounded them. the widow of robert burnham sat in the morning-room of her desolated home, talking calmly with her friends. after the first shock incident upon her husband's death had passed away, she had made no outcry, she grew quiet and self-possessed, she was ready for any consultation, gave all necessary orders, spoke of her dead husband's goodness to her with a smile on her face, and looked calmly forth into the future. the shock of that terrible message from the mines, two days ago, had paralyzed her emotional nature, and left her white-faced and tearless. she had a smile and a kind word for every one as before; she had eaten mechanically; but she had lain with wide-open eyes all night, and still no one had seen a single tear upon her cheeks. this was why they feared for her; they said, "she must weep, or she will die." some one came into the room and spoke to her. "the breaker boys, who asked to come this morning, are here." "let them come in," she said, "and pass through the parlors and look upon him; and let them be treated with all kindness and courtesy." "they have brought this paper, containing resolutions passed by them, which they would like to have you read." mrs. burnham took the paper, and asked the woman to wait while she read it. there was something in the fact that these boys had passed resolutions of sympathy that touched her heart. she unfolded the soiled paper and read:-- wee, the braker boys of burnham braker in mass meeting met did pass thease res'lutions. first the braker boys is all vary sory indede cause mister burnham dide. second wee have a grate dele of sympathy for his wife and his little girl, what has got to get along now without him. third wee are vary proud of him cause he dide a trying to save john welshes life and pat morys life and the other mens lifes. fourth he was vary good indede to us boys, and they ain't one of us but what liked him vary mutch and feel vary bad. fift wee dont none of us ixpect to have no moar sutch good times at the braker as wee did befoar. sixt wee aint scollers enougth to rite it down just what wee feel, but wee feel a hunderd times more an what weave got rote down. joe foster, comity, pat donnelly, comity, his solem mark jack + murfy comity. the widow laid aside the paper, put her face in her hands, and began to weep. there was something in the honest, unskilled way in which these boys had laid their hearts open before her in this time of general sorrow, that brought the tears into her eyes at last, and for many minutes they flowed without restraint. those who were with her knew that the danger that had menaced her was passed. after a little she lifted her head. "i will see the boys," she said. "i will thank them in person. tell them to assemble in the hall." the message was given, and the boys filed into the broad hall, and stood waiting, hats in hand, in silence and in awe. down the wide staircase the lady came, holding her little girl by the hand, and at the last step they halted. as ralph looked up and saw her face, pallid but beautiful, and felt the influence of her gracious yet commanding presence, there came over him again that strange sensation as of beholding some familiar sight. it seemed to him that sometime, somewhere, he had not only seen her and known her, but that she had been very close to him. he felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to cry out to her for some word, some look of recognition. then she began to speak. he held himself firmly by the back of a chair, and listened as to a voice that had been familiar to him in some state of being prior to his life on earth. "boys," said the lady, "i come to thank you in person for your assurances of sympathy for me and for my little daughter, and for your veneration for the dead. i know that his feeling toward you was very kind, that he tried to lighten your labors as he could, that he hoped for you that you would all grow into strong, good men. i do not wonder that you sorrow at his loss. this honest, simple tribute to his memory that you have given to me has touched me deeply. "i cannot hope to be as close to you as he was, but from this time forth i shall be twice your friend. i want to take each one of you by the hand as you pass by, in token of our friendship, and of my faith in you, and my gratitude toward you." so, one by one, as they passed into the room beyond, she held each boy's hand for a moment and spoke to him some kind word, and every heart in her presence went out to her in sympathy and love. last of all came ralph. as leader of the party he had thought it proper to give precedence to the rest. the lady took his hand as he came by, the same hand that had received her husband's tender care; but there was something in his pallid, grief-marked face, in the brown eyes filled with tears, in the sensitive trembling of the delicate lips, as she looked down on him, that brought swift tenderness for him to her heart. she bent over and lifted up his face to hers, and kissed his lips, and then, unable longer to restrain her emotion, she turned and hastened up the stairway, and was lost to sight. for many minutes ralph stood still, in gratified amazement. it was the first time in all his life, so far as memory served him, that any one had kissed him. and that this grief-stricken lady should be the first--it was very strange, but very beautiful, indeed. he felt that by that kiss he had been lifted to a higher level, to a clearer, purer atmosphere, to a station where better things than he had ever done before would be expected of him now; he felt, indeed, as though it were the first long reach ahead to attain to such a manhood as was robert burnham's. the repetition of this name in his mind brought him to himself, and he turned into the parlor just as the last one of the other boys was passing out. he hurried across the room to look upon the face of his friend and employer. it was not the unpleasant sight that he had feared it might be. the dead man's features were relaxed and calm. a smile seemed to be playing about the lips. the face had all its wonted color and fulness, and one might well have thought, looking on the closed eye-lids, that he lay asleep. standing thus in the presence of death, the boy had no fear. his only feeling was one of tenderness and of deep sorrow. the man had been so kind to him in life, so very kind. it seemed almost as though the lips might part and speak to him. but he was dead; this was his face, this his body; but he, himself, was not here. dead! the word struck harshly on his mind and roused him from his reverie. he looked up; the boys had all gone, only the kind-faced woman stood there with a puzzled expression in her eyes. she had chanced to mark the strong resemblance between the face of the dead man and that of the boy who looked upon it; a resemblance so striking that it startled her. in the countenance of robert burnham as he had looked in life, one might not have noticed it, but-- "sometimes, in a dead man's face, to those that watch it more and more, a likeness, hardly seen before, comes out, to some one of his race." it was so here. the faces of the dead man and of the living boy were the faces of father and son. ralph turned away, at last, from the lifeless presence before him, from the searching eyes of the woman, from the hall with its dim suggestions of something in the long ago, and went out into the street, into the sunlight, into the busy world around him; but from that time forth a shadow rested on his young life that had never darkened it before,--a shadow whose cause he could not fathom and whose gloom he could not dispel. chapter v. in search of a mother. three months had gone by since the accident at burnham shaft. they were summer months, full of sunshine and green landscapes and singing birds and blossoming flowers and all things beautiful. but in the house from which the body of robert burnham had been carried to the grave there were still tears and desolation. not, indeed, as an outward show; margaret burnham was very brave, and hid her grief under a calm exterior, but there were times, in the quiet of her own chamber, when loneliness and sorrow came down upon her as a burden too great for her woman's heart to bear. still, she had her daughter mildred, and the child's sweet ways and ceaseless chatter and fond devotion charmed her, now and then, into something almost like forgetfulness. she often sighed, and said: "if only ralph had lived, that i might have both my children with me now!" one morning, toward the middle of september, lawyer john h. sharpman rang the bell at the door of the burnham mansion, sent his card up to mrs. burnham, and seated himself gracefully in an easy-chair by the parlor window to wait for her appearance. she came soon and greeted him with gracious dignity. he was very courteous to her; he apologized for coming, in this way, without previous announcement, but said that the nature of his errand seemed to render it necessary. "i am sure no apology is required," she replied; "i shall be pleased to listen to you." "then i will proceed directly to the matter in hand. you remember, of course, the cherry brook disaster and what occurred there?" "i shall never forget it," she said. "i have a strange thing to tell you about that, an almost incredible thing. an old man has visited me at my office, within the last few days, who claims to have saved your child from that wreck, to have taken him to his own home and cared for him, and to know that he is living to-day." the woman rose from her chair, with a sudden pallor on her face, too greatly startled, for the moment, to reply. "i beg you to be calm, madam," the lawyer said; "i will try to speak of the matter as gently as possible." "ralph!" she exclaimed, "my ralph! did you say that he is living?" "so this old man says. i am simply telling you his story. he seems to be very much in earnest, though i am bound to say that his appearance is somewhat against him." "who is he? bring him here! i will question him myself. bring the child to me also; why did you not bring the child?" "my dear lady, i beg that you will be calm; if you will allow me i will explain it all, so far as lies in my power." "but if my boy is living i must see him; i cannot wait! it is cruel to keep him from me!" sharpman began to fear that he had injured his cause by presenting the case too strongly. at this rate the lady would soon believe, fully, that her son had been saved and could be restored to her. with such a belief in her mind the success of his scheme would be impossible. it would never do to let her go on in this way; he began to remonstrate. "but, madam, i am telling to you only what this man has told to me. i have no means of proving his veracity, and his appearance, as i have said, is against him. i have agreed to assist him only in case he is able to establish, beyond question, the boy's identity. thus far his statements have not been wholly satisfactory." mrs. burnham had grown more calm. the startling suddenness of the proposition that ralph was living had, for the time being, overmastered her. now she sank back into her chair, with pale face, controlling her emotion with an effort, trying to give way to reason. "what does he say?" she asked. "what is this old man's story?" sharpman repeated, in substance, old simon's account of the rescue, giving to it, however, an air of lightness and improbability that it had not had before. "it is possible," he added, "that the evidence you have of the child's death is sufficient to refute this man's story completely. on what facts do you rest your belief, if i am at liberty to ask?" "the proofs," she replied, "have seemed to us to be abundant. neither mr. burnham nor myself were in a condition to make personal investigation until some days had elapsed from the time of the accident, and then the wreck had been cleared away. but we learned beyond doubt that there was but one other child in the car, a bright, pretty boy of ralph's age, travelling with his grandfather, and that this child was saved. no one had seen ralph after the crash; no article of clothing that he wore has ever been found; there were only a few trinkets, fireproof, that he carried in the pocket of his skirt, discovered in the ashes of the wreck." the lady put her hands to her eyes as if to shut out the memory of some dread sight. "and i presume you made diligent inquiry afterward?" questioned the lawyer. "oh, yes! of the most searching nature, but no trace could be found of our child's existence. we came to the firm belief, long ago, that he died that night. the most that we have dared to hope is that his sufferings were not great nor prolonged." "it seems incredible," said sharpman, "that the child could have been saved and cared for, without your knowledge, through so long a period. but the man appears to be in earnest, his story is a straightforward one, and i feel it to be my duty to examine into it. of course, his object is to get gain. he wants compensation for his services in the matter of rescuing and caring for the child. he seems also to be very desirous that the boy's rights should be established and maintained, and has asked me to take the matter in hand in that respect as well. are you prepared to say, definitely, that no evidence would induce you to believe your child to be living?" "oh, no! not that. but i should want something very strong in the way of proof. let this man come and relate his story to me. if it is false, i think i should be able to detect it." "i advised him to do so, but, aside from his appearance, which is hardly in harmony with these surroundings, i think he would prefer not to hold a personal conference with the boy's friends. i may as well give you my reason for that belief. the old man says that the boy ran away from him two or three years ago, and i have inferred that the flight was due, partially, at least, to unkind treatment on craft's part. i believe he is now afraid to talk the matter over with you personally, lest you should rebuke him too severely for his conduct toward the child and his failure to take proper care of him. he is anxious that all negotiations should be conducted through his attorney. rather sensitive, he is, for a man of his general stamp." "and did the child return to him?" asked the lady, anxiously, not heeding the lawyer's last remark. "oh, no! the old man searched the country over for him. he did not find him until this summer." "and where was he found?" "here, in scranton." "in scranton! that is strange. is the boy here still?" "he is." "where does he live? who cares for him?" sharpman had not intended to give quite so much information, but he could not well evade these questions and at the same time appear to be perfectly honest in the matter, so he answered her frankly: "he lives with one william buckley, better known as 'bachelor billy.' he works in the screen-room at burnham breaker." "indeed! by what name is he known?" "by your son's name--ralph." "ralph, the slate-picker! do you mean that boy?" it was sharpman's turn to be surprised. "do you know him?" he asked, quickly. "i do," she replied. "my husband first told me of him; i have seen him frequently; i have talked with him so lately as yesterday." "ah, indeed! i am very glad you know the boy. we can talk more intelligently concerning him." "do i understand you, then, to claim that ralph, the slate-picker, is my son? this boy and no other?" "that is my client's statement, madam." the lady leaned back wearily in her chair. "then i fear you have come upon a futile errand, mr. sharpman," she said. but, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if the errand was to be successful. he felt that he could speak a little more strongly now of ralph's identity with mrs. burnham's son without endangering his cause. "can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance that impressed you--now that you know the claim set up for hi--that impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?" "nothing, sir, nothing whatever. the boy is a bright, frank, manly fellow; i have taken much interest in him from the first. his sorrow at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. i have been several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. i saw and talked with him yesterday, as i have already told you. but he is not my son, sir, he is not my son." "pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch." "i appreciate that fact, but i recall no resemblance whatever. my baby had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a glow of health and happiness in his face. this lad is different, very different. there could not have been so great a change. oh, no, sir! your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; i am sure he is not." sharpman was rejoiced. everything was working now exactly according to his plan. he thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly. "but my client," he said, "appears to be perfectly sincere in his belief. he will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to recover for the boy his portion of robert burnham's estate." "if you can recover it," she said, calmly, "i shall transfer it to the child most cheerfully. i take it, however, that you must first establish his identity as an heir?" "certainly." "and do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?" "perhaps not; that remains to be seen. but i do not desire to contemplate such a contingency. my object, my sole object, is to obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts. that is why i am here in person. i had hoped that i might induce you to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest in his father's estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent, for his care and services. this is my only wish in the matter, i assure you." "why, as to that," she replied, "i am willing to recognize services performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for the boy, even though he is not my son--i have enough; if the man is in want, i will help him, i will give him money. but wait! did you say he had been cruel to the child? then i withdraw my offer. i have no pity for the harsh task-masters of young children. something to eat, to drink, to wear,--i will give him that,--nothing more." "i am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising. "with the evidence that i now have," she said, "i do. i should be glad to assist him; i have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy, and i love him. but i can do nothing more, sir,--nothing more." "i regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said sharpman, bowing himself toward the door. "i trust, i sincerely trust, that whatever i may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no bitterness of feeling on your part." "certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "you could do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is ralph burnham. if i could believe that he is really my son, i would take him to my heart with inexpressible joy. without that belief i should be false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection." "madam, i have the most profound respect for your conscience and your judgment. i trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant than this one has been. i wish you good-morning!" "good-morning, sir!" sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the street, with a smile on his face. the execution of his scheme had met, thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated. * * * * * every one about burnham breaker knew bachelor billy. no one ever knew any ill of him. he was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. he had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face; he was a brother to all men. gray spots were coming in his hair, his shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease, but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind word never faltered on his lips. he went to his task at burnham breaker in the early morning, he toiled all day, and came home at night, happy and contented with his lot. his work was at the head of the shaft, at the very topmost part of the towering breaker. when a mine car came up, loaded with coal, it was his duty to push it to the dump, some forty feet away, to tip it till the load ran out, and then to push it back to the waiting carriage. michael maloney had been billy's assistant here, in other years; but, one day, michael stepped back, inadvertently, into the open mouth of the shaft, and, three minutes later, his mangled remains were gathered up at the foot. billy knew that michael's widow was poor, with a family of small children to care for, so he came and hired from her a part of her cottage to live in, and took his meals with her, and paid her generously. to this house he had taken ralph. it was not an elegant home, to be sure, but it was a home where no harsh word was spoken from year's end to year's end; and to ralph, fresh from his dreadful life with simon craft, this was much, oh! very much, indeed. the boy was very fond of "uncle billy," as he called him, and the days and nights he spent with him were not unhappy ones. but since the day when mrs. burnham turned his face to hers, and kissed him on his lips, there had been a longing in his heart for something more; a longing which, at first, he could not quite define, but which grew and crystallized, at last, into a strong desire to merit and possess the fond affection, and to live in the sweet presence, of a kind and loving mother. he had always wanted a mother, ever since he could remember. the thought of one had always brought a picture of perfect happiness to his mind. but never, until now, had that want reached so great proportions. it had come to be the leading motive and ambition of his life. he yearned for mother-love and home affection, with an intensity as passionate, a desire as deep, as ever stirred within the heart of man. he had not revealed his longing to bachelor billy. he feared that he might think he was discontented and unhappy, and he would not have hurt his uncle billy's feelings for the world. so the summer days went by, and he kept his thought in this matter, as much as possible, to himself. it had come to be the middle of september. there had been a three days rain, which had so freshened the parched grass and checked the fading of the leaves, that one might readily have thought the summer had returned to bring new foliage and flowers, and to deck the earth for still another season with its covering of green. but it had cleared off cold. "it'd be nice to have a fire to-night, uncle billy," said ralph, as the two were walking home together in the twilight, from their day's work at the breaker. "wull, lad," was the reply, "ye ha' the wood choppit for it, ye can mak' un oop." so, after supper, ralph built a wood fire in the little rude grate, and billy lighted his clay pipe, and they both drew their chairs up before the comfortable blaze, and watched it while they talked. it was the first fire of the season, and they enjoyed it. it seemed to bring not only warmth but cheer. "ain't this nice, uncle billy?" said ralph, after quite a long silence. "seems kind o' home-like an' happy, don't it?" "ye're richt, lad! gin a mon has a guid fire to sit to, an' a guid pipe o' 'bacca to pull awa' on, what more wull ye? eh, ralph!" "a comfortable room like this to stay in, uncle billy," replied the boy, looking around on the four bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and the rude furniture of the room, all bright and glowing now in the light of the cheerful fire. "oh! the room's guid enook, guid enook," responded the man, without removing the pipe from his mouth. "an' a nice bed, like ours, to sleep in." "true for ye lad; tired bones rest well in a saft bed." "an' plenty to eat, too, uncle billy; that's a good thing to have." "richt again, ralph! richt again!" exclaimed billy, enthusiastically, pushing the burning tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. "an' the widow maloney, she do gi' us 'mazin' proper food, now, don't she? d'ye min' that opple pie we had for sooper, lad?" "yes, that was good," said ralph, gazing absently into the fire. "they's only one thing more we need, uncle billy, an' that's somebody to love us. not but what you an' me cares a good deal for each other," added ralph, apprehensively, as the man puffed vigorously away at his pipe, "but that ain't it. i mean somebody, some woman, you know, 'at'd kiss us an' comfort us an' be nice to us that way." billy turned and gazed contemplatively at ralph. "been readin' some more o' them love-stories?" he asked, smiling behind a cloud of smoke. "no, i ain't, an' i don't mean that kind. i mean your mother or your sister or your wife--it'd be jes' like as though you had a wife, you know, uncle billy." again, the man puffed savagely at his pipe before replying. "wull," he said at last, "na doot it'd be comfortin' to have a guid weef to care for ye; but they're an awfu' trooble, ralph, women is,--an awfu' trooble." "but you don't know, uncle billy; you ain't had no 'xperience." "no more am i like to have. i'm a gittin' too auld now. i could na get me a weef an' i wanted one. hoot, lad! think o' your uncle billy wi' a weef to look after; it's no' sensiba, no' sensiba," and the man took his pipe from his mouth and indulged in a hearty burst of laughter at the mental vision of himself in matrimonial chains. "but then," persisted ralph, "you'd have such a nice home, you know; an' somebody to look glad an' smile an' say nice things to you w'en you come home from work o' nights. uncle billy, i'd give a good deal if i had it, jes' to have a home like other boys has, an' mothers an' fathers an' sisters an' all that." "wull, lad, i've done the bes' i could for ye, i've--" "oh, uncle billy!" interrupted the boy, rising and laying his hand on the man's shoulder affectionately, "you know i don't mean that; i don't mean but what you've been awful good to me; jes' as good as any one ever could be; but it's sumpthin' dif'rent from that 'at i mean. i'm thinkin' about a home with pirty things in it, books, an' pictures, an' cushions, the way women fix 'em you know, an'--an' a mother; i want a mother very much; i think it'd be the mos' beautiful thing in the world to have a mother. you've had one, ain't you, uncle billy?" the man's face had taken on a pleased expression when ralph began with his expostulation, but, as the boy continued, the look changed into one of sadness. "yes, lad," he said, "an' a guid mither she waur too. she died an' went to heaven it's mony a year sin', but i still min' the sweet way she had wi' me. ye're richt, laddie, there's naught like a blessed mither to care for ye--an' ye never had the good o' one yoursel'"--turning and looking at the boy, with an expression of wondering pity on his face, as though that thought had occurred to him now for the first time. "no, i never had, you know; that's the worst of it. if i could only remember jest the least bit about my mother, it wouldn't seem so bad, but i can't remember nothing, not nothing." "puir lad! puir lad! i had na thocht o' that afoor. but, patience, ralph, patience; mayhap we'll find a mither for ye yet." "oh, uncle billy! if we could, if we only could! do you know, sometimes w'en i go down town, an' walk along the street, an' see the ladies there, i look at ev'ry one i meet, an' w'en a real nice beautiful one comes along, i say to myself, 'i wisht that lady was my mother,' an' w'en some other one goes by, i say, 'i wonder if that ain't my mother.' it don't do no good, you know, but it's kind o' comfortin'." "puir lad!" repeated billy, putting his arm around the boy and drawing him up closer to his chair, "puir lad!" "you 'member that night i come home a-cryin', an' i couldn't tell w'at the matter was? well, it wasn't nothin' but that. i come by a house down there in the city, w'ere they had it all lighted up, an' they wasn't no curtains acrost the windows, an' you could look right in. they was a havin' a little party there; they was a father an' a mother an' sisters and brothers an' all; an' they was all a-laughin' an' a-playin' an' jest as happy as they could be. an' they was a boy there 'at wasn't no bigger'n me, an' his mother come an' put her arms aroun' his neck an' kissed him. it didn't seem as though i could stan' it, uncle billy, i wanted to go in so bad an' be one of 'em. an' then it begun to rain, an' i had to come away, an' i walked up here in the dark all alone, an' w'en i got here they wasn't nothin' but jest one room, an' nobody but you a-waitin' for me, an'--no! now, uncle billy, don't! i don't mean nothin' like that--you've been jest as good to me as you could be; you've been awful good to me, al'ays! but it ain't like, you know; it ain't like havin' a home with your own mother." "never min', laddie; never min'; ye s'all have a hame, an' a mither too some day, i mak' na doot,--some day." there was silence for a time, then bachelor billy continued:-- "gin ye had your choice, lad, what kin' o' a mither would ye choose for yoursel'?" "oh! i don't know--yes, i do too!--it's wild, i know it's wild, an' i hadn't ought to think of it; but if i could have jest the mother i want, it'd be--it'd be mrs. burnham. there! now, don't laugh, uncle billy; i know it's out o' all reason; she's very rich, an' beautiful, an' everything; but if i could be her boy for jest one week--jest one week, uncle billy, i'd--well, i'd be willin' to die." "ye mak' high choice, ralph, high choice; but why not? ye're as like to find the mither in high places as in low, an' liker too fra my way o' thinkin'. choose the bes', lad, choose the bes'!" "but she's so good to us," continued the boy, "an' she talks so nice to us. you 'member the time i told you 'bout, w'en we breaker boys went down there, all of us, an' she cried kin' o' soft, an' stooped down an' kissed me? i shouldn't never forgit that if i live to be a thousan' years old. an' jes' think of her kissin' me that way ev'ry night,--think of it uncle billy! an' ev'ry mornin' too, maybe; wouldn't that be--be--" and ralph, at a loss for a fitting wor to represent such bliss as that, simply clasped his hands together and gazed wistfully into the fire. after a minute or two he went on: "she 'membered it, too. i was 'fraid she'd never know which boy it was she kissed, they was so many of us there; but she did, you know, an' she's been to see me, an' brought me things, ain't she? an' promised to help me find out about myself jest the same as mr. burnham did. oh dear! i hope she won't die now, like he did--uncle billy! oh, uncle billy!" as a sudden thought struck in on the boy's mind, "if she was--if mrs. burnham _was_ my mother, then mr. burnham would 'a' been my father wouldn't he?" "na doot, lad, na doot." "robert burnham--would 'a' been--my father. oh!" the boy drew himself up to his full height and stood gazing into the fire in proud contemplation of such overwhelming happiness and honor. there was a knock at the door. ralph went and opened it, and a young man stepped in. "ah! good evening!" he said. "does a man by the name of buckley live here? william buckley?" "that's my name," responded billy, rising from his chair. "and are you ralph?" asked the young man, turning to the boy. "yes, sir, that's my name, too," was the quick reply. "well, ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far as lawyer sharpman's office?" "wha' for do ye want the lad?" asked billy, advancing and placing a chair for the stranger to sit in. "well, to speak confidentially, i believe it's something about his parentage." "who his father an' mother waur?" "yes." "then he s'all go wi' ye if he like. ralph, ye can put on the new jacket an' go wi' the mon." the boy's heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes. at last! at last he was to know. some one had found him out. he was no longer "nobody's child." he struggled into his sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and, in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger, hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward sharpman's office. chapter vi. breaking the news. simon craft and lawyer sharpman were sitting together in the rear room of the latter's law office. the window-shades were closely drawn, shutting out the mellow light of the full moon, which rested brightly and beautifully on all objects out of doors. the gas jet, shaded by a powerful reflector, threw a disk of light on the round table beneath it, but the corners of the room were in shadow. it was in a shaded corner that craft was sitting, resting his folded arms on his cane, while sharpman, seated carelessly by the table, was toying with a pencil. there were pleased looks on the faces of both men; but old simon seemed to have grown thinner and feebler during the summer months, and his cough troubled him greatly. sharpman was saying: "if we can succeed in managing the boy, now, as well as we have managed the mother, i think we are all right. i somewhat fear the effect of your presence on him, craft, but he may as well see you to-night as later. you must keep cool, and be gentle; don't let him think you are here for any purpose but his good." "oh! you may trust me, mr. sharpman," responded the old man, "you may trust me. i shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely." "what kind of a boy is he, any way? pretty clear-headed?" "well, yes, middling; but as obstinate as a mule. when he gets his mind set on a thing, it's no use to try to budge him. i've whipped him till he was black and blue, and it didn't do a penny's worth of good." "you should have used moral suasion, craft; that's the way to treat boys. get their confidence, and then you can handle them. well, we'll get ralph's mind fixed on the fact that he is mrs. burnham's son, and see how he'll stick to that. hark! there they come now. sooner than i expected." the outer door of the office was opened, and ralph and the young man entered. the messenger disappeared into the inner room, but after a minute or two he came out and ushered ralph into the presence of the lawyer. sharpman arose, greeted the boy pleasantly and shook hands with him, and ralph thought that lawyers were not such forbidding people after all. "do you recognize this gentleman?" said sharpman, turning, with a wave of his hand, toward old simon. the old man was sitting there with his hands crossed on his cane, and with a grim smile on his gaunt face. ralph looked intently, for a moment, into the shadow, and then, with an exclamation of surprise and fear on his lips, he stepped back toward the door. "i won't go!" he cried; "don't make me go back with him, sir!" turning his distressed face to the lawyer, as he spoke. sharpman advanced and took the boy by the hand and led him to a chair. "don't be afraid," he said, gently, "there's no cause for alarm. you shall not go back with him. he is not here to take you back, but to establish your identity." then a new fear dawned upon ralph's mind. "he ain't my grandfather!" he exclaimed. "simon craft ain't my grandfather. he wouldn't never 'a' whipped me the way he done if he'd a-been truly my grandfather." craft looked up at sharpman with a little nod. the boy had identified him pretty plainly, and proved the truth of his story to that extent at least. "oh, no!" said the lawyer, "oh, no! mr. craft is not your grandfather; he doesn't claim to be. he has come here only to do you good. now, be calm and reasonable, and listen to what we have to tell you, and, my word for it, you will go back to billy buckley's to-night with a heart as light as a feather. now, you'll take my advice, and do that much, won't you?" "yes, i will," said ralph, settling himself into his chair, "i will, if i can only find out about my father 'n' mother. but i won't go back to live with him; i won't never go back there!" "oh, no!" replied sharpman, "we'll find a better home for you than mr. craft could ever give you. now, if you will sit still and listen to us, and take our advice, we will tell you more things about yourself than you have ever thought of knowing. you want to hear them, don't you?" "well, yes," replied ralph, smiling and rapidly regaining his composure; "yes, of course." "i thought so. now i want to ask you one or two questions. in the first place, what do you remember about yourself before you went to live with mr. craft?" "i don't remember anything, sir,--not anything." "haven't you a faint recollection of having been in a big accident sometime; say, for instance, a railroad disaster?" "no--i don't think i have. i think i must 'a' dreamed sumpthin' like that once, but i guess it never happened to me, or i'd 'member more about it." "well, ralph, it did happen to you. you were riding in a railroad car with your father and mother, and the train went through a bridge. a good many people were killed, and a good many more were wounded; but you were saved. do you know how?" ralph did not answer the question. his face had suddenly paled. "were my father an' mother killed?" he exclaimed. "no, ralph, they were not killed. they were injured, but they recovered in good time." "are they alive now? where are they?" asked the boy, rising suddenly from his chair. "be patient, ralph! be patient! we will get to that in time. be seated and answer my question. do you know how you were saved?" "no, sir; i don't." "well, my boy," said the lawyer, impressively, pointing his finger toward craft, "there is the man who saved you. he was on the train. he rushed into the wreck at the risk of his life, and drew you from the car window. in another minute it would have been too late. he fell back into the river holding you in his arms, but he saved you from both fire and water. the effort and exposure of that night brought on the illness that has resulted in the permanent loss of his health, and left him in the condition in which you now see him." ralph looked earnestly at old simon, who still sat, quiet and speechless, chuckling to himself, and wishing, in his heart, that he could tell a story as smoothly and impressively as lawyer sharpman. "an' do i owe my life to him?" asked the boy. "wouldn't i 'a' been saved if he hadn't 'a' saved me?" "it is not at all probable," replied sharpman. "the flames had already reached you, and your clothing was on fire when you were drawn from the car." it was hard for ralph to believe in any heroic or unselfish conduct on the part of simon craft; but as he felt the force of the story, and thought of the horrors of a death by fire, he began to relent toward the old man, and was ready to condone the harsh treatment that he had suffered at his hands. "i'm sure i'm much obliged to 'im," he said, "i'm much obliged to 'im, even if he did use me very bad afterwards." "but you must remember, ralph, that mr. craft was very poor, and he was ill and irritable, and your high temper and stubborn ways annoyed him greatly. but he never ceased to have your best interests at heart, and he was in constant search of your parents, in order to restore you to them. do you remember that he used often to be away from home?" "yes, sir, he used to go an' leave me with ole sally." "well, he was away searching for your friends. he continued the search for five years, and at last he found your father and mother. he hurried back to philadelphia to get you and bring you to your parents, as the best means of breaking to them the glad news; and when he reached his home, what do you suppose he found?" ralph smiled sheepishly, and said: "i 'xpect, maybe, i'd run away." "yes, my boy, you had. you had left his sheltering roof and his fostering care, without his knowledge or consent. most men would have left you, then, to struggle on by yourself, as best you could; and would have rewarded your ingratitude by forgetfulness. not so with mr. craft. he swallowed his pain and disappointment, and went out to search for you. he had your welfare too deeply at heart to neglect you, even then. his mind had been too long set on restoring you to loving parents and a happy home. after years of unremitting toil he found you, and is here to-night to act as your best and nearest friend." ralph had sat during this recital, with astonishment plainly depicted on his face. he could scarcely believe what he heard. the idea that simon craft could be kind or good to any one had never occurred to him before. "i hope," he said, slowly, "i hope you'll forgive me, gran'pa simon, if i've thought wrong of you. i didn't know 'at you was a-doin' all that for me, an' i thought i was a-havin' a pirty hard time with you." "well," said craft, speaking for the first time since ralph's entrance. "well, we won't say anything more about your bad behavior; it's all past and gone now, and i'm here to help you, not to scold you. i'm going to put you, now, in the way of getting back into your own home and family, if you'll let me. what do you say?" "i'm sure that's very good in you, an' of course i'd like it. you couldn't do anything for me 'at i'd like better. i'm sorry if i've ever hurt your feelin's, but--" "how do you think you would like to belong to a nice family, ralph?" interrupted sharpman. "i think it'd make me very happy, sir." "and have a home, a beautiful home, with books, pictures, horses, fine clothes, everything that wealth could furnish?" "that'd be lovely, very lovely; but i don't quite 'xpect that, an' what i want most is a good mother, a real, nice, good mother. haven't you got one for me? say, haven't you got one?" the boy had risen to his feet and stood with clasped hands, gazing anxiously at sharpman. "yes, my boy, yes," said the lawyer, "we've found a good mother for you, the best in the city of scranton, and the sweetest little sister you ever saw. now what do you think?" "i think--i think 'at it's most too good to be true. but you wouldn't tell me a lie about it, would you? you wouldn't do that, would you?" "oh, no! ralph; good lawyers never lie, and i'm a good lawyer." "an' when can i see 'em? can i go to 'em to-night? i don't b'lieve i can wait,--i don't b'lieve i can!" "ralph! ralph! you promised to be quiet and reasonable. there, be seated and wait till you hear us through. there is something better yet for you to know. now, who do you suppose your mother is? she lives in scranton." ralph sat, for a moment, in stupid wonder, staring at sharpman. then a brilliant thought, borne on by instinct, impulse, strong desire, flashed like a ray of sunlight, into his mind, and he started to his feet again, exclaiming:-- "mrs. burnham! it can't be! oh, it can't be! tell me, is it mrs. burnham?" craft and sharpman exchanged quick glances of amazement, and the latter said, impressively:-- "yes, ralph, mrs. burnham is your mother." the boy stood for another moment, as if lost in thought; then he cried out, suddenly: "and mr. burnham, he--he was my--my father!" and he sank back into his chair, with a sudden weakness in his limbs, and a mist before his eyes. for many minutes no one spoke. then ralph asked, quietly,-- "does--does she know?" "now, ralph," said sharpman, "now comes the strangest part of the story. your mother believes you to be dead. she believes that you perished in the accident at cherry brook, and has mourned for you ever since the time of that disaster." "am i the boy--am i the ralph she lost?" "the very one, but we cannot make her think so. i went to her, myself, this morning, and told her that you are alive. i told her who you are, and all about you. she knows you, but she will not believe that you are her son. she wants better evidence than we can give to her, outside of the courts." "an' won't she never believe it? won't she never take me?" the boy's voice and look revealed the sudden clashing of his hope. "oh, yes, ralph! in time; i do not doubt that in good time she will recognize you and take you to her home. she has so long believed you to be dead that it is hard for her to overcome the prejudice of that belief." then another fear came into the lad's mind. "are you sure," he cried out, "that i am her boy? are you sure i'm the right one?" "oh, yes!" said the lawyer, assuringly, "oh, yes! there's no mistake about that, there isn't the shadow of a doubt about that. we shall establish your identity beyond question; but we shall have to do it in the courts. when it is once done no one can prevent you from taking the name and the property to which you are entitled and using them as you see fit." "but my mother!" said ralph, anxiously, "my mother; she's all i care about; i don't want the property if i can't have her." "and you shall have her, my boy. mrs. burnham said to me this morning, that, until your claim was duly proved in a court of law, she would have no legal right to accept you as her son; but that, when your identity is once established in that way, she will receive you into her home and her heart with much joy." ralph looked up with brightening eyes. "did she say that?" he exclaimed, "an' will she do it?" "i have no doubt of it, none whatever." "then let's get at it right away," said the boy, impatiently, "it won't take very long, will it?" "oh! some little time; several months, may be; may be longer." ralph's face fell again. "i can't wait that long!" he exclaimed; "i'll go to her myself; i'll tell her ev'rything; i'll beg her to take me. do you think she would? do you?" "oh, ralph! now be reasonable. that would never do. in the first place, it would be useless. she has seen you, she knows you; she says you are not her son; you can't prove it to her. besides that, she has no legal right to take you as her son until the courts have passed upon the question of your identity. if she should attempt to do so, the other heirs of robert burnham would come in and contest your claim, and you would be in a far worse position to maintain your rights than you are now,--oh! far worse. no, you must not go to mrs. burnham, you must not go to her at all, until your sonship is fully established. you must keep cool, and wait patiently, or you will destroy every chance you have." "well, then, i'll try to; i'll try to wait an' do what you tell me to; what shall i do first?" "the first thing to be done, ralph, is to have the court appoint a guardian for you. you can't do anything for yourself, legally, you know, till you are twenty-one years old; and whatever action is taken in your behalf, must be taken by a guardian. it will be his place to establish your identity, to restore you to your mother, and to take care of your property. now, who would you prefer to have act in that capacity?" "well, i don't know; there's uncle billy, he's the best friend i've got; wouldn't he do?" "do you mean william buckley, with whom you are living?" "yes, sir." "why, he would do if he were rich, or had rich friends who would go on his bond. you see, the guardian would have to give a bond to the extent of a great many thousand dollars for the faithful performance of his duties. could buckley do that?" "i'm afraid not, sir. he ain't rich, himself, an' i never heard of his havin' any rich friends." "whom else can you think of?" "won't mrs. burnham do?" "oh, no! it might be necessary for the guardian to bring suit against her." "there ain't anybody else that i can think of," said ralph, despairingly, after a moment's pause. "well, then, i don't know what we shall do. if you can't find some one who is able to qualify for this trust, we may as well stop right here. i guess we've done all we can for the boy, mr. craft?" craft nodded and smiled. he was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with ralph, exceedingly. the lad was again in the depths of anxiety. he looked from one to the other of the men with appealing eyes. "ain't they some way to fix it, mr. sharpman?" he said. "can't you do sumpthin' for me?" "oh! i couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that; and mr. craft, here, hasn't money enough. i guess we'll have to give up the idea of restoring you to your mother, and let you go back to work in the breaker again." "that'd be too bad," said the boy. "don't do that; i couldn't stan' that--now. can't you see my mother again, mr. sharpman, an' get her to take me--some way?" "it can't be done, ralph. there's only one way to fix it, and that is to get a guardian for you. if we can't do that, we may as well give it all up." the anxiety and disappointment expressed in the lad's face was pitiful to look upon. then craft spoke up. "ralph has been very unkind and ungrateful to me," he said, "but i have always been his best friend. i saved his life; and i've spent time and money and lost my health on his account. but i'm willing to do him a favor yet, if he thinks he can appreciate it. i'll act as his guardian and take care of his property for him, if he'll be a good boy and do as we tell him." "i'll do everything i can," said ralph, eagerly, "'ceptin' to go back an' live with you; everything--but mr. sharpman said you wasn't rich enough." "no, i ain't," responded the old man; "and i don't know how to get around that difficulty, unless mr. sharpman will help me and be my bondsman." ralph turned his face pleadingly to sharpman. "oh, now, craft!" said the lawyer, smiling, and shaking his head, "don't you think you are presuming a little too much on my friendship? if you were the only one to be trusted, why, i might do it; but in this case i would have to depend on the boy as well, and there's no knowing how he would misbehave. according to your own story, he is a wilful, wrong-headed lad, who has already rewarded your kindness to him with base ingratitude. oh, no! i could trust you, but not him." "mr. sharpman!" pleaded the boy, "mr. sharpman, i never meant to be mean or unkind to gran'pa simon. i never knew't he saved my life, never. i thought he abused me, i did; i was sure of it; that's the reason i run away from 'im. but, you see, i'm older now; i'd be more reason'ble; i'll do anything you tell me to, mr. sharpman,--anything, if you'll only fix it for gran'pa simon so's't he can help me get back to my mother." the lawyer sat for a few moments as if lost in thought. finally, he raised his head and said:-- "i've a great mind to try you, ralph. do you think i can really place full confidence in you?" "yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!" "and will you follow my advice to the letter, and do just what i tell you to do in this matter?" "yes, sir; i will." "well, then," said sharpman, turning to craft, "i think i'll trust the boy, and i'll assist you in your bonds. i know that we both have his interest at heart, and i believe that, together, we can restore his rights to him, and place him in the way of acceptance by his family. ralph," turning again to the boy, "you ought to be very thankful to have found two such good friends as mr. craft and myself." "yes, sir, i am. you'll do everything you can for me, won't you? as quick as you can?" "oh, yes! mr. craft will be your guardian, and i will be his bondsman and lawyer. now, i think we understand each other, and i guess that's all for to-night." "when do you want me to come again?" "well, i shall want you to go to wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to have the appointment of guardian made; but i will send for you. in the meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to any person about what we have told you. you'll do that, won't you?" "yes, sir, i will. but, uncle billy--can't i tell him? he'll be awful glad to know." "well, yes, you may tell billy, but charge him to keep it a profound secret." "oh! he will, he will; he'll do anything like that 'at i ask 'im to." ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then he crossed the room to where old simon still sat, and, standing before him, he said:-- "i'm sorry you're sick, gran'pa simon. i never meant to do wrong by you. i'll try to do w'at's right, after this, anyway." the old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and sharpman, seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped forward and said: "oh! i've no doubt he'll be all we can desire now." he took the boy's hand, and led him toward the door. "i see my clerk has gone," he said; "are you afraid to go home alone?" "oh, no! it's moonlight; an' besides, i've gone home alone lot's o' nights." "well, good luck to you! good-night!" "good-night!" the office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street and turned toward home. the moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the earth. it was a very beautiful night. ralph thought he had never seen so beautiful a night before. his own footsteps had a musical sound in his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach bachelor billy, and to tell to him the wonderful news,--news so wonderful that he could scarcely realize or comprehend it. mr. sharpman said he would be going back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. and so he was, was he not? he asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would not say yes. there was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not quite define. it was not because he doubted that he was mrs. burnham's son; he believed that fact implicitly. it was not so much, either, that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end would only surely bring it. but it seemed to him that he was being set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a position which might lead to an estrangement between them: and that would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his identity. but mr. sharpman had assured him that mrs. burnham approved of the action that was about to be taken in his behalf. why, then, should he fear? was it not absurd to cloud his happiness with the dread of something which would never come? away with doubts! away with fears! he would revel, for to-night at least, in the joy of his new knowledge. mrs. burnham was his mother; was not that beautiful, beautiful? could he, in his wildest flight of fancy or desire, have ever hoped for more than that? but there was something more, and that something was that robert burnham was his father. ah! that was, beyond all question, the highest honor that could ever rest upon a boy,--to be the son of a hero! ralph threw back his head and shoulders with instinctive, honest pride as this thought filled his mind and heart, and his quick step grew more elastic and more firm as he hurried on along the moonlit path. he was out beyond the city limits now, climbing the long hill toward home. he could see burnham breaker, standing out in majestic proportions, black and clear-cut against the moon-illumined sky. by and by the little mining village came into view, and the row of cottages, in one of which the widow maloney lived; and finally the light in bachelor billy's window. when ralph saw this he broke into a run, and sped swiftly along the deserted street, with the whole glad story of his parentage and his prospects crowding to his tongue. billy was still sitting by the fire when the boy burst into the room; but he had fallen asleep, and his clay pipe had dropped from his fingers and lay broken on the hearth. "uncle billy! oh, uncle billy! what do you think?" "why, ralph, lad, is that yo'? i mus' 'a' been asleep. whaur ye been, eh?" "w'y don't you 'member? i went to lawyer sharpman's office." "true for ye, so ye did. i forgot; an' did ye--" "oh, uncle billy! what _do_ you think? guess who i am; guess!" "why, lad, don't frighten a mon like that. ye'll wake the neeborhood. who be ye, then?" "guess! guess! oh, you'd never guess! i'm ralph burnham; i'm mrs. burnham's son!" bachelor billy's hands dropped lifelessly to his knees, his mouth and eyes came wide open with unfeigned astonishment, and, for the moment, he was speechless. finally he found breath to exclaim: "why, ralph, lad; ralph, ye're crazy,--or a-jokin'! don't joke wi' a mon that way, ralph; it ain't richt!" "no, but, uncle billy, it's true; it's all true! ain't it splendid?" "be ye sure o' that, ralph? be ye sure o' it?" "oh! they ain't no mistake about it; they couldn't be." "well, the guid lord save ye, lad!" and billy looked the boy over carefully from head to foot, apparently to see if he had undergone any change during his absence. then he continued: "coom, sit ye, then; sit ye, an' tell us aboot it a'; how happenit it, eh?" again they drew their chairs up before the replenished fire, and ralph gave a full account of all that had occurred at the lawyer's office. by virtue of his own faith he inspired bachelor billy with equal confidence in the truth of the story; and, by virtue of his own enthusiasm, he kindled a blaze of enthusiasm in the man's heart that glowed with hardly less of brightness than that in his own. very late that night they sat there, these two, talking of what the future held for ralph; building bright castles for him, and high hopes, with happiness beyond measure. it was only when the fire burned out and left its charred coals in the iron grate-bars and on the hearth that they went to bed, the one to rest in the dreamless sleep that follows in the path of honest toil, and the other to wake often from his feverish slumber and stare down into the block of moonlight that fell across his bed through the half-curtained window of the room, and wonder whether he had just dreamed it all, or whether he had, indeed, at last, a birthright and a name. chapter vii. rhyming joe. ten days after the evening interview at sharpman's office, ralph received a message from the lawyer instructing him to be at the railroad station on the following morning, prepared to go to wilkesbarre. so bachelor billy went alone that day to the breaker, and ralph stayed behind to make ready for his journey. he dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he was at the station, waiting for sharpman. the lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to start. he greeted ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together in the car. it was a beautiful autumn morning, and the nature-loving boy enjoyed greatly the changing views from the car window, as the train bore them swiftly on through the picturesque valley of the lackawanna. after reaching, at pittston, the junction with the susquehanna river, the scenery was grander; and, as they passed down through the far-famed wyoming valley, ralph thought he had never before seen anything quite so beautiful. on the whole it was a delightful journey. sharpman was in excellent spirits and made himself very agreeable indeed. he seemed to enjoy answering the boy's bright questions, and listening to his shrewd remarks and frank opinions. it was not until they were nearing wilkesbarre that the special object of their trip was mentioned; then the lawyer informed ralph that they would go directly to court, and instructed him that if the judge should ask him whom he wished for his guardian, ralph was to reply that he desired the appointment of simon craft. that matter being thoroughly understood, they went on to talk of what they should do in the future. "it will be necessary, eventually," said sharpman, "to bring a formal suit against mrs. burnham, as administrator, to recover your interest in the estate; but, judging from what she has intimated to me, i don't anticipate any serious opposition on her part." "i'm sorry, though," responded ralph, "that they's got to be a law-suit. couldn't we make it so plain to her, some way, 'at i'm her son that we needn't have any suit?" "i am afraid not. even though she, herself, were convinced, she would have no right to distribute a portion of the estate to you against the objection of her daughter's guardian. there is no way but to get a judgment of the court in the matter." "well, why couldn't she jes' take my part, an' give it to her daughter's guarden, an' then take me home to live with her without any propaty? wouldn't that do? i'd a good deal ruther do that than have a law-suit. a man hates to go to law with his own mother, you know." sharpman smiled and replied: "that would be a very generous offer, indeed; but i am afraid even that would not do. you would have no right to make such an agreement before you are twenty-one years old. oh, no! we must have a law-suit, there is no other way; but it will be a mere matter of form; you need have no fear concerning it." the train reached wilkesbarre, and ralph and the lawyer went directly from the station to the court-house. there were very few people in the court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial business before the court. sharpman went down into the bar and shook hands with several of the attorneys there. the judge was writing busily at his desk. after a few moments he laid his pen aside and read a long opinion he had prepared in the matter of some decedent's estate. ralph could not understand it at all, and his mind soon wandered to other subjects. after the reading was finished and one or two of the lawyers had made short speeches, there was a pause. then sharpman arose, and, drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he read to the court from one of them as follows:-- "to the honorable, the judge of the orphans' court of luzerne county:-- "the petition of ralph burnham, by his next friend simon craft, respectfully represents that the petitioner is a minor child of robert burnham, late of the city of scranton in said county, deceased, under the age of fourteen years; that he is resident within the said county and has no guardian to take care of his estate. he therefore prays the court to appoint a guardian for that purpose. "ralph burnham. by his next friend, simon craft. dated, sept. , ." "your honor will notice that the petition is duly sworn to," said sharpman, handing the paper to the clerk, who, in turn, handed it to the judge. there was a minute of silence. the lawyers were all staring at sharpman in astonishment. then, the judge spoke. "mr. sharpman, i was not aware that robert burnham left more than one child living; a girl, for whom we have already made appointment of a guardian." "i was not aware of that fact either," rejoined sharpman, "until very recently; but it is a fact, nevertheless; and we are here now, asking that a way be prepared by which this heir may come into his rightful portion of his father's estate." "this is a peculiar case," responded the judge; "and i think we should have some other basis than this on which to act; some affidavit of facts." "i came prepared to meet that objection," said sharpman. "i will now read, if the court please, a statement of the facts in the case." he unfolded another paper and read a long and detailed account of the wreck, of ralph's rescue by simon craft, of the old man's care and keeping of the boy, of the finding of ralph's parents, the lad's desertion, the recent discovery of his whereabouts, of craft's toil and sacrifice in the matter, and of ralph's desire to be restored to his family. this was signed and sworn to by simon craft. the judge sat for a moment in silence, as if studying the effect of this affidavit. "has the mother been notified," he said finally, "that this child is living, and, if so, why does not she appear here to make this application?" "i will answer that question, your honor, by reading the following affidavit," replied sharpman. "luzerne county, ss.: "john h. sharpman, attorney at law of said county, being duly sworn according to law, deposes, and says: that, on the fifteenth day of september, a.d. , he called upon mrs. margaret burnham, the widow of robert burnham, late of the city of scranton, deceased, and administrator of the said robert burnham's estate, and informed her of the facts set forth in the foregoing affidavit of simon craft. she acknowledged her acquaintance with the boy ralph, herein mentioned, but refused to acknowledge him as the son of robert burnham, or to grant him any legal interest in the estate of the said robert burnham. a notice, a copy of which is hereto attached, has been served on the said margaret burnham, warning her that application will be made to the orphans' court, on this day, at this hour, for the appointment of a guardian for the boy ralph. "john h. sharpman. sworn and subscribed before me, sept. , . israel durham, _justice of the peace_." "does any one appear for mrs. burnham in this matter?" inquired the judge, addressing the assembly of lawyers. an elderly man, short and thick-set, with gray hair and moustache, arose, and said:-- "i have been informed, as mrs. burnham's attorney, that such a proceeding as this was in contemplation. i appreciate your honor's careful scrutiny of the matter before making an appointment; but, so long as we do not recognize the boy as robert burnham's son, it would hardly be justifiable for us to interfere in the simple appointment of a guardian for him. inasmuch, however, as the avowed purpose is to make an attack on the burnham estates, we shall insist that the guardian enter into a bond of sufficient amount and value to cover any damages which may accrue from any action he may see fit to take." "have you prepared a bond, mr. sharpman?" inquired the judge. "we have," replied sharpman, producing still another paper. "mr. goodlaw," continued the judge, addressing mrs. burnham's attorney, "will you look at the bond and see if it is satisfactory to you?" mr. goodlaw took the bond, examined it, and returned it to the clerk. "i have no objection to make to it," he said. "then we will approve the bond, mr. sharpman, and make the appointment. you have named simon craft as guardian. we are wholly unacquainted with him. have you consulted with the boy in this matter? what does he say?" "i have brought the boy into court, so that, notwithstanding his legal inability to make choice for himself, your honor might be satisfied as to his wish in the matter. this is the boy," as ralph, obedient to the lawyer's summons, came into the bar and stood beside him. the judge scrutinized the lad closely, and the lawyers leaned forward in their chairs, or came nearer for the purpose of better observation. ralph felt somewhat embarrassed, standing there to be stared at so, but the voice of the judge soon reassured him. "ralph," he said, "is this application for a guardian made according to your desire?" "yes, sir," replied the boy; "mr. sharpman says i ought to have one." "and whom do you choose for your guardian?" "gran'pa simon, sir." sharpman looked annoyed, and whispered something to ralph. "i mean simon craft," said the boy, correcting himself. "is simon craft your grandfather?" asked the judge, sternly. "oh, no! i guess not. he made me call 'im that. i never had no grandfather; but mr. sharpman says that robert burnham was my father--and--and he's dead." the judge looked down at the lad somewhat uncertainly, then he said: "well, ralph, that will do; we'll make the appointment, but," turning to sharpman, "we shall watch this matter closely. we shall see that justice is done to the child in any event." "it is my earnest wish," responded sharpman, "that your honor shall do so. my only object in the matter is to see that this boy, whom i firmly believe to be robert burnham's son, is restored to his family and estates, and that this old man, who has saved the lad's life, and has spent and endured much for him through many years, is adequately rewarded in his old age." the judge endorsed the papers and handed them to the clerk, and sharpman walked up the aisle with ralph to the door of the court-room. "i have business," said the lawyer, "which will keep me here the rest of the day. can you find your way back to the station?" "oh, yes!" "here is something to pay your fare with;" offering a piece of money to the boy. "i've got enough," said ralph, declining to accept it, "plenty; i'll get home all right." "well, the train will leave at noon. i'll send for you when we want you again. good-by!" "good-by!" ralph went down the steps, out at the door, and across the court-house yard. he was not sure that he struck into the right street to go to the station, there were so many streets radiating from the court-house square. but it did not much matter; there was plenty of time before the train would start, and he thought he would like to walk about a little, and see something of the city. he felt like walking off, too, a feeling of dissatisfaction concerning what had just been done in court. it was too much in the nature of an adverse proceeding to seem quite right to him; he was fearful that, somehow, it would estrange his mother from him. he thought there ought to be some simpler way to restore him to his family, some way in which he and his mother could act jointly and in undoubted harmony. he hoped it would all come out right, though. he did not know what better he could do, at any rate, than to follow the advice of his lawyer; and, besides that, he had promised to obey him implicitly in this matter, and he must keep his promise. he had no thought that he was being used merely as an instrument in the hands of designing men. it was with this vague feeling of unrest at his heart, and with his mind occupied by uneasy thought, that he walked leisurely down the street of this strange city, paying little attention to his course, or to what was going on around him. finally he thought it was time he should have reached the station, or at least made some attempt to find it; so he quickened his steps a little, and looked out ahead of him. there was a man standing on the next corner, and ralph stopped and asked him if he was on the right road to get to the station. the man laughed good-naturedly, and told him he was on the right road to get away from it, and advised him to retrace his steps for four blocks, then to go two blocks to the left, and there he would find a street running diagonally across the town, which, if he would follow it, would take him very near to the station. he would have to hurry, too, the man said, if he wanted to catch the noon train. so ralph turned back, counting the blocks as he went, turning at the right place, and coming, at last, to the street described. but, instead of one street running diagonally from this point there were two or three; and ralph did not know which one to follow. he asked a boy, who was passing by with a basket on his shoulder, where the station was, and the boy, bending his neck and looking at him, said,-- "i guess this's the way you want to go, sonny," pointing down one of the streets, as he spoke, and then whistling a merry tune as he trudged on with his burden. ralph turned into the street designated, and hurried down it, block after block; but he did not reach the station, nor did he see any place that looked like it. he seemed to be in the suburbs, too, in a locality the surroundings of which impressed him unpleasantly. the buildings were small and dilapidated, there was a good deal of rubbish on the sidewalks and in the streets, a few ragged children were playing in the gutter near by, shivering with cold as they ran about in bare, dirty feet, and a drunken man, leaning against a post on the opposite corner, was talking affectionately to some imaginary person in the vicinity. ralph thought that this, certainly, was not where he ought to be. he walked more slowly, trying to find some one who would give him reliable directions. at the corner of the block there was a house that looked somewhat better than its neighbors. it had a show-window projecting a few inches into the street, and in the window was a display of wine-bottles, and a very dirty placard announcing that oysters would be served to customers, in every style. on the ground-glass comprising the upper part of the door, the words "sample room" were elaborately lettered. ralph heard some one talking inside, and, after a moment of hesitation, concluded to go in there and make his inquiry, as the need of finding his way had come to be very pressing. coming in, as he did, from the street, the room was quite dark to his eyes, and he could not well make out, at first, who were in it. but he soon discovered a man standing, in his shirt-sleeves, behind a bar, and he went up to him and said:-- "will you please tell me, sir, which is the nearest way to the railroad station?" "which station d'ye want to go to, bub?" inquired the man, leaning over the bar to look at him. "the one you take the train for scranton from." "which train for scranton d'ye want to take?" "the one't leaves at noon." "why that train goes in just five minutes. you couldn't catch that train now, my little cupid, if you should spread your wings and fly to the station." it was not the bar-tender who spoke this time; it was a young man who had left his chair by the stove and had come up closer to get a better look at the boy. he was just slipping a silver watch back into his vest pocket. it was a black silk vest, dotted with little red figures. below the vest, encasing the wearer's legs very tightly, were a pair of much soiled corduroy pantaloons that had once been of a lavender shade. over the vest was a short, dark, double-breasted sack coat, now unbuttoned. a large gaudy, flowing cravat, and an ill-used silk hat, set well back on the wearer's head, completed this somewhat noticeable costume. there was a good-natured looking face under the hat though, smooth and freckled; but the eyes were red and heavy, and the tip of the straight nose was of quite a vermilion hue. "no, my dear boy," he continued,-- "you can't catch it, and i can't fetch it, "so you may as well take it easy and wait for the next one." "when does the next one go?" inquired ralph, looking up at the strange young man, but with his eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness of the room. "four o'clock, my cherub; not till four o'clock. going up on that train myself, and i'll see you right through:-- "oh, sonny! if you'll wait and go with me, how happy and delighted i should be." then the young man did a strange thing; he took hold of ralph's arm, led him to the window, turned his face to the light and scrutinized it closely. "well, i'll be kicked to death by grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, at last, "have i found--do i behold--is this indeed the long lost ralph?" the boy had broken away from him, and stood with frightened, wondering face, gazing steadily on the young man, as if trying to call something to memory. then a light of recognition came into his eyes, and a smile to his lips. "why!" he exclaimed, "it's joe; it's rhymin' joe!" "a happy meeting," said the young man, "and a mutual remembrance. heart speaks to heart. "the hand of friendship, ever true, brings you to me and me to you. "mr. bummerton," turning to the bar-tender, "allow me to introduce my esteemed young friend, mr. ralph craft, the worthy grandson of an old acquaintance." mr. bummerton reached a burly hand over the bar and shook hands cordially with ralph. "glad to meet your young friend," he said. "well," continued rhyming joe, "isn't it strange how and under what circumstances old cronies sometimes meet? i cast my eyes on you and i said to myself, 'that young man has a familiar look to me.' i listened to your voice and i remarked to my inner consciousness, 'that voice lingers somewhere in the depths of of memory.' i turn your face to the light, and lo and behold! i reveal to my astonished gaze the features of my old friend, ralph. "no tongue can tell my great delight, at seeing you again to-night. "of course it isn't night yet, you know, but the pressing exigencies of rhyme often demand the elimination, as it were, of a small portion of time." ralph was glancing uneasily about the room. "gran'pa simon ain't anywheres around is he?" he asked, letting his eyes rest, with careful scrutiny, on a drunken man asleep in a chair in a dark corner. "no, my boy," answered joe, "he isn't. i haven't seen the dear old saint, for, lo, these many moons. ah!--let me see! did you not leave the patriarch's sweet home circle, somewhat prematurely, eh? "gave the good old man the slip ere the cup could touch the lip?" "yes," said ralph, "i did. i run away. he didn't use me right." "no, he didn't, that's so. come, be seated--tell me about it. oh! you needn't fear. i'll not give it away. your affectionate grandpa and i are not on speaking terms. the unpleasant bitterness of our estrangement is sapping the juices of my young life and dragging the roses from my cheeks. "how sad when lack of faith doth part the tender from the toughened heart!" rhyming joe had drawn two chairs near to the stove, and had playfully forced ralph into one of them, while he, himself, took the other. the bar-tender came out from behind his bar and approached the couple. "oh, by the way," he asked, "did ye have a ticket for your passage up, or was ye goin' to pay your fare?" "oh, no!" said ralph, "i ain't got any ticket. mr. sharpman paid my fare down, but i was goin' to pay it back, myself." the man stood, for a few minutes, listening to the reminiscences of their philadelphia life which ralph and joe were recalling, then he interrupted again:-- "how'd ye like to have some dinner, me boy? ain't ye gittin' a little hungry? it's after noon now." "well, i am a bit hungry," responded ralph, "that's a fact. do you get dinners here for people?" "oh, certainly! jest as good a dinner as ye'll git anywhere. don't charge ye for nothing more'n ye actially eat, neither. have some?" "well, yes," said the boy, "i guess so; i won't have no better chance to get any, 'fore i get home." "i think," said rhyming joe, as the man shuffled away, "that my young friend would like a dish of soup, then a bit of tenderloin, and a little chicken-salad, and some quail on toast, with the vegetables and accessories. for dessert we will have some ices, a few chocolate eclairs and lady-fingers, and a cup of black coffee. you had better bring the iced champagne with the dinner, and don't forget the finger-bowls." before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, the bar-tender had disappeared through a door behind the bar, with a wicked smile on his face. it seemed a long time, to ralph, before the man came back, but when he did come, he carried in his hands a tray, on which were bowls of oyster soup, very thin, a few crackers, and two little plates of dirty butter. he placed them on a round table at one side of the room, and ralph and joe drew up their chairs and began to eat. the man came again, a few minutes afterward, with bread, and pork, and cabbage, and coffee. on the whole, it was much better than no dinner, and ralph's hunger prevented him from being very critical. the warm food seemed to have the effect of making him more communicative, and he was allowing his companion to draw out from him, little by little, as they sat and ate, the whole story of his life since leaving simon craft. rhyming joe appeared to be deeply interested and very sympathetic. "well, you did have a hard time, my dear lad," he said, "out on the road with that circus company. i travelled with a circus company once, myself, in the capacity of special entertainer of country people and inspector of watches and jewelry, but it brings tears to my eyes now, to remember how ungratefully they treated me." "that's jes' like they did me," said ralph; "w'en i got sick up there at scranton, they hadn't no furder use for me, an' they went away an' lef' me there alone." "that was a sad plight to be in. how did you meet that emergency?" "i didn't meet it at all. bachelor billy, he met it; he foun' me, an' cured me, an' i live with him now, an' work in the breaker." "ah, indeed! at work. _laborarium est honorarium_, as the latin poet has it. how often have i wished that it were possible for me to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!--" "ain't it?" interrupted ralph. "no, my dear boy, it isn't. i have been afflicted, from my youth up, with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if physical exercise be immoderately indulged in." "what is it?" asked ralph, innocently. "indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. but how about grandpa simon? has he discovered your retreat? "has the bald, bad eagle of the plain swooped down upon his prey again?" "well, not hardly that," responded ralph, "but he's foun' me." "indeed! and what is his state of mind concerning you now?" "he ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly. "ain't your grandfather! you startle me." "no, he ain't no relation to me." "you take my breath away! who are you, then?" "i'm ralph burnham. i'm robert burnham's son." ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this fellow, but the words came out before he thought. it did not matter much anyway,--every one would soon know it. "robert burnham's son? you don't mean the rich coal proprietor who died at his mine in scranton last spring?" "yes, he's the one i mean. i'm his son." rhyming joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and looked into his eyes. "my dear young friend," he said, "i fear you have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my beneficent influence. but you should not try to impose so glittering a romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first meeting in many weary years." "to your faithful friend and true, tell the truth, whate'er you do." "tis true!" asserted ralph, stoutly. "gran'pa simon says so, an' lawyer sharpman says so, an' mrs. burnham, she--she--she almost believes it, too, i guess." the bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have. "a little something to wash the dinner down with, bummerton," said joe, turning again quickly to ralph. "then why don't you live in the burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave rude toil for others?" "'cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till the suit's ended. they's other heirs, you know." "suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?" the bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a bowl of sugar. "yes," replied the boy, sadly, "i s'pose we've got to. gran'pa simon, he's been 'pointed my garden. he ain't so bad a man as he used to be, gran'pa simon ain't. he's been sick a good deal lately, i guess." rhyming joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. he took time to pour some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the one he pushed toward ralph. "what is it?" asked the boy. "uncle billy an' me's temperance; we don't drink nothin' much but water." "oh!" responded joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up from wheat, just the same as you get in your white bread. they have to drink it here in wilkesbarre, the water is so bad. "when man and water both are ill, a little wheat-juice fills the bill. "try some, you'll find it good." ralph was thirsty, and he sipped a little of the mixture; but he did not like it very well, and he drank no more of it. "who is going to carry on the suit for you?" continued rhyming joe; "have you got a lawyer?" "oh, yes! lawyer sharpman; he's very smart, too. he's goin' to manage it." "and when will the trial come off? perhaps i may be of some assistance to you and to my quondam friend, your sometime grandfather. i would drop all bitterness of feeling, all vain enmity, if i might do the revered patriarch a favor. "my motto has been, and my motto is yet, that it frequently pays to forgive and forget." "oh! i don't know," ralph replied; "it'll be two or three months yet, anyway, i guess." rhyming joe gazed thoughtfully at the stove. bummerton came and began to take away the dishes. "what's your bill, landlord?" inquired joe. "d'ye want the bill for both of ye?" "certainly. my young friend here, if i remember rightly, invited me to dine with him. i am his guest, and he foots the bills. see?" ralph did not remember to have asked rhyming joe to dine with him, but he did not want to appear mean, so he said:-- "yes, i'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little leather wallet as he spoke. "it'll be three dollars," said bummerton; "a dollar an' a quarter apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks." ralph looked up in amazement. he had never before heard of a dinner being worth so much money. "oh! it's all right," said joe. "this is rather a high-priced hotel; but they get up everything in first-class style, do you see? "if in style you drink and eat, lofty bills you'll have to meet." "but i ain't got that much money," said ralph, unstrapping his wallet. "how much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender. "i've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents." "well, you see, sonny," said bummerton, "that ain't more'n half enough. ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money to pay for it." "but i didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested ralph. "uncle billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last fourth o' july at a place in scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents. besides, i don't b'lieve--" "look here, bummerton!" said joe, rising and leading the bar-tender aside. they whispered together for a few moments and then returned. "it's all right," said joe. "you're to pay him what money you have, and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. i'll stand the rest of it for you. "i'll be that precious 'friend in need,' who proves himself a friend indeed." "then," said ralph, "i won't have any money left to pay my fare back home." "oh, i'll see to that!" exclaimed joe. "i invited you to ride up with me, didn't i? and of course i'll pay your fare; _das verstekt sich_; that goes without saying. "i'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake, we'll stand by each other, asleep or awake." it was not without much misgiving that ralph gave the dollar and eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to his pocket. but rhyming joe soon engaged him again in conversation. the young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. he asked many questions about it, about craft, about sharpman, about ralph's knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of the future were fully discussed. in the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in quantity, as a result of rhyming joe's constant attention to it, and ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the speech and conduct of his friend. his nose appeared to be getting redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy tone. ralph, too, felt sleepy. the excitement and exercise of the morning, the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. he saw, dimly, that joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from some distant room:-- "of all 'e bowls i s-s-smell or see, the wassail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me," and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep. chapter viii. a friend in need. when ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. he was still sitting at the round table, but rhyming joe had disappeared from the other side of it. he looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. but the young man who had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. ralph arose, and went over to the bar. "can you tell me where joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender. "joe? oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. i don't know where he went, sonny." and the man went on filling the glasses, and talking to the other men. ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:-- "did joe say when he would be back?" the bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the boy repeated the question. "mr. bummerton, did joe say when he would be back?" "no, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "i don't know nothing about him." ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. he thought it was very strange. he could hardly believe that rhyming toe had intended to desert him in this way. he preferred to think that the fellow had become helpless, and that bummerton had dragged him into some other room. he knew that joe used to get that way, years before, in philadelphia. he had seen much of him during the wretched period of his life with simon craft. joe and the old man were together a great deal during that time. they were engaged jointly in an occupation which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which, therefore, required mutual confidence. the young fellow had, apparently, taken a great liking to ralph, had made much of him in a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully defended him against the results of old simon's wrath. the child had come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. he had had a general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by him. now, however, he felt compelled to believe that joe had abused the privileges of friendship. the more he thought of it, the more sure he became that he had been deceived and deserted. he was alone in a strange city, without money or friends. what was to be done? perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him out of it. he resolved to apply to him. "mr. bummerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't joe's gone, an' i ain't got no money, i don't see how i'm goin' to git home. could--could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? i'll send it back to you right away. i will,--honest!" the man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment. "why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for; a reg'lar home for the friendless? no, i ain't in the charitable business jist now. by the way, did ye know that the law don't allow hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? fust thing i know they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant. don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? that's the door over yonder, young feller." ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the street. it was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing up. he stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and wondering which way to go. he felt very wretched indeed; not so much because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived, abused, and mocked. he saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered how he had fallen so easily into it. on a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and, without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it. there were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear loud talking and quarrelling in them as he passed by. a man came out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. it frightened him, and he started to run. the man followed him for a little way, shouting savagely, and then turned back; but ralph ran on. he stumbled, finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side and hurting his wrist. his cap had rolled off, and it took him a long time to find it. then he crossed the street to avoid a party of drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he had seen from the distance. down another street there were a number of lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. after he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully the few persons whom he met, he turned again. the streets were growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them, and that was something to be thankful for. finally he reached a busy, well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief. he had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right, surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open square. it occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad station, and he hurried toward it. when he reached the door he remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at any rate. he was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which to stop and rest. so he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a bench, and looked around him. there were not many people there, but they began to come very soon, and kept coming until the room was nearly full. finally, there was a puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine bell, and the door-keeper called out:-- "all aboard for pittston, scranton, and carbondale!" the people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. the lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a moment, ralph recognized her as mrs. burnham, and the little girl as her child. his heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet. the gentleman was saying: "i trust you will reach home safely and comfortably." and mrs. burnham replied: "oh, there is no doubt of it, mr. goodlaw! i have telegraphed to james to meet us at the station; we shall be there before nine o'clock." "i will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they crossed the room toward the waiting train. for a moment ralph stood, wondering and uncertain. then there came into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him. he started forward, but they were already passing out at the door. he pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him. "where's your ticket, sonny?" he asked. "i ain't got any," replied ralph. "then you can't get out here." "but i want to find mrs. burnham." "who's mrs. burnham?" "the lady't just went out." "has she got a ticket for you?" "no, but she'd give me money to get one--i think." "well, i can't help that; you can't go out come, stand aside! you're blocking up the way." the people, crowding by, pushed ralph back, and he went and sat down on the bench again. the bell rang, the conductor shouted "all aboard!" and the train moved off. ralph's eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy. it was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he grieved, but because his mother,--his own mother,--had passed him by in his distress and had not helped him. she had been so close to him that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence. he knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and known him, she would gladly have befriended him. but it was not her assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love. it was the absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all this that filled his heart with heaviness. but he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his eyes, and began to consider what he should do. he thought it probable that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that some one whom he knew might be going up on it. it occurred to him that sharpman had said he would be busy in wilkesbarre all day. perhaps he had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there was one. it was worth while to inquire, at any rate. "yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to ralph's question, "there'll be another train going up at eleven thirty-five." "do you know mr. sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly. "mr. who?" "mr. sharpman, the lawyer from scranton." "no, i don't know him,--why?" "oh, i didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not; but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell." "no, i don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching himself on the bench for a nap. ralph thought he would wait. indeed, there was nothing better for him to do. it was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other place in the city where he could be so comfortable. the clock on the wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. he began to feel hungry. he could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. it was very quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before ralph fell to dozing and dreaming. he dreamed that he was somewhere in deep distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery. the noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. he saw, by the clock on the wall, that it was nearly train time. the escaping steam from the waiting engine could already be heard outside. people were buying tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all those who came in and went out, ralph could not discover the familiar face and figure of sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom he knew. after the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called ralph to him. "find your man?" he asked. "do you mean mr. sharpman?" "yes." "no, he didn't come in. i guess he went home before." the door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful. finally he said:-- "you want to go to scranton?" "yes, that's where i live." "well, i'll tell you what you do. you git onto that train, and when jim coleman--he's the conductor--when he comes around to punch your ticket, you tell him i said you were to be passed. now you'll have to hurry; run!" the kind-hearted door-keeper saw ralph leap on to the train as it moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room. "might as well give the lad a lift," he said to a man who stood by, smiling; "he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and left him. jim won't put him off till he gits to pittston, anyway." ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless and excited. his good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it had quite upset him. he did not just understand why the door-keeper's word should be good for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was all right. the train went rumbling on through the darkness; the lamps, hanging from the ceiling, swayed back and forth; the people in the car were very quiet,--some of them, indeed, were already asleep. by and by, the conductor came in, a slender, young-looking man, with a good-natured face. he greeted several of the passengers pleasantly, and came down the aisle, punching tickets to the right and left, till he reached the seat where ralph was. "ticket?" he asked. "i ain't got any," said the boy. "what's the reason?" "w'y, i lost all my money, an' i couldn't buy one, an' i couldn't see nobody't i knew, an' the man't tended door, he said tell you to pass me up." the conductor smiled, as he recognized a familiar scheme of the kind-hearted door-keeper, but he said, trying to speak sternly:-- "the man had no right to tell you that. our rules are very strict. no one can ride without a ticket or a pass. where do you want to go?" "to scranton; i live there," said ralph, his voice faltering with apprehension. "well, i suppose i ought to stop the train and put you off." ralph looked out through the car window, at the blackness outside, and his face took on a look of fear. "i'm very sorry," he said, "i'm awful sorry. i wouldn't 'a' got on if i'd 'a' known it. do you think you've _got_ to put me off--right away?" the conductor looked out through the window, too. "well," he said, "it's pretty dark, and i hate to stop the train between stations. i guess i'll have to let you ride to pittston, anyway. you'll get out there, won't you? it's the first stop." "oh, yes! i'll get out there," said ralph, much relieved, settling back into his seat as the conductor left. the train dashed on through the night, rumbling, rocking, waking the echoes now and then with its screaming whistle, and finally it pulled into the station at pittston. true to his bargain, ralph stepped from the train. two or three other people left it at the same time and hurried away up the street; then the puffing engine pulled the cars out again into the darkness. the boy stood, for a moment or two, wondering what he should do now. the chill night air made him shiver, and he turned toward the waiting-room. but the lights were already out there, and the station-master had locked himself into his office. off to the left he saw the street lamps of west pittston, dotting the blackness here and there like dim, round stars; and between them and him the dark water of the river reflected the few lights that shone on it. finally, ralph walked down the length of the platform and turned up the street at the end of it. in a minute or two he had reached main street, and stood looking up and down it, trying to decide which way to go. on the other side, and a little to the right, he saw a man standing on the corner, under a street lamp, and looking at him. he was an honest-looking man, ralph thought; may be he would tell him what to do. he crossed over and went down to where the man stood. "please, mister," he said, "i'd like to find a place to stay all night." the man looked down on him wonderingly, but not unkindly. "is it a hotel ye're after?" he asked. "well, not hardly. i ain't got any money. i only want a place to stay where i won't be in the dark an' cold alone all night." "do ye belong in pittston, i don' no'?" "no, i live in scranton." "sure, the train jist wint for there. why didn't ye go with it?" "well, you see, i didn't have any ticket, an' the conductor, he told me to--to--he asked me if i wouldn't jest as lieve git off here." the man gave a low whistle. "come along with me," he said, "it's little i can do for yez, but it's better nor the strate." he led the way up the pavement of the side street a few steps, unlocked a door and entered a building, and ralph followed him. they seemed to be in a sort of retiring room for the use of the adjoining offices. a gas light was burning dimly. there was a table in the room, and there were some chairs. some engineering tools stood in one corner, some mining tools in another; caps were hanging on the wall, and odds and ends of many kinds were scattered about. the man took down a heavy overcoat, and spread it on the table. "there," he said, "ye can slape on that." "that'll be very nice," said ralph; "it'll be a sight better'n stayin' out in the street all night." "right ye are, me lad! compose yoursilf now. good-night, an' swate drames to yez! i'm the watchman; i'll be out an' in; it's nothing here that'll hurt ye, sure; good-night!" and the man went out, and locked the door after him. it was warm in the room, and very comfortable, and it was not long after the boy laid down on the improvised bed before he was sound asleep. he did not wake until the day began to dawn, and the watchman came in and shook him; and it was some moments after he was roused before he could make out just where he was. but he remembered the situation, finally, and jumped down on to the floor. "i've had a good sleep," he said. "i'm a great deal obliged to you." "don't shpake of it, lad," said the man; "don't shpake of it. will ye wash up a bit?" "yes, i would like to," replied ralph, "very much." he was shown the way to the basin and water, and after a few moments he came back fresh and clean. "ye wouldn't like a bit to ate now, would ye?" asked the watchman, who had been busying himself about the room. "oh, i can get along very well without it," replied the boy; "you've done enough for me." "whin did ye ate last?" "well, it must 'a' been some after noon yestaday." the man went to a closet and took down a dinner-pail. "i've a bit left o' me last-night's dinner," said he; "an' av ye're the laste bit hungry ye'll not be makin' me carry it home with me." he had spread a newspaper on the table, and had laid out the pieces of food upon it. "oh, i am hungry!" responded ralph, looking eagerly over the tempting array. "i'm very hungry; but you've been too good to me already, an' you don't know me, either." the man turned his face toward the door, and stood for a minute without speaking. then he said, huskily:-- "ate it lad, ate it. bless your sowl, there's a plinty more where that come from." the boy needed no further urging. he ate the food with great relish, while the watchman stood by and looked on approvingly. when the meal was finished, ralph said:-- "now, i'll be a-goin'. i can't never thank you enough. maybe i can do sumpthin' for you, some time, but--" "howld your tongue, now! didn't i tell ye not to shpake of it?" the boy opened the door and looked out upon the dawning day. "ain't it nice!" he said. "i can git along splendid in the daylight. i ain't afraid, but it's awful lonesome in the dark, 'specially when you're away from home this way." "an' where do ye be goin' now?" inquired the watchman. "home; to scranton. i can walk there, so long as it's daylight. oh! i can git along beautiful now. which is the bes' way to go?" the man looked down at him wonderingly for a moment. "well, ye do bate the--the--the prisidint!" he said, going with him to the corner of the street. "now, thin, go up the strate straight,--i mean straight up the strate,--turn nayther to the right nor the lift, an whin the strate inds, follow the road up the river, an' be it soon or late ye'll come to scranton." "thank you! good-by. i'll al'ays remember you." "good-by, me lad! an' the saints attind ye!" they shook hands cordially, and ralph started up the street on his long journey toward home, while the watchman turned back to his duties, with his heart full of kindness and his eyes full of tears. but he never, never forgot the homeless lad whom he fed and sheltered that autumn night. chapter ix. a friend indeed. it had been understood, when ralph went to wilkesbarre that morning, that he should return in the afternoon. bachelor billy was very much surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find the boy waiting for him. indeed, he had more than half expected that ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at least, meet him on the way. the widow maloney had not seen him, she said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home. before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she could not find him. they were not worried about him, though; they thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the later trains. so, after supper, billy lighted his pipe and walked down toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. he went on until he reached the railroad station. they told him there that the next train would be in from wilkesbarre in about an hour. he concluded to wait for it, so he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going, and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. the train came at last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out into the street. but among them all bachelor billy could not discover ralph. he saw mrs. burnham coming from the cars, though, and it occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy. she had doubtless come from wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely that she had been in court. he did not hesitate to inquire of her; she knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came to see ralph. he took off his cap and approached her. "beggin' your pardon, mistress burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' ralph?" the lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man, and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "oh, billy, is that you? ralph, did you say? i have not seen him. why?" "he went to wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame sooner, an' i thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see. pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye." the lady still stood, holding her child by the hand. "did he go alone?" she asked. "no, he went doon wi' muster sharpman." "and has mr. sharpman returned?" "i did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--i s'ould 'a' gone there first." "i think mr. sharpman will look after him. i do not think you need to worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. but, if ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and i shall assist you in searching for him." "thank ye, mistress burnham, thank ye, kindly! i canna feel greatly concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'. but, gin he does na come i' the mornin', i s'all mak' search for 'im. here's james a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by the fretting horses while james held open the carriage door. "good-night, billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and "good-night, billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child. "good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until the carriage disappeared into the darkness. "she's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o' the nicht so. but she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. coom a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra the ghost o' danger." when bachelor billy reached home, mrs. maloney was at the door to ask about ralph. the man told her what mrs. burnham had said, and expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the morning. then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and sat down, by it to smoke. it was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite make up his mind to go to bed without ralph. it seemed a very lonely and awkward thing for him to do. they had gone to bed together every night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such a habit as that. so billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the boy. he was thoroughly convinced that the child was robert burnham's son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days, were centred in the effort to have ralph restored his family, and to his rights as a member of that family. it would be such a fine thing for the boy, he thought. in the first place, he could have an education. bachelor billy reverenced an education. to him, it was almost a personality. he held that, with an education, a man could do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. the very first thing he would choose for ralph would be an education. then the child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him and, through him, for society. the poor would be fed, and the homeless would be sheltered. he was so sure of the boy's honest heart and moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not a curse. and a beautiful home! once he had been in robert burnham's house; and, for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had haunted him wherever he went. yes, the boy would have a beautiful home. he looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and luxuries of the burnham mansion. the contrast was a sharp one, the change would be great. but ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy, so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted that he could not hold himself at its level. the home that had haunted bachelor billy's fancy was the home for ralph, and there he should dwell. but then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, billy, would be alone, _alone_. he would have no one to chatter brightly to him at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at burnham breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood a palace. instead of that, every day would be like this day had been, every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now passing. how could he ever endure them? he was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand, and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke. the lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his uncle billy had ever done or ever could do. and the boy would love his mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that would ralph remember him? how could he hope it? yet, how could he bear to be forgotten by the child? how could he ever bear it? in his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the hearth. he looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave way to tears. he had lived in this world too long not to know that prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy, whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten. but after a time he looked up again. pleasanter thoughts were in his mind. they were thoughts of the days and nights that he and the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him, sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the midsummer sun, to these days that were now passing, with their strange revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears. but in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace of regret. it was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "dear uncle billy" in the confiding way he knew so well. it was nearly midnight when bachelor billy went to bed, and long after that hour before he fell asleep. he awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare for his day's work. it was arranged at the breakfast-table that mrs. maloney's oldest girl should go down to lawyer sharpman's office to inquire about ralph, and billy was to come home at noon, contrary to his custom, to hear her report. daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away to his work with a strong hope in his heart of ralph's speedy return; and when the long morning had passed and he hurried back to his home, he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. but he was disappointed; even mrs. maloney's girl had no news for him. she had been to sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in, though the clerk had told her that mr. sharpman had returned from wilkesbarre the day before. billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy, and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes and started for the city. he thought it would be wise for him to go first to sharpman's office and learn what he could there. the lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would positively be in at half-past one, so billy took the proffered chair, and waited. sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor cordially, and took him into his private office. "well, my friend; what can i do for you?" he asked. "i cam' to see aboot ralph, sir; ralph as lives wi' me." "oh! are you buckley? william buckley?" "i am, sir. i want to know when saw ye the lad last?" "why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. he came up on the noon train, didn't he?" "i ha' no' seen 'im." "haven't seen him!" exclaimed sharpman, in a voice expressive of much alarm. "haven't seen him since when, man?" "not sin' yester-mornin', when i said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went t' the breaker. i got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop." bachelor billy had become infected with sharpman's alarm. "well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat, which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "come, we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him there." sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere sadly with his scheme to have ralph disappear again, now. the two men went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace. but they had not taken two steps around the corner into lackawanna avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. he was a sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from his journey. he was no less surprised to meet bachelor billy and the lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless, for a moment, with astonishment. "why, ralph!" exclaimed billy, "ralph, lad, whaur ye been?" but ralph did not know what to say. an overwhelming sense of shame at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him, increased his embarrassment not a little. "why don' ye speak, lad? tell uncle billy what's happenit to ye; coom noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his. then ralph spoke. from a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession. "well, uncle billy, i got lost in wilkesbarre; i wasn't used to it, an' i went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' i got onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' i had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' i'm pirty tired, an' dirty, an' 'shamed." sharpman laughed aloud. "ah! that's wilkesbarre charity," he said; "you were a stranger, and they took you in. but come, let's go back to my office and talk it over." secluded in the lawyer's private room ralph told the whole story of his adventures from the time he left sharpman at the court-house door. when he had finished, bachelor billy said, "puir lad!" then, turning to sharpman, "it was no' his fau't, thenk ye?" "oh, no!" said the lawyer, smiling, "any one might have met with the same fate: dreadful town, wilkesbarre is, dreadful! have you had any dinner, ralph?" "no, sir," said ralph, "i haven't." "well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little. you're somewhat travel-stained, as it were." in ten minutes ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively fresh. "now," said sharpman, "you don't resemble quite so strongly the man who went down from jerusalem to jericho. here, take this," reaching out some money, "and go down to the restaurant on the corner and surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy. oh, you can pay it back," as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; "we'll call it a loan if you like. come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you know. buckley will wait here for you till you get back. now, don't hurry!" he said, as ralph passed out at the door, "there's plenty of time." for some minutes after the boy's departure, sharpman and bachelor billy sat talking over ralph's recent adventure. then the conversation turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was very bright. finally, the lawyer said:-- "he was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn't he?" "he was that, verra bad indeed." "called a doctor for him, didn't you?" "oh, yes! dr. gunther. he comed every day for a for'night, an' often he comed twice i' the same day. he was awfu' sick, the chil' was." "footed the doctor's bill, i suppose, didn't you?" "oh, yes, yes; but i did na min' that so long's the lad got well." "had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, i take it?" "oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an' the lad he needit the noorsin', an' it was doin' a bit double good wi' ma siller, do ye see?" "well, you've housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three years or thereabouts, haven't you?" "why, the lad's lived wi' me; he had a right to't. he's the same as my own son'd be, min' ye." "you collect his wages, i presume?" "oh, now! what'd i be doin' wi' the wee bit money that a baby like him'd earn? he's a-savin' o' it. it ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. ye s'ould see the braw way he'll read an' write now, sir." sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. finally, he said:-- "look here, buckley! you're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning an honest penny. you have done a good deal for the boy; i don't see why you shouldn't be rewarded." "i've had ma reward, sir, i' the blessin' o' the lad's company." "yes, that's all very true, but a man must not rob himself; it's not right. you are getting along in years; you should have a little something to lay by for old age. we are sure to establish ralph's identity, and to recover his interest in his father's estate. i know that the boy would be delighted to have you paid out of the funds that would come into our hands, and i am very certain that mrs. burnham would be proud to have your services acknowledged in that way. the basis of compensation would not be so much the time, labor, and money actually expended by you, as it would be the value of the property rescued and cared for. that would figure into a very nice sum. i think you had better let me manage it, and secure for you something to lay by for a rainy day, or for old age that is sure to fall on you. what do you say?" but bachelor billy had risen to his feet, excited, and in earnest. "i'm a poor mon, muster sharpman," he said, "an' money's worth a deal to me, but i could na tak' it for a-doin' what i ha' for ralph." "why, i am sure your services have been of infinite value, both to the boy and to his mother." "mayhap! mayhap! that's no' for me to say. but i canna do it. i could na look ony mon i' the eye wi' a cent o' the lad's money i' ma purse. it'd seem as though i'd been a-doin' for 'im a' these years wi' a purpose to get it back in siller some day, an' i never did; i never thocht o' it, sir. the chil's been as free an' welcome as the sunshine wi' me. the bit money i ha' spent, the bit care i ha' had wi' 'im, why that was paid back wi' dooble interest the first week he could sit oop i' the bed an' talk. it's a blessin' to hear the lad talk to ye. na, na! do what ye can for ralph. spare naught to get his rightfu' dues; but me, there's not a penny comin' to me. i've had ma pay, an' that lang sin', lang sin', do ye mind." the lawyer waved his hand, as much as to say: "very well, you're a fool, but it's not my fault. i have placed the opportunity within your reach; if you do not choose to grasp it, you're the loser, not i." but sharpman felt that he was the loser, nevertheless. he knew that his shrewd scheme to use this honest man as a tool for the furtherance of his own ends had fallen through, and that the modest sum which he had expected to gain for himself in this way would never be his. he was not quite so cordial when ralph returned from his dinner; and, after a few words of admonition to the boy, he dismissed the pair, and set himself diligently to the task of preparing a new scheme to take the place of the one that had just vanished. chapter x. at the bar of the court. when ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his return from wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men, and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys. it had become generally known that he claimed to be robert burnham's son, and that he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to recover possession of his share of the estate. there was but little opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours: the flow of coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the machinery, were too loud and incessant. ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work. he was glad to be at home again and able to work. it was much better than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money or friends. nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the bright future that lay before him. he was so certain of the promised luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means for education,--so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford to wait, and to work while waiting. this toil and poverty would last but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied ambitions. so hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother's kiss lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in burnham breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he. when the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on the clean grass in the warm september sunshine, and eat and talk until the bell should call them again to work. here, before the recess was over, ralph joined them, feeling very conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to brave it out. joe foster set the, ball rolling by asking ralph how much he had to pay his lawyer. some one else followed it up with a question relating to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations. "will you have a hoss of your own?" asked patsey welch. "i don't know," was the reply; "that depen's on what my mother'll think." "oh! she'll give you one if you want 'im, mrs. burnham will," said another boy; "she'll give you everything you want; she's ter'ble good that way, they say." "will you own the breaker, an' boss us boys?" came a query from another quarter. before ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question, some one else asked:-- "how'd you find out who you was, anyway?" "why, my lawyer told me," was the reply. "how'd he find out?" "well, a man told him." "what man?" "now, look here, fellows!" said ralph, "i ain't goin' to tell you everything. it'd predujuice my case too much. i can't do it, i got no right to." then a doubting thomas arose. "i ain't got nothin' agin him," he began, referring to ralph, "he's a good enough feller--for a slate-picker, for w'at i know; but that's all he is; he ain't a burnham, no more'n i be, if he was he wouldn't be a-workin' here in the dirt; it ain't reason'ble." before ralph could reply, some one took up the cudgel for him. "yes, he is too,--a burnham. my father says he is, an' lawyer sharpman says he is, an' you don't know nothin' 'bout it." whereupon a great confusion of voices arose, some of the boys denying ralph's claim of a right to participate in the privileges allotted to the burnham family, while most of them vigorously upheld it. finally, ralph made his voice heard above the uproar:-- "boys," he said, "they ain't no use o' quarrellin'; we'll all find out the truth about it 'fore very long. i'm a-goin' to stay here an' work in the breaker till the thing's settled, an' i want you boys to use me jest as well as ever you did, an' i'll treat you jest the same as i al'ays have; now, ain't that fair?" "yes, that's fair!" shouted a dozen boys at a time. "hooray for ralph burnham!" added another; "hooray!" the cheers were given with a will, then the breaker bell rang, and the boys flocked back to their work. ralph was as good as his word. every morning he came and took his place on the bench, and picked slate ten hours a day, just as the other boys did; and though the subject of his coming prosperity was often discussed among them, there was never again any malice or bitterness in the discussion. but the days and weeks and months went by. the snows of winter came, and the north winds howled furiously about the towering heights of burnham breaker. morning after morning, before it was fairly light, ralph and bachelor billy trudged through the deep snow on their way to their work, or faced the driving storms as they plodded home at night. and still, so far as these two could see, and they talked the matter over very often, no progress was being made toward the restoration of ralph to his family and family rights. sharpman had explained why the delay was expedient, not to say necessary; and, though the boy tried to be patient, and was very patient indeed, yet the unquiet feeling remained in his heart, and grew. but at last there was progress. a petition had been presented to the orphans' court, asking for a citation to margaret burnham, as administrator of her husband's estate, to appear and show cause why she should not pay over to ralph's guardian a sufficient sum of money to educate and maintain the boy in a manner befitting his proper station in life. an answer had been put in by mrs. burnham's attorney, denying that ralph was the son of robert burnham, and an issue had been asked for to try that disputed fact. the issue had been awarded, and the case certified to the common pleas for trial, and placed on the trial list for the may term of court. as the time for the hearing approached, the preparations for it grew more active and incessant about sharpman's office. old simon had taken up his abode in scranton for the time being, and was on hand frequently to inform and advise. witnesses from distant points had been subpoenaed, and ralph, himself, had been called on several occasions to the lawyer's office to be interrogated about matters lying within his knowledge or memory. the question of the boy's identity had become one of the general topics of conversation in the city, and, as the time for the trial approached, public interest in the matter ran high. in those days the courts were held at wilkesbarre for the entire district. lackawanna county had not yet been erected out of the northern part of luzerne, with scranton as its county seat. there were several suits on the list for the may term that were to be tried before the burnham case would come on, so that ralph did not find it necessary to go to wilkesbarre until thursday of the first week of court. bachelor billy accompanied him. he had been subpoenaed as a witness, and he was glad to be able to go and to have an opportunity to care for the boy during the time of the trial. spring comes early in the valley of the susquehanna; and, as the train dashed along, ralph, looking from the open window of the car, saw the whole country white with the blossoms of fruit-bearing trees. the rains had been frequent and warm, and the springing vegetation, rich and abundant, reflected its bright green in the waters of the river along all the miles of their journey. the spring air was warm and sweet, white clouds were floating in the sky, birds were darting here and there among the branches of the trees, wild flowers were unfolding their modest beauty in the very shadow of the iron rails. ralph saw and felt it all, his spirit rose into accord with nature, and hope filled his heart more abundantly than it ever had before. when he and bachelor billy went into the court-room that afternoon, sharpman met them and told them that their case would probably not be reached that day, the one immediately preceding it having already taken much more time in the trial than had been expected. but he advised them not to leave the city. so they went out and walked about the streets a little, then they wandered down along the river bank, and sat there looking out upon the water and discussing the method and probable outcome of the trial. when supper-time came, they went to their boarding-house, a cottage in the suburbs, kept by a man who had formerly known bachelor billy in scranton. the next morning when they went into court the lawyers were making their addresses to the jury in the case that had been heard on the previous day, and ralph and billy listened to the speeches with much interest. the judge's charge was a long one, and before it was concluded the noon-hour had come. but it was known, when court adjourned, that the burnham case would be taken up at two o'clock. long before that time, however, the benches in the court-room were filled with people, and even the precincts of the bar were invaded. the suit had aroused so much interest and excitement that hundreds of people came simply to see the parties and hear the evidence in the case. at two o'clock mr. goodlaw entered, accompanied by mrs. burnham and her little daughter, and all three took seats by a table inside the bar. sharpman came in a few minutes later, and simon craft arose from his place near the railing and went with him to another table. ralph, who was with bachelor billy down on a front bench, scarcely recognized the old man at first, there was so marked a change in his appearance. he had on a clean new suit of black broadcloth, his linen was white and well arranged, and he had been freshly shaven. probably he had not presented so attractive an appearance before in many years. it was all due to sharpman's money and wit. he knew how much it is worth to have a client look well in the eyes of a jury, and he had acted according to his knowledge. so old simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him. after arranging his papers on the table, sharpman arose and looked back over the crowded court-room. finally, catching sight of ralph, he motioned to him to come inside the bar. the boy obeyed, but not without embarrassment. he saw that the eyes of all the people in the room were fixed on him as he crossed the open space and dropped into a chair by the side of craft. but he had passed mrs. burnham on his way, and she had reached out her gloved hand and grasped his little one and held him by her for a moment to look searchingly and longingly into his face; and she had said to him some kind words to put him at his ease, so that the situation was not so very trying, after all. the clerk began to call a jury into the box. one by one they answered to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they took their places. then sharpman examined, carefully, the list of jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the names. it was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him. "call another juror," he said, passing the list to goodlaw, who also struck a name from it, added a new one, and passed it back. the jury was finally settled, the challenged men were excused, and the remaining twelve were duly sworn. then sharpman arose to open his case. with rapid detail he went over the history of ralph's life from the time of the railroad accident to the day of the trial. he dwelt upon simon craft's kindness to the child, upon his energetic search for the unknown parents, and, later, for the boy himself; of his final success, of his constant effort in ralph's behalf, and his great desire, now, to help him into the family and fortune to which his birth entitled him. "we shall show to you all of these facts, gentlemen of the jury," said sharpman, in conclusion. "we shall prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this boy is margaret burnham's son and an heir to robert burnham's estates; and, having done so, we shall expect a verdict at your hands." the lawyer resumed his seat, spent a few moments looking over his papers, and then said, in a tone of mingled respect and firmness:-- "we desire, if your honor please, to call mrs. burnham for the purpose of cross-examination." "that is your privilege under the law," said the judge. "mrs. burnham," continued sharpman, "will you kindly take the stand?" "certainly," replied the lady. she arose, advanced to the witness-stand, received the oath, and took her chair with a matronly dignity and kindly grace that aroused the sympathy and admiration of all who saw her. she gave her name, the date of her marriage to robert burnham, the fact of his death, and the names and ages of her children. in the course of the examination, she was asked to describe the railway journey which ended in the disaster at cherry brook, and to give the details of that disaster as she remembered them. "can you not spare me that recital, sir?" she said. "no one would be more willing or glad to do so, madam," responded sharpman, "than i, but the whole future of this fatherless boy is hanging upon this examination, and i dare not do it. i will try to make it easier for you, however, by interrogation." she had hidden her face in her hands a moment before; now she raised it, pallid, but fixed with strong determination. "go on," she said, "i will answer you." sharpman stood for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he asked: "did you and your husband, accompanied by your child ralph and his nurse, leave your home in scranton on the thirteenth day of may, , to go by rail to the city of philadelphia?" "we did." "was the car in which you were riding well filled?" "it was not; no, sir." "how many children were in that car besides your son?" "only one." "a boy?" "yes, sir." "about how old?" "about ralph's age, i should think." "with whom was he travelling?" "with an elderly gentleman whom he called, 'grandpa.'" "before you reached philadelphia, did the bridge over cherry creek give way and precipitate the car in which you were riding into the bed of the stream?" "it did; yes, sir." "immediately before that occurred where was your child?" "he was sitting with his nurse in the second seat ahead of us." "and the other child, where was he?" "just across the aisle." "did you see that other child after the accident?" "i did not; i only know that he survived it." "how do you know it?" "we learned, on inquiry, that the same old gentleman and little child went on to the city in the train which carried the rescued passengers." "you and your husband were both injured in the disaster, were you not?" "we were." "and the nurse lost her life?" "yes, sir." "how long was it after the accident before you began the search for your child?" "it was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently recovered to be able to do anything." "did you find any trace of him?" "none whatever." "any clothing or jewelry?" "only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck." "is it your belief that ralph perished in that disaster?" "it is; yes, sir." "would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?" "i think it would." "ralph," said sharpman, turning to the boy, "stand up!" the lad arose. "have you seen this boy before?" continued the lawyer, addressing the witness again. "i have," she replied, "on several occasions." "are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?" "to a great extent--yes, sir." "do you recognize him as your son ralph?" she looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy's face, and then replied, deliberately, "no, sir, i do not." "that is all, mrs. burnham." ralph was surprised and disappointed. he had not quite expected this. he had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as her son when his claim was duly proven. he would not have wondered at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the range of possibility. his brightness and enthusiasm were quenched in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow's veil across her face, and resume her seat at the table. the case had taken on a new, strange, harsh aspect in his sight. it seemed to him that a barrier had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help him to surmount. of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be denied him? he began to feel that it would be almost better to go back at once to the not unpleasant home with bachelor billy, than to try to grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach. he was just considering the advisability of crossing over to sharpman and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings, when that person called another witness to the stand. this was a heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one sleeve empty of its arm. he gave his name as william b. merrick, and said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the cherry brook bridge, on the night of may , . "did you see, on your train that night," asked sharpman, "the witness who has just left the stand?" "i cannot be positive," the man replied, "but, to the best of my recollection, the lady was a passenger in the rear car." "with whom was she travelling?" "with a gentleman whom i afterward learned was her husband, a little boy some two or three years of age, and the child's nurse." "were there any other children on the train?" "yes, one, a boy of about the same age, riding in the same car in company with an elderly gentleman." "did you see either of these children after the disaster?" "i saw one of them." "which one?" "i supposed, at the time, that it was the one who accompanied the old gentleman." "why did you suppose so?" "because i saw a child who bore marks of having been in the wreck riding in the car which carried the rescued passengers to the city, and he was in company with an elderly man." "was he the same elderly man whom you saw with the child before the accident?" "i cannot say; my attention was not particularly called to him before the accident; but i supposed he was the one, from the fact of his having the child with him." "could you, at this time, recognize the man whom you saw with the child after the accident?" "i think so. i took especial notice of him then." "look at this old gentleman, sitting by me," said sharpman, waving his hand toward craft, "and tell me whether he is the one." the man turned his eyes on old simon, and looked at him closely for a full minute. "yes," he replied, "i believe he is the one. he has grown older and thinner, but i do not think i am mistaken." craft nodded his head mildly in assent, and sharpman continued:-- "did you take particular notice of the child's clothing as you saw it after the accident; could you recognize, at this time, the principal articles of outside wear that he had on?" "i think i could." sharpman paused as if in thought. after he had whispered for a moment with craft, he said to the witness:-- "that is all, for the present, mr. merrick." then he turned to the opposing counsel and said:-- "mr. goodlaw, you may take the witness." goodlaw fixed his glasses more firmly on his nose, consulted briefly with his client, and then began his cross-examination. after drawing out much of the personal history of the witness, he went with him into the details of the cherry brook disaster. finally he asked:-- "did you know robert burnham in his lifetime?" "a gentleman by that name called on me a week after the accident to make inquiries about his son." "did you say to him, at that time, that the child must have perished in the wreck?" "i think i did; yes, sir." "on what did you base your opinion?" "on several circumstances. the nurse with whom he was sitting was killed outright; it would seem to have been impossible for any one occupying that seat to have escaped instant death, since the other car struck and rested at just that point. again, there were but two children on the train. it took it for granted that the old man and child whom i saw together after the accident were the same ones whom i had seen together before it occurred." "did you tell mr. burnham of seeing this old man and child after the accident?" "i did; yes, sir." "did you not say to him positively, at that time, that they were the same persons who were sitting together across the aisle from him before the crash came?" "it may be that i did." "and did you not assure him that the child who went to the city, on the train that night after the accident was not his son?" "i may have done so. i felt quite positive of it at that time." "has your opinion in that matter changed since then?" "not as to the facts; no, sir; but i feel that i may have taken too much for granted at that time, and have given mr. burnham a wrong impression." "at which time, sir, would you be better able to form an opinion,--one week after this accident occurred, or ten years afterward?" "my opinion is formed on the facts; and i assure you that they were not weighted with such light consequences for me that i have easily forgotten them. if there were any tendency to do so, i have here a constant reminder," holding up his empty sleeve as he spoke. "my judgment is better, to-day, than it was ten years ago. i have learned more; and, looking carefully over the facts in this case in the light i now have, i believe it possible that this son of robert burnham's may have been saved." "that will do," said goodlaw. the witness left the stand, and the judge, looking up at the clock on the wall, and then consulting his watch, said:-- "gentlemen, it is nearly time to adjourn court. mr. sharpman, can you close your case before adjourning time?" "that will be impossible, your honor." "then, crier, you may adjourn the court until to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." the crier made due proclamation, the spectators began to crowd out of the room, the judge left the bench, and the lawyers gathered up their papers. ralph, on his way out, again passed by mrs. burnham, and she had for him a smile and a kind word. bachelor billy stood waiting at the door, and the boy went down with him to their humble lodgings in the suburbs, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts, and his heart with conflicting emotions. chapter xi. the evidence in the case. when court opened on saturday morning, all the persons interested in the burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. sharpman began the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the register's court, showing the date of robert burnham's death, the issuing of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and appraisement of his personal estate. then he called simon craft to the witness-stand. there was a stir of excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and to hear his evidence. the old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the examination to begin. he looked across the bar into the faces of the people with the utmost calmness. he was perfectly at his ease. he knew that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to tell it effectually. it relieved him, also, of the necessity for that constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts as a witness in other cases. the formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., were answered with alacrity. then sharpman, pointing to ralph, asked the witness:-- "do you know this boy?" "i do," answered craft, unhesitatingly. "what is his name?" "ralph burnham." "when did you first see him?" "on the night of may , ." "under what circumstances?" this question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old simon, clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and began. he related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. he corroborated conductor merrick's story of the meeting on the train which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it. he told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night of the accident. from that point, he went on with an account of his continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to the lad's identity, of his final success, of ralph's unaccountable disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat. he said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him. he told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the boy's whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery at the tent in scranton. "well," said sharpman, "when you had found the boy, what did you do?" "i went, the very next day," was the reply, "to robert burnham to tell him that his son was living." "what conversation did you have with him?" "i object," interposed goodlaw, "to evidence of any alleged conversation between this witness and robert burnham. counsel should know better than to ask for it." "the question is not a proper one," said the judge. "well," continued sharpman, "as a result of that meeting what were you to do?" "i was to bring his son to him the following day." "did you bring him?" "i did not." "why not?" "mr. burnham died that night." "what did you do then?" "i went to you for advice." "in pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boy ralph?" "i did." "where?" "at your office." "did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and history?" "they were explained to him." "what did he say he wished you to do for him?" goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff. the hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to meet again at two o'clock. when the afternoon session was called, sharpman announced that he was through with the direct examination of craft. then goodlaw took the witness in hand. he asked many questions about craft's personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the child. he demanded a full account of the way in which robert burnham had been discovered, by the witness and found to be ralph's father. he called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but old simon was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken. finally, goodlaw asked:-- "what is your occupation, mr. craft?" and craft answered: "i have no occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights." "what was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with you?" "i was a travelling salesman." "what did you sell?" "jewelry, mostly." "for whom did you sell the jewelry?" "for myself, and others who employed me." "where did you obtain the goods you sold?" "some of it i bought, some of it i sold on commission." "of whom did you buy it?" "sometimes i bought it at auction, or at sheriff's sales; sometimes of private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers." goodlaw rose to his feet. "now, as a matter of fact, sir," he said, sternly, "did not you retail goods through the country that had been furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?" craft's cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. "no, sir!" he replied, with much indignation; "i have never harbored thieves, nor sold stolen goods to my knowledge. you insult me, sir!" goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of paper, and then resumed the examination. "did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" he asked. "well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get enough to eat, and--" "i say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" "well, i'm telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to starve. then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people." "did you send him?" "yes, i did; but not against his will." "did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from his begging excursions?" "i punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me." "did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out to beg?" "he came home once or twice when i had reason to believe that he had made no effort to procure assistance for us, and--" goodlaw rose to his feet again. "answer my question!" he exclaimed. "did you beat this boy for not bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?" "yes, i did," replied craft, now thoroughly aroused, "and i'd do it again, too, under the same circumstances." then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body from head to foot. a tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he finally recovered. goodlaw continued, sarcastically,-- "when you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?" the witness answered, mildly enough, "i had a little strip of leather that i used when it was unavoidably necessary." "a rawhide, was it?" "i said a little strip of leather. you can call it what you choose." "was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?" "it was." "what other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides rawhiding him?" "i can't recall any." "did you pull his ears?" "probably." "pinch his flesh?" "sometimes." "pull his hair?" "oh, i shouldn't wonder." "knock him down with your fist?" "no, sir! never, never!" "did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?" "well, i have slapped him when my patience with him has been exhausted." "did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?" "why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend he was hurt." "well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in correcting the child?" "i don't know of any." "did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?" "i think i did, once or twice; yes." "for how long at a time?" "oh, not more than an hour or two." "now, didn't you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all day and all night?" "i think not so long as that. he was unusually stubborn. i told him he could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. he remained in there of his own accord." "appeared to like it, did he?" "i can't say as to that." "for how long a time did you say he stayed there?" "oh, i think from one afternoon till the next." "did he have anything to eat during that time?" "i promised him abundance if he would do as i told him." "did he have anything to eat?" emphatically. "no!" just as emphatically. "what was it he refused to do?" "simply to go on a little errand for me." "where?" "to the house of a friend." "for what purpose?" "to get some jewelry." "was the jewelry yours?" "i expected to purchase it." "had it been stolen?" "not to my knowledge." "did the boy think it had been stolen?" "he pretended to." "was that the reason he would not go?" "it was the reason he gave." "have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?" "they have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me; they have robbed me." "did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?" "i made him hold his tongue." "did you make him lie?" "i ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. the goods were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business where they were." "did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in the house?" "i don't know--perhaps; i was exasperated at the outrage they were perpetrating in the name of law." "then you did make him lie?" "yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers, i did make him lie!" "more than once?" "i don't know." "did you make him steal?" "i made him take what belonged to us." "did you make him _steal_, i say!" "call it what you like!" shouted the angered and excited old man. he had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth in spite of himself. besides, it seemed to him that goodlaw must know all about ralph's life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his answers. but the lawyer knew only what craft himself was disclosing. he based each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of the witness. "and so," continued goodlaw, "when you returned from one of your trips into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?" "he had." "were you surprised at that?" "yes, i was." "had you any idea why he went away?" "none whatever. he was well fed and clothed and cared for." "did it ever occur to you that the almighty made some boys with hearts so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be made to lie and steal at home?" the old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered to reply. "well," said sharpman, calmly, "i don't know, if your honor please, that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of christian ethics to answer questions of that kind." "he need not answer it," said the judge. then sharpman continued, more vehemently: "the cross-examination, as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an outrage on professional courtesy. i ask now that the gentleman be confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently put." "i have but a few more questions to ask," said goodlaw. turning to the witness again, he continued: "if you succeed in establishing this boy's identity, you will have a bill to present for care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will you not?" "i expect so; yes, sir." "as the service continued through a period of years, the bill will amount now to quite a large sum, i presume?" "yes, i nave done a good deal for the boy." "you expect to retain the usual commission for your services as guardian, do you not?" "i do." "and to control the moneys and properties that may come into your hands?" "well--yes." "about how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this estate?" "i do not look on it in that light, sir; i am taking these proceedings simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights." this impudent assertion angered goodlaw, who well knew the object of the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:-- "do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a fortune for you both? do you mean to say mat you care as much for this boy's rights as you do for the dust in your path?" craft's face paled, and sharpman started to his feet, red with passion. "this is the last straw!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "now i intend"-- but the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper, interrupted him, saying:-- "your witness need not answer the question in that form, mr. sharpman. mr. goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?" goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers. "i do not care to take up the time of the court any longer," he said, "with this witness." "then, mr. sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence." but sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his opponent. "i desire, first," he said, "that the court shall take measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting charges of counsel for the defence." "we will see," said the judge, "that no harm comes to you or to your cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. but let us get on with the case. we are taking too much time." sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of "anthony henderson." an old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the witness-stand, which had just been vacated by craft. after he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by sharpman, that he was a resident of st. louis; that in may, , he was on his way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that broke through the bridge at cherry brook. he said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little grandson. he said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car, he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped and looked at him closely. the features of the old man he could not remember. for two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the wreck, he then started on his return journey to st. louis, and had not since been east until the week before the trial. "how did the plaintiff in this case find you out?" asked goodlaw, on cross-examination. "i found him out," replied the witness. "i learned, from the newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it related to the cherry brook disaster, i came here to learn what little else i might in connection with my grandchild's death. i went, first, to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client." "have you learned anything new about your grandson?" "no, sir; nothing." "have you heard from him since the accident?" "i have not." "are you sure he is dead?" "i have no doubt of it." "can you recognize this boy," pointing to ralph, "as the one whom you saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the accident?" "oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time." "are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?" "perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance." "that will do." the cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the direct testimony. mrs. burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. she recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was telling the truth. there seemed to be no escape from the conclusion that it was her child who went down to the city that night with simon craft. was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and destitute, almost to her own door? her thought was interrupted by the voice of sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was calling the name of another witness: "richard lyon!" a young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand. "what is your occupation?" asked sharpman, after the man had given his name and residence. "i'm a driver for farnum an' furkison." "who are farnum and furkison?" "they run the great european circus an' menagerie." "have you ever seen this boy before?" pointing to ralph. "yes, sir." "when?" "three years ago this summer." "where?" "down in pennsylvania. it was after we left bloomsburg, i think, i picked 'im up along the road an' give 'im a ride on the tiger wagon." "how long did he stay with you?" "oh, i don't remember; four or five days, maybe." "what did he do?" "well, not much; chored around a little." "did he tell you where he came from?" "no, nor he wouldn't tell his name. seemed to be afraid somebody'd ketch 'im; i couldn't make out who. he talked about some one he called gran'pa craft two or three times w'en he was off his guard, an' i reckoned from what he said that he come from philadelphy." "where did he leave you?" "didn't leave us at all. we left him; played the desertion act on 'im." "where?" "at scranton." "why?" "well, he wasn't much use to us, an' he got sick an' couldn't do anything, an' the boss wouldn't let us take 'im no further, so we left 'im there." "are you sure this is the boy?" "oh, yes! positive. he's bigger, an' looks better now, but he's the same boy, i know he is." "cross-examine." this last remark was addressed to the defendant's attorney. "i have no questions to ask," said goodlaw, "i have no doubt the witness tells the truth." "that's all," said sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the court-room, he called: "william buckley!" bachelor billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand. after the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him, while sharpman consulted his notes. "do you know this boy?" the lawyer asked, pointing to ralph. "do i know that boy?" repeated billy, pointing also to ralph, "'deed i do that. i ken 'im weel." "when did you first see him?" "an he's the son o' robert burnham, i seen 'im first i' the arms o' 'is mither a matter o' ten year back or so. she cam' t' the breaker on a day wi' her gude mon, an' she had the bairnie in her arms. ye'll remember it, na doot, mistress burnham," turning to that lady as he spoke, "how ye said to me 'billy,' said ye, 'saw ye ever so fine a baby as'"-- "well, never mind that," interrupted sharpman; "when did you next see the boy?" "never till i pickit 'im up o' the road." "and when was that?" "it'll be three year come the middle o' june. i canna tell ye the day." "on what road was it?" "i'll tell ye how it cam' aboot. it was the mornin' after the circus. i was a-comin' doon fra providence, an' when i got along the ither side o' whaur the tents was i see a bit lad a-layin' by the roadside, sick. it was him," pointing to ralph and smiling kindly on him, "it was ralph yonner. i says to 'im, 'what's the matter wi' ye, laddie?' says i. 'i'm sick,' says 'e, 'an' they've goned an' lef me.' 'who's lef' ye?' says i. 'the circus,' says he. 'an' ha' ye no place to go?' says i. 'no,' says 'e, 'i ain't; not any.' so i said t' the lad as he s'ould come along wi' me. he could na walk, he was too sick, i carried 'im, but he was no' much o' a load. i took 'im hame wi' me an' pit 'im i' the bed. he got warse, an' i bringit the doctor. oh! but he was awfu' sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu' as ye please. an' the widow maloney she 'tended 'im like a mither, she did." "did you find out where he came from?" "wull, he said little aboot 'imsel' at the first, he was a bit afraid to talk wi' strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam' fra philadelphy. he tellit me, in fact," said billy, in a burst of confidence, "that 'e rin awa' fra th'auld mon, simon craft, him that's a-settin' yonner. but it's small blame to the lad; ye s'ould na lay that up again' 'im. he _had_ to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, ralph?" before ralph could reply, sharpman interrupted: "and has the boy been with you ever since?" "he has that, an' i could na think o' his goin' awa' noo, an it would na be for his gret good." "in your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found among the boys who work about the mines? i mean, do his manners, modes of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better blood than ordinary?" "why, yes," replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, "yes. he has a way wi' 'im, the lad has, that ye'd think he did na belong amang such as we. he's as gentle as a lass, an' that lovin', why, he's that lovin' that ye could na speak sharp till 'im an ye had need to. but ye'll no' need to, mistress burnham, ye'll no' need to." the lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every word. then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for cross-examination. "what else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler birth than his companions in the breaker?" asked goodlaw, somewhat sarcastically. "why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words." "what else?" "he's tidy wi' the clothes, an' he _wull_ be clean." "what else?" "what else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick like, so bright like, so lofty like, 'at ye'd mos' think he was na human like the rest o' us. an' 'e fears naught, ye canna mak' 'im afeard o' doin' what's richt. d'ye min' the time 'e jumpit on the carriage an' went doon wi' the rest o' them to bring oot the burnit uns? an' cam' up alive when robert burnham met his death? ah, mon! no coward chiel 'd 'a' done like that." "might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of under proper training and certain influences?" "mayhap, but it's no' likely, no' likely. hold! wait a bit! i dinna mean but that a poor mon's childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an' girls; they be, i ken mony o' them mysel'. but gin the father an' the mither think high an' act gentle an' do noble, ye'll fin' it i' the blood an' bone o' the childer, sure as they're born. now, look ye! i kenned robert burnham, i kenned 'im weel. he was kind an' gentle an' braw, a-thinkin' bright things an' a-doin' gret deeds. the lad's like 'im, mind ye; he thinks like 'im, he says like 'im, he does like 'im. truth, i daur say, i' the face o' all o' ye, that no son was ever more like the father than the lad a-settin' yonner is like robert burnham was afoor the guid lord took 'im to 'imsel'." bachelor billy was leaning forward across the railing of the witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation. no one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness. "you are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit, are you not?" asked goodlaw. "i dinna unnerstan' ye, sir." "you would like to have this boy declared to be a son of robert burnham, would you not?" "for the lad's sake, yes. but i canna tell ye how it'll hurt me to lose 'im fra ma bit hame. he's verra dear to me, the lad is." "have you presented any bill to ralph's guardian for services to the boy?" "bill! i ha' no bill." "do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is successful in this suit?" "i tell ye, mon, i ha' no bill. the child's richt welcome to all that i 'a' ever done for 'im. it's little eneuch to be sure, but he's welcome to it, an' so's 'is father an' 'is mother an' 'is gardeen; an' that's what i tellit muster sharpman 'imsel'. an the lad's as guid to them as 'e has been wi' me, they'll unnerstan' as how his company's a thing ye canna balance wi' gold an' siller." mrs. burnham leaned over to goodlaw and whispered something to him. he nodded, smiled and said to the witness: "that's all, mr. buckley," and bachelor billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a seat among the people. there was a whispered conversation for a few moments between sharpman and his client, and then the lawyer said:-- "we desire to recall mrs. burnham for one or two more questions. will you be kind enough to take the stand, mrs. burnham?" the lady arose and went again to the witness-stand. craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. he had taken a parcel therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. it was the cloak that old simon had shown to robert burnham on the day of the mine disaster. sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to mrs. burnham, and placed it in her hands. "do you recognize this cloak?" he asked. a sudden pallor overspread her face. she could not speak. she was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute astonishment. "do you recognize it, madam?" repeated sharpman. "why, sir!" she said, at last, "it is--it was ralph's. he wore it the night of the disaster." she was caressing the faded ribbons with her hand; the color was returning to her face. "and this, mrs. burnham, do you recognize this?" inquired the lawyer, advancing with the cap. "it was ralph's!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to grasp it. "it was his cap. may i have it, sir? may i have them both? i have nothing, you know, that he wore that night." she was bending forward, looking eagerly at sharpman, with flushed face and eyes swimming in tears. "perhaps so, madam," he said, "perhaps; they go with the boy. if we succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things also." "what else have you that he wore?" she asked, impatiently. "oh! did you find the locket, a little gold locket? he wore it with a chain round his neck; it had his--his father's portrait in it." without a word, sharpman placed the locket in her hands. her fingers trembled so that she could hardly open it. then the gold covers parted and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. the eyes looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked on her in life. after a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous with deep emotion. "i do not think it is necessary," said sharpman, courteously, "to pain the witness with other questions. i regard the identification of these articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. we will excuse her from further examination." the lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and conductor merrick was recalled. "look at that cloak and the cap," said sharpman, "and tell me if they are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this old man after the accident." "to the best of my recollection," said the witness, "they are the same. i noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned out of the front of it. i considered it an indication of a very narrow escape." the witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination. "no questions," said goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if his defeat was already an accomplished fact. "mr. craft," said sharpman, "stand up right where you are. i want to ask you one question. did the child whom you rescued from the wreck have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?" "he did." "and is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?" "they are one and the same." mrs. burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at ralph, then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp him in her arms. for a moment it seemed as though there was to be a scene. the people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet. the noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session. sharpman arose. "i believe that is our case," he said. "then you rest here?" asked the judge. "we rest." his honor continued: "it is now adjourning time and saturday night. i think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so that witnesses may be excused. what do you say, mr. goodlaw?" goodlaw arose. "it may have been apparent to the court," he said, "that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. we have called no witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call none. but, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of court on monday next." "is that agreeable to you, mr. sharpman?" inquired the judge. "perfectly," replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature. he knew that goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now clear. "then, crier," said the judge, "you may adjourn the court until monday next, at two o'clock in the afternoon." chapter xii. at the gates of paradise. the result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. every one said there was no doubt, now, that ralph was really robert burnham's son. people even wondered why mrs. burnham did not end the matter by acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home. and, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but goodlaw, in whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in haste. they had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court on saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost conclusively, to the fact that ralph was mrs. burnham's son. but the lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. it would be but a day or two at the most. then ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at once begun to have simon craft dismissed from the post of guardian. indeed, it had been with this end in view that goodlaw had made his cross-examination of craft so thorough and severe. he had shown, as he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have possession either of the child or of his property. this danger was now making itself more and more apparent to sharpman. in the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing counsel might have. now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to avert disaster. the first and best thing to be done, however, under any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of ralph. with this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as they rode up from wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him interested and amused until they reached the station at scranton. he said to him that he, sharpman, should go down to wilkesbarre early on monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see ralph before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments on sunday evening. ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial handshake, the lawyer hurried away. it is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done. simon craft was jubilant. at last his watching and waiting, his hoping and scheming, were about to be rewarded. it came in the evening of his life to be sure, but--better late than never. he had remained in wilkesbarre saturday night. he thought it useless to go up to scranton simply to come back again on monday morning. he spent the entire day on sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive, counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth. but ralph was the happiest one of all. he knew that on the coming monday the jury would declare him to be robert burnham's son. after that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any doubt. when he awoke sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his life before. the little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. the kind old sun beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval. out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the may day was redolent with all good cheer, and ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs as he walked with bachelor billy to the little chapel at the foot of the hill, where they were used to going to attend the sunday morning service. in the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to the breaker. ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls. but they were over now. he should never again climb the narrow steps to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. he should never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling and the roaring all day long. that time had passed, there was to be no more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust, no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the things of life that lay beyond his reach. the night was gone, the morning was come, the may day of his life was dawning, wealth was lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not be happy? "seems jest as though i hadn't never had any trouble, uncle billy," he said, "as though i'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?" "yes, lad." "an' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't you know. she--she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away from her no longer after the trial's over. i think she wants me to come, don't you? it ain't like most law-suits, is it?" "she's a lovin' lady, an' i'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal rightly by ye, ralph." there was a pause. they were sitting on the bank in the shadow of the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. silence, indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet joy as pervaded the boy's heart. a man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of bachelor billy and the boy. "is this ralph?" he asked. "yes," said the boy, "that's me." "well, mrs. burnham would like to see you. she sent me over to bring you. i went to your house, and they said most likely i'd find you up here. just jump in and we'll drive right down." ralph looked up inquiringly at bachelor billy. "go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go." ralph climbed up into the buggy. "good-by, uncle billy," he called out, as they started away down the hill. bachelor billy did not answer. a sudden thought had come to him; a sudden fear had seized him. he stood for a moment motionless; then he started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. they heard him and stopped. in a minute he had reached them. "ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? ye'll coom back the nicht, won't ye, ralph? i couldn't--i couldn't abide to have ye go this way, not for gude. it's--it's too sudden, d'ye see." his voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. ralph reached out from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand. "i ain't leavin' you for good, uncle billy," he said. "i'm comin' back agin, sure; i promise i will. would you ruther i wouldn't go, uncle billy?" "oh, no! ye mus' go. i shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. it was verra fulish in me. but ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. an' it cam' ower me so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that i--that i--wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad, an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and bachelor billy turned and walked rapidly away. this was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of ralph's happiness. he would have to leave bachelor billy alone. but he had fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were now at hand. his mind was full of plans for his uncle billy's happiness and welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with the sunday quiet resting on them, to the house where ralph's mother waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son. she had promised goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home until after the conclusion of the trial. he had explained to her that to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. and the time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait. she had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. then, when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence. that there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was nothing. she would not think of that. it was only a prejudice fixed by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out. but it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that ralph was not her son. he was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best that could come to him, and she loved him. indeed, during these last few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could satisfy it. she could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly to its close, would result in giving to her a son. it was a strange defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. on this peaceful sunday morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his happiness and his education. but the more she thought upon him the greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his face, to hold him in her arms. in the quiet of the afternoon this longing became more intense. she tried to put it away from her, but it would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising always in her thought, refuted all her logic. she felt that he must come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. she called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear. he came at last, and she met him in the hall. it was a welcome such as he had never dreamed of. they went into a beautiful room, and she drew his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked with him. she made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from the time he could remember, and when he told about bachelor billy and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. "we'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always." "mrs. burnham," asked ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at i'm your son?" she evaded the question skilfully. "i'm not mrs. burnham to you any more," she said. "you are my little boy now and i am your mother. but wait! no; you must not call me 'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each other the names we like best, shall we not?" "yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?" "i hope so. i shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?" "oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, i don't care so very much. it's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. i could stan' it another day or two, i guess." "well, my dear, we will be patient. it cannot but come out right. are you glad you are coming here to live with me, ralph?" "yes, ma'am, i am; i'm very much delighted. i've always wanted a mother; you don't know how much i've wanted a mother; but i never 'xpected--not till gran'pa simon come--i never 'xpected to get such a lovely one. you don't know; i wisht i could tell you; i wisht i could do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad i am." she leaned over and kissed him. "there's only one thing you can do, ralph, to show me that; you can come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me always." "oh, i'll come!" "and then we'll see what you shall do. would you like to go to school and study?" "oh, may i?" "certainly! what would you like to study?" "readin'. if i could only study readin' so as to learn to read real good. i can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to read 'at i can't do it fast enough." "yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. you shall read books to me." "what! whole books?--through?" "yes, would you like that?" "oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight. "yes, and you shall read stories to mildred, your little sister. i wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?" "yes, ma'am, i would, very much." "i'll send for her." "you'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?" "oh, indeed i will! indeed!" in through the curtained door-way came little mildred, her blond curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. she had seen ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood that he was her brother. she could not comprehend it at once, there were many explanations to be made, and ralph's story was retold; but when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken. "and will you come to live with us?" she asked him. "yes," said ralph, "i 'xpect to." "and will you play with me?" "well, i--i don't know how to play girl's plays, but i guess i can learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face. "you shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful and pretty to play, my children." the house-maid, at the door, announced dinner. "come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us eat together and see how it seems." she drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table, and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the joy of their presence. but ralph had grown more quiet. it was all so new and strange to him and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food, and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder. when dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and ralph, remembering bachelor billy's fear, said that he ought to go. they did not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went his way. the sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and ralph walked out through it all like one in a dream. it was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! his heart was like a thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by thoughts of all things beautiful. he reached the cottage that for years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on his lips. "oh, uncle billy! it was--it was just like heaven!" he had thrown himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the kindly face. bachelor billy did not answer. he only placed his hand tenderly on the boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold, in an ever thickening veil. by and by ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his visit to mrs. burnham. he gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him. "an' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, i'll be there ev'ry day, _ev'ry day_. it's too beautiful to think of, uncle billy; i can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me." "it's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an' it's a blessin' to all o' ye." again they fell into silence. the blue smoke from billy's pipe went floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of distant church bells ringing out their music to the night. finally, ralph thought of the appointed meeting at sharpman's office, and started to his feet. "i mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think i ain't a-comin'." the proposed visit seemed to worry bachelor billy somewhat. he did not like sharpman. he had not had full confidence in him from the beginning. and since the interview on the day of ralph's return from wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had been greatly shaken. he had watched the proceedings in ralph's case as well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by which ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate. he hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment. "i guess i'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared a-comin' hame i' the dark." "oh, no, uncle billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your walkin' way down there. i ain't a bit afraid, an' i'll get home early. mr. sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. no, don't you go! i'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker; good-by!" the boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he reached the brow of the hill, while bachelor billy unwillingly resumed his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was swallowed up in the darkness. ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it. he was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings. out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering shrub. the delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length of the block, and ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was following him. farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch, parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the day. very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. it was beautiful, ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home, but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor his eyes fill full with tears. his own exceeding hope was too great for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear. still farther on there was music. he could look into the lighted parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. a girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the faces of the pictured angels. they were all singing, a familiar sacred song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears that he stopped to listen:-- "o paradise! o paradise! who doth not crave for rest? who would not seek the happy land, where they that loved are blest; where loyal hearts and true stand ever in the light, all rapture through and through, in god's most holy sight?" oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy! ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness. but there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to himself, that he could think to ask for. "where loyal hearts and true, stand ever in the light." the words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the night to touch his face. the quiet stars looked down in peace upon him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with happiness, with calm content. chapter xiii. the purchase of a lie. lawyer sharpman sat in his office on sunday evening, meditating on his success in the burnham suit and planning to avert the dangers that still lay in his path. old simon's disclosures in court were a source of much anxiety to him. goodlaw's design in bringing them out was apparent, and he felt that it must in some way be thwarted. of what use was it to establish the boy's identity if he could not control the boy's fortune? he was glad he had asked ralph to call. he intended, when he should come, to have a long talk with him concerning his guardian. he hoped to be able to work into the boy's mind a theory that he had been as well treated during his stay with simon craft as circumstances would permit. he would remind him, in the most persuasive manner possible, that craft was old and ill and easily annoyed, that he was poor and unable to work, that his care for and maintenance of ralph were deeds of the purest generosity, and that the old man's entire connection with the matter was very creditable to him, when all the adverse circumstances against which he had to struggle were taken into account. if he could impress this view of the case strongly enough upon ralph's mind, he should not greatly fear the result of possible proceedings for the dismissal of the guardian. this, at any rate, was the first thing to be done, and to-night was the time to do it. he had been lying back in his chair, with his hands locked behind his head. he now straightened himself, drew closer to the table, turned up the gas, looked over some notes of evidence, and began to mark out a plan for his address to the jury on the morrow. he was sitting in the inner room, the door between that and the outer room being open, but the street door closed. after a little he heard some one enter and walk across the floor. he thought it must be ralph, and he looked up to welcome him. but it was dark in the outer office, and he could not see who came, until his visitor was fairly standing in the door-way of his room. it was not ralph. it was a young man, a stranger. he wore a pair of light corduroy pantaloons, a checked vest, a double-breasted sack coat, and a flowing red cravat. he bowed low and said:-- "have i the honor of addressing mr. sharpman, attorney at law?" "that is my name," said the lawyer, regarding his visitor with some curiosity, "will you walk in?" "with pleasure, sir." the young man entered the room, removed his high silk hat from his head, and laid it on the table, top down. then he drew a card case from an inner pocket, and produced and handed to the lawyer a soiled card on which was printed in elaborate letters the following name and address:-- l. joseph cheekerton, philadelphia. "_rhyming joe_." while sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his mind a plan of procedure. he had come there with a carefully concocted lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in scranton out of enough money to fill an empty purse. "will you be seated, mr. cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from the card. "thank you, sir!" the young man drew the chair indicated by sharpman closer to the table, and settled himself comfortably into it. "it is somewhat unusual, i presume," he said, "for attorneys to receive calls on sunday evening:-- "but this motto i hold as a part of my creed, the better the day, why, the better the deed. "excuse me! oh, no; it doesn't hurt. i've been composing extemporaneous verse like that for fifteen years. philosophy and rhyme are my forte. i've had some narrow escapes to be sure, but i've never been deserted by the muses. now, as to my sunday evening call. it seemed to be somewhat of a necessity, as i understand that the evidence will be closed in the burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. am i right?" "it may be, and it may not be," said sharpman, somewhat curtly. "i am not acquainted with the plans of the defence. are you interested in the case?" "indirectly, yes. you see, craft and i have been friends for a good many years, we have exchanged confidences, and have matured plans together. i am pretty well acquainted with the history of his successes and his failures." "then it will please you to know that he is pretty certain to meet with success in the burnham suit." "yes? i am quite delighted to hear it:-- "glad to know that wit and pluck bring their owner such good-luck. "but, between you and me, the old gentleman has brought some faculties to bear on this case besides wit and pluck." "ah, indeed?" "yes, indeed! you see, i knew all about this matter up to the time the boy ran away. to tell the truth, the old man didn't treat the lad just right, and i gave the little fellow a pointer on getting off. old simon hasn't been so friendly to me since, for some reason. "strange what trifles oft will tend to cool the friendship of a friend. "in fact, i was not aware that the boy had been found, until i heard that fact from his own lips one day last fall, in wilkesbarre. we met by a happy chance, and i entertained him on account of old acquaintance's sake." in a moment the story of ralph's adventure in wilkesbarre returned to sharpman, and he recognized rhyming joe as the person who had swindled the lad out of his money. he looked at the young man sternly, and said:-- "yes; i have heard the story of that chance meeting. you were very liberal on account of old acquaintance's sake, were you not? entertained the boy till his pocket was empty, didn't you?" and the lawyer cast a look of withering contempt on his visitor. but rhyming joe did not wither. on the contrary, he broke into a merry fit of laughter. "good joke on the lad, wasn't it?" he replied. "a little rough, perhaps, but you see i was pretty hard up just then; hadn't had a square meal before in two days. i'll not forget the boy's generosity, though; i'll call and see him when he comes into his fortune; he'll be delighted to receive me, i've no doubt. "for a trifle like that he'll remember no more, in the calm contemplation of favors of yore." but, let that pass. that's a pretty shrewd scheme old simon has on foot just now, isn't it? did he get that up alone or did he have a little legal advice? i wouldn't have said that he was quite up to it all, himself. it's a big thing. "a man may work hard with his hands and his feet and find but poor lodging and little to eat. but if he would gather the princeliest gains he must smother his conscience and cudgel his brains." sharpman looked sternly across at his visitor. "have you any business with me?" he said; "if not, my time is very valuable, and i desire to utilize it." "i beg pardon, sir, if i have occupied time that is precious to you. i had no particular object in calling except to gratify a slight curiosity. i had a desire to know whether it was really understood between you--that is whether the old man had enlightened you as to who this boy actually is--that's all." "there's no doubt as to who the boy is. if you've come here to give me any information on that point, your visit will have been useless. his identity is well established." "yes? well, now i have the good-fortune to know all about that child, and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of robert burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. he is not a burnham at all." sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. "you do not expect me to believe that?" he said. "you certainly do not mean what you are saying?" there was a noise in the outer room as of some one entering from the street. sharpman did not hear it; he was too busily engaged in thinking. rhyming joe gave a quick glance at the room door, which stood slightly ajar, then, turning in his chair to face the lawyer, he said deliberately and with emphasis:-- "i say the boy ralph is not robert burnham's son." for a moment sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said:-- "what right have you to make such a statement as this? how can you prove it?" "well, in the first place i knew the boy's father, and he was not robert burnham, i assure you." "who was he?" "simon craft's son." "then ralph is--?" "old simon's grandchild." "how do you happen to know all this?" "well, i saw the child frequently before he was taken into the country, and i saw him the night old simon brought him back. he was the same child. the young fellow and his wife separated, and the old man had to take the baby. i was on confidential terms with the old fellow at that time, and he told me all about it." "then he probably deceived you. the evidence concerning the railroad disaster and the rescue of robert burnham's child from the wreck is too well established by the testimony to be upset now by such a story as yours." "ah! let me explain that matter to you. the train that went through the bridge was the express. the local was twenty minutes behind it. old simon and his grandchild were on the local to the bridge. an hour later they came down to the city on the train which brought the wounded passengers. i had this that night from the old man's own lips. i repeat to you, sir, the boy ralph is simon craft's grandson, and i know it." in the outer room there was a slight noise as of some person drawing in his breath sharply and with pain. neither of the men heard it. rhyming joe was too intent on giving due weight to his pretended disclosure; lawyer sharpman was too busy studying the chances of that disclosure being true. it was evident that the young man was acquainted with his subject. if his story were false he had it too well learned to admit of successful contradiction. it was therefore of no use to argue with him, but sharpman thought he would see what was lying back of this. "well," he said, calmly, "i don't see how this affects our case. suppose you can prove your story to be true; what then?" the young man did not answer immediately. he took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to sharpman. it was declined. he lighted one for himself, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and began to study the ceiling through the rings of blue smoke which came curling from his nostrils. finally he said: "what would you consider my silence on this subject worth, for a period of say twenty-four hours?" "i do not know that your silence will be of material benefit to us." "well, perhaps not. my knowledge, however, may be of material injury to you." "in what way?" "by the disclosure of it to your opponent." "what would he do with it?" "use it as evidence in this case." "well, had you not better go to him?" rhyming joe laid his cigarette aside, straightened up in his chair, and again faced the lawyer squarely. "look here, mr. sharpman," he said, "you know, as well as i do, that the knowledge i hold is extremely dangerous to you. i can back up my assertion by any amount of corroborative detail. i am thoroughly familiar with the facts, and if i were to go on the witness-stand to-morrow for the defendant in this suit, your hopes and schemes would vanish into thin air. now, i have no great desire to do this; i have still a friendly feeling left for old simon, and as for the boy, he is a nice fellow, and i would like to see him prosper. but in my circumstances, as they are at present, i do not feel that i can afford to let slip an opportunity to turn an honest penny. "if a penny saved is a penny earned, then a penny found is a penny turned." sharpman was still looking calmly at his visitor. "well?" he said, inquiringly. "well, to make a long story short, if i get two hundred dollars to-night, i keep my knowledge of simon craft and his grandson to myself. if i don't get two hundred dollars to-night, i go to goodlaw the first thing to-morrow morning and offer my services to the defence. i propose to make the amount of a witness fee out of this case, at any rate." "you are attempting a game that will hardly work here," said sharpman, severely. "you will find yourself earning two hundred dollars for the state in the penitentiary of your native city if you persist in that course." "very well, sir; you have heard my story, you have my ultimatum. you are at liberty to act or not to act as you see fit. if you do not choose to act it will be unnecessary for me to prolong my visit. i will have to rise early in the morning, in order to get the first wilkesbarre train, and i must retire without delay. "the adage of the early bird, my soul from infancy has stirred, and since the worm i sorely need i'll practise, now, that thrifty creed." rhyming joe reached for his hat. sharpman was growing anxious. there was no doubt that the fellow might hurt them greatly if he chose to do so. his story was not an improbable one. indeed, there was good reason to believe that it might be true. his manner tended to impress one with its truth. but, true or false, it would not do to have the statement get before that jury. the man must be detained, to give time for further thought. "don't be in a hurry," said sharpman, mildly; "let's talk this matter over a little more. perhaps we can reach an amicable understanding." rhyming joe detected, in an instant, the weakening on the lawyer's part, and increased his audacity accordingly. "you have heard my proposition, mr. sharpman," he said; "it is the only one i shall make, and i must decline to discuss the matter further. my time, as i have already intimated, is of considerable value to me." "but how can you expect me to decide on your proposition without first consulting my client? he is in wilkesbarre. give us time. wait until morning; i'll go down on the first train with you." "no, i don't care to have old simon consulted in this matter; if i had cared to, i should have consulted him myself; i know where he is. besides, his interest in the case is very small compared with yours. you are to get the lion's share, that is apparent, and you, of course, are the one to pay the cost. it is necessary that i should have the money to-night; after to-night it will be too late." sharpman arose and began pacing up and down the room. he was inclined to yield to the man's demand. the burnham suit was drawing rapidly to a successful close. if this fellow should go on the witness-stand and tell his plausible story, the entire scheme might be wrecked beyond retrieval. but it was very annoying to be bulldozed into a thing in this way. the lawyer's stubborn nature rebelled against it powerfully. it would be a great pleasure, he thought, to defy the fellow and turn him into the street. then a new fear came to him. what would be the effect of this man's story, with its air of genuineness, on the mind of so conscientious a boy as ralph? he surely could not afford to have ralph's faith interfered with; that would be certain to bring disaster. he made up his mind at once. turning quickly on his heel to face his visitor, he said:-- "i want you to understand that i'm not afraid of you nor of your story, but i don't want to be bothered with you. now, i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the morning, that you'll not go to wilkesbarre, that you'll not come back here inside of a year, and that you'll not mention a word of this matter to any one so long as you shall live." the lawyer spoke with determined earnestness. rhyming joe looked up at the ceiling as if in doubt. finally, he said:-- "split the difference and call it even, a hundred and fifty and i'll be leavin'." sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth. at last he flung open the safe-door. "i don't care," he said, looking around at his visitor, "whether your story is true or false. we'll call it true if that will please you. but if i ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, i give you my word for it you shall be sorry. i pay you your own price for your silence; now i want you to understand that i've bought it and it's mine." he had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to rhyming joe. "certainly," said the young man, "certainly; no one can say that i have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith. "though woman's vain, and man deceives, there's always honor among--gentlemen. "i beg your pardon! it's the first time in fifteen years that i have failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason." he was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse while sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will. "now," said the lawyer, "i expect that you will leave the city on the first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have gone at least a hundred miles. here! here's enough more money to pay your fare that far, and buy your dinner"; and he held out, scornfully, toward the young man, another bank-bill. rhyming joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and, rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat. "i have already received," he said, "the _quid pro quo_ of the bargain. i do not sue for charity nor accept it. reserve your financial favors for the poor and needy. "go find the beggar crawling in the sun, or him that's worse; but don't inflict your charity on one with well filled purse." sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket. then a bit of his customary politeness returned to him. "i shall not expect to see you in scranton again for some time, mr. cheekerton," he said, "but when you do come this way, i trust you will honor me with a visit." "thank you, sir. when i return i shall expect to find that your brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old craft has chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with it. by the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of robert burnham. it would be an awful blow to him to know that old simon is actually his grandfather; and there's no need, now, to tell him. "'where ignorance is bliss,' you know the rest, and a still tongue is generally the best." "oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. i am very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter." under the circumstances sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness, but he could not well outdo rhyming joe. the young man extended his hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow. "i shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy," he said. "henceforth the spider of a friendship true, shall weave its silken web twixt me and you." my dear sir, i wish you a very good night!" "good-night!" the young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster. a moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and staggered out into the street. it was ralph. he had heard it all. chapter xiv. the angel with the sword. ralph had entered the office just as rhyming joe reached the point of his disclosure. he had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "i say the boy ralph is not robert burnham's son." it was as though some one had struck him. he dropped into a chair and sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. he was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the street. then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. and yet ralph believed that rhyming joe had told the truth. why should he not believe him when sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase the man's silence with money. but if the story were true, if it _were_ true, then it should be known; mrs. burnham should know it, mr. goodlaw should know it, mr. sharpman should not conceal it, rhyming joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the witness-stand, in open court. he must see him, ralph thought; he must find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. the sound of the man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support. when he recovered sufficiently to start on, rhyming joe had passed out of both sight and hearing. ralph hurried down the street until he reached lackawanna avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way to turn. but there was no time to lose. if the man should escape him now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. he felt that rhyming joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could only see how utterly miserable he was. he plunged in among the sunday evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. once he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. he ran up to speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else. finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the dunmore road. then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the other side of the street. block after block he traversed, looking into the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners, making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until he reached the hyde park bridge. he was tired and disheartened as he turned back and wondered what he should do next. then it occurred to him that he had promised to meet mr. sharpman that night. perhaps the lawyer was still waiting for him. perhaps, if he should appeal to him, the lawyer would help him to find rhyming joe, and to make the truth known before injustice should be done. he turned his steps in the direction of sharpman's office, reached it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and found it locked. the lights were out, the lawyer had gone. ralph was very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to think. he felt that he had made every effort to find rhyming joe and had failed. to-morrow the man would be gone. sharpman would go to wilkesbarre. the evidence in the burnham case would be closed. the jury would come into court and declare that he, ralph, was robert burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. oh, no! he could not let that be done. his whole moral nature cried out against it. he must see sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause. to-morrow it might be too late. he rose and started down the walk to find the lawyer's dwelling. but he did not know in which direction to turn. a man was passing along the street, and ralph accosted him:-- "please, can you tell me where mr. sharpman lives?" he asked. "i don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting on. in a minute another man came by, and ralph repeated his question. "i don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but i know where he would live if i had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on. ralph went back and sat down on the steps again. the sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it was very dark. what was to be done now? he had failed to find rhyming joe, he had failed to find lawyer sharpman. the early morning train would carry both of them beyond his reach. suppose it should? suppose the case at wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should bring in their expected verdict, what then? why, then the law would declare him to be robert burnham's son; the title, the position, the fortune would all be his; mrs. burnham would take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. ah! there was a thought. suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the verdict was unjust? he might yet have it all, all, if only he would hold his tongue. his heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. but that would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside. no, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that was to tell what he had heard. if he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge to himself--the story must be known. and then farewell to all his hopes, his plans, his high ambition. no beautiful home for him now, no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had thought to know. it was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it must be done. he fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. it seemed to him as though it were something that had taken place very long ago. it was like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. he wondered if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. it had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! could it be that this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? oh, it was dreadful! dreadful! he began to wonder why he did not cry. he put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he found none. did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears? but the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge to himself came back again into his mind. he drove it out, but it returned. it had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist. it would be so easy simply to say nothing. and who would ever know that he was not mrs. burnham's son? why, old simon would know, but he would not dare to tell; lawyer sharpman would know, but he would not dare to tell; rhyming joe would know, but he would not dare to tell, at least, not for a long time. and suppose it should be known after a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. they might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that if he could but live with mrs. burnham for a year she would never let him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate. but then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. he could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge, and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. but it was too late to do anything to-night. he wondered how late it was. he thought of bachelor billy waiting for him at home. he feared that the good man would be worried on account of his long absence. a clock in a church tower not far away struck ten. ralph started to his feet, went out into the street again, and up toward home. but uncle billy! what would uncle billy say when he should tell him what he had heard? would he counsel him to hold his tongue? ah, no! the boy knew well the course that uncle billy would mark out for him. but it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much on account of the lad's misfortune; he would feel the pangs of disappointment as deeply as did ralph himself. ought he not to be spared this pain? and then, a person holding the position of robert burnham's son could give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and peaceful the remnant of his days. was it not the duty of a boy to do it? but, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see the lie there, not for worlds. ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter, nor any music in the air. a rising wind was stirring the foliage of the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark. indeed, it was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could find his way at all. but the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the tempest in his heart; that was terrible. he had about made up his mind to tell bachelor billy everything and to follow his advice when he chanced to think of mrs. burnham, and how great her pain and disappointment would be when she should know the truth. he knew that she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother's heart could conceive. it would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very bitter blow. it would be like raising her son from the dead only to lay him back into his grave after the first day. what right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had been so kind to him? what right? did not her love for him and his love for her demand that he should keep silence? but, oh! to hear the sound of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them, to feel her mother's kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was dark with deep deceit. could he endure that? could he? as ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light from bachelor billy's window shining out into the darkness. there were no other lights to be seen. people went early to bed there; they must rise early in the morning. the boy knew that his uncle billy was waiting for him, doubtless with much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood motionless by the door. he was trying to decide what he should do and say on entering. to tell uncle billy or not to tell him, that was the question. he had never kept anything from him before; this would be the first secret he had not shared with him. and uncle billy had been so good to him, too, so very good! yes, he thought he had better tell him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed. he raised his hand to lift the latch. again he hesitated. if he should tell him, that would end it all. the good man would never allow him to act a falsehood. he would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine of helpless poverty and hopeless toil. he felt that he was not quite ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it. he would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all that he had longed for. his hand fell nerveless to his side. he still stood waiting on the step in the beating rain. but then, it was wrong to keep silent, wrong! wrong! wrong! the word went echoing through his mind like the stern sentence of some high court; conscience again pushed her way to the front, and the struggle in the boy's heart went on with a fierceness that was terrible. suddenly the door was opened from the inside, and bachelor billy stood there, shading his eyes with his hand and peering out into the darkness. "ralph," he said, "is that yo' a-stannin' there i' the rain? coom in, lad; coom in wi' ye! why!" he exclaimed, as the boy entered the room, "ye're a' drippin' wet!" "yes, uncle billy, it's a-rainin' pirty hard; i believe i--i believe i did git wet." the boy's voice sounded strange and hard even to himself. bachelor billy looked down into his face questioningly. "what's the matter wi' ye, ralph? soun's like as if ye'd been a-cryin'. anything gone wrong?" "oh, no. only i'm tired, that's all, an'--an' wet." "ye look bad i' the face. mayhap an' ye're a bit sick?" "no, i ain't sick." "wull, then, off wi' the wet duddies, an' we'll be a-creepin' awa' to bed." as ralph proceeded to remove his wet clothing, bachelor billy watched him with increasing concern. the boy's face was white and haggard, there were dark crescents under his eyes, his movements were heavy and confused, he seemed hardly to know what he was about. "has the lawyer said aught to mak' ye unhappy, ralph?" inquired billy at last. "no, i ain't seen mr. sharpman. he wasn't in. he was in when i first went there, but somebody else was there a-talkin' to 'im, an' i went out to wait, an' w'en i got back again the office was locked, so i didn't see 'im." "ye've been a lang time gone, lad?" "yes, i waited aroun', thinkin' maybe he'd come back, but he didn't. i didn't git started for home" till just before it begun to rain." "mayhap ye got a bit frightened a-comin' up i' the dark?" "no--well, i did git just a little scared a-comin' by old no. shaft; i thought i heard a funny noise in there." "ye s'ould na be oot so late alone. nex' time i'll go wi' ye mysel'!" ralph finished the removal of his wet clothing, and went to bed, glad to get where bachelor billy could not see his face, and where he need not talk. "i'll wait up a bit an' finish ma pipe," said the man, and he leaned back in his chair and began again his slow puffing. he knew that something had gone wrong with ralph. he feared that he was either sick or in deep trouble. he did not like to question him too closely, but he thought he would wait a little before going to bed and see if there were any further developments. ralph could not sleep, but he tried to lie very still. a half-hour went by, and then bachelor billy stole softly to the bed and looked down into the lad's face. he was still awake. "have you got your pipe smoked out, uncle billy?" he asked. "yes, lad; i ha' just finished it." "then are you comin' to bed now?" "i thocht to. do ye want for anything?" "oh, no! i'm all right." the man began to prepare for bed. after a while ralph spoke. "uncle billy!" "what is it, lad?" "i've been thinkin', s'pose this suit should go against us, do you b'lieve mrs. burnham would do anything more for me?" "she's a gude woman, ralph. na doot she'd care for ye; but ye could na hope to have her tak' ye to her hame, an they proved ye waur no' her son." "an' then--an' then i'd stay right along with you, wouldn't i?" "i hope so, lad, i hope so. i want ye s'ould stay wi' me till ye find a better place." "oh, i couldn't find a better place to stay, i know i couldn't, 'xcept with my--'xcept with mrs. burnham." "wull, ye need na worry aboot the matter. ye'll ha' naught to fear fra the trial, i'm thinkin'. gae to sleep noo; ye'll feel better i' the mornin', na doot." ralph was silent, but only for a minute. a new thought was working slowly into his mind. "but, uncle billy," he said, "s'pose they should prove, to-morrow, 'at simon craft is my own gran'father, would i have to--oh! uncle billy!" the lad started up in bed, sat there for a moment with wildly staring eyes, and then sprang to the floor trembling with excitement and fear. "oh, don't!" he cried; "uncle billy, don't let him take me back there to live with him! i couldn't stan' it! i couldn't! i'd die! i can't go, uncle billy! i can't!" "there, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, i'll no' let ye." the man had ralph in his arms trying to quiet him. "but," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. if they find out i'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to take me, i know they will!" "but ye're no' his gran'son, ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. ye're robert burnham's son." "oh, no, uncle billy, i ain't, i--" he stopped suddenly. the certain result of disclosing his knowledge to his uncle billy flashed warningly across his mind. if bachelor billy knew it, mrs. burnham must know it; if mrs. burnham knew it, goodlaw and the court must know it, the verdict would be against him, simon craft would come to take him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to go. the law that would deny his claim as robert burnham's son would stamp him as the grandson of simon craft, and place him again in his cruel keeping. oh, no! he must not tell. if there were reasons for keeping silence before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last danger. he felt that he had rather die than go back to live with simon craft. bachelor billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked a baby. "there, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a' coom oot richt. what's happenit to ye, ralph, that ye s'ould be so fearfu'?" "n--nothin'; i'm tired, that's all. i guess i'll go to bed again." he went back to bed, but not to sleep. hot and feverish, and with his mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours of the night. he had decided at last that he could not tell what he had heard at sharpman's office. the thought of having to return to simon craft had settled the matter in his mind. the other reasons for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not be broken. toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that old simon was holding him over the mouth of burnham shaft, threatening to drop him down into it, while sharpman stood by, with his hands in his pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. he managed to cry out, and awoke both himself and bachelor billy. he started up in bed, clutching at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoarsely in his fright. "what is it, ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?" "oh, don't! don't let him throw me--uncle billy, is that you?" "it's me, ralph. waur ye dreamin'? there, never mind; no one s'all harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. gae to sleep, lad, gae to sleep." "i thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. i must 'a' been a-dreamin'." "yes, ye waur dreamin'. gae to sleep." but ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose. bachelor billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved about cautiously so as not to waken him. when he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. the storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it came up from behind the long slanting roof of burnham breaker. but he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. it was not so much the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now, it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever present shame. finally the door was opened and bachelor billy stepped out. "good mornin', uncle billy," said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully. "gude mornin' till ye, ralph! ye're up airly the mornin'. i mak' free to say ye're a-feelin' better." "yes, i am. i didn't sleep very well, but i'm better this mornin'. i wisht it was all over with--the trial i mean; you see it's a-makin' me kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. i can't stan' much 'xcitement, some way." "wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait i'm a-thinkin'. it'll be ower the day. what aboot you're gaein' to wilkesbarre?" "i don't know. i guess i'll go down to mr. sharpman's office after a while, an' see if he's left any word for me." mrs. maloney appeared at her door. "the top o' the mornin' to yez!" she cried, cheerily. "it's a fine mornin' this!" both bachelor billy and ralph responded to the woman's hearty greeting. she continued: "ye'll be afther gettin' out in the air, i mind, to sharpen up the appetites; an' a-boardin' with a widdy, too, bad 'cess to ye!" mrs. maloney was inclined to be jovial, as well as kind-hearted. "well, i've a bite on the table for yez, an ye don't come an' ate it, the griddle-cakes'll burn an' the coffee'll be cowld, an'--why, ralph, is it sick ye are? sure, ye're not lookin' right well." "i wasn't feelin' very good las' night, mrs. maloney, but i'm better this mornin'." the sympathetic woman took the boy's hand and rubbed it gently, and, with many inquiries and much advice, she led him to the table. he forced himself to eat a little food and to drink something that the good woman had prepared for him, which, she declared emphatically, would drive off the "wakeness." bachelor billy did not take his dinner with him that morning as usual. he said he would come back at noon to learn whether anything new had occurred in the matter of the lawsuit, and whether it would be necessary for ralph to go to wilkesbarre. he was really much concerned about the boy. ralph's conduct since the evening before had been a mystery to him. he knew that something was troubling the lad greatly; but, whatever it was, he had faith that ralph would meet it manfully, the more manfully, perhaps, without his help. so he went away with cheering predictions concerning the suit, and with kindly admonition to the boy to remain as quiet as possible and try to sleep. but ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. he was laboring under too much excitement still to do either. he walked nervously about the cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. he went first to sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that mr. sharpman had left word that ralph need not go to wilkesbarre that day. then he went on to the heart of the city. he was trying to divert himself, trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the reproaches of conscience. he walked down to the railroad station. he wondered if rhyming joe had gone. he supposed he had. he did not care to see him now, at any rate. he sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest, then he went out into the street again. but he was very wretched. it seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him for it. a lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk before she reached him. he wondered if she saw disgrace in his face and was trying to avoid him. after that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less frequented route, toward home. the day was very bright and warm, but the brightness had a cold glare in ralph's eyes, and he actually shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. he crossed to the sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and up the hill. widow maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on into his own room. he closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw himself down upon the bed. he was very wretched. oh, very wretched, indeed. he had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at wilkesbarre go on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace; it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. but why should it do this? was he not doing what was best? would it not be better for uncle billy, for mrs. burnham, for himself? must he, for the sake of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless clutch of simon craft? thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on with renewed earnestness. he gave to his conscience, one by one, the reasons that he had for acting the part of robert burnham's son; good reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a grievous wrong. but whom would it wrong? not ralph burnham, for he was dead, and it could be no wrong to him; not mrs. burnham, for she would rejoice to have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not bachelor billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness. and yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always that it was wrong. but whom would it wrong? himself? ah! there was a thought--would it be wronging himself? well, would it not? had it not already made a coward of him? was it not degrading him in his own eyes? was it not trying to stifle the voice of conscience in his breast? would it not make of him a living, walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? had he a right to place a burden so appalling on himself? would it not be better to face the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? would it not be better even to die than to live a life like that? he sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and swelling nostrils. a fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in his breast. his better nature rose to the help of the angel with the flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought the dragons in their path. then hope came back, and courage grew, and resolution found new footing. he stood there as he stood that day on the carriage that bore robert burnham to his death, the light of heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. he could not help but conquer. he drove the spirit of temptation from his breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right. there was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty. but now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly. what was the first thing to be done? why, the first thing always was to confide in uncle billy, and to ask for his advice. he seized his hat and started up the village street and across the hill to burnham breaker there was no lagging now, no indecision in his step, no doubt within his mind. he was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or all things, that justice might be done and truth become established. the sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights of burnham breaker threw their shadows on his head. chapter xv. an eventful journey. the shaft-tower of burnham breaker reached up so high from the surface of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds were only a foot or two above its head. in the winter time the wind swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from the piercing cold. but when summer came, and the cool breeze floated across through the open places at the head, and one could look down always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens, and the gray-roofed city, and the shining waters of the lackawanna, winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant place to work in. so bachelor billy thought, these warm spring days, as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till it should pass beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys who cleansed it from its slate and stone. billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that perhaps, down below in the screen-room, ralph's eyes would see the brightness of the broken lump, or ralph's fingers pick the curious bits of slate from out the moving mass. and as he fastened up the swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of nature's handiwork. but to-day ralph was not there. in all probability he would never be there again to work. another boy was sitting on his bench in the screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked slate. this thought in bachelor billy's mind was a sad one. he pushed the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window to consider the subject of ralph's absence. something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. there were no cars ready for hoisting, and billy and his co-laborer, andy gilgallon, were able to rest for many minutes from their toil. as they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, bachelor billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. he came to the foot of the hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them. "i believe it's ralph," said billy, "it surely is. an ye'll mind both carriages for a bit when they start up, andy, i'll go t' the lad," and he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that led to the surface of the earth. at the door of the pump-room he met ralph. "uncle billy!" shouted the boy, "i want to see you; i've got sumpthin' to tell you." two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and ralph continued: "come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise; 'twon't take long." he led the way across the level space, up the bank, and into the shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year before to pass resolutions of sympathy for robert burnham's widow; they were no sooner seated on the rude bench than ralph began:-- "i ought to 'a' told you before, i done very wrong not to tell you, but i couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. here's what i want you to know." then ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to sharpman's office on sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his morning of shame, of his final victory over himself. bachelor billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said: "gie's your han' ralph; gie's your twa han's! ye're a braw lad. son or no son o' robert burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!" he was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face, holding the small hands affectionately in both of his. "i come just as quick as i could," continued the boy, "after i got over thinkin' i'd keep still about it, just as quick as i could, to tell you an' ask you what to do. i'll do anything 'at you tell me it's right to do, uncle billy, anything. if you'll only say i must do it, i will. but it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who i am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at all, never, any more; it's terrible! oh, uncle billy, it's terrible!" then, for the first time since the dreadful words of rhyming joe fell on his ears in the darkness of sharpman's office, ralph gave way to tears. he wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his sobs. bachelor billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. he smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time ralph grew quiet. "do you think, uncle billy," asked ralph, "'at rhymin' joe was a-tellin' the truth? he used to lie, i know he did, i've heard 'im lie myself." "it looks verra like, ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o' the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it so plain." "oh! he was; he knew all about it. i remember him about the first thing. he was there most all the time. but i didn't know but he might just 'a' been lyin' to get that money." "it's no' unlikely. but atween the twa, i'd sooner think it was the auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. he has more to make out o' it, do ye see?" "well, there's the evidence in court." "true, but lawyer sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o' us. an he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. i'm doubtfu' for ye, ralph, i'm verra doubtfu'." ralph had believed rhyming joe's story from the beginning, but he felt that this belief must be confirmed by uncle billy in order to put it beyond question. now he was satisfied. it only remained to act. "it's all true," he said; "i know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to be done. what shall i do, uncle billy?" the troubled look deepened on the man's face. "whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to yoursel'. she ought to know. it's only fair to go an' tell the tale to her an' let her do what she thenks bes'." "must i tell mrs. burnham? must i go an' tell her 'at i ain't her son, an' 'at i can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy together the way we talked? oh, uncle billy, i can't do that, i can't!" he looked up beseechingly into the man's face. something that he saw there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from his eyes. "yes, i can do it too!" he exclaimed. "i can do anything 'at's right, an' that's right. i won't wait; i'll go now." "don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! if the lady should be gone to court ye mus' gae there too. if ye canna find her, ye mus' find her lawyer. one or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes; afterwards it might be too late." "yes, i'll do it, i'll do it just like that." "mos' like ye'll have to go to wilkesbarre. an ye do i'll go mysel'. but dinna wait for me. i'll coom when i can get awa'. ye s'ould go on the first train that leaves." "yes, i unnerstan'. i'll go now." "wait a bit! keep up your courage, ralph. ye've done a braw thing, an' ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an' ye'll need a stout hert. ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"ralph, i fear i'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so. an' it's gude for ye, i'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. i'd make ye weak, an' ye need to be strang. i canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken the right an' ye'll do it. good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till i s'all go to ye; good-by!" he bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face toward the city; and when ralph had disappeared below the brow of the hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps, and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task. there was no shrinking on ralph's part now. he was on fire with the determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. he did not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached the door of mrs. burnham's house. a servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him pleasant greeting. she said that mrs. burnham had gone to wilkesbarre, that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her. ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim. "thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart. he turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light from the stained glass window cleaving them across, and then his eyes were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. the gates of his eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them again. but this was no time for sorrow and regret. he wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward the heart of the city. at the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave for wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock. it lacked half an hour of that time now. there was nothing to do but to wait. he began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue on reaching wilkesbarre. he thought he would inquire the way to mr. goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to him. perhaps mrs. burnham would be there too, that would be better yet, more painful but better. then he should follow their advice as to the course to be pursued. it was more than likely that they would want him to testify as a witness. that would be strange, too, that he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. but he was ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and best, anything that would meet the approval of his uncle billy and of his own conscience. when the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited impatiently for them to start. for some reason they were late in getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough to make up for lost time. in the seats behind ralph was a merry party of young girls. their incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long distance. at any former time he would have listened to them with great pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his brain was busied with weightier matters. he looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms. he saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. he saw the giant breakers looming up, black and massive, in the foreground of almost every scene. and yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy dream. the strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his hopes and fancies. at pittston junction there was another long delay. ralph grew very nervous and impatient. if the train could have reached wilkesbarre on time he would have had only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. now he could hope for only a half-hour at the best. and if anything should happen to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had declared him to be robert burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen! his face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in gasps. if such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his will and effort, what then? it was only for a moment that he gave way to this insidious and undermining thought. then he fought it back, crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the front. at last the train came, the impatient passengers entered it, and they were once more on their way. it was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment ralph had a faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the valley of wyoming. off the nearer shore of a green-walled island in the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a picture of perfect comfort and content. then the train swept around a curve, away from the shore, and back among the low hills to the east. suddenly there was a bumping together of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train, and a slight shock at stopping. the party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and their faces blanched with fear. the men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the cause of the alarm. ralph went also. the train had narrowly escaped plunging into a mass of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered coal. to make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and splintered wreckage. what was to be done? the passengers asked. the conductor replied that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away, to telegraph for a special train from wilkesbarre, and that the passengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. and how long would they be obliged to wait here? "well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer." "that means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly. ralph heard it all. an hour would make him very late, two hours would be fatal to his mission. he went up to the conductor and asked,-- "how long'd it take to walk to wilkesbarre?" "that depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. some men might do it in half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." and the man looked down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him. ralph turned away in deep thought. if he could walk it in three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do something at least. should he try? but this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? must he always be striving against fate? against every circumstance that would tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? must he?--but the query went no further. the angel with the flaming sword came back to guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. he would do all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his soul. already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on the other side of the piled-up cars. from there he ran along smoothly on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pass him, but stopping for nothing. a man at work in a field by the track asked him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again. after he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's end. he could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would take him more directly there. he did not stop long to consider. he plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the side of the wagon-track. the day had grown to be very warm, and ralph removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder. he became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. he met many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to the city. he had hoped to get a ride. he had overtaken a farmer with a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had passed him. two or three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him. then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. ralph shouted at him as he passed:-- "please, sir, may i have a ride? i'm in a desp'ate hurry!" but the man looked back at him contemptuously. "i don't run a stage for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on. ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride, though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one. but he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have missed the drink. the road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. it seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. he feared that he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the faster. now and then he would break into a run and keep running until his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk. his feet began to hurt him. one shoe rubbed his heel until the pain became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his bare feet. the sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust hung above the road in clouds. deep thirst came back upon the boy; his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the stones. but he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the moments were passing, that the road was long, that unless he reached his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail. so he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on, foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets or the mouths of belching cannon. chapter xvi. a block in the wheel. at half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house at wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. they were there, the most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated burnham case. the judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench. beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. down in the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one another. sharpman was there, and craft was at his elbow. goodlaw was there, and mrs. burnham sat in her accustomed place. the crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "oyez! oyez! oyez!" was all about. some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. the prothonotary called the jury list for the week. two or three jurors presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered and acted on by the court. the sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages of which had been read aloud by the judge. an attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little discussion ensued over the matter. it finally ended by a rule being granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. then there were several motions made by as many lawyers. all this took much time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer. finally there was a lull. the judge was busily engaged in writing. the attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and to be waiting for new ones. the jury in the burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. as it was, there would be little for them to do. the case was extremely one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously and somewhat scornfully remarked. the judge looked up from his writing. "well, gentlemen," he said, "are you ready to proceed in the case of 'craft against burnham'?" "we are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied sharpman. goodlaw arose. "if it please the court," he said, "we are in the same position to-day that we were in on saturday night at the adjournment. this matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of defence. "though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of simon craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story. "we do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. i may say, however, that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction that the boy ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice shall be done to him." "in that case," said the judge, "i presume you will have nothing further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, mr. sharpman?" "nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of satisfaction on his lips. "then," said goodlaw, who was still standing, "i suppose the evidence may be declared closed. i know of no--" he stopped and turned to see what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. the eyes of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. a tipstaff was trying to detain ralph at the door; he had not recognized him. but the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central aisle to the railing of the bar. in the struggle with the officer he had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. his face was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings. "mr. goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across the bar, "mr. goodlaw, wait a minute! i ain't robert burnham's son! i didn't know it till yestaday; but i ain't--i ain't his son!" the boy dropped, panting, into a chair. goodlaw looked down on him in astonishment. old simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with his eyes flashing fire. mrs. burnham, her face pale with surprise and compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead. the people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order. it all took place in a minute. then ralph began to talk again:-- "rhymin' joe said so; he said i was simon craft's grandson; he told--" sharpman interrupted him. "come with me, ralph," he said, "i want to speak with you a minute." he reached out his hand, as if to lead him away; but goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:-- "he shall not go! the boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall not crowd it back down his throat in private!" "i say the boy shall go," replied sharpman, angrily. "he is my client, and i have a right to consult with him." this was true. for a moment goodlaw was at his wit's end. then, a bright idea came to him. "ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand." sharpman saw that he was foiled. he turned to the court, white with passion. "i protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! it is contrary to both law and courtesy. i demand the privilege of consulting with my client!" "counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge, dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. let him be sworn." ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer administered the oath. he was a sorry-looking witness indeed. at any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have been ludicrous. but now no one laughed. the people in the court-room began to whisper, "hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies might cause them to lose the boy's words. to goodlaw it was all a mystery. he did not know how to begin the examination. he started at a venture. "are you robert burnham's son?" "no, sir," replied ralph, firmly. "i ain't." there was a buzz of excitement in the room. old simon sat staring at the boy incredulously. his anger had changed for the moment into wonder. he could not understand the cause of ralph's action. sharpman had not told him of the interview with rhyming joe--he had not thought it advisable. "who are you, then?" inquired goodlaw. "i'm simon craft's grandson." the excitement in the room ran higher. craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward sharpman. "he lies!" whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!" sharpman paid no attention to him. "when did you first learn that you are mr. craft's grandson?" continued the counsel for the defence. "last night," responded ralph. "where?" "at mr. sharpman's office." the blood rushed suddenly into sharpman's face. he understood it all now; ralph had overheard. "who told you?" asked goodlaw. "no one told me, i heard rhymin' joe--" sharpman interrupted him. "i don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but i certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as counsel seems trying to bring out. let us at least know whether the responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this alleged conversation." "was mr. craft present?" asked goodlaw of the witness. "no, sir; i guess not, i didn't hear 'im, any way." "did you see him?" "no, sir; i didn't see 'im. i didn't see either of 'em." "where were you?" "in the room nex' to the street." "where did this conversation take place?" "in the back room." "was the door open?" "just a little." "who were in the back room?" "mr. sharpman an' rhymin' joe." "who is rhyming joe?" "he's a man i used to know in philadelphy." "when you lived with craft?" "yes, sir." "what was his business?" "i don't know as anything. he used to bring things to the house sometimes, watches an' things." "how long have you known rhyming joe?" "ever since i can remember." "was he at craft's house frequently?" "yes, sir; most all the time." an idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon goodlaw's mind. that ralph had overheard rhyming joe say to sharpman that the boy was simon craft's grandson was evident. but how to get that fact before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence--that was the question. it seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and to lead up to the point. "did mr. sharpman know that you were in his office when this conversation took place?" "no, sir; i guess not." "did rhyming joe know you were there?" "no, sir; i don't believe he did." "from the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe that rhyming joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your parentage?" "yes, sir; he must know." "and, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that you are simon craft's grandson and not robert burnham's son?" "yes, sir, i did. rhymin' joe said so, an' he knows." "did you see rhyming joe last night?" "no, sir. only as he passed by me in the dark." "have you seen him to-day?" "no, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'." "to whom did he make that promise?" sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on ralph to stop, and appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to a line of evidence that was legal and proper. he saw open before him the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously close to the brink of it. the judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination. in the meantime, goodlaw had been thinking. he felt that it was of the highest importance that this occurrence in sharpman's office should be made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. there was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that was not a sound one. but he determined to put on a bold face and make the effort. "ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire conversation as you heard it last night between mr. sharpman and rhyming joe." the very boldness of the question brought a smile to sharpman's face as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for. "we contend," said goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes as having any vital interest in this suit. the witness on the stand is the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence, he has a perfect right to do so. his privilege as a witness is as high as that of any other plaintiff." but sharpman was on the alert. he arose to reply. "counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. he has no discretionary power in connection with his estate. he has no more right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee. a guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when that ward shall have reached his majority. we insist on the rejection of the offer." the judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter carefully. finally he said:-- "we do not think the testimony is competent, mr. goodlaw. although the point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the case as mr. sharpman looks on it. we shall be obliged to refuse your offer. we will seal you a bill of exceptions." goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. there was nothing for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court. ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips. "mr. goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what i heard rhymin' joe say?" "i am afraid not, ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out." "but they won't never know the right of it unless i tell that. i've got to tell it; that's what i come here for." the judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:-- "ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here." "yes, sir, i will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad 'at i can't tell what rhymin' joe said." the lawyers in the bar were smiling, sharpman had recovered his apparent good-nature, and goodlaw began again to interrogate the witness. "are you aware, ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate of robert burnham?" "yes, sir, i know it." "and do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most beautiful homes in this community?" "yes, sir, i know it all. i wouldn't mind all that so much though if it wasn't for my mother. i've got to give her up now, that's the worst of it; i don't know how i'm goin' to stan' that." mrs. burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table and wept silently. "was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?" "yes, sir, it was. i knew what the end of it'd be, an' i had a pirty hard time to bring myself to it, but i done it, an' i'm glad now 'at i did." "did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?" "well, i'll tell you how that was. all't i decided in the first place was to tell uncle billy,--he's the man't i live with. so i told him, an' he said i ought to tell mrs. burnham right away. but she wasn't home when i got to her house, so i started right down here; an' they was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further, an' so i walked in--i was afraid i wouldn't get here in time 'less i did." "your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, i suppose?" "yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' i had to walk a good ways, an' my shoes hurt me so't i had to take 'em off, an' i didn't have time to put 'em on again after i got here. besides," continued the boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "i hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when i was a-runnin', an' they've got swelled up so 'at i don't believe i could git my shoes on now, any way." many people in the room besides mrs. burnham had tears in their eyes at the conclusion of this simple statement. then ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily. the judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring him a glass of water. ralph drank the water and it refreshed him. "you may cross-examine the witness," said goodlaw to the plaintiff's attorney. sharpman hardly knew how to begin. but he felt that he must make an effort to break in some way the force of ralph's testimony. he knew that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. he leaned back in his chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. "ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that mr. craft and i were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?" "yes, sir; i thought so." "and you have consulted with us and followed our advice until yesterday, have you not?" "yes, sir." "and last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving you?" "yes, sir; i did." "have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you allege that you heard?" "i don't know as i have." "at what hour did you reach my office last evening?" "i don't know, i guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock." "was it dark?" "it was jest dark." "was there a light in the office when you came in?" "they was in the back room where you an' rhymin' joe were." "did you think that i knew when you came into the office?" "i don't believe you did." "why did you not make your presence known?" "well, i--i--" "come, out with it! if you had any reason for playing the spy, let's hear what it was." "i didn't play the spy. i didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but when i heard rhymin' joe tell you 'at i wasn't robert burnham's son, i was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at i couldn't speak." this was a little more than sharpman wanted, but he kept on:-- "how long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?" "sir?" "how long was it before the power to speak returned to you?" "oh! not till rhymin' joe went out, i guess. i felt so bad i didn't want to speak to anybody." "did you see this person whom you call rhyming joe?" "only in the dark." "not so as to recognize him by sight?" "no, sir." "how did you know it was he?" "by the way he talked." "how long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?" "about three years." "did you see me last night?" "i caught a glimpse of you jest once." "when?" "when you went across the room an' gave rhymin' joe the money." sharpman flushed angrily. he felt that he was treading on dangerous ground in this line of examination. he went on more cautiously. "at what time did you leave my office last night?" "right after rhymin' joe did. i went out to find him." "then you went away without letting me know of your presence there, did you?" "yes, sir." "did you find this rhyming joe?" "no, sir, i couldn't find 'im." "now, ralph, when you left me at the scranton station on saturday night, did you go straight home?" "yes, sir." "did you see any one to talk with except bachelor billy that night after you left me?" "no, sir." "where did you go on sunday morning?" "uncle billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'." "from there where did you go?" "back home." "and had your dinner?" "yes, sir." "what did you do after that?" "me an' uncle billy went up to the breaker." "what breaker?" "burnham breaker." "why did you go there?" "jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked." "how long did you stay there?" "oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore mrs. burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house." sharpman straightened up in his chair. his drag-net had brought up something at last. it might be of value to him and it might not be. "ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at mrs. burnham's house, did you?" "yes, sir, i did." "how long did you stay there?" "oh! i shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours." "did you see mrs. burnham alone?" "yes, sir." "have a long talk together?" "yes, sir, a very nice long talk." sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference, to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood between ralph and mrs. burnham yesterday it would be a strong point, but he knew that he must go cautiously. "she was very kind to you, wasn't she?" "yes, sir; she was lovely. i never had so good a time before in all my life." "you took dinner with her, i suppose?" "yes, sir." "have a good dinner?" "it was splendid." "did you eat a good deal?" "yes, sir, i think i eat a great deal." "had a good many things that were new to you, i presume?" "yes, sir, quite a good many." "did you think you would like to go there to live?" "oh, yes! i did. it's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. you don't know how lovely it is till you get there. i couldn't help bein' happy in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n mrs. burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. an' everybody was jest as good to me there! why, you don't know what a--" the glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his eyes. in the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. he stopped so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened. after a moment of silence he spoke again: "but it ain't mine any longer; i can't have any of it now; i've got no right to go there at all any more." the sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. those who were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with tears. but it was only for a moment. then he drew himself up until he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched, his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. it was a magnificently successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any ordeal through which he might have yet to pass. it came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another moment the crowded room was ringing with applause. chapter xvii. gentlemen of the jury. sharpman had not seen ralph's expression and did not know what the noise was all about. he looked around at the audience uneasily, whispered to craft for a moment, and then announced that he was done with the witness. he was really afraid to carry the examination further; there were too many pit-falls along the way. goodlaw, too, was wise enough to ask no additional questions. he did not care to lay grounds for the possible reversal of a judgment in favor of the defendant, by introducing questionable evidence. but he felt that the case, in its present aspect, needed farther investigation, and he moved for a continuance of the cause for two days. he desired, he said, to find the person known as rhyming joe, and to produce such other evidence as this new and startling turn of affairs might make necessary. craft whispered to sharpman that the request should be agreed to, saying that he could bring plenty of witnesses to prove that rhyming joe was a worthless adventurer, notorious for his habits of lying; and stoutly asserting that the boy was positively ralph burnham. but sharpman's great fear was that if rhyming joe should be brought back, the story of the bribery could no longer be hushed; and he therefore opposed the application for a continuance with all his energy. the court ruled that the reasons presented were not sufficient to warrant the holding of a jury at this stage of the case for so long a time, but intimated that in the event of a verdict for the plaintiff a motion for a new trial might be favorably considered by the court. "then we have nothing further to offer," said goodlaw. sharpman resumed his seat with an air of satisfaction, and sat for full five minutes, with his face in his hand, in deep thought. "i think," he said, finally, looking up, "that we shall present nothing in rebuttal. the case, as it now stands, doesn't seem to call for it." he had been considering whether it would be safe and wise for him to go on the witness-stand and deny any portion of ralph's story. he had reached the conclusion that it would not. the risk was too great. "very well," said the judge, taking up his pen, "then the evidence is closed. mr. goodlaw, are you ready to go to the jury?" goodlaw, who had been, during this time, holding a whispered conversation with ralph, arose, bowed to the court, and turned to face the jurors. he began his speech by saying that, until the recent testimony given by the boy ralph had been produced in court, he had not expected to address the jury at all; but that that testimony had so changed the whole tenor of the case as to make a brief argument for the defence an apparent necessity. fortified by the knowledge of the story that rhyming joe had told, as ralph had just whispered it to him, goodlaw was able to dissipate, greatly, the force of the plaintiff's evidence, and to show how craft's whole story might easily be a cleverly concocted falsehood built upon a foundation of truth. he opened up to the wondering minds of the jurors the probable scheme which had been originated by these two plotters, craft and sharpman, to raise up an heir to the estates of robert burnham, an heir of whom craft could be guardian, and a guardian of whom sharpman could be attorney. he explained how the property and the funds that would thus come into their hands could be so managed as to leave a fortune in the pocket of each of them before they should have done with the estate. "the scheme was a clever one," he said, "and worked well, and no obstacle stood in the way of these conspirators until a person known as rhyming joe came on the scene. this person knew the history of ralph's parentage and saw through craft's duplicity; and, in an unguarded moment, the attorney for the plaintiff closed this man's mouth by means which we can only guess at, and sent him forth to hide among the moral and the social wrecks that constitute the flotsam and the jetsam of society. but his words, declaring simon craft's bold scheme a fabric built upon a lie, had already struck upon the ears and pierced into the heart of one whose tender conscience would not let him rest with the burden of this knowledge weighing down upon it. what was it that he heard, gentlemen? we can only conjecture. the laws of evidence drop down upon us here and forbid that we should fully know. but that it was a tale that brought conviction to the mind of this brave boy you cannot doubt. it is for no light cause that he comes here to publicly renounce his right and title to the name, the wealth, the high maternal love that yesterday was lying at his feet and smiling in his face. the counsel for the plaintiff tries to throw upon him the mantle of the eavesdropper, but the breath of this boy's lightest word lifts such a covering from him, and reveals his purity of purpose and his agony of mind in listening to the revelation that was made. i do not wonder that he should lose the power to move on hearing it. i do not wonder that he should be compelled, as if by some strange force, to sit and listen quietly to every piercing word. i can well conceive how terrible the shock would be to one who came, as he did, fresh from a home where love had made the hours so sweet to him that he thought them fairer than any he had ever known before. i can well conceive what bitter disappointment and what deep emotion filled his breast. but the struggle that began there then between his boyish sense of honor and his desire for home, for wealth, for fond affection, i cannot fathom that;--it is too deep, too high, too terrible for me to fully understand. i only know that honor was triumphant; that he bade farewell to love, to hope, to home, to the brightest, sweetest things in all this world of beauty, and turned his face manfully, steadfastly, unflinchingly to the right. with the help and counsel of one honest man, he set about to check the progress of a mighty wrong. no disappointment discouraged him, no fear found place in his heart, no distance was too great for him to traverse. he knew that here, to-day, without his presence, injustice would be done, dishonesty would be rewarded, and shameless fraud prevail. it was for him, and him alone, to stop it, and he set out upon his journey hither. the powers of darkness were arrayed against him, fate scowled savagely upon him, disaster blocked his path, the iron horse refused to draw him, but he remained undaunted and determined. he had no time to lose; he left the conquered power of steam behind him, and started out alone through heat and dust to reach the place of justice. with bared, bruised feet and aching limbs and parched tongue he hurried, on, walking, running, as he could, dragging himself at last into the presence of the court at the very moment when the scales of justice were trembling for the downward plunge, and spoke the words that checked the course of legal crime, that placed the chains of hopeless toil upon his own weak limbs, but that gave the world--another hero! "gentlemen of the jury, i have labored at the bar of this court for more than thirty years, but i never saw before a specimen of moral courage fit to bear comparison with this; i never in my life before saw such a lofty deed of heroism so magnificently done. and do you think that such a boy as this would lie? do you think that such a boy as this would say to you one word that did not rise from the deep conviction of an honest heart? "i leave the case in your hands, gentlemen; you are to choose between selfish greed and honest sacrifice, between the force of cunning craft and the mighty power of truth. see to it that you choose rightly and well." the rumble of applause from the court-room as goodlaw resumed his seat was quickly suppressed by the officers, and sharpman arose to speak. he was calm and courteous, and seemed sanguine of success. but his mind was filled with the darkness of disappointment and the dread of disaster; and his heart was heavy with its bitterness toward those who had blocked his path. he knew that ralph's testimony ought to bear but lightly on the case, but he feared that it would weigh heavily with the jury, and that his own character would not come out stainless. he hardly hoped to save both case and character, but he determined to make the strongest effort of which he was capable. he reviewed the testimony given by mrs. burnham concerning her child and his supposed tragic death; he recalled all the circumstances connected with the railroad accident, and repeated the statements of the witnesses concerning the old man and the child; he gave again the history of ralph's life, and of simon craft's searching and failures and success; he contended, with all the powers of logic and oratory at his command, that ralph burnham was saved from the wreck at cherry brook, and was that moment sitting by his mother before the faces and eyes of the court and jury. "until to-day," he said, "every one who has heard this evidence, and taken interest in this case, has believed, as i do, that this boy is robert burnham's son. the boy's mother believed it, the counsel for the defence believed it, the lad himself believed it, his honor on the bench, and you, gentlemen in the jury-box, i doubt not, all believed it; indeed it was agreed by all parties that nothing remained to be done but to take your verdict for the plaintiff. but, lo! this child makes his dramatic entrance into the presence of the court, and, under the inspired guidance of defendant's counsel, tells his story of eavesdropping, and when it is done my learned friend has the temerity to ask you to throw away your reason, to dismiss logic from your minds, to trample law under your feet, to scatter the evidence to the four winds of heaven, and to believe what? why, a boy's silly story of an absurd and palpable lie? "i did not go upon the witness-stand to contradict this fairy tale; it did not seem to be worth the while. "consider it for a moment. this youth says he came to my office last night and found me in the inner room in conversation with another person. i shall not deny that. supposing it to be true, there was nothing strange or wrong in it, was there? but what does this boy whom my learned friend has lauded to the skies for his manliness and honor do next? why, according to his own story, he steals into the darkness of the outer office and seats himself to listen to the conversation in the inner room, and hears--what? no good of himself certainly. eavesdroppers never do hear good of themselves. but he thinks he hears the voice of a person whom no one in this court-room ever heard of or thought of before, nor has seen or heard of since--a person who, i daresay, has existence only in this child's imagination; he thinks he hears this person declare that he, ralph, is not robert burnham's son, and, by way of embellishing his tale, he adds statements which are still more absurd, statements on the strength of which my learned friend hopes to darken in your eyes the character of the counsel for the plaintiff. i trust, gentlemen, that i am too well known at the bar of this court and in this community to have my moral standing swept away by such a flimsy falsehood as you see this to be. and so, to-day, this child comes into court and declares, with solemn asseveration, that the evidence fixing his identity beyond dispute or question is all a lie; and what is this declaration worth? his honor will tell you, in his charge, i have no doubt, that this boy's statement, founded, as he himself says, on hearsay, is valueless in law, and should have no weight in your minds. but i do not ask you to base your judgment on technicalities of law. i ask you to base it simply on the reasonable evidence in this case. "what explanation there can be of this lad's conduct, i have not, as yet, been ably, fully, to determine. "i have tried, in my own mind, to throw the mantle of charity across him. i have tried to think that, coming from an unaccustomed meal, his stomach loaded with rich food, he no sooner sank into the office chair than he fell asleep and dreamed. it is not improbable. the power of dreams is great on children's minds, as all of you may know. but in the face of these developments i can hardly bring myself to accept this theory. there is too much method in the child's madness. it looks more like the outcome of some desperate move on the part of this defence to win the game which they have seen slipping from their control. it looks like a deep-laid plan to rob my aged and honored client of the credit to which he is entitled for rescuing this boy at the risk of his life, for caring for him through poverty and disease, for finding him when his own mother had given him up for dead, and restoring him to the bosom of his family. it looks as though they feared that this old man, already trembling on the brink of the grave, would snatch some comfort for his remaining days out of the pittance that he might hope to collect from this vast estate for services that ought to be beyond price. it looks as though hatred and jealousy were combined in a desperate effort to crush the counsel for the plaintiff. the counsel for the plaintiff can afford to laugh at their animosity toward himself, but he cannot help his indignation at their plot. now, let us see. "it is acknowledged that the boy ralph spent the larger part of yesterday afternoon at the house of this defendant, and was fed and flattered till he nearly lost his head in telling of it. that is a strange circumstance, to begin with. how many private consultations he has had with counsel for defence, i know not. neither do i know what tempting inducements have been held out to him to turn traitor to those who have been his truest friends. these things i can only imagine. but that fine promises have been made to him, that pictures of plenty have been unfolded to his gaze, that the glitter of gold and the sheen of silver have dazzled his young eyes, there can be little doubt. so he has seen visions and dreamed dreams, at will; he has endured terrible temptations, and fought great moral battles, by special request, and has come off more than victor, in the counsel's mind. to-day everything is ready for the carrying-out of their skilful scheme. at the right moment the counsel gives the signal, and the boy darts in, hatless, shoeless, ragged, and dusty, for the occasion, and tragic to the counsel's heart's content, and is put at once upon the stand to tell his made-up tale, and--" sharpman heard a slight noise behind him, and some one exclaimed:-- "he has fainted!" the lawyer stopped in his harangue and turned in time to see ralph lying in a heap on the floor, just as he had slipped that moment from his chair. the boy had listened to goodlaw's praises of his conduct with a vague feeling that he was undeserving of so much credit for it. but when sharpman, advancing in his speech, charged him with having dreamed his story, he was astounded. he thought it was the strangest thing he had ever heard of. for was not mr. sharpman there, himself? and did not he know that it was all real and true? he could not understand the lawyer's allegation. later on, when sharpman declared boldly that ralph's statement on the witness-stand was a carefully concocted falsehood, the bluntness of the charge was like a cruel blow, and the boy's sensitive nerves shrank and quivered beneath it; then his lips grew pale, his breath came in gasps, the room went swimming round him, darkness came before his eyes, and his weak body, enfeebled by prolonged fasting and excitement, slipped down to the floor. the people in the court-room scrambled to their feet again to look over into the bar. a man who had entered the room in time to hear sharpman's brutal speech pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried down to the place where ralph was lying. it was bachelor billy. in a moment he was down on his knees by the boy's side, chafing the small cold hands and wrists, while mrs. burnham, kneeling on the other side, was dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water, and bathing the lad's face. bachelor billy turned on his knees and looked up angrily at sharpman. "mayhap an' ye've killet 'im," he said, "wi' your traish an' your lees!" then he rose to his feet and continued: "can ye no' tell when a lad speaks the truth? mon! he's as honest as the day is lang! but what's the use o' tellin' ye? ye ken it yoursel'. ye _wull_ be fause to 'im!" his lips were white with passion as he knelt again by the side of the unconscious boy. "ye're verra gude to the lad, ma'am," he said to mrs. burnham, who had raised ralph's head in her arms and was pressing her wet handkerchief against it; "ye're verra gude, but ma mind is to tak' 'im hame an' ten' till 'im mysel'. he was ower-tired, d'ye see, wi' the trooble an' the toil, an' noo i fear me an they've broke the hert o' 'im." then bachelor billy, lifting the boy up in his arms, set his face toward the door. the people pressed back and made way for him as he passed up the aisle holding the drooping body very tenderly, looking down at times with great compassion into the white face that lay against his breast; and the eyes that watched his sturdy back until it disappeared from view were wet with sympathetic tears. when the doors had closed behind him, sharpman turned again to the jury, with a bitterly sarcastic smile upon his face. "another chapter in the made-up tragedy," he said, "performed with marvellous skill as you can see. my learned friend has drilled his people well. he has made consummate actors of them all. and yet he would have you think that one is but an honest fool, and that the other is as innocent as a babe in arms." up among the people some one hissed, then some one else joined in, and, before the judge and officers could restore order in the room, the indignant crowd had greeted sharpman's words with a perfect torrent of groans and hisses. then the wily lawyer realized that he was making a mistake. he knew that he could not afford to gain the ill-will of the populace, and accordingly he changed the tenor of his speech. he spoke generally of law and justice, and particularly of the weight of evidence in the case at bar. he dwelt with much emphasis on simon craft's bravery, self-sacrifice, poverty, toil, and suffering; and, with a burst of oratory that made the walls re-echo with the sound of his resonant voice, he closed his address and resumed his seat. then the judge delivered the charge in a calm, dispassionate way. he reviewed the evidence very briefly, warning the jury to reject from their minds all improper declarations of any witness or other person, and directing them to rest their decision only on the legal evidence in the case. he instructed them that although the boy ralph's declaration that he was not robert burnham's son might be regarded by them, yet they must also take into consideration the fact that his opinion was founded partly, if not wholly, on hearsay, and, for that reason, would be of little value to them in making up their decision. any evidence of the alleged conversation at mr. sharpman's office, he said, must be rejected wholly. he warned them to dismiss from their minds all prejudice or sympathy that might have been aroused by the speeches of counsel, or the appearance of witnesses in court, and to take into consideration and decide upon but one question, namely: whether the boy ralph is or is not the son of the late robert burnham: that, laying aside all other questions, matters, and things, they must decide that and that alone, according to the law and the evidence. when the judge had finished his charge a constable was sworn, and, followed by the twelve jurors, he marched from the court-room. it was already after six o'clock, so the crier was directed to adjourn the court, and, a few minutes later, the judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, and the spectators had all disappeared, and the room was empty. chapter xviii. a writ of habeas corpus. every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict at the opening of the session on tuesday morning. there was much difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be. but the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their room. the constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled when asked about the probability of an early agreement. no one seemed to know just how the jury stood. sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on monday night, and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury remained out the more hope they gathered. it was apparent that the verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic to the case, there seemed to be little doubt. but, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing. they believed, to a man, that ralph had told the truth, and that such an event as he had described had actually taken place in sharpman's office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to harmonize ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who had corroborated simon craft's story. this led them into so many difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions before them were gradually reduced to just one. that question was not whether ralph was the son of robert burnham; but it was: which would be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the defendant. if they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the boy's fortune into the hands of craft and sharpman, where they feared the greater part of it would finally remain. if they found for the defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of homelessness and toil. it was to discuss and settle this question, therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so many hours. the day wore on and no verdict was rendered. sharpman's spirits continued to rise, and goodlaw feared that his case was lost. at four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few minutes later they filed into the court-room. when their verdict had been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read. he faced the jury, saying:-- "gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it recorded. in the case wherein simon craft, guardian of the estate of ralph burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and margaret burnham, administrator of the estate of robert burnham, deceased, is defendant, you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy ralph is _not_ the son of robert burnham. so say you all?" the jury nodded assent, and the verdict was filed. that settled it. craft and sharpman were beaten. it was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. it was strange but it was very true. yet in that ruin was involved one of the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the courts of luzerne county. sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. he saw now the mistake he had made in not defying rhyming joe. he knew now that the fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. he felt that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously near to losing what character he had, also. he knew that it was all due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself, and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant. but if sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was tenfold greater. simon craft was in a most unenviable mood. at times, indeed, he grew fairly desperate. the golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight years had burst and vanished. he had told the truth, he had been honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. this was the burden of his complaint. but aside from this he was filled with bitter regret. if he had only closed his bargain with robert burnham on the day it had been made! if he had only made his proposition to mrs. burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild scheme with this visionary lawyer! this was his silent sorrow. his misery was deep and apparent. he had grown to be ten years older in a day. this misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to be honest and to do good. this was the reward of virtue, these the wages of charity. tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. the judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a share of his malignant hatred and abuse. for mrs. burnham he had only silent contempt. her honest desire to have right done had been too apparent from the start. the only fault he had to find with her was that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against him. but against ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were intense. had he not saved the child from death? had he not fed and clothed and cared for him during five years? had he not rescued him from oblivion, and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an honored name? and then, to think that in the very moment when these efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. oh, it was too much, too much! if he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of turning traitor to his friends. oh, he would teach him! then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the boy, and permanent possession at that. had not ralph sworn that he was simon craft's grandson? had not the jury accepted ralph's testimony as true? and had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the jury's verdict? well, if the court had declared the boy to be his grandson, he was entitled to him, was he not? if the boy was able to earn anything, he was entitled to his earnings, was he not? if he was the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true? old simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room, hammering his cane upon the floor at every step. the idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon it without delay. he would go the very next day and get the boy and take him to philadelphia. but suppose ralph should refuse to go, and suppose bachelor billy, with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force, what then? well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. he knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_. he would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would bring ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to be simon craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place him in simon craft's custody. then the old man went to bed, thinking that in the morning he would get sharpman to prepare for him the papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution. he derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed of torturing poor ralph to his heart's content. when bachelor billy left the court-room that monday evening with his unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to scranton. the next morning ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave the house; and bachelor billy came home at noon to see him and to learn what news, if any, had been received from wilkesbarre. both he and ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant, in accordance with ralph's testimony, and neither of them were surprised, therefore, when andy gilgallon came up from the city after supper and informed them that the jury had so found. that settled the matter, at any rate. it was a relief to ralph to know that it was at an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape from unmerited fortune. the tumult that had raged in his mind through many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. he wanted to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but bachelor billy would not allow him to do so. he still looked very pale and weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day to see to the lad's health. indeed, as the morning wore on, ralph acknowledged to himself that he did not feel so well. his head was very heavy, and there was a bruised feeling over the entire surface of his body. it was a dull day, too; it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. he sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little, and thinking a great deal. the sense of his loss was coming back upon him very strongly. it was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name, or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done before that grieved him now. but it was that the dear and gentle lady who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. to feel that he was nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black boy in burnham breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his determined effort to hold them back. he was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one. behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the street. he thought it was bachelor billy, just come from work, and he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting. "is that you, uncle billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?" he was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. receiving no answer he looked around. it was not uncle billy. it was simon craft. ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a corner of the room. old simon, looking at him maliciously from under his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile. "what!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your affectionate old grandfather? why, i thought you desired nothing so much as to go and live with him and be his pet." the boy's worst fears were realized. old simon had come for him. "i won't go back with you!" he cried. "i won't! i won't!" then, changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "you didn't come for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will you?" "i'm afraid i can't do without you any longer," said craft, coming nearer and looking ralph over carefully. "i'm getting old and sick, and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years. besides, my affection for you is so great that i feel that i couldn't do without you; oh, i couldn't, i couldn't possibly!" and the old man actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm. "but i don't want to go," persisted the boy. "i'm very happy here. uncle billy's very good to me, an' i'd ruther stay, a good deal ruther." at the mention of uncle billy's name old simon's smile vanished and he advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on the floor. "it don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the right to take you and do what i choose with you. oh, you've got to go! so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense about it!" "gran'pa--gran'pa simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still farther away, "i can't go back to philadelphy, i can't! i couldn't live, i'd die if i went back there! i'd--" craft interrupted him: "well, if you do die, it won't be because you're killed with kindness, i warrant you. you've cheated me out of a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now you've got to lie in it. come on, i say! get your hat and come along!" the old man was working himself into a passion. there was danger in his eyes. ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live with simon craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not refrain from further pleading. "i know i belong to you, gran'pa simon," he said, "an' i know i've got to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please don't! i'll do anything else in the world you want me to; i'll give you ev'ry dollar i earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an' i'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. i'll--i'll give you--i'll give you-- "well, what'll you give me? out with it!" it was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but ralph felt that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved. "i'll give you," he said, "all the money i've got saved up." "how much money have you got saved up?" the light of hatred in the man's eyes gave place, for the time being, to the light of greed. "about thirty-two dollars." "well, give it to me, then, and be quick about it!" ralph went to a small closet built into the wall over the chimney, and took from it a little box. that box contained his accumulated savings. with a large portion of the money he had thought to buy new clothing for himself. he had determined that he would not go to live with mrs. burnham, dressed like a beggar. he would have clothes befitting his station in life. indeed, he and uncle billy were to have gone out the day before to make the necessary purchases; but since the change came the matter had not been thought of. now he should pay it to simon craft as the price of his freedom. he was willing and more than willing to do so. he would have given all he ever hoped to earn to save himself from that man's custody, and would have considered it a cheap release. he took the money from the box,--it was all paper money,--and counted it carefully out into old simon's trembling hand. there were just thirty-two dollars. "is that all?" said craft, folding the bills and putting them into an inside pocket as he spoke. "yes, that's all." "you haven't got any more hidden around the house anywhere, have you? don't lie to me, now!" "oh, no! i've given you ev'ry cent i had, ev'ry single cent." "well, then, get your hat and come along." "wh--what?" ralph was staring at the man in astonishment. he thought he had just bought his freedom, and that he need not go. "get your hat and come along, i say; and be quick about it? i can't wait here all day." "where--where to?" "why, home with me, of course. where would i take you?" "but i gave you the money to let me stay here with uncle billy; you said you would take it for that." "no, i didn't. i told you to give it to me. the money belongs to me the same as you do. now, are you coming, or do you want me to help you?" ralph's face was white with indignation. he had been willing to do what was right. he thought he had made a fair bargain; but now, this--this was an outrage. his spirit rose against it. the old sense of fearlessness took possession of him. he looked the man squarely in the eyes. his voice was firm and his hands were clenched with resolution. "i will not go with you," he said. "what's that?" craft looked down on the boy in astonishment. "i say i will not go with you," repeated ralph; "that's all--i won't go." then the old man's wrath was let loose. "you beggar!" he shouted, "how dare you disobey me! i'll teach you!" he raised his cane threateningly as he spoke. "hit me," said ralph, "kill me if you want to; i'd ruther die than go back to live with you." old simon grasped his cane by its foot and raised it above his head. in another instant it would have descended on the body of the unfortunate boy; but in that instant some one seized it from behind, wrenched it from craft's weak grasp, and flung it into the street. it was bachelor billy; he had entered at the open door unseen. he seized craft's shoulders and whirled him around till the two men stood face to face. "mon!" he exclaimed, "mon! an' yon steck had a-fallen o' the lad's head, i dinna ken what i s'ould 'a' done till ye. ye're lucky to be auld an' sick, or ye s'ould feel the weight o' ma han' as it is." but craft was not subdued. on the contrary his rage grew more fierce. "what's the boy to you?" he shouted, savagely. "you leave us alone. he belongs to me; he shall go with me." it was a full half-minute before bachelor billy's dull mind grasped the situation. meanwhile he was looking down into ralph's white face. then he turned again to craft. "never!" he said, solemnly. "ye s'all never tak' 'im. i'll see the lad in his grave first." after a moment he continued, "it's no' safe for ye to stay longer wi' us; it's better ye s'ould go." then another man entered at the open door. it was the sheriff of luzerne county. he held the writ of _habeas corpus_ in his hand. "why didn't you wait for me," he said, turning angrily to craft, "instead of coming here to pick a quarrel with these people?" "that's none of your business," replied the old man. "you've got your writ, now do your duty or i'll--" a fit of coughing attacked him, and he dropped into a chair to give way to it. the sheriff looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he turned to bachelor billy. "this miserable old man," he said, "has had a writ of _habeas corpus_ issued, commanding you to produce immediately before the judge at wilkesbarre the body of the boy ralph. it is my place to see that the writ is properly executed. there's no help for it, so i think you had better get ready, and we will go as soon as possible." and he handed to bachelor billy a copy of the writ. "i ha' no time to read it," said billy, "but if the judge says as the lad s'ould gae to court again, he s'all gae. we mus' obey the law. an' i s'all gae wi' 'im. whaur the lad gae's i s'all gae. i s'all stay by 'im nicht an' day. if the law says he mus' live wi' seemon craft, then i s'all live wi' seemon craft also. i ha' nursit 'im too long, an' lovit 'im too weel to turn 'im alone into the wolfs den noo." in a minute or two craft recovered, but the coughing had left him very weak. he rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around for his cane. he had grown calm. he thought that the game was his at any rate, and that it was of no use for him to lose strength over it. "you'll walk faster than i," he said, "so i'll be going. if i miss this train i can't get started to philadelphia with the boy before to-morrow." he tottered out into the road, picked up his cane, and trudged on down the hill toward the city. it was not long before the two men and the boy were ready to go also. "keep up your courage, my son," said the sheriff kindly, for the sight of ralph's face aroused his sympathy. "keep up your courage; the court has got to pass on this matter yet. you don't have to go with the old man till the judge says so." "tak' heart," added bachelor billy, "tak' heart, laddie. it's not all ower wi' us yet. i canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's teeth." "i don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a moment before leaving the house. "i don't know how you'll make it. i suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right track. as near as i can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. but, if i was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to philadelphia than i'd give him the slip. you've done it once, ralph, you can do it again, can't you?" "i don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "i don't believe i'd try. if i have to go back with him i wouldn't live very long any way, an' it wouldn't pay to run away again. it don't make much difference; i ain't got anybody left now but uncle billy, an', if he goes with me, i guess i can stan' it till it's through with." it was the first time in his life that ralph had ever spoken in so despondent a way, and bachelor billy was alarmed. "bear up, lad," he said, "bear up. we'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm till ye wi' uncle billy a-stannin' by." mrs. maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio in sorrowful surprise. "good-by, mrs. maloney!" said ralph going up to her. "it ain't likely i'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me, mrs. maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!" "an' where do ye be goin' ralphy?" "back to gran'pa simon's, i s'pose. he's come for me and he's got a right to take me." the sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "come," he said, "we'll have to hurry to catch the train." the good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "good-by to ye, darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." then she burst into tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against her eyes and went, backward, into the house. ralph laid hold of bachelor billy's rough hand affectionately, and they walked rapidly away. at the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last time upon the cottage which had been his home. a happy home it had been to him, a very happy home indeed. he never knew before how dear the old place was to him. the brow of the hill which they were now descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded eyes, ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life with simon craft. chapter xix. back to the breaker. it was a dull day in the court-room at wilkesbarre. the jury trials had all been disposed of, and for the last hour or more the court had been listening to an argument on a rule for a new trial in an ejectment case. it was a very uninteresting matter. every one had left the court-room with the exception of the court officers, a few lawyers, and a half-dozen spectators who seemed to be there for the purpose of resting on the benches rather than with any desire to hear the proceedings before the court. the lawyers on both sides had concluded their arguments, and the judge was bundling together the papers in the case and trying to encircle the bulky package with a heavy rubber band. then the court-room door was opened, and the sheriff came down the aisle, accompanied by ralph and bachelor billy. a moment later, simon craft followed them to the bar. sharpman, who was sitting inside the railing by a table, looked up with disgust plainly marked on his face as the old man entered and sat down beside him. he had prepared the petition for a writ of _habeas corpus_, at craft's request, and had agreed to appear in his behalf when the writ should be returned. he shared, in some small degree, the old man's desire for revenge on those who had been instrumental in destroying their scheme. but, as the day wore on, the matter took on a slightly different aspect in his mind. in the first place, he doubted whether the court would order ralph to be returned into craft's custody. in the next place, he had no love for his client. he had been using him simply as a tool; it was time now to cast him aside since he could be of no further benefit to him. besides, the old man had come to be annoying and repulsive, and he had no money to pay for legal services. then, there was still an opportunity to recover some of the personal prestige he had lost in his bitter advocacy of craft's cause before the jury. in short, he had deliberately resolved to desert his client at the first opportunity. the sheriff endorsed his return on the writ and filed it. the judge looked at the papers, and then he called bachelor billy before him. "i see," he said, "that you have produced the body of the boy ralph as you were directed to do. have you a lawyer?" "i ha' none," answered the man. "i did na ken as i needit ony." "we do not think you do, either, as we understand the case. the prothonotary will endorse a simple return on the writ, setting forth the production of the boy, and you may sign it. we think that is all that will be necessary on your part. now you may be seated." the judge turned to sharpman. "well, mr. sharpman," he said, "what have you to offer on the part of your client?" sharpman arose. "if the court please," he responded, "i would respectfully ask to be allowed, at this juncture, to withdraw from the case. i prepared and presented the petition as a matter of duty to a client. i do not conceive it to be my duty to render any further assistance. that client, either through ignorance or deception, has been the means of placing me in a false and unenviable light before the court and before this community, in the suit which has just closed. i have neither the desire nor the opportunity to set myself right in that matter, but i do wish and i have fully determined to wash my hands of the whole affair. from this time forth i shall have nothing to do with it." sharpman resumed his seat, while craft stared at him in astonishment and with growing anger. he could hardly believe that the man who had led him into this scheme, and whose unpardonable blunder had brought disaster on them both, was now not only deserting him, but heaping ignominy on his head. every moment was adding to his bitterness and rage. "well, mr. craft," said the judge, "what have you to offer in this matter? your attorney seems to have left you to handle the case for yourself; we will hear you." "my attorney is a rascal," said craft, white with passion, as he arose. "his part and presence in that trial was a curse on it from the beginning. he wasn't satisfied to ruin me, but he must now seek to disgrace me as well. he is--" the judge interrupted him:-- "we do not care to hear your opinion of mr. sharpman; we have neither the time nor the disposition to listen to it. you caused this defendant to produce before us the body of the boy ralph. they are both here; what further do you desire?" "i desire to take the boy home with me. the judgment of this court is that he is my grandson. in the absence of other persons legally entitled to take charge of him, i claim that right. i ask the court to order him into my custody." the old man resumed his seat, and immediately fell into his customary fit of coughing. when he had recovered, the judge, who had in the meantime been writing rapidly, said:-- "we cannot agree with you, mr. craft, as to the law. although the presumption may be that the jury based their verdict on the boy's testimony that he is your grandson, yet their verdict does not state that fact specifically, and we have nothing on the record to show it. it would be necessary for you to prove that relation here and now, by new and independent evidence, before we could place the boy in your custody under any circumstances. but we shall save you the trouble of doing so by deciding the matter on other grounds. the court has heard from your own lips, within a few days, that you are, or have been, engaged in a business such as to make thieving and lying a common occurrence in your life. the court has also heard from your own lips that during the time this child was in your custody, you not only treated him inhumanly as regarded his body, but that you put forth every effort to destroy what has since proved itself to be a pure and steadfast soul. a kind providence placed it in the child's power to escape from you, and the same providence led him to the door of a man whose tenderness, whose honor, and whose nobility of character, no matter how humble his station in life, marks him as one eminently worthy to care for the body and to minister to the spirit of a boy like this. "we feel that to take this lad now from his charge and to place him in yours, would be to do an act so utterly repugnant to justice, to humanity, and to law, that, if done, it ought to drag us from this bench in disgrace. we have marked your petition dismissed; we have ordered you to pay the cost of this proceeding, and we have remanded the boy ralph to the custody of william buckley." simon craft said not a word. he rose from his chair, steadied himself for a moment on his cane, then shuffled up the aisle, out at the door and down the hall into the street. disappointment, anger, bitter hatred, raged in his heart and distorted his face. the weight of years, of disease, of a criminal life, sat heavily upon him as he dragged himself miserably along the crowded thoroughfare, looking neither to the right nor the left, thinking only of the evil burden of his own misfortunes. now and then some one who recognized him stopped, turned, looked at him scornfully for a moment, and passed on. then he was lost to view. he was never seen in the city of wilkesbarre again. he left no friends behind him there. he was first ridiculed, then despised, and then--forgotten. * * * * * it was two weeks after this before ralph was able to return to his work. so much excitement, so much mental distress and bodily fatigue in so short a time, had occasioned a severe shock to his system, and he rallied from it but slowly. one monday morning, however, he went back to his accustomed work at the breaker. he had thought that perhaps he might be ridiculed by the screen-room boys as one who had tried to soar above his fellows and had fallen ignominiously back to the earth. he expected to be greeted with jeering words and with cutting remarks, not so much in the way of malice as of fun. he resolved to take it calmly, however, and to give way to no show of feeling, hoping that thus the boys would soon forget to tease him. but when he came among them that morning, looking so thin, and pale, and old, there was not a boy in all the waiting crowd who had the heart or hardihood to say an unpleasant word to him or to give utterance to a jest at his expense. they all spoke kindly to him, and welcomed him back. some of them did it very awkwardly indeed, and with much embarrassment, but they made him to understand, somehow, that they were glad to see him, and that he still held his place among them as a companion and a friend. it was very good in them, ralph thought, very good indeed; he could scarcely keep the tears back for gratitude. he took his accustomed bench in the screen-room, and bent to his task in the old way; but not with the old, light heart and willing fingers. he had thought never to do this again. he had thought that life held for him some higher, brighter, less laborious work. he had thought to gain knowledge, to win fame, to satisfy ambition. but the storm came with its fierce blasts of disappointment and despair, and when it had passed, hope and joy were engulfed in the ruins it left behind it. henceforth there remained nothing but this, this toilsome bending over streams of flowing coal, to-day, to-morrow, next week, next year. and in the remote future nothing better; nothing but the laborer's pick and shovel, or, at best, the miner's drill and powder-can and fuse. in all the coming years there was not one bright spot to which he could look, this day, with hope. the day itself seemed very long to him, very long indeed and very tiresome. the heat grew burdensome; the black dust filled his throat and lungs, the ceaseless noise became almost unendurable; the stream of coal ran down and down in a dull monotony that made him faint and dizzy, and the bits of blue sky seen from the open windows never yet had seemed to him to be so far and far away. but the day had an end at last, as all days must have, and ralph came down from his seat in the dingy castle to walk with bachelor billy to their home. they went by a path that led through green fields, where the light of the setting sun, falling on the grass and daisies, changed them to a golden yellow as one looked on them from the distance. when they turned the corner of the village street, they were surprised to see horses and a carriage standing in front of mrs. maloney's cottage. it was an unaccustomed sight. there was a lady there talking to mrs. maloney, and she had a little girl by her side. at the second look, ralph recognized them as mrs. burnham and mildred. then the lady descended from her carriage and stood at the door waiting for bachelor billy and the boy to come to her. but ralph, looking down at his black hands and soiled clothing, hesitated and stopped in the middle of the road. he knew that his face, too, was so covered with coal-dust as to be almost unrecognizable. he felt that he ought not to appear before mrs. burnham in this guise. but she saw his embarrassment and called to him. "i came to see you, ralph," she said. "i want to talk to you both. may i go into your house and find a chair?" both boy and man hurried forward then with kindly greetings, and bachelor billy unlocked the door and bade her enter. she went in and sat in the big rocking-chair, looking pale and weak, while ralph hurried away to wash the black dust from his face and hands. "ye were verra kind, mistress burnham," said the man, "to sen' ralph the gude things to eat when he waur sick. an' the perty roses ye gie'd 'im,--he never tired o' watchin' 'em." "i should have come myself to see him," she replied, "only that i too have been ill. i thought to send such little delicacies as might tempt his appetite. i knew that he must be quite exhausted after so great a strain upon his nervous system. the excitement wore me out, and i had no such struggle as he had. i am glad he has rallied from the shock." "he's not ower strang yet; ye ken that by lukin' at 'im; but he's a braw lad, a braw lad." the lady turned and looked earnestly into bachelor billy's face. "he's the bravest boy," she said, "the very bravest boy i ever knew or heard, of, and the very best. i want him, billy; i have come here to-night to ask you if i may have him. son or no son, he is very dear to me, and i feel that i cannot do without him." for a minute the man was silent. down deep in his heart there had been a spark of rejoicing at the probability that ralph would stay with him now indefinitely. he had pushed it as far out of sight as possible, because it was a selfish rejoicing, and he felt that it was not right since it came as a result of the boy's misfortune. and now suddenly the fear of loss had quenched it entirely, and the dread of being left alone came back upon him in full force. he bit his lip before replying, to help hold back his mingled feeling of pleasure at the bright prospect opening for ralph, and of pain for the separation which must follow. "i dinna ken," he said at last, "how aught could be better for the lad than bein' wi' ye. ye're ower kin' to think o' it. it'll be hard partin' wi' im, but, if the lad wishes it, he s'all gae. i ha' no claim on 'im only to do what's best for 'im as i ken it. he's a-comin'; he'll speak for 'imsel'." ralph came back into the room with face and hands as clean as a hurried washing could make them. "what thenk ye," said bachelor billy to him, "that the lady wants for ye to do?" "i don't know," replied the boy, looking uneasily from one to the other; "but she's been very good to me, an', whatever it is, i'll try to do it." "i want you to go home with me, ralph," said mrs. burnham, "and live with me and be my son. i am not sure yet that you are not my child. we shall find that out. with the new light we have we shall make a new search for proofs of your identity, but that may take weeks, perhaps months. in the meantime i cannot do without you. i want you to come to me now, and, whatever the result of this new investigation may be, i want you to stay with me and be my son. will you come?" she had taken both the boy's hands and had drawn him to her, and was looking up into his face with tenderness and longing. ralph could not speak. he was dumb with the joy of hearing her kindly earnest words. a light of great gladness broke in upon his mind. the world had become bright and beautiful once more. he was not to be without home and love and learning after all. then came second thoughts, bringing doubt, hesitancy, mental struggling. still he was silent, looking out through the open door to the eastern hills, where the sunlight lingered lovingly with golden radiance. on the boy's face the lights and shadows, coming and going, marked the progress of the conflict in his mind. the lady put her arm around him and drew him closer to her, regardless of his soiled and dusty clothing. she was still looking into his eyes. "you will come, will you not, ralph? we want you so much, so very much; do we not, mildred?" she asked, turning to her little daughter, who stood at the other side of her chair. "indeed we do," answered the child. "mamma wants you an' i want you. i don't have anybody to play wiv me half the time, 'cept towser; an' yeste'day i asked towser if he wanted you, an' towser said 'bow,' an' that means 'yes.'" "there! you see we all want you, ralph," said mrs. burnham, smiling; "the entire family wants you. now, you will come, won't you?" the boy had looked across to the little girl, over to bachelor billy, who stood leaning against the mantel, and then down again into the lady's eyes. it was almost pitiful to look into his face and see the strong emotion outlined there, marking the fierceness of the conflict in his mind between a great desire for honest happiness and a stern and manly sense of the right and proper thing for him to do. at last he spoke. "mrs. burnham," he said, in a sharp voice, "i can't, i can't!" a look of surprise and pain came into the lady's face. "why, ralph!" she exclaimed, "i thought,--i hoped you would be glad to go. we would be very good to you; we would try to make you very happy." "an' i'll give you half of ev'ry nice thing i have!" spoke out the girl, impetuously. "i know, i know!" responded ralph, "it'd be beautiful, just as it was that sunday i was there; an' i'd like to go,--you don't know how i'd like to,--but i can't! oh, no! i can't!" bachelor billy was leaning forward, watching the boy intently, surprise and admiration marking his soiled face. "then, why will you not come?" persisted the lady. "what reason have you, if we can all be happy?" ralph stood for a moment in deep thought. "i can't tell you," he said, at last. "i don't know just how to explain it, but, some way, after all this that's happened, it don't seem to me as though i'd ought to go, it don't seem to me as though it'd be just right; as though it'd be a-doin' what--what--oh! i can't tell you. i can't explain it to you so'st you can understand. but i mus'n't go; indeed, i mus'n't!" at last, however, the lady understood and was silent. she had not thought before how this proposal, well meant though it was, might jar upon the lad's fine sense of honor and of the fitness of things. she had not realized, until this moment, how a boy, possessing so delicate a nature as ralph's, might feel to take a position now, to which a court and jury had declared he was not entitled, to which he himself had acknowledged, and to which every one knew he was not entitled. he had tried to gain the place by virtue of a suit at law, he had called upon the highest power in the land to put him into it, and his effort had not only ended in ignominious failure, but had left him stamped as a lineal descendant of one whose very name had become a by-word and a reproach. how could he now, with the remotest sense of honor or of pride, step into the place that should have been occupied by robert burnham's son? the lady could not urge him any more, knowing what his thought was. she could only say:-- "yes, ralph; i understand. i am very, very sorry. i love you just the same, but i cannot ask you now to go with me. i can only hope for a day when we shall know, and the world shall know, that you are my son. you would come to me then, would you not, ralph?" "indeed i would!" he said. "oh, _indeed_ i would!" she drew his head down upon her bosom and kissed his lips again and again; then she released him and rose to go. she inquired very tenderly about his health, about his work, about his likes in the way of books and food and clothing; and one could see that, notwithstanding her resolution to leave ralph with bachelor billy, she still had many plans in her mind, for his comfort and happiness. she charged billy to be very careful of the boy; she kissed him again, and mildred kissed him, and then they stepped into the carriage and the restless brown horses drew them rapidly away. chapter xx. the fire in the shaft. a boy with ralph's natural courage and spirit could not remain long despondent. ambition came back to him with the summer days, and hope found an abiding place in his breast once more. it was not, indeed, the old ambition to be rich and learned and famous, nor the hope that he should yet be surrounded with beauty in a home made bright by a mother's love. all these things, though they had not faded from his mind, were thought of only as sweet dreams of the past. his future, as he looked out upon it now, did not hold them; yet it was a future that had in it no disappointment, no desolation, no despair. the path before him was a very humble one, indeed, but he resolved to tread it royally. because the high places and the beautiful things of earth were not for him was no reason why he should sit and mourn his fate in cheerless inactivity. he determined to be up and doing, with the light and energy that he had, looking constantly ahead for more. he knew that in america there is always something better for the very humblest toiler to anticipate, and that, with courage, hope, and high endeavor to assist him, he is sure to reach his goal. ralph resolved, at any rate, to do all that lay in his power toward the attainment of useful and honorable manhood. he did not set his mark so very high, but the way to it was rough with obstacles and bordered with daily toil. his plan was, simply to find better places for himself about the breaker and the mines, as his age and strength would permit, and so to do his work as to gain the confidence of his employers. when he should become old enough, he would be a miner's laborer, then a miner, and perhaps, eventually, he might rise to the position of a mine boss. he would improve his leisure with self study, get what schooling he could, and, finally, as the height of his ambition, he hoped that, some day, he might become a mining engineer; able to sink shafts, to direct headings, to map out the devious courses of the mine, or to build great breakers like the one in which he spent his days. having marked out his course he began to follow it. he labored earnestly and with a will. the breaker boss said that no cleaner coal was emptied into the cars at the loading place than that which came down through ralph's chute. his plan was successful as it was bound to be, and it was not long before a better place was offered to him. it was that of a driver boy in the mine below the breaker. he accepted it; the wages were much better than those he was now receiving, and it was a long step ahead toward the end he had in view. but the work was new and strange to him. he did not like it. he did not think, at first, that he ever could like it. it was so dark in the mines, so desolate, so lonely. he grew accustomed to the place, however, as the days went by, and then he began not to mind it so much after all. he had more responsibility here, but the work was not so tiresome and monotonous as it had been in the screen-room, and he could be in motion all the time. he went down the shaft every morning with a load of miners and laborers, carrying his whip and his dinner-pail, and a lighted lamp fastened to the front of his cap. when he reached the bottom of the shaft he hurried to the inside plane, and up the slope to the stables to get his mule. the mule's name was jasper. nobody knew why he had been named jasper, but when ralph called him by that name he always came to him. he was a very intelligent animal, but he had an exceedingly bad habit of kicking. it was ralph's duty to take the mule from the stable, to fasten him to a trip of empty mine cars, and to make him draw them to the little cluster of chambers at the end of the branch that turned off from the upper-level heading. this was the farthest point from the shaft in the entire mine. the distance from the head of the plane alone was more than a mile, and it was from the head of the plane that ralph took the cars. when he reached the end of his route he left one car of his trip at the foot of each chamber in which it was needed, gathered together into a new trip the loaded cars that had been pushed down to the main track for him, and started back with them to the head of the plane. he usually made from eight to ten round trips a day; stopping at noon, or thereabouts, to eat the dinner with which the widow maloney had filled his pail. all the driver boys on that level gathered at the head of the plane to eat their dinners, and, during the noon-hour, the place was alive with shouts and songs and pranks and chattering without limit. these boys were older, stronger, ruder than those in the screen-room; but they were no less human and good-hearted; only one needed to look beneath the rough exterior into their real natures. there were eight of them who took trips in by ralph's heading, but, for the last half-mile of his route, he was the only driver boy. it was a lonesome half-mile too, with no working chambers along it, and ralph was always glad when he reached the end of it. there was, usually, plenty of life, though, up in the workings to which he distributed his cars. one could look up from the air-way and see the lights dancing in the darkness at the breast of every chamber. there was always the sharp tap, tap of the drill, the noise of the sledge falling heavily on the huge lumps of coal, sometimes a sudden rush of air against one's face, followed by a dull report and crash that told of the firing of a blast, and now and then a miner's laborer would come running a loaded car down to the heading or go pushing an empty one back up the chamber. there was a laborer up in one of these chambers with whom ralph had formed quite a friendship. his name was michael conway. he was young and strong-limbed, with huge hairy arms, a kind face, and a warm heart. he had promised to teach ralph the art of breaking and loading coal. he expected, he said, to have a chamber himself after a while, and then he would take the boy on as a laborer. indeed, ralph had already learned many things from him about the use of tools and the handling of coal and the setting of props. but he did not often have an opportunity to see conway at work. the chamber in which the young man was laboring was the longest one in the tier, and the loaded car was usually at the foot of it when ralph arrived with his trip of lights; so that he had only to run the empty car up into the air-way a few feet, take on the loaded one, and start back toward the plane. but one afternoon, when he came up with his last trip for the day, he found no load at the foot of conway's chamber, and, after waiting a few minutes, he went up to the face to investigate. he found conway there alone. the miner for whom the young man worked had fallen sick and had gone out earlier than usual, so his laborer had finished the blast at which the employer had been at work. it was a blast of top-coal, and therefore it took longer to get it down and break it up. this accounted for the delay. "come up here with ye," said conway to the boy; "i want to show ye something." ralph climbed up on to the shelf of coal at the breast of the chamber, and the man, tearing away a few pieces of slate and a few handfuls of dirt from a spot in the upper face, disclosed an opening in the wall scarcely larger than one's head. a strong current of air coursed through it, and when conway put his lamp against it the flame was extinguished in a moment. "where does it go to?" asked ralph. "i don't just know, but i think it must go somewhere into the workin's from old no. slope. the boss, he was in this mornin', and he said he thought we must be a-gettin' perty close to them old chambers." "does anybody work in there?" "oh, bless ye, no! they robbed the pillars tin years ago an' more; i doubt an ye could get through it at all now. it's one o' the oldest places in the valley, i'm thinkin'. d'ye mind the old openin' ye can see in the side-hill when ye're goin' up by tom ballard's to the dunmore road?" "yes, that's where uncle billy worked when he was a miner." "did he, thin! well, that's where they wint in. it's a long way from here though, i'm thinkin'." "awful strong wind goin' in there, ain't they?" "yes, i must block it up again, or it'll take all our air away." "what'll your miner do to-morrow when he finds this place?" "oh, he'll have to get another chamber, i guess." the man was fastening up the opening again with pieces of slate and coal, and plastering it over with loose wet dirt. "well," said ralph, "i'll have to go now. jasper's gettin' in a hurry. don't you hear 'im?" conway helped the boy to push the loaded car down the chamber and fasten it to his trip. "i'll not be here long," said the man as he turned back into the air-way, "i'll take this light in, an' pick things up a bit, an' quit. maybe i'll catch ye before ye get to the plane." "all right! i'll go slow. hurry up; everybody else has gone out, you know." after a moment ralph heard conway pushing the empty car up the chamber, then he climbed up on his trip, took the reins, said, "giddep" to jasper, and they started on the long journey out. for some reason it seemed longer than usual this night. but ralph did not urge his beast. he went slowly, hoping that conway would overtake him before he reached the plane. he looked back frequently, but mike, as every one called him, was not yet in sight. the last curve was reached, and, as the little trip rounded it, ralph's attention was attracted by a light which was being waved rapidly in the distance ahead of him. some one was shouting, too. he stopped the mule, and held the cars back to listen, but the sound was so broken by intervening pillars and openings that all he could catch was: "hurry! hurry--up!" he laid the whip on jasper's back energetically, and they went swiftly to the head of the plane. there was no one there when he reached it, but half-way down the incline he saw the light again, and up the broad, straight gallery came the cry of danger distinctly to his ears. "hurry! hurry! the breaker's afire! the shaft's a-burnin'!--run!" instinctively ralph unhitched the mule, dropped the trace-chains, and ran down the long incline of the plane. he reached the foot, rounded the curve, and came into sight of the bottom of the shaft. a half-dozen or more of men and boys were there, crowding in toward the carriage-way, with fear stamped on their soiled faces, looking anxiously up for the descending carriage. "ralph, ye're lucky!" shouted some one to the boy as he stepped breathless and excited into the group. "ye're just in time for the last carriage. it'll not come down but this once, again. it's a-gettin' too hot up there to run it ye're the last one from the end chambers, too. here, step closer!" then ralph thought of conway. "did mike come out?" he asked. "mike conway?" as he spoke a huge fire-brand fell from the shaft at their feet, scattering sparks and throwing out smoke. the men drew back a little, and no one answered ralph's question. "has mike conway come out yet?" he repeated. "yes, long ago; didn't he, jimmy?" replied some one, turning to the footman. "mike conway? no it was mike corcoran that went out. is conway back yet?" "he is!" exclaimed ralph, "he is just a-comin'. i'll tell 'im to hurry." another blazing stick fell as the lad darted out from among the men and ran toward the foot of the plane. "come back, ralph!" shouted some one, "come back; ye've no time; the carriage is here!" "hold it a minute!" answered the boy, "just a minute; i'll see 'im on the plane." the carriage struck the floor of the mine heavily and threw a shower of blazing fragments from its iron roof. at the same moment a man appeared from a lower entrance and hurried toward the group. "it's conway!" cried some one; "he's come across by the sump. ralph! ho, ralph!" "why, where's ralph?" asked conway, as he crowded on to the carriage. "gone to the plane to warn ye," was the answer." "wait the hoisting bell, then, till i get 'im." but the carriage was already moving slowly upward. "you can't do it!" shouted some one. "then i'll stay with 'im!" cried conway, trying to push his way off. "ralph, oh, ralph!" but the man was held to his place by strong arms, and the next moment the smoking, burning carriage was speeding up the shaft for the last time. ralph reached the foot of the plane and looked up it, but he saw no light in the darkness there. before he had time to think what he should do next, he heard a shout from the direction of the shaft:-- "ralph! oh, ralph!" it was conway's voice. he recognized it. he had often heard that voice coming from the breast of mike's chamber, in kindly greeting. quick as thought he turned on his heel and started back. he flew around the curve like a shadow. "wait!" he cried, "wait a minute; i'm a-comin'!" at the foot of the shaft there was a pile of blazing sticks, but there was no carriage there, nor were there any men. he stumbled into the very flames in his eagerness, and called wildly up the dark opening: "wait! come back! oh, wait!" but the whirring, thumping noise of a falling body was the only answer that came to him, and he darted back in time to escape destruction from a huge flaming piece of timber that struck the floor of the mine with a great noise, and sent out a perfect shower of sparks. but they might send the carriage down again if he rang for it. he ran across and seized the handle of the bell wire and pulled it with all his might. the wire gave way somewhere above him and came coiling down upon his head. he threw it from him and turned again toward the opening of the shaft. then the carriage did descend. it came down the shaft for the last time in its brief existence, came like a thunderbolt, struck the floor of the mine with a great shock and--collapsed. it was just a mass of fragments covered by an iron roof--that was all. on top of it fell a storm of blazing sticks and timbers, filling up the space at the foot, piling a mass of wreckage high into the narrow confines of the shaft. ralph retreated to the footman's bench, and sat there looking vaguely at the burning heap and listening to the crash of falling bodies, and the deep roar of the flames that coursed upward out of sight. he could hardly realize the danger of his situation, it had all come upon him so suddenly. he knew, however, that he was probably the only human being in the mine, that the only way of escape was by the shaft, and that that was blocked. but he did not doubt for a moment that he would be rescued in time. they would come down and get him, he knew, as soon as the shaft could be cleared out. the crashing still continued, but it was not so loud now, indicating, probably, that the burning wreckage had reached to a great height in the shaft. the rubbish at the foot had become so tightly wedged to the floor of the mine that it had no chance to burn, and by and by the glow from the burning wood was entirely extinguished, the sparks sputtered and went out, and darkness settled slowly down again upon the place. ralph still sat there, because that was the spot nearest to where human beings were, and that was the way of approach when they should come to rescue him. at last there was only the faint glimmer from his own little lamp to light up the gloom, and the noises in the shaft had died almost entirely away. then came a sense of loneliness and desolation to be added to his fear. silence and darkness are great promoters of despondency. but he still hoped for the best. after a time he became aware that he was sitting in an atmosphere growing dense with smoke. the air current had become reversed, at intervals, and had sent the smoke pouring out from among the charred timbers in dense volumes. it choked the boy, and he was obliged to move. instinctively he made his way along the passage to which he was most accustomed toward the foot of the plane. here he stopped and seated himself again, but he did not stay long. the smoke soon reached him, surrounded him, and choked him again. he walked slowly up the plane. when he reached the head he was tired and his limbs were trembling. he went across to the bench by the wheel and sat down on it. he thought to wait here until help should come. he felt sure that he would be rescued; miners never did these things by halves, and he knew that, sooner or later, he should leave the mine alive. the most that he dreaded now was the waiting, the loneliness, the darkness, the hunger perhaps, the suffering it might be, from smoke and foul air. in the darkness back of him he heard a noise. it sounded like heavy irregular stepping. he was startled at first, but it soon occurred to him that the sounds were made by the mule which he had left there untied. he was right. in another moment jasper appeared with his head stretched forward, sniffing the air curiously, and looking in a frightened way at ralph. "hello, jasper!" the boy spoke cheerily, because he was relieved from sudden fright, and because he was glad to see in the mine a living being whom he knew, even though it was only a mule. the beast came forward and pushed his nose against ralph's breast as if seeking sympathy, and the boy put up his hand and rubbed the animal's face. "we're shut in, jasper," he said, "the breaker's burned, an' things afire have tumbled down the shaft an' we can't get out till they clean it up an' come for us." the mule raised his head and looked around him, then he rested his nose against ralph's shoulder again. "we'll stay together, won't we, old fellow? we'll keep each other company till they come for us. i'm glad i found you, jasper; i'm very glad." he patted the beast's neck affectionately; then he removed the bridle from his head, unbuckled the harness and slipped it down to the ground, and tried to get the collar off; but it would not come. he turned it and twisted it and pulled it, but he could not get it over the animal's ears. he gave up trying at last, and after laying the remainder of the harness up against the wheel-frame, he sat down on the bench again. except the occasional quick stamping of jasper's feet, there was no sound, and ralph sat for a long time immersed in thought. the mule had been gazing contemplatively down the plane into the darkness; finally he turned and faced toward the interior of the mine. it was evident that he did not like the contaminated air that was creeping up the slope. ralph, too, soon felt the effect of it; it made his head light and dizzy, and the smoke with which it was laden brought back the choking sensation into his throat. he knew that he must go farther in. he rose and went slowly along the heading, over his accustomed route, until he reached a bench by a door that opened into the air-way. here he sat down again. he was tired and was breathing heavily. a little exertion seemed to exhaust him so. he could not quite understand it. he remembered when he had run all the way from the plane to the north chambers with only a quickening of the breath as the result. he was not familiar with the action of vitiated air upon the system. jasper had followed him; so closely indeed that the beast's nose had often touched the boy's shoulder as they walked. ralph's lamp seemed to weigh heavily on his head, and he unfastened it from his cap and placed it on the bench beside him. then he fell to thinking again. he thought how anxious bachelor billy would be about him, and how he would make every effort to accomplish his rescue. he hoped that his uncle billy would be the first one to reach him when the way was opened; that would be very pleasant for them both. mrs. burnham would be anxious about him too. he knew that she would; she had been very kind to him of late, very kind indeed, and she came often to see him. then the memory of robert burnham came back to him. he thought of the way he looked and talked, of his kind manner and his gentle words. he remembered how, long ago, he had resolved to strive toward the perfect manhood exemplified in this man's life. he wondered if he had done the best he could. the scenes and incidents of the day on which this good man died recurred to him. why, it was at this very door that the little rescuing party had turned off to go up into the easterly tier of chambers. ralph had not been up there since. he had often thought to go over again the route taken on that day, but he had never found the time to do so. he had time enough at his disposal now, however; why not make the trip up there? it would be better than sitting here in idleness to wait for some sign of rescue. he arose and opened the door. the mule made as if to follow him. "you stay here, jasper," he said, "i won't be gone long." he shut the door in the animal's face and started off up the side-heading. there had not been much travel on this road during the last year. most of the chambers in this part of the mine had been worked out and abandoned. as the boy passed on he recalled the incidents of the former journey. he came to a place where the explosion at that time had blown out the props and shaken down the roof until the passage was entirely blocked. he remembered that they had turned there and had gone up into a chamber to try to get in through the entrances. but they had found the entrances all blocked, and the men had set to work to make an opening through one of them. ralph recalled the scene very distinctly. with what desperate energy those men worked, tearing away the stones and dirt with their hands in order to get in the sooner to their unfortunate comrades. he remembered that while they were doing this robert burnham had seated himself on a fallen prop, had torn a leaf from his memorandum book and had asked ralph to hold his lamp near by, so that he could see to write. he filled one side of the leaf, half of the other side, folded it, addressed it, and placed it in the pocket of his vest. then he went up and directed the enlargement of the opening and crawled through with the rest. here was the entrance, and here was the opening, just as it had been left. ralph clambered through it and went down to the fall. the piled-up rocks were before him, as he had seen them that day. nothing had been disturbed. on the floor of the mine was something that attracted his attention. he stooped and picked it up. it was a piece of paper. there was writing on it in pencil, much faded now, but still distinct enough to be read. he held his lamp to it and examined it more closely. he could read writing very well, and this was written plainly. he began to read it aloud:-- "my dear wife,--i desire to supplement the letter sent to you from the office with this note written in the mine during a minute of waiting. i want to tell you that our ralph is living; that he is here with me, standing this moment at my side." the paper dropped from the boy's trembling fingers, and he stood for a minute awe-struck and breathless. then he picked up the note and examined it again. it was the very one that robert burnham had written on the day of his death. ralph recognized it by the crossed lines of red and blue marking the page into squares. without thinking that there might be any impropriety in doing so, he continued to read the letter as fast as his wildly beating heart and his eyes clouded with mist would let him. "i have not time to tell you why and how i know, but, believe me, margaret, there is no mistake. he is ralph, the slate-picker, of whom i told you, who lives with bachelor billy. if he should survive this trying journey, take him immediately and bring him up as our son; if he should die, give him proper burial. we have set out on a perilous undertaking and some of us may not live through it. i write this note in case i should not see you again. it will be found on my person. do not allow any one to persuade you that this boy is not our son. i _know_ he is. i send love and greeting to you. i pray for god's mercy and blessing on you and on our children. "robert." chapter xxi. a perilous passage. for many minutes ralph stood, like one in a dream, holding the slip of paper tightly in his grasp. then there came upon him, not suddenly, but very gently and sweetly, as the morning sunlight breaks into a western valley, the broad assurance that he was robert burnham's son. here was the declaration of that fact over the man's own signature. that was enough; there was no need for him to question the writer's sources of knowledge. robert burnham had been his ideal of truth and honor; he would have believed his lightest word against the solemn asseveration of thousands. the flimsy lie coined by rhyming joe no longer had place in his mind. he cared nothing now for the weakness of sharpman, for the cunning of craft, for the verdict of the jury, for the judgment of the court; he _knew_, at last, that he was robert burnham's son, and no power on earth could have shaken that belief by the breadth of a single hair. the scene on the descending carriage the day his father died came back into his mind. he thought how the man had grasped his hands, crying, in a voice deep and earnest with conviction:-- "ralph! ralph! i have found you!" he had not understood it then; he knew now what it meant. he raised the paper to the level of his eyes, and read, again and again, the convincing words:-- "do not allow any one to persuade you that this boy is not our son. i _know_ he is." then ralph felt again that honest pride in his blood and in his name, and that high ambition to be worthy of his parentage, that had inspired him in the days gone by. again he looked forward into the bright future, to the large fulfilment of all his hopes and desires, to learning, culture, influence, the power to do good; above all, to the sweetness of a life with his own mother, in the home where he had spent one beautiful day. he had drawn himself to his full height; every muscle was tense, his head was erect with proud knowledge, high hope flashed from his eyes, gladness dwelt in every feature of his face. then, suddenly, the light went out from his countenance, and the old look of pain came back there. his face had changed with his changing thought as it did that day in the court-room at wilkesbarre. the fact of his imprisonment had returned into his mind, and for the moment it overcame him. he sat down on a jutting rock to consider it. of what use was it to be robert burnham's son, with two hundred feet of solid rock between him and the outside world, and the only passage through it blocked with burned and broken timbers? for a time despondency darkened his mind and despair sat heavily upon him. he even wished that the joy of this new knowledge had not come to him. it made the depth of his present misfortune seem so much greater. but, after a while, he took heart again; courage came back to him; the belief that he would be finally saved grew stronger in his mind; hope burned up brightly in his breast, and the pride of parentage within him filled him with ambition to do what lay in his power to accomplish his own deliverance. it was little he could do, indeed, save to wait with patience and in hope until outside help should come, but this little, he resolved, should be done with a will, as befitted his birth and position. he folded the precious bit of paper he had found and fastened it in his waistcoat pocket so that he should not lose it as robert burnham had lost it; then he took up his lamp and went back through the half-walled entrance, down the chamber and along the side-heading to the air-way door where jasper had been left. there was a small can of oil sitting just inside the door-way. it was the joint property of ralph and the door-boy. it was fortunate, he thought, that he had selected that place for it, as he was now in great need of it. he filled his lamp, from which the oil had become nearly exhausted, and then passed out through the door. the mule was still there and uttered a hoarse sound of welcome when he saw the boy. "i found somethin' up there, jasper," said ralph, as he sat down on the bench and began to pat the beast's neck again, "somethin' wonderful; i wish i could tell you so you could understand it; it's too bad you can't, jasper; i know you'd be glad." the mule seemed to recognize the pleasantness of the lad's voice and to enjoy it, and for a long time ralph sat there petting him and talking to him. finally, he became aware that the air about him was growing to be very bad. it made him feel sick and dizzy, and caused his heart to beat rapidly. he knew that he must go farther in. he thought, however, to make an attempt to get out toward the shaft first. it might be that it had grown clearer out there, it might be that the rescuers were already working down toward him. he started rapidly down the heading, but before he had gone half-way to the head of the plane, the smoke and the foul air were so dense and deadly that he had to stop and to crawl away from it on his hands and knees. he was greatly exhausted when he reached the air-way door again, and he sat on the bench for a long time to rest and to recover. but he knew that it was dangerous to remain there now, and, taking the can of oil with him, he started slowly up the heading. he did not know how soon he should get back here, and when the oil in his lamp should give out again he desired to be able to renew it. the mule was following closely behind him. it was a great comfort, too, to have a living being with him for company. he might have been shut up here alone, and that would have been infinitely worse. at the point where the branch leading to the new chambers left the main heading, ralph turned in, following his accustomed route. it seemed to him that he ought to go to places with which he was familiar. he trudged along through the half-mile of gang-way that he had always found so lonely when he was at work, stopping now and then to rest. for, although he walked very slowly, he grew tired very easily. he felt that he was not getting into a purer atmosphere either. the air around him seemed to lack strength and vitality; and when, at last, he reached the tier of chambers that it had been his duty to supply with cars, he was suffering from dizziness, from shortness of breath, and from rapid beating of the heart. at the foot of conway's chamber ralph found a seat. he was very weak and tired and his whole frame was in a tremor. he began to recall all that he had heard and read about people being suffocated in the mines; all the stories that had ever been told to him about miners being shut in by accident and poisoned with foul air, or rescued at the point of death. he knew that his own situation was a critical one. he knew that, with the shaft crowded full of wreckage and giving no passage to the air, the entire mine would eventually become filled with poisonous gases. he knew that his present physical condition was due to the foulness of the atmosphere he was breathing. he felt that the situation was becoming rapidly more alarming. the only question now was as to how long this vitiated air would support life. still, his courage did not give way. he had strong hope that he would yet be rescued, and he struggled to hold fast to his hope. the flame of his lamp burned round and dim, so dim that he could scarcely see across the heading. the mule came up to him and put out his nose to touch the boy's hand. "i guess we may as well stay here. jasper," he said. "this is the furthest place away from the shaft, an' if we can't stan' it here we can't stan' it nowhere." the beast seemed to understand him, for he lay down then, with his head resting on ralph's knee. they remained for a long time in that position, and ralph listened anxiously for some sound from the direction of the shaft. he began to think finally that it was foolish to expect help as yet. no human being could get through the gas and smoke to him. the mine would first need to be ventilated. but he felt that the air was growing constantly more foul and heavy. his head was aching, he labored greatly in breathing, and he seemed to be confused and sleepy. he arose and tried to walk a little to keep awake. he knew that sleep was dangerous. but he was too tired to walk and he soon came back and sat down again by the mule. "i'm a-tryin', jasper," he said, "i'm a-tryin' my best to hold out; but i'm afraid it ain't a-goin' to do much good; i can't see much chance"-- he stopped suddenly. a thought had struck him. he seized his lamp and oil-can and pushed ahead across the air-way and up into conway's chamber. the mule arose with much difficulty and staggered weakly after him. a new hope had arisen in the boy's heart, an inspiration toward life had put strength into his limbs. at the breast of the chamber he set down his lamp and can, climbed up on to the shelf of coal, and began tearing out the slate and rubbish from the little opening in the wall that conway had that day shown to him. if he could once get through into the old mine he knew that he should find pure air and--life. the opening was too small to admit his body, but that was nothing; there were tools here, and he still had strength enough to work. he dragged the drill up to the face but it was too heavy for him to handle, and the stroke he was able to make with it was wholly without effect. his work with the clumsy sledge was still less useful, and before he had struck the third blow the instrument fell from his nerveless hands. he was exhausted by the effort and lay down on the bed of coal to rest, gasping for breath. he thought if only the air current would come from the other mine into this what a blessing it would be; but, alas! the draft was the other way. the poisoned air was being drawn swiftly into the old mine, making a whistling noise as it crossed the sharp edges of the aperture. ralph knew that very soon the strong current would bring in smoke and fouler air, and he rose to make still another effort. he went down and brought up the pick. it was worn and light and he could handle it more easily. he began picking away at the edges of coal to enlarge the opening. but the labor soon exhausted him, and he sat down with his back against the aperture to intercept the passage of air while he recovered his breath. he was soon at work again. the hope of escape put energy into his weak muscles. once, a block as large as his two hands broke away and fell down on the other side. that was a great help. but he had to stop and rest again. indeed, after that he had very frequently to stop and rest. the space was widening steadily, but very, very slowly. after a time he threw down the pick and passed his head through the opening, but it was not yet large enough to receive his body. the air that was now coming up the chamber was very bad, and it was blue with smoke, besides. the boy bent to his task with renewed energy; but every blow exhausted him, and he had to wait before striking another. he was chipping the coal away, though, piece by piece, inch by inch. by and by, by a stroke of rare good-fortune, a blow that drew the pick from the lad's weak hands and sent it rattling down upon the other side, loosened a large block at the top of the opening, and it fell with a crash. now he could get through, and it would be none too soon either. he dropped his oil-can down on the other side, then his lamp, and then, after a single moment's rest, he crawled into the aperture, and tumbled heavily to the floor of the old mine. it was not a great fall; he fell from a height of only a few feet, but in his exhausted condition it stunned him, and he lay for some minutes in a state of unconsciousness. the air was better in here, he was below the line of the poisoned current, and he soon revived, sat up, picked up his lamp, and looked around him. he was evidently in a worked-out chamber. over his head in the side-wall was the opening through which he had fallen, and he knew that the first thing to be done was to close it up and prevent the entrance of any more foul air. there was plenty of slate and of coal and of dirt near by, but he could not reach up so high and work easily, and he had first to build a platform against the wall, on which to stand. it took a long time to do this, but when it was completed he stood up on it to put the first stone in place. on the other side of the opening he heard a hoarse sound of distress, then a scrambling noise, and then jasper's nose was pushed through against his hand. the mule had stood patiently and watched ralph while he was at work, but when the boy disappeared he had become frightened, and had clambered up on the shelf of coal at the face to try to follow him. he was down on his knees now, with his head wedged into the aperture, drawing in his breath with long, forced gasps, looking piteously into the boy's face. "poor jasper!" said ralph, "poor fellow! i didn't think of you. i'd get you in here too if i could." he looked around him, as if contemplating the possibility of such a scheme; but he knew that it could not be accomplished. "i can't do it, jasper," he said, rubbing the animal's face as he spoke. "i can't do it. don't you see the hole ain't big enough? an' i couldn't never make it big enough for you, never." but the look in jasper's eyes was very beseeching, and he tried to push his head in so that he might lay his nose against ralph's breast. the boy put his arms about the beast's neck. "i can't do it, jasper," he repeated, sobbing. "don't you see i can't? i wisht i could, oh, i wisht i could!" the animal drew his head back. his position was uncomfortable, and it choked him to stretch his neck out that way. ralph knew that he must proceed with the building of his wall. one after another he laid up the pieces of slate and coal, chinking in the crevices with dirt, keeping his head as much as possible out of the foul current, stopping often to rest, talking affectionately to jasper, and trying, in a childish way, to console him. at last his work was nearly completed, but the gruff sounds of distress from the frightened mule had ceased. ralph held his lamp up out of the current, so that the light would fall through the little opening, and looked in. jasper lay there on his side, his head resting on the coal bottom, a long, convulsive respiration at intervals the only movement of his body. he was unconscious, and dying. the boy drew back with tears in his eyes and with sorrow at his heart. the beast had been his friend and companion, not only in his daily toil, but here also, in the loneliness and peril of the poisoned mine. for the time being, he forgot his own misfortunes in his sympathy for jasper. he put his face once more to the opening. "good-by, jasper!" he said, "good-by, old fellow! i couldn't help it, you know, an'--an' it won't hurt you any more--good-by!" he drew back his head, put the few remaining stones in place, chinked the crevices with dirt and culm, and then, trembling and faint, he fell to the floor of the old mine, and lay there, panting and exhausted, for a long time in silent thought. but it was not of himself he was thinking; it was of poor old jasper, dying on the other side of the black wall, deserted, barred out, alone. finally it occurred to him that he should go to some other place in the mine. the poisonous gases must still be entering through the crevices of his imperfectly built and rudely plastered wall, and it would be wise for him to get farther away. his oil had nearly burned out again, and he refilled his lamp from the can. then he arose and went down the chamber. it was a very long chamber. when he reached the foot of it he found the entrances into the heading walled up, and he turned and went along the air-way for a little distance, and then sat down to rest. for the first time he noticed that he had cut his hands badly, on the sharp pieces of coal he had been handling, and he felt that there was a bruise on his side, doubtless made when he fell through the opening. hitherto he had not had a clear idea as to the course he should pursue when he should have obtained entrance into the old mine. his principal object had been to get into pure air. now, however, he began to consider the matter of his escape. it was obvious that two methods were open to him. he could either try to make his way out alone to the old slope near the dunmore road, or he could remain in the vicinity of conway's chamber till help should reach him from the burnham mine. but it might be many hours before assistance would come. the shaft would have first to be cleared out, and that he knew would be no easy matter. after that the mine would need to be ventilated before men could make their way through it. all this could not be done in a day, indeed it might take many days, and when they should finally come in to search for him, they would not find him in the burnham mine; he would not be there. if he could discover the way to the old slope, and the path should be unobstructed, he would be in the open air within half an hour. in the open air! the very thought of such a possibility decided the question for him. and when he should reach the surface he would go straight to mrs. burnham, straight to his mother, and place in her hands the letter he had found. she would be glad to read it; she would be very, very glad to know that ralph was her son. sitting there in the darkness and the desolation he could almost see her look of great delight, he could almost feel her kisses on his lips as she gave him tender greeting. oh! it would be beautiful, so beautiful! but, then, there was uncle billy. he had come near to forgetting him. he would go first to uncle billy, that would be better, and then they would go together to his mother's house and would both enjoy her words of welcome. but if he was going he must be about it. it would not do to sit there all night. all night? ralph wondered what time it had come to be. whether hours or days had passed since his imprisonment he could hardly tell. he picked up his lamp and can and started on. at no great distance he found an old door-way opening into the heading. he passed through it and began to trudge along the narrow, winding passage. he had often to stop and rest, he felt so very weak. a long time he walked, slowly, unsteadily, but without much pain. then, suddenly, he came to the end of the heading. the black, solid wall faced him before he was hardly aware of it. he had taken the wrong direction when he entered the gallery, that was all. he had followed the heading in instead of out. his journey had not been without its use, however, for it settled definitely the course he ought to take to reach the slope, and that, he thought, was a matter of no little importance. he sat down for a few minutes to rest, and then started on his return. it seemed to be taking so much more time to get back that he feared he had passed the door-way by which he had entered the heading. but he came to it at last and stopped there. he began to feel hungry. he wondered why he had not thought to look for some one's dinner pail, before he came over into the old mine. he knew that his own still had fragments of food in it; he wished that he had them now. but wishing was of no use, the only thing for him to do was to push ahead toward the surface. when he should reach his mother's house his craving would be satisfied with all that could tempt the palate. he started on again. the course of the heading was far from straight, and his progress was very slow. at last he came to a place where there had been a fall. they had robbed the pillars till they had become too weak to support the roof, and it had tumbled in. ralph turned back a little, crossed the air-way and went up into the chambers, thinking to get around the area of the fall. he went a long way up before he found an unblocked opening. then, striking across through the entrances, he came out again, suddenly, to a heading. he thought it must have curved very rapidly to the right that he should find it so soon, if it were the one he had been on before. but he followed it as best he could, stopping very often to catch a few moments of rest, finding even his light oil-can a heavy burden in his hands, trying constantly to give strength to his heart and his limbs by thoughts of the fond greeting that awaited him when once he should escape from the gloomy passages of the mine. the heading grew to be very devious. it wound here and there, with entrances on both sides, it crossed chambers and turned corners till the boy became so bewildered that he gave up trying to trace it. he pushed on, however, through the openings that seemed most likely to lead outward, looking for pathways and trackways, hungering, thirsting, faint in both body and spirit, till he reached a solid wall at the side of a long, broad chamber, and there he stopped to consider which way to turn. he struck some object at his feet. it was a pick. he looked up at the wall in front of him, and he saw in it the filled-up entrance through which he had made his way from the burnham mine. it came upon him like a blow, and he sank to the floor in sudden despair. this was worse than anything that had happened to him since the time when he ran back to the shaft to find the carriage gone and its place filled with firebrands. his journey had been such a mournful waste of time, of energy, and of hopeful anticipation. but, after a little, he began to think that it was not quite so bad as it might have been after all. he had his lamp and his oil-can, and he was in a place where the air was fit to breathe. that was better, certainly, than to be lying on the other side of the wall with poor old jasper. he forced new courage into his heart, he whipped his flagging spirits into fresh activity, and resolved to try once more to find a passage to the outside world. but he needed rest; that was apparent. he thought that if he could lie down and be quiet and contented for fifteen or twenty minutes he would gain strength and vigor enough to sustain him through a long journey. he arose and moved up the chamber a little way, out of the current of poisoned air that still sifted in through the crevices of his rudely built wall. here he lay down on a place soft with culm, to take his contemplated rest, and, before he was aware of it, sleep had descended on him, overpowered him, and bound him fast. but it was a gracious victor. it put away his sufferings from him; it allayed his hunger and assuaged his thirst, it hid his loneliness and dispelled his fear, and it brought sweet peace for a little time to his troubled mind. he was alone and in peril, and far from the pure air and the bright sunlight of the upper world; but the angel of sleep touched his eyelids just as gently in the darkness of this dreadful place as though he had been lying on beds of fragrant flowers, with white clouds or peaceful stars above him to look upon his slumber. chapter xxii. in the power of darkness. ralph slept, hour after hour. he dreamed, and moved his hands uneasily at intervals, but still he slept. there were no noises there to disturb him, and he had been very tired. when he finally awoke the waking was as gentle as though he had been lying on his own bed at home. he thought, at first, that he was at home; and he wondered why it was so very dark. then he remembered that he was shut up in the mines. it was a cruel remembrance, but it was a fact and he must make the best of it. while he slept his oil had burned out, and he was in total darkness. he felt for his oil-can and found it. then he found his lamp, filled it by the sense of touch, and lighted it. he always carried matches; they had done him good service in the mines before this. he was very thankful too, that he had thought to bring the oil-can. without it he would have been long ago in the power of darkness. he was still hungry, and thirsty too, very thirsty now, indeed. he arose and tried to walk, but he was so dizzy that he had to sit down again. he felt better after a little, though, very much better than before he had taken his rest. he wondered how long he had slept, and what progress was being made, if any, toward his rescue. he went down to the opening in the wall, and held his lamp up to it. threads of smoke were still curling in through the slate and culm, and the air that crept in was very bad. then, for a little time, ralph sat there and listened. he thought that possibly he might hear some distant sound of rescue. but there was no noise; the silence was burdensome. his thirst increased and he was hot and feverish. at last he rose with the determination to carry out his plan of searching for the old slope. he knew that it would be worse than useless to stay here. besides, he hoped that he might find a stream of water on the way at which to quench his thirst. he thought of the letter in his pocket, and the desire grew strong within him to read it again. he took it out, unfolded it, and held it close to the light, but there seemed to be a mist before his eyes and he could not distinguish the words. he knew what it contained, though, and that was sufficient for him. he was robert burnham's son. his father had been brave and manly; so would he be. his father would have kept up heart and courage to the end, no matter what fate faced him. he determined that the son should do no less. he would be worthy of his parentage, he would do all that lay in his power to accomplish his own safety; if he failed, the fault should not be his. he folded and replaced the letter, picked up his oil-can, fastened his lamp to his cap and started down the chamber. he felt that he was strong with the strength of inspiration. it seemed to him, too, that he was very light in body. it seemed almost as though he were treading on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast. in reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long chamber was devious and erratic. his fancied strength and elasticity were born of the fever in his blood. he came to the heading. he knew, now, which way to turn, and he passed down it in what he thought was rapid flight. but here was the fall again. what was to be done now? his last attempt to get around it had been disastrous. he would not try that plan again. he would work his way through it this time and keep to the heading. he climbed slowly up over the fallen rock and coal and let himself down upon the other side. but it took his breath away, this climbing, and he had to wait there a little while to recover it. there was a clear space before him, though, and he made good progress through it till he came again to the fall. in this place the rock was piled higher and it was more difficult of ascent. but he clambered bravely up, dragging his oil-can with him; then he moved out along the smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen slate, keeping as close as possible to the wall of the heading, climbing higher and higher, very slowly now, and with much labor, stopping often to rest. he came, at last, to a place where the space between the fallen rock and the roof above it was so narrow that he could scarcely squeeze his slender body through it. when he had done so he found himself on the edge of a precipice, a place where a solid mass had fallen like a wall, and had made a shelf so high that the feeble rays of ralph's lamp would not reach to the bottom of it. the boy crawled, trembling, along the edge of this cliff, trying to find some place for descent. the oil-can that he carried made his movements cumbersome; the surface of the rock was smooth and hard to cling to; his limbs were weak and his fingers nerveless. he slipped, the can fell from his hand, he tried to recover it, slipped further, made a desperate effort to save himself, failed, and went toppling over into the darkness. the height was not very great, and he was not seriously injured by the fall; but it stunned him, and he lay for some time in a state of unconsciousness. when he came to himself, he knew what had happened and where he was. he tried to rise, but the effort pained him and he lay back again. he was in total darkness. his lamp had fallen from his cap and become extinguished. he reached out to try and find it and his hand came in contact with a little stream of water. the very touch of it refreshed him. he rolled over, put his mouth to it and drank. it was running water, cool and delicious, and he was very, very thankful for it. in the stream he found his lamp. the lid had flown open, the oil was spilled out, and the water had entered. the can was not within reach of him as he lay. he raised himself to his hands and knees and groped around for it. he began to despair of ever finding it. it would be terrible, he thought, to lose it now, and be left alone in the dark. but at last he came upon it and picked it up. it was very light; he felt for the plug, it was gone; he turned the can upside down, it was empty. for the moment his heart stopped beating; he could almost feel the pallor in his face, he could almost see the look of horror in his own eyes. from this time forth he would be in darkness. it was not enough that he was weak, sick, lost and alone in the mysterious depths of this old mine, but now darkness had come, thick darkness to crown his suffering and bar his path to freedom. his self-imposed courage had almost given way. it required matchless bravery to face a peril such as this without a murmur, and still find room for hope. but he did his best. he fought valiantly against despair. it occurred to him that he still had matches. he drew them from his pocket and counted them. there were seven. he poured the water from the chamber of his lamp and pulled out the wick and pressed it. he thought that possibly he might make it burn a little longer without oil. he selected one of the matches and struck it against the rock at his side. it did not light. the rock was wet and the match was spoiled. the next one he lighted by drawing it swiftly across the sleeve of his jacket. but the light was wasted; the cotton wick was still too wet to ignite. there was nothing left to him, then, save the matches, and they would not light him far. but it was better to go even a little way than to remain here. he rose to his feet and struck a match on his sleeve, but it broke short off at the head, and the sputtering sulphur dropped into the stream and was quenched. he struck another, this time with success. he saw the heading; the way was clear; and he started on, holding one hand out before him, touching at frequent intervals the lower wall of the passage with the other. but his side pained him when he tried to walk: he had struck it heavily in his last fall; and he had to stop in order to relieve it. after a time he arose again, but in the intense darkness and with that strange confusion in his brain, he could not tell in which direction to go. he lighted another match; it sputtered and went out. he had two matches left. to what better use could he put them than to make them light him as far as possible on his way? he struck one of them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect one which he had not thrown away. he held them up before him, and, shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow passage. he knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but follow it he would, in time, reach the slope. his light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept on. he moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way. his journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep going, he knew that. he had one match left but he dared not light it. he wanted to reserve that for a case of greater need. the emergency that called for its use soon arose. the heading seemed to have grown suddenly wider. he went back and forth across it and touched all the pillars carefully. the way was divided. one branch of the gallery bore to the right and another to the left. straight ahead was a solid wall. ralph did not know which passage to enter. to go into one would be to go still farther and deeper into the recesses of the old mine; to go into the other would be to go toward the slope, toward the outer world, toward his mother and his home. if he could only see he could choose more wisely. had the necessity arisen for the use of his last match? he hesitated. he sat down to rest and to consider the question. it was hard to think, though, with all that whirling and buzzing in his fever-stricken brain. then a scheme entered his mind, a brilliant scheme by which he should get more light. he resolved to act upon it without delay. he transferred everything from the pockets of his jacket to those of his waistcoat. then he removed this outer garment, tore a portion of it into strips, and held it in one hand while he made ready to light his last match. he held his breath while he struck it. it did not light. he waited a minute to think. then he struck it again, this time with success. he touched it to the rags of his coat, and the oil-soaked cloth flashed brightly into flame. he held the blazing jacket in his hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then began to run. it was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could do. he staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little space and then moved with halting steps. his limbs grew weak, his breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a knife. but he thought he was going very rapidly. he could see so nicely too. the flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and wrist, but he scarcely knew it. then his foot struck some obstacle in the way and he fell. for a moment he lay there panting and helpless, while the burning cloth, thrown from him in his fall, lighted up the narrow space around him till it grew as clear as day. but all this splendid glow should not be wasted; it would never do; he must make it light him on his journey till the last ray was gone. he staggered to his feet again and ran on into the ever growing darkness. behind him the flames flared, flickered, and died slowly out, and when the last vestige of light was wholly gone he sank, utterly exhausted, to the floor of the mine, and thick darkness settled on him like a pall. a long time he lay there wondering vaguely at his strange misfortunes. the fever in his blood was running high, and, instead of harboring sober thought, his mind was filled with fleeting fancies. it was very still here, so still that he thought he heard the throbbing in his head. he wondered if it could be heard by others who might thus find where he lay. then fear came on him, fear like an icy hand clutching at his breast, fear that would not let him rest, but that brought him to his feet again and urged him onward. to die, that was nothing; he could die if need be; but to be shut up here alone, with strange and unseen things hovering about him in the blackness, that was quite beyond endurance. he was striving to get away from them. he had not much thought, now, which way he went, he cared little for direction, he wished only to keep in motion. he had to stop at times to get breath and to rest his limbs, they ached so. but, whenever he stood still or sat down to rest, the darkness seemed to close in upon him and around him so tightly as to give him pain. he would not have cared so much for that, though, if it had not been filled with strange creatures who crept close to him to hear the throbbing in his head. he could not bear that; it compelled him to move on. he went a long way like this, with his hands before him, stumbling, falling, rising again, stopping for a moment's rest, moaning as he walked, crying softly to himself at times like the sick child that he was. once he felt that he was going down an inclined way, like a long chamber; there had been no prop or pillar on either side of him for many minutes. finally, his feet touched water. it grew to be ankle deep. he pushed on, and it reached half-way to his knees. this would never do. he turned in his tracks to retreat, just saved himself from falling, and then climbed slowly back up the long slope of the chamber. when he had reached the top of it he thought he would lie down and try not to move again, he was so very tired and sick. in the midst of all his fancies he realized his danger. he knew that death had ceased to be a possibility for him, and had come to be more than probable. he felt that it would be very sad indeed to die in this way, alone, in the dark, in the galleries of this old mine; it was not the way robert burnham's son should have died. it was not that he minded death so much; he would not have greatly cared for that, if he could only have died in his mother's arms, with the sweet sunlight and the fresh air and the perfume of flowers in the room. that, he thought, would have been beautiful, very beautiful indeed. but this, this was so different. "it is very sad," he said; "poor ralph, poor boy." he was talking to himself. it seemed to him that he was some one else, some one who stood by trying to pity and console this child who was dying here alone in the awful darkness. "it's hard on you," he said, "i know it's hard on you, an' you've just got to where life'd be worth a good deal to you too. you had your bitter an' the sweet was just a-comin'; but never mind, my boy, never mind; your uncle billy says 'at heaven's a great sight better place 'an any you could ever find on earth. an', then, you're robert burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of; you're--robert burnham's--son." for a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not move. then fear came back to him. he thought that the darkness was closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. he felt that he must escape from it. he was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child. there were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of them real. there were old mine caps, piles of dirt, pieces of slate, and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his knees. but he met and passed them all. he was intent only on getting away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so. and he did get away from them. he came to a place where the space about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so clear and pure that he could breathe it freely. utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air. he leaned against a pillar to rest. he thought to stay here until the end should come. he was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. and he should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul. he was glad of that too. he wondered if they would know, when they found his body, that he was robert burnham's son. suppose they should never find it out. suppose the days and months and years should pass away, and no one ever know what high honor came to him while yet he lived on earth. that would be sad, very, very sad; worse even than death itself. but there was a way for him to make it known. he thought that some sweet voice was telling him what to do. he took from his waistcoat pocket the paper that declared his birth, unfolded it once, pressed it to his lips once, took pins from the edge of the collar of his vest, and pinned the letter fast upon the bosom of his flannel shirt. it took him a long time to do this in the darkness, his hands were so very weak and tremulous, but, when it was done, he smoothed the paper over carefully and was content. "they'll know it now," he said gently to himself, "they'll surely know it now. they'll no sooner find me here than they'll know who i am, an' who my mother is, an' where to take me. it's just the same, just the same as though i was alive myself to tell 'em." he leaned back then, and closed his eyes and lay quite still. he felt no pain from his cut and bleeding hands and knees, nor from his burned wrist, nor from his bruised body. he was not hungry any more, nor thirsty, nor suffering for breath. he was thinking, but he thought only of pleasant things. he remembered no evil, neither any person who had done him evil. off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of waves glancing in the sunlight, and green fields, and long stretches of yellow grain. it seemed very real to him, so real that he wondered if he was still lying there in the darkness. he opened his eyes to see. yes, it was dark, very dark. the faint noise of dripping water came to his ears from somewhere in the mine below him. it reminded him of a tiny waterfall he had once seen under the shadow of a great rock on the bank of roaring brook. it was where a little stream, like a silver thread, ran down across the mossy covering of the edge and went drip, dripping into the stone-walled basin far below. he wondered if the stream was running there this day, if the tall rock-oak was bending yet above it, if the birds sang there as gayly as they sang that happy day when first he saw it. for a little time he thought that he was indeed there. he found it hard to make himself believe that he was still in the mine, alone. but he was not alone; he knew that he was not alone. he felt that friends were somewhere near him. they were staying back in the shadow so that they should not disturb him. they would come to him soon, when--when he should waken. he did not move any more, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be sleeping. his breath came gently, in long respirations. the precious letter rose and fell with the slow heaving of his breast. down in the darkness the water dripped as placidly as pulses beat. for the rest there was no sound, no motion. once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes. "is that you, uncle billy?" he said. "come an' sit down an' rest a little, an' then we'll go out. i think i got lost or--or somethin'." his uncle billy was not there. the darkness about him held no human being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true. "why, how strange you look, uncle billy; an' you're a-laughin' at me--what! does she? well, i'll go to her just as soon as i get out, just as soon. how did she find it out? i was goin' to be the first to tell her. i'm glad she knows it, though." after a moment he continued:-- "oh, no, uncle billy; i shouldn't ever do that, i couldn't. you've been too good to me. you've been awful good to me, uncle billy--awful good." again silence fell. thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the unconscious child in its folds. black walls and winding galleries surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt that "peace of god which passeth understanding." down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the stars were out and the moon was shining. chapter xxiii. a stroke of lightning. it was a hot day at burnham breaker. the sun of midsummer beat fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black sides of the giant building. down in the engine-room, where there was no air stirring, and the vapor of steam hung heavily in the atmosphere, the heat was almost insupportable. the engineer, clothed lightly as he was, fairly dripped with perspiration. the fireman, with face and neck like a lobster, went out, at intervals, and plunged his hands and his head too into the stream of cool water sent out from the mine by the laboring pumps. up in the screen-room, the boys were sweltering above their chutes, choking with the thick dust, wondering if the afternoon would never be at an end. bachelor billy, pushing the cars out from the head, said to himself that he was glad ralph was no longer picking slate. it was better that he should work in the mines. it was cool there in summer and warm in winter, and it was altogether more comfortable for the boy than it could be in the breaker; neither was it any more dangerous, in his opinion, than it was among the wheels and rollers of the screen-room. he had labored in the mines himself, until the rheumatism came and put a stop to his under-ground toil. he mourned greatly the necessity that compelled him to give up this kind of work. it is hard for a miner to leave his pillars and his chambers, his drill and powder-can and fuse, and to seek other occupation on the surface of the earth. the very darkness and danger that surround him at his task hold him to it with an unaccountable fascination. but bachelor billy had a good place here at the breaker. it was not hard work that he was doing. robert burnham had given him the position ten years and more ago. even on this hot mid-summer day, the heat was less where he was than in any other part of the building. a cool current came up the shaft and kept the air stirring about the head, and the loaded mine-cars rose to the platform, dripping cold water from their sides, and that was very refreshing to the eye as well as to the touch. it was well along in the afternoon that billy, looking out to the north-west, saw a dark cloud rising slowly above the horizon, and said to andy gilgallon, his assistant, that he hoped it would not go away without leaving some rain behind it. looking at it again, a few minutes later, he told andy that he felt sure there would be water enough to lay the dust, at any rate. the cloud increased rapidly in size, rolling up the sky in dark volumes, and emitting flashes of forked lightning in quick succession. by and by the face of the sun was covered, and the deep rumbling of the thunder was almost continuous. there was a dead calm. not even at the head of the shaft could a particle of moving air be felt. "faith! i don't like the looks o' it, billy," said andy gilgallon, as a sharp flash cut the cloud surface from zenith to horizon, and a burst of thunder followed that made the breaker tremble. "no more do i," replied bachelor billy; "but we'll no' git scart afoor we're hurt. it's no' likely the buildin' 'll be washit awa'." "thrue for ye! but this bit o' a steeple ud be a foine risting-place for the lightnin's fut, an' a moighty hot fut it has, too--bad 'cess to it!" the man had been interrupted by another vivid flash and a sharp crack of thunder. the mountains to the north and west were now entirely hidden, and the near hills were disappearing rapidly behind the on-coming storm of rain. already the first drops were rattling sharply on the breaker's roof, and warning puffs of wind were beating gently against the side of the shaft-tower. "i'm glad ralph's no' workin' i' the screen-room," said bachelor billy, as he put up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding glare. "it'd be a fearfu' thing to ha' the breaker hit." the fury of the storm was on them at last. it was as though the heavens were shattered. billy looked out upon the dreadful onslaught of the elements with awe and wonder on his face. his companion crouched against the timbers of the shaft in terror. then--lightning struck the breaker. people who sat in their houses a mile away started up in sudden fright at the fierce flash and terrible report. a man who was running toward the engine-room for shelter was blinded and stunned by the glare and crash, and fell to his knees. when he rose again and could use his eyes, he saw men and boys crowding from the building out into the pouring rain. but the breaker was on fire. already the shaft-tower was wrapped in smoke and lighted with flame. some one in authority stood in the door of the engine-room giving orders. the carriage was descending the shaft. when it came up it was loaded with men. it went down again, almost with the rapidity of lightning itself. the engineer was crowding his servant of iron and steel to the utmost. the men of the next load that came up had hardly time to push each other from the carriage before it darted down again into the blackness. the flames were creeping lower on the shaft timbers, and were rioting among the screens. the engine-room was hot and stifling. the engineer said he was hoisting the last load that could be brought out. when it reached the surface conway leaped from among the men and stood in the door of the engine-room. "let it down again!" he shouted. "ralph is below yet, the boy. i'll go down myself an' git 'im." he heard a crash behind him, and he turned in time to see the iron roof of the carriage disappear into the mouth of the shaft. the burning frame-work at the head had ceased to support it, and it had fallen down, dragging a mass of flaming timbers with it. conway went out into the rain and sat down and cried like a child. afterward, when the storm had partially subsided, a wagon was stopped at the door of the office near the burning breaker, the limp body of bachelor billy was brought out and placed in it, and it was driven rapidly away. they had found him lying on the track at the head with the flames creeping dangerously near. he was unconscious when they came to him, he was unconscious still. they took him to his room at mrs. maloney's cottage, and put him in his bed. the doctor came soon, and under his vigorous treatment the man lost that deathly pallor about his face, but he did not yet recover consciousness. the doctor said he would come out of it in time, and went away to see to the others who had been injured. the men who had brought the invalid were gone, and mrs. maloney was sitting by him alone. the storm had passed, the sun had come out just long enough to bid a reassuring "good-night" to the lately frightened dwellers on the earth, and was now dropping down behind the western hills. a carriage stopped at bachelor billy's door and a moment later mrs. burnham knocked and entered. "i heard that he had suffered from the stroke," she said, looking at the still form on the bed, "and i came to see him. is he better?" "he ain't come out of it yet, ma'am," responded mrs. maloney, "but the doctor's been a-rubbin' of im' an' a-givin' 'im stimmylants, an' he says it's all right he'll be in the course of a few hours. will ye have a chair, ma'am?" "thank you. i'll sit here by him a while with the fan and relieve you. where is ralph?" "he's not come yet, ma'am." "why, mrs. maloney, are you sure? is it possible that anything has happened to him?" "to shpake the trut', ma'am, i'm a bit worried about 'im meself. but they said to me partic'ler, as how ivery man o' thim got out o' the mine befoor the carriage fell. most like he's a-watchin' the fire an' doesn't know his uncle billy's hurted. ye'll see 'im comin' quick enough when he hears that, i'm thinkin'." mrs. burnham had seated herself at the bedside with the fan in her hand. "i'll wait for him," she said; "perhaps he'll be here soon." "i'll be lookin' afther the supper, thin," said mrs. maloney, "the lad'll be hungry whin he comes," and she left the room. bachelor billy lay very quiet, as if asleep, breathing regularly, his face somewhat pale and his lips blue, but he had not the appearance of one who is in danger. a few minutes later there came a gentle knock at the street door. mrs. burnham arose and opened it. lawyer goodlaw stood on the step. she gave him as courteous greeting as though she had been under the roof of her own mansion. "i called at your home," he said, as he entered, "and, learning that you had come here, i concluded to follow you." he went up to the bed and looked at bachelor billy, bending over him with kind scrutiny. "i heard that the shock had affected him seriously," he said, "but he does not appear to be greatly the worse for it; i think he'll come through all right. he's an honest, warm-hearted man. i learned the other day of a proposition that sharpman made to him before the trial; a tempting one to offer to a poor man, but he rejected it with scorn. i'll tell you of it sometime; it shows forth the nobility of the man's character." goodlaw had crossed the room and had taken a seat by the window. "but i came to bring you news," he continued. "our detective returned this morning and presented a full report of his investigation and its result. you will be pleased with it." "oh, mr. goodlaw! is ralph--is ralph--" she was leaning toward him with clasped hands. "ralph is your son," he said. she bowed her head, and her lips moved in silence. when she looked up, there were tears in her eyes, but her face was radiant with happiness. "is there any, any doubt about it now?" she asked. "none whatever," he replied. "and what of rhyming joe's story?" "it was a pure falsehood. he does not tire of telling how he swindled the sharpest lawyer in scranton out of a hundred and fifty dollars, by a plausible lie. he takes much credit to himself for the successful execution of so bold a scheme. but the money got him into trouble. he had too much, he spent it too freely, and, as a consequence, he is serving a short term of imprisonment in the alleghany county jail for some petty offence." the tears would keep coming into the lady's eyes; but they were tears of joy, not of sorrow. "i have the detective's report here in writing," continued goodlaw; "i will give it to you that you may read it at your leisure. craft's story was true enough in its material parts, but a gigantic scheme was based on it to rob both you and your son. the odium of that, however, should rest where the expense of the venture rested, on craft's attorney. it is a matter for sincere congratulation that ralph's identity was not established by them at that time. he has been delivered out of the hands of sharpers, and his property is wholly saved to him. "i learn that craft is dying miserably in his wretched lodgings in philadelphia. with enough of ill-gotten gain to live on comfortably, his miserly instincts are causing him to suffer for the very necessities of life." "i am sorry for him," said the lady; "very sorry." "he is not deserving of your sympathy, madam; he treated your son with great cruelty while he had him." "but he saved ralph's life." "that is no doubt true, yet he stole the jewelry from the child's person and kept him only for the sake of obtaining ransom. "this reminds me that it is also true that he had an interview with your husband on the day of mr. burnham's death. what took place between them i cannot ascertain, but i have learned that afterward, while the rescuing party were descending into the mine, your husband recognized ralph in a way that those who saw and heard him could not at the time understand. recent events, however, prove beyond a doubt that your husband knew, on the day he died, that this boy was his son." mrs. burnham had been weeping silently. "you are bringing me too much good and comforting news," she said; "i am not quite able to bear it all, you see." she was smiling through her tears, but a look of anxiety crossed her face as she continued:-- "i am worried about ralph. he has not yet come from the breaker." she glanced up at the little clock on the shelf, and then went to look out from the window. the man on the bed moved and moaned, and she went back to him. "perhaps we had better send some one to look for the boy," said goodlaw. "i will go myself--" he was interrupted by the opening of the door. andy gilgallon stood on the threshold and looked in with amazement. he had not expected to find the lady and the lawyer there. "i come to see bachelor billy," he said. "me an' him work togither at the head. he got it worse nor i did. i'm over it, only i'm wake yit. the likes o' it was niver seen afoor." he looked curiously in at the bed where his comrade was lying. "come in," said mrs. burnham, "come in and look at him. he's not conscious yet, but i think he'll soon come to himself." the man entered the room, walking on the toes of his clumsy shoes. "have you seen anything of ralph since the fire?" continued the lady. andy stopped and looked incredulously at his questioner. "an' have ye not heard?" he asked. "heard what, andy?" she replied, her face paling as she noted the man's strange look. "why, they didn't get 'im out," he said. "it's in the mine he is, sure, mum." she stood for a moment in silence, her face as white as the wall behind her. then she clasped her hands tightly together and all the muscles of her body grew rigid in the desperate effort to remain calm for the sake of the unconscious man on the bed, for the sake of the lost boy in the mine, for the sake of her own ability to think and to act. goodlaw saw the struggle and rose from his chair. "it's a dangerous imprisonment," he said, "but not, of necessity, a fatal one." she still stood staring silently at the messenger who had brought to her these dreadful tidings. "they're a-thryin' to get to the mouth o' the shaft now," said andy. "they're a-dhraggin' the timbers away; timbers wid the fire in 'em yit. ye'd be shtartled to see 'em, mum." then the lady spoke. "i will go to the shaft," she said. her carriage was already at the door; she started toward it, throwing a light wrap across her arm as she went. again the man on the bed moved and moaned. "stay with him," she said to andy, "until i come myself, or send some one to relieve you. see that he has everything he needs. he is my charge." goodlaw helped her to the carriage. "will you come with me?" she asked. he seated himself beside her and they were driven away. there was little that he could say to comfort and assure her. the shock was too recent. the situation of her son was too perilous. darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster; one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon was hanging in the west. great clouds of white smoke were floating away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there was now only a mass of charred and glowing ruins. there were many people there, people who talked in low tones and who looked on with solemn faces. but there were no outcries nor lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine, and he was kin to no one there. up at the south-west corner of the pile they were throwing water on the ruins. an engine had been brought up from the city and was pouring a steady stream on the spot where the shaft was thought to be. many men were engaged in cutting and pulling away the burned timbers, handling them while they were yet glowing with fire, so eager were they to forward the work of rescue. the superintendent of the mines was there, directing, encouraging, and giving a helping hand. he saw mrs. burnham and came up to her carriage. "it was a very disastrous lightning stroke," he said; "the property of the company is in ruins, but as yet no lives have been lost. there is but one person in the mine, the boy ralph; you both know him. we are clearing away the wreckage from the mouth of the shaft as rapidly as possible, in the hope that we may get down there in time to save his life. our people have directed me to spare no effort in this matter. one life, even though it is that of an unknown boy, is not too poor a thing for us to try, by every possible means, to save." "that boy," said goodlaw, "is mrs. burnham's son." "is it possible! has he been identified, then, since the trial?" "fully, fully! my dear sir, i beg that you will do all that lies in your power to save this life for your company's sake, then double your effort for this lady's sake. she has no such fortune as this boy is to her." mrs. burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed. now she spoke:-- "what is the prospect? what are the chances? can you surely save him? tell me truly, mr. martin?" "we cannot say certainly," replied the superintendent; "there are too many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant. we do not know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition of the air in the mine. to be frank with you, i think the chances are against rescuing the boy alive. the mine soon fills with poisonous gases when the air supply is cut off." "are you doing all that can be done?" she asked. "will more men, more money, more of anything, help you in your work?" "we are doing all that can be done," he answered her. "the men are working bravely. we need nothing." "how soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?" the man thought for a moment before replying. "to-morrow," he said, uncertainly. "i think surely by to-morrow." she sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time named. she had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable them to reach the bottom of the shaft. "we will push the work to the utmost," said martin, as he hurried away. "possibly we shall be able to get in sooner." goodlaw and mrs. burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the men at their labor. word had been passed among the workers that the missing boy was mrs. burnham's son, and their energetic efforts were put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad's. for both mother and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men. the mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a space cleared around it, and the frame of a rude windlass erected. they were preparing to remove the debris from the opening. conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told the story of ralph's heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of his own. he had little hope, he said, that ralph could live till they should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into the mine in search of the gallant boy. at this recital mrs. burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no longer. at last goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene. he feared the effect that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves. the flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep earnestness displayed,--all this made up a picture too dramatic and appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed. arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep mrs. burnham constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the grief-stricken mother departed. they drove first to bachelor billy's room. andy was still there and said he would remain during the night. he said that billy had spoken once or twice, apparently in his right mind, and was now sleeping quietly. then mrs. burnham went to her home. she passed the long night in sleepless anxiety, waiting for the messages from the mine, which followed each other in slow succession. they brought to her no good news. the work was going on; the opening was full with wreckage; the air was very bad, even in the shaft. these were the tidings. it was hardly possible, they wrote, that the boy could still be living. long before the last star had paled and faded in the western sky, or the first rays of the morning sun had shot across the hills, despair had taken in her heart the place of hope. she could only say: "well, he died as his father died, trying to save the lives of others. i have two lost heroes now to mourn for and be proud of, instead of one." but even yet there crossed her mind at times the thought that possibly, possibly the one chance for life as against thousands and thousands for death might fall to her boy; and the further and deeper thought that the range of god's mercy was very wide, oh, very wide! chapter xxiv. at the dawn of day. it was not until very late on the morning following the storm that bachelor billy came fully to his senses and realized what had happened. he was told that the breaker had been struck by lightning and burned to the ground, and that his own illness was due to the severity of the electric shock. he asked where ralph was, and they told him that ralph was up at the mine. they thought it wiser that he should not know the truth about the boy just yet. he thought to get up and dress himself, but he felt so weak and bruised, and the strong metallic taste in his mouth nauseated him so, that he yielded to the advice of those who were with him and lay down again. he looked up anxiously at the clock, at intervals, and seemed to be impatient for the noon hour to arrive. he thought ralph would come then to his dinner. he wondered that the boy should go away and leave him for so long a time alone in his illness. the noon hour came, but ralph did not come. andy gilgallon returned and tried to divert the man's mind with stories of the fire, but the attempt was in vain. at one o'clock they made a pretence of sending mrs. maloney's little girl to look for ralph, in order to quiet bachelor billy's growing apprehension. but he remained very anxious and ill at ease. it struck him that there was something peculiar about the conduct of the people who were with him when ralph's name was mentioned or his absence discussed. a growing fear had taken possession of his mind that something was wrong, and so terribly wrong that they dared not tell it to him. when the clock struck two, he sat up in the bed and looked at andy gilgallon with a sternness in his face that was seldom seen there. "andy," he said, "tha's summat ye're a-keepin' fra me. if aught's happenit to the lad i want ye s'ould tell me. be he hurt, be he dead, i wull know it. coom noo, oot wi' it, mon! d'ye hear me?" andy could not resist an appeal and a command like this. there was something in the man's eyes, he said afterwards, that drew the truth right out of him. bachelor billy heard the story calmly, asked about the means being taken for the boy's rescue, and then sat for a few moments in quiet thought. finally he said: "andy, gi' me ma clothes." andy did not dare to disobey him. he gave his clothes to him, and helped him to dress. the man was so sick and dizzy still that he could hardly stand. he crossed the room, took his cap from its hook and put it on his head. "an' where do yez be goin' to i donno?" inquired andy, anxiously. "i'm a-goin' to the breaker," replied bachelor billy. "ah, man! but ye're foolish. ye'll be losin' your own life, i warrant, an' ye'll be doin' no good to the boy." but billy had already started from the door. "i might be able to do a bit toward savin' 'im," he said. "an' if he's beyon' that, as mos' like he is, i s'ould want to get the lad's body an' care for it mysel'. i kenned 'im best." the two men were walking up through the narrow street of the village. "i hear now that it's mrs. burnham's son he is," said andy. "lawyer goodlaw came yesterday wid the news." billy did not seem surprised. he trudged on, saying simply:-- "then he's worthy of his mither, the lad is, an' of his father. i'm thankfu' that he's got some one at last, besides his uncle billy, happen it's only to bury 'im." the fresh, cool air seemed to have revived and strengthened the invalid, and he went on at a more rapid pace. but he was weak enough still. he wavered from side to side as he walked, and his face was very pale. when the two men reached the site of the burned breaker, they went directly to the opening to learn the latest news concerning the search. there was not much, however, for them to hear. the shaft was entirely cleaned out and men had been down into the mine, but they had not been able to get far from the foot, the air was so very bad. a rough partition was being built now, down the entire depth of the opening, a cover had been erected over the mouth of the shaft, and a fan had been put up temporarily, to drive fresh air into the mine and create an atmosphere there that would support life. it was not long after the arrival of the two men before another party of miners stepped into the bucket to be lowered into the mine. bachelor billy asked to be allowed to go with them, but his request was denied. they feared that, in his present condition, the foul air below would be fatal to him. the party could not go far from the foot of the shaft, no farther, indeed, than the inside plane. but they found nothing, no sign whatever of the missing boy. others went down afterward, and pushed the exploration farther, and still others. it seemed probable that the lad, driven back by the smoke and gas, had taken refuge in some remote portion of the mine; and the portion that he would be apt to choose, they thought, would be the portion with which he had been most familiar. they therefore extended the search mainly in that direction. but it was night before they reached those chambers which ralph had been accustomed to serve with cars. they looked them over thoroughly; every entrance and every corner was scrutinized, but no trace of the imprisoned boy could be found. bachelor billy had not left the place. he had been the first to hear the report of each returning squad, but his hope for the lad's safety had disappeared long before the sun went down. when night came on he went up on the bank and sat under the tree on the bench; the same bench on which he had sat that day in may to listen to the story of ralph's temptation. his only anxiety now was that the child's body should be brought speedily from the foul air, so that the face might be kept as fair as possible for the mother's sake. conway, who had gone down into the mine with the first searching party, had been overcome by the foul air, and had been brought out insensible and taken to his home. but he had recovered, and was now back again at the shaft. it seemed to him, he said, as though he was compelled to return; as though there was something to be done here that only he could do. he was sitting on the bench now with bachelor billy, and they were discussing the lad's heroic sacrifice, and wondering to what part of the mine he could have gone that the search of half a day should fail to disclose his whereabouts. a man who had just come out from the shaft, exhausted, was assisted up the bank by two companions, and laid down on the grass near the bench, in the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air that was stirring there. after a little, he revived, and began to tell of the search. "it's very strange," he said, "where the lad could have gone. we thought to find him in the north tier, and we went up one chamber and down the next, and looked into every entrance, but never a track of him could we get." he turned to conway, who was standing by, and continued:-- "up at the face o' your chamber we found a dead mule with his collar on. the poor creature had gone there, no doubt, to find good air. he'd climbed up on the very shelf o' coal at the breast to get the farthest he could. did ye ever hear the like?" but conway did not answer. a vague solution of the mystery of ralph's disappearance was dawning on him. he turned suddenly to the man, and asked:-- "did ye see the hole in the face when ye were there; a hole the size o' your head walled up with stone-coal?" "i took no note o' such a thing. what for had ye such a hole there, an' where to?" "into the old mine," said conway, earnestly, "into old no. . the boy saw it yisterday. i told 'im where it wint. he's broke it in, and crawled through, he has, i'll bet he has. come on; we'll find 'im yet!" and he started rapidly down the hill toward the mouth of the shaft. bachelor billy rose from the bench and stumbled slowly after him; while the man who had told them about the mule lifted himself to his elbows, and looked down on them in astonishment. he could not quite understand what conway meant. the superintendent of the mine had gone. the foreman in charge of the windlass and fan stood leaning against a post, with the light of a torch flaring across his swarthy face. "let me down!" cried conway, hastening to the opening. "i know where the boy is; i can find 'im." the man smiled. "it's against orders," he responded. "wait till martin comes back an' the next gang goes in; then ye can go." "but i say i know where the boy is. i can find 'im in half an hour. five minutes delay might cost 'im his life."-- the man looked at conway in doubt and wonder; he was hesitating between obedience and inclination. then bachelor billy spoke up, "why, mon!" he exclaimed, "what's orders when a life's at stake? we _mus'_ go doon, i tell ye! an ye hold us back ye'll be guilty o' the lad's daith!" his voice had a ring of earnestness in it that the man could not resist. he moved to the windlass and told his helpers to lower the bucket. conway entreated bachelor billy not to go down, and the foreman joined in the protest. they might as well have talked to the stars. "why, men!" said billy, "tha's a chance as how the lad's alive. an that be so no ither body can do for 'im like me w'en he's foond. i wull go doon, i tell ye; i _mus'_ go doon!" he stepped carefully into the bucket, conway leaped in after him, and they were lowered away. at the bottom of the shaft they found no one but the footman, whose duty it was to remain steadily at his post. he listened somewhat incredulously to their hasty explanations, he gave to them another lighted lamp, and wished them good-luck as they started away into the heading. in spite of his determination and self-will, bachelor billy's strength gave out before they had reached the head of the plane, and he was obliged to stop and rest. indeed, he was compelled often to do this during the remainder of the journey, but he would not listen to any suggestion that he should turn back. the air was still very impure, although they could at times feel the fresh current from the shaft at their backs. they met no one. the searching parties were all south of the shaft now, this part of the mine having been thoroughly examined. by the time the two men had reached the foot of conway's chamber, they were nearly prostrated by the foul air they had been compelled to breathe. both were still feeble from recent illnesses and were without the power to resist successfully the effects of the poisoned atmosphere. they made their way up the chamber in silence, their limbs unsteady, their heads swimming, their hearts beating violently. at the breast conway clambered up over the body of the mule and thrust his lighted lamp against the walled-up aperture. "he's gone through here!" he cried. "he's opened up the hole an' gone through." the next moment he was tearing away the blocks of slate and coal with both hands. but his fingers were stiff and numb, and the work progressed too slowly. then he braced himself against the body of the mule, pushed with his feet against ralph's rude wall, and the next moment it fell back into the old mine. he brushed away the bottom stones and called to his companion. "come!" he said, "the way's clear an' we'll find better air in there." but bachelor billy did not respond. he had fallen against the lower face of coal, unconscious. conway saw that he must do quick work. he reached over, grasped the man by his shoulders, and with superhuman effort drew him up to the shelf and across the body of the mule. then, creeping into the opening, he pulled the helpless man through with him into the old mine, and dragged him up the chamber out of reach of the poisoned current. he loosened his collar and chafed his wrists and the better air in there did the rest. bachelor billy soon returned to consciousness, and learned where he was. "that was fulish in me," he said, "to weaken like that; but i'm no' used to that white damp. gi' me a minute to catch ma breath an' i'll go wi' ye." conway went down and walled up the opening again. when he came back bachelor billy was on his feet, walking slowly down the chamber, throwing the light of his lamp into the entrances on the way. "did he go far fra the openin,' thenk ye?" he asked. "would he no' most like stay near whaur he cam' through?" then he tried to lift up his voice and call to the boy; but he was too weak, he could hardly have been heard across the chamber. "call 'im yoursel', mike," he said; "i ha' no power i' my throat, some way." conway called, loudly and repeatedly. there was no answer; the echoes came rattling back to their ears, and that was all that they heard. "mayhap he's gone to the headin'," said billy, "an" tried to get oot by the auld slope." "that's just what he's done," replied conway, earnestly; "i told 'im where the old openin' was; he's tried to get to it." "then we'll find 'im atween here an' there." the two men had been moving slowly down the chamber. when they came to the foot of it, they turned into the air-way, and from that they went through the entrance into the heading. at this place the dirt on the floor was soft and damp, and they saw in it the print of a boy's shoe. "he's gone in," said bachelor billy, examining the foot-prints, "he's gone in toward the face. i ken the place richt well, it's mony's the time i ha' travelled it." they hurried in along the heading, not stopping to look for other tracks, but expecting to find the boy's body ahead of them at every step they took. when they reached the face, they turned and looked at each other in surprise. "he's no' here," said billy. "it's strange, too," replied conway. "he couldn't 'a' got off o' the headin'!" he stooped and examined the floor of the passage carefully, holding his lamp very low. "billy," he said, "i believe he's come in an' gone out again. here's tracks a-pointin' the other way." "so he has, mike, so he has; the puir lad!" bachelor billy was thinking of the disappointment ralph must have felt when he saw the face of the heading before him, and knew that his journey in had been in vain. already the two men had turned and were walking back. at the point where they had entered the heading they found foot-prints leading out toward the slope. they had not noticed them at first. they followed them hastily, and came, as ralph had come, to the fall. "he's no' climbit it," said billy. "he's gone up an' around it. the lad knew eneuch aboot the mines for that." they passed up into the chambers, but the floor was too dry to take the impress of footsteps, and they found no trace of the boy. when they reached the upper limit of the fall, billy said:-- "we mus' turn sharp to the left here, or we'll no' get back. it's a tarrible windin' headin'." but conway had discovered tracks, faintly discernible, leading across into a passage used by men and mules to shorten the distance to the inner workings. "he's a-goin' stret back," said billy, sorrowfully, as they slowly followed these traces, "he's a-goin' stret back to whaur he cam' through." surely enough the prints of the child's feet soon led the tired searchers back to the opening from conway's chamber. they looked at each other in silent disappointment, and sat down for a few moments to rest and to try to think. bachelor billy was the first to rise to his feet. "mike," he said, "the lad's i' this auld mine. be it soon or late i s'all find 'im. i s'all search the place fra slope to headin'-face. i s'all no' gae oot till i gae wi' the boy or wi' 'is body; what say ye? wull ye help?" conway grasped the man's hand with a pressure that meant more than words, and they started immediately to follow their last track back. they passed up and down all the chambers in the tier till they reached the point, at the upper limit of the fall, where ralph had turned into the foot-way. their search had been a long and tiresome one and had yielded to them no results. they began to appreciate the fact that a thorough exploration of the mine could not be made in a short time by two worn-out men. billy blamed himself for not having thought sooner to send for other and fresher help. "ye mus' go now, mike," he said. "mayhap it'd take days wi' us twa here alone, an' the lad's been a-wanderin' aroun' so." but conway demurred. "you're the one to go," he said. "you can't stan' it in here much longer, an' i can. you're here at the risk o' your life. go on out with ye an' get a bit o' the fresh air. i'll stay and hunt for the boy till the new men comes." but bachelor billy was in earnest. "i canna do it," he said. "i would na get farther fra the lad for warlds, an' him lost an' a-dyin' mayhap. i'll stan' it. never ye fear for me! go on, mike, go on quick!" conway turned reluctantly to go. "hold out for an hour," he shouted back, "an' we'll be with ye!" before the sound of his footsteps had died away, billy had picked up his lamp again and started down on the easterly side of the fall, making little side excursions as he went, hunting for foot-prints on the floor of the mine. when he came to the heading, he turned to go back to the face of the fall. it was but a few steps. there was a little stream of water running down one side of the passage and he lay down by it to drink. half hidden in the stream he espied a miner's lamp. he reached for it in sudden surprise. he saw that it had been lately in use. he started to his feet and moved up closer to the fall, looking into the dark places under the rock. his foot struck something; it was the oil-can. he picked it up and examined it. there was blood on it; and both can and lamp were empty. he looked up at the face of the fall and then the truth came slowly into his mind. the boy had attempted to climb through that wilderness of rock, had reached the precipice, had fallen to the floor, had spilled his oil, and had wandered off into the dreadful darkness, hurt and helpless. "oh, the puir lad!" he said, aloud. "oh, the puir dear lad! he canna be far fra here," he continued, "not far. ralph! ralph!" he waited a moment in silence, but there was no answer. then, hastily examining the passage as he went, he hurried down along the heading. at one place he found a burned match. the boy had gone this way, then. he hastened on. he came to a point where two headings met, and stopped in indecision. which route had ralph taken? he decided to try the one that led to the slope. he went in that way, but he had not gone ten rods before he came upon a little heap of charred rags in the middle of the passage. he could not understand it at first; but he was not long in discovering what it meant. ralph had burned his jacket to light up the path. "ah! the sufferin' child!" he murmured; "the dear sufferin' child!" a little further along he saw a boy's cap lying in the way. he picked it up and placed it in his bosom. he brushed away a tear or two from his eyes and hastened on. it was no time to weep over the lad's sufferings when he expected to find his body at every step he took. but he went a long distance and saw no other sign of the boy's passage. he came to a place at last where the dirt on the floor of the heading was wet. he bent down and made careful scrutiny from side to side, but there were no foot-prints there save his own. he had, in his haste gone too far. he turned back with a desperate longing at his heart. he knew that the lad must be somewhere near. at one point, an unblocked entrance opened from the heading into the air-way at an acute angle. he thought the boy might have turned into that, and he passed up through it and so into the chambers. he stopped at times to call ralph's name, but no answer ever came. he wandered back, finally, toward the fall, and down into the heading where the burned coat was. after a few moments of rest, he started again, examining every inch of the ground as he went. this time he found where ralph had turned off into the air-way. he traced his foot-prints up through an entrance into the chambers and there they were again lost. but he passed on through the open places, calling as he went, and came finally to the sump near the foot of the slope. he held his lamp high and looked out over the black surface of the water. not far away the roof came down to meet it. a dreadful apprehension entered the man's mind. perhaps ralph had wandered unconsciously into this black pool and been drowned. but that was too terrible; he would not allow himself to think of it. he turned away, went back up the chamber, and crossed over again to the air-way. moving back a little to search for foot-prints, he came to an old door-way and sat clown by it to rest--yes, and to weep. he could no longer think of the torture the child must have endured in his wanderings through the old mine and keep the tears from his eyes. he almost hoped that death had long ago come to the boy's relief. "oh, puir lad!" he sobbed, "puir, puir lad!" below him, in the darkness, he heard the drip of water from the roof. aside from that, the place was very, very still. then, for a moment, his heart stopped beating and he could not move. he had heard a voice somewhere near him saying:-- "good-night, uncle billy! if i wake first in the mornin', i'll call you--good-night!" it was what ralph was used to saying when he went to bed at home. but it was not ralph's voice sounding through the darkness; it was only the ghost of ralph's voice. in the next moment the man's strength returned to him; he seized his lamp and leaped through the old door-way, and there at his feet lay ralph. the boy was living, breathing, talking. billy fell on his knees beside him and began to push the hair back from his damp forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so. "ralph," he said, "ralph, lad, dinna ye see me? it's your uncle billy, ralph, your uncle billy." the boy did not open his eyes, but his lips moved. "did you call me, uncle billy?" he asked. "is it mornin'? is it daylight?" "it'll soon be daylight, lad, verra soon noo, verra soon." he had fastened his lamp in his cap, placed his arms gently under the child's body, and lifted him to his breast. he stood for a moment then, questioning with himself. but the slope was the nearest and the way to it was the safest, and there was no time to wait. he started down the air-way on his journey to the outer world, bearing his burden as tenderly as a mother would have borne her babe, looking down at times into the still face, letting the tears drop now and then on the paper pinned to the boy's breast. he stopped to rest after a little, holding the child on his knees as he sat, and looking curiously at the letter, on which his tears had fallen. he read it slowly by the light of his lamp, bending back the fold to do so. he did not wonder at it. he knew what it meant and why the boy had fastened it there. "ye s'all gae to her, lad," he said, "ye s'all gae to the mither. i'm thankfu', verra thankfu', that the father kenned the truth afoor he deed." he raised his precious burden to his heart and began again his journey. the water in the old sump had risen and flowed across the heading and the air-way and far up into the chambers, and he was compelled to go around it. the way was long and devious; it was blocked and barred; he had often to lay his burden down and make an opening through some walled-up entrance to give them room for passage. there were falls in his course, and he clambered across rough hills of rock and squeezed through narrow openings; but every step brought him nearer to the slope, and this thought nerved him to still greater effort. yet he could not wholly escape the water of the sump. he had still to pass through it. it was cold and black. it came to his ankles as he trudged along. by and by it reached to his knees. when it grew to be waist-deep he lifted the child to his shoulder, steadied himself against the side wall of the passage and pushed on. he slipped often, he became dizzy at times, there were horrible moments when he thought surely that the dark water would close over him and his precious burden forever. but he came through it at last, dripping, gasping, staggering on till he reached the foot of the old slope. there he sat down to rest. from away back in the mine the echoing shouts of the rescuing party came faintly to his ears. conway had returned with help. he tried to answer their call, but the cry stuck in his throat. he knew that it would be folly for him to attempt to reach them; he knew also that they would never trace his course across that dreadful waste of water. there was but one thing to do; he must go on, he must climb the slope. he gave one look up the long incline, gathered his burden to his breast and started upward. the slope was not a steep one. there were many in that region that were steeper; but to a man in the last stage of physical exhaustion, forcing his tired muscles and his pain-racked body to carry him and his helpless charge up its slippery way, it was little less than precipitous. it was long too, very long, and in many places it was rough with dislodged props and caps and fallen rock. many and many a time bachelor billy fell prone upon the sloping floor, but, though he was powerless to save himself, though he met in his own body the force of every blow, he always held the child out of harm's way. he began to wonder, at last, if he could ever get the lad to the surface; if, within fifty rods of the blessed outer air, he would not after all have to lie down and die with ralph in his arms. but as soon as such thoughts came to him he brought his tremendous will and magnificent courage to the rescue, and arose and struggled on. the boy had not spoken since the journey began, nor had he opened his eyes. he was still unconscious, but he was breathing; his heart was beating, there was life in his body, and that was all that could be asked or hoped for. at last! oh, at last! the straight, steep, dreadful half mile of slope was at bachelor billy's back. he stood out once more in the free and open air. under his feet were the grass and flowers and yielding soil; over his head were the shining stars, now paling in the east; below him lay the fair valley and the sleeping town clothed lightly in the morning mist; and in his arms he still held the child who had thought never again to draw breath under the starry sky or in the dewy air. there came a faint breeze, laden with all the fragrance of the young morning, and it swept ralph's cheek so gently that the very sweetness of it made his eyes to open. he looked at the reddening east, at the setting stars still glowing in the western sky, at the city church spires rising out of the sea of silver mist far down below him, and then at last up into the dear old face and the tear-wet eyes above him, and he said: "uncle billy, oh, uncle billy! don't you think it's beautiful? i wish--i wish my mother could see it." "aye, lad! she s'all look upon it wi' ye, mony's the sweet mornin' yet, an it please the good god." the effort to look and to speak had overpowered the weary child, and he sank back again into unconsciousness. then began the journey home. not to the old cottage; that was ralph's home no longer, but to the home of wealth and beauty now, to the mansion yonder in the city where the mother was waiting for her boy. aye! the mother was waiting for her boy. they had sent a messenger on horseback shortly after midnight to tell her that the lad's tracks had been found in the old mine, that all the men at hand had started in there to make the search more thorough, that by daylight the child would be in her arms, that possibly, oh! by the merest possibility, he might still be living. so through the long hours she had waited, had waited and watched, listening for a footfall in the street, for a step on the porch, for a sound at her door; yet no one came. the darkness that lay upon the earth seemed, also, to lie heavily on her spirit. but now, at last, with the gray light that told of coming day, there crept into her heart a hope, a confidence, a serenity of faith that set it quite at rest. she drew back the curtains and threw open the windows to let in the morning air. the sky above the eastern hilltops was aglow with crimson; in the zenith it was like the color of the sweet pale rose. she felt and knew that her boy was living and that very soon he would be with her. doubt had disappeared wholly from her mind. she threw open the great hall doors that he might have a gracious and a fitting welcome to his home. she went up once more to the room in which he was to lie until health should return to him, to see that it was ready to receive him. when she again descended the stairs she saw the poor, bent figure of a man, carrying a burden in his arms, staggering weakly up the walk, laboring with awful effort at the steps of the porch. he was wet and wretched, he was hatless and ragged, but on his soiled face was a smile befitting one of god's angels. he kissed his burden tenderly, and gave it into the lady's arms. he said:-- "i've brought 'im to ye fra the edge o' daith. his title to your luve is pinnit on 'is breast. i'm thankfu'--thankfu' for ye--both." bachelor billy's work was done. he had lived to place his dearest treasure in the safest place on earth; there was nothing left for him to do. he sank down gently to the floor of the broad hall. the first sunlight of the new day flashed its rays against the stained-glass windows, and the windows caught them and laid them in coverlets of blue and gold across the prostrate form of this humblest of earth's heroes. under them was no stain visible, no mark of poverty, no line of pain; he lay like a king in state with the cloth of gold across his body, and a crown of gold upon his head; but his soul, his brave, pure, noble soul, ah! that was looking down from the serene and lofty heights of everlasting life. * * * * * yes, he lived, ralph lived and became well and strong. he took his name and his estates and chose his mother for his guardian; and life for him was very, very beautiful. the summer passed and the singing birds grew silent in the woods and fields. the grain stood golden, and the ripe fruit dropped from vine and tree. october came, with her frosty nights and smoky days. she dashed the hill-sides with her red and yellow, and then she held her veil of mist for the sun's rays to shine through, lest the gorgeous coloring should daze the eyes of men. on one of these most beautiful autumnal days, ralph and his mother went driving through the country roads, gathering golden-rod and purple aster and the fleecy immortelle. when they returned they passed through the cemetery gates and drove to one spot where art and nature had combined to make pleasant to the living eye the resting-places of the dead, and they laid their offering of fresh wild-flowers upon the grave of one who had nobly lived and had not ignobly died. above the mound, a block of rugged granite rose, bearing on its face the name and age and day of death of william buckley, and also this inscription:-- "having finished his work, by the will of god he fell asleep." as they drove back toward the glowing west, toward the pink clouds that lay above the mountain-tops behind which the sun had just now disappeared, toward the bustling city and the dear, dear home, ralph lifted up his face and kissed his mother on her lips. but he did not speak; the happiness and peace within him were too great for words. distributed proofreaders natalie; or, a gem among the sea-weeds by ferna vale. . to thee, my darling hattie, i dedicate the sea-flower would that this casket contained for such as thou, a purer gem. preface. in writing the following pages the author has spent pleasant hours, which perhaps might have been less profitably employed: if anything of interest be found among them, it is well,--and, should any be led to take up their cross in meekness and humility, searching out the path that leads the wanderer home, it is indeed well. natalie. chapter i. the sea-flower. "what was it that i loved so well about my childhood's home? it was the wide and wave-lashed shore, the black rocks crowned with foam! it was the sea-gull's flapping wing, all trackless in its flight, its screaming note, that welcomed on the fierce and stormy night! the wild heath had its flowers and moss, the forest had its trees, which, bending to the evening wind, made music in the breeze; but earth,--ha! ha! i laugh e'en now,--earth had no charms for me, nor scene half bright enough to win my young heart from the sea. no! 't was the ocean, vast and deep, the fathomless, the free,-- the mighty rushing waters, that were ever dear to me!" eliza cook. "but the goodly pearl which the merchant bought, and for which his all he gave, was a purer pearl than will e'er be brought from under the foaming wave." h. f. gould. "massa grobener! massa grobener! please, sar, look here! de good lord hab left his mitest ob angels here on de beach; and please, sar, step low or de wee bit will take to its wings and fly away. de good lord be praised! but old bingo hab found many a bright sea-weed in his day, but dis am de sweetest sea-flower ob de whole." and as he spoke, the little one stretched out its tiny arms toward the poor old black man and gave a faint moan. captain grosvenor, who had now come up with the negro, was no less surprised than had been old vingo, at discovering, among the fresh, bright sea-weed, an infant some eight months old. the babe was carefully lashed into a large wooden trough or bowl, and a canvas firmly stretched over the top, permitting only the head and arms to remain exposed, and judging from the dripping condition of the worthy little sea-craft, it could not have been many moments since it had come to anchor on the smooth, hard beach; probably the now receding waves had borne the precious burden to this most welcome harbor--"whereby hangs a tale." "de good lord be praised, massa! but dis am de most curous ob all sea-ve'cles that eber trabers de great waters! i sure it must be a speint from de great scripture ark massa read about in de good book; or may be it am one ob those old-time chariots, fiery chariots, we sings about; only it so moist around here, it put de fire all out and leabe de chariot. or i tink it may be one ob dose machines bingo used to see in old slabe-massa's church, hung up ober de minister's head, to make de good psalms or de prayers go de right way, and i don't remember which; old bingo always retained a bery bad memory, eber since before he was a child; but i tink dey used to call it a sound board, though it was full ob cracks." ah! poor fellow, had you seen that heart-rending look of despair, mingled with sweet resignation, upon the face of that mother! had you seen the glistening tear in the eye of that noble father, as, but a few hours before, they consigned their idolized child to the mercies of the deep; had you heard that prayer to god, if it might be his will, to spare their darling from an ocean-grave, your great heart would have been, if possible, kindled to a greater love for that helpless little one! captain grosvenor, after having carefully taken the child from the grotesque looking craft, which had proved so trustworthy a sailor, and wiped the drops of spray from its little face, wrapped it in a large bandana, and gave it to the faithful vingo, while he took his glass and scanned the distant horizon; for well did he know, though even at noon-day, that one more unfortunate bark had gone down near that dread "nantucket shoal," upon which so many noble hearts have found a watery grave. "i see nothing," said the captain, "nothing, not even a passing sail; which is quite uncommon at this season, when so many vessels are constantly passing and repassing our island; not even the light-boat do i see, which is probably owing to a fog coming in from the sea, as yet imperceptible to us here. poor fellows! i fear they have gone down without a soul to help them! it seems hard when there are so many stout hearts and ready arms here, willing to risk their lives in the attempt to save. those shoals, vingo, are the only unkind thing there is about our cherished island; but the will of god be done. truly his ways are unsearchable." "den you tinks, massa, dis little sea-flower was left here trough mistake, by de lord?" "it most assuredly was left here by the lord, vingo, but not by mistake. the fact is, my boy, there has been a wreck off to the east south-east of the island; probably some vessel has mistaken her bearings, or, being unacquainted with the coast, has run on to the shoals and gone to pieces; and this infant was made fast to the first floatable object that could be found, and with a mother's dying prayer for a rudder, and the hand of him who guides us all at the helm, she has come to us here; and with eyes of heaven's own blue, she silently asks for that protection which shall not be withheld from her so long as it shall be within my power to give. and now, vingo, boy, you may turn the horse's head for the town." "yes, massa." and though some fifty years had passed over the old negro's head, he sprang with the agility of boyhood's days; although, as the poor fellow often remarked, "he had a wonderful constitution for enduring rest," the thought of his good missus's surprise, when she should learn of their morning's adventure, gave him new life, and he fairly danced about the beach for joy. seated in the spring-cart, captain grosvenor took the babe in his arms, that had now fallen into a quiet sleep, while vingo, perching himself first on one foot and then the other, to keep his balance, gathered up the reins, and all started for home. "i am tinking, massa, dat my missus be quite ober-much-come at de sight of dis little sea-flower." "yes, boy; yes, sea-flower indeed. i have travelled the wide world from stem to stern, but never have i met with such an emblem of innocence before." and though the hardy sea-captain had spent the greater part of his life among the whales, he stooped down and pressed his lips to the brow of the unconscious sleeper. "luff off there a little, vingo; keep to the right; these bare commons are not the easiest grounds to ride over, though with a light spring-cart like this one can navigate with some degree of comfort. the broad ocean is the place, after all. give me the old ship tantalizer, and i am at home. take the glass, vingo, and see if you can make out whether the steamboat is in sight or not." "cannot eben make de staff, massa. ah! now i sees him; de flag is up, old massachusetts am in sight." "she will be in early to-day. travels decently fast, considering she is all out of joint. i hope we shall get a new steamer some day; then we may keep posted with what is going on in the outer world." "yes, massa, people tink we a piece ob de continent den." an hour's ride brought our worthy captain to his own door, where stood mrs. grosvenor, with her son harry, their only child, of seven years, awaiting him. "you have made a long stay at the shore this morning, my husband; but if these little excursions will deter you from making a longer voyage, i will not complain." "yes, wife, yes; but for a peace offering i have brought to you a gem from among the sea-weeds." "my dear husband, where can you have found this child?" and tears were in the eyes of the lady as she received the little unknown from his arms. "is it for you? to be yours, mother? mother, may it stay with us here?" asked harry; and in his delight he stumbled over old neptune, who was stretched at full length upon the floor, and the two went rolling over and over, first one up and then the other, till finally the boy came off victorious, seated astride the animal's back, who marched up to mrs. grosvenor's side, where they both remained, eyeing the little stranger in silence. "the child's dress denotes no common birth," remarked the captain, as his lady disrobed it of its rich lace dress, saturated with the salt seawater. "and the gold bands; are there no marks?--nothing, by which we may gain the least clue of its history?" "i see nothing; and it is well; for my heart already yearns towards the little creature, and in my selfish human nature, i can't but hope that we may be able to keep her for our own." and as she spoke she pressed the clasp of the band, and, behold! the miniature likeness of a lady was brought to view. the foster mother gazed upon those features, as if it were the face of an angel. "i cannot have the heart to wish to retain _her_ child! to deprive that mother of anything that can give her pain to lose. would i could ask her to forgive my cruel thoughts; forgive the desire to retain this her gem. but i know she has gone to her home in the skies; she was too pure for earth. yes, this must be the mother, the child is so like her." "the same features, the same expression; and," said the captain, "i will use every means of finding out if there is one left of that ill-fated crew to tell the tale. it will probably be reported in a few days, if there are any missing vessels, either from our coasts or foreign ports. in the meantime i will take care to have this discovery registered at head-quarters, and then if we can discover no trace of her parentage we may have her for our own." "have her for our own! nep, do you hear that? we are to have a new sister!" shouted the boy; and nep, as if comprehending his young master's words, laid his great honest face on the feet of the child, and caressed her. "please, missus, don't make little sea-flower too fresh; she be pining for de sea;" remarked vingo, as mrs. grosvenor proceeded to bathe the child in cool fresh water; and having brought out the baby-clothes worn by harry, she was soon, by the aid of a little new milk, made comfortable, and, creeping down after old nep, sat with her hands buried in his shaggy coat, crowing with delight. the lights at captain grosvenor's burned long into the night of that eventful day, of the discovery of the sea-flower, while he related to his wife how they had found the little one among the sea-weeds, and in forming plans for her future adoption, should nothing be learned of her parentage, and no friends come to claim the child. soon after the commencement of our story, a fearful storm swept the new england coast. 'twould seem as if the rage of the storm-king knew no bounds; and many hearts there were made desolate in that long-to-be-remembered september gale. fragments of wrecks came ashore on different parts of the island, together with casks, chests, rigging, stoven boats, etc., which were picked up in various places, and by various characters. some would watch eagerly for these trophies of destruction, and with grasping hand seize upon them, viewing the storm as sent for their own particular benefit; increasing their worldly goods, regardless of others' woes. while some there were, who turned away with a heart sick at the scene of devastation, yet submissively bowing to his will, "who holds the waters in his hand." wreck upon wreck was reported. the total loss of vessels from all parts of the world was very great, which only served to increase the mystery in regard to the unknown, which went down 'neath a calm noon-day sky. days and months passed on, and still no tidings; till finally they came to look upon the loved one as their own. the child grew in strength and beauty, and was a source of great amusement to them all. old vingo would delight to make one of his "squantums," as he called it, to the shore; and with master harry, who was now taking his first lessons in driving, (a point once attained, boyhood thinks to gain no higher) and sea-flower in his arms; with nep, who is determined to be "head horse," bounding off in the distance, is happiness enough for the negro, and his white teeth glisten in the bright sunshine like so many african pearls, as he jabbers away to sea-flower, as if she were comprehending the whole. but 'twas enough for vingo, that she in reply to his half hour's remarks, would put out her hand toward the blue waters, and with eyes dilated with wonderment, would say, "tee! indo, tee!" there on the beach they would have a fine race with the surf, vingo following with the child the receding wave, and then, as it came in with a roar from the sea, he would run as if pursued by a foe, sometimes the spray dashing up all around them, much to the joy of the sea-flower, her merry laugh according strangely with the music of the waters. harry amused himself for a while, throwing the bits of drift-wood into the water, that he might see old newfoundland dash in and combat with the waves, to secure the prize, which he never failed to do; but wearying of this, he came and took his seat by the side of his sister, and commenced whittling diligently on an old piece of plank. "vingo, do you think my father will ever go to sea again?" "i don't know, young massa; but why you tink ob dat?" "o, i have often thought i would like to go with my father away over the great ocean. i long to see more of the world; and i often think of the time when i shall be a man, and have a ship of my own. i never hear of a ship arrived at the bar, but it sends a thrill of delight over me, and i watch the sailors as they come on shore after a three years' voyage, and think how happy they must be, though they look as if they had met with the rubbers. o, i know i shall be a sailor boy! there is something noble about the very name." "missus be berry sorry to hear you talk so," said vingo. "i know my mother would be very sorry to have me go to sea, for i remember how sad she looked for many days after father went away, though i was but a little boy. and i remember my father took me in his arms, and told me i must be a good boy, and take care of mother until he came back. but now you would be here, vingo, to see that my mother knew no want." "yes, de good lord be praised for sending good massa grobener to take me away from old slabe massa. i gets so filled wid liberty sometimes, dat i mistakes myself for white man." "well, you are as good as a white man, any day; but tell me, vingo, if you have ever been much on the water?" "not a great deal; i used to take old massa wid his children out for a sail sometimes, and den i hab a slight recollection ob being brought from a great way off; but dat must hab been before i come to be berry great. de pleasantest sail i eber take was when i leabe old berginny in de good tantalizer; and i swings my hat at old slabe massa on de bank, and asks him if he don't wish he as free as dis individual. dat was but a few years ago; den you wear little dress like sea-flower, and now you talk 'bout going to sea! well, dat am de way wid you sea-fish here." as the three sat on the beach, enjoying the morning breeze, harry observed a gentleman not far off, who appeared to be taking sketches of the scenery around, and occasionally would give a glance towards where our little party were sitting, somewhat to the disquietude of nep, who came and stood sentinel, as much as to say, "i will protect you;" but finding the stranger disposed to do them no harm, he composed himself for a nap. the whittling process being now finished, harry produced what he termed a "two-master," the which, vingo declared it would be no sin to worship, as it was not in the likeness of anything. "she is not a very polished looking craft, to be sure, but i know she is a sailer, for all that. at any rate, she shall be of some service;" and he seized old nep by the ear, and making fast his dogship to the little ark, he carefully seated the sea-flower at the helm, and with vingo's rainbow bandana flying from the mast-head, they were soon under full headway. either nep being proud of his charge, or the little one mistaking the thoughtful face, lit up with the glow of enthusiasm, of the stranger, for a beacon light; they came up with him, who called to harry to join them. "what is your name, my son?" "harry grosvenor, sir," answered the boy, drawing himself up to his full height. "and what have you here?" added he. "i suppose you came along as supercargo; pray tell me with what are you freighted?" "the sea-flower is my only freight, sir." "and god grant that you may always find as valuable! but tell me, is this angelic child your sister?" "yes, sir, my sister, and we all love her very much; we could not be without her, for we might forget to thank our father for his kindness to us, if we had no sea-flower to remind us of heaven." "so young, and can appreciate so rare a gift," mused the gentleman; "childhood, indeed, is the first to discover purity;" and the eye of the stranger grew moist, and the melancholy smile which sat upon his countenance gave place to the shadows of grief. "what is the child's name?" asked he. "we call her sea-flower, sir." "'tis a peculiar, sweet name; but has she no other?" "we have always called her by that name. mother says she came to us from god, and he loves the little flowers; he smiles upon each one, as it holds up its little head, all shining with pearly tears wept by the stars. but do you not love my sister? i did not think she could make you sad." "yes, yes, my son; take good care of her, be a true brother to her, ever. many long years have passed since my own little natalie played in my arms, but they are gone;" and the kind gentleman gathered his sketching instruments to depart. that night, as mrs. grosvenor talked with her children, as was her wont, of the good father who loves us all, harry related the interview with the stranger gentleman; and in the prayer which followed he was not forgotten. the sea-flower folded her tiny hands meekly, while from the windows of her soul went up the love she could not speak. as that faithful mother sat meditating upon the story of harry in regard to the stranger, which she had related to her husband, captain grosvenor remarked,--"it is just one year to-day when our dear child came to us, being also my birthday; but instead of adding a year to my life, it seems to me old father time has made a mistake, and made a deduction of a year. just one year to-day, and she is the sea-flower still. yes, she will ever be the sea-flower to us; yet i suppose she must have a name more in keeping with the ideas of the world. what was the name of the lost one the sad gentleman mused of?" "he spoke of the long time ago, before his own natalie had gone." "poor man! each life must have its portion of bitterness. natalie,--i like the sound; it reminds me of my home on the waters. with your consent, my wife, the christian name of the child shall be natalie, for she came to us from the sea." chapter ii. the island home. "long may this ocean-gem be bright, and long may it be fair, in freedom's pure and blessed light, and virtue's hallowed air! while still across its ocean bound, shall e'er be borne the truthful sound, our island home! our island home! we love our island home!" mrs. j. h. hanaford. "and yet that isle remaineth, a refuge for the free, as when true-hearted macy beheld it from the sea. god bless the sea-beat island! and grant for evermore, that charity and freedom dwell, as now, upon the shore!" j. g. whittier. gentle reader, pause a little, and let us for a few moments turn our thoughts toward that island of the sea, upon which it was the fate of our heroine, through the guidance of a divine providence, to find a home in the bosoms of those whose hearts' beatings were of love for our unknown. yea, love ever encircleth purity. properly, this chapter, descriptive of the island of nantucket, should have been our first; but had that been the case, alas, for the simple tale of natalie! how many would have passed it by with but one thought, and that thought invariably,--nantucket! pooh! a fish story, strikingly embellished with ignorance. and you may indeed discover in the feebleness of my unpretending pen, much that is food for critics; yet give not a thought of ridicule to nantucket's favored ones, for it is not for me to enlist under her banner of superiority of intellect. to the many questions which i know you have it in your heart to ask, as touching the civilization, etc., of these islanders, i do not reply, as i might be tempted under other circumstances to do, that it would be advisable to procure a passport before landing on those shores, lest one might stand in danger of being harpooned by the natives; but rather let me, in as correct a light as i may, set forth to those who have heretofore known but little of those who inhabit that triangular bit of land in the wide ocean, which, when we were six year olds, we passed over on our maps with the thought, i wonder if they have sundays there. situated nearly one hundred miles, in a south-easterly course from the city of boston, and about thirty miles from the nearest point of main land, nantucket lifts her proud head from out the broad atlantic, whose waters, even when lashed to madness, have been kind to her. and now, on this oppressive july morning, let us throw aside our cares, and come out from our daily round of duties, where we have been scaling with our eyes the tall brick barriers which shut out god's beautiful blue sky and sunshine. yes, let us off, anywhere, to get one glimpse of nature. on board the good steamer "island home," a two hours' sail carries us over that distance which separates cape cod from nantucket. if you have not passed most of your days among the connecticut hills, you pay little attention to that "green-eyed monster," who considers it a part of his duty to prepare the uninitiated for the good time coming. arrived at the bar, which stretches itself across the entrance to the harbor, our first impressions take to themselves the forms of sundry venerable windmills, church spires and towers, representing various orders of architecture; but that which strikes us most is the scarcity of shipping, not more than a dozen vessels lying at the wharves. in former times nantucket numbered as many whaleships belonging to her port, as did any town on our seaboard. indeed, she was built up from the produce of the ocean, and carried the palm for years as being first among the american whale fisheries; but her number has dwindled away, till not one-fourth of those homeward-bound ships are destined for the port of nantucket. the town, we find, is situated on the northern shore of the island, at the harbor's head. the houses are compact, and most of them built of wood, with little regard to beauty; though some few residences there are, of modern style, which do credit to their designers; but the greater number speak only of antiquity, with their shingled sides; and you will rarely see a house that has not a "walk" upon its roof, with which they could by no means dispense, as in case of ship-wreck near the island, the roofs of the whole town will be alive with men, women, and children, spyglass in hand. besides the town there are but one or two small villages, "polpis," and the far-famed "siaconset," or "sconset," as it is usually termed,--numbering some four dozen houses. this village is seven and one-half miles from the town, affording a delightful place of recreation for families from town, who, as the summer holidays come round, harness up old dobbin, and prepare for a six weeks' "siesta." if, by reason of the great financial pressure, you find you have not sufficient pocket-money to take you for a short tour to europe, come to "sconset;" it is a glorious place! take a stroll along that grand old beach, and watch the moon rise from out the ocean; then go to your comfortable seven-by-nine lodgings, which seems like a palace, draw the comfortable rug about you, and fall asleep, with old ocean for a lullaby, to dream (if your waking hours are fortunately of that bent) of some old deserted castle, "salem witchcraft," or a lone "grace pool," attendant within the attic's most remote recesses. the face of the island is level, so much so that the flat, bare commons resemble somewhat our western prairies; and with the exception of the cliffs at the north, and sancoty head, there are but few slight elevations. owing to the peculiar shape of the island, its two arms stretching far out on either side, it does not appear to be as large as it really is,--being about sixteen miles long, and four wide, affording sufficient elbow room, however, for its eight thousand inhabitants. the soil is sandy, but is cultivated to some extent; and though they can boast of no extensive forests, yet you may occasionally meet with an old friend in the way of a noble elm, or the pensive weeping willow. the culture of fruit trees, also, is receiving much attention of later years, and as widely as refinement must be separated from the islanders, to be in keeping with your views, their love for the sweet spring flowers knows no bounds. in your walks of curiosity about town, you meet with a great many of the denomination termed friends, or quakers, and as you pass them you cannot refrain from giving them the inside walk, for their very garb is of humility; and as you look into the placid face of some matron, you feel like uncovering yourself, for you can see the innocence looking out of her eyes. you are curious to know whither so many are wending their way, and meeting a sailor-boy, he tells you it is "fifth day," and if you follow in the wake of the "slick bonnets," they will pilot you to their nearest light-house; but precious little light you will get unless the spirit move some of them to pick up the wick. you move on with the rest till you come to their house of worship, which appears as humble as those who enter its doors. as you contrast the plainness on all sides with the richly decorated edifice in which you have been accustomed to worship, you try to smile a smile of contempt at the scene, but cannot, for you feel that the spirit of christ is in their midst; and though not a word is spoken during the hour and a half, yet you feel that the silent worship which went up to heaven, was heard by him who answers prayer. as a signal for dispersing, the elders who occupy the "rising seats," arise and shake hands, and you go your way with those silent ones, feeling that their worship was acceptable to god. the quakers of nantucket are rapidly diminishing in number. formerly two-thirds, perhaps, of the population, were of the society of friends, but now not one-third are of that denomination. as their children come up, they are not true to the faith, as were their fathers, and they put off the plain garb for the fashions of the day. a quaker in nantucket will in time come to be a great curiosity. their places will, we fear, be filled by none more upright. heaven bless them! nantucket of the present is not nantucket of the past. her quaint, old-timeness has given place to customs and manners more in accordance with things common-place. yet her originality has not entirely forsaken her; she has a character even now, peculiar to herself. the wild waves come tumbling in, their glad shouts ringing through the midnight stillness with the same zest as of yore; and the same starry skies, which looked down on the fair maiden of a century ago, still bend over her children's children, as they tread along life's rugged way. occasionally you may meet with one who has long since passed the meridian of life, one, perhaps, who has never been off of the island of his birth; and he will tell you of the nantucket of the past, before her peaceful shores had been invaded by the stranger; when they might lay them down to sleep, without thought of bolt or bar, save old ocean's faithful bands. you will learn of nantucket from the beginning down to the present time. then the island was big with prosperity. her sons were not obliged to leave their homes for a five years' voyage, in search of the monster from which they gained their chief maintenance, for there were then good fishing grounds near the shore, and often the whale might be seen from their little island, spouting off in the distance; and their ships came proudly bearing down to the bar, laden heavily with the good sperm oil, and all hearts were made lighter and each purse heavier, with every new arrival of good fortune; as if they had been one great family, each one smiling on another's prosperity. "but now,"--and the face of the narrator is less joyous as he turns from _then_ to _now_,--"things are not what they were. our island is becoming like what they tell me the world at large is." and the old man will re-light his pipe, and with a sad smile he will give you the names of his ancestors, from his great "grand-'ther" down to more modern times, when his fifth cousin obed was a large ship-owner. ah! treat such of other days with kindness, for the style of that day will never come again; their great hearts of brotherly love are not of this generation, yet they have left an impress upon those well-loved shores that can never be entirely erased. those foot-prints of long ago, combined with the peculiarities which will ever dwell with these children of the sea, are attractions which insure to the stranger on his first visit, visions of many a happy hour in the future; and he will long for the season to return which shall liberate so many of the city doomed artificials to a few weeks' intercourse with nature. awakened at early dawn by the sailor's merry "yo, ho," coming up from the waters with the sun, you turn your eyes seaward, and what a glorious sight is before you! as far as the eye can reach, water, blue, rolling water, tinged with rising sunlight in its morning purity; the night-bird folds her wings, which she has laved in the white sea-foam, softening the sigh of the breakers to the ear of those who slumbered; the white sails bow their heads, while the old tars wonder what makes them so happy. with these pleasant sunrise impressions you go forth into the day with more lenient views towards the "land of whales," sniffing the salt air with a real gusto. glancing up the street, you descry an object in the distance which much resembles a travelling dry-goods merchant, with the many fancy streamers flying in the breeze; but as it draws nearer, you look around in astonishment for "barnum," fully persuaded if that worthy is not on the ground, he has mistaken his calling for once. the object in question is no less than a common two-wheeled horse-cart, such as are used to do our heavy carting, except this is on springs, and of a lighter build; in the vehicle are some half dozen ladies, standing, their only support being short ropes attached to the sides, which, however, are seldom used, except by those unaccustomed to this kind of exercise, and in this position they ride with the greatest ease, seldom losing their balance, even when going at full speed. thoroughly initiated, and having seen most of the lions of the place, you find yourself becoming more and more attached, forget that you have ever thought of the island as anything but attractive. your one week has become the length of four, and the letters to anxious friends at home have been characteristic of briefness, unwilling to steal a moment's time from the enjoyment which will furnish a topic for the unemployed hours of longer days to come. of the many excursions which have made short the hours of your sojourn here, i will not enter into detail; suffice it to say, you have been disappointed in nantucket and its inhabitants. you have made many firm friends, the memory of whom will stir the tear of unselfish love, as you number them over, one by one, in the future. they will never be forgotten. you have found nantucket is not merely an isolated place, where oil is manufactured; where the people only work to eat, and eat to work. [though as some have suggested, a carriage drive connecting nantucket with the continent would be a great modern improvement]. as one has quaintly expressed, in a little poem entitled "an old story:" "before columbus ever thought of western world, with glory fraught; before the northmen had been known to wander from their native zone; before war raised a single mound, the antiquarians to confound; indeed, so very long ago, the time one can't exactly know,-- a giant sachem, good as great, reigned in and over our bay state. so huge was he, his realm so small, he could not exercise at all, except by taking to the sea. [for which he had a ticket free, granted by neptune, with the seal, a salient clam, and couchant eel]. his pipe was many a mile in length, his lungs proportionable in strength; and his rich moccasins,--with the pair, the seven-league boots would not compare. whene'er siestas he would take, cape cod must help his couch to make; and, being lowly, it was meet he should prefer it for his feet. well, one day, after quite a doze, a month or two in length, suppose, he waked, and, as he'd often done, strolled forth to see the mid-day sun; but while unconsciously he slept, the sand within his moccasins crept; at every step some pain he'd feel, 'twas now the toe, now near the heel; at length his sachemship grew cross, the pebbles to the sea he'd toss, and with a moccasin in each hand, he threw on either side the sand; then in an instant there appear two little isles, the sachem near! one as the vineyard now is known, the other we may call our own. at ease, he freely breathed awhile, which sent the fogs to bless our isle; and turning east, with quickened motion, the chill, bleak winds came o'er the ocean. ill-judging sachem! would that you had never shaken _here_ that shoe. or, having done so, would again, and join nantucket to the main!" having had a peep within the nest, you sigh for the return of the bird, and we will on. chapter iii. the voice of childhood. "ah! well may sages bow to thee, dear, loving, guileless infancy! and sigh beside their lofty lore for one untaught delight of thine; and feel they'd give their learning's store, to know again thy truth divine." mrs. osgood. "and now behold him kneeling there, by the child's side, in humble prayer; while the same sun-beam shines upon the guilty and the guiltless one; and hymns of joy proclaim through heaven, the triumph of a soul forgiven." moore's "lalla rookh." "mother, why does every one pass poor old quady by without giving him even a smile? is not that the reason why he looks so sorrowful? he looked so sad when i met him this afternoon, that i could not help holding out the daisies which i had gathered for you, towards him; and when he did not take them, but stood looking at me without speaking a word, i asked him if he did not want the flowers to carry to his home, and put them into his hand; and when i had come up with the school-girls, who had run away when they saw him coming, i looked after him, and he was still standing by the road-side, with the flowers in his hand, watching us as we went up the street. perhaps he was resting a little, for it is a long way to the low home over the commons." "quady, my dear, no doubt feels that he is alone in the world, for he is the only one that is left of a large tribe of indians; all of his kind are gone, and are buried, no one but himself knows where. he does not look upon the pale faces as brothers, though they treat him kindly. he feels that wrong has been shown his ancestors at their hands. i am glad, my child, that you were kind to the indian." "yes, mother, i love everybody; but i think i love those best who look as if no one cared for them. i suppose everybody loves poor quady, only they forget to let him know it." "you like dat old ingin, sea-flower? why, he almost as black as bingo hesef." "do you think i do not love you, vingo, because you are black? you are always good to me, and what would i do without you to take me to the shore, whenever i like to go?" "o, little missy, i tink you can sympetize wid old black bingo; but den, ebry body not like you; you's one ob de lord's chilen hesef." "we are all the lord's children, vingo," said mrs. grosvenor; "and we should walk in the paths of righteousness, that we may be worthy of his name. you may go, now." "what does vingo mean, mother? he talks so strangely sometimes about my being left here by the lord, and goes on muttering something to himself, which i cannot understand, and laughs as if he was very happy." "it is his way of expressing himself, my dear; the negroes are a peculiar race." "yes, i think they are; i like their ways, they are always so kind. are not their dispositions better than those of some white people? i never heard of a black man being cruel to any one, but i have seen the prints of a whip-lash on vingo's neck, where he said his old massa used to whip him; and i asked him many times over, if he was sure it was a white man who whipped him, and he said yes, he was sure, for he remembers he used to wish white folks were black, so they could not tell which were the negroes." "there are some very hard-hearted people in the world. vingo was brought up in slavery; when you are a little older you will understand it better." "dear mother, you know what is best for me; but often, when i am interested in what is said, and ask questions, people tell me i will understand it when i am a little older; and when i sit down by myself, and they think i have forgotten all about it, i find myself wishing i was "a little older," for it disappoints me so much to leave a story not finished." mrs. grosvenor looked at the child in silence. "i have not displeased you, dear mother, have i? i did not feel that i was saying anything wrong." "no, darling; i did not think you would understand me, that was the reason why i did not explain to you. i am always ready to talk with you, if you can comprehend what i am saying." "never mind, mother, i am six years old; it won't be a great while before i shall be 'a little older,' and then i can realize how very good you are to me, my dear mother, and how patient you are." mrs. grosvenor clasped the child in her arms. "what makes little pet look so sober to-night?" asked captain grosvenor, as taking her on his knee, he pushed the dark brown curls from off her forehead, and looked into her mild, blue eyes. "what makes sea-flower so quiet? has anything happened to either of your seven kittens? or has some flower which has lived already a week longer than nature designed, at last withered, and gone the way of all frailties?" "o, father, i should be very wicked if i were not happy, when i have so much to make me so; but sometimes, when i hear the shore roaring so loud as it does this evening, and look up at the stars, as they twinkle in their homes far away in the sky, there is something which comes over me of sadness, making me a great deal happier; and there is one particular star which i always notice, for it seems as if it was looking down at me so gently, that i forget myself, and put out my hand to touch it, as if it was not so far away; and i fancy sometimes that the star can read my thoughts, for it seems to smile when i am happiest." "you are a little fanciful creature; you must learn to leave off dreaming when you are awake." "what shall you dream about when father goes away to sea again?" asked harry. "i think mother will not let him go; we cannot spare him; but if you should go, father, i shall love to dream of you very often; i will think of you every day, sailing on the water with a heart so light. o, it must be so pleasant to live, to sleep on the water! and you will want to see dear mother and harry, when you are so far away; you will not forget us;" and she hid her cheek in the hardy captain's bosom. "no, no, darling, i shan't forget you; but we wont talk any more about it now; i have not gone yet." what was it made that stout man's voice tremulous, as he called for his evening paper? many a time had that stern voice been heard above the hurricane's roar, giving the word of command,--why did it tremble now? was it that voice of childhood which sank into his heart? * * * * * "missus, de sun hab done gone, now, de chllens hab all gone from school long ago, and bingo's two eyes hab clean gone stretched, looking up de road for de sea-flower," remarked that worthy, putting his ebony head in at the drawing-room door, where sat mrs. grosvenor, so busily engaged making those garments for her husband, which she feared would be needed, alas! so soon that she had not perceived the hours were gliding on apace, and that it was long past the time when sea-flower usually came tripping in from school to receive her evening kiss, and to tell over the events of the day. "has harry come home yet? she may have gone up to the high school to meet him." "yes, missus, massa harry here a long time." "then you had better go and see what keeps her; you will probably meet her on the way, and if it is not too late you may take the horse and give her a ride." "yes, missus;" and the jet pony, so many shades lighter than his driver, was soon lost in the distance. the last faint shadows of the sun had died away, the moon had risen in all her queenly beauty, and vingo had not returned; neither had anything been seen of the sea-flower since she had left home early in the afternoon; and now mrs. grosvenor really began to feel anxious, as she stood looking out into the night; for, although the child was accustomed to stroll about the fields in search of wild flowers, whenever she liked, she had never before stayed away so long. "husband, had you not better go and see what has become of her? i cannot think what keeps them." "it is a mystery; but give yourself no uneasiness; i'll be bound the child has made a safe harbor somewhere. she usually has a look-out aloft." "ah! there they come, under a full press of sail!" cried harry, who loved well to imitate the nautical phrases of his father. "does she not make a grand figure-head!" "figure-head!" exclaimed vingo; "i am tinking, young massa, if dis 'ere head ob mine had not been made so solid like, 'spressly for figuring, dat it been a powerful time afore you cotch sight ob dis bit ob fly-away again. de good lord be praised! but if i don't tink little missy so filled wid what de angels libs on dat she make use ob de shadow ob dar wings to take herself away ober dose yar commons! it make me smile to tink how dat old ingin look at sea-flower, as if de sun was puttin' out his eyes." "why, my child, you surely have not been out to quady's hut! it is a long way." "ha! a fast sailor, always has a fair breeze; dropped anchor in the best harbor in these parts! but what's this? colors half-mast?" exclaimed the captain, as he caught sight of a little pouch, woven together of bright colored basket stuff, slung over her shoulder; a little drab paw, darting from out its deepest recesses in pursuit of a tantalizing curl, soon explains how matters stand, and a voice of the greatest feline sweetness is heard in reply to divers catlike salutations, proceeding from the adjoining apartment. "this is my wallet, which quady has made for me to carry my kittens in; and pussy has enjoyed it so much! 'tis the way quady's people used to carry their babies through these very streets, only there were prettier walks here then. o, he has told me so many pretty stories!" "how came you to have your kitten with you? and why did you go away so far, and stay so late, my dear? i have been looking for you a long time." "o, mother, i will tell you all about it. as i was bidding my kittens good-bye, after having a little talk with them, as i usually do before going to school, i missed one of the smallest, which i call charity, because she always looks up at the larger ones, when they play with her too roughly, in such a forgiving way. i looked all around, and not finding her, thought she must have strayed away by herself, and i ran off to school. our lesson for to-day was faith, hope, and charity; as i read the last word i looked down, and there was my own charity peeping at me from out my pocket. i explained to my teacher how it happened, for i thought she would be displeased; but having an errand into the next room just then, she did not think of kitten, who lay quietly sleeping again; and when i had said all my lessons, my teacher excused me, saying it was because i had been a good girl. and so we strolled over the commons together, charity and i, and i dressed her in wild flowers, and she did look so innocent! on we went, i running after kitten, and then kitten after me, when, before i thought how far we had come, i espied quady's low home a little way off, and he was sitting at the door. he did not see me until i stood before him, and then he went into his house and brought out a large pipe and gave to me; i thought it so strange that poor quady should think a little girl could smoke a pipe, but i took it to please him, and then he showed me so many curious things; there was a large bow, and arrows with sharp bits of iron in their heads, and he was going to shoot a little sparrow which sat upon the fence, but i caught his arm, and begged him not to kill the poor thing. i told him god made the sparrow to be happy, and he asked me if i meant the great spirit, if my god was his god? when i told him it was, he put up his bow and came and sat down by me, and taking a little paper from his bosom, unrolled it, and there were the daisies which i had given him so long ago! he asked if the great spirit made them, too, and if he had sent me to give them to him; and when i told him the great spirit made all the flowers, made everything, and loved everybody who loved him, and that he would let his children all come home and live with him by-and-by, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he said,--'o! me see my brothers, then! me not be all alone! me love great spirit; great spirit so good to send little white-face to tell me how to get home.' then i could not help crying myself, mother, for i thought i should like to meet quady's brothers there." "ah! bress de lord, but it am good as a small bible to hear dat chile talk;" was heard in a suppressed voice, as it went stable-ward. day after day passed, and that little one was often seen, attended by old nep, or in the arms of the faithful vingo, on her way to the low home over the commons, much to the horror of sensitive mothers, who shook their heads and said, "she is a strange child." never was sea-flower happier than when she might be allowed to go and see the indian; and it was indeed a strange sight to see that red man, the only representative of a departed tribe, gazing upon the little one, as she talked to him of jesus and his word. the autumn of the year had come. it was one of those soul-stirring days in october, which cannot fail to arouse the most thoughtless mind to a sense of the wonderful works of creation. the sea-flower had gone to the "low home over the commons." hand in hand, that red man and the tender child, they went their way, to where he pointed out the graves of his people; there were no stones, not a mound to mark the spot. why was there need of any? he alone knew the place; none others had cared to know, until now, when the number of his days had well-nigh been told, this little child, of a summer's day, had breathed upon those ice-bound springs, till they had broken their bands, and were gliding on in the bright sun-light, smoothly on,--on, forever. there did the indian lay him down, where he would have them bury him; and there, for the first and last time, did he breathe a prayer over the graves of the departed, to that great spirit, whom he had been taught was the one great father of all. "mother, poor quady is not so strong as he used to be; when he pounds the corn, to make nice cakes for me, his hands tremble, and i notice he takes all the broth which you send to him, for he says he has no appetite for anything else." it was a holiday. a great display of military had arrived from the continent. "sea-flower, you will see the beautiful horses, and the epaulets, the white plumes, and the shining swords, but they need not think to turn your brain with all their splendor." "brother harry, i should like to see all those splendid things, but i had much rather go and see quady to-day; it is several days since i have been there, and we have such good times! i love to talk with him so well." "you strange little creature, you can go to see the indian any time." "yes, but some how i feel as if i would like to go to-day. i know he will like to see me;" and the child was soon on her way to the "low home," with nep, who carried the pail of broth. as she drew near, she saw that quady was not sitting at his door, as he usually did, to watch for her, but instead, the door was closed, and everything around was still; nothing was heard, save the breakers as they dashed upon the shore. opening the door, which was never fast, she saw before her, the form of poor quady, stretched upon the rude bed, and as he tossed to and fro, in an uneasy slumber, he muttered the words,--"pale-face--gone." "pale-face has come! quady, pale-face has come to you! look up, and take some of the nice broth which i have brought." slowly he opened his eyes, and seeing the little one was by his side, he raised his hands aloft and said, "me thank great spirit; me afraid great spirit take me home without seeing little pale-face once more. me see my brothers soon; a little while, and pale-face come to see us. great spirit bless little pale-face," he feebly said; "she make poor quady happy." with that dying blessing his spirit took its flight. he had passed away, the last one of his kind, he who had lived a life of solitude, apart from the world, looking upon the white man as having taken from him his home, his lands, and the forests which would have been his if the white man had not, long years ago, laid them low; yes, he had breathed a blessing, with his last breath, upon the pale-face. he who had not a brother left to bury him, had thanked god that the pale-face had come to close his eyes; yes, it was the voice of childhood which had made his last moments happy, had pointed out the road which leads the wanderer home. it was a scene to melt the hardest heart; that little child, scarcely as high as the rude couch, reaching up to close the eyes of him whom she should see no more. as she sat by his side, and looked around the room where she had spent so many happy hours, a sense of loneliness crept over her. there was the pipe which he had smoked, laid away on the little chimney-piece, and by the bed-side was the pail of broth with which she had thought to please him so much; and at the remembrance she burst into tears, and her tears fell upon the hand of him who lay sleeping. neptune, hearing the sad tones of his mistress, came and looked into her face; and when she took no notice of him, he crouched at her feet, and howled piteously. and thus they found them, for the little one could not think of leaving her dear quady there alone. they buried him, as he had wished, by the side of his brothers; and when the sea-flower gazed into that narrow house, so dark and still, she looked up and said, "mother, i shall love to look at the stars oftener now, for he has gone to live among those bright and shining ones." sadly did the child miss her visits to the "low home," and when in years to come her thoughts wandered over the past, her love for the poor lone indian had not diminished. the stars shone brighter and brighter, even as her light was "shining unto the perfect day." "what little missy look up in de sky so much for?" asked vingo, as he walked by the shore, with sea-flower in his arms, as was his custom of a bright moonlit evening. "o, vingo, it is so beautiful! i was watching those fleecy clouds, until they seemed to be little waves in which the stars were sailing upward, up, and as they looked back to us, their smile seemed to grow purer; and i think i can see quady among them. don't you see him, vingo?" "does you mean dose little black specks in de moon, missy?" "no, quady is one of the bright ones now; and you will be made white, too, when you go there. don't you want to go and be one of those bright ones, vingo?" "does all de white folks go dar?" "yes, if they love god when they are here; if they are good he will take them home to be with him." "den i don't tink i wants to go dar." "o, vingo! that is very wicked! why don't you want to go?" "'cause, missy, dey say old slabe massa am one ob de best men in de whole ob berginny, and i's 'fraid he catch bingo and tie him up again." at that moment a shadow was seen in the distance, and harry came bounding over the ground on the wings of the wind. "ah! i thought i should find you here, sea-flower, making the acquaintance of some of your sisters, as they hold up their heads in the moonlight. vingo, what do you think? father has received orders to sail in a week!" "o, go way, massa harry; what you mean by dat?" said vingo, letting fall his lower jaw, while the whites of his eyes looked as if they had some time or other been in contact with a ghost. "i mean that the tantalizer will be ready for sea in a week, and father will go master of her on a cape horn voyage. o, if father would only let me go with him, how delighted i should be! but he says i am too young, that i am not strong enough; yet i know of boys two or three years younger than i am, who have been around cape horn, and are now making a second voyage. i have often heard old captain wendall tell of the first voyage father made, when he was but ten years old, and how nimbly he ran up to the mast-head, and was always the first to discover the whale as she spouted, and would sing out, 'there she blows!' equal to an old tar. i must prevail on father to let me go with him." "dear, dear harry, do not talk so! only think how mother will feel to have father go! he has been at home so long, ever since i was born, and how would she feel to have you both go away, and no one but vingo and myself to comfort her." "no one but you to comfort her? you are worth a dozen like me, darling!" and the little manly fellow threw his arms around her neck, and felt that he had the very best sister in the world. "ah! young massa, i tinks you hab de right sort ob spirit; you's born to be no land-lubber; but it my 'pinion you had better stay wid good, kind missus and de sea-flower a while longer; you not find a better berth, i'm tinkin'." "no, that i shall not; let me go where i will, i shall not find a mother like her; and as for sea-flower, i don't believe there was ever another in the whole ocean like her." "how funny you talk, harry; you make me think of little moses in the bulrushes." "ah! there goes a gull, flying over my right shoulder, headed seaward; the sailor's omen of good luck; perhaps father may change his mind, after all." "harry, i want you to promise me you will say nothing about going to sea before mother; will you promise?" "i never could refuse you anything, little pussy, but you do not say anything about yourself; would you not like to get rid of such a graceless fellow?" the child's sympathies had been so wrapped up in her mother's grief, that it had not occurred to her mind how much she should miss her dear father; and as she thought of harry, who had always played so gently with her, and came every night, after her mother had heard her prayers, and told such beautiful stories, about the good little fairies, until she fell asleep, and dreamed they had all come to be her sisters; and was awakened in the morning by the tramping of so many little feet, (in near proximity to those brown curls, which seemed to have been awake long before their mistress), and saw fourteen blue eyes looking at her, besides two roguish black ones, behind the curtain, which she did not see, and would wonder if it might not have been the kittens, after all, that had whispered in her ear. as she thought of all his kindness to her, she was silent; and as the negro drew the mantle more closely about her, he wondered if the little drop which fell upon his hand was of dew. preparations for the sailing of the tantalizer were rapidly going on. she was a stout-built ship of three hundred tons burthen, the pride of her owners; and why should she not have been? for many a rich cargo had she brought to them, thousands and thousands of dollars had she added to their possessions; many a hurricane had she outrode, and as she sat so proudly on the water, she looked as if she might outlive many more. captain grosvenor had sailed master of her upon six successive voyages, making a "telling" voyage each time, until, his fortune becoming sufficiently ample, he had thought to spend the rest of his days on shore; but, after a respite of seven years, he had become so restless, and so longed to try his fortune upon the water again, that, receiving a flattering offer from those in whose employ he had formerly sailed, he consented, as he said, "for the last time," to make a voyage in his favorite tantalizer. mrs. grosvenor had earnestly hoped that her husband would follow the sea no more, knowing that their means were sufficient to supply all their wants; and since god in his providence had consigned this little one to their care, she had congratulated herself that there was one more tie to bind her husband to his home; and, indeed, the child was as dear to him as if she had been his own flesh and blood; and as those last seven years upon shore stood up before him, now that he was about to leave all that was dear to him, as having been spent more in keeping with god's laws than in any previous part of his life, he felt that he was a better man. naturally of a noble, generous disposition, he had gained the respect of all who knew him. pleasant and gentlemanly in his manners, he was no less firm in his duties on shipboard, and his stern word of command was received by his men with the same hearty "aye, aye," as when he cracked a joke with them over the club-room fire. harry had kept his promise in regard to his wish to go with his father; and when he looked into his mother's face, and saw how mournful was her smile, he felt that it would indeed be cruel to think of leaving her. but when he heard the sailors saying, as he clambered up the rigging, that it was a pity such a sprightly little fellow could not go along with them, his desire to ship for the voyage knew no bounds, and seeking his father, in the cabin, he had a long interview with him, gaining the promise that when he should return he would secure for him a good lay, and that he might then commence the nautical career, which the captain plainly saw his inclinations had marked out. the day had arrived when the ship would sail. every thing had been made ready for a long voyage, should the captain not meet with his usual good fortune, which was considered unnecessary by her owners, so sanguine were they of her success; such implicit faith did they place in the abilities of her captain, that in securing his services, they looked upon the voyage as told. ah! who can tell if that proud ship may ever return? was there not one who looked upon her thus? within that happy home, now so desolate, sat the wife of him who had just taken his leave of her, and the bitterness of that hour who can tell? she only who has tasted the same cup of sorrow; she who has given to the mercies of the deep him whom she holds most dear on earth. such an one can indeed realize what were the feelings of that wife, as she sat at the window, her eye fixed upon the ship which was bearing away him whom she might never see more. the white sail is smaller and smaller, until it appears but a speck, and is finally lost in the distance. and then what a sense of desolation! oh, might we all seek for strength in time of trouble, of him who will not turn a deaf ear to the cries of his children! who hath said, "as thy day, so shall thy strength be." would that all might seek for comfort in the hour of trial, as did that stricken one,--in prayer! the sea-flower had, with harry, accompanied her father in the ship, as she was towed out by the steamer over the bar. as they were about to cast off, when the steamer should return, the father sought to bid his children farewell. turning to his boy, he bade him be all that a son and brother should be. with one long embrace his eye rested upon the sea-flower; his voice failed him. "father," said the child, "you will soon come to us again; then you will never leave us;" pointing to a little cross which she had privately embroidered and set up in his state-room, she said, "you will be happy, father, so happy, on the water! but sometimes, when the stars look down upon you, or the great waves break over your ship, you will want to see us; and when you look at the pretty name which you gave me," (pointing out the word natalie, which was wrought upon the foot of the cross), "you may know that i am thinking of you. our hearts shall be with you." with a father's blessing upon his children, he suffered them to be taken away; and as the loud huzza went up from the deck of the steamer, he saw his little one gazing back upon him, from amidst the waving banners, with a look which sank into his heart; her gentle words were still sounding in his ear, and it would seem as if that voice of childhood was of riper years. her words were never forgotten. over the spirit of the child there came that which she had never known before; ah! gentle one, it is but the first drop of bitterness which must be mingled with the sweets in every life. may the all-father keep thy feet from hidden thorns, strewing thy pathway only with the sweet flowers of innocence! he had gone; and the heart of the sea-flower echoed,--"he has gone;" the very breeze which wafted him from home sighed "gone." is there a heart which never knew the tone? chapter iv. westward ho! "i hear the tread of pioneers, of nations yet to be; the first low wash of waves, where soon shall roll a human sea." j.g. whittier. "far on the prairies of the west, a lovely floweret grows; with glowing pen, each traveller oft describes the prairie rose. "for ages there alone it grew, the prairie's gem and pride; but now the rose of sharon fair is blooming at its side." mrs. j.h. hanaford. "och, sure, mem, and it's meself that's afther a thinking that we shall be raching good ould ireland, from the ither side of this great ameriky, if we kape on." "have patience, biddy, we shall be there to-morrow at this time; there is nothing like keeping up good courage." "cabbage! mem, and it's meself has not seen a hapurth of a cabbage since we stopped the last time, to get a bit to sustain hunger, sure; i think mem, they must have rolled off, when the kitchen mirror and gridiron dhraped down," said biddy, desirous to atone in some way for the disappearance of sundry heads of cabbage, which she had found means of disposing of, even in its unprepared state, while buried among washtubs, cheese-presses, and churns. "bad luck to the likes of it, indade!" and she caught at a small dining-table just in time to set it upon its legs again. "i don't wonder biddy complains, mother; it's enough to weary the patience of job, riding so slowly over these dismal prairies; it would really do my eyes good to get sight of a hill, or any thing to break this continual sameness. what can father be thinking of, to take us to such a lonely, out of the way place? never mind, biddy, we shall have the pleasure of seeing where the sun goes to." thus spake the occupants of a long, covered wagon, moving westward, drawn by four stout oxen, with as many horses and cows following in the rear. "drive on there, patrick," called out mr. santon, who was riding his own horse by their side; "drive on, we must get to the settlement by another night." "yes, sir, i am afther urging on the bastes for the last piece or two; but the crathurs have come so far, they don't know, sure, if they be jist laying home, or afther a raching there." mr. santon had formerly been a merchant in the city of boston; he had been doing a heavy business, and had accumulated a handsome fortune, but being one of those easy sort of persons, who think everybody as honest as themselves, he had, in an evil hour, endorsed largely for those who were worse than swindlers, who had not even as much as thanked him for his name; and he had lost nearly all in that one act. many friends he had, who knowing his worth, had kindly offered their assistance, and would willingly have set him on his feet again, for they disliked to lose so valuable a citizen from their midst; but he, declining all assistance from those, whom he knew gave not grudgingly, thanked them with a grateful heart, and taking what little was left to him after paying his debts, had started with his wife and only child, and two servants whom he had retained, for the far west, intent upon leading a quiet, unmolested life, in the bosom of his family. haying supplied himself with all requisite tools, etc., for tilling the ground, for which occupation he had always a great desire, they had now, after a fatiguing journey of fourteen days, arrived at the little log-house, in the western part of the state of ohio, which was to be their future home. this was a great change for mrs. santon, who had spent the most of her days in the city, and had always servants to call upon for her least wish, never being obliged to lift a finger against her desire. she was one of the best of women, with a kind word for every one, and greatly did the poor, upon whom she had bestowed so many gifts of charity, lament her departure. in the church, the sewing-society, by the bedside of the suffering, and in the home of poverty, had she a place; her worth was known to all. cheerfully did she resign all to go with her husband, to follow him, wherever it might be; with him would she be happy in their home, though it might be ever so humble. their daughter of ten years was a sprightly, pretty child, with dark hair, and bright, black, tell-tale eyes, which looked as if they might make sad havoc, when a few more years should have added to their brilliancy. resembling her mother in features, her disposition was like her father; free and easy in her ways, she was happy so long as every thing bent to her wishes; but her mother could not but notice with regret that her child had acquired a hasty, impatient manner, which the indulgence of her father in no way served to improve; yet she was a warm-hearted little creature, and it was with great difficulty that mrs. santon could bring herself to censure her. still the mother must do her duty toward her child, and many a prayer had been offered, that she might have strength to act aright. the long covered wagon stopped at the door of their new home just as the sun was going down. there was but one house in sight of their little cabin, and that was, if anything, still smaller than their own; nothing was to be seen on all sides but wide prairie land, and as the little winifred cast her eye around, she exclaimed: "o! mother, what shall we do here? i am sure i shall not like to stay; there is no one here." "you forget that god is here, my child," said the mother; and she commenced assisting biddy in setting up some few articles that would make them comfortable through the night, while her husband, with pat, attended to the out-door affairs. "och, and sure, mem," said biddy, as she put her emerald head in at the door of the cabin; "faith, and it's not yesilf, mem, that's going to rest in the same room with the likes of me." "yes, biddy, i see no other way; we shall have to get used to western life. i think, by partitioning off one corner, here, with blankets, we shall get along very well; and then it will be right handy for you in the morning to get the breakfast; you will not have the trouble of coming down stairs." "yes, mem, yese makes everything so asy like! but it's such strange times for yese, mem!" and biddy went flying about the room, her face glowing with excitement, pulling at every uneven log in the house, fully persuaded there must be some other apartment, if no more than a closet; and as she caught at a loose board, which only separated them from the open air, she looked through, delighted that she had discovered another room, and that her mistress would not now be obliged to share the same apartment with herself; for as the remembrance of certain devotional exercises to be gone through, over each bead in her rosary, came to her, she had her doubts if the "blissed st. pathrick," (who, for reasons best known to herself, was her favorite saint), would condescend to listen to petitions offered from such near proximity to the unbelieving protestants; not that she thought her mistress was not a most excellent woman, but she was a protestant, and often had she called upon the blissid st. patrick, to "bring her dear lady over to the thrue faith." as she bent down to look into the opening, congratulating herself upon the discovery, a large cat darted through, full into her face, and ran with speed out at the door. "och, murther! and may the good saints presarve us alive! what will become of us at all?" and in her fright she went headlong into a pile of milk-pans, her unwieldy arms making certain involuntary revolutions, causing the air to resound with a chorus, which might have done credit to the first callithumpian in the land. "ho! what is all this?" cried mr. santon, who had stepped in at the commencement of the prelude; "what are you looking for under those pans, biddy?" "sure, sir, and it's mesilf that's afther being exterpretated intirely! the varmints! faith, there was a dozen, sir, came scratching at me;" and she pointed at the aperture, as if in dread expectation of seeing their ghosts in pursuit; but lo! instead, there was the full, round face of pat, who, having been left to take up his night's lodging with the creatures, in the apology for a barn, had espied the light, and not being able to resist the temptation of getting one more glimpse at the "swate biddy," he had ventured to look in, and catching a glimpse of her woebegone face from among the shining tins, he exclaimed: "och, honey dear, and has it come to this? that yese obliged to make yese bed of the likes of that! and if ye'll wait a bit it's mesilf that'll run and fetch some of the nate, saft sthraw, that ye can fill the tins, and 'twill do ye betther; indade, and it's none but a hathen that could endure the likes of that!" "ah! pathrick, is it ye? and was ye pint up in there wid the crathurs?" "yes, it's mesilf that will be risting with the bastes, the night," said pat, thinking she had alluded to the creatures in the barn; "and i'll be wishing ye swate dhrames, and a plinty' of thim;" saying which he disappeared, leaving the trembling biddy in great anxiety of mind as to what should be his fate. as the little winnie peeped out from behind the screen, when they had all retired, and saw biddy counting her beads, with her eye still fixed upon the spot where she had last seen the smiling patrick, she laughed outright, in spite of the crevices in the roof overhead, and she laid her down and looked up at the stars which came twinkling in upon her, 'till those great black eyes gradually diminished in size, and her little brain was busily engaged among the familiar scenes of the home which she had left so far away. cautiously did biddy, with the first dawn of day, advance toward where she had dreamed her poor "pathrick" was in close contact with the veritable bastes, and the family was awakened from their slumbers by her loud tones, lamenting that "niver a vistage of pathrick, the cats, or the ante-room was left," for on looking out, the only object which met her gaze was the sun, which was just coming up in the east. "what's the time, biddy?" asked mrs. santon. "and it's jist about three hours afther sunrise, mem." "i think you must be mistaken, biddy; we cannot surely have been sleeping so long after our usual time for rising." "indade, and the sun bes jist coming in sight, and it must have been a powerful time travelling over, sure. i'm thinking they must be afther dhrying their takettles a long time, back there in ould boston." time passed on, and our adventurers were becoming more and more accustomed to western life. mr. santon had found his lands to be in a very good state of cultivation, the former owner having been a dutchman, who thoroughly understood what a good farm ought to be. mrs. santon had proved herself to be one of the best of housekeepers, and greatly did she pride herself on her abilities for filling the station of a farmer's wife. as they sat down of an evening, to their meal of bacon and indian cakes, and contrasted their present circumstances with what had been their former situation in life, they could not repress a smile at the change; but they were happy, contented in their humble home, and the bread which had been earned by the sweat of the brow was sweeter, the social enjoyments dearer, than when in fashionable life they had been obliged to live with an eye to the customs of society; even winnie had found some attractions in their little western home. the neighbors comprising those who lived for twenty miles around, the nearest being a mile distant, were pleasant, light-hearted people, and the civilities which were shown to the new comers were without end. a small log-house, unlike the others of the settlement in its exterior, inasmuch as it was honored with an additional door, served as their place of worship; and it was with great joy that winnie looked forward to sunday morning, when, mounted upon her pony, she might ride off for six miles to the church, accompanied by her father and mother, each riding their respective horses. arrived at the church, they dismounted at the great horseblock, leaving their hats and mantles thereon, as was the custom; and it was a pretty sight to see the ladies walking into church, their cheeks glowing with exercise, and the fresh, morning air. as winnie entered, her long curls composing themselves after a frolic with the breeze, many a sly glance was aimed at her from the neighboring pews, in spite of the consciences of their owners reminding them that it was holy day. it was a source of great comfort to mrs. santon, that she as able to come so far to this place of worship. the little society numbered not over forty persons, yet those words spoken by our saviour, "where two or three are gathered together in my name, there will i be in the midst of them," came with renewed freshness to her mind, each time she entered those doors, and she felt that she had never tasted the bliss of uninterrupted love for christ, as now. the shepherd of this little flock was a man fearing god, just, and upright; his services in the cause of christ were offered voluntarily, without money, or price. coming, as he had, in his old age, to spend the remainder of his days in the family of a beloved son, he had found with joy that his declining years might be profitably employed; that he might earn that reward which is promised to those who make a right use of the talents which god has given them; that he might merit those blessed words, "well done, good and faithful servant." his labors among this people had not proved ineffectual; many had been brought to see the great mercies of their redeemer, souls had been converted to christ, and as the song of praise went up from beneath that humble roof, the glad shouts were borne aloft, and angels joined in the chorus. * * * * * it was a beautiful afternoon, everybody was busy about the farm of mr. santon; winnie was sitting at the door, intent upon her own thoughts, when she caught sight of their good minister approaching upon his horse, his silver locks flying in the wind. biddy, learning they were to have a visit from the "protestant praste," turned first pale, then red, and when the old gentleman dismounted at the door, she let fall the shoulder of bacon, which she was preparing for the supper, and darted behind the screen, in her haste hitting her foot against the lowest tin, in a pile of two dozen, which brought the rest down to inquire into the state of affairs. the presence of the old gentleman served to impart a cheerfulness to all who gazed upon his happy countenance, and his kind tones, as he inquired for the welfare of the family, penetrated the screen, reaching the ear of biddy, who sat wondering what the good father teely would say, if he knew she had so far sinned as to remain under the same roof with a "wicked protestant praste;" but as she heard him speaking to pat, who had come in of an errand, with such a pleasant voice, she ventured a peep out, and the form of her thoughts just at that moment, might have been a little, a very little, savoring of heresy. suffice it to say, when the old gentleman took his departure, there was a peculiar twinkle in biddy's eye, and she had so far overcome her aversion to the "imposther" as to have had a few private words with him, which had by no means decreased her usual flow of good spirits. it was evident that biddy "had on her high heels," for the rest of that evening. as winnie strolled over the farm, enjoying the evening breeze, reflecting upon her good pastor's words, her attention was suddenly attracted toward the enclosure where the cows were being milked, by hearing the voice of biddy, who, as she "stripped" the patient animal again, for the dozenth time, was very much engaged with pat, whose round, smiling face, as he glanced at her from the opposite side of the creature, shone with delight; and as the white foam rose higher and higher in biddy's pail, so did the warmth of her feelings get the better of her, and those tell-tale eyes of winnie's danced with mischief, as she overheard the following conversation: "ah, pathrick dear, does ye think there is the laste sin in it? and indade, it's mesilf that's thinking the blissid st. pathrick would be afther misthaking him for a good catholic!" "and what did he say, honey dear? did he think he could be afther comforting the likes of us?" "thrath, and he did; it was himsilf that said niver a word when i was spaking to him about it, but was afther showering a blissing upon us, the dear sowl!" "but what will the praste say? biddy, sure he'll be very angry, intirely." "faith, and it's no longer ago than the day afther yesterday, that the misthress was saying if we confissed our sins with a right spirit, we should be afther being forgiven; and now, pathrick, i'm thinking we 'll be afther getting married, and then there will be a plinty of time for confissing." "och, honey, and that's the thruth for ye," said the assenting pat, and together they walked towards the cabin. winnie, putting that and that together, made up her mind that patrick and biddy had become tired of a life of single blessedness, and were seriously contemplating matrimony, which was, indeed the case; and biddy, having made known her desires to her mistress, who saw no just cause why they should not be bound together in the holy bands of wedlock, the next wednesday was set apart when patrick and biddy would be made husband and wife. the day arrived, and biddy, arrayed in her best snuff-color, with ribbons and laces to match, stood up with him of her choice, to pronounce those vows which should make them one, even though the ceremony should be performed by a protestant. "will you take this woman to be your wedded wife?" spake the reverend gentleman, in a clear, distinct tone. "ah! kape on, kape on!" shouted the enraptured pat; "don't be throublin yesilf with questions; dear knows it's mesilf that's in it;" and his smiling face was mirrored in numerous brass buttons, which were hanging around his buff vest. as soon as the old gentleman could get his voice again, for the boisterous joy of pat, be turned to the trembling biddy. "do you take this man to be your lawful husband, and leaving all others, will you cleave unto him alone?" "indade, your riverence!" exclaimed biddy, "i'll be afther claving him all the days of me life! it's not mesilf, sure, that was always born and reared in the great city of cork, that'll be doing things by halves!" and in her happiness she caught pat around the neck, giving him a smack, which might have been attributed to the opening of the bottle of whiskey with which mr. santon had graced the occasion, had it not been for those great eyes of winnie, which would discover the accident, in spite of their mistress's endeavors to direct their attention elsewhere. and now patrick and biddy were husband and wife. never was there a more devoted couple; the days glided pleasantly on, biddy keeping time in her endeavors to please her mistress with the joys of her heart; everything went on cheerfully, not a note of discontent was heard, except that the little winnie would sometimes break into sighing for the pleasures of her early home. nothing occurred to disturb the quietude of this home in the west, until early in the ensuing fall, when mrs. santon was taken with a violent attack of western fever, which threatening to undermine her health, mr. santon was fearful lest they should be obliged to return east; but the fever leaving her, she was again able to attend to her duties, with only an occasional "shake," and the discussion as to their return was for the present discontinued. chapter v. the outward bound. "go in thy glory o'er the ancient sea, take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell, sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be; fare thee well, bark; farewell!" mrs. hemans. "farewell; god knows when we shall meet again. i have a faint, cold fear thrilling through my veins, that almost freezes up the heat of life." shakespeare's "romeo and juliet." as the dews of heaven fall gently, lulling the flowers to rest, so did the low, clear voice of the sea-flower soothe the weary spirits of mrs. grosvenor, as she read from the evening paper the following paragraph: "spoken by bark constitution, of new york, in latitude ° ', longitude °, ship tantalizer, of nant., capt. i. w. grosvenor, eighty days from home; had taken seventy barrels of sperm oil, and was made fast to a forty-barrel right whale: would sail for south seas in a few days; all well." "hurrah for father!" exclaimed harry; "he will be at home in less than two years, at that rate, and then he promised me that i should see what old ocean is made of!" "my son, you will learn full soon what a life at sea is; your bright visions may indeed some of them be realized, the many dangers to which you will be exposed, will not serve to mar your joys, for to such a heart as yours they will pass unheeded; but for all that, my son, you will meet with many hardships, of which you little know. i would wish you never to follow the sea, my boy, but if you are still determined upon it, when your father returns i shall have to give my consent, though with reluctance. you will then be old enough to choose your own pursuits for life, and whatever they may be, remember, harry, to lead an honest, upright life, never losing sight of your early instructions, and the prayers of your mother." as mrs. grosvenor ceased speaking she looked upon her son, and could hardly realize that her little rosy-cheeked harry, who had loved to lay his head upon her bosom, and listen while she told him of his father, who had gone away over the blue water, to get such pretty things for his boy, had grown to be a tall lad of fifteen years; and well might she have been proud of her son, for the nobleness of his soul was apparent in every feature. as vingo expressed himself, "young massa harry am got up ob what neber would get used to de atmosphere ob old berginny." "mother," said harry, "i shall never forget your teachings. i shall always hold them sacred in my heart, and wherever i go, in whatever circumstances i am placed, i will be true to you, my mother;" and he pressed a fervent kiss upon the brow of her who was worthy the name. as mrs. grosvenor returned her son's embrace, she felt that perhaps she had said too much; that she had been selfish in wishing to have him always near her; and she observed that he wore an expression of pain, of deep emotion, which he in vain attempted to conceal. the sea-flower had rested her head upon her hand, and while her mother had been engaged with harry, a silent spectator might have wondered to what unseen object those deep oases of love were imparting their purity. the words of harry had fallen upon her ear,--"i shall see what old ocean is made of;" shall we follow in the train of her musings? they will lead us not where the fallen tread. on the banks of the still waters of peace, 'neath the willows, whose tears are of innocence, frisk the tender lambs, who taste only of the sweets of the green pasture:--"i shall see what old ocean is made of." far away in coral dells, where the nymphs of ocean tune their harps in praise to nature's god, the sea-flower loves to ramble, as if she had been a child in time long past, and the mysteries of ocean were that childhood's home. ah, loved one, thou dost not pause to find what 'tis which makes thy heart to beat in unison with the murmuring of the waters! perchance those restless billows are but the echoings of thy soul's desire to breathe that upper air, and breathing, gasp for more, 'tis not for us to tell thee that bright ones came down, and bore the spirit of her who gave thee life, to that better land, from hence; nor of the dying prayer, "lord, keep my child," which was caught up by each listening billow, and the supplication, e'er since renewed by the voices of the deep. why mrs. grosvenor had spoken thus, upon this evening to her son, she could not tell; she felt there was some irresistible power which bade her speak that charge,--"never lose sight of your early instructions, and the prayers of your mother." as she retired early for the night, feeling slightly indisposed, she met the gaze of harry, which was fixed upon her, attributing its uncommon earnestness to a determination on his part to cherish her words. and he never did forget them but, ah! fond mother, sleep on, take thy rest, and gain strength for the morrow's rising, for thou knowest not of the cup of sorrow which is being prepared for thee. as harry sat watching the bright flames as they went crackling up the chimney, his sister came and rested her head upon his shoulder, where they remained, until sea-flower, reminding him of the lateness of the hour, was about to retire, when her brother threw his arm about her, begging her to remain a little, for, said he, "i shall not always have my dear sister to comfort me." "to comfort you! harry, do you, who are always so light-hearted and joyous, need comforting?" "ah, pussy, but you can make the happiest heart happier. i was thinking of mother; it is a comfort to me that she has you, sea-flower, to cheer her lonely hours." "i think mother is less sad than she has been, for now she is looking forward to the time when father shall come home; and i think she flatters herself that she can dissuade you from going to sea, and then we shall be an unbroken, happy family once more." those words! why had they power to make that boy turn pale? had he not been screened from the bright glow of the fire-light, the sea-flower must have noticed his agitation, as she looked up for the good-night kiss; he clasped her in his arms for a moment, and then the door closed upon her gentle form. the old clock in the church tower had struck eleven, and harry heard the cry of the watch, "all's well." he still stood where he had parted with his sister; as her last footfall upon the stairs died away, and the house was hushed for the night, the plans which he had matured long days ago, for this night's execution, laid fast hold of him. can it be possible that the boy is about to forget those last words of his mother? no, they are still sounding in his ear; and his promise, "i will not forget the prayers of my mother." but does he consider, in the step which he is about to take, of the arrow which will pierce that mother's heart? he walks the room with a quick tread; he does reflect, and pities his mother from the bottom of his heart, praying that the blow may fall gently; but he has shipped for a voyage in the nautilus, and this night, at high tide, she will sail. noiselessly he ascends to his room, and taking his clothes from the drawer, where they had been placed with care, makes them into a bundle, not forgetting the little bible, which was given him by his mother only the day before, as a birthday gift. pausing in the upper hall, he listens, if he may get one last faint sound from those he holds so dear; but save the uneasy slumbers of vingo, nothing is heard. all is now ready for his departure; stepping into the parlors, where hang the portraits of the family, he takes a farewell of each. the sea-flower and his mother! his eyes fill with tears, and his heart is swelling into his throat; he is upon the point of retracing his steps, when his eye rests upon the features of his father. the daring boldness of the expression, which the artist had but too well portrayed, fires him with fresh courage; every nerve thrills with new life, and kissing the inanimate canvas, as if it were indeed his dear mother and sister, he tore himself away from home. walking rapidly down the deserted street, without venturing a look back, he passes many an endeared object; the old white church, where he has been accustomed to worship, sunday after sunday, for many years, holds high its head in the bright moonlight, and the hands of the old town clock upon the tower, seem to beckon him to return. he falters; it would seem as if the very doors of the church would open and receive him. throwing down the bundle, he kneels upon the door-stone, and breathes a prayer to heaven, to bless those who will enter therein when he shall be gone. pressing his lips to the cold stone where _they_ have trod, he rises, when lo! standing by his side, with the package of clothes in his mouth, is the old house dog, nep; and as the watch in the tower cries, "past eleven o'clock, and all is well," he looks wistfully into his master's face, as if he would ask, is all well? what is to be done? in less than half an hour the ship will be towed out into the stream; there is no time to be lost, but the dog will not think of leaving his master, for his experience of years tells him it is a new thing for the boy to be wandering from home at this unseasonable hour. in vain did harry attempt to drive the faithful creature from him, for never having been an unwelcome companion before, the dog did not understand his master's threatening gestures; yet he could understand that something was amiss, and for that reason kept close upon his master's heels, to shield him from all danger. arriving at the wharf, the boy once more attempted to drive the dog from him, when looking around, he espied a bit of rope, with which he made him fast to a post, and then clambered up the ship's side. poor nep, keeping his eye upon his master, laid him quietly down, until the lines were cast off, and the ship began to recede from the shore. o, harry, could you leave the companion of your infancy thus, made fast to a yard rope, to shiver in the night air? it was his only alternative, for in taking neptune with him he well knew would be robbing the household of one more endearment. no sooner had the ship started from her moorings, and nep saw that his master was being borne away, than he gave a piteous howl, and with one bound parted the line which held him, and plunging into the tide, made vigorous attempts to reach the ship. "breakers on the larboard bow!" sung out the captain, who stood laughing to see the labors of the poor animal, who was becoming exhausted; "let's see who'll have the first harpoon!" and he hurled a billet at the dog's head as he was going down for the second time. harry, seeing the action, cried out, "save him! who will save my poor nep?" and fell fainting upon the deck. fortunately the hard-hearted man had missed his mark for once, and by the light of the moon, the poor fellow was seen, just under the bows, struggling feebly, as if about to give up, when an old tar, who had heard harry's cry for help, sprang with the rapidity of thought, and seizing a rope, made it into a slip-noose, throwing it over the dog's head, nearly strangling him as he drew him out of the water. together they lay motionless upon the deck, harry and nep, when the captain coming along would have stumbled over them, had he not caught at a halliard near by. "what in the name of things unheard of, is all this?" exclaimed he, with an oath; "this indeed is a curious beginning for the little land-lubber! i've the greatest mind to set him ashore, to come to his senses at his leisure, and if i'm not greatly mistaken, he's but a young runaway at best; but we might as well keep him now, he'll do for testing the strength of our cats, and as for that other critter, mr. sampson, you may hand him over to the steward, and tell him i shall want a nice over-all when we get out where the ice makes an inch a minute." mr. sampson, who had shipped as boat-steerer, the same that had rescued old nep from drowning, lifted harry in his arms, and carrying him below, laid him in his own hammock, where he also brought the dog, who was apparently lifeless, and laid him by his side. it was a long time before harry was restored to consciousness, and when he had gained strength sufficient to raise himself upon one arm, he looked around in the darkness, perfectly bewildered; but as the remembrance of his situation slowly came to him, he called aloud, in agony of spirit, "nep! poor drowned neptune!" tossing upon his hammock, his arm came in contact with the creature's shaggy coat. could it be nep? rescued from the inhuman treatment of the captain? but he did not move! was he alive? harry sprang from his bed, and making his way in the darkness he knew not whither, finally found himself in the captain's state-room, which was unoccupied, and seizing a candle, reached his hammock just as mr. sampson returned. "man alive! where did you get that light?" asked sampson, apparently much terrified. "o, sir, i took the first one i could find, for i must see if my poor neptune is dead!" and he bent over him, smoothing his head, calling loudly, "neptune! poor neptune!" sampson, recognizing the silver candlestick as belonging in the captain's state-room, hastened to return it, knowing well what the consequences would be, if that dignitary discovered that any one had dared to enter his room without orders; and giving harry a few friendly hints, as to what his liberties would be, under their commander, he drew out a mysterious looking bottle from his jacket-sleeve, and diluting a small quantity of its contents, gave it to harry to drink, which in his weak condition did not come amiss. turning to the dog, the kind old tar commenced rubbing him vigorously, bathing his cold limbs with the spirit, glancing occasionally at the gangway, to see who might darken the descent. the dog at last gave signs of life, and to harry's great joy, he looked up and recognized his master, sampson assuring him, in his rough way, that the old fellow would soon be as good as new. it was the last watch in the morning, and harry, hearing loud voices on deck, ventured out. it was a clear, cold morning, the moon had gone down, and venus was just rising in the east; on every side was the blue rolling water. they had left nantucket miles behind. sampson, who was on duty, seeing the boy looking out, as if he had come to the conclusion that the island had been submerged, shook out a reef in the line which he was making fast, that he might catch the boy's ear, and pointing to a dim light far down in the distant horizon, he remarked, "look well, it's old sankoty; i'm thinking you'll have seen different days when you make her again." "halloo, there, aft!" called out the captain; "has that kitten got to mewing? bear a hand there, and square your mizzen topsail," added he, a tone of mockery. the order had hardly left his lips, when harry, with a hearty "aye, aye, sir!" sprang into the cross-trees, and in a twinkling had reached the masthead, calling out in a voice which brought to the mind of each old tar that he had once a mother,--"square away it is, sir." the captain could scarce believe his eyes; seeing by the smile upon the face of every man on deck, that he had been decidedly sold, he hailed him again. "mast-head, ahoy!" "aye, aye, sir." "take your bearings from the fog bank to your leeward, and tell me how she heads." the boy hesitated; he "saw which way the wind blew," and bethinking himself of a small pocket compass which he had about him, sung out, "east-south-east by east, sir, two points off." the man at the wheel responded, "east-south-east by east, two points off." it would not do; the captain saw that he had mistaken his man, and called all hands to pipe down. as mr. sampson passed him, he doffed his tarpaulin, remarking, "i think, sir, the youngster will do very well for trying the strength of our cats." it was evident to harry, before he had sailed many days under captain jostler, that he had one of the most tyrannical of masters. he had been a perfect stranger to him when he shipped for the voyage, being a native of canada, and from the frozen condition of his heart no one would have doubted it; had he been a nantucket man, master harry would have found it more difficult in getting away so privately; as it was, no inquiries were made of him. how different was harry's situation from what it would have been had his father procured for him a berth; as it was, he was doomed to no common hardships, for the captain, having taken a dislike to him from the first, seemed to take pleasure in making him as uncomfortable as possible; and had it not been that he was a favorite with the crew, he would have suffered many times from exposure. many a cold, stormy night had he been ordered to take his turn in the watch, upon deck, in spite of the petitions of the men to fill his place; and he would walk the deck for hours, to keep from becoming benumbed with the cold; but, as his mother had predicted, the hardships and dangers to which he was exposed did not serve to dampen his spirits, and for that very reason, did the captain shower upon him many abuses; for in spite of his cruel treatment toward him, he never had had the pleasure of seeing him look anything but cheerful. at such times, when the wind was howling fiercely, and the salt spray came dashing over the deck, freezing upon the cheek of the youthful mariner, but never penetrating that heart, which was warmed by the remembrance of other days, the boy would think of home, of his mother, and as he uttered the name of the sea-flower aloud, those deep-toned voices of the sea would appear as if the wild reëchoings of the tone; and the low moanings of the wind through the shrouds were of pity for that lone one on the deck of the "outward bound." could the boy have had old nep for a companion in his midnight watchings, he would have served to while away the time, but that pleasure was not allowed him, for captain jostler had threatened to throw the dog overboard, if he came in contact with him in any of his walks; consequently harry had doomed him to a life in the hold, seldom venturing to visit him, except to carry the food which he had saved from his own short allowance; and he often wondered how the poor fellow could keep alive on such short rations, not knowing of the purloined bits which were bestowed upon him from sampson's commodious jacket-sleeve. "there she blows! there she blows!" hailed the look-out from the mast-head, as a school of whales hove in sight, about three miles astern, one afternoon, when they had been four months on the whaling grounds. it was the first discovery that had been made, they having been thus far unsuccessful. all hands were immediately called up; every man was at his post, making ready for the coming scene of action; not as a man-of-war, in the charging of cannon, the priming of musketry, and the brandishing of swords, a battle between man and man, but the boats were lowered, the harpoons were got out, and everything was made ready for an encounter with the monster of the ocean. now was the time when the captain would exhibit his skill as a whaler; all depends on his management as to their success; he must be cool, and collected, working systematically; for not only does it require great skill and caution in the capturing of the whale, but there are many dangers attendant upon the encounter. "there she blows!" no sooner did captain jostler hear the report, than it seemed as if he would go beside himself; every man was ready to do his duty, and had they possessed the right kind of commander, might have done well; but where there is no head, nothing is accomplished. everything was confusion; the captain, springing into the first boat, bade his men follow, leaving, beside harry, but two worthless fellows, who hardly knew a skysail from a jib-sheet, in charge of the ship. harry kept his eye upon the boats for hours; he perceived they were evidently having a hard time of it. running aft to get a glass, as they distanced him, he discovered a fog had sprang up, and was shutting in heavily on all sides; he returned to mark the boats; they were nowhere to be seen; he had lost them entirely; nothing was to be seen on all sides but thick fog banks! what was to be done? where they were, how far from the boats, and in what direction, they knew not. the boy was aware that they were all ignorant of the management of the ship, and what was worse, should the least breeze spring up, they would be borne,--they knew not whither. a couple of hours passed, and the fog did not lift. night was coming on, and from the increased darkness, together with a low, rumbling noise of the sea, it was evident a storm was brewing. harry anxiously walked the quarter deck; it would be certain destruction if they remained in that position till night should overtake them. the boy called to the men, asking what was to be done; but they in terror could do nothing but lament their situation, calling out against the captain for leaving them in such a state. harry hesitated; what was done must be done speedily. to take in sail was his first thought; then, with the assistance of the clumsy seamen, he rolled out a small cannon-piece, and for one long hour did he keep up an incessant fire. the coming storm was now plainly discernible; the distant rolling of thunder was heard, the sea was agitated, and occasionally a flaw would shake the rattlings. they were in momentary expectation that the storm would burst upon them. harry had left his firing, and ascending the hurricane deck, stood with folded arms, as if bracing himself to meet the foe. it is coming in all its fury! kind heaven! the fog lifts! it rolls itself away as it were a great scroll. the ink-black heavens are fearfully majestic, seen in the lightning's lurid glare. a speck! yes, 't is the boats! do they see them? once more the boy flies to the cannon, not pausing to see if they are nearing the ship; his heart beats wildly; 'tis their only chance for life! the hurricane has burst upon them! the enraged deep responds loudly to the deafening roar! once again the feeble voice of the cannon is doing its best to be heard, when lo! the flash mingling with the forked lightnings which play in the rigging, reveals the men, as they come tumbling over the ship's side! they are saved! saved by that noble boy, who does not know of their approach, so intent is he upon his exertions, until sampson clasps him in his arms, and a "god bless you!" is upon the lips of every man, save the captain, who, having received a slight wound from a harpoon, and irritated by their bad luck, utters a curse which vies in blackness with that dreadful night. "down your helm!" shouted the captain; "hard down your helm!" the order was hardly given, when they were thrown on their beam ends; down, down they went, as if never to rise again, completely engulfed in the dark abyss! the boy, where is he? down in the hold, his arm made fast to the collar of old neptune, that they may go down together; he kneels, his mother's gift, the bible, in his hand, calmly awaiting his time. nature seems terrified, yet that boy knows no fear. crash succeeds crash; ah, who can describe the scene! he alone who has stood upon the frail plank, which only separates him from death. again a terrific crash,--their masts have gone by the board! it would seem that the enraged billows were bent upon their destruction. still their stout bark is unwilling to give up, and trembling from stem to stern, she clings to life, nobly resisting the gigantic attacks of the storm-king, who, having fought with terrific fierceness through the livelong night, puts on a less demon-like expression as his strength is well nigh spent, and the gray dawn sees no traces of the despoiler, who perhaps has slain thousands, save the swelling surges, which angrily gaze as if disappointed of their prey. at the first dawn of day, harry went on deck to learn their situation. what a change had been wrought in a few hours. their masts had been carried away, the decks had been swept clean; and he learned that several poor fellows had lost their hold, and were not seen more. "well, i'll be d----d if that son of a cannibal hasn't sneaked away into some hole, and kept his footing," exclaimed the captain, as he saw the boy appear above deck; "i was in hopes he had found safe quarters in davy jones's locker! but there's no getting rid of such scalawags!" "captain jostler," cried mr. sampson, raising his hat, "it's none of my business, and you may knock me down the next minute, if you please, but god knows there's not a man aboard but owes his life to that boy. i have no mutinous designs, sir, but at such a moment as this i will speak, sir, come what will, and thank god the boy had sense enough to go below, when he knew he could be of no use here." the captain looked daggers; he was about to seize sampson by the throat, when a voice from the assembled crew was heard: "three cheers and long life to the boy, captain or no captain! _hurrah!_ hurrah!! hurrah!!!" shouted the grateful tars, making the welkin ring. if jostler had had the heart of a brave, noble sea-captain, he would have fought right and left till the last, ere his men should dare to show such insubordination, setting his authority at defiance; but he was a coward, and they were whole-hearted seamen, who would not see the innocent trampled upon, consequently the villain had to swallow his wrath; but he was determined to have his revenge, and sampson noticed that he cast an evil eye upon the boy. upon examination it was found they had sustained no injuries, besides the loss of the masts, except that a small leakage had been made near the bows, and that was soon repaired by the carpenter, who proceeded to rig jury-masts, and it was not long before they were put in a condition capable of running into the islands for repairs. about sunrise signals of distress were heard, and by the glass, a dismasted ship was made out, a long way astern, apparently in a sinking condition. the captain appeared to take little notice of her, and as the mate ventured to inquire if they should "'bout ship," he answered, "thunder! no, we are safe; let them run their own chance." harry, hearing his reply, was shocked. could the man turn a deaf ear to those repeated sounds of distress, when it was in his power to save them? ah, boy, it is even so! but he is not a man. harry could endure the thought no longer, as fainter and fainter grew the reports, as they bore away from them; he begged sampson to implore the captain to return, sampson telling him "it was of no use, that it would not do to cross him again." "then i will go myself to him; he cannot have the heart to leave them to perish!" "rash boy, your life will be the penalty! you must not do it." "i will do my duty, though i should die for it! there is the least possibility of his hearing me, and what is one life compared with, it may be, a hundred." "stay, mad boy!" cried sampson; but he had gone. reaching the quarter-deck, upon his knees he implored the captain to return. "think, if it were your father, brother, or a son, in that hopeless condition, would you not render them all the assistance in your power?" "i have three brothers and a father upon the ocean," vociferated the demon; "for aught i know it may be one of them! but were they all aboard that hulk yonder, i would not return! but who are you, sirrah, that dares to usurp my power? now, upstart, you shall know your place!" and he seized him by the collar, bore him aft, lashed him to a spar, called for the cat, and lifting it high in air,--it falls, but the cursed invention of man's cruelty falls wide of its mark! ere its descent had scarred that fair brow, a rush was heard from the main gangway, and old neptune, with a fierce growl, has fastened his teeth in the monster's flesh! quick as thought his master called him off, and every man stood trembling, as they observed the captain feeling for his pistols; but his strength failed him, the dog had met his teeth in the wound received by the mismanagement of the harpoon, tearing the flesh nearly from off his limb. it really was a pitiable sight to behold. faint from the loss of blood, he was carried below, where his wound was dressed by one of the men, having no regular surgeon aboard, consequently its fatality was not realized. the groans and writhings of the sufferer were heart-rending; all day long did he rave, imploring sampson, who attended him, to "take the fiend away! that he was being devoured alive!" and thus did he toss upon his bed till toward evening, when a change for the worse came over him. sampson saw that the seal of death was stamped upon his features, and at set of sun, with an imprecation upon his dying lips, he had breathed his last. o, how fearful to enter that spirit land thus unprepared! to come before our judge with a soul stained in the deepest sins, trembling with its burden of guilt. lord, grant that we be not thus found when thou shalt call! give us strength to overcome the world, the flesh, and the devil, so that at the last, we shall taste those joys which exist "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." they buried him in the deep sea. perhaps his body lay side by side with those who, through his unfeeling heart, had found a watery grave; but we trust that, unlike him, they had gone to meet the reward of having lived an holy life,--gone to the "sailor's home," in the skies. the stars shone out, one by one, in the firmament, when the king of day had descended. calmly the night looked down, and undisturbed were harry's thoughts, as seated upon the taffrail, old neptune by his side, he once again breathed the air of liberty. not that he rejoiced that he was thus freed from him who had kept him in perfect slavery, for he alone had dropped a tear over the uncoffined burial of his persecutor; but his heart was filled with gratitude, as he looked into the peerless night,--gratitude to him who has given us a soul, that we may admire the works of his hands. as harry sat musing, turning from the heavenly orbs to their semblance on the bosom of the placid waters, he observed, as it were, a fallen star, mirrored therein, but rousing his dreamy senses, he found it was a small, shining object, floating near them. he drew it from the water; it was a block of wood, in the form of an octagon, highly polished, inlaid with bits of pearl, forming grotesque figures, and thickly studded with some bright mineral, representing stars, which gave it a very handsome appearance. "well, if the youngster isn't picking up moonshine," remarked sampson, examining the curiosity. "some poor fellow designed that for his sweetheart, likely; but i suppose it will make but little difference with her, if she hears he's among the missing, she can just as well set her colors for another. these bright-winged butterflies go upon the principle that 'there's as good fish in the sea as ever was caught.'" "o, ho, sampson," cried the jolly faced mate, who had now taken the captain's berth, "you are inclined to give the fair ones no quarters. i shouldn't wonder if they had given you the slip, in some of your cruisings." "well, sir, nothing of that kind, exactly; i never had much notion for shipping under one captain for life." "a little frightened, eh?" "well, between you and i, i was a little skeery, for fear i should find my mate at the helm." "yes, but you don't mean to say woman is a craft sailing without a compass, do you? that is, minus a heart?" "aye, aye, but it's hard to get in their wake. i never met but one whole-souled woman in my life, and she has gone--where such as she do go. ah, that was a hard time! i was the only one saved of two hundred!" "how was that, sampson? come, spin us that yarn." "land ho! land ho!" hailed the lookout, and every eye welcomed manilla, as they ran in for repairs, after cruising about for months without taking a drop of oil. harry was delighted with the prospect before him, and laying the little curiosity, which would remind him of a sad event in his voyage, away with his bible, he entered upon the duties before him with his whole heart, realizing the visions of his earlier days, and gaining a thorough knowledge of--the life of a sailor boy. chapter vi. some days are born of sorrow. "the path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrows are unknown." anonymous. "through sorrow's night, and danger's path, amid the deepening gloom, ye children of a heavenly king are marching to the tomb." h. kirke white. it is a destiny, that every life be, to a greater or less degree, fraught with that heart-purifying element, which we term sorrow. and who would have it otherwise? who would glide passively along the bright river of smiles, without one taste of that chiefest of disciplines, sorrow? how grateful should we be to him who has permitted us to drink of the same cup with his only son! for he was a "man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." who is so blind that will not see the kind designs of our father, in the disposition of those works of his hands which he pronounced good. truly his eye is all-seeing; the overflow of his tender mercies toward the children of men are unbounded. what cell of goodness is there within the human heart, of which the breath of sorrow cannot raise the valve? in a word, what countless numbers of souls have been stayed in their mad career, have been saved from eternal destruction, through the chastening rod of the lord. it was the morning after the sailing of the nautilus; the sea-flower had arisen with the sun, and calling for old nep, as was her wont, to accompany her on her morning's walk, she tripped lightly along, humming a farewell to the last altheas, as they nodded their shrivelled heads, in view of their departure; but their words of adieu were made brief, by a voice as of one in distress; and coming near, it proved to be the musical vingo, trilling the wild melodies of his old virginia days. "good morning, vingo; you must have been up a long time to have been away down to the shore; you must take it easier, and get more sleep. even old nep dislikes to leave his warm kennel this cool morning, for he did not come at my call, and so i would not disturb him." "ah, missy, de old fellow am getting along in years as well as de rest ob us; and if it wasn't for de gray hairs, dat will keep at de top ob de heap, in spite ob ebery ting, i should feel dat old age am coming wid long strides, when i see dat de wee bud ob de sea-flower am almost in bloom. but see here, missy," said he, holding up a fresh cod which he had taken, "i'm tinking dat make massa harry's eyes sparkle." it was the hour for family prayers. "had you not better go to harry's room, dear, and see if he is ill this morning? he is unusually late," said mrs. grosvenor. "i tink de fragrance ob de salt water about dat cod fetch him soon," remarked vingo, endeavoring to smooth his face into a proper state of sobriety. gently the sea-flower tapped at her brother's door, but receiving no answer, she ventured in; the room was in the same order in which she had left it the day before, for she took great pleasure in arranging the flowers upon his dressing table, and no one could impart such a coziness, arranging everything to his mind, as could sea-flower. the bed had not been disturbed, and the book from which she had read to him, was lying thereon, opened at those beautiful verses of "the iris of the deep," which he loved so well to hear her read. what could it mean? calmly her breath came and went; but for that she appeared like a beautiful piece of statuary, her eyes turned upward, as if seeking for strength to meet the vague sense of desolation which was creeping into her heart. upon the table were two notes, one addressed to her mother, the other to herself, in his hand-writing. with nerveless hand she broke the seal; no emotion was visible, save the delicate glow upon her cheek, which came and went, and the playing of the muscles about her compressed lips, as she read the following: "my sister--when you read this, i shall be far away, sailing over those glorious billows which you and i love so well! you will miss me, for i know you love your erring brother, with all his faults; and even you, who can realize what were my heart's desires, will hardly forgive the step which brings such deep grief upon our mother; yet you will think of me with kindness, for i know it cannot be otherwise. there is no spot within your heart of love which is not occupied. could i have left home with a mother's blessing, i should be happier; but she will pray for her boy; the gentle breeze which fills our sail will bear her "god bless you" to the ear of him who will think of the dear ones at home, until he shall once more fill his place in that dearest of family circles, and thank god, my mother has such an one as you to lean upon. farewell, dear sea-flower, until we meet again. brother harry." he had gone! could it be possible? how could she speak those cruel words to her mother? yet it must be. with steady step she entered the drawing-room; the mother looked upon her child. that which she would speak failed to give utterance. instinctively soul sympathized with soul. "mother, we will breathe our morning supplication to him who ordereth all things;" and the sea-flower, at that family altar, prayed that strength might be given them, that they might be prepared for whatever was to be their portion, and her prayer was heard. arising, mrs. grosvenor sank into a chair; with an agitated voice she spoke,-- "my child, some dreadful thing has occurred! my son,--tell me, has he gone? for the same mysterious power which bade me impress upon his mind last night, the value of the instructions, which, i pray god, i have not been unfaithful in setting before him, tells me i shall not see my boy again for many long days! speak, my child, is it not so?" "you have spoken too truly, mother; may you be able to bear up under this affliction;" and she put the note into her mother's hand. "my eyes fail me, my child! if it is not asking of you too much, tell me what were his last words; they will fall more gently on my heart;" and the tones of the sea-flower were of comfort as she read:-- "my dear mother--in the ship nautilus, which will sail from this port on the th of october, i have shipped for a cape horn voyage. you will hardly believe what you read; nevertheless, it is true. i was very much disappointed that i could not go with father, and thought i would wait patiently until his return; but gaining permission from my present captain to accompany him, i could not resist the temptation. i know i shall do very wrong in going away without your consent, but forgive me, if you can, mother; 't is the only act in which i have ever given you sorrow, or by which i ever shall. you shall hear from me as often as i can get an opportunity of sending home, and it will not be a great while before i shall be with you again. i shall not forget my prayers night and morning; and i know you will not cease to pray for your son, though he should fall to the lowest depths of degradation. tell father, when you write him, that i have disobeyed his word; but ask him if he cannot forgive me. it is possible that i may meet with him upon the ocean, and may we both be spared to make you happy, my dear mother. farewell, from your affectionate son." "i do forgive you, my son, in this cruel step which you have taken; indeed, but how could he do thus? oh, how could he!" and mrs. grosvenor, overcome with her emotion, sank back in her chair. "de good lord be praised, missy! but i not tink it eber come to dis. to be sure, massa wendall often tell me, eber since _dat day_, dat i getting too full ob laugh, dat one extreme follow anoder; but i never tink young massa take hesef clean off!" and, wiping the whites of his eyes, he went out to hunt up old nep to share his grief; but he soon returned, and locking the door after him, proceeded to fasten every window in the house. sea-flower, who was bathing her mother's temples, observing what the negro was about, was at a loss to account for his movements; but knowing he disliked to be questioned upon points touching his judgment, she humored him by letting him have his own way, till finally, he peered into his mistress's face, and in a voice scarcely above a whisper, said, "dar, missy, de rest ob us am safe! he no cotch any more dis time!" "what is it? vingo, what has happened?" "ah, little missy, if i wasn't clean gone tuck! 'pears like i never shall get ober it." "what is the matter, vingo?" "well, missy sea-flower, i tinks it am de ebil one dat has taken dem away, after all; for dat dog neber go 'way peaceably wid anyting short ob de debil; he got too much de spirit ob his massa to be afeard ob anyting dat belong on dis earth!" "is neptune gone, too, vingo?" "yes, missy, dar not eben a shadow left ob him; and, [the negro had a remarkable imagination], 'pears like i see de print ob a cloben tread in de soft ground, by his door; and among de hay de old fellow hab lef some ob his plunder trough mistake." sea-flower hastened to the dog's kennel, and there indeed was a small parcel, folded neatly in white paper, but no trace of the dog was to be seen; opening the package, there was a small locket, containing the likeness of her mother and herself, which had been left upon the parlor table, but how it came in the dog's kennel was a mystery. "oh, our faithful neptune! how much we shall miss him! it must be that he has gone with his master; but perhaps it is all for the best." "i tinks eberyting should be ob de best for you, missy; 'pears like if my poor old phillis could get used to de tribilations, like you do, it help to make de road easier; but i specks she neber learn how." "o, vingo, it makes my heart bleed to think that your people have no opportunities for learning that they may cast their burdens on the lord. i cannot imagine anything more dreadful than the ignorance in which the slaves are kept." "yes, missy, i neber remembers much about it till i leabes old berginny; some how or oder, i finds out dat old massa's people hab a god, but i neber 'spect he know anyting 'bout poor black man." days and months passed on, as the lonely days of sorrow do come, and go, and come again; but as the lengthened shades of the summer solstice had again become less, another cloud had arisen in the firmament of mingled joys and sorrows, threatening to encompass even the bright rays of hope within its gloom. mrs. grosvenor had written her husband of the conduct of their truant son, as harry had wished, and had in reply received his full forgiveness for the boy. captain grosvenor had written that he much regretted not having taken harry along with him, "for," said he, "a second thought would have convinced me that the boy had too much of the spirit of his father to remain contentedly on shore; he has but followed in my footsteps, for i never shall forget the night i stole away from my father's house, when i was but ten years old, and went to sea. yes, tell my boy that i forgive him, yet it annoys me very much that you and our dear natalie are left alone, my wife; but at the rate we have been doing, it will not be long before we shall be homeward bound." nearly a twelvemonth had passed since this letter had been received; not a word had been heard of the tantalizer for a long time; several ships had returned which had left since she had sailed, but they had brought no tidings of her. over a year had passed since she was last reported, and her owners began to look doubtful in regard to her fate; and there were rumors that the tantalizer was counted among the missing vessels, yet no one dared to breathe the thought to the still hoping family, while there was the least possibility that she might be heard from again; and who would wish to be the first to pronounce that gentle wife a widow? darker and still deeper grew the overshadowing cloud, and the hopes of the trusting ones less. mrs. grosvenor would sit for whole days brooding over her sorrows, clinging to the last ray of hope, with almost the insanity of hope; but the last spark finally went out, never again to be rekindled. the untiring wheels of time still went their rounds, and everything moved on, as if there were no hearts beating in discordant measure to the joyous song of nature. sympathizing friends pitied the afflicted, and the world read,--"a noble ship lost at sea! all on board supposed to have perished! ship and cargo valued at thirty thousand dollars; no insurance!" and they exclaim,--"ah, the sailor's life is indeed hard!" but they dwell upon the latter clause of the paragraph with as much real pity, the words fall upon their ear, conveying as much of real sadness to their minds, as that many families have been called to mourn the loss of one of their members. the sea-flower could hardly become reconciled to the thought that she would never see her father more, yet for her mother's sake she suppressed her grief, endeavoring to soothe her weary spirits by those refreshing promises of him who dries the mourner's tear,--binding up the wounds of the broken-hearted. "dear mother, we are called upon to bear a heavy trial; this is indeed a bitter, bitter draught, yet we must not forget 'tis our father holds the cup. you have taught me to smile upon his chastening rod, but in this dark hour of trial truly the flesh is weak; yet we will rest upon the strength of his arm, he will not forsake us; and, mother, his ways indeed are higher than our ways. how tenderly has he dealt with us, inasmuch as he has so ordered that our dear harry should be spared to us; for as i look upon the past, i can see nothing but the kindly interference of his will, that my brother did not share the same grave with his father." "my darling, your precious words shed light over my weary pathway. i fear that i have sinned in thus murmuring at god's will, for i would not see his loving kindness in sparing to me my boy. but it is so very hard,--so dreadful,--that in that hour when his spirit winged its way to that better land, we might not pause from our worldly pursuits, turning our eyes heavenward; craving strength to bear our cross; but your words of love, my child, remind me of that being who is the fountain-head of loveliness, and i thank god for his gift of you." "if i am a comfort to you, mother, it is through your influence, for you have taught me to walk in the paths of virtue." "true, i have pointed out to you the ways of righteousness, but when you looked upon that bright river of life, i observed that its waters were no less tranquil, and mirrored upon its bosom was one more shining star; and it has been increasing in magnitude, till now its radiance illumes even the bright river itself." so did the sea-flower gather together the broken threads of this family, weaving them closer with that golden thread of tender remembrance of him who had gone to await them for a little in that happier home above; this family, of which she had never the slightest suspicion but that they were of her own flesh and blood; and as she sat with her hand clasped within that of her mother's, reading from that blessed book, "come unto me all ye that are weary," mrs. grosvenor could not but notice the striking resemblance which she bore to those lovely features of the miniature, which was found within the golden band. the child was growing to resemble her unknown mother, and were there any who had ever known the parents, to see their child, they could not but have discovered her descent. as the thought came to mrs. grosvenor's mind, she shuddered; and she asked herself if it could ever be that her darling should be torn from her? if another cloud would arise, hiding one more cherished one from her sight? but why should she tremble at the thought? she well knew there could be nothing, not even the discovery of relatives, which could lessen her daughter's love for her mother. not a word had ever been said to the child in regard to her mysterious parentage. captain grosvenor had thought it best not to reveal the fact until she should have become of a suitable age to fully realize her situation. those who had known the circumstances of her discovery, had gradually come to look upon her as the child of those who treasured her as if she had been their own; and the playmates of her childhood days had never mistrusted there was a mystery hanging about her "romantic" name,--sea-flower. harry, indeed, had never forgotten his delight at having a new sister; and as they had grown up together, he had often looked into her dreamy eyes, and thought, "how unlike she is to any one else; she is too good to be my sister;" and as the reality came to him, he had banished the remembrance, ere it had taken to itself a form. the original vingo had never lost sight of "that commentful" day, as he termed it; not a day passed but he made some allusion to "dat wee gem among de sea-weeds," and the sea-flower would open wide her eyes, as from his wild laugh she caught his broken sentences, and would wonder why the negro's words should meet with such a response within her own bosom. the child's dress, together with the ornaments which had been found upon her, had been laid carefully away, reserved until she should have become familiar with her history. but mrs. grosvenor, since the loss of her husband, had weighed the question in her mind, whether she should still keep the secret from her, for the child's mind was much beyond her years, and she questioned whether it would be for the best to permit her to grow to maturer years thus undeceived; but she reflected that such had been the design of her husband, and, therefore, for the present, the subject was dismissed from her mind. it was the close of the third year in which harry had been from home. mrs. grosvenor had received four letters from him in that time. his last had stated they were doing well, that he was under one of the kindest of captains, and all that was wanting to make him perfectly happy, was to see his dear mother, and the rest of the family once more. poor boy, he little thought that there was one of its members whom he would never see again, until he had passed over that sea from which no navigator ever returns! harry had never written his mother of the brutal treatment which he had received from his first captain, but he had said that neptune had been the means of saving his life, and that the old fellow was getting to be quite a sailor, inasmuch as he could take a turn on the quarter-deck with as much dignity as the captain himself. it had been some time since harry's last letter had been received, and now mrs. grosvenor was anxiously looking for news from him, with a state of mind prepared for receiving almost anything, so fraught with sad events had been the last few years, when one day vingo was seen far down the street, coaxing his time-wearied limbs into a run, and bursting into the room, he stood panting in the middle of the floor, grinning with delight, and holding at arm's length a letter, which mrs. grosvenor recognized as coming from her son. the sea-flower read the letter aloud, and when vingo learned that massa harry was homeward bound, he could contain himself no longer; it seemed as if he would go beside himself at the thought of having his young massa home once more, for everything had appeared so different since he went away; there had been so many changes, that the fellow had really had his fears that it might be his turn next to be taken off, and he had often had visions of his old slave massa in nearer proximity than was at all consistent with his ideas of liberty. "de good lord be praised!" exclaimed the negro, as sea-flower ceased reading; "dis am too good news for old black man live me! but i knew de bright sunshine not be contented to stay away from missy sea-flower long. i tinks missy get along better widout him, dan he can widout her; but dar am some poor souls dat neber sees de shine, making dem feel as full ob sing as a camp-meeting!" and the negro gave a deep sigh at the remembrance of his poor old phillis, who was, for aught he knew, still wearing the accursed yoke of slavery. "poor things! poor things!" sighed the sea-flower; "i would willingly share with them my joys, were it in my power. theirs would be a lighter burden to those who have learned of that glorious home, where the resplendent shining of its bright ones is forever! but they, alas, have no bright future to look forward to, giving them renewed strength to bear their cross; or if they ever hear of that all-father who hears the cry of the most wretched of his children, their masters would have them believe that he is but the white man's god! oh, vingo, how could you have had the heart to believe that god would disown his children?" "dunno, missy; but 'pears like de slabe jus' no more chilen dan de oder animals; and i tinks old massa done teach de hounds about de big bible, sooner dan he niggers." "what became of your wife, vingo, when father took you away? could you not prevail on your master to let her come with you?" "o, missy, old bingo hoe in de cotton field great many long years since he sot eyes on poor, torn-down phillis, or the young uns." "the little ones! and had you some children, vingo?" "ah! if i known how to praise de good lord in dem days, i specks i shouted for joy, when i see de wee creters burstin' wid de laugh; and phillis, she clean tuck ober, to see them fist each oder wid dar little feet, 'pearing like dey hab inherit all de peruigilinations ob dar daddy; and den de little creters change dar minds, and burst into de smiles again. o, dem was happy days! and i and phillis tink we just de pleasantest creters in de whole ob berginny; and we takes de young uns out wid us to de cotton field, and after dey gets use to de hot sun in dar eyes, dey crawl round on de ground, snatchin' up de bits ob cotton, like dey hab been use to it all dar days; and we not mind it much if old oberseer did gib us a lash ober de head, 'casionally, when we stops to cotch a bref, long as we habs de young uns to lift us up a bit. but dem days not stay long, for one day dar come a fierce looking man, from way down in kentuck, and as he went ober de plantation, i oberhears him saying to massa, dat he must hab just de smartest, good-looking niggars dat could be scared up, for dar was one ob de richest men in kentuck dat was willing to pay any price for dem; but dey must be made ob de right material, for he worked his niggars, and cut dem up so, dat he hab to get in a fresh supply ebery now and den. dat was death-blow to me, for i knew my phillis was considered de smartest, best looking gal on de plantation; for many a time i hear massa say, dat gal worth a dozen common ones, and he spoke de truth for once, for i knows dar neber was anoder like her. well, i tells phillis dat night what i hears, and i tells her to jus slack off a little, and put on her worst look when de man come round next day, and perhaps dey oberlook her; but 'pears like we didn't get much comfort from dat, and all night long we keeps awake, for we couldn't help tinking dat might be de last time we eber see each oder again; for we neber hear ob de good place den, where we might meet when slabe massa get trough wid us. de next morning, afore de broke ob day, massa and de trader comes round to our cabin, and seeing phillis at de door, putting de young uns to rights, and clarin' up a little, 'fore we goes out to de field, de fierce man cracked his whip, and jumping ober de young uns, caught phillis by de arm, and whirling her round and round, called out, 'i say, mister, dis ere's de likelist critter i've sot eyes on dis many a day! i must hab dis one at any price!, old killall be good-natured a month, when he sees dis handsome critter; but if he don't use her up in less dan dat time, he'll do what he neber done afore! i tell you, sar, it's surprisin' to see how much work he'll get out ob his niggars; goes ahead ob anyting you eber heard ob; dat's de way he's made such a power ob money. he says he's tried it faithfully, year in and year out, and he's thoroughly convinced dat de way to make anyting by dis niggar business, is to get de work; if dey wont work widout de whip, why, put it on! get dar steam up some way or oder, and when one lot gibs out, get a fresh stock! i'll tell you what, sir, killall understands it; he'll sell dar hides for shoe leather radder dan let his niggars stand idle!' when i hear dat, missy, my bery blood boil, and 'pears like i couldn't keep my hands off from de villain; but i know dat if i make any resistance, it fare all de worse wid phillis, and i get sent to de whippin'-place, into de bargain; so i only grind my teeth, and look on, like i didn't know any better; but, missy, didn't i wish i white man den, jus' for de sake ob sabin' my wife and young uns? for i lib wid phillis so long i couldn't help feeling 'tached to her. ole massa, he not 'pear to like de idea ob parting wid phillis jus den, for he know right well dat he not get anoder like her bery soon, and so he tells de trader dat de niggar 'pear bery well, but as for de real work, he got a dozen dat go ahead ob her, and if de gemman want de real workin' niggar, dey step round de oder side de plantation; but de trader, he keep his eye on phillis, like he understand de business too well to be put off dat way, and he say to massa, tell you what 'tis, mister, dat gal may not hab de genuine work 'bout her now, but if she get tinder old killall's lash, dar be no trouble bout dat, and den when she good for notin' else, after de work all out ob her, she might keep a little ob her looks, 'nough to make her go for a hundred or so. but massa, he not like to gib her up, and dey talk a long time togeder, and i hears de trader say,--'de gal should square off all de old affair, wid five hundred to boot;' till by and by massa gibs in, and de bargain was closed, bery much to de satisfaction ob both parties. but dey not stop to ask how we like de idea ob being separated for life! dey not tink dat perhaps de mother find it hard to leabe her chil'en. de trader 'pear bery much pleased wid his bargain, and he slipped a cord round phillis's arm, and tell her to go wid him. o, missy, dat was de awfullest minute in my life! poor phillis look at de chil'en, den at me, and wid one long, piercing shriek, dat i hear many times since, she clung round my neck, begging me to go wid her, to sabe her from de dreadful place where dey would take her! but afore i could say one word, the trader, wid a dreadful curse, seize her by de throat, and in his hurry to get her away, stumbled ober one ob de young uns wid his great heaby boots, dat was made 'spressly to kick de fractious niggars, as he called it, and de chile neber breathe again! he had step clean on to its neck, strangling it in an instant! at de sight ob her chile, all bleedin', and still, poor phillis become all quiet, and her eyes were shut, just like good missus, when she find massa harry take hesef away. ole massa he 'pear rather sober like, when he find one ob his niggars killed, for he sot a heap on de young uns dat was comin' up, 'cause dey be big enough soon to be ob some 'count; but de trader hand ober fifty dollar bill, to make de accident good, and took de opportunity to get away, 'fore phillis come to again; but dey not say any ting to me 'bout my loss, and 'pears like dey could not cober de great break in my heart, wid all de fifty dollar bills in berginny. dat was de last time i eber sees my phillis. i specks by dis time dey hab got de work all out ob her, and i hopes dey hab, missy; for though she neber hear ob dat place where all are made bright, i know she good enough to find de way; but i hopes she not be too full ob shine, coz i fraid i not know her from de white folks." "i hope you will meet her there, indeed, vingo: for after such a separation here, how great will be your joy. i feel assured that the poor down-trodden negro will not be in that day forgotten; the dreadful curse which hangs over your race will then be explained, and i fear there will be many called to an account for the wrongs which they have done their fellow-men. but what became of your child, vingo? did you not feel grateful that one of your dear ones was spared to you?" "ah, missy, i tinks dar no place for gratitude in de slabe's heart; and sometimes i specks i neber hab a heart, till missy sea-flower spare me a part ob hers. well, after phillis and de young un tuck away, 'pears like i neber look up any more; and if it not for de little phillis dat was left, i tink i clean gib up. i takes her wid me to de cotton field, and she lay and look at me all day long, so strange like, as if she want to know why we dar all alone; and at night i feed her wid de corn-cake, like her poor mammy used to do, and at eb'ry mouthful she look up in my face, den at de door, to see if its mammy not comin'. after a while i gets a little used to de ache, which i hab since phillis tuck away, and all de time i not at work in de field, i takes care ob de young un, to keep from hearing dat awful shriek, when one mornin' i wakes up, and de little phillis nowhar' to be seen, and i's neber seen her since, missy." "they could not surely have robbed you of your only comfort! o, how dreadful!" "yes, missy; i inquires all round if dey see anyting ob my phillis, but i gets only a laugh from one, and a curse from anoder; for eben de slabe get so used to de hard treatment ob dar massa, dat dey sometimes show de same spirit towards dar fellows, specially if dey happens to be clean tuck down wid the 'blue imps,' as dey calls it. at last i asks a poor, broken-down ting, dat hab all her young uns sold away from her only a day or two afore, if she know anyting 'bout my young un, and she tells me dar hab been a sale ob a dozen young uns, on de plantation, and she sees massa, long afore day-broke, pack dem into a wagon, and dey carried off. i knows den it no use to look for her any longer, and de more i grows to look down, 'pears like de more dey laughs at me, and dey calls me 'dat moon-hit niggar.' i gets so stupid after a while, dat massa threatens to sell me way down whar dey works de niggars up; and i gets so, i don't care how much dey whips me, or anyting else, for i tinks i neber be mysef again, when one day massa takes me wid him down to de boats, to fotch de cotton, and i hears de captain ask, what ail dat fellow to look so blue, and massa tells him, i got a notion dat i hab a right to keep my wife and young uns, like i hab de feelin's ob white folks. den de captain talk wid massa 'bout buyin' me, and i got to be such a torn-down critter, massa glad to let me go for most anyting, for de sake ob gettin' rid ob me. when de bargain struck, my new masa grobener claps me on de shoulder, and says, 'now, my man, come wid me, and see if we can't gib a better 'plexion to matters.' dem was de first kind words i eber hears from de white man, and after dat i springs right up, like de wilted roses missy brought to life de oder day; and when de sea-flower come to us, i tink she sent to smooth ober de rough places, dat hab been gathering trough de long years ob my life in slabery." "yours is a sad history, vingo, and i am happy if i have helped to make your pathway pleasanter; but do not look upon your life in slavery as having been unprofitably spent, for the very darkness through which you have come, serves to make brighter that glorious light which is now shed o'er your way. your sad tale has impressed me with renewed gratitude to our father for his mercies towards me; and while i thank him for the many blessings which i have received from his hand, my heart shall also praise him that with these joys have been mingled,--the purifying light of his chastening love." chapter vii. natalie. "if ever angels walked this weary earth in human likeness, thou wert one of them." anonymous. "'mid pleasures and palaces, where'er we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; a charm from the skies seems to hallow us there which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere." moore. "sampson, mr. sampson! just step this way, and bring your eye to bear a little to the nothe-nothe-east, and tell me what you make." "make, boy, make!" exclaimed sampson, thrusting a huge piece of pigtail into his already overcharged, capacious mouth, "i suppose you would have me believe that you'd made the light of some sweet-heart's eyes, outshining even old sankoty itself." "three years ago, do you remember it, sampson, when i was a mere stripling, you took me aside, and pointed out a dim light, away down to the water's edge, and told me i would have seen different days before i made it again? do you think i can ever forget it? i could tell its light from among a thousand! as i caught its last rays then, it seemed to me the pensive, forgiving smile of my mother, for, as you know, i came away from home without my mother's consent; but i long ago received her forgiveness, and everything will be forgotten in the happiness which we shall enjoy at meeting once more. and my father, he is at home by this time! how surprised they will all be to see me grown almost to be a man! i hope the sea-flower is the same little fairy still. she will not always be a bud, however; yet the opening flower has greater charms." "bless my stars! boy, are you losing your senses?" asked the astonished sampson, as harry walked the deck in raptures, talking as fast as his tongue could fly, as it appeared to the old tar, in riddles. "what's got into your head, boy? i have always taken you to be the most sensible person aboard, but shiver my topsails, if the fellow don't talk as if he expected to find old vineyard sound turned into a flower garden, with a fairy made fast to every other blossom!" as sampson delivered himself of this ludicrous remark, harry burst into a loud fit of laughter, and handing the tar his glass, he sang out "sankoty light, ahoy!" which brought all hands on deck in an instant, rubbing open their eyes, (for it was but the second watch in the morning,) to catch sight of the first object visible of their homes. "three cheers for old nantucket, and young grosvenor!" shouted the captain; and the ready huzza which went up, amid the waving of sundry flannel shirts, old boots, and forsaken tarpaulins, which had been caught up by the unshorn tars, as the sound of their near proximity to home aroused them from the dreamy visions thereof to the vivid realities, were borne over the waters which separated them from thence, deceiving the red-combed heralds of the day into the belief of an early dawn, judging from the signs of recognition which met their approach, as the first tinge of red lit up the eastern sky. nobly the good ship nautilus bore down to the bar, setting heavily on the water, and the good twenty-five hundred with which she was laden, was no less weighty than the handfuls of silver which danced o'er the minds of the glad sailor boys, as they neared their native shore. none were more light-hearted at the prospect before them than harry grosvenor; not that he had become weary of the sailor's life, for he loved the ocean with the same free, wild love as when three years before, it had beckoned his boyish heart to brave its perils; but his joy, as the endeared objects of his home, one by one, welcomed him in his fancy, was unbounded, and he could not realize that he should so soon greet the dear ones who had been the subjects of his most precious thoughts, through the many days which had separated them. "well, my boy," said sampson, as he grasped harry by the hand, "we've sailed under a clear sky for the most of the time, and we've held together about as good as the strongest, but there's no use in shedding fresh water tears over it, for i'm thinking this'll not be your last voyage, and as for me, there's nothing to hinder my hanging around this little sand-heap a bit longer; and who knows but we may try it again some day. who knows? ah, who knows that john sampson is not lying at this moment at the bottom of the sea? who is there that cares to know?" "this, i know, is not your home, mr. sampson; but have you not one friend? is there no spot in the wide world which is dear to you? is there not one who will welcome you home?" "all places are the same to me, and i can truly say, there is not a person on the whole earth that would 'bout ship' to get a look at me. to be sure, i was brought up somehow, till i was able to take myself up, but by whom, or where, is farther back than the story goes; all i know is, i found myself, at six years old, on the top of a london dust heap, taking a survey of the great metropolis. whether i was left there by the refuse gatherers, to come under the head of starved dogs, or whether i was accidentally dropped by my lawful owner, it don't make much difference. well, i shook the dust out of my eyes, and made for the water, and i've lived on the water for the most part ever since. but there's one comfort about it, i've never been troubled with poor relations," added he, jocosely. "mr. sampson, yours is a strange history, and what is stranger still, that you have not, in all your yarns in the forecastle, spun us this one. but have you never, in all your wanderings, met with those whom, you can call your friends?" "a rough old tar like me, i must say, would not be the most inviting craft to interchange signals with, but, thank god, i have found one, in my long life of wanderings who was worthy the name of friend! but she, kind, beautiful lady, is gone;" and the rough tar drew his sleeve across his eyes, and turning toward the island, muttered,--"twelve, yes, fifteen years ago this very month, and i the only one saved! i worked hard, but it was of no use; it was to be. i'd gladly have gone down to have saved her." "well, sampson, i think it is you who are losing your senses now," said harry, as he listened to his inaudible words; "but you shall not say you have not a friend so long as my craft sails the ocean, for i never shall forget your kindness to me and my faithful old nep, while exposed to the harsh treatment of our former captain; and depend upon it, you will have made other true friends, when the dear ones at home shall have heard of your generous conduct. i have one of the best of mothers, mr. sampson, and a sister who would make you a better man to look into her heaven-speaking eyes! a likeness of her was among my valuables when i left home, but it has been by some means mislaid." "a better man, eh? well, there's room enough for that! i shall have to lie under a close reef, and by the help of my glass, i may get sight of her some day." the crew of the nautilus, after having made themselves as tidy as a six months' beard, and a suit of three years' usage would admit, prepared to go ashore. as harry stepped upon the wharf, he looked among the ships lying at the dock, for the tantalizer, but not seeing her, he concluded she must have put to sea again, and taking his package upon his shoulder, he whistled for neptune, and turned his footsteps homeward. how familiar was every object as he tripped along the street! everything appeared the same as when he left, and as he passed the old church, it seemed as if it was but yesterday when he had kneeled upon the door-stone in prayer for those who were sleeping, unconscious of the sorrow which awaited them. his heart beat wildly as he drew near his home,--so great was his joy that he had not observed that nep had not accompanied him from the ship. it was evident that he would take the family by surprise, for not even old vingo was to be seen about the premises. noiselessly he opened the door,--his mother was sitting with her face from him, engaged with her sewing, and at her feet sat the sea-flower, so absorbed, reading his last letter, that she was not aware of his presence till he threw his arms about his mother's neck, and sobbed like a child. as he turned to his sister he faltered; what a change had been wrought in her in three years! the child, whose mature mind had not been in accordance with her years, had come to be a fair maiden of sixteen summers! the bud had indeed expanded, till now its unfolding leaves were as new-born rays of love, reminding earth of heaven. the sea-flower saw that her brother hesitated in giving her his usual salutation, and throwing herself into his arms, she said,--"i am the little sea-flower still, dear harry; i shall always be the same simple child; but how you have grown, dear brother! i can hardly believe you are the little rogue who used to hide my pet kitten, because you loved to see the tears come into my eyes, and you would look at me without speaking a word, till i would laugh outright, and break the charm, as you said; and then the tears would come in your own eyes, for fear you had been selfish. but i felt that my tears were not in vain, for i usually found some little stranger among the bright-eyed ones, that looked up to me for protection." "i knew i should find you the same dear sister as ever! i knew you would always be the same;" and as the vague remembrance that she was of other parentage flashed across his mind, he modestly pressed her hand to his lips, and gazed into her beautiful face in silence. harry observed that his mother had lost her cheerful, happy expression, which had given her the youthful look not of her years, and he feared that his conduct had been a source of deeper grief to her than he had supposed; but now that she again looked upon her son, her pale, pensive face was lit up with the smile of contentment, and a heart of thanks was hers that so many blessings were yet her portion. a noise which strongly reminded harry of the rattling of the rigging in a gale of wind, was now heard in the hall, and vingo presented himself at the door; he looked at harry, then at his mistress, while the pupil of his eye gave place to its lighter counterpart, and raising both hands, he exclaimed,--"de good lord be praised! 'pears like i couldn't be any fuller ob laugh if i find old phillis hersef!" and grasping his master's extended hand, he laughed until it seemed as if the corners of his mouth would meet. "i's right glad to see you, young massa, 'deed i is; but where is de old fellow neptune?" "yes, yes, where is the faithful creature?" asked sea-flower; "at our joy in seeing you, we have quite forgotten him." just then the dog's well remembered bark was heard at the door, and on opening it, the animal marched in, and laying a little parcel which he had brought in his mouth, upon the floor, he jumped upon the sea-flower, nearly overpowering her, in his delight frisking from one to the other as if he were mad. harry was now, for the first time, aware that the dog had not come with him, and examining the parcel which he had brought, to his no little astonishment he found it was the identical curiously wrought block, which he had found after that dreadful night of the storm. among the many gifts which he had brought home to his mother and sister, he had forgotten this simple one, and now he remembered that he had not seen it for a long time. why the dog should have noticed so trifling a thing, was indeed singular. harry related the circumstances by which he had come in possession of the curiosity, and from the presents of silks, crapes, fruits, etc., which he had brought to the sea-flower, she turned to the mysterious little curiosity with a greater interest, examining the grotesque figures with a fascination, when accidentally pressing a pearl setting, the box (for such it was discovered to be,) flew open, and revealed to her bewildered gaze--what? good god! is it possible? neatly lined is the box, and lying therein--a cross! the same which the sea-flower had wrought with her own hands, and given her father when she saw him last! carved at the head of the cross are these words,--"you will soon come to me again; then you will never leave us;" the child's last words to her father. o, how did they fall upon her heart now! it seemed as if he were speaking to her from the skies, and unconsciously she looked upward, as if she might indeed catch the tones of her father's voice, bidding her come away. "we will come," she softly whispered, "we shall soon be with you there;" and turning to her mother, she added,--"it is not far, that better land; we may hear their glad shouts, if we will listen." over that cross, emblematic of the lamb who was slain that we might live, was shed tears from a widow's heart; but those tears were not of mourning for the departed, for through her who was made but a little lower than the angels, those tears had been turned into joy. the child who had ever walked in that narrow way, as if it were the only path in which the children of earth might tread, had taught her bereaved mother, that those precious words from the book of life, which she had ever recognized, but had not strength to cling thereto in the hour of trial, were truly christ's words of tenderness; she could now smile upon the chastening rod. those dying words, as it were of him who had gone, were as balm to the heart of mrs. grosvenor and the sea-flower, for what could be more dreadful than that they should never learn of his last moments? but to harry, who had been just upon the point of asking for his father, it was as the dark funeral pall to his soul, and he staggered to a chair. "where is my father?" he asked, in a hollow voice. "in heaven!" was the response of the sea-flower. there was silence in that house. sorrow, which had reigned for a time around that hearthstone, still lingered, striving to supersede the joy which must go hand in hand with purity; but its icy touch was to be of gentler mien, its cold, cold breath mingling with that of more genial spheres, helping to swell the--"father, thy will be done." this was a dreadful announcement to harry, a stroke which he was not prepared to receive; and now did the past come to his remembrance with sickening frenzy. that terrific night!--he had, at the peril of his life, implored that heartless being to listen to the stranger's cry of distress, to stretch out to him the hand of brotherly love; and that cry for help was now sounding in his ear with renewed freshness, for it was from his own loved father! "oh, what an undutiful son i have been!" cried harry; "had i known then what i know now! and yet, the fiend would not have turned a hand, had it been his own father! thank god, i have his forgiveness for disobeying his last commands! 't is the one great lesson of my life, and should i live a hundred years, i will never deviate from what i think would have been my parent's wishes." "natalie!"--the sea-flower gazed upon that name, the name of her father's choice,--a simple word, but oh, what volumes did it speak! there seemed to be a very sacredness hanging about the tone. as time sped onward, leaving far behind the past, but not burying it, the sweet, child-like sea-flower was gradually putting on the gentle, mystic form of natalie; and though the name had become familiar to other ears, to her its impress was as when she reverently looked upon that cross of christ, at the foot of which was traced that which she could not but associate therewith. the depth of her dreamy eyes spoke not only of him who had left them, but they told of the soul's instinct in regard to that which was as yet unrevealed. "well, massa, i tinks de sun make up he mind to take a look out at us once more," remarked vingo, as seated astride a wood-horse, he was making vigorous exertions to take the nautical expression from his young master's boots. "then you have had rather a dark time of it at home here, have you, vingo? have been rather lonely?" "yes, 'deed it has, massa harry; i 'fraid sometimes dat i lose my self-complexion entirely, and i tinks you not find so much ob me left, if it not for missy's bright light, dat shine along de way. dare not anoder like her, massa; but i dunno as dat's strange, for de stars not come down to bathe in de ocean ebery day." "you are getting sentimental, vingo," and an expression of thought stole over harry's features, and he remained silent, for he could not bring himself to disclose even to vingo, his knowledge of the mystery in regard to the fair creature who called him brother. he could not bear to think that she was not his sister; and yet, had his memory not served him thus, he must have observed how unlike she was to any member of the family. "mother, you have looked very thoughtful for the last few days. i hope that now we are together once more, there is nothing to disturb your happiness," remarked harry, as the two sat together on the little promenade ground in front of the house, enjoying the beautiful sunset of a summer's evening. "there is nothing which makes me unhappy now, for although 'we know not what a day may bring forth,' yet i have learned to smile under the most trying dispensations of providence, knowing that his ways are higher than our ways; but," and her voice was hushed almost to a whisper, "there has been something upon my mind of late, of which i would make you a confidant, my son." there was a pause,--well did harry judge of what his mother would speak, and looking into her face, he said,--"natalie,--she is not my sister by birth, yet i shall ever claim her as such; and i know, should she learn that she was of other parentage to-morrow, she would cling to you, mother, as her dearest earthly friend." "and for that reason i know she is of noble birth. but tell me, harry, can it be that you, who was but a child, remember the circumstance?" "yes, mother, i can well remember the infant with the gold bands, and the pretty white dress, all wet with salt water; then were my first ideas of innocency." "she has proved a rich blessing to us, and i do not feel that i can ever part with her; but i have been thinking it was selfish, indeed, in keeping her with us, to deprive her of those advantages which would fit her for filling the station which i can plainly see belongs to her. not but that she might finish her education at home, for our island can rank among the first in her systems of education, and there are many of our citizens who are recognized by our most literary friends of the continent, as among the first in the arts and sciences; but i think it would be greatly to her advantage to see more of the world, and my purpose is to accept the urgent request of a dear friend residing in boston, that my daughter should spend some time in her family, where she may receive the same excellent instructions with her own child. our means have been for the last year or two somewhat curtailed, yet as long as we have enough to be comfortable, we will share with her what she most justly deserves." "yes, mother, give my portion to her; i can take care of myself, and you shall not want for anything so long as i can help you. i do not know how we can let her go, but it is for the best. she will learn of this world, and they will learn of another." as the two had been speaking, they had not observed a light form, reclining under a flowering currant, which only separated them from the object of their conversation. it was a little arbor, formed by a clustering rose, vieing with the flowering currant in fragrance; thither had the sea-flower repaired, and as the softest rays of a northern sky, at sunset, sank into her soul, mingling with more mellow light than is of southern climes, these words fell upon her ear,--"natalie, she is not my sister by birth." she paused to hear no more, for she knew the conversation was not designed for her, and noiselessly gliding from the spot, she sought her own room. the crescent moon came forth, and beheld the fair maiden gazing far out over the silver-edged billows, her head resting upon her hand, her golden tresses falling gracefully over her shoulders, while from the deep recesses of her heart there sprung up that which had ever been, and yet was not, and took to itself a form. "good morning, natalie, did i not know you retired early last night, i should say you look a little unrefreshed. where are the roses of yesterday? they should not fade in a single night" "roses will fade, mother, and there are those which await the genial rays of light before their unfolding," replied sea-flower; "but i did not retire until quite late last evening, for everything was so beautiful and glad, that i loved to look out upon the night; and such beautiful thoughts came to my mind, that i think i must have fallen asleep, and dreamed; and yet i was awake, for i was conscious of watching the water, as it sparkled in the moonlight. as the waves broke upon the shore, they seemed to be striving, one with another, to see which should venture the nearest, till at last there came one, which lifted its head high above the rest, and as it receded, i saw there was left upon the beach a tiny, shining thing, which resembled many drops of dew. just then the light clouds separated, and there looked down a star, _so_ mild, and presently there came another, equally mild, and the two finally blended into one, still hovering over the glittering one upon the beach. at last there seemed to be a stream of light connecting one with the other; i looked again, and the tiny thing which was left of the waves, had gone to be with the brighter one beyond the clouds. presently i looked again, and there were the three, but they were changed. the first star which had appeared, seemed now to be a lovely lady, oh, so gentle! the second was yourself, dear mother, and the shining one which had gone to them, appeared to be myself! the gentle lady took us each by the hand, and when i saw her smile upon you so sweetly, i began to weep, and the lady took me in her arms, and wiped my tears away. i was awakened from my revery by my sobs, for it all appeared so real, and my tears made me happier." mrs. grosvenor listened to her child with astonishment. "it was a most striking dream, indeed, she remarked; but fearing the sea-flower might notice her surprise, she drew her arm about her, and introduced the subject which for some time past had been uppermost in her mind. "what do you think of spending a little time away from home, my dear? how should you like to graduate with boston honors? to learn the customs of city life?" "i shall like it much, if it is your wish that i should go, mother; but i know no life will be pleasanter than the happy days which we have spent here in our own quiet home." "perhaps you will not always think thus; you may find greater joys in the attractions which are before you, yet, i trust, my child, your affection for your mother will be no less, whatever your circumstances may be." "oh, mother, how can that be possible? do not repeat the words! how can it be that i shall ever love you less?" "no, my child, it will not be; i wrong you in speaking such thoughts. i cannot bear to part with you, even for a little time, yet i will not gratify my desires at your loss; and in giving you to the care of my most estimable friend, mrs. santon, i shall feel that you are under the influence of one of the best of women." "i shall love her for your sake, but i know i shall miss the dear ones at home so much!" the time came when the sea-flower should leave her home, to learn what 't is the world is made of, and taking an affectionate farewell of the family, (the red bandana of vingo being counted among the articles of utility,) she was borne lightly over the billows, leaving her island home far, far behind. chapter viii. softly stealing--as the evening vesper bell. "and she was one on whom to fix my heart, to sit beside me when my thoughts are sad, and by her tender playfulness impart some of her pure joy to me." percival. "patience and hope, that keep the soul, unruffled and serene, though floods of grief beneath it roll, i learn, when calm and pure, i see the floating water-lily, gleam amid shadows dark and chilly." caroline may. the sea-flower arrived at her new home in safety,--the home of our western friends, the santons. the continued ill-health of mrs. santon had been the chief cause of the return of the family to the east. by a favorable turn of fortune, mr. santon had come into possession of nearly double the amount of his former wealth, and he was now looked upon as one of boston's most prominent citizens. the selling of western lands, which he had obtained for a mere trifle, had been the chief source of revenue in building up his fortune. the little winifred, whom we left making merry over the erin simplicity of biddy and patrick, had grown to be a young miss of seventeen. those black eyes of hers, which had attracted the gaze of the tall western youths for the last time, had in no way lost their brilliancy. mischief still sat triumphant therein, and not a day passed but some poor uninitiated was brought to test the merits of that gift. miss winnie looked upon this removal to more enlightened regions, as a change altogether for the best; for how could such as she, at that age which never comes but once in a lifetime, be content to feed on air, _a la prairie_. she had tired of looking at the same half-dozen raw-boned gallants, and had come to the grand final decision, that her charms should not be wasted thus; and now that she was surrounded by those urbane solicitors, which do mingle with those of more enlargement of brain in fashionable life, they, in turn, began to fear lest those charms might not prove for such as them. "mother," asked winnie, a few days before the arrival of the sea-flower, "who is this friend whom you have invited to visit us?--that is, i mean to ask, what is she like? i have often heard you speak of your early friend, mrs. grosvenor, but you have never seen her daughter, and who knows but she may be,--well, i wont say; but you know nantucket is but an isolated, out-of-the-way place, where fishermen live, and the society in which she has moved, will probably unfit her for enjoying ours. but she will be with us in a day or two, so we shall have to make the best of it." "it is many years since i have seen mrs. grosvenor; we met when we were both young married ladies, at the house of a friend of mine, in new york, where she was visiting, and i formed an attachment for her then, which has never abated. we have kept ourselves informed of each other's welfare from time to time, and thinking that the daughter might possess the same amiable disposition as her mother, i thought that her presence in our family might be pleasant to us all, besides gaining for her, under your teachers of music and the languages, a finished education. as for society in nantucket, i have never learned of what grade it is; but judging from the appearance of the only person i have ever met from there, i do not consider them far behind the age." "well, i hope i shall like her, i am sure; she has a sweet name,--natalie; perhaps we shall like her, after all. but nantucket brought to my mind such visions of unrefined oil, that i really began to tremble, lest we might come in closer contact therewith than would be at all agreeable" "mrs. santon received the sea-flower with a mother's tenderness, but being weary with her journey, natalie retired early, to dream of those far, low murmurings of the deep, which she had so missed, in lulling her to rest." "i am so disappointed in her, mother! she is such a gentle, delicate creature! i know i shall love her! and such spiritual eyes! did you notice when you asked about her mother, what a sweet expression she wore?" "she is a beautiful creature, and if i mistake not, she has a heart to match; but she does not resemble her mother at all, in features; i think captain grosvenor must have been a fine-looking man;" and mrs. santon wore a complacent look, as she thought of the favorable effect which their guest might have upon the mind of her daughter; for owing to frequent ill-health, mrs. santon had not been able to be with her child as much as she would have desired, and she feared lest those early traits in her character of impatience, and a proneness to censure others, might grow upon her, under the influence of her father, who was blind to her every fault" "ah, ha, miss puss," said mr. santon, who had received a most favorable impression of the sea-flower, "you will have to look out for that fairy-like creature, or even your bewitching charms will be cast in the shade!" and as he spoke he proudly surveyed his idolized daughter, who was indeed to be classed among the first in the brunette style of beauty. "oh, never fear for me, father," replied winnie, taking a satisfied survey of her full-length figure, reflected in a pier-glass; "if boston forgets winnie santon's black eyes, she will be perfectly resigned in gazing into the soul-speaking orbs, which shall usurp her power." other days than those which had been spent in sweet seclusion on nantucket's peaceful shores, now dawned upon the sea-flower. although not a day passed in which she did not sigh for one dear familiar tone from those she loved so well, for her mother's fond embrace, and the free, glad laugh of brother harry, yet she was happy, excelling in those pursuits which seemed to recognize her touch; and her soft voice, as it were of italian origin, grew to be "the sunshine of the house." as biddy often declared, "it was a great saving of canary seed, to have miss natalie about the house." time glided on apace with the sea-flower, as each day brought some new task, calling into activity some talent which had been lying in a dormant state, awaiting its time for expanding. her teacher of music, an italian by birth, and of great fame in his profession, was in raptures with the progress of his two pupils, and in the extraordinary talent displayed by the sea-flower, was he perfectly amazed; for not only was her voice of that soft, mellow style, peculiar to the italian people, but she performed those pieces which had but just been introduced to an american ear, with all that impassioned tenderness peculiar to that nation. "i believe you be one of my people!" exclaimed the signor, after listening in breathless attention to a new piece which he had brought for her; her echoing tones died away, and rose again with gentler pathos, softly, and with sweeter tone, to fall again. unconsciously her eyes were fixed upon the signor as he spoke, and her thoughts were carried back, far away; she knew not whither they would take her, but rousing from her reverie, she merely replied,--"i love the peculiar air of your nation, it presents such a striking contrast to our cold, less pathetic style; but do not exclude what winnie terms 'the productions of the genii's more sensible moments' from my list of favorites, for, as there are hours which are divided into sixty distinct parts, so there are divisions within the human heart, which must live each upon its own native air." "natalie, darling, what were you talking with the signor about? from the few words which i caught, of the human heart, etc., i did not know but the presence of a third person might be agreeably dispensed with;" and it was overtaxing the fringed lids of the mischievous winnie's eyes, in adding to their duties the office of sentinel. "ah, you rogue; have your critic's ears been listening to my feeble endeavors to repay the signor for his untiring labors?" "one can hear your music without listening, for i was deep in thought of the time when i shall come out from under the tyrannical power of instructors, and can do as i like; for my part, i am tired to death of this continual,--'miss winifred, this piece must be executed with milder intonations;' or, 'miss winifred, that chapter of spanish must be told with greater fluency.' i have come to dread the very name of professor, and i never can look out of the window but i see some pale-faced gentleman of the profession approaching, with his badge under his arm; but those edifying ideas all vanished at the first strain of your 'casta diva.' if i could produce such an effect, what would i not give;" and the beauty drew her arm around the sea-flower, and spoke in a lower tone. "natalie, you know i shall come out on my eighteenth birthday, and that will be in a very short time; then i can do as i like; but how can i let all of these charming performances of the celebrated madam forresti, whose name is in every mouth, pass without hearing her? i must say, i was completely nonplussed, when young montague asked me, this morning, what i thought of her! and when i told him i had not heard her as yet, he was perfectly astonished, and said i must hear her this very night!" "but you did not accept of his invitation, winnie?" "how could i resist such a temptation? i have been longing to hear madam forresti, and with mr. montague for an escort, i do not see the least impropriety in attending. i need not trouble mother about it, for she is so nervous to-day she will not leave her room; and i do not think she can object to my going." "oh, winnie! how could you do so? i know your mother would not wish you to appear in public with mr. montague! not but that he may be worthy of attention, but he is the same as a stranger to us, for your father has known him but a little while, and i noticed that your mother appeared uneasy when he called last, for he has made us frequent visits, on so short an acquaintance." "you do not surely suppose that my father would introduce any one into his family, who is not a fit associate for his daughter?" retorted winnie, her face flushing with excitement. "no, i do not think so; but you would not go without consulting your mother's wishes?" "and why not? mother will never be the wiser for it, and i cannot see that she can reasonably object; besides, am i always to be a child? i must some time or other act for myself." "dear winnie, do not talk so! you have one of the best of mothers, and she will not deprive you of any pleasure, unless it is for your own good. but do not be displeased with me for speaking my thoughts, for i love you as a sister, and cannot bear to have you do anything that would not be right." winnie was about to give way to those passions which an indulged child invariably possesses, and being naturally of a very sensitive nature, she could not sit easy under those opinions from others, which were in opposition to her own views, and trembling with rage, she turned to the sea-flower,--but the fire of her eye was subdued, her tongue did not give utterance to the bitter, cruel words, which would have sounded so strangely upon an ear that had never known such tones! she gave one look at the gentle, submissive face of the sea-flower, and burst into tears. _such_ tears, from the high-spirited winnie santon, was a strange sight. her proud, rebellious spirit had for once been conquered, and what was not such a lesson worth? "o, natalie!" she exclaimed, "how i wish i could be like you! i was just upon the point of saying what i know i should have repented! i am so glad you have come to be with us!" nothing more was said about going to hear madame forresti, but when evening came, winnie, after leaving a message with biddy for mr. montague, that she must be excused, sought her mother's room, where she found sea-flower, who was reading to the invalid, and the rich tones of her voice conveyed far more happiness to her heart, than would have been hers, had she listened to the far-famed songstress, with a conscience speaking of undutifulness. natalie was reading from the "christian's hope," and as she read, ever and anon cast her eye toward winnie, who appeared unusually thoughtful. the nervous state, however, of mrs. santon would admit of but little excitement, and as natalie closed her book, and rose to bid her good-night, she observed that she looked unusually happy, and taking her dear children by the hand, she thanked them tenderly for their devoted attention to her, and drawing close to winnie she whispered in her ear,--"it is such a comfort to me, dear, that you prefer your mother's sick room to more attractive society!" had she known of the struggle which had been going on in her daughter's heart, through the influence of the gentle one whom she looked upon as a well-loved child, her eye could hardly have been brighter than it was, as her child pressed a kiss upon her forehead, and said, "i shall always love best to be with you mother." that night winnie retired with a determination to strive to overcome her sinful ways, and as she heard the voice of the sea-flower at her evening devotions, (their rooms adjoining,) she spoke aloud, "i will try to be more like her." with this resolve, she fell asleep; but as the rising sun peeped in at her window, there were to be found no traces of her evening resolutions! if any thing, mischief looked out upon the new day with renewed earnestness, and winnie santon was the same gay, reckless creature as ever. "ah, ha, miss puss, so your bow is new strung again, is it?" said mr. santon to his daughter, as the door closed upon one of the mustached upper ten, who frequently found their way to the elegant mansion of mr. santon. "'new strung' with an old string, father; if these exquisites are foolish enough to burn their fingers a second time, they must suffer the consequences." mr. santon laughed, and merely said,--"oh, you cruel beauty!" returning to his paper again; but, seated in the bay-window was one, who could not thus lightly look upon the conduct of the coquettish winnie, for it was evident she was a sad coquette. often had natalie observed her, as she received each admirer with the same bewitching smile, impressing him with the belief that he of all others was the favored one, and he would depart, to return again as early as the rules of propriety would admit, considering the fair one was not yet out. "natalie," asked winnie, as she seated herself at her embroidery, "why did you not deign to give mr. redfield one of your winning smiles? you are so reserved, and take so little notice of the gentlemen, that i shall begin to think your charms are doomed to fade beneath the convent veil." "i was not aware that i did not receive mr. redfield with cordiality." "yes, but the absence of that fascinating air, which you know would bring the most unyielding to your feet, is what i am lamenting. had mr. redfield been my only admirer, i should have been jealous of the glances which he cast at you; but i don't know as there would be any occasion for that, for you, whose heart is made for love, seem to be in no danger at present of losing it." "i certainly respect the gentlemen who visit us, but as for having a preference for one more than another, i have not; and, winnie dear, just ask yourself if you ever give one thought to any one of those who deceive themselves by thinking that they, of all others, are preeminent in your regards." "i must acknowledge that i do not give them a thought, after the door once closes upon them; poor, deluded creatures!" "but do you think it right to deceive them thus?" "natie, darling, if you were not the most romantic creature that ever was, i should call you miss matter-of-fact! but really, i don't know as there is anything very criminal in helping such people to open their eyes; they find out, sooner or later, that i am of the opinion,--there are as good fish in the sea as ever was caught." the sea-flower said no more, for she feared her words might be worse than useless; but such are never idle words, and though winnie appeared to give them little heed, yet many times afterward, in the midst of her gaiety, did she remember the sea-flower's question,--"is it right to deceive thus?" * * * * * "eighteen years old to-day! mother, just eighteen to-day!" shouted winnie, as she came into the breakfast room, her cheeks vieing with the red of the rose; "how happy i am!" and casting a look of contempt at the hot rolls and coffee, as if such things were hereafter to be classed among the necessities of the past, she went bounding away to find her father. opening the door of the _boudoir_, she paused; arranged upon the table were her birthday gifts, and mr. santon had spared no pains to make the collection as rare as possible. in the centre of the table was a set of diamonds for the hair, and as winnie clasped them about her dark tresses, she laughed outright, exclaiming,--"they are so handsome! papa, i cannot wait for night to come! but what is this?" she asked, drawing from a case a string of pearls, and holding them up to the light. in the centre of the collection was one curiously wrought pearl, so formed as to represent a star, and the sparkling of several diamonds from within, produced a very brilliant effect. examining it closely, she discovered the initials, "n. g.," wrought upon the setting." "it is for you, natalie!" she exclaimed to the sea-flower, who stood enjoying winnie's delight. "i thank you, father, for remembering dear natalie." "is it for me?" asked natalie, hesitating to receive the gift. "yes, take it," said mr. santon, putting the treasure into her hand; "keep it as a memento of our high esteem for you; and," added he, "i, for one, shall petition, after you have finished your studies, to have you remain with us another season, that we may then have more of your society." natalie expressed her sincere thanks, but the mention of remaining another season brought to her remembrance her mother's last letter, which spoke of her return, and how delighted they would all be to have her in their little home once more. the long wished-for time, when winnie should appear in public, as the accomplished miss santon, at length arrived. several hundred cards had been issued for the occasion, and to winnie's delight but few regrets had been received; "for," said she, "what is the use of doing things by the halves?" mrs. santon's health had for the last few days been much improved; so much so, that winnie had gained from her the promise to fill her station for a part of the evening. the brilliant lights already streamed from every window in the mansion, and the finishing touch, (if such a thing can be said of a lady's toilet,) had been made by winnie's attendant, much to the satisfaction of all concerned; for although the beauty was willing to submit to all the tortures of hair-dressing, etc., etc., yet before she was quite converted into a "parisian belle," she positively declared she would suffer none of those officials to come into her presence again for a month. surveying herself with an air which would have done credit to a queen, she proceeded to the sea-flower's apartments, thinking to banter her a little in her endeavors to make perfection perfect; but instead of finding her still in dishabille, she had long ago dismissed her attendant, and was quietly engaged in reading her bible, before she engaged in those scenes of gaiety which had less attractions for her. "why, you charming creature!" exclaimed winnie, "i can't help comparing you to a fairy, preparing for a camp-meeting!" and her wild laugh was heard reechoing from hall to hall, natalie smiling at her ludicrous comparison. "why do you look at me with such a bewildered gaze, winnie? is my simple dress not to your fastidious taste?" "you could not have found anything more becoming, natie dear; you will eclipse us all!" and winnie, taking both her hands in hers, gazed into her face as if spell-bound. "i have seen some beautiful picture, somewhere," she exclaimed, "which is like you! but where, i cannot tell; and yet, when i look at you, the association is so fresh in my mind! yes, you will be our evening star." "venus is morning star now," said natalie, glancing at the brilliant dress of winnie; "yet for all that, she will favor us with her presence this evening." as the two descended to the boudoir, they were met by mr. santon, who, shutting his eyes, exclaimed,--"bless me! i have looked upon the glorious morning, in the beauty of its freshness, and the gentle evening, so pure, but to see them approaching, hand in hand, is too much for any 'live man!'" escorting the fair ones to mrs. santon's side, he proudly gazed upon their dazzling beauty,--beauty in its perfection sitting upon each countenance, and yet, such a contrast! winnie was arrayed in a rich attire of delicate blue, her boddice wrought about with silver threads, representing the light of the crescent moon, her skirt interwoven with numerous lesser lights, as it were, stars of various magnitudes, producing a splendid effect in the flood of gas-light; and the set of diamonds bound about her dark tresses, which fell in rich profusion about her finely arched neck, setting off her dark complexion, her cheeks roseate with health, to great advantage; and as she moved among her guests; her tall, slender form, so full of dignity, she was the "observed of all observers." her winning smile, so dangerous to those gallants in attendance who had never realized the true sense of coquetry, was unusually fascinating, and every one who had been honored by miss winnie's notice, pronounced her decidedly the belle of the season; but as they turned to the gentle creature at her side, their thoughts gradually assumed a different cast,--unconsciously the mind wandered to other scenes than are usually of a fashionable evening entertainment. it were absurd to call her a "belle," for the word seemed void of expression. the sea-flower wore a simple dress of white blonde, with no other ornament than the band of pearls, which had been the gift of her well-loved friends. the little star, which was formed by the glittering of the diamonds through the delicately-wrought pearl, which being the centre of the collection was worn upon her forehead, sparkling like tiny drops of dew; and as she glided with unstudied grace among those who sought to know more of her, she gained the name of "the gentle star." it was yet early in the evening. sauntering along one of the principal streets were two young men, engaged in conversation. we will listen awhile, for we may be interested. "do you go to santon's to-night, delwood?" asked the younger of the two, who was far less prepossessing in appearance than his companion. "umph,--yes," replied the other, in a more reserved tone. "do you make one of the number?" "you don't know dick montague if you think he would miss of such an occasion. wit and beauty do not hold forth every night. old santon has but one daughter, you know." mr. delwood made no reply to these coarse remarks, for nothing could have been in greater contrast, than the refined, gentlemanly nature of mr. delwood, to that of young montague, whom we recognize as the same gentleman (if such young men who wear two faces, putting aside the decorum of intelligent society, for the rude jests and unrefined manners of other associates, can be called gentlemen,) who had attracted mrs. santon's notice by his frequent visits to her daughter. before proceeding farther, we will give our patient reader a little insight to the history of these two personages, whom we consider of sufficient note in our simple narrative, for inducing us to tear ourselves away, for a little while, from the attractions at santon mansion. clarence delwood belonged to one of the most aristocratic families in boston. he was an only son, upon whom had been bestowed all of those advantages which are to be derived from a princely fortune. at the early age of twenty-two he had graduated at one of the first institutions in paris, where he had been placed by his haughty, overbearing father, who looked upon things american as low and vulgar. the son had not inherited that proud, unyielding spirit of his father, yet he was like him, inasmuch as he possessed the same dignified, reserved manner, the which, having called forth the startling declaration from manoeuvering mothers, and languishing daughters, that "mr. clarence delwood would look farther than boston for a bride." so they had folded their gossamer wings with resignation, receiving his polite attentions with pleasure, yet never being able to penetrate the reserve which hung around him. to say that our hero was handsome, would be saying but little, for one often meets with such; but with the almost feminine pensiveness which characterized his manly features, we meet seldom. tall and commanding in his appearance, his dark, glossy hair, and finely curved mustache, gave a fine effect to his noble countenance, the peculiar light of his eye speaking volumes. such was the character of our friend delwood, whom we shall shortly usher into the presence of miss winnie santon, that we may find what success those penetrating eyes, which grew big with mischief even in a prairie home, shall have in lifting the veil which concealed in a measure the true sentiments of a noble heart from the world at large. we give our readers an insight to the character of richard montague at once, when we say that he was what is commonly termed "a young man about town." by some means, a mystery, even to himself, he had gained a foothold among the upper classes of society, and by dint of strict observance of the manners of others, he had been thus far enabled to retain his position. what his prospects in regard to pecuniary affairs were, no one was able to say; suffice it, that there had been rumors of an old bachelor uncle, who was much increased in this world's goods, whose trembling hand held the desired treasure over the young man's head; and as this report had not been corrected by montague, he not being over-burdened with many scruples of conscience, it is not surprising that there should have been those, who looked upon him as a desirable match for their dowerless daughters; but he, having realized the desolation which empty pockets can produce, was now living upon the hope that he might build upon his fortune, which never had foundation, by introducing himself among the fair ones of uppertendom, as a candidate for matrimony. for some time he had had an eye to the well-filled purse of winnie santon, and he had looked forward to this night, when she should make her _debut_, with as great interest as had winnie herself. could he once get initiated into her good graces, he had no fears for the rest; and he had already visions of what he was pleased to term, "old santon's chest of gold." the attentions with which winnie had received him, on former occasions, had served in no way to lessen his confidence as to his success, and with this end in view, his steps were bent towards the scene of gaiety. reasons best known to himself, forbidding him to pass mr. delwood, whom he overtook on the way. "quite an affair to-night! i'm thinking," remarked montague, as he observed delwood's cool indifference, and endeavoring to draw him into conversation, he added, "there's a young _protégé_ of santon's, staying with his daughter, who, i hear, hails from down east. nantucket, i believe, perhaps we may get a little information on harpooning!" "ah?" said delwood, mechanically. "yes, the boys will have some sport i'm thinking; perhaps some of them may be induced to ship as mate, for a down east voyage! i remember of sailing by nantucket many years ago, on my return from liverpool, (he did not add that he had worked his passage) and though some twenty miles distant, we fancied that we got a whiff of the hump-backs. our captain was a jolly sort of fellow, and would have us land-lubbers believe that his experienced eye could see half across the ocean, but he found we were too smart for him, when he told us he could see a church-steeple looming up on the island, for of course we knew that such things were not raised there." much to mr. delwood's relief, they had now arrived at mr. santon's residence. as the name of delwood was announced, all eyes were turned toward him, for his presence was considered a great acquisition to any circle, and many a fair one envied winnie santon, as he claimed her hand for the first dance. the sea-flower stood by mrs. santon's side, that she might attend to her least wish, when young montague, disappointed that he had not been the first to secure the hand of winnie, in an obsequious manner, solicited the pleasure of miss grosvenor's company, to complete the set, but she politely declining the honor, the young man, by the aid of the brass which constituted no small portion of his composition, begged leave to remain by her side, that he might make some few inquiries in regard to her enchanting home, which place he always had a great desire to visit. "the islanders i suppose are mostly fishermen, yet," added he, glancing rudely into her face, "there are some persons of intelligence among them, are there not?" natalie looked at him for a moment, as if in doubt whether ignorance or some meaner motive had prompted the question, when she remarked, "you evidently have never learned of the great dangers attendant upon a stranger's visit to nantucket." "ah, indeed, i shall be under great obligations for the information," said he, his eyes wide open with curiosity! "pray, what are those dangers?" "the islanders, as you have imagined, being so unlike the inhabitants of civilized lands, have such a natural propensity for wielding the harpoon, that should a person differing from their kind appear amongst them, they might be liable to capture him, mistaking the object for a new species of land-shark!" at this piece of information, delivered in such a calm, pleasant manner, the smiles which had been visible on the faces of those who listened, grew into a hearty laugh, in which the chagrined montague joined, as being the safest way of retreat, and although piqued by the ludicrous position in which he had been placed, he could not but look with admiration upon the gentle creature, whose pleasant repartee had been in self-defence. natalie followed with her eye the graceful form of winnie, as she threaded her way through the dance, occasionally interchanging a witty remark with her handsome partner, and as he lead her to a seat, natalie observed to mrs. santon, "how beautiful dear winnie is to-night! i do not know who can help loving her!" so enthusiastic was she in her praises, that she had not observed the two contemplating her, and ere she was aware of their approach, the bewitching winnie had taken her hand, and presenting mr. delwood, she mischievously remarked, "now, miss critic, it is for you to perform _a la perfectione_, and depend upon it, you shall be dealt with according to your own measure! for you have not once taken those eyes off from me through the whole course!" before natalie could say a word in her defence, the music had commenced, and ere she had hardly realized it she had taken winnie's place by the side of mr. delwood. other eyes than natalie's had looked upon winnie with admiration, as she had leaned upon the arm of delwood, but now, as he led forth "the gentle star," the suppressed murmur of applause must have been apparent to the fair one herself had she not been engaged with other thoughts. for several successive figures it so happened that natalie was the partner of the reserved mr. delwood, who never was known to appear a second time upon the floor, and it also happened, how, or at what moment was a mystery, that the two had sought to dispel fatigue, by the conservatory's soothing influences, whither the eye of winnie wandered ever and anon, as with mr. montague she vied with her competitors in the giddy waltz. miss winnie's brain was capable of containing two thoughts at the same time, and no one would have suspected, absorbed as she appeared to be with the attentions of montague, who was playing the agreeable to the best of his knowledge, that her curiosity was at work, wondering what the subject of the truants, tête-à-tête might be. "they are discussing the rare exotics, sent to us from the south," she thought within herself, and indeed, what other could interest the cold-hearted delwood? who, it was thought had never dreamed of love this side of the atlantic; and as for natalie, many a private lecture had she received from winnie, in regard to her indifference toward the gentleman! though those discourses had been invariably of the same termination, "for all that, natalie, your heart is made for love." from the first moment that clarence delwood had set his eye upon the sea-flower, an interest which he had never known before had been awakened within him. it may be said that it was a weakness, that he had always looked upon women as mere butterflies, but owing to early circumstances, he having been bereft of his mother in infancy, never having known the blessings of a sister's society, he was not to be condemned for the impressions which a gaudily attired attendant had left upon his mind as he grew up into boyhood. but as he listened to the sea-flower, as she told him of her home in the sea, of the music of the glorious billows, companions of her childhood, filling the very soul with nature's beauty and sublimity, he looked upon her, as if fearful she might prove an "undine," and he would not have been taken by surprise had her spiritual face faded calmly from beneath his gaze, to join her sister nymphs of ocean. "and you will soon return to your island home?" he asked, as a thought of the warmth with which she had expressed herself to a stranger, bade her pause in her enthusiasm with downcast eye. "yes, i shall soon return," she answered joyously, "and yet i shall remember boston with feelings of pleasure, for i have spent happy hours here." as she said this, their eyes involuntarily met; a silent spectator would have noted the contrast of the moistened blue, to the deep black of sterner make, but as it was, that contrast was not discovered, each felt that the other was reading the thought, which had but then sprung up within the soul. natalie withdrew her gaze, while delwood, stooping to pluck a moss rose-bud from an urn at her feet, placed it within his diamond fastener, and the two retraced their steps to join their friends again. montague was still at winnie's side, and though the unusual flush upon natalie's cheek was a sad tell-tale of the state of affairs, yet she observed winnie as she listened with a ready ear to montague's remarks, and an unpleasant feeling rose in her heart; she could not bear to have her dear friend on such intimate terms with him, whom, as by a natural instinct she shunned. all things must have an end; and the cheerful lights, which houseless ones had watched as the bright beams fell across the pave, one by one had faded. formal adieus had been said, kind wishes interchanged, and the last sound of rumbling wheels had died away. excess of excitement bade the blooming winnie seek repose, and quiet reigned triumphant at santon mansion; yet there was one who seemed to have forgotten that the morning follows so close upon the evening. the sea-flower had lingered among the last to say adieu, and now, in her own apartment, she had sunk into a chair, the delicate pearls still encircling her sunny tresses, vieing in purity with her fair complexion; her eyes were fixed on vacancy, and she was not aware that the morning was peeping in upon her, till started from her reveries by her own gentle sighs. and what spell is this that so usurps the calm, usually characteristic of her nature? we have a vague suspicion as to what it may be, yet she is all innocent of the source from which these new feelings have sprung; even the last low words of delwood, which are still sounding in her ear, do not lead her to mistrust, and we leave her, as the fringed eyelids at last droop in repose, to take a peep at our hero, who is only distant a few squares from the gentle one, who, he feels, as he sits by the gas-light, made pallid by the dawn of day, is all the world to him. if delwood possessed the cold heart, of which the world gave him the credit, its fetters had at last yielded to the genial sunshine. sleep was most remote from him, and pacing his room with a quick tread, he uttered, in a sarcastic tone--"love! clarence delwood in love! love at first sight! i never would have credited it!" his voice softening, he added--"i feel confident that she of all others, is the only one who could have wrought this change! no, i cannot look upon this as weakness! i must see more of her; she is an angel of purity, too good for such as i. can she think favorably of me? and what will my father say, if he learns that his only son will sue for favor in the eyes of--it may be a maiden of low birth! it matters not! should he disinherit me, i will seek her society! i must love her even though she look upon me coldly. i will see her again this very day!" with these resolves he threw himself upon his couch, if he might get a little rest, before he again went forth into the busy day, with feelings how changed! natalie was awakened from her late slumbers, by a kiss from winnie, whose merry voice made the apartment ring. "so, ho! miss natalie," she exclaimed, "you have been holding late revels with the water nymphs by moonlight! and now, when the stronger light of the sun bids us mortals awake, you have made good your retreat, and are enjoying morpheus's protecting care! but i can guess from whence the smiles came, as you slept! never fear, darling, i'll tell nobody of whom you dreamed!" "why, winnie dear," exclaimed natalie, endeavoring to free herself from the kisses which that crazy little body was lavishing upon her, "have i slept so late? and what has turned your head so early this morning? i do not know what will become of us all before the day is ended, if you go on thus." opening her eyes, she looked about her, endeavoring to collect her senses. her eye fell upon a bouquet, of the finest, most delicate flowers, in a vase, upon her toilet table; it had evidently been placed there since she had retired, as she did not remember of seeing it before. "you are very kind, winnie, in being so thoughtful of me," she said, "but where did you get those beautiful varieties? they are not from our conservatory." "o, you innocent rogue! you think to make me believe you know nothing of them, do you? they certainly came from some one who was thoughtful of your well-being! but come, make yourself look as charming as possible, for there is a friend awaiting us in the drawing room, who it is, i'll not say, for 'haste makes waste,' you know!" natalie blushed, for there came at once a rush of thoughts to her mind. she but then remembered the pleasures of last evening. winnie giving her a knowing look, left her to her own reflections. banishing all other thoughts from her mind, natalie kneeled at her morning devotions, her low voice went up in thanks for the many blessings which were hers, not forgetting to ask for greater favors for her dear mother and brother, whom she expected so soon to meet, in two short weeks, at the time which had been fixed, when she would return to her home. a simple morning dress of pink delise, edged with white, set off her light figure to a charm; her snowy collar fastened with a cross, and taking a lily of the valley from the mysterious bouquet, she placed it in her hair, and half-hesitating, lest winnie had been playing off one of her mischievous tricks, she descended to the drawing-room. seated upon an ottoman, was no other than clarence delwood, who arose as she entered, taking her proffered hand with some little embarrassment, which was soon dispelled by the adroit winnie, who took a seat at the piano, and with a rich full voice sang the last opera. "your friend, miss santon, has an enviable voice," remarked delwood to natalie, regarding the lily buds which he recognized as of the bouquet which he had ordered his servant to place in the hands of her attendant, giving no name of the donor. "yes, i love to listen to her voice, it is so full of feeling; she has a peculiar style! the signor tells me her voice is of great talent." "i need not ask of your own voice," remarked delwood, "for your tone betrays you." "yes," cried winnie, who in spite of the music had an ear alive to the conversation, "it is moved and seconded that miss grosvenor shall give us a benefit, and if she fails to entertain us with her first attempt, she will lay herself open to be called upon again." "she may rest assured that your sentiments, however expressed, will be truth in regard to the matter! for you are far from being a flatterer," said mr. santon, as entering the apartment he welcomed mr. delwood to his house. natalie chose a simple piece--"the wanderer's home," and as the sound of her voice died away, there was not a dry eye in the room. winnie was the first to break the spell, and smiling away a tear, she exclaimed, "i had forgotten to caution you against too great success in charming your listeners, therefore the _encores_ of your audience will not permit you to retire without feeding the flame which you have excited." "remember you were not to flatter me," said natalie, glancing at delwood, who was silently contemplating her. "flattery or no flattery, you must repeat that to please me," said mr. santon, making manifest exertions to clear his throat, and looking for his handkerchief, as if suddenly seized with a cold. the piece was repeated with greater effect, and it was not till winnie began to rally him that delwood was aware of his negligence in escorting the fair songstress to a seat. "pardon me, miss grosvenor," he said, "but the first tone of your voice carried me far back, to when i was a child of five or six years. it was in italy, where my father spent some time, after my mother's death, and it so happened that i was permitted to accompany him to an entertainment given by an italian lady of note, who, in the course of the evening, favored the company with a song. i was engaged with some sweetmeats as she commenced, but as she proceeded, gradually they fell from my hands, and when she had finished, i had found my way to her side, and clinging to her dress i burst into tears, begging her to take me to that beautiful place again! it is years since i have thought of the circumstance, and i trust you will pardon my enthusiasm, when i say that your "wanderer's home," has produced a similar effect!" natalie expressed her thanks for the compliment, with blushing modesty, and as delwood bade them good morning, after having made arrangements for testing their courage with his iron grays, on the following morning; so long did his eye linger upon her, who had full command of his every thought, that he did not observe miss winnie, who was trembling lest her fresh supply of mischief should come to an unendurable crisis, before he should depart. it was soon rumored that the lion had been tamed, that the beautiful miss grosvenor had found her way to the heart of clarence delwood. boston beauties sighed, and those who had been unsuccessful in what is sometimes termed "setting their caps," looked on with interest, but none who had seen the favored one, could find it in their hearts to wish her other than a life of joy. and thus time passed on, scarcely a day sped, but clarence delwood was seen ascending the steps of mr. santon's hospitable mansion. as winnie expressed herself--"the affair was coming on bravely;" she had now found for whom natalie was reserving that heart, which in spite of her caution, would impart to others its only element. the time was also drawing near, when natalie was to have made glad her mother's heart by her presence. old vingo had desired his massa harry to write to young missy, "dat eben de breakers gettin' impatient to see her once more, and dat he walk alone now, on de beach in de moonlight, but he neber 'speck to find anoder sea-flower." in a few days the santon family were to part with natalie. it was in vain they had urged upon her to remain with them another season, for as much as she had become attached to them all, she longed to see her home once more. even winnie failed to keep time with her usually joyous spirits, and there was one to whom this parting was not to be thought of. mr. delwood had as yet received no positive assurance, that his unmistakable sentiments towards natalie were reciprocated, and yet he was confident that she regarded him with no common interest. he had read it in her soul, but he would hear from her own lips if happiness or misery was to be his through life, and it was with a nervous step that he wended his way on this last evening of her stay in boston, that he might hear his fate. as he drew near the house, he observed, though early in the evening, but one dim light gleaming from an upper apartment, and as he reached the gate it was fast, and a porter stood within, who, to delwood's hurried question if all was well, as he threw him a gold-piece, replied in a sad tone--"kind sir, my orders are to receive no one, as my mistress is dying, or you should have admittance at once; but i know that you, of all others, could serve to lighten the blow to my master, and if you take the responsibility, you shall be admitted." "leave that with me," he replied, "you shall not be censured," and with assumed calmness of manner, he entered. noiselessly he opened the outer door, proceeding to the upper drawing-room, which opened to the room of the dying one. mr. santon sat with his face buried in his hands, sobbing aloud. mr. delwood took him tenderly by the hand, and whispered a few words in his ear, which seemed to rouse him from the dreadful state of mind to which he had yielded. "you find here a house of mourning," he said, "but your presence is most welcome." "what can i do for you in this trying hour?" asked delwood; "can i be of any assistance?" "there is nothing to be done but to submit to the will of god," he answered, "and i pray that i may have strength so to do." the door of the chamber of death was opened, and the physician summoned mr. santon to his dying wife's bedside. delwood stood in the door; pale, but not emaciated were the features upon which death had set his seal, her last moment was near, but she had strength and consciousness supported by the sea-flower, to say a few parting words; with one hand in that of her husband, the other upon the head of her grief-stricken daughter, she said: "farewell, my dearest husband; it is but a little parting; you will meet me there at last." turning to the sea-flower, with her hand still upon the head of her daughter, she added, "my child will soon be motherless; through you, she is what i could wish to see her; and when i am gone, will you never lose sight of her? make her to be like yourself!" in a feeble voice she continued, "thank god that we may see heaven upon earth; the gentle spirit is pointing me to my rest;" a slight trembling of her weary frame, and she had gone to be with the "just made perfect;" a smile was upon her features, and they smoothed her limbs as for a night's repose. the father mingled his tears with those of his child, who was all that was left to him. the sea-flower, leaning upon the arm of him who thought it not unmanly to weep over the scene he had witnessed, retired, leaving the afflicted ones to weep away the anguish in their hearts, ere they might look upon the loving kindness of him, whose ways are all perfect. chapter ix. behind the clouds the sun is shining. "i am armed with innocence, less penetrable than the steel-ribbed coats that harness round thy warriors." madden's themistocles. "that one so formed in mind and charms to grace, the brightest scenes of life, should have her seat in the shadow of a cloud; and yet 'tis weakness. the angels watch the good and innocent, and where they gaze it must be glorious." mrs. bale's "ormond grosvenor." my gentle reader will pardon the long stride of time which here intervenes, disclosing nothing of those in whom we feel an interest. nearly a year of moments had sped since that in which mrs. santon had passed away. winnie had seen her loved mother laid in that narrow, silent house, which is prepared for the dead, and her tears had watered the green grass which groweth so silently,--upspringing everywhere, even in the lonely places of burial, a fit covering for those who slumber,--emblematical of the life beyond the tomb. the joyous mirth which abode in winnie's nature had superseded, in a measure, days of deep mourning; yet this first taste of earth's sorrow had left an impress upon her mind never to be erased; and though thoughtless ones perhaps observed no change in her young, elastic spirits, there was one, gentle and youthful, who had been to her as a mother in her bereavement,--the sea-flower. she could see that the death of a loved one had wrought a good work upon the heart of her friend, as it may with us all, if we will lie passive in the hands of the workman. it was a disappointment to natalie that her intention of returning home had been frustrated; yet it was with cheerfulness that she resigned her hopes, when she saw that duty pointed out another way. mr. santon, on the sudden death of his wife, which occurred on the very evening before natalie was to bid them farewell, had himself written a very touching letter to mrs. grosvenor, begging, if it were not asking of her too much, that she would spare her daughter to them a little while longer, as it had been the last wish of mrs. santon that their daughter might be with her who had proved such a blessing to them all; and so, in pity for the dear ones of her friend, of whose death she was pained to learn, mrs. grosvenor had consented to another year's separation from her child, though it was indeed asking of her a great sacrifice. old vingo, who had wondered if his young missy would take him by the hand, as she used, when he heard that another long year must pass before he would see her again, cried like a child; but no one was more disappointed than harry, who had counted the days for months, when she would come home; but his patience was not to be tested thus. he had visited his sister in boston, and had received so favorable an impression of city life, or it may be that he had received a more favorable impression of a certain pair of black eyes, which were constantly fixed upon him, when he had accidentally glanced towards a certain young lady, whom, report said, (mr. montague being among the foremost to give credit thereto,) was the "greatest catch" in town. whether it was actually the lady's beauty in question which had dazzled scores of disengaged young men, or whether they had seen visions of a well-built money-chest, we do not pretend to say; but this much we can perceive, that a beautiful young heiress, left to her own discretion in the choosing of a partner for life, stands in a critical situation, and if these innuendoes refer to miss winnie santon, we are foremost in wishing our young nautical friend success in the great game of hearts, for we can see too much of worth in her character, for her to be thrown away on a worthless dandy, whose money, for the little time that it keeps him company, is his god. be all this as it may, harry grosvenor had found several opportunities for visiting his sister, and upon each visit he was received, not only by the sea-flower, but by winnie herself, with a warm welcome. but winnie, as we have discovered, has been a sad coquette. another year, however, has been added to her age since we saw her in society last, and this last year, so different from any other of her sunny life, has brought with it the knowledge and experience of many. perhaps the sea-flower's influence, which fortunately she has been under, may have had its effect upon her character, which is now forming itself; and yet her bewitching smile, which harry loved to dwell upon, when he had returned to his island home, as second only to his matchless sister's, was very like those which she had bestowed upon many an elated gallant. natalie had not failed to notice the seeming pleasure with which her brother had listened to winnie's brilliant conversation, and she had asked herself if it were possible that winnie could be so heartless as to impress her brother with erroneous views in regard to her sentiments. she would not believe that she had the heart to do it; and yet, through habit, and a perfect thoughtlessness of the consequences, she might be led to do so. it was evening, and the two sat folded in each other's arms, gazing at an autumn sunset. winnie was still in her black habiliments, for it was not quite a year since mrs. santon had died. harry had left them the day before, and had bade them both a warm farewell. winnie had been silent for some moments, when natalie remarked,--"what new scheme are you planning now, winnie? you are very thoughtful to-night." winnie roused herself, and blushingly replied, "i do not wonder that you note my thoughtful moments, i am such a gay creature; but, dear natalie, there are times when even _i_ can be serious, though there are few who could credit my words." "i can believe you, winnie, for i know you have a good heart; but what can have occurred of sufficient importance to banish those dimples from your cheek? come, rogue, make me your confidant, or i shall begin to think you are at your old tricks, after all." "if i did not know your forgiving spirit, i should hesitate to place myself in your power, for fear you might repay me with interest, in making you, and your particular friend mr. delwood, the subjects of my merriment." natalie looked calmly into her eyes; the truth flashed across her mind at once, and she was about to clasp her in her arms, calling her by the name of sister, when a well-known voice from behind them repeated the name, "sea-flower," and mr. delwood was by her side. "where did you learn the name by which i am called in my island home?" asked natalie. "why did you never tell us that you have a name in keeping with your character?" he asked, taking the seat by her side which winnie, who had retired to hide her blushes, had vacated. "'tis the name by which my father loved to call me, and i associate it with his sacred memory," she replied; and a tear, which delwood looked upon as also sacred, fell upon the hand which clasped her's as with reverential fervency. "your brother told me of the name," he replied, "and will you permit me to associate with that name all that is of purity? may i not call you by that name? can you give one thought to him whose very happiness for life is dependent on you?" there was a pause, delwood had never until this night, declared to her his love, in so many measured words, which were but coldness in comparison with the love for her which filled his soul. a year ago would have sealed his doom, but that night witnessed another scene. death had claimed it for his own. the hand which he held was not withdrawn, neither did a simper mark her reply. with eyes meekly turned upward, she answered in a calm, low voice,--"my dear father is in heaven; if he is looking down, i feel that he will smile upon me, when, with my mother's consent, she shall give me away to you. i have long ago given myself to christ, and if you recognize him as your saviour, we will together serve him as dutiful children, praying one for the other that we may not fall." "i am not like you," he replied; "i can never be as pure as you are; neither am i what the world calls a christian; but by god's help, i pledge myself to be one of christ's followers; and of one thing i am confident, i shall never be if i grope my way alone through the world, as i must if i lose you, what i shall be if i have you for a guide!" "it is enough; you depreciate your own merits," she said, glancing proudly upon him; "go, when i return, and with your own lips ask my mother, if she can find a place in her noblest of women's hearts, for him who is all too worthy of her daughter's love." he folded her to his heart, and the rich harvest moon had sunk far below the horizon, ere these two kindred spirits had wearied of the glorious night. mr. santon had not felt the utter desolation, after the first overpowering sense of grief had passed, after his wife's death, that he would have felt had he had no one upon whom to have leaned. as it was, his home was not desolate, for he cherished his daughter as the "apple of his eye," and he had come to be like himself again. happy faces met him as he came in wearied from his duties "on 'change," and he had again assumed his easy, jocose manners. natalie was still continuing her studies, making unprecedented progress, to the rapturous delight of the signor; while winnie enlivened the whole household. as mistress of the mansion she had new duties to discharge, though they were not so arduous as to deprive her of entertaining the young aspirants to her hand, who if they did not throw themselves at her feet, it was only for the want of an opportunity. and thus was everything going on harmoniously at santon mansion, when, to the no little surprise of every one, it was rumored that the wealthy mr. santon was about to introduce to his domains a new mistress. no one was more taken by surprise than were winnie and natalie. they could hardly credit their senses, when mr. santon congratulated his daughter on the prospect of having a new mother. poor winnie! she tried to smile, and she tried to make one of her most brilliant remarks, as she congratulated her father on his happiness; yet it was not like herself, and natalie could see, what mr. santon in his blindness of joy did not discern,--there was no heart in his daughter's mechanical tones. winnie had not as yet seen her intended mother-in-law; she might be all that could be desired of one standing in that peculiar relation, and she might be otherwise; it was not that which had quelled the buoyant spirits of the heiress, it was that she shrank from the thought of any one so soon filling her own dear mother's station, and she hid her face in natalie's golden tresses, as her father left the room, and burst into tears. "dear, dear natalie," she exclaimed, "you will think me so wicked! but i wanted no other mother than you! though you are younger than myself, i have learned to look up to you, as a valuable bequest left me by my mother, who smiled even in death, when you promised never to forget me. we are happy now; why need a stranger come among us? oh, natalie, i never can part from you!" "hush! hush! dear winnie, you must not think thus! you may come to love your new mother, filling the most sanguine wishes of your father's heart, who would be wretched, if his daughter were not reconciled to her who will stand in the nearest relation to him." and thus the sea-flower endeavored to prepare winnie's mind for receiving her new mother, who would so soon take her place at the head of this once unbroken family, as became a meek and dutiful child; but she did not tell her of the trembling within her own heart, lest this new tie should prove a source of sorrows, sowing her youthful heart with seed which might be productive of bitter among the sweets; neither did she know of the prayers of the innocent maiden, that hers might be a thornless path. the lady in question, whom mr. santon had deemed worthy of his hand, and its consequent honors, was of a family of lower standing than his own as far as much of this world's goods go to give caste; but if, aside from depth of purse, she was his inferior, we have yet to learn. the marriage ceremonies were attended with little display, in deference to mr. santon's wishes, and the day at length arrived, when the bride, who resided in a neighboring city, was to be received in her new home. she came, and congratulations were exchanged between mother and daughter, first impressions were made, and the hour arrived which should liberate each one to the night's repose. winnie flew to her room; she had seen her whom she was to call "mother," and from the few hours which she had already passed with her, her superior discernment of character had judged of her aright; she never had cause to vary from the opinion which she had from the first formed of her; she choked back the tears, so strange to see within her eyes, and kneeling, she repeated the very first prayer her mother had ever taught her, an exercise which from the example set before her for the last two years, she now never failed to observe. arising, she endeavored to dispel the mountain of anguish which was creeping into her soul,--in sleep. poor winnie! we can pity you; 'tis but life's lesson taught. the impression which natalie had received of the second wife of mr. santon's choice, though she would not bring herself to realize it, were by no means prepossessing. she had schooled her own, and winnie's heart to love her under any circumstances, but when she saw with what frigidity she received winnie's warm welcome, thinking not of the condescension with which she had taken her own hand, her tender heart was pierced as winnie looked toward her, as if for strength, and she had returned her look with a smile which could not fail to prove to her a ray of sunshine. why is it that it is of so frequent occurrence, that a man who has been blessed with peculiar loveliness of character in a wife, if he be called upon to part with her, finds, alas! too late, in a second partner, an extreme opposite? it was thus in mr. santon's experience, as he but too soon was obliged to acknowledge to himself, though he would not that others should have a suspicion of the fact; yet it was evident to his nearest friends that he was not the happy man he once was; the few sprinkles of gray, which had reflected honor upon the raven black of his hair, had increased ere the honey-moon was hardly ended. early the next morning after the arrival of mrs. santon, winnie was awakened by an attendant, whose sense of propriety were a question, if placed in a balance with that of her new mistress, which were the weightier. the woman apologized for disturbing "her leddy-ship," but the new mistress would like to see miss santon in the drawing-room as soon as possible. "you can go," was winnie's reply, "and tell mrs. santon that at my convenience, i will see her!" but recalling the servant, with her next thought, she added, "merely say to my mother, that i will soon be with her," and hastily making her toilet, she repaired to the drawing-room. mrs. santon was alone, for it was a full hour before the family's usual time for arising. winnie bade her mother "good morning," and was about to ask if she had rested well in her new home, when she was interrupted by her, and in an imperative tone she said:-- "this may be earlier than you have been accustomed to 'rising, miss santon, but my habits for early rising are proverbial, and of course my household will conform to my wishes in regard to matters which you will at once see are for the best. what i wished to speak with you more particularly about this morning, is in regard to the keys; you will please produce them, as i shall have a thorough overhauling at once, and if i mistake not," said she, glancing at winnie's neat morning attire, "the sooner the better, for i think those jewelled hands have not troubled themselves much about such things. i wonder that you have not been brought up to something beside killing time!" "madam!" vociferated winnie, her face crimsoned with the insult which she had received, but she paused, though still trembling with rage, her eye had rested on a gentle form, standing within the open door--it was the sea-flower. with one finger upon her lip, her brow calm as the new day, she gazed upon winnie, till gaining her eye, unobserved by mrs. santon she glided away. instead of the rage winnie would have poured forth, she merely said, "i will send you the keys," and left the room. despatching a servant with the keys, which she had intended to have put into her hands at the earliest opportunity, thereby acknowledging her superior claim at once, she sought natalie, whom she found seated in the conservatory, enjoying the indian summer breeze, which stole softly in among the fragrant plants, which were the particular objects of her care. each knew what was uppermost in the other's mind, but winnie's heart was too full to speak. "i have been thinking, winnie," said the sea-flower, "how thankful we should be, that we have so many friends to love us. i think i have never realized it until now, and," she spoke in a lower tone, "dear winnie, should you ever receive other than the kindly treatment to which you have always been accustomed, let it serve to increase your gratitude that you have so many with whom you can trust your affections." "yes, natalie, i will strive to do aright. i will try to do as i think you would have done, but i fear i shall not have your strength. o, it is so hard! if i only had a mother to love me, i could endure anything else!" and her excitable nature getting the better of her, she burst into tears. natalie threw her arm about her neck, and, her own voice tremulous with the pity which she felt for her, she tried to soothe her spirits; "you shall have a mother! my mother shall be your mother! for are you not to be my sister? and she will love you as did your own gentle mother! but mrs. santon will yet become reconciled to you, for when she finds what a good heart you have, she cannot but treat you with kindness." at this juncture the door opened, and mrs. santon brushed rudely in; "welladay! is this your usual morning's occupation? miss grosvenor, i think you should have more wisdom than to be petting a spoiled child! i imagine that i shall have as much as i shall care to undertake, to undo the mischief which is already too apparent. it has been as much as i could do for the last two hours, to get things a little in order; but i suppose i need not look for assistance here," she scornfully said, and turned to leave the room. winnie had it upon her tongue's end to reply, "my father employs his servants to keep his house in order, and they have never failed to give satisfaction," but biting her lip, the thought died away. natalie arrested mrs. santon's steps, saying, "winnie and myself will consider it a pleasure to assist you, and whatever we can do at any time for your enjoyment, we shall be most happy to do it." the hard-hearted woman quailed a little, at the sea-flower's proffered assistance, and natalie accompanied her to the upper drawing-room, wondering much what could have given offence to her ideas of a well-regulated house; for under the housekeeper's scrupulous care, everything was kept in the nicest order. desiring natalie to assist her in the disposal of some articles, she directed winnie to find some out-of-the-way place, and to stow away the rubbish which she would find in the next apartment, pointing to the room which had been her mother's, and which winnie had not permitted any one to disturb, since her death. everything had been left just as she had left it, even some withered flowers had not been removed, and the book from which she had read, had been left opened at the place her eye had last looked upon. this room had been kept as a place sacred to winnie's heart, and indeed the very servants passed it by with a blessing on their departed mistress; and it was now with trembling steps that winnie, hardly realizing what had been said to her, followed in the direction which the cruel woman had pointed. she opened the door, and sank fainting into a chair! in the middle of the floor were the very clothes which her mother had worn, with other articles thrown together in a pile! her mother's portrait had been removed, and the room was otherwise in disorder. natalie ran to winnie's assistance, bathing her temples, and smoothing back her long tresses with tenderness. just at that moment mr. santon entered the room; he looked at his daughter! at the disordered apartment of his buried wife, which he had never held more sacred, and he looked at mrs. santon! without speaking a word he left the room. poor winnie! this is indeed life's lesson! but thou art learning to "suffer and be strong." had the character of the mother-in-law been in accordance with her exterior, santon mansion might still have resounded with joy, for hers was a face by no means forbidding. on the contrary, a stranger would have pronounced her to be decidedly good-looking, considering that she was a woman of nearly fifty years, and those good looks were the secret of mr. santon's unfortunate connection with her. from the first, the woman had taken a dislike to natalie; it seemed as if she was determined to spite her in every way possible. why she should have felt thus toward her, was certainly unaccountable, as there was no trait more unlovable than innocency, about her character; but this very gentleness of nature, in contrast with the iciness, seldom found in woman's heart, would, as an unavoidable result, serve to widen the two extremes. the sea-flower would, as time advanced, have sought refuge in her own home, from this mist of unrest, which had by degrees spread itself around, but when she had spoken of the thing to mr. santon, he had grasped her by the hand, as a drowning man would catch at a straw, saying, if she would not entirely sever the golden thread which was once bound around their home circle, she would defer her departure, for at least, a little time; and she had seen the tear, which was as molten lead, welling up from the strong man's heart. then she said, "it is my duty! i will remain with you! i feel there is something which bids me stay; some mysterious power controlling my destiny." "may you have your reward!" was mr. santon's reply; and we heartily respond, "may she have her reward!" never a word did mrs. santon receive from the sea-flower, in return for her ungenerous treatment of her, other than tones of kindness; and natalie was happy under this new dispensation, for she said within herself,--"i am but bearing a part of the burden which would crush dear winnie's heart;" and so she sang and played with her usual glad spirit, gliding about the house with simple dignity, with a cheering word for every one, and, as biddy said,--"she was an escaped ray of light, too bright for the darkness to hide." as we may foresee, this very light-heartedness of the sea-flower only served to incite the ire of mrs. santon, who saw that every new indignity which she had cast upon her, was returned with more meekness of spirit. if natalie had resented such conduct, giving "measure for measure," the stern woman could have borne it better; but as it was, it enraged her, that she could not come within her sphere; and, if the truth were known, her senses were not so steeped in the waters of insensibility, but that in her very heart she felt her great superiority over herself. "i will put her down, yet!" she said to herself, after another return, through the sea-flower, of "good for evil." "she shall yet feel my power! and why mr. santon will persist in her staying with us, is more than i can tell. but that is the way with these men! they will get strange notions into their heads, which nobody can account for; even a wife's wishes are looked upon as of little consequence, in comparison with their lordly commands. i should not be surprised at any time if santon should withhold a favor from me to lavish upon her! but i'm thinking that he will before long find out what i am made of, if he thwarts my wishes. to be sure, his daughter has become attached to her, but what of that? she must learn that she cannot have every whim gratified; she is a spoiled child at best, and will not be likely to improve under her skim-milk discipline. leave me alone for managing affairs. i've got the staff in my own hands, and all they can do wont make me anything but the honorable mr. santon's lady! though i'm greatly mistaken if he don't look with evil eyes on the day that made me his bride; but that's not of the slightest consequence, as i used to tell my first husband. poor fellow! i suppose i was rather hard upon him once in a while; but i knew he was waiting patiently for the day which should separate us. he little thought he would go first," and the woman laughed aloud, as she thought how she had crept into the good graces of her present husband. "leave me alone for playing my part," she said, as seated in her own apartment, she listened to the voice of delwood in the drawing-room. "it is evident that her very life is wrapt up in mr. delwood, and it is really quite a pity that so fine a fellow should be deceived; and lest she should follow my illustrious example, i might as well interfere in their arrangements; and if i can see aright, she has talked the enviable heiress into the belief that her brother is a very paragon of perfection, for she knows right well that a good bag of money would be no serious objection to his fishermanship. how they ever raised two such likely looking specimens of humanity down there in the land of whales, is a mystery; but they'll find they cannot take the precedence with boston gentry. if i can avail anything, my particular friend montague shall try his luck in securing that portion of the heiress's estate which i shall be pleased to leave her." with these plans matured, she ushered herself into delwood's presence, and in her blandest manner made him welcome, initiating herself as far as possible into his good opinion, which was no difficult task, inasmuch as he had been accustomed to look upon a character so spotless, that he was not prepared for the detestable machinations of one who was not worthy the name of woman. it had been far from the sea-flower to breathe a suspicion that there was aught amiss in the character of the flattering mistress of santon mansion. her high esteem for mr. santon had not permitted her to speak of the sad change, even to her mother. "my dear," said mrs. santon, turning to natalie, "in the pleasure which we must ever find in mr. delwood's society, you have forgotten your engagement with the destitute family, which you have taken under your especial charge, and poor mrs. brown's child is so ill, i fear a few hours' delay in taking the necessary restoratives recommended by our physician, may cause the poor thing to suffer; i would despatch an attendant, but i fear there may be some mistake made, and i know your very presence will impart comfort to the poor woman." "oh, no, i had not forgotten them," replied natalie; "but the physician said any time this afternoon would do, as the little sufferer's disease is about turning, and we must await the result." "yes, but i have such an anxiety about them, for in their ignorance they may act contrary to orders, and so be the means of the little fellow's death. it will be a great relief to my mind if you will just step around and look in upon them, as it is but a step, and i know mr. delwood will excuse you for a few moments, and i will promise to do my best to supply your absence." natalie prepared to depart on this errand of mercy, and delwood would have taken his hat to accompany her, but mrs. santon held him fast by commencing a brisk conversation, from which he could not with politeness take himself away. "miss grosvenor excels in her performance of the latest style, which the signor has introduced," remarked mrs. santon, endeavoring to draw him out, when the sea-flower had departed. "i am perfectly amazed at her original rendering of the italian," replied delwood, "and i think i can safely say, that among all my sojournings among their people, i have never met with one whose style is more pure than that of miss grosvenor's. i should certainly say that she is of italian birth, though she tells me that she has never crossed the atlantic." "she is evidently captivated with their people, or perhaps i may more properly say, with the only person she has ever met of that nation," said mrs. santon, with a mysterious manner. "to what or whom do you refer?" asked delwood, in an altered tone of voice. "mr. delwood, i feel that it is my duty to inform you of a matter, which has been a source of no little uneasiness, not only to myself, but to every member of my family; and as you have shown a manifest interest in miss grosvenor, it is not well that you should remain in ignorance of what so deeply concerns your welfare." "speak! what can it be?" asked delwood, pale with emotion. "do not allow yourself to be thus moved, i pray you; but what i have to say is, that three months ago, we gave the signor notice that we should require his services no longer, as we had reason to believe his visits were becoming something more than mere professional calls, and to our great consternation, we found that miss grosvenor was not entirely indifferent to his marked attentions. i was the last to believe that miss grosvenor could so lose her self-respect and standing, as to look upon a poor professor, who gains his bread by his own exertions, as a favored competitor for her hand, and, it was not until i saw with my own eyes, that i could credit what i had heard. i was satisfied in time, that his rapt admiration as he gazed upon her, was something more than enthusiasm that she had excelled even his most ardent expectations; and the expression of her beautiful face, as she concluded, might have been the envy of a greater than the signor. we dismissed the signor, but he still continued his visits, under the plea that it was his custom to give a few additional lessons at the close of a course, and if he might be allowed, he should consider it a valuable acquisition to his own musical powers, to continue for a time his exercises under miss grosvenor's superior talent." as mrs. santon paused, delwood, in a state of frenzy, exclaimed,-- "it cannot be! i will never believe that she is false to me, even though she should declare to me with her own lips, that another's claims upon her affections were paramount to my own! excuse me, madam, but i think there must be some dreadful misunderstanding in regard to the facts which you have stated. no! i would scorn myself if i had a doubt of her innocence! and if such a thing might be possible, i would die rather than be forced to believe it! i will tell her this very day what i have heard, but i will not degrade myself, or forfeit her trust, by asking her if it can be so!" "be calm, my dear friend," said mrs. santon; "compose yourself, i pray you, and take my advice in the matter. say nothing of what you have heard to any one, but come here to-morrow morning at ten, when the signor will make his appearance, and from a private window, opening from the conservatory, you may, unknown to any one, witness for yourself the truth of what i have said." "i will follow your advice, inasmuch as i will reveal to no one what i have heard, until i become like myself," said delwood, endeavoring to compose himself as he heard the light step of the sea-flower in the hall; and as she entered, he arose to depart, pleading a slight indisposition as an apology for his abruptness. the calm, spiritual eyes of natalie looked out upon him, as he walked rapidly down the street, for she could not but notice an estrangement in his manners; but she did not mistrust that an arrow, poisoned by sin in its vilest form, had been aimed at his heart. the starry heavens of that night told that another day had gone to be with the past, and innocence laid her head upon her pillow and slept, unmindful of plots of guilt, engendered of sin, which might prove for her a draught of bitterness. at an early hour the following morning, clarence delwood bent his steps towards the residence of mr. santon. "come here to-morrow, and you shall see for yourself,"--those words still sounded in his ears, and, as he drew nearer the house, it seemed as if they grew louder and louder, till his brain was nearly distracted. but would he privately watch her ways, whom of all others in the "wide, wide world," he had looked upon as nearest perfection? no, he would not thus debase himself. it was at a much earlier hour than that which mrs. santon had named, that delwood presented himself, and handsomely feeing the porter who answered his summons, he asked to see miss santon; "and, james," said he, "you need mention my presence to no other member of the family, as my business is strictly private, for miss santon's ear alone." "yes, sir," replied james, twisting his face info a most knowing wink, as he smiled upon the yellow ore, "i've been there before." winnie soon made her appearance with no little astonishment pictured in her countenance, that mr. delwood should have honored them with what she termed "a sunrise call;" and that he should have asked for her in particular, was a matter more mysterious. his manners, so unlike himself, served to check at once her flow of spirits, which, in spite of the weight of oppression which had marked the last year, would find vent, if not in a witty remark, in the expression of her speaking countenance was it visible; but she was not slow to discern that some serious subject was upon his mind, and became serious also. in a few words he informed her of what he had learned from mrs. santon the day previous, but what was his astonishment to find her totally ignorant of the circumstances, not hesitating to declare the whole a base falsehood. "i had not a doubt of the falsity of the report," said delwood; "but what can have given rise to such a statement? surely, your mother would not wish to injure my feelings, by repeating what may have originated, without foundation, among the servants, and which she could not have herself credited!" winnie saw the truth at once, knowing as she did the character of her, whom, if she had ever looked upon as a mother, must from this moment forfeit every claim upon her feelings, unless it were that of utter contempt. "mr. delwood," said she, raising herself to her full height, her slender fingers clenched together, every nerve 'roused to action,--"if you would not insult me, never again call the woman who has had the heart to cast such a slur upon the character of her whom we know is innocent, _my mother_! it is not to injure your feelings that she has invented such a vile scheme, but it is by injuring natalie's character in your eyes, she may banish from her heart all future happiness. nay, do not start at such a strange declaration from my lips; you are the only person, out of my father's household, who has a suspicion that our happiness is not what it once was; but since it has come to this, i will, at the risk of disclosing to the world what it were wisdom to conceal, establish the innocent; and rest assured that what i say is true,--this originated not among the servants, for there is not one but would kneel and kiss the very ground upon which our dear sea-flower treads." delwood was thunderstruck. "indeed, i never could have mistrusted mrs. santon's character was so vile!" said he; "but i can sooner believe this than that darkness is born of light. and has miss grosvenor suffered the ill-will of this cruel, cruel woman, and never lisped a word but should lead others to respect her? noble girl that she is! thrice noble have these very evil designings proved her! 'tis useless for intrigue to cope with purity." "and she bade you come and see for yourself. what meaning is there in that?" asked winnie; for surely such an act would go to prove her innocence." "if mrs. santon can stoop to the deed, which fortunately has been disclosed in time to prevent the affair from coming to miss grosvenor's knowledge, she would not hesitate to do a meaner thing, favorable to the furtherance of her plans; and it is my opinion there is more to be learned in regard to this matter. i will foil her by following her own advice, and at the appointed hour will station myself as desired, not as a spy upon her ways, but that i may sift this affair to the bottom." accordingly, at the hour which mrs. santon had mentioned, mr. delwood's summons were answered by the mistress of the mansion in person, who smilingly drew him to the conservatory, which overlooked the drawing-room, where he could, unobserved by any one, notice every movement of her whose very being was dearer than his own. natalie was performing his favorite air, and as he listened, he gradually lost sight of the object of his visit,--engulfed in the ocean of bliss which her impassioned tones had spread before him, when he was recalled to a sense of outward circumstances by the voice of the signor, who, as the bird-like trill of her voice died away, sprang to his feet, and in a voice hoarse with passion, exclaimed,--"never!" and was about to leave the house, when delwood intercepted him in the hall, and taking him by the collar, demanded to know the cause of his strange conduct. the signor, in his peculiar dialect, replied, "do not detain me, sir! it were far better that none should ever know of the temptation which well-nigh made me a villain!" "you do not leave this house, sir, until you disclose to me what may concern my welfare! and do not, i pray you, sir, force me to treat you as other than a gentleman, for if i mistake not, you are yet worthy of respect." "you do me proud, sir; but i would much prefer to keep my own tongue; for should it come to the ear of madam that her secret is a secret no longer, i fear it may prove an injury to my professional duties." "remember that i have said, sir, you do not leave this house until you have given me an account of your strange conduct; but in doing thus, if i find you undeserving of censure, it shall be no sacrifice to your reputation. i will pledge myself that you lose nothing." "since you are determined, sir, i will make a clean breast of it," said the signor, dashing several pieces of gold upon the floor,--"there, sir, is indeed the root of all evil! that gold was placed in my hands by a woman, who would make me a tool for the carrying out of designs, which i have not the heart to perform." "well." "madam, for some cause, has an under current of thought, which does not appear to be in keeping with the more open sentiments of this family; for that amount of gold she connived with me to express such sentiments toward miss grosvenor, as should fire you with a belief of her inconstancy, and an attachment for myself. it was some time before i could be bought with gold, but she, doubling the amount, i at last yielded to what, thank god, i have not had strength to perform. had it been other than miss grosvenor whom i was to injure, i tremble for my weakness in resisting so great a temptation; but she reminds me too strongly of the tear which i have seen in my mother's eye, when she prayed for her baby boy. no, sir, thrice that paltry amount should not tempt me now to such degradation!" "you have done well, sir," said delwood, calmly, as he placed double the amount of mrs. santon's bribe in the signor's hand; "you have done well, sir; and mark my words,--gold can never relieve a guilty conscience! go, sir, and see that you lisp not a syllable of this to any one." mr. delwood was about to take his leave, when he was met by winnie, who tripped lightly in, fresh from a morning walk. he grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips, saying,--"you have helped to do away with the sinful impressions which did their best to fasten themselves upon me. you will never be forgotten by me, and i know you will do your best to protect _her_ from the wiles of this hard-hearted woman, of whose deeds the world shall through me be none the wiser." "i should be iron-hearted, did i not strive to make her happy; for it is in pity for my father and his motherless child, that she consents to be separated from her own loved family." mrs. santon had never the impudence to inquire in what way this matter terminated, but she could see that her machinations had been foiled, as day after day brought mr. delwood a welcome visitor to the house; yet this defeat did not subdue her bitter feelings towards the sea-flower; they only slumbered, to break out afresh on the first occasion that might present. natalie had observed the signor's abrupt departure; she knew that something must be amiss, and questioning winnie in the matter, she disclosed to her what never came to the ear of mr. santon: "i forgive her," said the sea-flower, "and i can pity her; for perhaps she has never had dear friends who might teach her how to love." chapter x. the madonna and child. "pure and undimmed, thy angel smile is mirrored on my dreams, like evening's sunset girded isle, upon her shadowed streams; and o'er my thoughts thy vision floats, like melody of spring-bird notes, when the blue halcyon gently laves his plumage in the flashing waves." park benjamin. "please, miss, a letter for you," said the post-boy, handing natalie a letter, which she was not long in discovering, was from her dear mother. "i thank you, most heartily," said she, in her low, musical voice, which caused the youthful sprig of uncle sam's department to leave incomplete the angle of forty-five degrees, which he had been in the habit of considering as of no little importance in the perfecting of his duties, as he went his daily rounds. "zounds!" said he to himself, as he went whistling up the street, "if i don't hope they'll send down another document to her soon!" and his eyes wandered up to the little patch of blue sky which was to be seen between the tops of brick walls. the sea-flower perused the letter, and sat, apparently buried in deep thought. "why, natie, darling," exclaimed winnie, as she came bounding into the room, "what has given you such a wise look this morning? a letter, eh? good news, i trust; far be the day which shall bring to you aught but happiness." "thank you, thank you, winnie, for your good wishes; but i cannot well conceive of any other than pleasure coming from my gentle mother's pen." winnie ran her fingers lightly over the keys of the piano, and natalie did not suspect, as she listened to her sprightly air, that there was a bright tear glistening in her eye at the holy name of--mother. "but you are unusually thoughtful to-day, natalie," said winnie, running her taper fingers through the sunny tresses of her friend, "did i not know it were an impossibility, i should say you had lost your best friend;" and putting her dimpled mouth close to her ear, she whispered some mysterious words so softly,--so very softly, that were we disposed to turn listener, we could only have distinguished that one word,--"delwood;" but we might have seen the delicate tinge of pink, which, tell-tale like, overspread the face and neck of the sea-flower. be that as it may, there was a thoughtful look lingering about those expressive features, which could even be traced, when at night-fall, a well-known step was heard, echoing with no unpleasant sound along the corridor, and a hand, which, though of feminine delicacy, could have been fired with sufficient nerve to have wielded a giant's weapon, at the invader who should come between him and the gentle being, whose hand was not withdrawn as he held it reverently within his own. "ah, miss sea-flower," said delwood, as he gazed deep into her eyes, "you are far away among the invisible sprites of ocean to-night, are you? not one thought for us poor unfortunates, who are so ungenial to those translucent ones, as never to have been initiated to their fairy haunts. really; i must get up a little smile at your expense, for you could not better please an artist, in the composing of your features, if you were sitting for your picture. by the way, have you seen the famous madonna, whose great beauty is the theme of all conversation? i am told it is a master-piece, by some gentleman who appears not anxious that his brilliant artistical powers shall be published, as his name never accompanies his works, and the piece in question was but by accident, brought to public view. it hangs, among others, in his fine gallery of paintings, and is hung with a heavy drapery of black, which was by chance removed by a gentleman, a friend of mine, who offered a handsome fortune at once for the prize; but his rich offer was declined by the owner, who, to the gentleman's earnest desire that he might become its possessor, replied,--'sir, that bit of inanimate canvas is all upon which my weary life feeds! were you to offer me the wealth of the world, i would not part with that one small picture! neither can i be wrought upon to produce a copy of the same, without violating feelings which are sacred.' whether this is a fancy piece, or if it bears the semblance of some one of his kindred, my friend did not inform me, as he said his very tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, as the sad artist spoke those few deep-toned words. i have not myself seen this wonder, and whether i might be thus warm in my praises is a question, as you know i am insensible to female beauty, if i may judge by remarks which from time to time have come to my ear, in past years, from estimable mothers, whose beautiful daughters ought to have called forth my glowing sentiments; 'but that which is wanting cannot be numbered,'" said he, stealing an arch glance at natalie. "i have not seen this painting," replied natalie, her countenance lighting up with a new thought, "but i have several times visited the artist's rooms, though i have never been so fortunate as to get sight of the mysterious connoisseur. those who have met him, describe him as being a middle-aged gentleman, of foreign birth, very marked in his polite, graceful manners; yet there appears to be a great mystery hanging about him, and some have ventured to remark that his is no common history, that he is not merely what he pretends,--an obscure artist! there is that about his bearing which denotes high birth. i have admired his talent displayed, and must see this remarkable production; for you know i am a great admirer of female beauty." that night, natalie mused over the events of the day,--the contents of the letter which she had received, were first in her mind. her mother had expressed an earnest desire to see her child once more; among other things, she had briefly made mention of a matter in regard to their pecuniary affairs,--quite a little sum of the comfortable fortune which capt. grosvenor had, by dint of the many perils at sea, accumulated, had been lost in a recent bank failure;--a failure, as mrs. grosvenor stated, which had proved a source of poverty to many a family, upon their little island; many a widow had been obliged to part with the last dollar, which had been earned by the seafaring husband, who had never returned to share the benefit of his labors; their whole community had been more or less affected by this failure. as to mrs. grosvenor's own loss, she had said it was not heavy, or, at least, she had spoken of it as not resting heavily upon her spirits; why then should the sea-flower's thoughts dwell thus upon the matter?--she still mused--"i fear this may have been a heavier loss, than the gentle words, so characteristic of my mother's tenderness for me, may imply! she would not, if it were in her power to prevent, have me feel that i must curtail my expenses in the least, and i know that my necessary expenses here, must be a great tax upon her income; to be sure harry has often said, that our dear mother shall never know what it is to want; but for all that, i feel that i might do something to repay my mother for all that she has done for me. yes! it is my duty! and it certainly would be a duty of pleasure, if i could do anything to assist her." this it was, which had caused the thoughtful expression of the sea-flower; this which had called forth the ever ready wit of miss winnie--had detained delwood's gaze! but what would be the sentiment of uppertendom, when it should be rumored that the beautiful young creature, of the proud clarence delwood's choice, had stooped so low, as to maintain herself by her own hands? how would mr. delwood himself receive such an announcement? such thoughts did not occur to the mind of the noble hearted girl; her every thought and act were of good, and she did not for once think, that there were those, who could sneer at good motives. ah! natalie, this is a cold, unfeeling world, at best! as experience of long years doth confirm. thy little day hath not yet taught thee, that the world is born of sin, for thou only lookest on the human face as divine. how natalie was to render assistance to her mother, by relieving her of any incumbrance, of which she, herself, might be the cause, had not yet been matured, until delwood had spoken of the popular picture-gallery, of the unknown artist; when as we have said, her face was lit up with a new thought. "i will seek this gentleman, and it may be that he can be induced to bring out the dormant powers, which i am persuaded are in existence; for my love for his department of the fine arts, knows no bounds! to-morrow i will visit him. this veil of mystery would seem a barrier, yet perhaps it is of sadness, and i can conceive that such are of the tender hearted,--alive to another's wants." "want!" she repeated aloud; it sounded strangely upon her ear; and indeed, we cannot couple the thought with such as she! can such fair ones of earth, meet with the chilling breath of adversity? yes, we may meet with them in our wanderings! let us deal with them tenderly; for it may be one of heaven's sensitive flowers. stranger still would that word have sounded to mrs. grosvenor and her son, in connection with their sea-flower, yet it was remotest from their minds, that such thoughts would find their way to her heart. mrs. grosvenor's circumstances were indeed more embarrassed than she had expressed to natalie, yet she had sufficient left, wherewith they might by retrenching a little, live very comfortably. accordingly, that natalie might not feel this change, she had dismissed her only servant (if we may do honor to old vingo, by dubbing him with a more elevated appellation), making some other restrictions in her domestic affairs, for the sake of the child, whom she knew was not her own by kindred, doing away with what she persuaded herself were but unnecessary indulgences. faithful mother! thou wilt have thy reward. natalie arose the next morning, refreshed by the sweet repose which innocence only knows, and although the day was ushered in with clouds, and an occasional rain-drop, she proceeded to put into execution the plans of yesterday; she had made no one a confidant of her designs, not even winnie; and when that little lady met her in the hall, all armed and equipped as the weather directed, she exclaimed,--"where now? miss snow-wreath! are you going to temper your indissolvable charms to an april shower? or is it to hunt up some poor little refugee; who is so unfortunate as to be minus an umbrella, that you are so bereft of your senses, as to venture out, afoot and alone, this disagreeable morning?" "neither the one, nor yet the other, my fair sister," joyously replied the sea-flower, and she tripped down the steps, smiling upon the little frightened rain-drops, which fell lightly upon her, from the skies, not offering to treat them with such indecorum, as the spreading of her umbrella, and, when winnie called to her to come back, or if she would venture forth, to take the carriage, she was far out of hearing. arrived at her point of _destination_, natalie was so lost in admiration of the noble illustrations of the infinite mind of man, that she had lost sight of her object, in visiting the unknown artist, until she was awakened from her revery, by a voice near her, and looking 'round, she discovered a poor, dejected looking old negro woman, kneeling with her hands clasped together, and her eyes fixed upon--natalie followed in the direction--it must be the beautiful madonna! of which she had heard. involuntarily she assumed the position of the negress! what visions filled her soul! flitting to and fro. the past, the present, and the future rushed in mingled indistinctness through her mind! and over the chaos there floated a calm, which gradually took the form of recollections which now caused her heart to beat loudly with the uncertainty, fraught with reality. _that night!_ came fresh again to her memory, when she had overheard her brother's words,--"she is not my sister by birth!" the same holy passions filled her soul, and she gazed upon that face, the semblance of which, she had many a time, ere now, looked upon in dreams! might they not have been waking dreams? "god grant dat such as she, neber know what it am to be torn from her childer!" groaned the black woman, with a deep-drawn sigh. "ah, my poor woman," said natalie, her eyes still fixed upon that spiritual face, "i trust such has never been your lot." "bress you! missy, dem is de only kind words i hear dis many a day, since dey take me way from my poor ole man, and de young uns! but i's not sure now but you's de spirit ob dat pure cretur, (pointing to the madonna) dat's speakin a few words, jus to cheer me like." "and where are your children now? and your poor old man?" "o! missy," said the woman, drawing a parcel from her bosom, carefully unfolding it, and holding a large red handkerchief up to view,--"if i tinks i eber find de mate to dat, i'specks i die wid de joy! but it am a long story, missy, it begins way back, a long fore your sweet eyes see de light ob dis wicked world." "do not call it a wicked world; it is a beautiful world, which god has given us to live in!" "ah, missy, if oder white folks like you, i 'specks it be jus no world at all; it be all one great heaben!" "but what is this mark upon the handkerchief?" asked natalie, for she had seen a fac-simile of the little device, upon old vingo's bandanna, which he used to lend her when she was a child, and she had handled it so carefully, because he had told her that it was the most valuable thing he owned in the world, beside his bible, and she had looked up into his face, with her great blue eyes, and asked him what the two little crooked marks were made to represent; and he had told her they were to represent himself and his poor phillis, for they were bent with the sorrows of the world; and now, here were the same crooked marks, wrought upon the corner of this black woman's handkerchief, which she seemed to treasure so much! what could it mean? natalie looked upon it in astonishment. "where did you get this?" she asked. "my poor ole man gabe it to me, de last time i sees him, and he takes anoder like it, and say, 'phillis, we will keep dem; dey's not quite as 'spressive as de garultypes ob missus's, but when you sees dat, you may know dat old bingo am tinking ob you." "and do you ever think to meet him again?" asked natalie, without betraying her emotion at such a discovery. "oh, missy, if he know anyting about heaven, i might 'speck to meet him dar; but we not know anyting 'bout dat good place den, and i 'specks he am clean used up by dis time; clean gone, widout eber hearin' ob de good lor'!" "and your children,--you have never forgotten them?" "no, missy, i neber forgets dem, and though dey brack as dar mammy, i lub dem as much as dat pure creter dar; and i takes dem in my arms, and press dem to my heart de same, but i rudder be called to part wid dem, dan dat such as she hab to gib up her chilen, for 'pears like i can bear it better, cause i's brack." "my good woman, you have a forgiving spirit for your oppressors, and, thank god, i have it in my power to make two of my fellow mortals happy. what should you say, if i were to tell you where you may find your husband?" the woman looked at her, without speaking a word. "your husband is alive and well; and faithful old vingo is at this moment in my mother's family, where his wants, spiritual and temporal, are cared for; and he has often told me, if he could but once again see his wife, phillis, he should die happy." the woman gave one long, piercing cry, and sank upon the floor. at this instant the artist issued from an adjoining apartment, and stood gazing upon the scene. "my god! what do i see?" exclaimed the gentleman, in a voice which instantly riveted the sea-flower's attention upon him. "tell me! in mercy tell me who thou art!" and he leaned against a column for support. had natalie been heir to that weakness which is somewhat characteristic of the gentler sex, she might have been terrified at such deep, impassioned language from a perfect stranger, trembling with the certainty that she stood face to face with a lunatic; but no such fear was hers. advancing, she bowed low, in honor to his superior age, saying, "pardon me, if i am an intruder here; yet, sir, an apology is needless, for who can resist the grace and beauty which is here displayed? my presence, sir, has evidently disturbed you, and if you will permit me to ask one question, i will retire;--the madonna, that face of an angel, is she the pure production of your own soul, or can it be that such as she has indeed been amongst us?" "she has been, and has passed away!--has passed away," he repeated to himself; "i never thought to meet her again until the dark river had been crossed! but what do i see?" and he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to assure himself that he were not dreaming. no, it was no dream; a gentle, living form stood before him who had sorrowed for his only child nearly twenty long years, and was devoutly regarding those inanimate features to which his soul had clung, as if it were of life; and his eye now wandered from the animate to the inanimate,--the beauteous countenance of the madonna. it was not unlike that of the sea-flower; the features were the same. regaining his composure, the artist proceeded, in a peculiarly mellow tone of voice-- "dear lady, you will pardon my seemingly ill-mannered reception of you, i know, when you have heard what has never yet passed my lips to any mortal! near twenty years have expired since i left my cherished home, on the other side of the atlantic, and came to america. i met with sorrow at an early age; the young wife of my choice was taken from me, and i should have been overwhelmed with grief, had not the precious boon left to me by her, claimed my heart-felt love; the beautiful babe smiled upon me, and i felt rebuked in spirit that i should thus murmur at god's will, when in his loving kindness he had spared to me this, her very likeness, and i came to smile again. i could then smile upon his chastening rod, but,"--and a deep shudder thrilled his frame, "i have since been led to ask myself if there is a god! o! can a good god thus afflict his children?" "pause, sir, i beseech you, ere you give utterance to such dreadful thoughts! think of the countless mercies which you have received at his hand,--weigh them well in a balance with your sorrows, whatever they may have been, and you will find the measure of your blessings tenfold." "your words are as balm to my calloused heart; yet listen to me, and judge if my cruel fate would not engender a dark distrust in a purer heart than mine. my child grew in strength and beauty,--grew to be like her who had left us; she was the pride of my luxuriant home, the main spring of my life! yes, i could realize it then, while i could yet gaze upon her face and dream of heaven; but other days drew near. it was in her twentieth year when my natalie knelt before the altar--a bride. she had given her hand to a noble-hearted american gentleman, upon whom i looked as being worthy of my darling's choice; and as she placed one hand within his, she took the hand of her father with the other, and whispered,--'you now give your daughter to another, yet it shall only serve to bind me still closer to my father.' i was happy then; and when two years later, i pressed my daughter to my heart, and bade her adieu, for the first time, without a thought that it might be the last, i was happy; and when i pressed a kiss on the cheek of her infant child, and grasped the hand of my noble son, her husband, i was happy; for so full was my cup of joy, that i had forgotten the drop of bitterness which i had tasted therefrom. but, alas! it was not so full to overflowing that there was not room for the draught that was to be my portion. they sailed for america, to visit his home, when, after the settlement of his estate in this western world, they would return to make glad their father's home; that day has not yet come! a year elapsed, and i had no tidings of them, yet i would not permit the thought to dwell with me that i should never hear from them more, and another year passed on before the despair entered my soul, which has been to me a burning flame ever since. i gave my possessions to the keeping of another, and left my native italy, to cross the deep, if i might learn of the fate of my children. i went to the place he had told me was his home, but i met with only strangers there. i inquired for the noble vessel in which my child had sailed; she had not belonged on this coast, and thus were my earnest inquiries repulsed, day after day, with a heartless--'we can give you no information.' i travelled from place to place, in hopes to get some clue to the mystery which hung around my lost ones; but, alas, that was not to be! i sought in vain. it was then a change came over me; i hardly knew myself. i concealed my name, and lived a recluse, never disclosing to any one the history of my sorrows. but i could not live thus, and i endeavored to divert my mind from this state of frenzy, by making use of the talent, for which, in my heart of stone, i would not thank my god for bestowing upon me! and so i have lived, as you find me,--'the unknown artist.' it is needless to add, the beautiful madonna, which was never designed for the rude gaze of public curiosity, is the likeness of my child; and though i had no other than the impress of her features upon my heart, to guide my trembling hand, yet i have got a soul upon that canvas! sometimes i have fancied that some good angel had not forgotten me, and had breathed _her_ soul into those pure eyes!" "and the child?" asked natalie, in a suppressed breath, scarcely above a whisper. "her child was but a tiny babe; her features were not sufficiently developed to leave its memory on my mind; yet they told me the little creature was like her mother. this, the madonna's child, is from life. in my wanderings i visited the island of nantucket. i spent some little time there, as i found the great hearts of those people more congenial to my weary spirits, than the chilling air of avarice, which, in a measure, marks this western world. one morning, as i strolled along the shore, looking out upon the sea, depressed in spirits, i observed a pretty sight not far from me; an old negro sat upon the beach, and by his side an infant, some eighteen months old, with her arms clasped about the neck of a large newfoundland dog, while her eyes, which were of the blue of heaven, were fixed upon the waves which rolled and broke in harmless ripples at her feet. she was a beauteous child. i have never seen another upon whom i could look, as the little angel that had gone. i traced her beautiful features, as i was so fortunate as to have pencil and paper by me, and was about to pass on, when i observed the brother of the child approaching; he was a noble little fellow, with the air of a young prince, and i never shall forget his proud answer, when i asked him of his sister,--'we call her sea-flower, sir, for she came to us from god, and he smiles upon each little flower, as it lifts up its head, all trembling with dew.' i breathed a blessing upon them both, for they had drawn a tear from my heart of stone." "sir," said natalie, as he paused, "nantucket is my home; often have i listened to my dear brother, as he has told me the pretty story of the sad gentleman whom he met, when i was but an infant, and how he spoke to me so tenderly, and sighed for his own natalie. i had no other name then but sea-flower, and i have been called by that name ever since; yet after that day, my christian name was natalie." the artist gazed upon her, and pointing to the madonna, exclaimed,--"thou art the child! you are like the madonna! can it be that i have unconsciously restored to the mother her child? none other than her own could thus resemble her!" "in my innermost heart there has ever dwelt a mystery, which i can find no language to describe! in my dreams i have had sweet visions of a beauteous being, who has smiled upon me, and made me happy. the madonna awakens all those pure feelings, and i cannot but look upon her as in some way connected with my being; yet my own mother lives, and my affection for her is as for no other being upon the earth." "_she_ is in heaven," mused the artist. at this moment the door opened, and who should enter but clarence delwood, who was much surprised to find natalie thus unattended, in earnest conversation with the mysterious artist. she arose as he entered, and presented him to the gentleman, but she had not yet learned his name. the artist presented his card to delwood, assuming the same frigid manner which had become his nature. delwood gave one glance at the madonna. "how is this, sir," asked he, in an excited manner, "that you have made use of this lady's face to attract the notice of a vulgar public to your works? who gave you authority for such assurance as this, sir?" "calm yourself, clarence," said the sea-flower, mildly, "the gentleman had never seen me, to his knowledge, until this morning. it rather becomes us to apologize for this intrusion upon the sacred memory of his child." mr. delwood listened with astonishment to the information which we have just learned, and his eyes wandered from the beautiful madonna to the no less beautiful being, whom he hoped, at no distant day, to call his own, while a thought filled his soul with delight, and he said to himself,--"i knew that she was infinitely above me, though outward circumstances would make her of no particular distinction." "yes, there is a meaning in this, a mystery to be solved. who is she?--this pure being. and your mother still lives," mused the artist; "do you resemble her?" "i am unlike any one of my family, so much so that strangers have noted it." "and your father?" "is in heaven." "truly," mused the gentleman, "and your sainted mother likewise." "permit me to ask your address, gentle lady," said the artist, as his visitors prepared to retire. "and in return you will allow me to come every day, and look upon this dear face?" "you are the only person whom i have bade a welcome to my presence for years;" and bidding them a "good morning," the artist retired to brood over other than his sorrows. it was then that natalie remembered the poor black woman, though not a thought of the object of her own visit thither, crossed her mind. the woman was silently contemplating the sea-flower, as if she were an angel of mercy. "where do you live, my good woman?" inquired natalie. "one spot am not my home more dan anoder, missy; de wide earth am my home. but tell me, missy, did ole phillis hear you straight, or am she so warped troughout, dat she hot get de right comprehensions?" "what i have told you, you may rely upon; come here in a day or two again, and you shall hear farther." "bress de lor'! bress de good lor', for sending de bright angel!" shouted the woman, as she ran out of the house, throwing about her long arms, (now freed from slavery's chains,) and making sundry other uncouth manifestations of her joy, so characteristic of her race, which caused a policeman to realize the dignity of his station, by actually opening one eye, and puffing diligently at the cloud of tobacco smoke which encircled the other. a week later, and natalie received a letter from her mother, in reply to her account of her visit to the mysterious artist. it ran thus:-- "my dear daughter,--it was with joy, mingled with a shade of sadness, that i perused your last. not that you, my innocent child, could impart other than pleasure to the meanest of weak mortals, yet it brought afresh to my mind a subject, which, though it marks one of the happiest moments of my life, owing to peculiar circumstances,--the memory of my dear husband being closely associated therewith,--brings to my heart, also, a shadow of grief. that which i would say has to do with yourself, my daughter, yet i cannot commission my pen to the revealing of this long-buried secret. i would tell you with my own lips, of the mystery which hangs around your birth, for i would seal the tale with a mother's kiss, looking upon my foster-child for an assurance of love undiminished. you must now come home to us. i can bear this separation no longer. the time has come when our dear little sea-flower, for so many years the sunshine of our home, shall test the strength of her affection for those who will ever regard her--a blessing from that heavenly shore. say to the author of the madonna and child, that i would earnestly wish that he may accompany you home, as he may be informed of that which so nearly concerns his happiness. adieu, my daughter, until i shall see you once more. from your affectionate mother." natalie folded the letter, and repeating aloud, "can i ever love my mother less?" she leaned her head upon her hand, and wept. the day drew near when the sea-flower, accompanied by mr. alboni, (for such was the name of the gentlemanly artist,) and clarence delwood, should seek her island home. this was anything but a pleasant anticipation for winnie, for since her mother's death she had learned to lean upon natalie, though younger than herself, and had received from her in times of trial, such sweet counsel as would sink into her heart, giving her new strength, making her a wiser and a better being. in the time which natalie had been in the santon family, there had been a perceptible change in the character of the beautiful coquettish heiress. those blemishes which the faithful mother had discovered, upspringing in her daughter's youthful heart, marring her otherwise lovable character, had been erased; not that she had lost in any degree that gay, cheery openness of heart which we love so well to meet,--she was yet the winnie santon of days which had known no lowering skies, the singing bird of a june morning,--save that an occasional plaintive note, breathed out upon youth's freshness of life's realities. it was the last night in which these maidens, winnie and natalie, might pour out to each other the fulness of their hearts. the last, did we say, the last? distance would separate them ere another sunset, and ocean would intervene; yet we have said,--the last. folded in each other's arms, they sat in the pale moonlight, each reading within the other's soul, an appreciation of this holy hour. holy hours are they indeed, which lead our thoughts far up beyond this mortal sphere, pointing us to other than earth's vanities. beautiful, yet so unlike, they were; and ah, what is more beautiful than maiden purity? woman,--she fell, yet her name will ever stand foremost in the ranks of all that is exalting. "and who will there be to love me, when you are gone? who will talk with me so gently, and keep my feet from the dangerous paths which surround me?" asked winnie, as the discordant tones of mrs. santon's voice stole in upon their quietude, from an adjoining apartment. "if there is anything in this beautiful world of ours which can make me sad, it is the parting from those whom i love; yet i know it is but for a little while. dear winnie, can you realize how kind our father is, that he has given us the promise of a home where there will be no more parting,--never a farewell? and he will guide your footsteps; make him your friend, and though all others should forsake you, you will be happy. he will be a better friend to you than ever i have been, and remember, winnie dear, when i am gone, should sorrow come to you, or bitter trials mark your way, go to our father for counsel, and he will give you sweet rest." thus did the sea-flower endeavor to leave upon winnie's heart that which should prepare her for meeting the trials which she but too plainly foresaw would be her lot, from the unmotherly spirit evinced by mrs. santon. blessings on thee, noble girl! would there were more like thee to be found in this sinful world below! but what is a blessing craved by the lips of frail mortal, compared with the seraph blessings showered upon thy gentle head, from her who is looking down upon her child, as thy voice is raised in prayer to the god of this motherless one, that she may find refuge beneath the shadow of his wing. the last farewell was spoken by poor winnie, with an aching heart, mr. santon had pressed the sea-flower's hand, with a tear in his eye, as if reluctant to let her go, lest the severing of one of the last ties which bound him to happy days, should be too much for his sorrowing heart,--and she had gone, leaving her impress upon the hearts of all who had met and loved her. her spirit was the spirit of love, forgiving as she hoped to be forgiven,--her sins, which, had it not been said of man, "not one is perfect," we should have looked upon as of no deeper stains than are of the newly washen lambs, gambolling in fresh pastures of innocence. even to mrs. santon's unpardonable slight, in not giving her a parting salutation, pleading one of her timely headaches as an excuse for her non-appearance at the hour of separation,--the sea-flower had left for her a kind farewell. after an absence of nearly three years, natalie stood once again upon the shores of her island home. everything was as when she had left, for the bustle and change of the outer world does not disturb the quiet of this sea-girt isle. her mother received her with tears of joy, that fulness of joy which only the mother can feel, who, after a long separation from the child whose beauty of character sheds a halo of honor around the household name, holds her to her heart again, where she knows her to be safest from the world's contumely. harry welcomed his sister home, with the wild delight of his boyish days, regardless of the presence of strangers in their family circle; while old vingo, who had been beside himself for a week past, with the prospect of at last actually beholding his missy face to face, capered about the room, as if he were not so near his second childhood. the sea-flower pressed his bony, black hand to her lips. "ah! i know dat you neber change, missy; i know you always be de same! i tells mysef dat, dese long years past, and bress de lord, poor old bingo hab one friend as long as he hab a hope ob libin'!" "yes, my good vingo," said the sea-flower, "you may truly rely upon one friend,--that best of friends, he will never forsake you; but," and she spread out the veritable handkerchief, so precious to the poor black woman, before his wondering eyes, "you are deserving of the rich blessings of earthly friends; for had i been tried, as it has been the will of an overruling providence that you should be, i doubt if i had borne my cross with the submissive spirit which you have manifested. tell me," added she, pointing out the crooked marks in the corner of the handkerchief, "do you recognize that?" vingo drew forth the bandanna, which always accompanied him in his wanderings, and laid it by the side of the other. they were just alike; there were the two crooked marks upon each, speaking as accurately as the most highly finished ambrotype of the day. "praise de lord foreber!" shouted the negro; "i neber 'speck to see dat sight, while i not'ing but ole brack bingo! i can lib to de end ob my days wid joy at de sight ob dat! it am next to finding poor phillis hersef. pray, missy, did you find dat in some accidental cotton bag? or am bosting only the christian name for wicked old kintuck? i shouldn't tink dat angels could lib in dat cannibal hemisphere!" it was with difficulty that those who witnessed the fellow's ludicrous movements, could refrain from a smile; but when, at a summons from natalie, the door opened, and the black woman, so nearly allied to the human family as to have manifested an appreciation of the beautiful, stood before them, there was not a dry eye in the room. it was an affecting sight, to witness the meeting of this man and wife, who had been separated for so many long years, and under such trying circumstances. to be sure, they were poor ignorant negroes, who are looked upon by a large portion of the world, as only fit to be ranked with dogs and other dumb animals: yet they have souls, hearts which had been given to christ, and the meek and lowly jesus, were he now upon the earth, would not be ashamed to take this down-trodden race by the hand and lift them up. god looks down from his throne above with pitying eye; he pities his children; we grow strong in the assurance of his tender mercies; but let us remember,--he will avenge with a powerful arm, the wrongs inflicted upon his feebler ones; for he hath said,--"my children, love ye one another, even as your heavenly father loveth you." this meeting of old vingo and phillis, was enough to have softened the heart of the vilest "legree;" but probably, had one of those gentlemen, whose highly respectable occupation it is to deal in the traffic of buying and selling--man, been present, they might have been led to remark, "the silly creatures seem to imagine they have some feeling." the evening shades descended. the night was wild, and the voices of the breakers rose loud, as if responding to the angry aspect of nature; yet peace sat beneath the roof of mrs. grosvenor's dwelling. the evening lamps were lit, and as mrs. grosvenor produced a small casket and laid it on the centre-table, she thought within herself,--it was much such a storm only a few days after our dear one came to us. mr. alboni sat with bowed head, as the mother proceeded to bring forth evidences which should identify her darling child as being of the descent and lineage of another line of ancestors than hers; while the sea-flower, her hand clasped within that of him who had found favor in the mother's eyes, prepared herself to receive any information in regard to her destiny, which it should be the will of a just god to decree. the tiny lace dress, which the infant had worn, when she was first placed in her foster-mother's arms, was held up to view. it was of a costly fabric, embroidered heavily with needle-work, evidently the production of the industry of some lone sister of convent life. the casket, the contents of which had been so long treasured as things sacred was opened and the bands of gold placed in mr. alboni's hands. he examined them closely; there were no initials, not the least mark whereby he might learn of that which was of such vast interest to him, when lo! he pressed the spring which had before yielded to mrs. grosvenor's touch, and behold!--the same features which he had looked upon day by day, for twenty years, were revealed to him,--the features of his madonna--his child! "my god!" exclaimed he, "i thank thee that thou hast brought me from darkness to light, not only that i may acknowledge thy supremacy, but to bless thee during the brief remainder of my days; if i may atone for my deep sin in living so long without thee, even doubting thy existence! this is truly a convincing proof that thou art all in all. i here vow, that should the gracious lord see fit to chasten his servant, by taking away this, my last support, it shall only serve to increase my faith in the love of my most precious redeemer!" and with tearful eyes the old gentleman held his grand-daughter to his heart. "and is it really thus?" asked natalie; "can it be that my mother has been looking down upon me, from her home in the skies?" "your sainted mother is in heaven," spake mr. alboni. the sea-flower glanced towards her from whom she had ever received a mother's tenderness; there was a smile upon her countenance, yet natalie observed, though she would fain be happy that her loved one was restored to her kindred, undoubtedly an advantageous discovery in every point of view, it was like an arrow to her heart; for was she not her child? natalie arose, and giving one hand to her mother, the other to him whom she would henceforth look upon as a father, she said,--"yes, my own mother has gone to her home; she is an angel there, where i shall meet her at the last; but you, my mother, can never be less dear to me; i must always look upon you as my mother!" and throwing her arms about mrs. grosvenor's neck, she exclaimed, "though others shall claim me by the ties of kindred, they never shall part me from you; your child will never forsake you!" it was enough; the widowed mother was not "written childless." then it was that mrs. grosvenor related every minute particular in regard to the child's discovery, and how she had been a blessing to them all, repaying them doubly for their care. it was a long and interesting story, to which this little circle listened, regardless of the raging elements without, with the exception of the sea-flower, who drank in every note of nature's mighty chorus, scarcely thinking of the perils to which those who were riding at the mercy of the waves, might be exposed; for her young heart shrank not from ocean's awe; she had always looked upon an ocean grave as a hallowed place of burial. "and your daughter's name was natalie," remarked mr. delwood; "it is a singular coincidence that the child should be named for the mother." "it is all a miracle," said harry, "and sometimes i have thought old vingo not far out of the way, when he declared 'missy sea-flower to have been left upon the beach by no other than the lord.'" gradually mr. alboni came to be like himself again. he was a remarkably handsome man, his countenance denoting his generosity of heart. his delight in the society of the sea-flower, as she pointed out to him each day, some new attraction about her island home, knew no bounds. it was now that mr. alboni directed his attention to his unsettled affairs in italy. had he lived out his days as the unknown artist, without discovering an heiress to his vast estates, he would probably never have given the subject a thought, and strangers, or some public institution, would have realized a handsome legacy; but his every nerve thrilled now with new life for her; every advantage which wealth could procure would be hers. but it was not only to look after his pecuniary affairs that he laid the question before mrs. grosvenor, if her child should accompany him to the land of her birth, but that she might become acquainted with the position in life which she was every way capable of filling. and so it was arranged that natalie, with her grandfather, should make the tour of the eastern world, whither mr. delwood should accompany them. after disposing of mr. alboni's estates, and visiting the lions of the east, they would return, to make america their home; and it being left for natalie to decide what spot should be chosen as their future home, she said, stealing a glance towards clarence delwood,--"we will return to my mother's peaceful island home, for we can be happy here." accordingly the day was fixed when they should depart, but the very evening before they would sail, brought news to mr. delwood of the dangerous, and probably fatal illness of his father. it was with a sad heart that he looked upon such a separation from his betrothed, for he would necessarily resign the pleasure which he had anticipated, in escorting her to countries which he had visited, and which had become dear to him. it was a great disappointment also to natalie; yet she sought to persuade him it was for the best; "she would soon return, and the separation would bring a thrice joyful meeting." it was a glorious evening; the soft moonlight kissed the white sea-caps, as each strove to lift its head above its fellows, as if to gaze upon night's purity,--or, mayhap, they would beckon that gentle one, who smiled upon their wild joy, as she reclined upon her lover's breast, to join them, in their revellings. upon the broad bank of the old south shore they sat,--a favorite resort of the youth and maidens of this little island of a mid-summer's eve,--old sankoty to the eastward, lifting high his head, imparting a flood of radiance in pity to thousands, who watch with an intensity, to make the well-known light, rejoicing no less when they have left it far behind, for well do they realize that they have passed one of the most dangerous shoals to be found on the american coast. behind them, distance about three miles, is the town; there is no din and bustle borne on the night air to their ears,--naught is heard but the moaning voice of the night wind, mingled with the ceaseless roar of the ocean. here, far from the world's contumely, no eye to see, no ear to hear, save that of him who is omnipresent, were those vows of love renewed, and registered above. many a fair maiden has here since plighted her faith, here given her hand to the loved one of her choice, (heaven bless the union of nantucket's fair ones!) yet the night has never since looked down upon two of more perfect oneness of heart, than those of whom this serene night bore witness. "and will you still retain your foster-name?" asked delwood, "or will you travel under your grandfather's italian name? by the way, i have not heard the name of your father." "paul sunderland was my father's name." "sunderland! the lady sunderland! i have seen your mother, natalie!" exclaimed he. "it was none other than she, the kind, beautiful lady who sang to me when i was but a child, in italy; she whom i begged to take me to that beautiful place again! ah, it comes to me now, in no dream, but a reality; i have always thought, since i first beheld you, that i had somewhere, at some unknown time, seen a picture which was like you; but, strange, it was none other than the mother of my own dear sea-flower!" "and your eyes have looked upon my mother, clarence," said she, gazing into his very soul,--"and she has smiled upon you? oh, i shall love you with a holier love for this!" and the young girl paused, and trembled, as he held her to his heart, for the thought came rushing into her soul,--"oh, what a fearful thing is this,--this depth of fervent love!" the morrow came; came to all of our friends who were gathered around the hearthstone of the widow grosvenor, with joy, for genial rays, other than of a may morning's sun, were in their hearts; yet those indescribable tones, which under any circumstances hang around the word--farewell, were gradually, unawares, jarring, jarring those gentler notes of peace, even before spoken. "farewell!"--the mother strained her child to her heart again, and again put her from her, to embrace her more closely. farewell, came welling up from that proud brother's heart, with the same breath, thanking god for giving him a sister. broken sobs measured the bitterness of the parting of those down-trodden ones, who, "by an angel of mercy," had been lifted up, to taste one drop of that bliss upon earth, which the white man holds within his power to give or withhold. farewell!--was it not that one word, which marked the parting of those two, whose hearts had been united above? "adieu to my island home," said the sea-flower, and the wild waves whispered,--"we are lonely." chapter xi. we are going home. "the sounds that fall on mortal ear as dew-drops pure at even, that soothe the breast, or start the tear, are mother, home, and heaven. "a home, that paradise below, of sunshine and of flowers, where hallowed joys perennial flow, by calm celestial bowers." anonymous. time wore heavily on with winnie santon, after natalie had left them. left as she was, much in her unnatural mother's society, who seemed to be never more pleased than when she might thwart her designs, or, in some manner act so as to make those about her uncomfortable, it was not to be wondered at, if she did sigh for other days, and a confidant, to whom she might unburden her heart. her father spent but a small portion of his time at home; on the contrary, he rather sought to avoid the fireside, which had once been so dear to him. his feelings, whatever they might have been, were kept locked up within his own breast, yet winnie could read the look of sympathy which he bent upon her, as he grasped her by the hand, ere he hurried away to banish painful recollections by duties "on change." when difficulties, which natalie had foreseen, caused winnie's heart to ache, she would school herself to meet the injustice as she knew _she_ would have done; and the timely advice of the sea-flower proved to the lone girl a valuable legacy. she had heard from natalie, through the correspondence which for some time she had kept up with our friend harry grosvenor, the which letters were anticipated and perused with no common interest; indeed, her happiness, scarcely realized by herself, was closely allied therewith. mrs. santon looked upon these ever punctual letters, which appeared so frequently among the post-boy's morning deposits, with an evil eye, yet they did not serve to banish the schemes of her invention in regard to mr. montague, as a favored competitor for the hand of the heiress; and it was his unwelcome visits, which were not unfrequent, that counted among the numerous trials which weighed more and more heavily upon her spirits. poor winnie! each life is made of joys and sorrows. the death of mr. delwood was a deep affliction to his son, for although he was an austere man, forbidding in his manners, he had always manifested a spirit of tenderness for his only remaining relative, and clarence now sought to dispel the loneliness which was creeping over him, by directing his attention to his father's unsettled estates, which was no light task, as mr. delwood had been a gentleman of great property. the life-like specimens of artistical skill, executed by mr. alboni, known only to boston lovers of the fine arts as "the unknown artist," were disposed of by clarence delwood, in accordance with the wishes of mr. alboni, who, in entrusting the madonna to his keeping until his return, placed not only the likeness of the mother before him, but it possessed him of a correct likeness of his betrothed. the noble steamer atlantic, after a most favorable passage of twelve days, carried our friends safely to the desired port of liverpool. as natalie stood once again upon terra firma, she could hardly credit that over three thousand miles of ocean separated her from her home,--that the same waves which washed the shores of her cherished island, broke upon the shores of this eastern world. mr. alboni was in the happiest frame of mind as they made the tour of england and scotland, for from thence they would repair to his own loved italy. over the mind of the tourist, visiting the old world for the first time,--countries where have transpired thrilling events recorded in history, what an immensity of thought and feeling sweeps! it was thus with natalie; she could not realize that she was treading in the footsteps of royalty, who living in long past days, had held sway over this land, had looked upon this land of "merrie england" as their home. london, like a mighty babel, rose before them, her gigantic towers telling of man's greatness, while the resplendent shining of the sun, reflected from a million turrets, proclaimed that there was one above all. st. paul's, with its dome of grandeur, reflecting not only honor upon her world-renowned architect, sir christopher wren, but standing a living memento that christ hath built his church upon earth. westminster must be visited by every stranger. as natalie roamed over this vast structure, in itself a world of curiosity, like so many small churches roofed in by one great canopy, she lingered in the south transept, in what is called the poet's corner. here are the tombs of many of the most famous poets of england. chaucer, edmund spencer, francis beaumont, and others, have tablets here erected to their memory, while in other chapels are monuments erected in memory of sovereigns, who have long since gone to render an account of their deeds done here, to the one great sovereign of the universe. as the eye of natalie rested upon the tomb of the gentle mary, queen of scots, the history of whose brief life, and the many cruel indignities which were heaped upon her, rushing to her memory, she stood as if riveted to the spot, when a voice near her attracted her attention, and a rough-looking old sailor, tarpaulin in hand, threw himself at her feet, exclaiming,--"bless the memory of old england! she is more sensible than i ever thought for. they couldn't have done a nobler thing than to have placed _her_ likeness here!" and thus the jolly fellow's tongue flew, as if he would re-spin all the forecastle yarns of his lifetime, much to the discomfiture of the eagle-eyed guide, who bade the intruder begone; but our nautical friend, deigning to give this polite invitation to depart no further notice than he would have given to the juvenile whales, as they were taking first lessons in spouting of their maternal protector, the guide seized him by the shoulder, and was about to show honest jack what virtue there was in "force of arms," when mr. alboni interfered, saying,--let us at least hear what the honest fellow would say for himself." "your honor,", exclaimed jack, whose very countenance spoke as plainly as a nose which appeared as if it had been imitating the feathered tribes, in their efforts to satisfy thirst, for so long, that its tendency had become upward in sympathy, and eyes which it were difficult to follow in the direction of both at the same time, could speak, that he who had been accustomed to guiding his bark by stars of the first magnitude, all his days, would not now, at this age of life, be guided by this "star" of diminutive light. "your honor," said the astonished tar, as he discovered the beautiful form before him to be actually possessed of life and breath, and was no senseless piece of statuary, "shiver my topsails, but if i didn't take the lady to be _her_ representation, my name's not john sampson!" "sampson!" exclaimed natalie, actually taking him by the hand, "are you john sampson?" "i'm sampson the world over, my lady," replied the tar, "and why shouldn't i be? i've come all the way from yankee america, to visit my native dust-heap, which never produced, beside its daily growth of what might be known the other side of the water, as nature's own pie-plant and sausage-improver, but one sampson; but," added he, in a subdued voice, "may i ask who can take enough interest in a poor fellow, who never belonged to nothing, as to speak his name? if i had not seen _her_ go down with my own eyes, i should say that the noblest lady that ever lived was standing before me; but she's gone where only her kind do go;" and the rough man drew the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. "i am the sister of a little sailor-boy, whom you once rescued from imminent peril,--perhaps death; and i rejoice that fortune has favored me with a sight of your honest face, that i may repay in part, at least, the debt of gratitude which we owe to you,--harry grosvenor, do you remember him?" asked she, placing her well-filled purse in his hand. "ah, that noble little specimen of young america! a young hero!--could have jumped over two johnny bulls, although my dust-heap happened to be this side of the water. well do i remember him! and you are the sister that he used to talk about, till i really thought the fellow had got into a lunatic's overall?" "yes, i am his sister," said the sea-flower, and she might have added,--your name has never been forgotten in my prayers; but this was no place for the illiterate, though good-hearted sailor's ludicrous expressions, and having doubly feed the guide, who did not witness a scene like this often, within these walls, which were looked upon as sacred by other than his eagle eye, our friends sought the adelphi, whither, at mr. alboni's request, sampson joined them; for there was something in the words which he had uttered, that struck upon that gentleman's ear; and yet, what it was, was not clear to his mind. "you have spoken of some noble lady," remarked mr. alboni; "pray tell me if you have never met with but one whom you could distinguish by that title, in all your travels?" "and for a very sensible reason; there never was but one like her; or, that is, i have always thought so until to-day," replied the tar, glancing toward natalie; "for my old eyes have seen pretty much everything they have got in this little world. ha! i should like to see the inch of land or water that my foot hasn't measured." "let us hear a little of your history, my good fellow: begin with the beautiful lady," said mr. alboni, proudly contemplating his grand-daughter. "it's a yarn, your honor, that hasn't been spun to every jack tar that's sailed the seas, for i've a sort of feeling about me, that her memory shouldn't be used to gratify common curiosity; and, sir, it's only through the lady's sweet face, so much like _her_, that i am induced to tell the story, word for word. ye see, it was about twenty years ago, come september, and i shipped for a voyage to america in the de--de--, well, never mind the name; those frenchmen always spile their crafts with a jaw-breaker of a name. well, we had a fair time of it, till we got pretty well on to the american shores; and as for me, i never expect to enjoy myself again, as i did the first part of that voyage. we had quite a crowd of passengers, and among them was a gentleman, with his lady and child; if that wasn't the handsomest couple that i ever sot eyes on, then i've missed my reckonings! the lady,--why, your honor, it fairly dazzled my eyes to look at her! she always had a kind word for everybody; even us old tars she would talk with, as if she wasn't the best lady in the world; there wasn't one of us but would have gone to the mast-head feet first, to do her a favor; and as for gold, she wasted a young fortune on our ugly selves. we were within a couple o' days sail of new york, when one of those moist fogs came up, such as will make a fellow lose a whisk of his patience, if he happens to have any. well, we kept on, as we thought, in the same course, for about twelve hours, when, like a clap of thunder, we struck fast upon a rock! it was as calm as any day i ever saw, but our sails were all set, and that with the run of the sea, gave us no small shock; but our captain hoped we might not have received any serious damages, and set the carpenters to work to find what our situation was. well, your honor, it wasn't ten minutes after we struck, afore we began to settle down. i knew i'd sailed the ocean longer than our captain, and when i found that we were going down, i ran below, and found the gentleman and his lady, and told them just how matters stood with us, and offered to stand by them till the last; for we had but two boats aboard, and i knew there'd be a scene. when the lady heard this, she turned to her husband, and said,--'i am prepared, to share whatever is to be your fate, paul; but god in mercy save our child!" we went aloft to the hurricane deck, and such a sight i have never seen since! every man, woman, and child that we met there, was looking for something, if no more than a straw, to save themselves. we had now settled down even with the water, when i, 'spying a large trough floating near, made for it, and the gentleman taking the babe from its mother's arms, spread a few clothes in it, and lashed the little thing into this curious looking craft; both gave it one last kiss, and it was launched on the wide ocean. at this instant the lady drew from her pocket a roll of parchment, and handing it to me, said,--"you may be saved; if you ever hear from my child again, put this into safe hands for her; but if you should never hear of her, keep it for yourself, and may god be with us all." at that moment we were carried down, and as i rose again, i caught at a spar which was floating near, and looking after my friends, i saw them rise far to leeward; they were still clasped in each other's arms. i would willingly have gone down if she might have been saved; but that could not be, and i was borne far out to sea. the fog lifted, but i was not able to make my whereabouts, and in this condition i was left for two days, when i was picked up by a vessel bound to liverpool direct. i told the captain my story, and found that we had missed our bearings, that our vessel had been wrecked upon the nantucket shoals. our voyage proved to be a long and stormy one, for the september gales took us on to the coast of africa; and when a year after i shipped for new york, i heard nothing of the child, and have always supposed her little bark took her to a better land." "and so it did!" exclaimed the weeping natalie, holding the great rough hand of the tar within her own; "the little bark bore her in safety to a peaceful shore, where she was received with open arms by those who have filled the place of her natural parents. you see before you, my honest friend, no other than the child of that gentle mother, whose parting from her babe you witnessed." sampson gazed upon her with astonishment, and clapping both hands to his head, as if to assure himself that his exterior was yet in a healthful condition, whatever transmogrification the interior might have undergone, he exclaimed,--"i'm not so sure, after all, that my name's sampson! i really begin to think that i must have gone down, with the rest; and yet, i could swear to it that i'm a portion of that dust-heap! if my topsails aren't shivered this time; clean gone by the board!" and as if to verify his words, he sank deeper into his chair, and broke into such a train of musing, as caused the little son of africa in attendance, to jingle his glasses right merrily, that the wild bursts of his uncontrollable mirth might sound the less. mr. alboni could scarce credit what he had heard. "and the parchment," inquired he, "what was the purport of that?" the tar sat as one in a trance, but by certain gesticulations, it appeared that his skysails were not so shattered that he did not comprehend the drift of the question, and after much tugging and pulling at an old waistcoat, which was worn beneath the round-about, he produced a roll, which, from twenty years' wear, it having been his constant companion during that time, by sea and by land, had become in appearance of an uncertain nature, and handing it to the gentleman, he said, after examining the miniature which natalie put into his hand, of her mother, "the document belongs to her, and if i'd a happened to have met her on the sea, i might have known it, even if i hadn't seen the picture of the noble lady, for she's the exact imitation; but i never can get the land fog out of my eyes when i'm ashore. that's a sorry looking bit of paper, your honor, but it's what'll buy more than one twist of pig-tail." mr. alboni perused the document. he was astounded!--not so much at the contents of that soiled bit of parchment, which was the instrument by which natalie, or the holder, could come into possession of a handsome fortune; but it was at the honesty of this whole-souled sailor. was it possible that this poor fellow, who gained his bread by dint of hard labor, having a fortune within his grasp, which he conscientiously could have called his own, had not disturbed a farthing thereof?--choosing rather to reap the fruits of his own industry, treasuring this rich legacy, as sacred to the memory of a friend. is there indeed such honor to be found in the breast of fallen man? aye, 't is the heart of the noble sailor that beats with a heroism like this! to him who goeth down to the great waters in ships, such honor is due! "and you have had this in your possession for more than twenty years," said mr. alboni, "and yet have never helped yourself to a cent of that which was rightly your own? pray tell me, how would you have disposed of this wealth at last, had you never heard of an heiress to the estate?" "d' ye see, sir, i haven't travelled this world over so many times, without making a beacon light occasionally. now there's a difference in light-houses, yer honor. there's the revolving light, and many other kinds of light, but the brightest of all is that steady light which shines into the darkness of the poor sailor's soul. i first made that light, sir, at the seamen's home, in new york, and it was there i made up my mind that i would lend this money to the lord, for i was convinced that that would be the most profitable investment; and i've been thinking of it more and more, for these last few days, if i hadn't better settle this on the home, for you know these iron frames will give out after a while; men don't live to see nine hundred years nowadays, though i'm named after the strongest fellow that ever handled a harpoon." mr. alboni read the document to his grand-daughter, the effect of which was, that certain sums of specie, deposited in the bank of ----, by the honorable paul sunderland, could by the bearer of this instrument, be withdrawn at sight. sampson's tongue was still flying with rapidity, as if his auditors had not been void of a number, while mr. alboni and natalie were holding a consultation aside. "you are right, my child; you will never miss this from the wealth, which i thank god i have it in my power to place in your hands. let it be as you say,--divide this sum between your protectors." "i thank you, my dear, generous father," said natalie, imprinting a kiss upon the cheek of her relative; "you have made me happy. i will send this most acceptable gift to my dear mother, not paining her feelings with the thought that i would seek to repay her love for her child with gold, but as an expression of her daughter's filial affection; and not only will i reward this honest man with the half of this sum, but he shall have the pleasure of presenting with his own hand this offering to my mother." to this latter proposition sampson acquiesced with pleasure; he was delighted with the prospect of once more seeing his young shipmate, whose mysterious allusions to the sea-flower he could now comprehend; but as to himself receiving so liberal a legacy, he was not prepared to look upon the proposition as favorably. "take it, my good fellow," said mr. alboni, "it is rightly your own; and should you ever have anything to spare, you cannot do better than to make the investment which you had purposed." they parted,--the honest tar to take his way to columbia's happy land, while mr. alboni and the sea-flower would prolong their visit for a little here, then depart to feast their eyes upon italian skies. sampson looked long after the gentle form of the sea-flower, as he left them, for when might he see so fair a sight again? * * * * * "and this was the home of my mother," mused natalie, as arrived in florence, our tourists entered the arched gateway, which led to the broad domains of the long absent master, just as the sun was sinking to rest, his soft lingering rays kissing the fleecy clouds, o'er which a blush came and went, now deepening as the rose carmine, giving place to the most delicate tinge that e'er sat upon a maiden's cheek,--born of pure modesty. the scent of the delicate jasmine perfumed the air, while the pensive strains of some fair one, soft and clear as the tones of a wind-harp, was borne on the stillness of evening to the ear of the lovely sea-flower, who, reclining upon the bosom of her father, her sunny tresses mingling with the silvery locks, which told that he had seen many winters, whispered in words low and musical,--"my angel mother,--i can feel her presence near; she has breathed this blissful air; can it be more heavenly there?" with her eyes still upturned, as if their mildness might pierce the veil of azure, her lips moved, as they had ofttimes done before, in praise and thanksgiving for the wondrous beauty which our father, in his boundless love, hath set before his children. as mr. alboni gazed upon each familiar object, surrounding his beautiful villa, he was greatly surprised to find everything in the same state of preservation as when he had last beheld his home, once so dear; instead of an air of desolation, everything falling to decay, as would be a natural consequence attendant upon the long absence of the family, the scrupulous care and attention of some interested one, was apparent on all sides. even the little ivied bower, which mr. sunderland had arranged with his own hands, when he first smiled upon his beautiful bride, was still in existence; and here did natalie dream away many a happy hour, during her stay in dear florence. the old man and his frugal wife, to whose keeping the premises had been entrusted, and who occupied a small tenement upon the grounds, could not have been more surprised if one had appeared to them from the dead, than were they when mr. alboni stood in the door of their cottage. "i told you his honor would come again!" said the woman, turning to her husband; "but i was really afeared it mightn't be in our time; and as we've no one to leave in our shoes, i'm of the 'pinion that the place would've dropped off to some stranger." "ha, yes," replied the husband, "my old woman's never far out o' the way, though she does sometimes talk as if she expected to become extinguished; but for all that, she's equal to two common ones. but i'm particularly glad you've come home, on a good many 'counts, for if the place must go into any other hands than an alboni, i'm not over anxious to witness the change in the coat of arms." mr. alboni received this compliment as it was intended, and as one motive in visiting his native land again was to dispose of this estate, he now directed his attention to the future comfort of this most worthy couple; for the domestics who had served in the family of alboni, must not suffer from want. accordingly a comfortable cottage, adjoining these lands, was obtained for their use, and an annual income, sufficient to supply their wants, settled upon them for life; and so with the estate of the albonis, whose last representative of the name would soon depart, for a memorial of days past, this aged couple hoped to spend in contentment the residue of their days. amid all the splendor and gayety of fashionable life in italy, the sea-flower was never so happy as when seated in the ivy bower, which looked out upon a little lake, the same which had been her mother's favorite place of retreat, where she might watch the ever-changing face of the mellow skies, or roaming through those ancient halls, she might feast her eyes on the many antique surroundings; but most of all, she loved to linger in the great reception hall, whose walls were hung with the portraits of her mother's family, for many past generations. some of those countenances denoted men of much strength of character, amounting almost to a fierceness, but in nearly every female face natalie discerned that same gentleness of spirit, which, unknown to herself, was the expression of her own spiritual countenance. beneath the portrait of the last mrs. alboni was a place reserved for that of her child,--the lady sunderland; but by some circumstance it had never been placed there. during the period of our heroine's stay in italy, she spent much of her time in the home of her ancestors, to which she became greatly attached; but once having been introduced to an admiring italian assembly, it was no easy matter to remain in seclusion. this new star, so mild, yet brilliant, was the theme of present conversation. she never appeared in public, but the blessings of high and low marked her way; and as she knelt in public worship, meekly bowing at the name of christ, there was not one who looked upon her, but this passage of scripture was brought to their minds,--"if the righteous scarcely are saved, where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear?" but all times come to an end; passing away, is written upon everything pertaining to earth; and the time when our friends should return to their island home, drew near. it was the day before they would bid adieu to pleasant scenes here, to journey to liverpool, for business led mr. alboni to sail for america from that port. the sun had gone down,--the last sunset which the sea-flower would look upon here,--the last sunset! pause, dear reader,--when will that same sun set to us for the last time? it may be soon, it may be later; yet it is the same, for all time is present with god. the evening shades began to claim their reign, regardless of the smiles and entreaties of lingering day, that he would delay his approach,--fit symbol of sunny youth, who would banish from his presence death's unrelenting grasp. and yet, who does not love night with earnest tenderness? and has no one a smile for death? natalie still lingered beneath the ivy trellis, her feet drawn upon the cushions, for she would not crush the gentle flowers, which told to her their love in the rich perfume of the air; and yet, if trodden under foot, the flowers, with their dying breath, the beauteous flowers, do, with their richest perfume, breathe forgiveness. her eye was fixed upon the lake,--its glassy ripples a striking contrast to the giant waves upon which she had ever looked with delight. ah, who may divine her thoughts, as she muses thus? a faint smile plays with the dimples around her mouth, and but for the words she whispers, one might indeed think her intent upon the ripples which kiss the shore at her feet; but no, she is transported to where the breaker's roar is heard, and a proud, noble form she sees,--his piercing eye bent upon the sea. full well she knows for whom his heart thus wildly beats; "dear, good clarence," she whispers, and starting from her revery, she kneels in prayer. "my father, god, thou art merciful unto the weakest of thy frail ones, keep thou my heart to thee alone; may i have no other gods before thee; cast out all idols, if any there be, and breathe thy spirit within my soul; and may thy will be done." "amen," was the response of bright ones, of upper spheres, and may we receive strength to say,--"thy will be done." "adieu, dear home of my childhood," spake mr. alboni, as the dim outlines of the land of his nativity at last faded in the distance; and burying his face in his hands, he gave himself up to his own reflections, from which natalie would not recall him. arrived in liverpool, the steamer in which they were to have embarked had sailed; consequently a few more days were added to their sojourn there; but when at length their proud steamer left her pier, accompanied by many heartfelt good wishes that she might be attended with all success, that her voyage might prove most favorable, the sea-flower wept tears of delight, that she might once more listen to those voices of the deep; and calmly gazing upon the countenance of mr. alboni, she said,-- "father, we are going home." her words fell upon the ear of an officer of the ship, a gentleman of that nobleness of soul which alone constitutes a true man; one whose kind and gentlemanly consideration of the comfort and pleasure of those who have, from time to time, crossed that three thousand miles of ocean which separates liverpool from new york, have before been publicly mentioned, and will long be remembered by those who have before come under his guidance. "we are going home,"--the officer raised his hat as he passed the sea-flower, involuntarily repeating her words,--words which many times have been idly spoken, but how full of meaning. as that gallant steamship made her way over the rolling billows, like "a thing of life," as if indeed she recognized the course o'er which she had so many times borne aloft her proud head, in seasons of tempest as well as of sunshine, there was not one who walked her decks, but looked upon her gigantic form as an ark of safety, rather than the frail plank which only separated not far from three hundred immortal beings from an ocean grave. several days' sail left "merrie england" far behind, and as they drew nearer the american shores, many an eye was deluded with the belief that it had been the successful one, in being the first to make the outline of the nearest shore of this land of the free. there was the eye of youth, lit up with the light of innocence, which when riper years should have left their impress, might have given place to more of guile; while hand in hand, along her peaceful decks, roamed old age and infancy, alike joyous in the air of cheerfulness which reigned with all around. it was near the hour of mid-day, weather favorable, with the exception of a fog which had suddenly sprung up. occasionally the signal bell sounded, that if any vessel were in their neighborhood, she might know of their whereabouts. the fog as suddenly lifted as it had shut in upon them, but to close down again heavier than before. natalie had not, as most of the ladies, gone below, but stood, intent upon those new thoughts which the veil of fog, which had shut out all sight and sound, save an occasional tone of the bell, had inspired, when,--a crash, which shook their vessel from stem to stern, caused every one to look upon the countenance of his fellow, there to read the words which he had no power to utter. a propeller was at that instant seen moving athwart their bows, and from the severity of the shock, it was thought that the smaller vessel must have sustained serious damage. accordingly a boat was lowered from the steamer, under command of the first officer, to render the unfortunates such assistance as was in their power, believing their own damages to be but slight; but the boat had not been long gone, when word was passed to their captain that they were in a sinking condition. upon examination it was found that a large breakage had been made, directly under their bows, and the sea was rushing in terrifically. all was now a scene of confusion; some applied themselves diligently to the pumps, and others sought to diminish the leak by stretching a sail across the gap, while the passengers hurried, some one way, and some another, as if in a state of frenzy. to seek assistance from the propeller, even if she might not be in as disastrous a condition as themselves, was out of the question; for both vessels being under full headway at the moment of the collision, she was now again enveloped in fog. oh, god! must it be thus? no escape for these three hundred beings? what an awful moment of suspense! still the steamer settles down; what is done must be done speedily. the captain is without his first officer, with whom he might consult, his absence necessarily detracting from the number of boats; but had the boats been suffered to remain unmolested, for the benefit of the passengers, it were doubtful if they could have contained so large a number. where now are those gladsome little children, those aged men and women, who, listening to those voices of childhood, would fain have believed themselves young again? ah! where are they? wringing their hands in wild despair! clambering over the sides of the ship, endeavoring to save themselves on rafts, spars, or articles affording inferior protection. the sea-flower,--where is she? where is her aged protector? upon the deck of that ill-fated steamer the sea-flower kneels, with eyes meekly turned heavenward. she asks that peace may be shed upon the hearts of that agonized throng; that they may fitly receive this will of divine dispensation. never was her countenance more serene. just then a voice was heard at her side,--"we are going home;" it was the voice of the noble officer, who had before noted her words. "i was happy," replied natalie, "when i said we are going home, but i did not realize we would so soon meet the loved ones in that celestial home, where we shall part no more forever; and i am happy now; yet this terrible cry of anguish incites my deep, deep sympathies." "thank god for this presence of an angel, to shed light over my last hour!" said the officer; "i now go down through that dark valley of death, unattended by that gloom which had seized upon my soul. my god, in mercy wilt thou sustain my wife and children, when they shall look for my coming, and i shall never return to them more! and may they soon meet me there." (he knew not that the youngling of his flock would so soon join him in singing the songs of the redeemed.) he said no more; they were going down; a life-preserver was in his hands, which he would have secured about the sea-flower, but she waved her hand to him, saying,--"take it to yourself. farewell." supported by her grand-parent's arm, she gazed upon the waters; they were not angry. peacefully sighing, they met her touch, as if they would welcome her home. "mother," she breathed, with her last of mortal breath;--was it a farewell to that loved one of earth, or did she joyfully greet her sainted mother, who awaited the coming of her child to her home in the skies, where "the lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes?" the blue waves rolled on, in their untiring way, and the sun went calmly down upon this day,--the twenty-seventh of september, eighteen hundred and fifty-four,--a day long to be remembered, both in the eastern and western world, for in it was the sundering of many mortal ties. many a family circle wept as they looked upon the familiar places, which would know their lost ones no more; but ah, chide me not, kind reader, in thus leading you adown to the coldness of death, in setting before you that which causes your tender heart to shudder. mourn not for these departed; for would we not wish to meet them there, when, ere long, this mortal shall have put on immortality? grieve not because that gentle one has passed away! say not that she met with an untimely end, when in her summer of life all was pleasantness before her. think of her not as one gone far away, never to be on earth more; cast her not from your heart, where, during her little day here, in innocence she entwined herself within its recesses. oh, no, for she is nearer to us now; she is not dead, but has passed from death to life; and may her memory remain with us, in freshness as the ivy green, which loves best the churchyard's place of holy quietude,--and by her influence may we in spirit come to be more christ-like. chapter xii. alone. "shall i not listen to the sea-shell's moaning, that strangely vibrates like the swelling sea, and fancy it an echoed storm, intoning a solemn dirge in memory of thee?" miss mary m. chase. a lone man walks the shores of nantucket; his noble form is slightly bent, and with the raven of his hair is blended the faintest tinge of gray, though he is evidently a man to whom the meridian of life is yet far in the distance; his fine countenance is sad, yet as he gazes far out o'er the sea, deep in his piercing eye is a subdued look of resignation, shedding light over his features, which a stranger might attribute to a mind of happiness; and yet that look of sadness is oftenest triumphant, leading those who meet him for the first time to ask from whence he came, for his countenance betrays that his has been not the common lot of man. ah, who is he,--on whom young men and maidens look with pitying eye? to whom the old man lifts his hat, and little children cease from their sports as he passes, and quietly slip the innocent daisy, or the sweet-scented arbutus into his hand, which they have culled from the wide commons, where, they have been told, the good sea-flower loved to stray. it is clarence delwood! his has been a bitter, bitter draught; yet its dregs have in a measure lost their power, for he has learned that 't is his father holds the cup. little, did he think, as they sat together there on that high bank, which overlooks the sea, upon that last evening spent with his cherished one in her island home, that it was to be the last forever! that her voice would no more be heard! in glad response to nature's shouts of joyousness. yet, as alone he sits beneath the silent night, there where she last told to him her love, he fancies that the stars in pity smile upon him, and as one more gentle than the rest, leaves its place in the heavens and slowly descends, drawing nearer and nearer, finally resting upon the bosom of ocean,--he listens, for the music of her harp strikes upon his soul, and in the crested billows which play at his feet, a shining form he sees, her robe all sparkling with the pearly drops of the sea. he would fain go to her, as she smiles upon him, as was ever her wont, but a voice he hears, saying, "not yet," and the bright one recedes from his view. reader, you may visit nantucket's sea-girt isle, you may walk those peaceful shores where she loved to roam; you may meet there that lone man on the shore; you will approach him with feelings of deep regard, not unlike reverence; but do not hesitate to inquire of him for the grave of the sea-flower. with eyes fixed upon the ocean's blue, pointing with his finger heavenward, he will direct you to a grassy mound, at whose head is a weeping willow, upon the broad trunk of which is wrought in letters of pearl,--"the sea-flower awaits for thee." with a tear you turn away, with the resolve in your heart that you will henceforth so live, as that when this mortal life is ended, you may "attain everlasting joy and felicity, through jesus christ, our lord." you will seek the fireside of the widow grosvenor, where from a mother's lips, you will be assured of the blessings which accompany a dutiful child. that fireside is not desolate, for the members of the household have been led to say,--"thy will, o lord, not mine, be done." mrs. grosvenor, though somewhat advanced in life, still retains that peculiar freshness of her earlier days; and as she proudly glances upon the young man by her side, calling him "my son," you can hardly recognize in his athletic form the little sailor-boy of other days; yet it is none other, although he has arrived to the dignity of captain, and as sampson prophesied, a smarter man never sailed the ocean. but who is this witching beauty at his side, who would fain impress you with a belief that that mischief which will not remain concealed for the briefest period, is not her entire composition? do you not mistrust? who other than miss winnie santon? she who having tired of the gallants of the wild west, or rather of their numbers, came to the wise conclusion that a city life was designed for such as she; she the coquettish heiress, who once stood very much in doubt as to the state of civilization among these "poor fishermen." yes, it is our winnie, and she is now the wife of capt. harry grosvenor. and is she happy in this her choice? ask her if she would exchange her brave husband for one of those superfine niceties, who suing for favor at her feet, had at the same time lined their vows of love and constancy with the yellow dust, which had they known the strong chest to have been at their backs, while in this humble posture, it were uncertain to which might have been made an apology,--the fair lady or her dowry. but what is the cause of that little commotion among sundry flowered blankets, juvenile counterpanes, etc., etc., which you have but this moment discovered in a neighboring niche? is it old nep who has ensconced himself in this dainty little nest? no, for you left him sleeping under the shade of the weeping willow. surely, those seven kits, with fourteen blue eyes, have not lived to this green old age! ah, the mystery is solved, by the presence of a tiny hand, which elevates itself above the little heap of whiteness, and a smiling baby face has contrived to work its way into the no less smiling sunlight, the which baby must not partake of too freely; consequently the owner of said property appears, to alleviate the difficulty, which is done by giving miss baby a toss into mid-air, and with a ringing laugh, not unlike those wild bursts of merriment which were wont to be heard reverberating through the halls of santon mansion. yes, it is winnie's child; and she tells you, while a more thoughtful look sits upon her countenance, that the name of the little one is "natalie;" although she adds, "as earnestly as i love my child, i know there can never be another like _her_"--and pointing to a portrait, draped in white, she presses her child more closely to her heart. you look long and earnestly upon that countenance of the madonna,--the one face representing mother and child. the portrait is the property of clarence delwood, he who is now known as 'the lone man of the shore;' and while you are yet gazing upon it, he enters, and pressing his lips to the canvas, he takes a bible from the case and reads. you accidentally observe the fly-leaf, upon which is written,--"to the sea-flower, from her mother, on her second birthday;" and as he reads a smile lights up his countenance, for it is there written,--"thou shalt labor unto the lord," and a more cheerful expression is his; for it is through his ready pen that the alms chest of the poor receives its liberal supplies. ere you depart, you inquire as to the fate of mr. sampson, learning that through his agency the widow grosvenor has come in possession of a handsome fortune,--the daughter's gift to her mother,--so that now she is enabled to make comfortable many a cheerless fireside, where poverty, through the loss of a husband and father, as he went down to do business on the great deep, had reigned. honest mr. sampson, after so many years spent upon the ocean, has concluded to live the remainder of his days on shore; and in the darkest night, when the hurricane roars, and the waves break high, the brilliant light entrusted to his care, may be seen for many miles around, by the voyager who may be sailing in the neighborhood of old nantucket. capt. harry grosvenor has also bade adieu to his much-loved home on the sea; for together with winnie's entreaties, and the goodly amount of wealth, which she declares as rightly belonging to her husband as to herself, he has been induced to give his little wife the promise that he will sail the seas no more. but there is one, who is no unimportant member of this happy family, for whom you have forgotten to inquire, so intent are you, as you pass out from them into the silent night, upon what you have seen and heard; but you are minded of this negligence by a voice near, and a negro, tottering from beneath the weight of years, whom you recognize at once as old vingo, stands before you. his mind is much impaired, for he has attained his second childhood; yet from his disconnected remarks, it is evident that he still retains a pleasant remembrance of the past. "old bingo neber want noting more," he replies to your question of what you can do for him; "nobody neber can do noting more for bingo; for missy sea-flower hab gib bingo, phillis, and gib him heaben, and what more does he want?" "and where is your mistress's home?" you ask. "dar," said the negro, pointing to the skies, "dar is heaben, dar am my missus's home; and dat is whar she tell me dat she wait for me if she go home first. if it hadn't been missy dat tole me, i couldn't beliebe dat such an ole brack fellow like me, go to dat white place; but i beliebes it now, for since missy gone home i's seen a new star up dar; and i knows it am her, for didn't she say she look down to me, jus' like ole massa grobener and dat poor brack injin look down upon her! yes, i know dat i shall meet her dar, and what am better, phillis am going dar too! only sometimes she get skeered like, when she remember what her ole cotton massa tell her; for he tells her dat de hounds go to dat bright place, afore good for notin' niggar like her get dar; and she's afeared dey remember dar ole habits and hunt her up, for she run away from her ole massa, and gets sabed in dese free states, whar de folks don't mistake poor niggar for someting else dan a man." "farewell, faithful vingo, and may the remainder of your days shed peace along your way. thy portion here has not indeed been to sit in 'kings' courts,' yet thou hast so used the one talent lent unto thee, that at the last, when every 'island shall have fled away, and the mountains shall not be found,' thou shalt have a place at the right hand of that glorious throne, whose king is our god; thou shalt hear those blessed words,--'well done, good and faithful servant,' and the morning star shalt be thine; and there thou shalt again find that pure gem, who, in her little day on earth, led thee to the bright river of life, where thou hast sought and found that 'pearl of great price.'" the blue waves have not yet tired of their unceasing sports; they still chase each other in mad glee from far over the sea, each striving to outdo his fellows, as they come tumbling in with deep-toned voices. the beaming beacon still keeps vigil over nantucket's peaceful slumberers, while her little ones, in their gladsome dreams of childhood, wander up and down those shores, intent upon their search for the most delicate sea-mosses, exclaiming with each new found treasure,--"see! i have found a _gem_ among the sea-weeds." gentle reader, you are weary, and i will here seek to bid you adieu, with many thanks for your kind attention; and great is my joy, if haply any have been impressed in spirit with that meek and holy submission which shall lead them to say,--"thy will, o lord, not mine, be done;" and when loved ones shall be borne away from us, may we take up our cross with renewed love for him who gave, and hath taken away,--and say, "blessed be the name of the lord," forever. jack's ward or the boy guardian by horatio alger, jr. [illustration: jack seized the old man, thrust him through the secret door and locked it.] biography and bibliography horatio alger, jr., an author who lived among and for boys and himself remained a boy in heart and association till death, was born at revere, mass., january , . he was the son of a clergyman; was graduated at harvard college in , and at its divinity school in ; and was pastor of the unitarian church at brewster, mass., in - . in the latter year he settled in new york and began drawing public attention to the condition and needs of street boys. he mingled with them, gained their confidence, showed a personal concern in their affairs, and stimulated them to honest and useful living. with his first story he won the hearts of all red-blooded boys everywhere, and of the seventy or more that followed over a million copies were sold during the author's lifetime. in his later life he was in appearance a short, stout, bald-headed man, with cordial manners and whimsical views of things that amused all who met him. he died at natick, mass., july , . mr. alger's stories are as popular now as when first published, because they treat of real live boys who were always up and about--just like the boys found everywhere to-day. they are pure in tone and inspiring in influence, and many reforms in the juvenile life of new york may be traced to them. among the best known are: _strong and steady; strive and succeed; try and trust; bound to rise; risen from the ranks; herbert carter's legacy; brave and bold; jack's ward; shifting for himself; wait and hope; paul the peddler; phil the fiddler; slow and sure; julius the street boy; tom the bootblack; struggling upward; facing the world; the cash boy; making his way; tony the tramp; joe's luck; do and dare; only an irish boy; sink or swim; a cousin's conspiracy; andy gordon; bob burton; harry vane; hector's inheritance; mark mason's triumph; sam's chance; the telegraph boy; the young adventurer; the young outlaw; the young salesman_, and _luke walton_. jack's ward chapter i jack harding gets a job "look here, boy, can you hold my horse a few minutes?" asked a gentleman, as he jumped from his carriage in one of the lower streets in new york. the boy addressed was apparently about twelve, with a bright face and laughing eyes, but dressed in clothes of coarse material. this was jack harding, who is to be our hero. "yes, sir," said jack, with alacrity, hastening to the horse's head; "i'll hold him as long as you like." "all right! i'm going in at no. ; i won't be long." "that's what i call good luck," said jack to himself. "no boy wants a job more than i do. father's out of work, rent's most due, and aunt rachel's worrying our lives out with predicting that we'll all be in the poorhouse inside of three months. it's enough to make a fellow feel blue, listenin' to her complainin' and groanin' all the time. wonder whether she was always so. mother says she was disappointed in love when she was young. i guess that's the reason." "have you set up a carriage, jack?" asked a boy acquaintance, coming up and recognizing jack. "yes," said jack, "but it ain't for long. i shall set down again pretty soon." "i thought your grandmother had left you a fortune, and you had set up a team." "no such good news. it belongs to a gentleman that's inside." "inside the carriage?" "no, in no. ." "how long's he going to stay?" "i don't know." "if it was half an hour, we might take a ride, and be back in time." jack shook his head. "that ain't my style," he said. "i'll stay here till he comes out." "well, i must be going along. are you coming to school to-morrow?" "yes, if i can't get anything to do." "are you trying for that?" "i'd like to get a place. father's out of work, and anything i can earn comes in handy." "my father's got plenty of money," said frank nelson, complacently. "there isn't any need of my working." "then your father's lucky." "and so am i." "i don't know about that. i'd just as lieve work as not." "well, i wouldn't. i'd rather be my own master, and have my time to myself. but i must be going home." "you're lazy, frank." "very likely. i've a right to be." frank nelson went off, and jack was left alone. half an hour passed, and still the gentleman, who had entered no. , didn't appear. the horse showed signs of impatience, shook his head, and eyed jack in an unfriendly manner. "he thinks it time to be going," thought jack. "so do i. i wonder what the man's up to. perhaps he's spending the day." fifteen minutes more passed, but then relief came. the owner of the carriage came out. "did you get tired of waiting for me?" he asked. "no," said jack, shrewdly. "i knew the longer the job, the bigger the pay." "i suppose that is a hint," said the gentleman, not offended. "perhaps so," said jack, and he smiled too. "tell me, now, what are you going to do with the money i give you--buy candy?" "no," answered jack, "i shall carry it home to my mother." "that's well. does your mother need the money?" "yes, sir. father's out of work, and we've got to live all the same." "what's your father's business?" "he's a cooper." "so he's out of work?" "yes, sir, and has been for six weeks. it's on account of the panic, i suppose." "very likely. he has plenty of company just now." it may be remarked that our story opens in the year , memorable for its panic, and the business depression which followed. nearly every branch of industry suffered, and thousands of men were thrown out of work, and utterly unable to find employment of any kind. among them was timothy harding, the father of our hero. he was a sober, steady man, and industrious; but his wages had never been large, and he had been unable to save up a reserve fund, on which to draw in time of need. he had an excellent wife, and but one child--our present hero; but there was another, and by no means unimportant member of the family. this was rachel harding, a spinster of melancholy temperament, who belonged to that unhappy class who are always prophesying evil, and expecting the worst. she had been "disappointed" in early life, and this had something to do with her gloomy views, but probably she was somewhat inclined by nature to despondency. the family lived in a humble tenement, which, however, was neatly kept, and would have been a cheerful home but for the gloomy presence of aunt rachel, who, since her brother had been thrown out of employment, was gloomier than ever. but all this while we have left jack and the stranger standing in the street. "you seem to be a good boy," said the latter, "and, under the circumstances, i will pay you more than i intended." he drew from his vest pocket a dollar bill, and handed it to jack. "what! is all this for me?" asked jack, joyfully. "yes, on the condition that you carry it home, and give it to your mother." "that i will, sir; she'll be glad enough to get it." "well, good-by, my boy. i hope your father'll find work soon." "he's a trump!" ejaculated jack. "wasn't it lucky i was here just as he wanted a boy to hold his horse. i wonder what aunt rachel will have to say to that? very likely she'll say the bill is bad." jack made the best of his way home. it was already late in the afternoon, and he knew he would be expected. it was with a lighter heart than usual that he bent his steps homeward, for he knew that the dollar would be heartily welcome. we will precede him, and give a brief description of his home. there were only five rooms, and these were furnished in the plainest manner. in the sitting room were his mother and aunt. mrs. harding was a motherly-looking woman, with a pleasant face, the prevailing expression of which was a serene cheerfulness, though of late it had been harder than usual to preserve this, in the straits to which the family had been reduced. she was setting the table for tea. aunt rachel sat in a rocking-chair at the window. she was engaged in knitting. her face was long and thin, and, as jack expressed it, she looked as if she hadn't a friend in the world. her voice harmonized with her mournful expression, and was equally doleful. "i wonder why jack don't come home?" said mrs. harding, looking at the clock. "he's generally here at this time." "perhaps somethin's happened," suggested her sister-in-law. "what do you mean, rachel?" "i was reading in the _sun_ this morning about a boy being run over out west somewhere." "you don't think jack has been run over!" "who knows?" said rachel, gloomily. "you know how careless boys are, and jack's very careless." "i don't see how you can look for such things, rachel." "accidents are always happening; you know that yourself, martha. i don't say jack's run over. perhaps he's been down to the wharves, and tumbled over into the water and got drowned." "i wish you wouldn't say such things, rachel. they make me feel uncomfortable." "we may as well be prepared for the worst," said rachel, severely. "not this time, rachel," said mrs. harding, brightly, "for that's jack's step outside. he isn't drowned or run over, thank god!" "i hear him," said rachel, dismally. "anybody might know by the noise who it is. he always comes stamping along as if he was paid for makin' a noise. anybody ought to have a cast-iron head that lives anywhere within his hearing." here jack entered, rather boisterously, it must be admitted, in his eagerness slamming the door behind him. chapter ii the events of an evening "i am glad you've come, jack," said his mother. "rachel was just predicting that you were run over or drowned." "i hope you're not very much disappointed to see me safe and well, aunt rachel," said jack, merrily. "i don't think i've been drowned." "there's things worse than drowning," replied rachel, severely. "such as what?" "a man that's born to be hanged is safe from drowning." "thank you for the compliment, aunt rachel, if you mean me. but, mother, i didn't tell you of my good luck. see this," and he displayed the dollar bill. "how did you get it?" asked his mother. "holding horses. here, take it, mother; i warrant you'll find a use for it." "it comes in good time," said mrs. harding. "we're out of flour, and i had no money to buy any. before you take off your boots, jack, i wish you'd run over to the grocery store, and buy half a dozen pounds. you may get a pound of sugar, and quarter of a pound of tea also." "you see the lord hasn't forgotten us," she remarked, as jack started on his errand. "what's a dollar?" said rachel, gloomily. "will it carry us through the winter?" "it will carry us through to-night, and perhaps timothy will have work to-morrow. hark, that's his step." at this moment the outer door opened, and timothy harding entered, not with the quick, elastic step of one who brings good tidings, but slowly and deliberately, with a quiet gravity of demeanor in which his wife could read only too well that he had failed in his efforts to procure work. reading all this in his manner, she had the delicacy to forbear intruding upon him questions to which she saw it would only give him pain to reply. not so aunt rachel. "i needn't ask," she began, "whether you've got work, timothy. i knew beforehand you wouldn't. there ain't no use in tryin'! the times is awful dull, and mark my words, they'll be wuss before they're better. we mayn't live to see 'em. i don't expect we shall. folks can't live without money; and if we can't get that, we shall have to starve." "not so bad as that, rachel," said the cooper, trying to look cheerful; "i don't talk about starving till the time comes. anyhow," glancing at the table, on which was spread a good plain meal, "we needn't talk about starving till to-morrow with that before us. where's jack?" "gone after some flour," replied his wife. "on credit?" asked the cooper. "no, he's got money enough to pay for a few pounds," said mrs. harding, smiling with an air of mystery. "where did it come from?" asked timothy, who was puzzled, as his wife anticipated. "i didn't know you had any money in the house." "no more we had; but he earned it himself, holding horses, this afternoon." "come, that's good," said the cooper, cheerfully. "we ain't so bad off as we might be, you see, rachel." "very likely the bill's bad," she said, with the air of one who rather hoped it was. "now, rachel, what's the use of anticipating evil?" said mrs. harding. "you see you're wrong, for here's jack with the flour." the family sat down to supper. "you haven't told us," said mrs. harding, seeing her husband's cheerfulness in a measure restored, "what mr. blodgett said about the chances for employment." "not much that was encouraging," answered timothy. "he isn't at all sure when it will be safe to commence work; perhaps not before spring." "didn't i tell you so?" commented rachel, with sepulchral sadness. even mrs. harding couldn't help looking sober. "i suppose, timothy, you haven't formed any plans," she said. "no, i haven't had time. i must try to get something else to do." "what, for instance?" "anything by which i can earn a little; i don't care if it's only sawing wood. we shall have to get along as economically as we can--cut our coat according to our cloth." "oh, you'll be able to earn something, and we can live very plain," said mrs. harding, affecting a cheerfulness she didn't feel. "pity you hadn't done it sooner," was the comforting suggestion of rachel. "mustn't cry over spilt milk," said the cooper, good-humoredly. "perhaps we might have lived a leetle more economically, but i don't think we've been extravagant." "besides, i can earn something, father," said jack, hopefully. "you know i did this afternoon." "so you can," said his mother, brightly. "there ain't horses to hold every day," said rachel, apparently fearing that the family might become too cheerful, when, like herself, it was their duty to be profoundly gloomy. "you're always tryin' to discourage people, aunt rachel," said jack, discontentedly. rachel took instant umbrage at these words. "i'm sure," said she, mournfully, "i don't want to make you unhappy. if you can find anything to be cheerful about when you're on the verge of starvation, i hope you'll enjoy yourselves, and not mind me. i'm a poor, dependent creetur, and i feel i'm a burden." "now, rachel, that's all foolishness," said timothy. "you don't feel anything of the kind." "perhaps others can tell how i feel better than i can myself," answered his sister, with the air of a martyr. "if it hadn't been for me, i know you'd have been able to lay up money, and have something to carry you through the winter. it's hard to be a burden on your relations, and bring a brother's family to this poverty." "don't talk of being a burden, rachel," said mrs. harding. "you've been a great help to me in many ways. that pair of stockings, now, you're knitting for jack--that's a help, for i couldn't have got time for them myself." "i don't expect," said aunt rachel, in the same sunny manner, "that i shall be able to do it long. from the pains i have in my hands sometimes, i expect i'm goin' to lose the use of 'em soon, and be as useless as old mrs. sprague, who for the last ten years of her life had to sit with her hands folded on her lap. but i wouldn't stay to be a burden--i'd go to the poorhouse first. but perhaps," with the look of a martyr, "they wouldn't want me there, because i'd be discouragin' 'em too much." poor jack, who had so unwittingly raised this storm, winced under the last words, which he knew were directed at him. "then why," asked he, half in extenuation, "why don't you try to look pleasant and cheerful? why won't you be jolly, as tom piper's aunt is?" "i dare say i ain't pleasant," said rachel, "as my own nephew twits me with it. there is some folks that can be cheerful when their house is a-burnin' down before their eyes, and i've heard of one young man that laughed at his aunt's funeral," directing a severe glance at jack; "but i'm not one of that kind. i think, with the scriptures, that there's a time to weep." "doesn't it say there's a time to laugh, too?" asked mrs. harding. "when i see anything to laugh about, i'm ready to laugh," said aunt rachel; "but human nater ain't to be forced. i can't see anything to laugh at now, and perhaps you won't by and by." it was evidently quite useless to persuade rachel to cheerfulness, and the subject dropped. the tea things were cleared away by mrs. harding, who then sat down to her sewing. aunt rachel continued to knit in grim silence, while jack seated himself on a three-legged stool near his aunt, and began to whittle out a boat, after a model lent him by tom piper, a young gentleman whose aunt has already been referred to. the cooper took out his spectacles, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, and as carefully adjusted them to his nose. he then took down from the mantelpiece one of the few books belonging to his library--"dr. kane's arctic explorations"--and began to read, for the tenth time, it might be, the record of these daring explorers. the plain little room presented a picture of graceful tranquillity, but it proved to be only the calm which preceded the storm. the storm in question, i regret to say, was brought about by the luckless jack. as has been said, he was engaged in constructing a boat, the particular operation he was now intent upon being the excavation, or hollowing out. now three-legged stools are not the most secure seats in the world. this, i think, no one will deny who has any practical acquaintance with them. jack was working quite vigorously, the block from which the boat was to be fashioned being held firmly between his knees. his knife having got wedged in the wood, he made an unusual effort to draw it out, in which he lost his balance, and disturbed the equilibrium of his stool, which, with its load, tumbled over backward. now, it very unfortunately happened that aunt rachel sat close behind, and the treacherous stool came down with considerable force upon her foot. a piercing shriek was heard, and aunt rachel, lifting her foot, clung to it convulsively, while an expression of pain disturbed her features. at the sound, the cooper hastily removed his spectacles, and, letting "dr. kane" fall to the floor, started up in great dismay. mrs. harding likewise dropped her sewing, and jumped to her feet in alarm. it did not take long to see how matters stood. "hurt ye much, rachel?" inquired timothy. "it's about killed me," groaned the afflicted maiden. "oh, i shall have to have my foot cut off, or be a cripple anyway." then, turning upon jack fiercely: "you careless, wicked, ungrateful boy, that i've been wearin' myself out knittin' for. i'm almost sure you did it a purpose. you won't be satisfied till you've got me out of the world, and then--then, perhaps"--here rachel began to whimper--"perhaps you'll get tom piper's aunt to knit your stockings." "i didn't mean to, aunt rachel," said jack, penitently, eying his aunt, who was rocking to and fro in her chair. "you know i didn't. besides, i hurt myself like thunder," rubbing himself vigorously. "served you right," said his aunt, still clasping her foot. "shan't i get something for you to put on it, rachel?" asked mrs. harding. but this rachel steadily refused, and, after a few more postures indicating a great amount of anguish, limped out of the room, and ascended the stairs to her own apartment. chapter iii jack's new plan aunt rachel was right in one thing, as jack realized. he could not find horses to hold every day, and even if he had succeeded in that, few would have paid him so munificently as the stranger of the day before. in fact, matters came to a crisis, and something must be sold to raise funds for immediate necessities. now, the only article of luxury--if it could be called so--in the possession of the family was a sofa, in very good preservation, indeed nearly new, for it had been bought only two years before when business was good. a neighbor was willing to pay fifteen dollars for this, and mrs. harding, with her husband's consent, agreed to part with it. "if ever we are able we will buy another," said timothy. "and, at any rate, we can do without it," said his wife. "rachel will miss it." "she said the other day that it was not comfortable, and ought never to have been bought; that it was a shameful waste of money." "in that case she won't be disturbed by our selling it." "no, i should think not; but it's hard to tell how rachel will take anything." this remark was amply verified. the sofa was removed while the spinster was out, and without any hint to her of what was going to happen. when she returned, she looked around for it with surprise. "where's the sofy?" she asked. "we've sold it to mrs. stoddard," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "sold it!" echoed rachel, dolefully. "yes; we felt that we didn't need it, and we did need money. she offered me fifteen dollars for it, and i accepted." rachel sat down in a rocking-chair, and began straightway to show signs of great depression of spirits. "life's full of disappointments!" she groaned. "our paths is continually beset by 'em. there's that sofa. it's so pleasant to have one in the house when a body's sick. but, there, it's gone, and if i happen to get down, as most likely i shall, for i've got a bad feeling in my stummick this very minute, i shall have to go upstairs, and most likely catch my death of cold, and that will be the end of me." "not so bad as that, i hope," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "you know when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa; you said it didn't lay comfortable. besides, i hope before you are sick we may be able to buy it back again." aunt rachel shook her head despondingly. "there ain't any use in hoping that," she said. "timothy's got so much behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; i know he won't!" "but, if he only manages to find steady work soon, he will." "no, he won't," said rachel, positively. "i'm sure he won't. there won't be any work before spring, and most likely not then." "you are too desponding, aunt rachel." "enough to make me so. if you had only taken my advice, we shouldn't have come to this." "i don't know what advice you refer to, rachel," said mrs. harding, patiently. "no, i don't expect you do. my words don't make no impression. you didn't pay no attention to what i said, that's the reason." "but if you'll repeat the advice, rachel, perhaps we can still profit by it," answered mrs. harding, with imperturbable good humor. "i told you you ought to be layin' up something agin' a rainy day. but that's always the way. folks think when times is good it's always a-goin' to be so, but i know better." "i don't see how we could have been much more economical," said mrs. harding, mildly. "there's a hundred ways. poor folks like us ought not to expect to have meat so often. it's frightful to think what the butcher's bill must have been for the last two months." inconsistent rachel! only the day before she had made herself very uncomfortable because there was no meat for dinner, and said she couldn't live without it. mrs. harding might have reminded her of this, but the good woman was too kind and forbearing to make the retort. she really pitied rachel for her unhappy habit of despondency. so she contented herself by saying that they must try to do better in future. "that's always the way," muttered rachel; "shut the stable door after the horse is stolen. folks never learn from experience till it's too late to be of any use. i don't see what the world was made for, for my part. everything goes topsy-turvy, and all sorts of ways except the right way. i sometimes think 'tain't much use livin'!" "oh, you'll feel better by and by, rachel." "no, i shan't; i feel my health's declinin' every day. i don't know how i can stand it when i have to go to the poorhouse." "we haven't gone there yet, rachel." "no, but it's comin' soon. we can't live on nothin'." "hark, there's jack coming," said his mother, hearing a quick step outside. "yes, he's whistlin' just as if nothin' was the matter. he don't care anything for the awful condition of the family." "you're wrong there, rachel; jack is trying every day to get something to do. he wants to do his part." rachel would have made a reply disparaging to jack, but she had no chance, for our hero broke in at this instant. "well, jack?" said his mother, inquiringly. "i've got a plan, mother," he said. "what's a boy's plan worth?" sniffed aunt rachel. "oh, don't be always hectorin' me, aunt rachel," said jack, impatiently. "hectorin'! is that the way my own nephew talks to me?" "well, it's so. you don't give a feller a chance. i'll tell you what i'm thinking of, mother. i've been talkin' with tom blake; he sells papers, and he tells me he makes sometimes a dollar a day. isn't that good?" "yes, that is very good wages for a boy." "i want to try it, too; but i've got to buy the papers first, you know, and i haven't got any money. so, if you'll lend me fifty cents, i'll try it this afternoon." "you think you can sell them, jack?" "i know i can. i'm as smart as tom blake, any day." "pride goes before a fall!" remarked rachel, by way of a damper. "disappointment is the common lot." "that's just the way all the time," said jack, provoked. "i've lived longer than you," began aunt rachel. "yes, a mighty lot longer," interrupted jack. "i don't deny that." "now you're sneerin' at me on account of my age, jack. martha, how can you allow such things?" "be respectful, jack." "then tell aunt rachel not to aggravate me so. will you let me have the fifty cents, mother?" "yes, jack. i think your plan is worth trying." she took out half a dollar from her pocketbook and handed it to jack. "all right, mother. i'll see what i can do with it." jack went out, and rachel looked more gloomy than ever. "you'll never see that money again, you may depend on't, martha," she said. "why not, rachel?" "because jack'll spend it for candy, or in some other foolish way." "you are unjust, rachel. jack is not that kind of boy." "i'd ought to know him. i've had chances enough." "you never knew him to do anything dishonest." "i suppose he's a model boy?" "no, he isn't. he's got faults enough, i admit; but he wouldn't spend for his own pleasure money given him for buying papers." "if he buys the papers, i don't believe he can sell them, so the money's wasted anyway," said rachel, trying another tack. "we will wait and see," said mrs. harding. she saw that rachel was in one of her unreasonable moods, and that it was of no use to continue the discussion. chapter iv mrs. harding takes a boarder jack started for the newspaper offices and bought a supply of papers. "i don't see why i can't sell papers as well as other boys," he said to himself. "i'm going to try, at any rate." he thought it prudent, however, not to buy too large stock at first. he might sell them all, but then again he might get "stuck" on a part, and this might take away all his profits. jack, however, was destined to find that in the newspaper business, as well as in others, there was no lack of competition. he took his place just below the astor house, and began to cry his papers. this aroused the ire of a rival newsboy a few feet away. "get away from here!" he exclaimed, scowling at jack. "what for?" said jack. "this is my stand." "keep it, then. this is mine," retorted jack, composedly. "i don't allow no other newsboys in this block," said the other. "don't you? you ain't the city government, are you?" "i don't want any of your impudence. clear out!" "clear out yourself!" "i'll give you a lickin'!" "perhaps you will when you're able." jack spoke manfully; but the fact was that the other boy probably was able, being three years older, and as many inches taller. jack kept on crying his papers, and his opponent, incensed at the contemptuous disregard of his threats, advanced toward him, and, taking jack unawares, pushed him off the sidewalk with such violence that he nearly fell flat. jack felt that the time for action had arrived. he dropped his papers temporarily on the sidewalk, and, lowering his head, butted against his young enemy with such force as to double him up, and seat him, gasping for breath, on the sidewalk. tom rafferty, for this was his name, looked up in astonishment at the unexpected form of the attack. "well done, my lad!" said a hearty voice. jack turned toward the speaker, and saw a stout man dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons. he was dark and bronzed with exposure to the weather, and there was something about him which plainly indicated the sailor. "well done, my lad!" he repeated. "you know how to pay off your debts." "i try to," said jack, modestly. "but where's my papers?" the papers, which he had dropped, had disappeared. one of the boys who had seen the fracas had seized the opportunity to make off with them, and poor jack was in the position of a merchant who had lost his stock in trade. "who took them papers?" he asked, looking about him. "i saw a boy run off with them," said a bystander. "i'm glad of it," said tom rafferty, sullenly. jack looked as if he was ready to pitch into him again, but the sailor interfered. "don't mind the papers, my lad. what were they worth?" "i gave twenty cents for 'em." "then here's thirty." "i don't think i ought to take it," said jack. "it's my loss." "take it, my boy. it won't ruin me. i've got plenty more behind." "thank you, sir; i'll go and buy some more papers." "not to-night. i want you to take a cruise with me." "all right, sir." "i suppose you'd like to know who i am?" said the sailor, as they moved off together. "i suppose you're a sailor." "you can tell that by the cut of my jib. yes, my lad, i'm captain of the _argo_, now in port. it's a good while since i've been in york. for ten years i've been plying between liverpool and calcutta. now i've got absence to come over here." "are you an american, sir?" "yes; i was raised in connecticut, but then i began going to sea when i was only thirteen. i only arrived to-day, and i find the city changed since ten years ago, when i used to know it." "where are you staying--at what hotel?" "i haven't gone to any yet; i used to stay with a cousin of mine, but he's moved. do you know any good boarding place, where they'd make me feel at home, and let me smoke a pipe after dinner?" an idea struck jack. they had an extra room at home, or could make one by his sleeping in the sitting room. why shouldn't they take the stranger to board? the money would certainly be acceptable. he determined to propose it. "if we lived in a nicer house," he said, "i'd ask you to board at my mother's." "would she take me, my lad?" "i think she would; but we are poor, and live in a small house." "that makes no odds. i ain't a bit particular, as long as i can feel at home. so heave ahead, my lad, and we'll go and see this mother of yours, and hear what she has to say about it." jack took the way home well pleased, and, opening the front door, entered the sitting room, followed by the sailor. aunt rachel looked up nervously, and exclaimed: "a man!" "yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "i'm a man, and no mistake. are you this lad's mother?" "no, sir!" answered rachel, emphatically. "i am nobody's mother." "oh, an old maid!" said the sailor, whose mode of life had made him unceremonious. "i am a spinster," said rachel, with dignity. "that's the same thing," said the visitor, sitting down opposite aunt rachel, who eyed him suspiciously. "my aunt, rachel harding, capt. bowling," introduced jack. "aunt rachel, capt. bowling is the commander of a vessel now in port." aunt rachel made a stiff courtesy, and capt. bowling eyed her curiously. "are you fond of knitting, ma'am?" he asked. "i am not fond of anything," said rachel, mournfully. "we should not set our affections upon earthly things." "you wouldn't say that if you had a beau, ma'am," said capt. bowling, facetiously. "a beau!" repeated rachel, horror-stricken. "yes, ma'am. i suppose you've had a beau some time or other." "i don't think it proper to talk on such a subject to a stranger," said aunt rachel, primly. "law, ma'am, you needn't be so particular." just at this moment, mrs. harding entered the room, and was introduced to capt. bowling by jack. the captain proceeded to business at once. "your son, here, ma'am, told me you might maybe swing a hammock for me somewhere in your house. i liked his looks, and here i am." "do you think you would be satisfied with our plain fare, and humble dwelling, capt. bowling?" "i ain't hard to suit, ma'am; so, if you can take me, i'll stay." his manner was frank, although rough; and mrs. harding cheerfully consented to do so. it was agreed that bowling should pay five dollars a week for the three or four weeks he expected to stay. "i'll be back in an hour," said the new boarder. "i've got a little business to attend to before supper." when he had gone out, aunt rachel began to cough ominously. evidently some remonstrance was coming. "martha," she said, solemnly, "i'm afraid you've done wrong in taking that sailor man." "why, rachel?" "he's a strange man." "i don't see anything strange about him," said jack. "he spoke to me about having a beau," said aunt rachel, in a shocked tone. jack burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "perhaps he's going to make you an offer, aunt rachel," he said. "he wants to see if there's anybody in the way." rachel did not appear so very indignant. "it was improper for a stranger to speak to me on that subject," she said, mildly. "you must make allowances for the bluntness of a sailor," said mrs. harding. for some reason rachel did not seem as low-spirited as usual that evening. capt. bowling entertained them with narratives of his personal adventures, and it was later than usual when the lamps were put out, and they were all in bed. chapter v the captain's departure "jack," said the captain, at breakfast, the next morning, "how would you like to go round with me to see my vessel?" "i'll go," said jack, promptly. "very likely he'll fall over into the water and be drowned," suggested aunt rachel, cheerfully. "i'll take care of that, ma'am," said capt. bowling. "won't you come yourself?" "i go to see a vessel!" repeated rachel. "yes; why not?" "i am afraid it wouldn't be proper to go with a stranger," said rachel, with a high sense of propriety. "i'll promise not to run away with you," said the captain, bluntly. "if i should attempt it, jack, here, would interfere." "no, i wouldn't," said jack. "it wouldn't be proper for me to interfere with aunt rachel's plans." "you seem to speak as if your aunt proposed to run away," said mr. harding, jocosely. "you shouldn't speak of such things, nephew; i am shocked," said rachel. "then you won't go, ma'am?" asked the captain. "if i thought it was consistent with propriety," said rachel, hesitating. "what do you think, martha?" "i think there is no objection," said mrs. harding, secretly amazed at rachel's entertaining the idea. the result was that miss rachel put on her things, and accompanied the captain. she was prevailed on to take the captain's arm at length, greatly to jack's amusement. he was still more amused when a boy picked up her handkerchief which she had accidentally dropped, and, restoring it to the captain, said, "here's your wife's handkerchief, gov'nor." "ho! ho!" laughed the captain. "he takes you for my wife, ma'am." "ho! ho!" echoed jack, equally amused. aunt rachel turned red with confusion. "i am afraid i ought not to have come," she murmured. "i feel ready to drop." "you'd better not drop just yet," said the captain--they were just crossing the street--"wait till it isn't so muddy." on the whole, aunt rachel decided not to drop. the _argo_ was a medium-sized vessel, and jack in particular was pleased with his visit. though not outwardly so demonstrative, aunt rachel also seemed to enjoy the expedition. the captain, though blunt, was attentive, and it was something new to her to have such an escort. it was observed that miss harding was much less gloomy than usual during the remainder of the day. it might be that the captain's cheerfulness was contagious. for a stranger, aunt rachel certainly conversed with him with a freedom remarkable for her. "i never saw rachel so cheerful," remarked mrs. harding to her husband that evening after they had retired. "she hasn't once spoken of life being a vale of tears to-day." "it's the captain," said her husband. "he has such spirits that it seems to enliven all of us." "i wish we could have him for a permanent boarder." "yes; the five dollars a week which he pays are a great help, especially now that i am out of work." "what is the prospect of getting work soon?" "i am hoping for it from day to day, but it may be weeks yet." "jack earned fifty cents to-day by selling papers." "his daily earnings are an important help. with what the captain pays us, it is enough to pay all our living expenses. but there's one thing that troubles me." "the rent?" "yes, it is due in three weeks, and as yet i haven't a dollar laid by to meet it. it makes me feel anxious." "don't lose your trust in providence, timothy. he may yet carry us over this difficulty." "so i hope, but i can't help feeling in what straits we shall be, if some help does not come." two weeks later, capt. bowling sailed for liverpool. "i hope we shall see you again sometime, captain," said mrs. harding. "whenever i come back to new york, i shall come here if you'll keep me," said the bluff sailor. "aunt rachel will miss you, captain," said jack, slyly. capt. bowling turned to the confused spinster. "i hope she will," said he, heartily. "perhaps when i see her again, she'll have a husband." "oh, capt. bowling, how can you say such things?" gasped rachel, who, as the time for the captain's departure approached, had been subsiding into her old melancholy. "there's other things to think of in this vale of tears." "are there? well, if they're gloomy, i don't want to think of 'em. jack, my lad, i wish you were going to sail with me." "so do i," said jack. "he's my only boy, captain," said mrs. harding. "i couldn't part with him." "i don't blame you, ma'am, not a particle; though there's the making of a sailor in jack." "if he went away, he'd never come back," said rachel, lugubriously. "i don't know about that, ma'am. i've been a sailor, man and boy, forty years, and here i am, well and hearty to-day." "the captain is about your age, isn't he, aunt rachel?" said jack, maliciously. "i'm only thirty-nine," said rachel, sharply. "then i must have been under a mistake all my life," said the cooper to himself. "rachel's forty-seven, if she's a day." this remark he prudently kept to himself, or a fit of hysterics would probably have been the result. "i wouldn't have taken you for a day over thirty-five, ma'am," said the captain, gallantly. rachel actually smiled, but mildly disclaimed the compliment. "if it hadn't been for my trials and troubles," she said, "i might have looked younger; but they are only to be expected. it's the common lot." "is it?" said the captain. "i can't say i've been troubled much that way. with a stout heart and a good conscience we ought to be jolly." "who of us has a good conscience?" asked rachel, in a melancholy tone. "i have, aunt rachel," answered jack. "you?" she exclaimed, indignantly. "you, that tied a tin kettle to a dog's tail yesterday, and chased the poor cat till she almost died of fright. i lie awake nights thinking of the bad end you're likely to come to unless you change your ways." jack shrugged his shoulders, but the captain came to his help. "boys will be boys, ma'am," he said. "i was up to no end of tricks myself when i was a boy." "you weren't so bad as jack, i know," said rachel. "thank you for standing up for me, ma'am; but i'm afraid i was. i don't think jack's so very bad, for my part." "i didn't play the tricks aunt rachel mentioned," said jack. "it was another boy in our block." "you're all alike," said rachel. "i don't know what you boys are all coming to." presently the captain announced that he must go. jack accompanied him as far as the pier, but the rest of the family remained behind. aunt rachel became gloomier than ever. "i don't know what you'll do, now you've lost your boarder," she said. "he will be a loss to us, it is true," said mrs. harding; but we are fortunate in having had him with us so long." "it's only puttin' off our misery a little longer," said rachel. "we've got to go to the poorhouse, after all." rachel was in one of her moods, and there was no use in arguing with her, as it would only have intensified her gloom. meanwhile jack was bidding good-by to the captain. "i'm sorry you can't go with me, jack," said the bluff sailor. "so am i; but i can't leave mother." "right, my lad; i wouldn't take you away from her. but there--take that, and don't forget me." "you are very kind," said jack, as the captain pressed into his hand a five-dollar gold piece. "may i give it to my mother?" "certainly, my lad; you can't do better." jack stood on the wharf till the vessel was drawn out into the stream by a steam tug. then he went home. chapter vi the landlord's visit it was the night before the new year. in many a household in the great city it was a night of happy anticipation. in the humble home of the hardings it was an evening of anxious thought, for to-morrow the quarter's rent was due. "i haven't got a dollar to meet the rent, martha," said the cooper, in a depressed tone. "won't mr. colman wait?" "i'm afraid not. you know what sort of a man he is, martha. there isn't much feeling about him. he cares more for money than anything else." "perhaps you are doing him an injustice." "i am afraid not. did you never hear how he treated the underhills?" "how?" "underhill was laid up with rheumatic fever for three months. the consequence was that when quarter day came round he was in about the same situation with ourselves--a little worse, even, for his wife was sick also. but, though colman was aware of the circumstances, he had no pity; he turned them out without ceremony." "is it possible?" asked mrs. harding, uneasily. "and there's no reason for his being more lenient with us. i can't but feel anxious about to-morrow, martha." at this moment, verifying an old adage, which will perhaps occur to the reader, who should knock but mr. colman himself. both the cooper and his wife had an instinctive foreboding as to his visit. he came in, rubbing his hands in a social way, as was his custom. no one, to look at him, would have suspected the hardness of heart that lay veiled under his velvety softness of manner. "good-evening, mr. harding," he said, affably. "i trust you and your excellent wife are in good health." "that blessing, at least, is continued to us," said the cooper, gravely. "and how comfortable you're looking, too, eh! it makes an old bachelor like me feel lonesome when he contrasts his own solitary room with such a scene of comfort as this. you've got a comfortable home, and dog cheap, too. all my other tenants are grumbling to think you don't have to pay any more for such superior accommodations. i've about made up my mind that i must ask you twenty-five dollars a quarter hereafter." all this was said very pleasantly, but the pill was none the less bitter. "it seems to me, mr. colman," answered the cooper, soberly, "you have chosen rather a singular time for raising the rent." "why singular, my good sir?" inquired the landlord, urbanely. "you know, of course, that this is a time of general business depression; my own trade in particular has suffered greatly. for a month past i have not been able to find any work." colman's face lost something of its graciousness. "and i fear i shall not be able to pay my quarter's rent to-morrow." "indeed!" said the landlord, coldly. "perhaps you can make it up within two or three dollars." "i can't pay a dollar toward it," said the cooper. "it's the first time, in the five years i've lived here, that this thing has happened to me. i've always been prompt before." "you should have economized as you found times growing harder," said colman, harshly. "it is hardly honest to live in a house when you know you can't pay the rent." "you shan't lose it, mr. colman," said the cooper, earnestly. "no one ever yet lost anything by me, and i don't mean anyone shall, if i can help it. only give me a little time, and i will pay all." the landlord shook his head. "you ought to have cut your coat according to your cloth," he responded. "much as it will go against my feelings i am compelled, by a prudent regard to my own interests, to warn you that, in case your rent is not ready to-morrow, i shall be obliged to trouble you to find another tenement; and furthermore, the rent of this will be raised five dollars a quarter." "i can't pay it, mr. colman," said timothy harding, gravely. "i may as well say that now; and it's no use agreeing to pay more rent. i pay all i can afford now." "very well, you know the alternative. of course, if you can do better elsewhere, you will. that's understood. but it's a disagreeable subject. we won't talk of it any more now. i shall be round to-morrow forenoon. how's your excellent sister--as cheerful as ever?" "quite as much so as usual," answered the cooper, dryly. "there's one favor i should like to ask," he said, after a pause. "will you allow us to remain here a few days till i can look about a little?" "i would with the greatest pleasure in the world," was the reply; "but there's another family very anxious to take the house, and they wish to come in immediately. therefore i shall be obliged to ask you to move out to-morrow. in fact, that is the very thing i came here this evening to speak about, as i thought you might not wish to pay the increased rent." "we are much obliged to you," said the cooper, with a tinge of bitterness unusual to him. "if we are to be turned into the street, it is pleasant to have a few hours' notice of it." "turned out of doors, my good sir! what disagreeable expressions you employ! if you reflect for a moment, you will see that it is merely a matter of business. i have an article to dispose of. there are two bidders, yourself and another person. the latter is willing to pay a larger sum. of course i give him the preference, as you would do under similar circumstances. don't you see how it is?" "i believe i do," replied the cooper. "of course it's a regular proceeding; but you must excuse me if i think of it in another light, when i reflect that to-morrow at this time my family may be without a shelter." "my dear sir, positively you are looking on the dark side of things. it is actually sinful for you to distrust providence as you seem to do. you're a little disappointed, that's all. just take to-night to sleep on it, and i've no doubt you'll see things in quite a different light. but positively"--here he rose, and began to draw on his gloves--"positively i have stayed longer than i intended. good-night, my friends. i'll look in upon you in the morning. and, by the way, as it's so near, permit me to wish you a happy new year." the door closed upon the landlord, leaving behind two anxious hearts. "it looks well in him to wish that," said the cooper, gloomily. "a great deal he is doing to make it so. i don't know how it seems to others; for my part, i never say them words to anyone, unless i really wish 'em well, and am willing to do something to make 'em so. i should feel as if i was a hypocrite if i acted anyways different." martha was not one who was readily inclined to think evil of anyone, but in her own gentle heart she could not help feeling a repugnance for the man who had just left them. jack was not so reticent. "i hate that man," he said, decidedly. "you should not hate anyone, my son," said mrs. harding. "i can't help it, mother. ain't he goin' to turn us out of the house to-morrow?" "if we cannot pay our rent, he is justified in doing so." "then why need he pretend to be so friendly? he don't care anything for us." "it is right to be polite, jack." "i s'pose if you're goin' to kick a man, it should be done politely," said jack, indignantly. "if possible," said the cooper, laughing. "is there any tenement vacant in this neighborhood?" asked mrs. harding. "yes, there is one in the next block belonging to mr. harrison." "it is a better one than this." "yes; but harrison only asks the same rent that we have been paying. he is not so exorbitant as colman." "couldn't we get that?" "i am afraid if he knows that we have failed to pay our rent here, that he will object." "but he knows you are honest, and that nothing but the hard times would have brought you to this pass." "it may be, martha. at any rate, you have lightened my heart a little. i feel as if there was some hope left, after all." "we ought always to feel so, timothy. there was one thing that mr. colman said that didn't sound so well, coming from his lips; but it's true for all that." "what do you refer to?" "i mean that about not distrusting providence. many a time have i been comforted by reading the verse: 'never have i seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' as long as we try to do what is right, timothy, god will not suffer us to want." "you are right, martha. he is our ever-present help in time of trouble. when i think of that, i feel easier." they retired to rest thoughtfully but not sadly. the fire upon the hearth flickered and died out at length. the last sands of the old year were running out, and the new morning ushered in its successor. chapter vii the new year's gift "happy new year!" was jack's salutation to aunt rachel, as with an unhappy expression of countenance she entered the sitting room. "happy, indeed!" she repeated, dismally. "there's great chance of its being so, i should think. we don't any of us know what the year may bring forth. we may all be dead and buried before the next new year." "if that's the case," said jack, "let us be jolly as long as life lasts." "i don't know what you mean by such a vulgar word," said aunt rachel, disdainfully. "i've heard of drunkards and such kind of people being jolly; but, thank providence, i haven't got to that yet." "if that was the only way to be jolly," said jack, stoutly, "then i'd be a drunkard; i wouldn't carry round such a long face as you do, aunt rachel, for any money." "it's enough to make all of us have long faces," said his aunt, sourly, "when you are brazen enough to own that you mean to be a miserable drunkard." "i didn't say any such thing," said jack, indignantly. "perhaps i have ears," remarked aunt rachel, sententiously, "and perhaps i have not. it's a new thing for a nephew to tell his aunt that she lies. they didn't use to allow such things when i was young. but the world's going to rack and ruin, and i shouldn't wonder if the people was right that say it's coming to an end." here mrs. harding happily interposed, by asking jack to go round to the grocery in the next street, and buy a pint of milk for breakfast. jack took his hat and started with alacrity, glad to leave the dismal presence of aunt rachel. he had scarcely opened the door when he started back in surprise, exclaiming: "by hokey, if there isn't a basket on the steps!" "a basket!" repeated his mother, in surprise. "can it be a new year's present? bring it in, jack." it was brought in immediately, and the cover being lifted, there appeared a female child, apparently a year old. all uttered exclamations of surprise, each in itself characteristic. "what a dear, innocent little thing!" said mrs. harding, with true maternal instinct. "ain't it a pretty un?" exclaimed jack, admiringly. "it looks as if it was goin' to have the measles," said aunt rachel, "or scarlet fever. you'd better not take it in, martha, or we may all catch it." "you wouldn't leave it out in the cold, would you, rachel? the poor thing might die of exposure." "probably it will die," said rachel, mournfully. "it's very hard to raise children. there's something unhealthy in its looks." "it don't seem to me so. it looks plump and healthy." "you can't never judge by appearances. you ought to know that, martha." "i will take the risk, rachel." "i don't see what you are going to do with a baby, when we are all on the verge of starvation, and going to be turned into the street this very day," remarked rachel, despondently. "we won't think of that just now. common humanity requires us to see what we can do for the poor child." so saying, mrs. harding took the infant in her arms. the child opened its eyes, and smiled. "my! here's a letter," said jack, diving into the bottom of the basket. "it's directed to you, father." the cooper opened the letter, and read as follows: "for reasons which it is unnecessary to state, the guardians of this child find it expedient to intrust it to others to bring up. the good account which they have heard of you has led them to select you for that charge. no further explanation is necessary, except that it is by no means their intention to make this a service of charity. they, therefore, inclose a certificate of deposit on the broadway bank of five hundred dollars, the same having been paid in to your credit. each year, while the child remains in your charge, the same will in like manner be placed to your credit at the same bank. it may be as well to state, further, that all attempt to fathom whatever of mystery may attach to this affair will prove useless." the letter was read in amazement. the certificate of deposit, which had fallen to the floor, was picked up by jack, and handed to his father. amazement was followed by a feeling of gratitude and relief. "what could be more fortunate?" exclaimed mrs. harding. "surely, timothy, our faith has been rewarded." "god has listened to our cry!" said the cooper, devoutly, "and in the hour of our sorest need he has remembered us." "isn't it prime?" said jack, gleefully; "five hundred dollars! ain't we rich, aunt rachel?" "like as not," observed rachel, "the certificate isn't genuine. it doesn't look natural it should be. i've heard of counterfeits afore now. i shouldn't be surprised at all if timothy got took up for presenting it." "i'll take the risk," said her brother, who did not seem much alarmed at the suggestion. "now you'll be able to pay the rent, timothy," said mrs. harding, cheerfully. "yes, and it's the last quarter's rent i mean to pay mr. colman, if i can help it." "why, where are you going?" asked jack. "to the house belonging to mr. harrison that i spoke of last night, that is, if it isn't already engaged. i think i will see about it at once. if mr. colman should come in while i am gone, tell him i will be back directly; i don't want you to tell him of the change in our circumstances." the cooper found mr. harrison at home. "i called to inquire," asked mr. harding, "whether you have let your house?" "not as yet," was the reply. "what rent do you ask?" "twenty dollars a quarter. i don't think that unreasonable." "it is satisfactory to me," was the cooper's reply, "and if you have no objections to me as a tenant, i will engage it at once." "far from having any objections, mr. harding," was the courteous reply, "i shall be glad to secure so good a tenant. will you go over and look at the house?" "not now, sir; i am somewhat in haste. can we move in to-day?" "certainly." his errand satisfactorily accomplished, the cooper returned home. meanwhile the landlord had called. he was a little surprised to find that mrs. harding, instead of looking depressed, looked cheerful rather than otherwise. "i was not aware you had a child so young," he remarked, looking at the baby. "it is not mine," said mrs. harding, briefly. "the child of a neighbor, i suppose," thought the landlord. meanwhile he scrutinized closely, without appearing to do so, the furniture in the room. at this point mr. harding entered the house. "good-morning," said colman, affably. "a fine morning, mr. harding." "quite so," responded his tenant, shortly. "i have called, mr. harding, to ask if you are ready with your quarter's rent." "i think i told you last evening how i was situated. of course i am sorry." "so am i," interrupted the landlord, "for i may be obliged to have recourse to unpleasant measures." "you mean that we must leave the house." "of course you cannot expect to remain in it, if you are unable to pay the rent. i suppose," he added, making an inventory of the furniture with his eyes, "you will leave behind a sufficient amount of furniture to cover your debt." "surely you would not deprive us of our furniture!" "is there any injustice in requiring payment of honest debts?" "there are cases of that description. however, i will not put you to the trouble of levying on my furniture. i am ready to pay your dues." "have you the money?" asked colman, in surprise. "i have, and something over. can you cash my check for five hundred dollars?" it would be difficult to picture the amazement of the landlord. "surely you told me a different story last evening," he said. "last evening and this morning are different times. then i could not pay you. now, luckily, i am able. if you will accompany me to the bank, i will draw some money and pay your bill." "my dear sir, i am not at all in haste for the money," said the landlord, with a return of his affability. "any time within a week will do. i hope, by the way, you will continue to occupy this house." "i don't feel like paying twenty-five dollars a quarter." "you shall have it for the same rent you have been paying." "but you said there was another family who had offered you an advanced rent. i shouldn't like to interfere with them. besides, i have already hired a house of mr. harrison in the next block." mr. colman was silenced. he regretted too late the hasty course which had lost him a good tenant. the family referred to had no existence; and, it may be remarked, the house remained vacant for several months, when he was glad to rent it at the old price. chapter viii a lucky rescue the opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of comparative prosperity in the home of timothy harding. to persons accustomed to live in their frugal way, five hundred dollars seemed a fortune. nor, as might have happened in some cases, did this unexpected windfall tempt the cooper or his wife to enter upon a more extravagant mode of living. "let us save something against a rainy day," said mrs. harding. "we can if i get work soon," answered her husband. "this little one will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we shouldn't save up at least half of it." "so i think, timothy. the child's food will not amount to a dollar a week." "there's no tellin' when you will get work, timothy," said rachel, in her usual cheerful way. "it isn't well to crow before you are out of the woods." "very true, rachel. it isn't your failing to look too much at the sunny side of the picture." "i'm ready to look at it when i can see it anywhere," answered his sister, in the same enlivening way. "don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with this child?" asked timothy. "i've no doubt you think it very fortunate now," said rachel, gloomily; "but a young child's a great deal of trouble." "do you speak from experience, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "yes," said his aunt, slowly. "if all babies were as cross and ill-behaved as you were when you were an infant, five hundred dollars wouldn't begin to pay for the trouble of having them around." mr. harding and his wife laughed at the manner in which the tables had been turned upon jack, but the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer: "i've always heard, aunt rachel, that the crosser a child is, the pleasanter he will grow up. what a very pleasant baby you must have been!" "jack!" said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked upon it as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly: "he's got you there, rachel." but rachel took it as a serious matter, and observed that, when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their elders. "but i don't know as i can blame 'em much," she continued, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, "when their own parents encourage 'em in it." timothy was warned, by experience of rachel's temper, that silence was his most prudent course. anything that he might say would only be likely to make matters worse than before. aunt rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say another word till dinner time. she sat down to the table with a profound sigh, as if there was little in life worth living for. notwithstanding this, it was observed that she had a good appetite. indeed, miss harding appeared to thrive on her gloomy views of life and human nature. she was, it must be acknowledged, perfectly consistent in all her conduct, so far as this peculiarity was concerned. whenever she took up a newspaper, she always looked first to the space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to the column of accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list. the cooper continued to look out for work; but it was with a more cheerful spirit. he did not now feel as if the comfort of his family depended absolutely on his immediate success. used economically, the money he had by him would last eight months; and during that time it was hardly possible that he should not find something to do. it was this sense of security, of having something to fall back upon, that enabled him to keep up good heart. it is too generally the case that people are content to live as if they were sure of constantly retaining their health, and never losing their employment. when a reverse does come, they are at once plunged into discouragement, and feel the necessity of doing something immediately. there is only one way of fending off such an embarrassment; and that is, to resolve, whatever may be the amount of one's income, to lay aside some part to serve as a reliance in time of trouble. a little economy--though it involves self-denial--will be well repaid by the feeling of security it engenders. mr. harding was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared. not that his line of business revived--that still remained depressed for a considerable time--but another path was opened to him. returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from a doorway, and attack a gentleman, whose dress and general appearance indicated probable wealth. seizing him by the throat, the villain effectually prevented his calling for help, and at once commenced rifling his pockets, when the cooper arrived on the scene. a sudden blow admonished the robber that he had more than one to deal with. "what are you doing? let that gentleman be!" the villain hesitated but a moment, then springing to his feet, he hastily made off, under cover of the darkness. "i hope you have received no injury, sir," said mr. harding, respectfully, addressing the stranger he had rescued. "no, my worthy friend; thanks to your timely assistance. the rascal nearly succeeded, however." "i hope you have lost nothing, sir." "nothing, fortunately. you can form an idea of the value of your interference, when i say that i have fifteen hundred dollars with me, all of which would doubtless have been taken." "i am glad," said timothy, "that i was able to do you such a service. it was by the merest chance that i came this way." "will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty club of yours? i have some distance yet to go, and the money i have with me i don't want to lose." "willingly," said the cooper. "but i am forgetting," continued the gentleman, "that you will yourself be obliged to return alone." "i do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack," said mr. harding, laughing. "money brings care, i have always heard, and the want of it sometimes freedom from anxiety." "yet most people are willing to take their share of that." "you are right, sir, nor i can't call myself an exception. still i would be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment." "i hope you have that, at least." "i have had until three or four months since." "then, at present, you are unemployed?" "yes, sir." "what is your business?" "i am a cooper." "i will see what i can do for you. will you call at my office to-morrow, say at twelve o'clock?" "i shall be glad to do so, sir." "i believe i have a card with me. yes, here is one. and this is my house. thank you for your company. let me see you to-morrow." they stood before a handsome dwelling house, from whose windows, draped by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. the cooper could hear the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their father, whose life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he felt grateful to providence for making him the instrument of frustrating the designs of the villain who would have robbed the merchant, and perhaps done him further injury. timothy determined to say nothing to his wife about the night's adventure, until after his appointed meeting for the next day. then, if any advantage accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole story. when he reached home, mrs. harding was sewing beside the fire. aunt rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of martyr-like resignation to the woes of life. "i've brought you home a paper, rachel," said her brother, cheerfully. "you may find something interesting in it." "i shan't be able to read it this evening," said rachel, mournfully. "my eyes have troubled me lately. i feel that it is more than probable i am getting blind; but i trust i shall not live to be a burden to you, timothy. your prospects are dark enough without that." "don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, rachel," said the cooper, cheerily. "i think i know what will enable you to use your eyes as well as ever." "what?" asked rachel, with melancholy curiosity. "a pair of spectacles." "spectacles!" retorted rachel, indignantly. "it will be a good many years before i am old enough to wear spectacles. i didn't expect to be insulted by my own brother. but i ought not to be surprised. it's one of my trials." "i didn't mean to hurt your feelings, rachel," said the cooper, perplexed. "good-night!" said rachel, rising and taking a lamp from the table. "come, rachel, don't go up to bed yet; it's only nine o'clock." "after what you have said to me, timothy, my self-respect will not allow me to stay." rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary melancholy. "i wish rachel wasn't quite so contrary," said the cooper to his wife. "she turns upon a body so sudden it's hard to know how to take her. how's the little girl, martha?" "she's been asleep ever since six o'clock." "i hope you don't find her very much trouble? that all comes on you, while we have the benefit of the money." "i don't think of that, timothy. she is a sweet child, and i love her almost as much as if she were my own. as for jack, he perfectly idolizes her." "and how does rachel look upon her?" "i am afraid she will never be a favorite with rachel." "rachel never took to children much. it isn't her way. now, martha, while you are sewing, i will read you the news." chapter ix what the envelope contained the card which had been handed to the cooper contained the name of thomas merriam, no. ---- pearl street. punctually at twelve, he presented himself at the countingroom, and received a cordial welcome from the merchant. "i am glad to see you," he said, affably. "you rendered me an important service last evening, even if the loss of money alone was to be apprehended. i will come to business at once, as i am particularly engaged this morning, and ask you if there is any way in which i can serve you?" "if you could procure me a situation, sir, you would do me a great service." "i think you told me you were a cooper?" "yes, sir." "does this yield you a good support?" "in good times it pays me two dollars a day, and on that i can support my family comfortably. lately it has been depressed, and paid me but a dollar and a half." "when do you anticipate its revival?" "that is uncertain. i may have to wait some months." "and, in the meantime, you are willing to undertake some other employment?" "i am not only willing, but shall feel very fortunate to obtain work of any kind. i have no objection to any honest employment." mr. merriam reflected a moment. "just at present," he said, "i have nothing better to offer you than the position of porter. if that will suit you, you can enter upon its duties to-morrow." "i shall be very glad to undertake it, sir. anything is better than idleness." "as to the compensation, that shall be the same that you have been accustomed to earn by your trade--two dollars a day." "i only received that in the best times," said timothy, conscientiously. "your services as porter will be worth that amount, and i will cheerfully pay it. i will expect you to-morrow morning at eight, if you can be here at that time." "i will be here promptly." "you are married, i suppose?" said the merchant, inquiringly. "yes, sir; i am blessed with a good wife." "i am glad of that. stay a moment." mr. merriam went to his desk, and presently came back with a sealed envelope. "give that to your wife," he said. "thank you, sir." here the interview terminated, and the cooper went home quite elated by his success. his present engagement would enable him to bridge over the dull time, until his trade revived, and save him from incurring debts, of which he had a just horror. "you are just in time, timothy," said mrs. harding, cheerfully, as he entered. "we've got an apple pudding to-day." "i see you haven't forgotten what i like, martha." "there's no knowing how long you'll be able to afford puddings," said rachel, dolefully. "to my mind it's extravagant to have meat and pudding both, when a month hence you may be in the poorhouse." "then," said jack, "i wouldn't eat any if i were you, aunt rachel." "oh, if you grudge me the little i eat," said his aunt, in serene sorrow, "i will go without." "tut, rachel! nobody grudges you anything here," said her brother; "and as to the poorhouse, i've got some good news to tell you that will put that thought out of your head." "what is it?" asked mrs. harding, looking up brightly. "i have found employment." "not at your trade?" "no; but at something else which will pay equally well till trade revives." here he told the chance by which he was enabled to serve mr. merriam the evening previous, and then he gave an account of his visit to the merchant's countingroom, and the engagement which he had made. "you are indeed fortunate, timothy," said his wife, her face beaming with pleasure. "two dollars a day, and we've got nearly the whole of the money left that came with this dear child. why, we shall be getting rich soon!" "well, rachel, have you no congratulations to offer?" asked the cooper of his sister, who, in subdued sorrow, was eating as if it gave her no pleasure, but was rather a self-imposed penance. "i don't see anything so very fortunate in being engaged as a porter," said rachel, lugubriously. "i heard of a porter once who had a great box fall upon him and kill him instantly; and i was reading in the _sun_ yesterday of another out west somewhere who committed suicide." the cooper laughed. "so, rachel, you conclude that one or the other of these calamities is the inevitable lot of all who are engaged in this business?" "you may laugh now, but it is always well to be prepared for the worst," said rachel, oracularly. "but it isn't well to be always looking for it, rachel." "it'll come whether you look for it or not," retorted his sister, sententiously. "then suppose we waste no time thinking about it, since, according to your admission, it's sure to come either way." rachel did not deign a reply, but continued to eat in serene melancholy. "won't you have another piece of pudding, timothy?" asked his wife. "i don't care if i do, martha, it's so good," said the cooper, passing his plate. "seems to me it's the best pudding you ever made." "you've got a good appetite, that is all," said mrs. harding, modestly disclaiming the compliment. "apple puddings are unhealthy," observed rachel. "then what makes you eat them?" asked jack. "a body must eat something. besides, life is so full of sorrow, it makes little difference if it's longer or shorter." "won't you have another piece, rachel?" aunt rachel passed her plate, and received a second portion. jack winked slyly, but fortunately his aunt did not observe it. when dinner was over, the cooper thought of the sealed envelope which had been given him for his wife. "martha," he said, "i nearly forgot that i have something for you." "for me?" "yes, from mr. merriam." "but he don't know me," said mrs. harding, in surprise. "at any rate, he first asked me if i was married, and then handed me this envelope, which he asked me to give to you. i am not quite sure whether i ought to allow strange gentlemen to write letters to my wife." mrs. harding opened the envelope with considerable curiosity, and uttered an exclamation of surprise as a bank note fell out, and fluttered to the carpet. "by gracious, mother!" said jack, springing to get it, "you're in luck. it's a hundred-dollar bill." "so it is, i declare," said his mother, joyfully. "but, timothy, it isn't mine. it belongs to you." "no, martha, i have nothing to do with it. it belongs to you. you need some clothes, i am sure. use part of it, and i will put the rest in the savings bank for you." "i never expected to have money to invest," said mrs. harding. "i begin to feel like a capitalist. when you want to borrow money, timothy, you'll know where to come." "merriam's a trump and no mistake," said jack. "by the way, when you see him again, father, just mention that you've got a son. ain't we in luck, aunt rachel?" "boast not overmuch," said his aunt. "pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." "i never knew aunt rachel to be jolly but once," said jack under his breath; "and that was at a funeral." chapter x jack's mischief one of the first results of the new prosperity which had dawned upon the hardings, was jack's removal from the street to the school. while his father was out of employment, his earnings seemed necessary; but now they could be dispensed with. to jack, the change was not altogether agreeable. few boys of the immature age of eleven are devoted to study, and jack was not one of these few. the freedom which he had enjoyed suited him, and he tried to impress it upon his father that there was no immediate need of his returning to school. "do you want to grow up a dunce, jack?" said his father. "i can read and write already," said jack. "are you willing to enter upon life with that scanty supply of knowledge?" "oh, i guess i can get along as well as the average." "i don't know about that. besides, i want you to do better than the average. i am ambitious for you, if you are not ambitious for yourself." "i don't see what good it does a feller to study so hard," muttered jack. "you won't study hard enough to do you any harm," said aunt rachel, who might be excused for a little sarcasm at the expense of her mischievous nephew. "it makes my head ache to study," said jack. "perhaps your head is weak, jack," suggested his father, slyly. "more than likely," said rachel, approvingly. so it was decided that jack should go to school. "i'll get even with aunt rachel," thought he. "she's always talking against me, and hectorin' me. see if i don't." an opportunity for getting even with his aunt did not immediately occur. at length a plan suggested itself to our hero. he shrewdly suspected that his aunt's single blessedness, and her occasional denunciations of the married state, proceeded from disappointment. "i'll bet she'd get married if she had a chance," he thought. "i mean to try her, anyway." accordingly, with considerable effort, aided by a school-fellow, he concocted the following letter, which was duly copied and forwarded to his aunt's address: "dear girl: excuse the liberty i have taken in writing to you; but i have seen you often, though you don't know me; and you are the only girl i want to marry. i am not young--i am about your age, thirty-five--and i have a good trade. i have always wanted to be married, but you are the only one i know of to suit me. if you think you can love me, will you meet me in washington park, next tuesday, at four o'clock? wear a blue ribbon round your neck, if you want to encourage me. i will have a red rose pinned to my coat. "don't say anything to your brother's family about this. they may not like me, and they may try to keep us apart. now be sure and come. daniel." this letter reached miss rachel just before jack went to school one morning. she read it through, first in surprise, then with an appearance of pleasure. "who's your letter from, aunt rachel?" asked jack, innocently. "children shouldn't ask questions about what don't concern 'em," said his aunt. "i thought maybe it was a love letter," said he. "don't make fun of your aunt," said his father, reprovingly. "jack's question is only a natural one," said rachel, to her brother's unbounded astonishment. "i suppose i ain't so old but i might be married if i wanted to." "i thought you had put all such thoughts out of your head long ago, rachel." "if i have, it's because the race of men are so shiftless," said his sister. "they ain't worth marrying." "is that meant for me?" asked the cooper, good-naturedly. "you're all alike," said rachel, tossing her head. she put the letter carefully into her pocket, without deigning any explanation. "i suppose it's from some of her old acquaintances," thought her brother, and he dismissed the subject. as soon as she could, rachel took refuge in her room. she carefully locked the door, and read the letter again. "who can he be?" thought the agitated spinster. "do i know anybody of the name of daniel? it must be some stranger that has fallen in love with me unbeknown. what shall i do?" she sat in meditation for a short time. then she read the letter again. "he will be very unhappy if i frown upon him," she said to herself, complacently. "it's a great responsibility to make a fellow being unhappy. it's a sacrifice, i know, but it's our duty to deny ourselves. i don't know but i ought to go and meet him." this was rachel's conclusion. the time was close at hand. the appointment was for that very afternoon. "i wouldn't have my brother or martha know it for the world," murmured rachel to herself, "nor that troublesome jack. martha's got some blue ribbon, but i don't dare to ask her for it, for fear she'll suspect something. no, i must go out and buy some." "i'm goin' to walk, martha," she said, as she came downstairs. "going to walk in the forenoon! isn't that something unusual?" "i've got a little headache. i guess it'll do me good," said rachel. "i hope it will," said her sister-in-law, sympathetically. rachel went to the nearest dry-goods store, and bought a yard of blue ribbon. "only a yard?" inquired the clerk, in some surprise. "that will do," said rachel, nervously, coloring a little, as though the use which she designed for it might be suspected. she paid for the ribbon, and presently returned. "does your head feel any better, rachel?" asked mrs. harding. "a little," answered rachel. "you've been sewing too steady lately, perhaps?" suggested martha. "perhaps i have," assented rachel. "you ought to spare yourself. you can't stand work as well as when you were younger," said martha, innocently. "a body'd think i was a hundred by the way you talk," said rachel, sharply. "i didn't mean to offend you, rachel. i thought you might feel as i do. i get tired easier than i used to." "i guess i'll go upstairs," said rachel, in the same tone. "there isn't anybody there to tell me how old i am gettin'." "it's hard to make rachel out," thought mrs. harding. "she takes offense at the most innocent remark. she can't look upon herself as young, i am sure." upstairs rachel took out the letter again, and read it through once more. "i wonder what sort of a man daniel is," she said to herself. "i wonder if i have ever noticed him. how little we know what others think of us! if he's a likely man, maybe it's my duty to marry him. i feel i'm a burden to timothy. his income is small, and it'll make a difference of one mouth. it may be a sacrifice, but it's my duty." in this way rachel tried to deceive herself as to the real reason which led her to regard with favoring eyes the suit of this supposed lover whom she had never seen, and about whom she knew absolutely nothing. jack came home from school at half-past two o'clock. he looked roguishly at his aunt as he entered. she sat knitting in her usual corner. "will she go?" thought jack. "if she doesn't there won't be any fun." but jack, whose trick i am far from defending, was not to be disappointed. at three o'clock rachel rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs. fifteen minutes later she came down dressed for a walk. "where are you going, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "out for a walk," she answered, shortly. "may i go with you?" he asked, mischievously. "no; i prefer to go alone," she said, curtly. "your aunt has taken a fancy to walking," said mrs. harding, when her sister-in-law had left the house. "she was out this forenoon. i don't know what has come over her." "i do," said jack to himself. five minutes later he put on his hat and bent his steps also to washington park. chapter xi miss harding's mistake miss rachel harding kept on her way to washington park. it was less than a mile from her brother's house, and though she walked slowly, she got there a quarter of an hour before the time. she sat down on a seat near the center of the park, and began to look around her. poor rachel! her heart beat quicker than it had done for thirty years, as she realized that she was about to meet one who wished to make her his wife. "i hope he won't be late," she murmured to herself, and she felt of the blue ribbon to make sure that she had not forgotten it. meanwhile jack reached the park, and from a distance surveyed with satisfaction the evident nervousness of his aunt. "ain't it rich?" he whispered to himself. rachel looked anxiously for the gentleman with the red rose pinned to his coat. she had to wait ten minutes. at last he came, but as he neared her seat, rachel felt like sinking into the earth with mortification when she recognized in the wearer a stalwart negro. she hoped that it was a mere chance coincidence, but he approached her, and raising his hat respectfully, said: "are you miss harding?" "what if i am?" she demanded, sharply. "what have you to do with me?" the man looked surprised. "didn't you send word to me to meet you here?" "no!" answered rachel, "and i consider it very presumptuous in you to write such a letter to me." "i didn't write you a letter," said the negro, astonished. "then what made you come here?" demanded the spinster. "because you wrote to me." "i wrote to you!" exclaimed rachel, aghast. "yes, you wrote to me to come here. you said you'd wear a blue ribbon on your neck, and i was to have a rose pinned to my coat." rachel was bewildered. "how could i write to you when i never saw you before, and don't know your name. do you think a lady like me would marry a colored man?" "who said anything about that?" asked the other, opening his eyes wide in astonishment. "i couldn't marry, nohow, for i've got a wife and four children." rachel felt ready to collapse. was it possible that she had made a mistake, and that this was not her unknown correspondent, daniel? "there is some mistake," she said, nervously. "where is that letter you thought i wrote? have you got it with you?" "here it is, ma'am." he handed rachel a letter addressed in a small hand to daniel thompson. she opened it and read: "mr. thompson: i hear you are out of work. i may be able to give you a job. meet me at washington park, tuesday afternoon, at four o'clock. i shall wear a blue ribbon round my neck, and you may have a red rose pinned to your coat. otherwise i might not know you. "rachel harding." "some villain has done this," said rachel, wrathfully. "i never wrote that letter." "you didn't!" said daniel, looking perplexed. "who went and did it, then?" "i don't know, but i'd like to have him punished for it," said rachel, energetically. "but you've got a blue ribbon," said mr. thompson. "i can't see through that. that's just what the letter said." "i suppose somebody wrote the letter that knew i wear blue. it's all a mistake. you'd better go home." "then haven't you got a job for me?" asked daniel, disappointed. "no, i haven't," said rachel, sharply. she hurriedly untied the ribbon from her neck, and put it in her pocket. "don't talk to me any more!" she said, frowning. "you're a perfect stranger. you have no right to speak to me." "i guess the old woman ain't right in her head!" thought daniel. "must be she's crazy!" poor rachel! she felt more disconsolate than ever. there was no daniel, then. she had been basely imposed upon. there was no call for her to sacrifice herself on the altar of matrimony. she ought to have been glad, but she wasn't. half an hour later a drooping, disconsolate figure entered the house of timothy harding. "why, what's the matter, rachel?" asked martha, who noticed her woe-begone expression. "i ain't long for this world," said rachel, gloomily. "death has marked me for his own." "don't you feel well this afternoon, rachel?" "no; i feel as if life was a burden." "you have tired yourself with walking, rachel. you have been out twice to-day." "this is a vale of tears," said rachel, hysterically. "there's nothin' but sorrow and misfortune to be expected." "have you met with any misfortune? i thought fortune was smiling upon us all." "it'll never smile on me again," said rachel, despondently. just then jack, who had followed his aunt home, entered. "have you got home so quick, aunt rachel?" he asked. "how did you enjoy your walk?" "i shall never enjoy anything again," said his aunt, gloomily. "why not?" "because there's nothing to enjoy." "i don't feel so, aunt. i feel as merry as a cricket." "you won't be long. like as not you'll be took down with fever to-morrow, and maybe die." "i won't trouble myself about it till the time comes," said jack. "i expect to live to dance at your wedding yet, aunt rachel." this reference was too much. it brought to rachel's mind the daniel to whom she had expected to link her destiny, and she burst into a dismal sob, and hurried upstairs to her own chamber. "rachel acts queerly to-day," said mrs. harding. "i think she can't be feeling well. if she don't feel better to-morrow i shall advise her to send for the doctor." "i am afraid it was mean to play such a trick on aunt rachel," thought jack, half repentantly. "i didn't think she'd take it so much in earnest. i must keep dark about that letter. she'd never forgive me if she knew." for some days there was an added gloom on miss rachel's countenance, but the wound was not deep; and after a time her disappointment ceased to rankle in her too sensitive heart. chapter xii seven years seven years slipped by unmarked by any important change. the hardings were still prosperous in an humble way. the cooper had been able to obtain work most of the time, and this, with the annual remittance for little ida, had enabled the family not only to live in comfort, but even to save up one hundred and fifty dollars a year. they might even have saved more, living as frugally as they were accustomed to do, but there was one point in which they would none of them consent to be economical. the little ida must have everything she wanted. timothy brought home nearly every day some little delicacy for her, which none of the rest thought of sharing. while mrs. harding, far enough from vanity, always dressed with extreme plainness, ida's attire was always of good material and made up tastefully. sometimes the little girl asked: "mother, why don't you buy yourself some of the pretty things you get for me?" mrs. harding would answer, smiling: "oh, i'm an old woman, ida. plain things are best for me." "no, i'm sure you're not old, mother. you don't wear a cap. aunt rachel is a good deal older than you." "hush, ida. don't let aunt rachel hear that. she wouldn't like it." "but she is ever so much older than you, mother," persisted the child. once rachel heard a remark of this kind, and perhaps it was that that prejudiced her against ida. at any rate, she was not one of those who indulged her. frequently she rebuked her for matters of no importance; but it was so well understood in the cooper's household that this was aunt rachel's way, that ida did not allow it to trouble her, as the lightest reproach from mrs. harding would have done. had ida been an ordinary child, all this petting would have had an injurious effect upon her mind. but, fortunately, she had the rare simplicity, young as she was, which lifted her above the dangers which might have spoiled her otherwise. instead of being made vain and conceited, she only felt grateful for the constant kindness shown her by her father and mother, and brother jack, as she was wont to call them. indeed it had not been thought best to let her know that such were not the actual relations in which they stood to her. there was one point, much more important than dress, in which ida profited by the indulgence of her friends. "martha," the cooper was wont to say, "ida is a sacred charge in our hands. if we allow her to grow up ignorant, or only allow her ordinary advantages, we shall not fulfill our duty. we have the means, through providence, of giving her some of those advantages which she would enjoy if she had remained in that sphere to which her parents doubtless belong. let no unwise parsimony on our part withhold them from her." "you are right, timothy," said his wife; "right, as you always are. follow the dictates of your own heart, and fear not that i shall disapprove." "humph!" said aunt rachel; "you ain't actin' right, accordin' to my way of thinkin'. readin', writin' and cypherin' was enough for girls to learn in my day. what's the use of stuffin' the girl's head full of nonsense that'll never do her no good? i've got along without it, and i ain't quite a fool." but the cooper and his wife had no idea of restricting ida's education to the rather limited standard indicated by rachel. so, from the first, they sent her to a carefully selected private school, where she had the advantage of good associates, and where her progress was astonishingly rapid. ida early displayed a remarkable taste for drawing. as soon as this was discovered, her adopted parents took care that she should have abundant opportunity for cultivating it. a private master was secured, who gave her lessons twice a week, and boasted everywhere of the progress made by his charming young pupil. "what's the good of it?" asked rachel. "she'd a good deal better be learnin' to sew and knit." "all in good time," said timothy. "she can attend to both." "i never wasted my time that way," said rachel. "i'd be ashamed to." nothing could exceed timothy's gratification, when, on his birthday, ida presented him with a beautifully drawn sketch of his wife's placid and benevolent face. "when did you do it, ida?" he asked, after earnest expressions of admiration. "i did it in odd minutes," she answered, "when i had nothing else to do." "but how could you do it, without any of us knowing what you were about?" "i had a picture before me, and you thought i was copying it, but, whenever i could do it without being noticed, i looked up at mother as she sat at her sewing, and so, after a while, i finished the picture." "and a fine one it is," said the cooper, admiringly. mrs. harding insisted that ida had flattered her, but this ida would not admit. "i couldn't make it look as good as you, mother," she said. "i tried, but somehow i didn't succeed as i wanted to." "you wouldn't have that difficulty with aunt rachel," said jack, roguishly. ida could not help smiling, but rachel did not smile. "i see," she said, with severe resignation, "that you've taken to ridiculing your poor aunt again. but it's only what i expect. i don't never expect any consideration in this house. i was born to be a martyr, and i expect i shall fulfill my destiny. if my own relations laugh at me, of course i can't expect anything better from other folks. but i shan't be long in the way. i've had a cough for some time past, and i expect i'm in consumption." "you make too much of a little joke, rachel," said the cooper, soothingly. "i'm sure jack didn't mean anything." "what i said was complimentary," said jack. rachel shook her head incredulously. "yes, it was. ask ida. why won't you draw aunt rachel, ida? i think she'd make a very striking picture." "so i will," said ida, hesitatingly, "if she will let me." "now, aunt rachel, there's a chance for you," said jack. "take my advice, and improve it. when it's finished it can be hung up in the art rooms, and who knows but you may secure a husband by it." "i wouldn't marry," said rachel, firmly compressing her lips; "not if anybody'd go down on their knees to me." "now, i'm sure, aunt rachel, that's cruel of you," said jack, demurely. "there ain't any man i'd trust my happiness to," pursued the spinster. "she hasn't any to trust," observed jack, _sotto voce_. "men are all deceivers," continued rachel, "the best of 'em. you can't believe what one of 'em says. it would be a great deal better if people never married at all." "then where would the world be a hundred years hence?" suggested her nephew. "come to an end, most likely," answered aunt rachel; "and i'm not sure but that would be the best thing. it's growing more and more wicked every day." it will be seen that no great change has come over miss rachel harding, during the years that have intervened. she takes the same disheartening view of human nature and the world's prospects as ever. nevertheless, her own hold upon the world seems as strong as ever. her appetite continues remarkably good, and, although she frequently expresses herself to the effect that there is little use in living, she would be as unwilling to leave the world as anyone. it is not impossible that she derives as much enjoyment from her melancholy as other people from their cheerfulness. unfortunately her peculiar mode of enjoying herself is calculated to have rather a depressing influence upon the spirits of those with whom she comes in contact--always excepting jack, who has a lively sense of the ludicrous, and never enjoys himself better than in bantering his aunt. "i don't expect to live more'n a week," said rachel, one day. "my sands of life are 'most run out." "are you sure of that, aunt rachel?" asked jack. "yes, i've got a presentiment that it's so." "then, if you're sure of it," said her nephew, gravely, "it may be as well to order the coffin in time. what style would you prefer?" rachel retreated to her room in tears, exclaiming that he needn't be in such a hurry to get her out of the world; but she came down to supper, and ate with her usual appetite. ida is no less a favorite with jack than with the rest of the household. indeed, he has constituted himself her especial guardian. rough as he is in the playground, he is always gentle with her. when she was just learning to walk, and in her helplessness needed the constant care of others, he used, from choice, to relieve his mother of much of the task of amusing the child. he had never had a little sister, and the care of a child as young as ida was a novelty to him. it was perhaps this very office of guardian to the child, assumed when she was young, that made him feel ever after as if she were placed under his special protection. ida was equally attached to jack. she learned to look to him for assistance in any plan she had formed, and he never disappointed her. whenever he could, he would accompany her to school, holding her by the hand, and, fond as he was of rough play, nothing would induce him to leave her. "how long have you been a nursemaid?" asked a boy older than himself, one day. jack's fingers itched to get hold of his derisive questioner, but he had a duty to perform, and he contented himself with saying: "just wait a few minutes, and i'll let you know." "i dare say you will," was the reply. "i rather think i shall have to wait till both of us are gray before that time." "you will not have to wait long before you are black and blue," retorted jack. "don't mind what he says, jack," whispered ida, fearing that he would leave her. "don't be afraid, ida; i won't leave you. i'll attend to his business another time. i guess he won't trouble us to-morrow." meanwhile the boy, emboldened by jack's passiveness, followed, with more abuse of the same sort. if he had been wiser, he would have seen a storm gathering in the flash of jack's eye; but he mistook the cause of his forbearance. the next day, as they were going to school, ida saw the same boy dodging round the corner with his head bound up. "what's the matter with him, jack?" she asked. "i licked him like blazes, that's all," said jack, quietly. "i guess he'll let us alone after this." even after jack left school, and got a position in a store at two dollars a week, he gave a large part of his spare time to ida. "really," said mrs. harding, "jack is as careful of ida as if he was her guardian." "a pretty sort of a guardian he is!" said aunt rachel. "take my word for it, he's only fit to lead her into mischief." "you do him injustice, rachel. jack is not a model boy, but he takes the best care of ida." rachel shrugged her shoulders, and sniffed significantly. it was quite evident that she did not have a very favorable opinion of her nephew. chapter xiii a mysterious visitor about eleven o'clock one forenoon mrs. harding was in the kitchen, busily engaged in preparing the dinner, when a loud knock was heard at the front door. "who can it be?" said mrs. harding. "aunt rachel, there's somebody at the door; won't you be kind enough to see who it is?" "people have no business to call at such an hour in the morning," grumbled rachel, as she laid down her knitting reluctantly, and rose from her seat. "nobody seems to have any consideration for anybody else. but that's the way of the world." opening the outer door, she saw before her a tall woman, dressed in a gown of some dark stuff, with strongly marked, and not altogether pleasant, features. "are you the lady of the house?" inquired the visitor, abruptly. "there ain't any ladies in this house," answered rachel. "you've come to the wrong place. we have to work for a living here." "the woman of the house, then," said the stranger, rather impatiently. "it doesn't make any difference about names. are you the one i want to see?" "no, i ain't," said rachel, shortly. "will you tell your mistress that i want to see her, then?" "i have no mistress," said rachel. "what do you take me for?" "i thought you might be the servant, but that don't matter. i want to see mrs. harding. will you call her, or shall i go and announce myself?" "i don't know as she'll see you. she's busy in the kitchen." "her business can't be as important as what i've come about. tell her that, will you?" rachel did not fancy the stranger's tone or manner. certainly she did not manifest much politeness. but the spinster's curiosity was excited, and this led her the more readily to comply with the request. "stay here, and i'll call her," she said. "there's a woman wants to see you," announced rachel. "who is it?" "i don't know. she hasn't got any manners, that's all i know about her." mrs. harding presented herself at the door. "won't you come in?" she asked. "yes, i will. what i've got to say to you may take some time." mrs. harding, wondering vaguely what business this strange visitor could have with her, led the way to the sitting room. "you have in your family," said the woman, after seating herself, "a girl named ida." mrs. harding looked up suddenly and anxiously. could it be that the secret of ida's birth was to be revealed at last? was it possible that she was to be taken from her? "yes," she answered, simply. "who is not your child?" "but i love her as much. i have always taught her to look upon me as her mother." "i presume so. my visit has reference to her." "can you tell me anything of her parentage?" inquired mrs. harding, eagerly. "i was her nurse," said the stranger. mrs. harding scrutinized anxiously the hard features of the woman. it was, at least, a relief to know that no tie of blood connected her with ida, though, even upon her assurance, she would hardly have believed it. "who were her parents?" "i am not permitted to tell." mrs. harding looked disappointed. "surely," she said, with a sudden sinking of the heart, "you have not come to take her away?" "this letter will explain my object in visiting you," said the woman, drawing a sealed envelope from a bag which she carried in her hand. the cooper's wife nervously broke open the letter, and read as follows: "mrs. harding: seven years ago last new year's night a child was left on your doorsteps, with a note containing a request that you would care for it kindly as your own. money was sent at the same time to defray the expenses of such care. the writer of this note is the mother of the child, ida. there is no need to explain here why i sent away the child from me. you will easily understand that it was not done willingly, and that only the most imperative necessity would have led me to such a step. the same necessity still prevents me from reclaiming my child, and i am content still to leave ida in your charge. yet there is one thing i desire. you will understand a mother's wish to see, face to face, her own child. with this view i have come to this neighborhood. i will not say where i am, for concealment is necessary to me. i send this note by a trustworthy attendant, mrs. hardwick, my little ida's nurse in her infancy, who will conduct ida to me, and return her again to you. ida is not to know who she is visiting. no doubt she believes you to be her mother, and it is well that she should so regard you. tell her only that it is a lady, who takes an interest in her, and that will satisfy her childish curiosity. i make this request as ida's mother." mrs. harding read this letter with mingled feelings. pity for the writer; a vague curiosity in regard to the mysterious circumstances which had compelled her to resort to such a step; a half feeling of jealousy, that there should be one who had a claim to her dear, adopted daughter, superior to her own; and a strong feeling of relief at the assurance that ida was not to be permanently removed--all these feelings affected the cooper's wife. "so you were ida's nurse?" she said, gently. "yes, ma'am," said the stranger. "i hope the dear child is well?" "perfectly well. how much her mother must have suffered from the separation!" "indeed you may say so, ma'am. it came near to breaking her heart." "i don't wonder," said sympathizing mrs. harding. "i can judge of that by my own feelings. i don't know what i should do, if ida were to be taken from me." at this point in the conversation, the cooper entered the house. he had come home on an errand. "it is my husband," said mrs. harding, turning to her visitor, by way of explanation. "timothy, will you come here a moment?" the cooper regarded the stranger with some surprise. his wife hastened to introduce her as mrs. hardwick, ida's old nurse, and placed in her husband's hands the letter which we have already read. he was not a rapid reader, and it took him some time to get through the letter. he laid it down on his knee, and looked thoughtful. "this is indeed unexpected," he said, at last. "it is a new development in ida's history. may i ask, mrs. hardwick, if you have any further proof? i want to be careful about a child that i love as my own. can you furnish any other proof that you are what you represent?" "i judged that the letter would be sufficient. doesn't it speak of me as the nurse?" "true; but how can we be sure that the writer is ida's mother?" "the tone of the letter, sir. would anybody else write like that?" "then you have read the letter?" asked the cooper, quickly. "it was read to me before i set out." "by whom?" "by ida's mother. i do not blame you for your caution," said the visitor. "you must be deeply interested in the happiness of the dear child, of whom you have taken such excellent care. i don't mind telling you that i was the one who left her at your door, seven years ago, and that i never left the neighborhood until i saw you take her in." "and it was this that enabled you to find the house to-day?" "you forget," corrected the nurse, "that you were not then living in this house, but in another, some rods off, on the left-hand side of the street." "you are right," said timothy. "i am inclined to believe in the truth of your story. you must pardon my testing you in such a manner, but i was not willing to yield up ida, even for a little time, without feeling confident of the hands she was falling into." "you are right," said mrs. hardwick. "i don't blame you in the least. i shall report it to ida's mother as a proof of your attachment to the child." "when do you wish ida to go with you?" asked mrs. harding. "can you let her go this afternoon?" "why," said the cooper's wife, hesitating, "i should like to have a chance to wash out some clothes for her. i want her to appear as neat as possible when she meets her mother." the nurse hesitated, but presently replied: "i don't wish to hurry you. if you will let me know when she will be ready, i will call for her." "i think i can get her ready early to-morrow morning." "that will answer. i will call for her then." the nurse rose, and gathered her shawl about her. "where are you going, mrs. hardwick?" asked the cooper's wife. "to a hotel," was the reply. "we cannot allow that," said mrs. harding, kindly. "it's a pity if we cannot accommodate ida's old nurse for one night, or ten times as long, for that matter." "my wife is quite right," said the cooper, hesitatingly. "we must insist on your stopping with us." the nurse hesitated, and looked irresolute. it was plain she would have preferred to be elsewhere, but a remark which mrs. harding made, decided her to accept the invitation. it was this: "you know, mrs. hardwick, if ida is to go with you, she ought to have a little chance to get acquainted with you before you go." "i will accept your kind invitation," she said; "but i am afraid i shall be in your way." "not in the least. it will be a pleasure to us to have you here. if you will excuse me now, i will go out and attend to my dinner, which i am afraid is getting behindhand." left to herself, the nurse behaved in a manner which might be regarded as singular. she rose from her seat, and approached the mirror. she took a full survey of herself as she stood there, and laughed a short, hard laugh. then she made a formal courtesy to her own reflection, saying: "how do you do, mrs. hardwick?" "did you speak?" asked the cooper, who was passing through the entry on his way out. "no," answered the nurse, rather awkwardly. "i may have said something to myself. it's of no consequence." "somehow," thought the cooper, "i don't fancy the woman's looks; but i dare say i am prejudiced. we're all of us as god made us." when mrs. harding was making preparations for the noonday meal, she imparted to rachel the astonishing information which has already been detailed to the reader. "i don't believe a word of it," said rachel, resolutely. "the woman's an impostor. i knew she was, the very minute i set eyes on her." this remark was so characteristic of rachel, that her sister-in-law did not attach any special importance to it. rachel, of course, had no grounds for the opinion she so confidently expressed. it was consistent, however, with her general estimate of human nature. "what object could she have in inventing such a story?" asked mrs. harding. "what object? hundreds of 'em," said rachel, rather indefinitely. "mark my words; if you let her carry off ida, it'll be the last you'll ever see of her." "try to look on the bright side, rachel. nothing is more natural than that her mother should want to see her." "why couldn't she come herself?" muttered rachel. "the letter explains." "i don't see that it does." "it says that same reasons exist for concealment as ever." "and what are they, i should like to know? i don't like mysteries, for my part." "we won't quarrel with them, at any rate, since they enable us to keep ida with us." aunt rachel shook her head, as if she were far from satisfied. "i don't know," said mrs. harding, "but i ought to invite mrs. hardwick in here. i have left her alone in the front room." "i don't want to see her," said rachel. then, changing her mind suddenly: "yes, you may bring her in. i'll soon find out whether she's an impostor or not." the cooper's wife returned with the nurse. "mrs. hardwick," she said, "this is my sister, miss rachel harding." "i am glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am," said the visitor. "rachel, i will leave you to entertain mrs. hardwick, while i get ready the dinner." rachel and the nurse eyed each other with mutual dislike. "i hope you don't expect me to entertain you," said rachel. "i never expect to entertain anybody ag'in. this is a world of trial and tribulation, and i've had my share. so you've come after ida, i hear?" with a sudden change of tone. "at her mother's request," said the nurse. "she wants to see her, then?" "yes, ma'am." "i wonder she didn't think of it before," said rachel, sharply. "she's good at waiting. she's waited seven years." "there are circumstances that cannot be explained," commenced the nurse. "no, i dare say not," said rachel, dryly. "so you were her nurse?" "yes, ma'am," answered the nurse, who did not appear to enjoy this cross-examination. "have you lived with ida's mother ever since?" "no--yes," stammered the stranger. "some of the time," she added, recovering herself. "umph!" grunted rachel, darting a sharp glance at her. "have you a husband living?" inquired the spinster. "yes," answered mrs. hardwick. "have you?" "i!" repeated rachel, scornfully. "no, neither living nor dead. i'm thankful to say i never married. i've had trials enough without that. does ida's mother live in the city?" "i can't tell you," said the nurse. "humph! i don't like mystery." "it isn't any mystery," said the visitor. "if you have any objections to make, you must make them to ida's mother." "so i will, if you'll tell me where she lives." "i can't do that." "where do you live yourself?" inquired rachel, shifting her point of attack. "in brooklyn," answered mrs. hardwick, with some hesitation. "what street, and number?" "why do you want to know?" inquired the nurse. "you ain't ashamed to tell, be you?" "why should i be?" "i don't know. you'd orter know better than i." "it wouldn't do you any good to know," said the nurse. "i don't care about receiving visitors." "i don't want to visit you, i am sure," said rachel, tossing her head. "then you don't need to know where i live." rachel left the room, and sought her sister-in-law. "that woman's an impostor," she said. "she won't tell where she lives. i shouldn't be surprised if she turns out to be a thief." "you haven't any reason for supposing that, rachel." "wait and see," said rachel. "of course i don't expect you to pay any attention to what i say. i haven't any influence in this house." "now, rachel, you have no cause to say that." but rachel was not to be appeased. it pleased her to be considered a martyr, and at such times there was little use in arguing with her. chapter xiv preparing for a journey later in the day, ida returned from school. she bounded into the room, as usual, but stopped short in some confusion, on seeing a stranger. "is this my own dear child, over whose infancy i watched so tenderly?" exclaimed the nurse, rising, her harsh features wreathed into a smile. "it is ida," said the cooper's wife. ida looked from one to the other in silent bewilderment. "ida," said mrs. harding, in a little embarrassment, "this is mrs. hardwick, who took care of you when you were an infant." "but i thought you took care of me, mother," said ida, in surprise. "very true," said mrs. harding, evasively; "but i was not able to have the care of you all the time. didn't i ever mention mrs. hardwick to you?" "no, mother." "although it is so long since i have seen her, i should have known her anywhere," said the nurse, applying a handkerchief to her eyes. "so pretty as she's grown up, too!" mrs. harding glanced with pride at the beautiful child, who blushed at the compliment, a rare one, for her adopted mother, whatever she might think, did not approve of openly praising her appearance. "ida," said mrs. hardwick, "won't you come and kiss your old nurse?" ida looked at her hard face, which now wore a smile intended to express affection. without knowing why, she felt an instinctive repugnance to this stranger, notwithstanding her words of endearment. she advanced timidly, with a reluctance which she was not wholly able to conceal, and passively submitted to a caress from the nurse. there was a look in the eyes of the nurse, carefully guarded, yet not wholly concealed, which showed that she was quite aware of ida's feeling toward her, and resented it. but whether or not she was playing a part, she did not betray this feeling openly, but pressed the unwilling child more closely to her bosom. ida breathed a sigh of relief when she was released, and moved quietly away, wondering what it was that made the woman so disagreeable to her. "is my nurse a good woman?" she asked, thoughtfully, when alone with mrs. harding, who was setting the table for dinner. "a good woman! what makes you ask that?" queried her adopted mother, in surprise. "i don't know," said ida. "i don't know anything to indicate that she is otherwise," said mrs. harding. "and, by the way, ida, she is going to take you on a little excursion to-morrow." "she going to take me!" exclaimed ida. "why, where are we going?" "on a little pleasure trip; and perhaps she may introduce you to a pleasant lady, who has already become interested in you, from what she has told her." "what could she say of me?" inquired ida. "she has not seen me since i was a baby." "why," answered the cooper's wife, a little puzzled, "she appears to have thought of you ever since, with a good deal of affection." "is it wicked," asked ida, after a pause, "not to like those who like us?" "what makes you ask?" "because, somehow or other, i don't like this mrs. hardwick, at all, for all she was my old nurse, and i don't believe i ever shall." "oh, yes, you will," said mrs. harding, "when you find she is exerting herself to give you pleasure." "am i going with her to-morrow morning?" "yes. she wanted you to go to-day, but your clothes were not in order." "we shall come back at night, shan't we?" "i presume so." "i hope we shall," said ida, decidedly, "and that she won't want me to go with her again." "perhaps you will feel differently when it is over, and you find you have enjoyed yourself better than you anticipated." mrs. harding exerted herself to fit ida up as neatly as possible, and when at length she was got ready, she thought with sudden fear: "perhaps her mother will not be willing to part with her again." when ida was ready to start, there came upon all a little shadow of depression, as if the child were to be separated from them for a year, and not for a day only. perhaps this was only natural, since even this latter term, however brief, was longer than they had been parted from her since, in her infancy, she had been left at their door. the nurse expressly desired that none of the family should accompany her, as she declared it highly important that the whereabouts of ida's mother should not be known. "of course," she added, "after ida returns she can tell you what she pleases. then it will be of no consequence, for her mother will be gone. she does not live in this neighborhood. she has only come here to see her child." "shall you bring her back to-night?" asked mrs. harding. "i may keep her till to-morrow," said the nurse. "after seven years' absence her mother will think that short enough." to this, mrs. harding agreed, though she felt that she should miss ida, though absent but twenty-four hours. chapter xv the journey the nurse walked as far as broadway, holding ida by the hand. "where are we going?" asked the child, timidly. "are you going to walk all the way?" "no," said the nurse; "not all the way--perhaps a mile. you can walk as far as that, can't you?" "oh, yes." they walked on till they reached the ferry at the foot of courtland street. "did you ever ride in a steamboat?" asked the nurse, in a tone meant to be gracious. "once or twice," answered ida. "i went with brother jack once, over to hoboken. are we going there now?" "no; we are going to the city you see over the water." "what place is it? is it brooklyn?" "no; it is jersey city." "oh, that will be pleasant," said ida, forgetting, in her childish love of novelty, the repugnance with which the nurse had inspired her. "yes, and that is not all; we are going still further," said the nurse. "are we going further?" asked ida, in excitement. "where are we going?" "to a town on the line of the railroad." "and shall we ride in the cars?" asked ida. "yes; didn't you ever ride in the cars?" "no, never." "i think you will like it." "and how long will it take us to go to the place you are going to carry me to?" "i don't know exactly; perhaps three hours." "three whole hours in the cars! how much i shall have to tell father and jack when i get back!" "so you will," replied mrs. hardwick, with an unaccountable smile--"when you get back." there was something peculiar in her tone, but ida did not notice it. she was allowed to sit next the window in the cars, and took great pleasure in surveying the fields and villages through which they were rapidly whirled. "are we 'most there?" she asked, after riding about two hours. "it won't be long," said the nurse. "we must have come ever so many miles," said ida. "yes, it is a good ways." an hour more passed, and still there was no sign of reaching their journey's end. both ida and her companion began to feel hungry. the nurse beckoned to her side a boy, who was selling apples and cakes, and inquired the price. "the apples are two cents apiece, ma'am, and the cakes are one cent each." ida, who had been looking out of the window, turned suddenly round, and exclaimed, in great astonishment: "why, charlie fitts, is that you?" "why, ida, where did you come from?" asked the boy, with a surprise equaling her own. "i'm making a little journey with this lady," said ida. "so you're going to philadelphia?" said charlie. "to philadelphia!" repeated ida, surprised. "not that i know of." "why, you're 'most there now." "are we, mrs. hardwick?" inquired ida. "it isn't far from where we're going," she answered, shortly. "boy, i'll take two of your apples and four cakes. and, now, you'd better go along, for there's somebody over there that looks as if he wanted to buy something." "who is that boy?" asked the nurse, abruptly. "his name is charlie fitts." "where did you get acquainted with him?" "he went to school with jack, so i used to see him sometimes." "with jack?" "yes, brother jack. don't you know him?" "oh, yes, i forgot. so he's a schoolmate of jack?" "yes, and he's a first-rate boy," said ida, with whom the young apple merchant was evidently a favorite. "he's good to his mother. you see, his mother is sick most of the time, and can't work much; and he's got a little sister--she ain't more than four or five years old--and charlie supports them by selling things. he's only sixteen years old; isn't he a smart boy?" "yes," said the nurse, indifferently. "sometime," continued ida, "i hope i shall be able to earn something for father and mother, so they won't be obliged to work so hard." "what could you do?" asked the nurse, curiously. "i don't know as i can do much yet," answered ida, modestly; "but perhaps when i am older i can draw pictures that people will buy." "have you got any of your drawings with you?" "no, i didn't bring any." "i wish you had. the lady we are going to see would have liked to see some of them." "are we going to see a lady?" "yes; didn't your mother tell you?" "yes, i believe she said something about a lady that was interested in me." "that's the one." "and shall we come back to new york to-night?" "no; it wouldn't leave us any time to stay." "west philadelphia!" announced the conductor. "we have arrived," said the nurse. "keep close to me. perhaps you had better take hold of my hand." as they were making their way slowly through the crowd, the young apple merchant came up with his basket on his arm. "when are you going back, ida?" he asked. "mrs. hardwick says not till to-morrow." "come, ida," said the nurse, sharply. "i can't have you stopping all day to talk. we must hurry along." "good-by, charlie," said ida. "if you see jack, just tell him you saw me." "yes, i will," was the reply. "i wonder who that woman is with ida?" thought the boy. "i don't like her looks much. i wonder if she's any relation of mr. harding. she looks about as pleasant as aunt rachel." the last-mentioned lady would hardly have felt flattered at the comparison. ida looked about her with curiosity. there was a novel sensation in being in a new place, particularly a city of which she had heard so much as philadelphia. as far back as she could remember, she had never left new york, except for a brief excursion to hoboken; and one fourth of july was made memorable by a trip to staten island, under the guardianship of jack. they entered a horse car just outside the depot, and rode probably a mile. "we get out here," said the nurse. "take care, or you'll get run over. now turn down here." they entered a narrow and dirty street, with unsightly houses on each side. "this ain't a very nice-looking street," said ida. "why isn't it?" demanded her companion, roughly. "why, it's narrow, and the houses don't look nice." "what do you think of that house there?" asked mrs. hardwick, pointing to a dilapidated-looking structure on the right-hand side of the street. "i shouldn't like to live there," answered ida. "you wouldn't, hey? you don't like it so well as the house you live in in new york?" "no, not half so well." the nurse smiled. "wouldn't you like to go in, and look at the house?" "go in and look at the house?" repeated ida. "why should we?" "you must know there are some poor families living there that i am interested in," said mrs. hardwick, who appeared amused at something. "didn't your mother ever tell you that it is our duty to help the poor?" "oh, yes, but won't it be late before we get to the lady?" "no, there's plenty of time. you needn't be afraid of that. there's a poor man living in this house that i've made a good many clothes for, first and last." "he must be much obliged to you," said ida. "we're going up to see him now," said her companion. "take care of that hole in the stairs." somewhat to ida's surprise, her guide, on reaching the first landing, opened a door without the ceremony of knocking, and revealed a poor, untidy room, in which a coarse, unshaven man was sitting, in his shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe. "hello!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up. "so you've got along, old woman! is that the gal?" ida stared from one to the other in amazement. chapter xvi unexpected quarters the appearance of the man whom mrs. hardwick addressed so familiarly was more picturesque than pleasing, he had a large, broad face, which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness of stubble. his nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic beverages. his eyes were bloodshot, and his skin looked coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation. the same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to the laws of health. ida thought she had never seen so disgusting a man. she continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till the object of her attention exclaimed: "well, little gal, what you're lookin' at? hain't you never seen a gentleman before?" ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to find, did not resent the man's familiarity. "well, dick, how've you got along since i've been gone?" asked the nurse, to ida's astonishment. "oh, so-so." "have you felt lonely any?" "i've had good company." "who's been here?" dick pointed significantly to a jug. "that's the best company i know of," he said, "but it's 'most empty. so you've brought along the gal," he continued. "how did you get hold of her?" there was something in these questions which terrified ida. it seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two which boded no good to her. "i'll tell you the particulars by and by." at the same time she began to take off her bonnet. "you ain't going to stop, are you?" asked ida, startled. "ain't goin' to stop?" repeated the man called dick. "why shouldn't she stop, i'd like to know? ain't she at home?" "at home!" echoed ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in astonishment. "yes; ask her." ida looked inquiringly at mrs. hardwick. "you might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly. "we ain't going any further to-day." "and where's the lady you said you were going to see?" "the one that was interested in you?" "yes." "well, i'm the one," she answered, with a broad smile and a glance at dick. "i don't want to stay here," said ida, now frightened. "well, what are you going to do about it?" "will you take me back early to-morrow?" entreated ida. "no, i don't intend to take you back at all." ida seemed at first stupefied with astonishment and terror. then, actuated by a sudden, desperate impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it partly open, when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm, pulled her violently back. "where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded. "back to father and mother," answered ida, bursting into tears. "oh, why did you bring me here?" "i'll tell you why," answered dick, jocularly. "you see, ida, we ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you." "but i don't love you, and i never shall," said ida, indignantly. "now don't you go to saying that," said dick. "you'll break my heart, you naughty girl, and then peg will be a widow." to give due effect to this pathetic speech, dick drew out a tattered red handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes. the whole scene was so ludicrous that ida, despite her fears and disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. she recovered herself instantly, and said imploringly: "oh, do let me go, and father will pay you." "you really think he would?" said dick, in a tantalizing tone. "oh, yes; and you'll tell her to take me back, won't you?" "no, he won't tell me any such thing," said peg, gruffly; "so you may as well give up all thoughts of that first as last. you're going to stay here; so take off that bonnet of yours, and say no more about it." ida made no motion toward obeying this mandate. "then i'll do it for you," said peg. she roughly untied the bonnet--ida struggling vainly in opposition--and taking this, with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the key in her pocket. "there," said she, grimly, "i guess you're safe for the present." "ain't you ever going to carry me back?" "some years hence i may possibly," answered the woman, coolly. "we want you here for the present. besides, you're not sure that they want you back." "not want me back again?" "that's what i said. how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on purpose? they've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen." "it's a lie!" said ida, firmly. "they didn't send me off, and you're a wicked woman to tell me so." "hoity-toity!" said the woman. "is that the way you dare to speak to me? have you anything more to say before i whip you?" "yes," answered ida, goaded to desperation. "i shall complain of you to the police, just as soon as i get a chance, and they will put you in jail and send me home. that is what i will do." mrs. hardwick was incensed, and somewhat startled at these defiant words. it was clear that ida was not going to be a meek, submissive child, whom they might ill-treat without apprehension. she was decidedly dangerous, and her insubordination must be nipped in the bud. she seized ida roughly by the arm, and striding with her to the closet already spoken of, unlocked it, and, rudely pushing her in, locked the door after her. "stay there till you know how to behave," she said. "how did you manage to come it over her family?" inquired dick. his wife gave substantially the account with which the reader is already familiar. "pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed dick, approvingly. "i always said you was a deep un. i always says, if peg can't find out how a thing is to be done, then it can't be done, nohow." "how about the counterfeit coin?" she asked. "we're to be supplied with all we can put off, and we are to have half for our trouble." "that is good. when the girl, ida, gets a little tamed down, we'll give her something to do." "is it safe? won't she betray us?" "we'll manage that, or at least i will. i'll work on her fears, so she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her own head off." "all right, peg. i can trust you to do what's right." ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been thrust. utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. she had been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded as such, and from a comfortable and happy, though humble home, to this dismal place. in place of the kindness and indulgence to which she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and cruelty. chapter xvii suspense "it doesn't, somehow, seem natural," said the cooper, as he took his seat at the tea table, "to sit down without ida. it seems as if half the family were gone." "just what i've said to myself twenty times to-day," remarked his wife. "nobody can tell how much a child is to them till they lose it." "not lose it," corrected jack. "i didn't mean to say that." "when you used that word, mother, it made me feel just as if ida wasn't coming back." "i don't know why it is," said mrs. harding, thoughtfully, "but i've had that same feeling several times today. i've felt just as if something or other would happen to prevent ida's coming back." "that is only because she's never been away before," said the cooper, cheerfully. "it isn't best to borrow trouble, martha; we shall have enough of it without." "you never said a truer word, brother," said rachel, mournfully. "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. this world is a vale of tears, and a home of misery. folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't what they're sent here for." "you never tried very hard, aunt rachel," said jack. "it's my fate to be misjudged," said his aunt, with the air of a martyr. "i don't agree with you in your ideas about life, rachel," said her brother. "just as there are more pleasant than stormy days, so i believe there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it." "i can't see it," said rachel. "it seems to me, rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun." "yes," chimed in jack, "i've noticed whenever aunt rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the deaths, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions." "if," retorted rachel, with severe emphasis, "you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded, you wouldn't find much to laugh at." "yes, i should," said jack, "i should laugh--" "what!" exclaimed rachel, horrified. "on the other side of my mouth," concluded jack. "you didn't wait till i'd finished the sentence." "i don't think it proper to make light of such serious matters." "nor i aunt rachel," said jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "i am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. i should feel as they say the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet up into the air." "how's that?" inquired his mother. "rather discouraged," answered jack. all laughed except aunt rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine. in the morning all felt more cheerful. "ida will be home to-night," said mrs. harding, brightly. "what an age it seems since she went away! who'd think it was only twenty-four hours?" "we shall know better how to appreciate her when we get her back," said her husband. "what time do you expect her home, mother? what did mrs. hardwick say?" "why," said mrs. harding, hesitating, "she didn't say as to the hour; but i guess she'll be along in the course of the afternoon." "if we only knew where she had gone, we could tell better when to expect her." "but as we don't know," said the cooper, "we must wait patiently till she comes." "i guess," said mrs. harding, with the impulse of a notable housewife, "i'll make some apple turnovers for supper to-night. there's nothing ida likes so well." "that's where ida is right," said jack, smacking his lips. "apple turnovers are splendid." "they are very unwholesome," remarked rachel. "i shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, aunt rachel," retorted jack. "you ate four the last time we had them for supper." "i didn't think you'd begrudge me the little i eat," said his aunt, dolefully. "i didn't think you counted the mouthfuls i took." "come, rachel, don't be so unreasonable," said her brother. "nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. i dare say jack ate more of the turnovers than you did." "i ate six," said jack, candidly. rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more. "if it wasn't for you, aunt rachel, i should be in danger of getting too jolly, perhaps, and spilling over. it always makes me sober to look at you." "it's lucky there's something to make you sober and stiddy," said his aunt. "you are too frivolous." evening came, but it did not bring ida. an indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. martha feared that ida's mother, finding her so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her. "i suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her, but it would be a terrible thing for us to part with her." "don't let us trouble ourselves about that," said timothy. "it seems to me very natural that her mother should keep her a little longer than she intended. think how long it is since she saw her. besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night." at length there came a knock at the door. "i guess that is ida," said mrs. harding, joyfully. jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. but there was no ida there. in her place stood charlie fitts, the boy who had met ida in the cars. "how are you, charlie?" said jack, trying not to look disappointed. "come in and tell us all the news." "well," said charlie, "i don't know of any. i suppose ida has got home?" "no," answered jack; "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come yet." "she told me she expected to come back to-day." "what! have you seen her?" exclaimed all, in chorus. "yes; i saw her yesterday noon." "where?" "why, in the cars," answered charlie. "what cars?" asked the cooper. "why, the philadelphia cars. of course you knew it was there she was going?" "philadelphia!" exclaimed all, in surprise. "yes, the cars were almost there when i saw her. who was that with her?" "mrs. hardwick, her old nurse." "i didn't like her looks." "that's where we paddle in the same canoe," said jack. "she didn't seem to want me to speak to ida," continued charlie, "but hurried her off as quick as possible." "there were reasons for that," said the cooper. "she wanted to keep her destination secret." "i don't know what it was," said the boy, "but i don't like the woman's looks." chapter xviii how ida fared we left ida confined in a dark closet, with peg standing guard over her. after an hour she was released. "well," said the nurse, grimly, "how do you feel now?" "i want to go home," sobbed the child. "you are at home," said the woman. "shall i never see father, and mother, and jack again?" "that depends on how you behave yourself." "oh, if you will only let me go," pleaded ida, gathering hope from this remark, "i'll do anything you say." "do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?" "i mean just what i say. dear, good mrs. hardwick, tell me what to do, and i will obey you cheerfully." "very well," said peg, "only you needn't try to come it over me by calling me dear, good mrs. hardwick. in the first place, you don't care a cent about me; in the second place, i am not good; and finally, my name isn't mrs. hardwick, except in new york." "what is it, then?" asked ida. "it's just peg, no more and no less. you may call me aunt peg." "i would rather call you mrs. hardwick." "then you'll have a good many years to call me so. you'd better do as i tell you, if you want any favors. now what do you say?" "yes, aunt peg," said ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance. "that's well. now you're not to tell anybody that you came from new york. that is very important; and you're to pay your board by doing whatever i tell you." "if it isn't wicked." "do you suppose i would ask you to do anything wicked?" demanded peg, frowning. "you said you wasn't good," mildly suggested ida. "i'm good enough to take care of you. well, what do you say to that? answer me?" "yes." "there's another thing. you ain't to try to run away." ida hung down her head. "ha!" exclaimed peg. "so you've been thinking of it, have you?" "yes," answered ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation. "i did think i should if i got a good chance." "humph!" said the woman, "i see we must understand one another. unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and i shall keep you there." ida shuddered at this fearful threat--terrible to a child of but eight years. "do you promise?" "yes," said ida, faintly. "for fear you might be tempted to break your promise, i have something to show you." mrs. hardwick went to the closet, and took down a large pistol. "there," she said, "do you see that?" "yes, aunt peg." "do you know what it is for?" "to shoot people with," answered the child. "yes," said the nurse; "i see you understand. well, now, do you know what i would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? can you guess, now?" "would you shoot me?" asked ida, terror-stricken. "yes, i would," said peg, with fierce emphasis. "that's just what i'd do. and what's more even if you got away, and got back to your family in new york, i would follow you, and shoot you dead in the street." "you wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed ida. "wouldn't i, though?" repeated peg, significantly. "if you don't believe i would, just try it. do you think you would like to try it?" she asked, fiercely. "no," answered ida, with a shudder. "well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. now that you are a little more reasonable, i'll tell you what i am going to do with you." ida looked eagerly up into her face. "i am going to keep you with me for a year. i want the services of a little girl for that time. if you serve me faithfully, i will then send you back to new york." "will you?" asked ida, hopefully. "yes, but you must mind and do what i tell you." "oh, yes," said ida, joyfully. this was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home at all, even though she had to wait a year, encouraged her. "what do you want me to do?" she asked. "you may take the broom and sweep the room." "yes, aunt peg." "and then you may wash the dishes." "yes, aunt peg." "and after that, i will find something else for you to do." mrs. hardwick threw herself into a rocking-chair, and watched with grim satisfaction the little handmaiden, as she moved quickly about. "i took the right course with her," she said to herself. "she won't any more dare to run away than to chop her hands off. she thinks i'll shoot her." and the unprincipled woman chuckled to herself. ida heard her indistinctly, and asked, timidly: "did you speak, aunt peg?" "no, i didn't; just attend to your work and don't mind me. did your mother make you work?" "no; i went to school." "time you learned. i'll make a smart woman of you." the next morning ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street. "i am going to let you do a little shopping. there are various things we want. go and get your hat." "it's in the closet," said ida. "oh, yes, i put it there. that was before i could trust you." she went to the closet and returned with the child's hat and shawl. as soon as the two were ready they emerged into the street. "this is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't it?" asked her companion. "oh, yes, ever so much." "you see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as i bid you. i don't want to do you any harm." so they walked along together until peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hands on ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her: "do you see that shop?" "yes," said ida. "i want you to go in and ask for a couple of rolls. they come to three cents apiece. here's some money to pay for them. it is a new dollar. you will give this to the man that stands behind the counter, and he will give you back ninety-four cents. do you understand?" "yes," said ida, nodding her head. "i think i do." "and if the man asks if you have anything smaller, you will say no." "yes, aunt peg." "i will stay just outside. i want you to go in alone, so you will learn to manage without me." ida entered the shop. the baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter. "well, my dear, what is it?" he asked. "i should like a couple of rolls." "for your mother, i suppose?" said the baker. "no," answered ida, "for the woman i board with." "ha! a dollar bill, and a new one, too," said the baker, as ida tendered it in payment. "i shall have to save that for my little girl." ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change. "did he say anything about the money?" asked peg. "he said he should save it for his little girl." "good!" said the woman. "you've done well." chapter xix bad money the baker introduced in the foregoing chapter was named harding. singularly, abel harding was a brother of timothy harding, the cooper. in many respects he resembled his brother. he was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. he was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. like his brother, abel harding had married, and had one child. she had received the name of ellen. when the baker closed his shop for the night, he did not forget the new dollar, which he had received, or the disposal he told ida he would make of it. ellen ran to meet her father as he entered the house. "what do you think i have brought you, ellen?" he said, with a smile. "do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly. "what if i should tell you it was a new dollar?" "oh, papa, thank you!" and ellen ran to show it to her mother. "yes," said the baker, "i received it from a little girl about the size of ellen, and i suppose it was that that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her." this was all that passed concerning ida at that time. the thought of her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances. ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. her mother advised her to deposit it in some savings bank; but ellen preferred present gratification. accordingly, one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. the price was seventy-five cents. ellen concluded to buy it, and her mother tendered the dollar in payment. the shopman took it in his hand, glanced at it carelessly at first, then scrutinized it with increased attention. "what is the matter?" inquired mrs. harding. "it is good, isn't it?" "that is what i am doubtful of," was the reply. "it is new." "and that is against it. if it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine." "but you wouldn't condemn a bill because it is new?" "certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where counterfeit bills have been passed, and i suspect this is one of them. however, i can soon ascertain." "i wish you would," said the baker's wife. "my husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is put on his guard." the shopman sent it to the bank where it was pronounced counterfeit. mr. harding was much surprised at his wife's story. "really!" he said. "i had no suspicion of this. can it be possible that such a young and beautiful child could be guilty of such an offense?" "perhaps not," answered his wife. "she may be as innocent in the matter as ellen or myself." "i hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that so young a child should be given to wickedness. however, i shall find out before long." "how?" "she will undoubtedly come again sometime." the baker watched daily for the coming of ida. he waited some days in vain. it was not peg's policy to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection. one day, however, ida entered the shop as before. "good-morning," said the baker; "what will you have to-day?" "you may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir." the baker placed it in her hand. "how much will it be?" "twelve cents." ida offered him another new bill. as if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter and placed himself between ida and the door. "what is your name, my child?" he asked. "ida, sir." "ida? but what is your other name?" ida hesitated a moment, because peg had forbidden her to use the name of harding, and had told her, if ever the inquiry were made, she must answer hardwick. she answered reluctantly: "ida hardwick." the baker observed her hesitation, and this increased his suspicion. "hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as possible before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. "and where do you live?" ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely. she said, with some impatience: "i am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have the change as soon as you can." "i have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner suddenly changing, "but you cannot go just yet." "why not?" asked ida. "because you have been trying to deceive me." "i trying to deceive you!" exclaimed ida. "really," thought mr. harding, "she does it well; but no doubt she is trained to it. it is perfectly shocking, such artful depravity in a child." "don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he asked, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ. "yes," answered ida, promptly; "i bought two rolls, at three cents apiece." "and what did you offer me in payment?" "i handed you a dollar bill." "like this?" asked the baker, holding up the one she had just offered him. "yes, sir." "and do you mean to say," demanded the baker, sternly, "that you didn't know it was bad when you offered it to me?" "bad!" gasped ida. "yes, spurious. not as good as blank paper." "indeed, sir, i didn't know anything about it," said ida, earnestly; "i hope you'll believe me when i say that i thought it was good." "i don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed. "who gave you the money?" "the woman i board with." "of course i can't give you the gingerbread. some men, in my place, would deliver you up to the police. but i will let you go, if you will make me one promise." "oh, i will promise anything, sir," said ida. "you have given me a bad dollar. will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?" ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go. chapter xx doubts and fears "well, what kept you so long?" asked peg, impatiently, as ida rejoined her at the corner of the street. "i thought you were going to stay all the forenoon. and where's your gingerbread?" "he wouldn't let me have it," answered ida. "and why wouldn't he let you have it?" said peg. "because he said the money wasn't good." "stuff and nonsense! it's good enough. however, it's no matter. we'll go somewhere else." "but he said the money i gave him last week wasn't good, and i promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go." "well, where are you going to get your dollar?" "why, won't you give it to me?" said the child. "catch me at such nonsense!" said mrs. hardwick, contemptuously. "i ain't quite a fool. but here we are at another shop. go in and see if you can do any better there. here's the money." "why, it's the same bill i gave you." "what if it is?" "i don't want to pass bad money." "tut! what hurt will it do?" "it's the same as stealing." "the man won't lose anything. he'll pass it off again." "somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said ida. "so you've taken up preaching, have you?" said peg, sneeringly. "maybe you know better than i what is proper to do. it won't do for you to be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out, if you stay with me long." "where did you get the dollar?" asked ida; "and how is it you have so many of them?" "none of your business. you mustn't pry into the affairs of other people. are you going to do as i told you?" she continued, menacingly. "i can't," answered ida, pale but resolute. "you can't!" repeated peg, furiously. "didn't you promise to do whatever i told you?" "except what was wicked," interposed ida. "and what business have you to decide what is wicked? come home with me." peg seized the child's hand, and walked on in sullen silence, occasionally turning to scowl upon ida, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had so much reason to dread. arrived at home, peg walked ida into the room by the shoulder. dick was lounging in a chair. "hillo!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's frowning face. "what's the gal been doin', hey?" "what's she been doing?" repeated peg. "i should like to know what she hasn't been doing. she's refused to go in and buy gingerbread of the baker." "look here, little gal," said dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when peg and i go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't even willin' to go in and buy it?" "i would just as lieve go in," said ida, "if peg would give me good money to pay for it." "that don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist. "it's your dooty to do just as she tells you, and you'll do right. she'll take the risk." "i can't," said the child. "you hear her!" said peg. "very improper conduct!" said dick, shaking his head in grave reproval. "little gal, i'm ashamed of you. put her in the closet, peg." "come along," said peg, harshly. "i'll show you how i deal with those that don't obey me." so ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. yet in the midst of her desolation, child as she was, she was sustained and comforted by the thought that she was suffering for doing right. when ida failed to return on the appointed day, the hardings, though disappointed, did not think it strange. "if i were her mother," said the cooper's wife, "and had been parted from her for so long, i should want to keep her as long as i could. dear heart! how pretty she is and how proud her mother must be of her!" "it's all a delusion," said rachel, shaking her head, solemnly. "it's all a delusion. i don't believe she's got a mother at all. that mrs. hardwick is an impostor. i know it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn't believe me. i never expect to set eyes on ida again in this world." the next day passed, and still no tidings of jack's ward. her young guardian, though not as gloomy as aunt rachel, looked unusually serious. there was a cloud of anxiety even upon the cooper's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal. at night, after jack and his aunt had retired, he said, anxiously: "what do you think is the cause of ida's prolonged absence, martha?" "i can't tell," said his wife, seriously. "it seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer it would be no more than right that she should drop us a line. she must know that we would feel anxious." "perhaps she is so taken up with ida that she can think of no one else." "it may be so; but if we neither see ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, i shall be seriously troubled." "suppose she should never come back," suggested the cooper, very soberly. "oh, husband, don't hint at such a thing," said his wife. "we must contemplate it as a possibility," said timothy, gravely, "though not, as i hope, as a probability. ida's mother has an undoubted right to her." "then it would be better if she had never been placed in our charge," said martha, tearfully, "for we should not have had the pain of parting with her." "not so, martha," her husband said, seriously. "we ought to be grateful for god's blessings, even if he suffers us to retain them but a short time. and ida has been a blessing to us all, i am sure. the memory of that can't be taken from us, martha. there's some lines i came across in the paper to-night that express just what i've been sayin'. let me find them." the cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the daily paper till he came to these beautiful lines of tennyson, which he read aloud: "'i hold it true, whate'er befall; i feel it when i sorrow most; 'tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.'" "there, wife," he said, as he laid down the paper; "i don't know who writ them lines, but i'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow and conquered it." "they are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and i dare say you're right, timothy; but i hope we mayn't have to learn the truth of them by experience. after all, it isn't certain but that ida will come back." "at any rate," said her husband, "there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means that we can to recover ida. of course, if her mother insists upon keepin' her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure of that before we yield her up." "what do you mean, timothy?" asked martha. "i don't know as i ought to mention it," said the cooper. "very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious." "you have already aroused my anxiety. i should feel better if you would speak out." "then i will," said the cooper. "i have sometimes been tempted," he continued, lowering his voice, "to doubt whether ida's mother really sent for her." "how do you account for the letter, then?" "i have thought--mind, it is only a guess--that mrs. hardwick may have got somebody to write it for her." "it is very singular," murmured martha. "what is singular?" "why, the very same thought has occurred to me. somehow, i can't help feeling a little distrustful of mrs. hardwick, though perhaps unjustly. what object can she have in getting possession of the child?" "that i can't conjecture; but i have come to one determination." "what is that?" "unless we learn something of ida within a week from the time she left here, i shall go on to philadelphia, or else send jack, and endeavor to get track of her." chapter xxi aunt rachel's mishaps the week slipped away, and still no tidings of ida. the house seemed lonely without her. not until then did they understand how largely she had entered into their life and thoughts. but worse even than the sense of loss was the uncertainty as to her fate. "it is time that we took some steps about finding ida," the cooper said. "i would like to go to philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her, but i am just now engaged upon a job which i cannot very well leave, and so i have concluded to send jack." "when shall i start?" exclaimed jack. "to-morrow morning," answered his father. "what good do you think it will do," interposed rachel, "to send a mere boy like jack to philadelphia?" "a mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly. "a boy hardly sixteen years old," continued rachel. "why, he'll need somebody to take care of him. most likely you'll have to go after him." "what's the use of provoking a fellow so, aunt rachel?" said jack. "you know i'm 'most eighteen. hardly sixteen! why, i might as well say you're hardly forty, when we all know you're fifty." "fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "it's a base slander. i'm only thirty-seven." "maybe i'm mistaken," said jack, carelessly. "i didn't know exactly how old you were; i only judged from your looks." at this point, rachel applied a segment of a pocket handkerchief to her eyes; but, unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect instead of being pathetic, as she intended it to be, was simply ludicrous. it so happened that a short time previous, the inkstand had been partially spilled upon the table, through jack's carelessness and this handkerchief had been used to sop it up. it had been placed inadvertently upon the window seat, where it had remained until rachel, who was sitting beside the window, called it into requisition. the ink upon it was by no means dry. the consequence was, that, when rachel removed it from her eyes, her face was discovered to be covered with ink in streaks mingling with the tears that were falling, for rachel always had a plentiful supply of tears at command. the first intimation the luckless spinster had of her mishap was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from jack. he looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow on his aunt's face--of which she was yet unconscious--and doubling up, went off into a perfect paroxysm of laughter. "jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause of his amusement, "it's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a rude manner." "oh, i can't help it, mother. just look at her." thus invited, mrs. harding did look, and the rueful expression of rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that, after a hard struggle, she too gave way, and followed jack's example. astonished and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her sister-in-law, rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had recourse to the handkerchief. "this is too much!" she sobbed. "i've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom i expect nothing better, makes me her laughingstock. brother timothy, i can no longer remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; i will go to the poorhouse and end my miserable existence as a common pauper. if i only receive christian burial when i leave the world, it will be all i hope or expect from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me." the second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect, that jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper, whose attention was now drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a similar manner. this more amazed rachel than martha's merriment. "even you, timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed, in an "_et tu, brute_" tone. "we don't mean to ridicule you, rachel," gasped her sister-in-law, "but we can't help laughing." "at the prospect of my death!" uttered rachel, in a tragic tone. "well, i'm a poor, forlorn creetur, i know. even my nearest relations make sport of me, and when i speak of dying, they shout their joy to my face." "yes," gasped jack, nearly choking, "that's it exactly. it isn't your death we're laughing at, but your face." "my face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "one would think i was a fright by the way you laugh at it." "so you are!" said jack, with a fresh burst of laughter. "to be called a fright to my face!" shrieked rachel, "by my own nephew! this is too much. timothy, i leave your house forever." the excited maiden seized her hood; which was hanging from a nail, and was about to leave the house when she was arrested in her progress toward the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to say: "before you go, rachel, just look in the glass." mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction. in her first confusion rachel jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by the plague. accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish: "it is the fatal plague spot! i am marked for the tomb. the sands of my life are fast running out." this convulsed jack afresh with merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation. "you'll kill me, aunt rachel! i know you will," he gasped. "you may order my coffin, timothy," said rachel, in a sepulchral voice; "i shan't live twenty-four hours. i've felt it coming on for a week past. i forgive you for all your ill-treatment. i should like to have some one go for the doctor, though i know i'm past help." "i think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague spots, as you call them." rachel turned toward him with a puzzled look. then, as her eyes rested for the first time upon the handkerchief she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own. somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning. after this little episode, the conversation turned upon jack's approaching journey. "i don't know," said his mother, "but rachel is right. perhaps jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission." "now, mother," expostulated jack, "you ain't going to side against me, are you?" "there is no better plan," said his father, quietly. chapter xxii the flower girl henry bowen was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. he was not competent to achieve the highest success. but he had good taste and a skillful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. he had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way. "have you any new commission to-day?" inquired the young artist, on the day before ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coin. "yes," said the publisher, "i have thought of something which may prove attractive. just at present, pictures of children seem to be popular. i should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. do you comprehend my idea?" "i believe i do," answered the artist. "give me sufficient time, and i hope to satisfy you." the young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. he had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. the faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though beautiful in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and lifelike. "what is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently. "is it impossible for me to succeed? it's clear," he decided, "that i am not in the vein. i will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while i am in the street something may strike me." he accordingly donned his coat and hat, and emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. it was only natural that, as he walked, with his task uppermost in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met. "perhaps," it occurred to him, "i may get a hint from some face i see. it is strange," he mused, "how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. that child, for example, has beautiful eyes, but a badly cut mouth. here is one that would be pretty, if the face were rounded out; and here is a child--heaven help it!--that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it." it was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon peg and ida. the artist looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with sudden pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he had begun to despair of it. "the very face i have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "my flower girl is found at last." he turned round, and followed ida and her companion. both stopped at a shop window to examine some articles which were on exhibition there. "it is precisely the face i want," he murmured. "nothing could be more appropriate or charming. with that face the success of the picture is assured." the artist's inference that peg was ida's attendant was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. peg thought that this would enable her, with less risk, to pass spurious coin. the young man followed the strangely assorted pair to the apartments which peg occupied. from the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, peg had the guardianship of the child. this made his course clearer. he mounted the stairs and knocked at the door. "what do you want?" demanded a sharp voice. "i should like to see you just a moment," was the reply. peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously. "i don't know you," she said, shortly. "i presume not," said the young man, courteously. "we have never met, i think. i am an artist. i hope you will pardon my present intrusion." "there is no use in your coming here," said peg, abruptly, "and you may as well go away. i don't want to buy any pictures. i've got plenty of better ways to spend my money than to throw it away on such trash." no one would have thought of doubting peg's word, for she looked far from being a patron of the arts. "you have a young girl living with you, about seven or eight years old, have you not?" inquired the artist. peg instantly became suspicious. "who told you that?" she demanded, quickly. "no one told me. i saw her in the street." peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that the child had been lured away from home; possibly he might be acquainted with the cooper's family? or might be their emissary. "suppose you did see such a child on the street, what has that to do with me?" "but i saw the child entering this house with you." "what if you did?" demanded peg, defiantly. "i was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, "i was about to make a proposition which may prove advantageous to both of us." "eh!" said peg, catching at the hint. "tell me what it is and we may come to terms." "i must explain," said bowen, "that i am an artist. in seeking for a face to sketch from, i have been struck by that of your child." "of ida?" "yes, if that is her name. i will pay you five dollars if you will allow me to copy her face." "well," she said, more graciously, "if that's all you want, i don't know as i have any objections. i suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere?" "i should prefer to have her come to my studio." "i shan't let her come," said peg, decidedly. "then i will consent to your terms, and come here." "do you want to begin now?" "i should like to do so." "come in, then. here, ida, i want you." "yes, peg." "this gentleman wants to copy your face." ida looked surprised. "i am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "i will endeavor not to try your patience too much, or keep you too long. do you think you can stand still for half an hour without too much fatigue?" he kept her in pleasant conversation, while, with a free, bold hand he sketched the outlines of her face. "i shall want one more sitting," he said. "i will come to-morrow at this time." "stop a minute," said peg. "i should like the money in advance. how do i know you will come again?" "certainly, if you desire it," said henry bowen. "what strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought them together? surely there can be no relation between this sweet child and that ugly old woman!" the next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval. chapter xxiii jack obtains information jack set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. partly by boat, partly by cars, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in philadelphia. he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode on, carpetbag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle's shop. by dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at last, and walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew jack. "what? are you jack?" exclaimed mr. abel harding, pausing in his labor. "well, i never should have known you, that's a fact. bless me, how you've grown! why, you're 'most as big as your father, ain't you?" "only half an inch shorter," answered jack, complacently. "and you're--let me see--how old are you?" "eighteen; that is, almost. i shall be in two months." "well, i'm glad to see you, jack, though i hadn't the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. how's your father and mother and your adopted sister?" "father and mother are pretty well," answered jack; "and so is aunt rachel," he continued, smiling, "though she ain't so cheerful as she might be." "poor rachel!" said abel, smiling also. "everything goes contrary with her. i don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. folks differ constitutionally. some are always looking on the bright side of things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark one." "you've hit it, uncle," said jack, laughing. "aunt rachel always looks as if she was attending a funeral." "so she is, my boy," said abel, gravely, "and a sad funeral it is." "i don't understand you, uncle." "the funeral of her affections--that's what i mean. perhaps you mayn't know that rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to a young man whom she ardently loved. she was a different woman then from what she is now. but her lover deserted her just before the wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the disappointment. but that isn't what i was going to talk about. you haven't told me about your adopted sister." "that's the very thing i've come to philadelphia about," said jack, soberly. "ida has been carried off, and i've come in search of her." "been carried off? i didn't know such things ever happened in this country. what do you mean?" jack told the story of mrs. hardwick's arrival with a letter from ida's mother, conveying the request that her child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to pay her a visit. to this and the subsequent details abel harding listened with earnest attention. "so you have reason to think the child is in philadelphia?" he said, musingly. "yes," said jack; "ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy who knew her in new york." "ida?" repeated the baker. "was that her name?" "yes; you knew her name, didn't you?" "i dare say i have known it, but i have heard so little of your family lately that i had forgotten it. it is rather a singular circumstance." "what is a singular circumstance?" "i will tell you, jack. it may not amount to anything, however. a few days since a little girl came into my shop to buy a small amount of bread. i was at once favorably impressed with her appearance. she was neatly dressed, and had a very honest face. having made the purchase she handed me in payment a new dollar bill. 'i'll keep that for my little girl,' thought i at once. accordingly, when i went home at night, i just took the dollar out of, the till and gave it to her. of course, she was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at once. so her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. well, they selected some knick-knack or other, but when they came to pay for it the dollar proved counterfeit." "counterfeit?" "yes; bad. issued by a gang of counterfeiters. when they told me of this, i said to myself, 'can it be that this little girl knew what she was about when she offered me that?' i couldn't think it possible, but decided to wait till she came again." "did she come again?" "yes; only day before yesterday. as i expected, she offered me in payment another dollar just like the other. before letting her know that i had discovered the imposition i asked her one or two questions with the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. when i told her the bill was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. it might have been all acting, but i didn't think so then. i even felt pity for her, and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. i suppose i was a fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that i couldn't make up my mind to speak or act harshly to her. but i am afraid that i was deceived, and that she was an artful character after all." "then she didn't come back with the good money?" "no; i haven't seen her since." "what name did she give you?" "haven't i told you? it was the name that made me think of telling you. she called herself ida hardwick." "ida hardwick?" repeated jack. "yes, ida hardwick. but that hasn't anything to do with your ida, has it?" "hasn't it, though?" said jack. "why, mrs. hardwick was the woman who carried her away." "mrs. hardwick--her mother?" "no; not her mother. she said she was the woman who took care of ida before she was brought to us." "then you think this ida hardwick may be your missing sister?" "that's what i don't know yet," said jack. "if you would only describe her, uncle abel, i could tell better." "well," said the baker, thoughtfully, "i should say this little girl was seven or eight years old." "yes," said jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?" "blue." "so are ida's." "a small mouth, with a very sweet expression, yet with something firm and decided about it." "yes." "and i believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon round the waist." "did she wear anything around her neck?" "a brown scarf, if i remember rightly." "that is the way ida was dressed when she went away with mrs. hardwick. i am sure it must be she. but how strange that she should come into your shop!" "perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, representing herself as ida's nurse, was her mother." "no; it can't be," said jack, vehemently. "what, that ugly, disagreeable woman, ida's mother? i won't believe it. i should just as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn bush." "you know i have not seen mrs. hardwick." "no great loss," said jack. "you wouldn't care much about seeing her again. she is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable woman; while ida is fair and sweet-looking. ida's mother, whoever she is, i am sure, is a lady in appearance and manners, and mrs. hardwick is neither. aunt rachel was right for once." "what did rachel say?" "she said the nurse was an impostor, and declared it was only a plot to get possession of ida; but then, that was to be expected of aunt rachel." "still it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the part of the woman, supposing her not to be ida's mother." "mother or not," returned jack, "she's got possession of ida; and, from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. i am determined to rescue ida from this she-dragon. will you help me, uncle?" "you may count upon me, jack, for all i can do." "then," said jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. i feel sure of it. 'where there's a will there's a way.'" "i wish you success, jack; but if the people who have got ida are counterfeiters, they are desperate characters, and you must proceed cautiously." "i ain't afraid of them. i'm on the warpath now, uncle abel, and they'd better look out for me." chapter xxiv jack's discovery the first thing to be done by jack was, of course, in some way to obtain a clew to the whereabouts of peg, or mrs. hardwick, to use the name by which he knew her. no mode of proceeding likely to secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit. following out this plan, jack became a daily promenader in chestnut, walnut and other leading thoroughfares. jack became himself an object of attention, on account of what appeared to be his singular behavior. it was observed that he had no glances to spare for young ladies, but persistently stared at the faces of all middle-aged women--a circumstance naturally calculated to attract remark in the case of a well-made lad like jack. "i am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as looking for a needle in a haystack, to find the one you seek among so many faces." "there's nothing like trying," said jack, courageously. "i'm not going to give up yet a while. i'd know ida or mrs. hardwick anywhere." "you ought to write home, jack. they will be getting anxious about you." "i'm going to write this morning--i put it off, because i hoped to have some news to write." he sat down and wrote the following note: "dear parents: i arrived in philadelphia right side up with care, and am stopping at uncle abel's. he received me very kindly. i have got track of ida, though i have not found her yet. i have learned as much as this: that this mrs. hardwick--who is a double-distilled she-rascal--probably has ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. i am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. if i do meet her, see if i don't get ida away from her. but it may take some time. don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son, "jack." jack had been in the city eight days when, as he was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him, a shawl which struck him as wonderfully like the one worn by mrs. hardwick. not only that, but the form of the wearer corresponded to his recollections of the nurse. he bounded forward, and rapidly passing the suspected person, turned suddenly and confronted the woman of whom he had been in search. the recognition was mutual. peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter. her first impulse was to make off, but jack's resolute expression warned her that he was not to be trifled with. "mrs. hardwick?" exclaimed jack. "you are right," said she, rapidly recovering her composure, "and you, if i am not mistaken, are john harding, the son of my worthy friends in new york." "well," ejaculated jack, internally, "she's a cool un, and no mistake." "my name is jack," he said, aloud. "did you leave all well at home?" asked peg. "you can't guess what i came here for?" said jack. "to see your sister ida, i presume." "yes," answered jack, amazed at the woman's composure. "i thought some of you would be coming on," continued peg, who had already mapped out her course. "you did?" "yes; it was only natural. what did your father and mother say to the letter i wrote them?" "the letter you wrote them?" exclaimed jack. "certainly. you got it, didn't you?" "i don't know what letter you mean." "a letter, in which i wrote that ida's mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of the child, that she could not determine to part with her." "you don't mean to say that any such letter as that has been written?" said jack, incredulously. "what? has it not been received?" inquired peg. "nothing like it. when was it written?" "the second day after our arrival," said peg. "if that is the case," said jack, not knowing what to think, "it must have miscarried; we never received it." "that is a pity. how anxious you all must have felt!" "it seems as if half the family were gone. but how long does ida's mother mean to keep her?" "perhaps six months." "but," said jack, his suspicions returning, "i have been told that ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and when asked what her name was, answered, ida hardwick. you don't mean to say that you pretend to be her mother." "yes, i do," replied peg, calmly. "i didn't mean to tell you, but as you've found out, i won't deny it." "it's a lie," said jack. "she isn't your daughter." "young man," said peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are exciting yourself to no purpose. you asked me if i pretended to be her mother. i do pretend, but i admit frankly that it is all pretense." "i don't understand what you mean," said jack. "then i will explain to you, though you have treated me so impolitely that i might well refuse. as i informed your father and mother in new york, there are circumstances which stand in the way of ida's real mother recognizing her as her own child. still, as she desires her company, in order to avert suspicion and prevent embarrassing questions being asked while she remains in philadelphia, she is to pass as my daughter." this explanation was tolerably plausible, and jack was unable to gainsay it. "can i see ida?" he asked. to his great joy, peg replied: "i don't think there can be any objection. i am going to the house now. will you come with me now, or appoint some other time." "now, by all means," said jack, eagerly. "nothing shall stand in the way of my seeing ida." a grim smile passed over peg's face. "follow me, then," she said. "i have no doubt ida will be delighted to see you." "i suppose," said jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in new york." "if she had," answered peg, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. she is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to new york to those who have been so kind to her." "really," thought jack, "i don't know what to make of this mrs. hardwick. she talks fair enough, though looks are against her. perhaps i have misjudged her." chapter xxv caught in a trap jack and his guide paused in front of a large three-story brick building. the woman rang the bell. an untidy servant girl made her appearance. mrs. hardwick spoke to the servant in so low a voice that jack couldn't hear what she said. "certainly, mum," answered the servant, and led the way upstairs to a back room on the third floor. "go in and take a seat," she said to jack. "i will send ida to you immediately." "all right," said jack, in a tone of satisfaction. peg went out, closing the door after her. she, at the same time, softly slipped a bolt which had been placed upon the outside. then hastening downstairs she found the proprietor of the house, a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long, aquiline nose. "i have brought you a boarder," she said. "who is it?" "a lad, who is likely to interfere in our plans. you may keep him in confinement for the present." "very good. is he likely to make a fuss?" "i should think it very likely. he is high-spirited and impetuous, but you know how to manage him." "oh, yes," nodded the old man. "you can think of some pretext for keeping him." "suppose i tell him he's in a madhouse?" said the old man, laughing, and thereby showing some yellow fangs, which by no means improved his appearance. "just the thing! it'll frighten him." there was a little further conversation in a low tone, and then peg went away. "fairly trapped, my young bird!" she thought to herself. "i think that will put a stop to your troublesome appearance for the present." meanwhile jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair and waited impatiently for the coming of ida, whom he was resolved to carry back to new york. impelled by a natural curiosity, he examined attentively the room in which he was seated. there was a plain carpet on the floor, and the other furniture was that of an ordinary bed chamber. the most conspicuous ornament was a large full-length portrait against the side of the wall. it represented an unknown man, not particularly striking in his appearance. there was, besides, a small table with two or three books upon it. jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. "perhaps ida may be out," he reflected. "still, even if she is, mrs. hardwick ought to come and let me know. it's dull work staying here alone." another fifteen minutes passed, and still no ida appeared. "this is rather singular," thought jack. "she can't have told ida i am here, or i am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother jack." at length, tired of waiting, jack walked to the door and attempted to open it. there was a greater resistance than he anticipated. "good heavens!" thought jack, in consternation, as the real state of the case flashed upon him, "is it possible that i am locked in?" he employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. he could no longer doubt that it was locked. he rushed to the windows. they were two in number, and looked out upon a yard in the rear of the house. there was no hope of drawing the attention of passersby to his situation. confounded by this discovery, jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind. "well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in. i wonder what father would say if he knew that i had managed to get locked up like this? i am ashamed to think i let that treacherous woman, mrs. hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. aunt rachel was about right when she said i wasn't fit to come alone. i hope she'll never find out about this adventure of mine. if she did, i should never hear the last of it." chapter xxvi dr. robinson time passed. every hour seemed to poor jack to contain at least double the number of minutes. moreover, he was getting hungry. a horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "the wretches can't mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself. despite his constitutional courage he could not help shuddering at the idea. he was unexpectedly answered by the opening of the door, and the appearance of the old man. "are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features. "why am i confined here?" demanded jack, angrily. "why are you confined? really, one would think you didn't find your quarters comfortable." "i am so far from finding them agreeable, that i insist upon leaving them immediately," returned jack. "then all you have got to do is to walk through that door." "you have locked it." "why, so i have," said the old man, with a leer. "i insist upon your opening it." "i shall do so when i get ready to go out, myself." "i shall go with you." "i think not." "who's to prevent me?" said jack, defiantly. "who's to prevent you?" "yes; you'd better not attempt it. i should be sorry to hurt you, but i mean to go out. if you attempt to stop me, you must take the consequences." "i am afraid you are a violent young man. but i've got a man who is a match for two like you." the old man opened the door. "samuel, show yourself," he said. a brawny negro, six feet in height, and evidently very powerful, came to the entrance. "if this young man attempts to escape, samuel, what will you do?" "tie him hand and foot," answered the negro. "that'll do, samuel. stay where you are." he closed the door and looked triumphantly at our hero. jack threw himself sullenly into a chair. "where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked. "peg? oh, she couldn't stay. she had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone. she commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here." this assurance was not calculated to comfort jack. "how long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once. "really, my young friend, i couldn't say. i don't know how long it will be before you are cured." "cured?" repeated jack, puzzled. the old man tapped his forehead. "you're a little affected here, you know, but under my treatment i hope soon to restore you to your friends." "what!" ejaculated our hero, terror-stricken, "you don't mean to say you think i'm crazy?" "to be sure you are," said the old man, "but--" "but i tell you it's a lie," exclaimed jack, energetically. "who told you so?" "your aunt." "my aunt?" "yes, mrs. hardwick. she brought you here to be treated for insanity." "it's a base lie," said jack, hotly. "that woman is no more my aunt than you are. she's an impostor. she carried off my sister ida, and this is only a plot to get rid of me. she told me she was going to take me to see ida." the old man shrugged his shoulders. "my young friend," he said, "she told me all about it--that you had a delusion about some supposed sister, whom you accused her of carrying off." "this is outrageous," said jack, hotly. "that's what all my patients say." "and you are a mad-doctor?" "yes." "then you know by my looks that i am not crazy." "pardon me, my young friend; that doesn't follow. there is a peculiar appearance about your eyes which i cannot mistake. there's no mistake about it, my good sir. your mind has gone astray, but if you'll be quiet, and won't excite yourself, you'll soon be well." "how soon?" "well, two or three months." "two or three months! you don't mean to say you want to confine me here two or three months?" "i hope i can release you sooner." "you can't understand your business very well, or you would see at once that i am not insane." "that's what all my patients say. they won't any of them own that their minds are affected." "will you supply me with some writing materials?" "yes; samuel shall bring them here." "i suppose you will excuse my suggesting also that it is dinner time?" "he shall bring you some dinner at the same time." the old man retired, but in fifteen minutes a plate of meat and vegetables was brought to the room. "i'll bring the pen and ink afterward," said the negro. in spite of his extraordinary situation and uncertain prospects, jack ate with his usual appetite. then he penned a letter to his uncle, briefly detailing the circumstances of his present situation. "i am afraid," the letter concluded, "that while i am shut up here, mrs. hardwick will carry ida out of the city, where it will be more difficult for us to get on her track. she is evidently a dangerous woman." two days passed and no notice was taken of the letter. chapter xxvii jack begins to realize his situation "it's very strange," thought jack, "that uncle abel doesn't take any notice of my letter." in fact, our hero felt rather indignant, as well as surprised, and on the next visit of dr. robinson, he asked: "hasn't my uncle been here to ask about me?" "yes," said the old man, unexpectedly. "why didn't you bring him up here to see me?" "he just inquired how you were, and said he thought you were better off with us than you would be at home." jack looked fixedly in the face of the pretended doctor, and was convinced that he had been deceived. "i don't believe it," he said. "oh! do as you like about believing it." "i don't believe you mailed my letter to my uncle." "have it your own way, my young friend. of course i can't argue with a maniac." "don't call me a maniac, you old humbug! you ought to be in jail for this outrage." "ho, ho! how very amusing you are, my young friend!" said the old man. "you'd make a first-class tragedian, you really would." "i might do something tragic, if i had a weapon," said jack, significantly. "are you going to let me out?" "positively, i can't part with you. you are too good company," said dr. robinson, mockingly. "you'll thank me for my care of you when you are quite cured." "that's all rubbish," said jack, boldly. "i'm no more crazy than you are, and you know it. will you answer me a question?" "it depends on what it is," said the old man, cautiously. "has mrs. hardwick been here to ask about me?" "certainly. she takes a great deal of interest in you." "was there a little girl with her?" "i believe so. i really don't remember." "if she calls again, either with or without ida, will you ask her to come up here? i want to see her." "yes, i'll tell her. now, my young friend, i must really leave you. business before pleasure, you know." jack looked about the room for something to read. he found among other books a small volume, purporting to contain "the adventures of baron trenck." it may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. baron trenck was several times imprisoned for political offenses, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, after years of labor, in escaping from his dungeon. jack read the book with intense interest and wondered, looking about the room, if he could not find some similar plan of escape. chapter xxviii the secret staircase the prospect certainly was not a bright one. the door was fast locked. escape from the windows seemed impracticable. this apparently exhausted the avenues of escape that were open to the dissatisfied prisoner. but accidentally jack made an important discovery. there was a full-length portrait in the room. jack chanced to rest his hand against it, when he must unconsciously have touched some secret spring, for a secret door opened, dividing the picture in two parts, and, to our hero's unbounded astonishment, he saw before him a small spiral staircase leading down into the darkness. "this is a queer old house!" thought jack. "i wonder where those stairs go to. i've a great mind to explore." there was not much chance of detection, he reflected, as it would be three hours before his next meal would be brought him. he left the door open, therefore, and began slowly and cautiously to go down the staircase. it seemed a long one, longer than was necessary to connect two floors. boldly jack kept on till he reached the bottom. "where am i?" thought our hero. "i must be down as low as the cellar." while this thought passed through his mind, voices suddenly struck upon his ear. he had accustomed himself now to the darkness, and ascertained that there was a crevice through which he could look in the direction from which the sounds proceeded. applying his eye, he could distinguish a small cellar apartment, in the middle of which was a printing press, and work was evidently going on. he could distinguish three persons. two were in their shirt sleeves, bending over an engraver's bench. beside them, and apparently superintending their work, was the old man whom jack knew as dr. robinson. he applied his ear to the crevice, and heard these words: "this lot is rather better than the last, jones. we can't be too careful, or the detectives will interfere with our business. some of the last lot were rather coarse." "i know it, sir," answered the man addressed as jones. "there's nothing the matter with this," said the old man. "there isn't one person in a hundred that would suspect it was not genuine." jack pricked up his ears. looking through the crevice, he ascertained that it was a bill that the old man had in his hand. "they're counterfeiters," he said, half audibly. low as the tone was, it startled dr. robinson. "ha!" said he, startled, "what's that?" "what's what, sir?" said jones. "i thought i heard some one speaking." "i didn't hear nothing, sir." "did you hear nothing, ferguson?" "no, sir." "i suppose i was deceived, then," said the old man. "how many bills have you there?" he resumed. "seventy-nine, sir." "that's a very good day's work," said the old man, in a tone of satisfaction. "it's a paying business." "it pays you, sir," said jones, grumbling. "and it shall pay you, too, my man, never fear!" jack had made a great discovery. he understood now the connection between mrs. hardwick and the old man whom he now knew not to be a physician. he was at the head of a gang of counterfeiters, and she was engaged in putting the false money into circulation. he softly ascended the staircase, and re-entered the room he left, closing the secret door behind him. chapter xxix jack is detected in the course of the afternoon, jack made another visit to the foot of the staircase. he saw through the crevice the same two men at work, but the old man was not with them. ascertaining this, he ought, in prudence, immediately to have retraced his steps, but he remained on watch for twenty minutes. when he did return he was startled by finding the old man seated, and waiting for him. there was a menacing expression on his face. "where have you been?" he demanded, abruptly. "downstairs," answered jack. "ha! what did you see?" "i may as well own up," thought jack. "through a crack i saw some men at work in a basement room," he replied. "do you know what they were doing?" "counterfeiting, i should think." "well, is there anything wrong in that?" "i suppose you wouldn't want to be found out," he answered. "i didn't mean to have you make this discovery. now there's only one thing to be done." "what's that?" "you have become possessed of an important--i may say, a dangerous secret. you have us in your power." "i suppose," said jack, "you are afraid i will denounce you to the police?" "well, there is a possibility of that. that class of people has a prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody likes to do--making money." "will you let me go if i keep your secret?" "what assurance have we that you would keep your promise?" "i would pledge my word." "your word!" foley--for this was the old man's real name--snapped his fingers. "i wouldn't give that for it. that is not sufficient." "what will be?" "you must become one of us." "one of you!" "yes. you must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that it will be for your own interest to remain silent. otherwise we can't trust you." "suppose i decline these terms?" "then i shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my guest," said foley, smiling disagreeably. "what made you pretend to be a mad-doctor?" "to put you off the track," said foley. "you believed it, didn't you?" "at first." "well, what do you say?" asked foley. "i should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said jack. "it is of so important a character that i don't like to decide at once." "how long do you require?" "two days. suppose i join you, shall i get good pay?" "excellent," answered foley. "in fact, you'll be better paid than a boy of your age would be anywhere else." "that's worth thinking about," said jack, gravely. "my father is poor, and i've got my own way to make." "you couldn't have a better opening. you're a smart lad, and will be sure to succeed." "well, i'll think of it. if i should make up my mind before the end of two days, i will let you know." "very well. you can't do better." "but there's one thing i want to ask about," said jack, with pretended anxiety. "it's pretty risky business, isn't it?" "i've been in the business ten years, and they haven't got hold of me yet," answered foley. "all you've got to do is to be careful." "he'll join," said foley to himself. "he's a smart fellow, and we can make him useful. it'll be the best way to dispose of one who might get us into trouble." chapter xxx jack's triumph the next day jack had another visit from foley. "well," said the old man, nodding, "have you thought over my proposal?" "what should i have to do?" asked jack. "sometimes one thing, and sometimes another. at first we might employ you to put off some of the bills." "that would be easy work, anyway," said jack. "yes, there is nothing hard about that, except to look innocent." "i can do that," said jack, laughing. "you're smart; i can tell by the looks of you." "do you really think so?" returned jack, appearing flattered. "yes; you'll make one of our best hands." "i suppose mrs. hardwick is in your employ?" "perhaps she is, and perhaps she isn't," said foley, noncommittally. "that is something you don't need to know." "oh, i don't care to know," said jack, carelessly. "i only asked. i was afraid you would set me to work down in the cellar." "you don't know enough about the business. we need skilled workmen. you couldn't do us any good there." "i shouldn't like it, anyway. it must be unpleasant to be down there." "we pay the workmen you saw good pay." "yes, i suppose so. when do you want me to begin?" "i can't tell you just yet. i'll think about it." "i hope it'll be soon, for i'm tired of staying here. by the way, that's a capital idea about the secret staircase. who'd ever think the portrait concealed it?" said jack. as he spoke he advanced to the portrait in an easy, natural manner, and touched the spring. of course it flew open. the old man also drew near. "that was my idea," he said, in a complacent tone. "of course we have to keep everything as secret as possible, and i flatter myself--" his remark came to a sudden pause. he had incautiously got between jack and the open door. now our hero, who was close upon eighteen, and strongly built, was considerably more than a match in physical strength for foley. he suddenly seized the old man, thrust him through the aperture, then closed the secret door, and sprang for the door of the room. the key was in the lock where foley, whose confidence made him careless, had left it. turning it, he hurried downstairs, meeting no one on the way. to open the front door and dash through it was the work of an instant. as he descended the stairs he could hear the muffled shout of the old man whom he had made prisoner, but this only caused him to accelerate his speed. jack now directed his course as well as he could toward his uncle's shop. one thing, however, he did not forget, and that was to note carefully the position of the shop in which he had been confined. "i shall want to make another visit there," he reflected. meantime, as may well be supposed, abel harding had suffered great anxiety on account of jack's protracted absence. several days had elapsed and still he was missing. "i am afraid something has happened to jack," he remarked to his wife on the afternoon of jack's escape. "i think jack was probably rash and imprudent, and i fear, poor boy, he may have come to harm." "he may be confined by the parties who have taken his sister." "it is possible that it is no worse. at all events, i don't think it right to keep it from timothy any longer. i've put off writing as long as i could, hoping jack would come back, but i don't feel as if it would be right to hold it back any longer. i shall write this evening." "better wait till morning, abel. who knows but we may hear from jack before that time?" "if we'd been going to hear we'd have heard before this," he said. just at that moment the door was flung open. "why, it's jack!" exclaimed the baker, amazed. "i should say it was," returned jack. "aunt, have you got anything to eat? i'm 'most famished." "where in the name of wonder have you been, jack?" "i've been shut up, uncle--boarded and lodged for nothing--by some people who liked my company better than i liked theirs. but i've just made my escape, and here i am, well, hearty and hungry." jack's appetite was soon provided for. he found time between the mouthfuls to describe the secret staircase, and his discovery of the unlawful occupation of the man who acted as his jailer. the baker listened with eager interest. "jack," said he, "you've done a good stroke of business." "in getting away?" said jack. "no, in ferreting out these counterfeiters. do you know there is a reward of a thousand dollars offered for their apprehension?" "you don't say so!" exclaimed jack, laying down his knife and fork. "do you think i can get it?" "you'd better try. the gang has managed matters so shrewdly that the authorities have been unable to get any clew to their whereabouts. can you go to the house?" "yes; i took particular notice of its location." "that's lucky. now, if you take my advice, you'll inform the authorities before they have time to get away." "i'll do it!" said jack. "come along, uncle." fifteen minutes later, jack was imparting his information to the chief of police. it was received with visible interest and excitement. "i will detail a squad of men to go with you," said the chief. "go at once. no time is to be lost." in less than an hour from the time jack left the haunt of the coiners, an authoritative knock was heard at the door. it was answered by foley. the old man turned pale as he set eyes on jack and the police, and comprehended the object of the visit. "what do you want, gentlemen?" he asked. "is that the man?" asked the sergeant of jack. "yes." "secure him." "i know him," said foley, with a glance of hatred directed at jack. "he's a thief. he's been in my employ, but he's run away with fifty dollars belonging to me." "i don't care about stealing the kind of money you deal in," said jack, coolly. "it's all a lie this man tells you." "why do you arrest me?" said foley. "it's an outrage. you have no right to enter my house like this." "what is your business?" demanded the police sergeant. "i'm a physician." "if you are telling the truth, no harm will be done you. meanwhile, we must search your house. where is that secret staircase?" "i'll show you," answered jack. he showed the way upstairs. "how did you get out?" he asked foley, as he touched the spring, and the secret door flew open. "curse you!" exclaimed foley, darting a look of hatred and malignity at him. "i wish i had you in my power once more. i treated you too well." we need not follow the police in their search. the discoveries which they made were ample to secure the conviction of the gang who made this house the place of their operations. to anticipate a little, we may say that foley was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years, and his subordinates to a term less prolonged. the reader will also be glad to know that to our hero was awarded the prize of a thousand dollars which had been offered for the apprehension of the gang of counterfeiters. but there was another notable capture made that day. mrs. hardwick was accustomed to make visits to foley to secure false bills, and to make settlement for what she had succeeded in passing off. while jack and the officers were in the house she rang the door bell. jack went to the door. "how is this?" she asked. "oh," said jack, "it's all right. come in. i've gone into the business, too." mrs. hardwick entered. no sooner was she inside than jack closed the door. "what are you doing?" she demanded, suspiciously. "let me out." but jack was standing with his back to the door. the door to the right opened, and a policeman appeared. "arrest this woman," said jack. "she's one of them." "i suppose i must yield," said peg, sulkily; "but you shan't be a gainer by it," she continued, addressing jack. "where is ida?" asked our hero, anxiously. "she is safe," said peg, sententiously. "you won't tell me where she is?" "no; why should i? i suppose i am indebted to you for this arrest. she shall be kept out of your way as long as i have power to do so." "then i shall find her," said jack. "she is somewhere in the city, and i'll find her sooner or later." peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great disappointment to her. it interfered with a plan she had of making a large sum out of ida. to understand what this was, we must go back a day or two, and introduce a new character. chapter xxxi mr. john somerville jack's appearance on the scene had set mrs. hardwick to thinking. this was the substance of her reflections: ida, whom she had kidnaped for certain reasons of her own, was likely to prove an incumbrance rather than a source of profit. the child, her suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. under these circumstances peg bethought herself of the ultimate object which she had proposed to herself in kidnaping ida--that of extorting money from a man who has not hitherto figured in our story. john somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging house in walnut street. a man wanting yet several years of forty, he looked many years older than that age. late hours and dissipated habits, though kept within respectable limits, left their traces on his face. at twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with some professional income--for he was a lawyer, and not without ability--was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a considerable surplus every year. but latterly he had contracted a passion for gaming, and, shrewd though he might be naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily _habitues_ of the gaming table, who had marked him for their prey. the evening before his introduction to the reader he had passed till a late hour at a fashionable gaming house, where he had lost heavily. his reflections on waking were not the most pleasant. for the first time within fifteen years he realized the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. the evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his iou. where to raise the money he did not know. after making his toilet, he rang the bell and ordered breakfast. for this he had but scanty appetite. he drank a cup of coffee and ate part of a roll. scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor. "is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing that it might be a creditor. he occasionally had such visitors. "no, sir." "a lady?" "no, sir." "a child? but what could a child want of me?" "no, sir. it isn't a child," said the servant, in reply. "then if it's neither a gentleman, lady nor child," said somerville, "will you have the goodness to inform me what sort of a being it is?" "it's a woman, sir," answered the servant, his gravity unmoved. "why didn't you say so when i asked you?" "because you asked me if it was a lady, and this isn't--leastways she don't look like one." "you can send her up, whoever she is," said somerville. a moment afterward peg entered his presence. john somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. so many years had passed since he had met with this woman that she had passed out of his remembrance. "do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked. "you must be quick, for i am just going out." "you don't seem to recognize me, mr. somerville." "i can't say i do," he replied, carelessly. "perhaps you used to wash for me once." "i am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman, proudly. "in that case," said somerville, languidly, "you will have to tell me who you are, for it is quite out of my power to remember all the people i meet." "perhaps the name of ida will assist your recollection; or have you forgotten that name, too?" "ida!" repeated john somerville, throwing off his indifferent manner, and surveying the woman's features attentively. "yes." "i have known several persons of that name," he said, recovering his former indifferent manner. "i haven't the slightest idea to which of them you refer. you don't look as if it was your name," he added, with a laugh. "the ida i mean was and is a child," she said. "but there's no use in beating about the bush, mr. somerville, when i can come straight to the point. it is now about seven years since my husband and myself were employed to carry off a child--a female child of a year old--named ida. you were the man who employed us." she said this deliberately, looking steadily in his face. "we placed it, according to your directions, on the doorstep of a poor family in new york, and they have since cared for it as their own. i suppose you have not forgotten that?" "i remember it," he said, "and now recall your features. how have you fared since i employed you? have you found your business profitable?" "far from it," answered peg. "i am not yet able to retire on a competence." "one of your youthful appearance," said somerville, banteringly, "ought not to think of retiring under ten years." "i don't care for compliments," she said, "even when they are sincere. as for my youthful appearance, i am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood." "compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business brought you here?" "i want a thousand dollars," said peg, abruptly. "a thousand dollars!" repeated somerville. "very likely. i should like that amount myself. did you come here to tell me that?" "i have come here to ask you to give me that amount." "have you a husband?" "yes." "then let me suggest that your husband is the proper person to apply to in such a case." "i think i am more likely to get it out of you," said peg, coolly. "my husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were willing." "much as i am flattered by your application," said somerville, with a polite sneer, "since it would seem to place me next in estimation to your husband, i cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent rendered." "i am ready to give you an equivalent." "of what nature?" "i am willing to be silent." "and how can your silence benefit me?" "that you will be best able to estimate." "explain yourself, and bear in mind that i can bestow little time on you." "i can do that in a few words. you employed me to kidnap a child. i believe the law has something to say about that. at any rate, the child's mother may have." "what do you know about the child's mother?" demanded somerville, hastily. "all about her!" said peg, emphatically. "how am i to credit that? it is easy to claim a knowledge you do not possess." "shall i tell you the whole story, then? in the first place, she married your cousin, after rejecting you. you never forgave her for this. when, a year after marriage, her husband died, you renewed your proposals. they were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain of forfeiting her friendship forever. you left her presence, determined to be revenged. with this object you sought dick and myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. there is the whole story, briefly told." "woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, hoarsely. "that is of no consequence," said peg. "it was for my interest to find out, and i did so." "well?" "i know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. i hesitated this morning whether to come here, or to carry ida to her mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what i demand from you because it is for your interest to comply with my request." "you speak of carrying the child to her mother. how can you do that when she is in new york?" "you are mistaken," said peg, coolly. "she is in philadelphia." john somerville paced the room with hurried steps. peg felt that she had succeeded. he paused after a while, and stood before her. "you demand a thousand dollars," he said. "i do." "i have not that amount with me. i have recently lost a heavy sum, no matter how. but i can probably get it to-day. call to-morrow at this time--no, in the afternoon, and i will see what i can do for you." "very well," said the woman, well satisfied. left to himself, john somerville spent some time in reflection. difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it hard to find a way of escape. he knew how difficult it would be to meet this woman's demand. gradually his countenance lightened. he had decided what that something should be. when peg left john somerville's apartments, it was with a high degree of satisfaction at the result of the interview. all had turned out as she wished. she looked upon the thousand dollars as already hers. the considerations which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every effort to secure her silence. then, with a thousand dollars, what might not be done? she would withdraw from the business, for one thing. it was too hazardous. why might not dick and she retire to the country, lease a country inn, and live an honest life hereafter? there were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at present. it would be pleasant to go to some place where they were not known, and enroll themselves among the respectable members of the community. she was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home. her early years had been passed in the country. she remembered still the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman, old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return. but her dream was rudely broken by her encounter with the officers of the law at the house of her employer. chapter xxxii a providential meeting "by gracious, if that isn't ida!" exclaimed jack, in profound surprise. he had been sauntering along chestnut street, listlessly troubled by the thought that though he had given mrs. hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his young ward than before. what steps should he take to find her? he could not decide. in his perplexity his eyes rested suddenly upon the print of the "flower girl." "yes," he said, "that is ida, fast enough. perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found." he at once entered the store. "can you tell me anything about the girl in that picture?" he asked, abruptly, of the nearest clerk. "it is a fancy picture," he said. "i think you would need a long time to find the original." "it has taken a long time," said jack. "but you are mistaken. that is a picture of my sister." "of your sister!" repeated the salesman, with surprise, half incredulous. "yes," persisted jack. "she is my sister." "if it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is." jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. her eyes also were fixed upon the "flower girl." "who is this?" she asked, in visible excitement. "is it taken from life?" "this young man says it is his sister," said the clerk. "your sister?" repeated the lady, her eyes fixed inquiringly upon jack. in her tone there was a mingling both of surprise and disappointment. "yes, madam," answered jack, respectfully. "pardon me," she said, "there is very little personal resemblance. i should not have suspected that you were her brother." "she is not my own sister," explained jack, "but i love her just the same." "do you live in philadelphia? could i see her?" asked the lady, eagerly. "i live in new york, madam," said jack; "but ida was stolen from us about three weeks since, and i have come here in pursuit of her. i have not been able to find her yet." "did you call her ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation. "yes, madam." "my young friend," said the woman, rapidly, "i have been much interested in the story of your sister. i should like to hear more, but not here. would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? then we will together concert measures for recovering her." "you are very kind, madam," said jack, bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with a lady of her social position. "i shall be glad to go home with you, and shall be very much obliged for your advice and assistance." "then we will drive home at once." with natural gallantry, jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself. "home, thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible." "yes, madam." "how old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked mrs. clifton. jack afterward ascertained that this was her name. "about a year old, madam." "and how long since was that?" asked the lady, waiting for the answer with breathless interest. "seven years since. she is now eight." "it must be," murmured the lady, in low tones. "if it is indeed, as i hope, my life will indeed be blessed." "did you speak, madam?" "tell me under what circumstances your family adopted her." jack related briefly how ida had been left at their door in her infancy. "and do you recollect the month in which this happened?" "it was at the close of december, the night before new year's." "it is, it must be she!" ejaculated mrs. clifton, clasping her hands, while tears of joy welled from her eyes. "i--i don't understand," said jack, naturally astonished. "my young friend," said the lady, "our meeting this morning seems providential. i have every reason to believe that this child--your adopted sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which i speak. from that day to this i have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. i have long taught myself to think of her as dead." it was jack's turn to be surprised. he looked at the lady beside him. she was barely thirty. the beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. there was the same dazzling complexion, the same soft flush upon the cheeks. the eyes, too, were wonderfully like ida's. jack looked, and as he looked he became convinced. "you must be right," he said. "ida is very much like you." "you think so?" said mrs. clifton, eagerly. "yes, madam." "i had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of ida just before i lost her; i have treasured it carefully. i must show it to you when we get to my house." the carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. the driver dismounted and opened the door. jack assisted mrs. clifton to alight. bashfully our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which excited his admiration and wonder. he had little time to look about him, for mrs. clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand. "can you remember ida when she was first brought to your house?" she asked. "did she look anything like this picture?" "it is her image," answered jack, decidedly. "i should know it anywhere." "then there can be no further doubt," said mrs. clifton. "it is my child you have cared for so long. oh! why could i not have known it before? how many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! but god be thanked for this late blessing! i shall see my child again." "i hope so, madam. we must find her." "what is your name, my young friend?" "my name is harding--jack harding." "jack?" repeated the lady, smiling. "yes, madam; that is what they call me. it would not seem natural to be called john." "very well," said mrs. clifton, with a smile which went to jack's heart at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than ida; "as ida is your adopted sister--" "i call her my ward. i am her guardian, you know." "you are a young guardian. but, as i was about to say, that makes us connected in some way, doesn't it? i won't call you mr. harding, for that would sound too formal. i will call you jack." "i wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride. it almost upset him to be called jack by a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to jack could not be exceeded even by royal state. had mrs. clifton been queen victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already. "now, jack," said mrs. clifton, in a friendly manner which delighted our hero, "we must take measures to discover ida immediately. i want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far toward finding her." jack began at the beginning and described the appearance of mrs. hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to philadelphia. he spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to where ida was concealed. mrs. clifton listened attentively and anxiously. there were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed. "can you think of any plan, jack?" she asked, anxiously. "yes, madam," answered jack. "the man who painted the picture of ida may know where she is to be found." "you are right," said the lady. "i will act upon your hint. i will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print store." an hour later henry bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of seventeen. "i think you are the artist who designed 'the flower girl,'" said mrs. clifton. "i am, madam." "it was taken from life?" "you are right." "i am anxious to find the little girl whose face you copied. can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her?" "i will accompany you to the place where she lives, if you desire it, madam," said the young artist, politely. "it is a strange neighborhood in which to look for so much beauty." "i shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said mrs. clifton. "my carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders." once more they were on the move. in due time the carriage paused. the driver opened the door. he was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his mistress to such a place. "this can't be the place, madam," he said. "yes," said the artist. "do not get out, mrs. clifton. i will go in, and find out all that is needful." two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed. "we are too late," he said. "an hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child." mrs. clifton sank back in her seat in keen disappointment. "my child! my child!" she murmured. "shall i ever see thee again?" jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. he could not conjecture what gentleman could have carried away ida. the affair seemed darker and mere complicated than ever. chapter xxxiii ida is found ida was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. peg had gone out, and, not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. she had left some work for the child--some handkerchiefs to hem for dick--with strict orders to keep steadily at work. while seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door. "who's there?" asked ida. "a friend," was the reply. "mrs. hardwick--peg--isn't at home," returned ida. "then i will come in and wait till she comes back," answered the voice outside. "i can't open the door," said the child. "it's fastened outside." "yes, so i see. then i will take the liberty to draw the bolt." mr. john somerville opened the door, and for the first time in seven years his glance fell upon the child whom for so long a time he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness. ida returned to the window. "how beautiful she is!" thought somerville, with surprise. "she inherits all her mother's rare beauty." on the table beside ida was a drawing. "whose is this?" he inquired. "mine," answered ida. "so you have learned to draw?" "a little," answered the child, modestly. "who taught you? not the woman you live with?" "no," said ida. "you have not always lived with her, i am sure?" "no, sir." "you lived in new york with a family named harding, did you not?" "do you know father and mother?" asked ida, with sudden hope. "did they send you for me?" "i will tell you that by and by, my child. but i want to ask you a few questions first. why does this woman, peg, lock you in whenever she goes away?" "i suppose," said ida, "she is afraid i'll run away." "then she knows you don't want to live with her?" "oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "i have asked her to take me home, but she says she won't for a year." "and how long have you been with her?" "about three weeks, but it seems a great deal longer." "what does she make you do?" "i can't tell what she made me do first." "why not?" "because she would be very angry." "suppose i should promise to deliver you from her, would you be willing to go with me?" "and you would carry me back to my father and mother?" asked ida, eagerly. "certainly, i would restore you to your mother," was the evasive reply. "then i will go with you." ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl. "we had better go at once," said somerville. "peg might return, you know, and then there would be trouble." "oh, yes, let us go quickly," said ida, turning pale at the remembered threats of peg. neither knew as yet that peg could not return if she would; that, at this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious nature. still less did ida know that in going she was losing the chance of seeing jack and her real mother, of whose existence, even, she was not yet aware; and that this man, whom she looked upon as her friend, was in reality her worst enemy. "i will conduct you to my own rooms, in the first place," said her companion. "you must remain in concealment for a day or two, as peg will undoubtedly be on the look-out for you, and we want to avoid all trouble." ida was delighted with her escape, and with the thoughts of soon seeing her friends in new york. she put implicit faith in her guide, and was willing to submit to any conditions which he saw fit to impose. at length they reached his lodgings. they were furnished more richly than any room ida had yet seen; and formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and scantily furnished apartment which she had occupied since her arrival in philadelphia. "well, you are glad to get away from peg?" asked john somerville, giving ida a comfortable seat. "oh, so glad!" said ida. "and you wouldn't care about going back?" the child shuddered. "i suppose," she said, "peg will be very angry. she would beat me, if she got me back again." "but she shan't. i will take good care of that." ida looked her gratitude. her heart went out to those who appeared to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion for delivering her from peg. "now," said somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what it was peg required you to do." "yes," said ida; "but she must never know that i told." "i promise not to tell her." "it was to pass bad money." "ha!" exclaimed her companion, quickly. "what sort of bad money?" "it was bad bills." "did she do much in that way?" "a good deal. she goes out every day to buy things with the money." "i am glad to learn this," said john somerville, thoughtfully. "why?" asked ida, curiously; "are you glad she is wicked?" "i am glad, because she won't dare to come for you, knowing i can have her put in prison." "then i am glad, too." "ida," said her companion, after a pause, "i am obliged to go out for a short time. you will find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading. i won't make you sew, as peg did," he added, smiling. "i like to read," she said. "i shall enjoy myself very well." "if you get tired of reading, you can draw. you will find plenty of paper on my desk." mr. somerville went out, and ida, as he had recommended, read for a time. then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. a carriage was passing up the street slowly, on account of a press of other carriages. ida saw a face that she knew. forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy, she ran down the stairs into the street, and up to the carriage window. "oh! jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?" it was mrs. clifton's carriage, just returning from peg's lodgings. "why, it's ida!" exclaimed jack, almost springing through the window of the carriage in his excitement. "where did you come from, and where have you been all this time?" he opened the door of the carriage and drew ida in. "my child, my child! thank god, you are restored to me!" exclaimed mrs. clifton. she drew the astonished child to her bosom. ida looked up into her face in bewilderment. was it nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace? "my god! i thank thee!" murmured mrs. clifton, "for this, my child, was lost, and is found." "ida," said jack, "this lady is your mother." "my mother!" repeated the astonished child. "have i got two mothers?" "this is your real mother. you were brought to our house when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but this lady is your real mother." ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. "and you are not my brother, jack?" "no, i am your guardian," said jack, smiling. "you shall still consider him your brother, ida," said mrs. clifton. "heaven forbid that i should seek to wean your heart from the friends who have cared so kindly for you! you may keep all your old friends, and love them as dearly as ever. you will only have one friend the more." "where are we going?" asked ida, suddenly. "we are going home." "what will the gentleman say?" "what gentleman?" "the one that took me away from peg's. why, there he is now!" mrs. clifton followed the direction of ida's finger, as she pointed to a gentleman passing. "is he the one?" asked mrs. clifton, in surprise. "yes, mamma," answered ida, shyly. mrs. clifton pressed ida to her bosom. it was the first time she had ever been called mamma, for when ida had been taken from her she was too young to speak. the sudden thrill which this name excited made her realize the full measure of her present happiness. arrived at the house, jack's bashfulness returned. even ida's presence did not remove it. he hung back, and hesitated about going in. mrs. clifton observed this. "jack," she said, "this house is to be your home while you are in philadelphia. come in, and thomas shall go for your luggage." "perhaps i had better go with him," said jack. "uncle abel will be glad to know that ida is found." "very well; only return soon. as you are ida's guardian," she added, smiling, "you will need to watch over her." "well!" thought jack, as he re-entered the elegant carriage, and gave the proper direction to the coachman, "won't uncle abel be a little surprised when he sees me coming home in this style! mrs. clifton's a trump! maybe that ain't exactly the word, but ida's in luck anyhow." chapter xxxiv never too late to mend meanwhile peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. it was certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was likely to make it most profitable. after some reflection she determined to send for mrs. clifton, and reveal to her all she knew, trusting to her generosity for a recompense. to one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to mrs. clifton, absolutely refusing to make it unless the lady would visit her in prison. scarcely had mrs. clifton returned home after recovering her child, than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced. "is this mrs. clifton?" he inquired. "it is." "then i have a message for you." the lady looked at him inquiringly. "let me introduce myself, madam, as one of the officers connected with the city prison. a woman was placed in confinement this morning, who says she has a most important communication to make to you, but declines to make it except to you in person." "can you bring her here, sir?" "that is impossible. we will give you every facility, however, for visiting her in prison." "it must be peg," whispered ida--"the woman that carried me off." such a request mrs. clifton could not refuse. she at once made ready to accompany the officer. she resolved to carry ida with her, fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she might disappear again as before. as jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they proceeded at once to the prison. ida shuddered as she passed within the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many. "this way, madam!" they followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came to the cell in which peg was confined. peg looked up in surprise when she saw ida enter with mrs. clifton. "what brought you two together?" she asked, abruptly. "a blessed providence," answered mrs. clifton. "i saw jack with her," said ida, "and i ran out into the street. i didn't expect to find my mother." "there is not much for me to tell, then," said peg. "i had made up my mind to restore you to your mother. you see, ida, i've moved," she continued, smiling grimly. "oh, peg," said ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's misfortunes, "how sorry i am to find you here!" "are you sorry?" asked peg, looking at her in curious surprise. "you haven't much cause to be. i've been your worst enemy; at any rate, one of the worst." "i can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine compassion. "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go out into the bright sunshine. i do pity you." peg's heart was not wholly hardened. few are. but it was long since it had been touched, as now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one whom she had injured. "you're a good girl, ida," she said, "and i'm sorry i've injured you. i didn't think i should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but i do ask your forgiveness." the child rose, and advancing toward her old enemy, took her large hand in hers and said: "i forgive you, peg." "from your heart?" "with all my heart." "thank you, child. i feel better now. there have been times when i have thought i should like to lead a better life." "it is not too late now, peg." peg shook her head. "who will trust me when i come out of here?" she said. "i will," said mrs. clifton. "you will?" repeated peg, amazed. "yes." "after all i have done to harm you! but i am not quite so bad as you may think. it was not my plan to take ida from you. i was poor, and money tempted me." "who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?" asked the mother. "one whom you know well--mr. john somerville." "surely you are wrong!" exclaimed mrs. clifton, in unbounded astonishment. "that cannot be. what object could he have?" "can you think of none?" queried peg, looking at her shrewdly. mrs. clifton changed color. "perhaps so," she said. "go on." peg told the whole story, so circumstantially that there was no room for doubt. "i did not believe him capable of such great wickedness," ejaculated mrs. clifton, with a pained and indignant look. "it was a base, unmanly revenge to take. how could you lend yourself to it?" "how could i?" repeated peg. "madam, you are rich. you have always had whatever wealth could procure. how can such as you understand the temptations of the poor? when want and hunger stare us in the face we have not the strength that you have in your luxurious homes." "pardon me," said mrs. clifton, touched by these words, half bitter, half pathetic. "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you have done me now. when you are released from your confinement come to me. if you wish to change your mode of life, and live honestly henceforth, i will give you the chance." "after all the injury i have done you, you are yet willing to trust me?" "who am i that i should condemn you? yes, i will trust you, and forgive you." "i never expected to hear such words," said peg, her heart softened, and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion; "least of all from you. i should like to ask one thing." "what is it?" "will you let her come and see me sometimes?" pointing to ida as she spoke. "it will remind me that this is not all a dream--these words which you have spoken." "she shall come," said mrs. clifton, "and i will come too, sometimes." "thank you." they left the prison behind them, and returned home. there was a visitor awaiting them. "mr. somerville is in the drawing room," said the servant. "he said he would wait till you came in." mrs. clifton's face flushed. "i will go down and see him," she said. "ida, you will remain here." she descended to the drawing room, and met the man who had injured her. he had come with the resolve to stake his all upon one desperate cast. his fortunes were desperate. but he had one hope left. through the mother's love for the daughter, whom she had mourned so long, whom as he believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to a marriage which would retrieve his fortunes and gratify his ambition. mrs. clifton entered the room, and seated herself quietly. she bowed slightly, but did not, as usual, offer her hand. but, full of his own plans, mr. somerville took no note of this change in her manner. "how long is it since ida was lost?" inquired somerville, abruptly. mrs. clifton heard this question in surprise. why was it that he had alluded to this subject? "seven years," she answered. "and you believe she yet lives?" "yes, i am certain of it." john somerville did not understand her. he thought it was only because a mother is reluctant to give up hope. "it is a long time," he said. "it is--a long time to suffer," said mrs. clifton, with deep meaning. "how could anyone have the heart to work me this great injury? for seven years i have led a sad and solitary life--seven years that might have been gladdened and cheered by my darling's presence!" there was something in her tone that puzzled john somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting that she knew the truth, and at last knew him too. "rosa," he said, after a pause, "i, too, believe that ida still lives. do you love her well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?" "what sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eye upon him. "a sacrifice of your feelings." "explain. you speak in enigmas." "listen, then. i have already told you that i, too, believe ida to be living. indeed, i have lately come upon a clew which i think will lead me to her. withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your hand if i succeed, and i will devote myself to the search for ida, resting not day or night till i have placed her in your arms. this i am ready to do. if i succeed, may i claim my reward?" "what reason have you for thinking you would be able to find her?" asked mrs. clifton, with the same inexplicable manner. "the clew that i spoke of." "and are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?" "no, rosa," he answered, firmly, "i am not unselfish enough. i have long loved you. you may not love me; but i am sure i can make you happy. i am forced to show myself selfish, since it is the only way in which i can win you." "but consider a moment. put it on a different ground. if you restore me my child now, will not even that be a poor atonement for the wrong you did me seven years since"--she spoke rapidly now--"for the grief, and loneliness, and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?" "i do not understand you," he said, faltering. "it is sufficient explanation, mr. somerville, to say i have seen the woman who is now in prison--your paid agent--and that i need no assistance to recover ida. she is in my house." "confusion!" he uttered only this word, and, rising, left the presence of the woman whom he had so long deceived and injured. his grand scheme had failed. chapter xxxv jack's return it is quite time to return to new york, from which ida was carried but three short weeks before. "i am beginning to feel anxious about jack," said mrs. harding. "it's more than a week since we heard from him. i'm afraid he's got into some trouble." "probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper, wishing to relieve his wife's anxiety, though he, too, was not without anxiety. "i told you so," said rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression. "i told you jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an errand. if you'd only taken my advice you wouldn't have had so much worry and trouble about him now. most likely he's got into the house of reformation, or somewhere. i knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again. nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river half eaten by fishes." "how can you talk so, rachel?" said mrs. harding, "and about your own nephew, too?" "this is a world of trial and disappointment," said rachel, "and we might as well expect the worst, for it's sure to come." "at that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said timothy. "no, rachel, you are wrong. god did not send us into the world to be melancholy. he wants us to enjoy ourselves. now, i have no idea that jack has jumped into the river, or become food for the fishes. even if he should happen to tumble in, he can swim." "i suppose," said rachel, with mild sarcasm, "you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing ida with him." "well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "that's a good deal better to anticipate than your suggestion, and i don't know but it's as probable." rachel shook her head dismally. "bless me!" interrupted mrs. harding, looking out of the window, in a tone of excitement, "there's a carriage just stopped at the door, and--yes, it is jack and ida, too!" the strange fulfillment of her own ironical suggestion struck even aunt rachel. she, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two, standing before the door. jack had already jumped out, and was now assisting ida to alight. no sooner was ida on firm ground than she ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her adopted mother. "oh, mother," she exclaimed, "how glad i am to see you once more!" "haven't you a kiss for me, too, ida?" said the cooper, his face radiant with joy. "you don't know how much we've missed you." "and i am so glad to see you all, and aunt rachel too!" to her astonishment, aunt rachel, for the first time in her remembrance, kissed her. there was nothing wanting to her welcome home. but the observant eyes of the spinster detected what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy at ida's return. "where did you get this handsome dress, ida?" she asked. then, for the first time, the cooper's family noticed that ida was more elegantly dressed than when she went away. she looked like a young princess. "that mrs. hardwick didn't give you this gown, i'll be bound!" said aunt rachel. "oh, i've so much to tell you," said ida, breathlessly. "i've found my mother--my other mother!" a pang struck to the honest hearts of timothy harding and his wife. ida must leave them. after all the happy years which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length. while they were silent in view of their threatened loss, an elegantly dressed lady appeared on the threshold. smiling, radiant with happiness, mrs. clifton seemed, to the cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere. "mother," said ida, taking the hand of the stranger, and leading her up to mrs. harding, "this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me, and loved me so well." "mrs. harding," said mrs, clifton, her voice full of feeling, "how can i ever thank you for your kindness to my child?" "my child!" it was hard for mrs. harding to hear another speak of ida this way. "i have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply. "i love her as if she were my own." "yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, "we love her so much that we almost forgot that she wasn't ours. we have had her since she was a baby, and it won't be easy at first to give her up." "my good friends," said mrs. clifton, earnestly, "i acknowledge your claim. i shall not think of asking you to make that sacrifice. i shall always think of ida as only a little less yours than mine." the cooper shook his head. "but you live in philadelphia," he said. "we shall lose sight of her." "not unless you refuse to come to philadelphia, too." "i am a poor man. perhaps i might not find work there." "that shall be my care, mr. harding. i have another inducement to offer. god has bestowed upon me a large share of this world's goods. i am thankful for it since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of your great kindness to ida. i own a neat brick house, in a quiet street, which you will find more comfortable than this. just before i left philadelphia, my lawyer, by my directions, drew up a deed of gift, conveying the house to you. it is ida's gift, not mine. ida, give this to mr. harding." the child took the parchment and handed it to the cooper, who took it mechanically, quite bewildered by his sudden good fortune. "this for me?" he said. "it is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not be the last," said mrs. clifton. "how shall i thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "to a poor man, like me, this is a most munificent gift." "you will best thank me by accepting it," said mrs. clifton. "let me add, for i know it will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only five minutes' walk from my house, and ida will come and see you every day." "yes, mamma," said ida. "i couldn't be happy away from father and mother, and jack and aunt rachel." "you must introduce me to aunt rachel," said mrs. clifton, with a grace all her own. ida did so. "i am glad to make your acquaintance, miss rachel," said mrs. clifton. "i need not say that i shall be glad to see you, as well as mr. and mrs. harding, at my house very frequently." "i'm much obleeged to ye," said aunt rachel; "but i don't think i shall live long to go anywheres. the feelin's i have sometimes warn me that i'm not long for this world." "you see, mrs. clifton," said jack, his eyes dancing with mischief, "we come of a short-lived family. grandmother died at eighty-two, and that wouldn't give aunt rachel long to live." "you impudent boy!" exclaimed aunt rachel, in great indignation. then, relapsing into melancholy: "i'm a poor, afflicted creetur, and the sooner i leave this scene of trial the better." "i'm afraid, mrs. clifton," said jack, "aunt rachel won't live to wear that silk dress you brought along. i'd take it myself, but i'm afraid it wouldn't be of any use to me." "a silk dress!" exclaimed rachel, looking up with sudden animation. it had long been her desire to have a new silk dress, but in her brother's circumstances she had not ventured to hint at it. "yes," said mrs. clifton, "i ventured to purchase dresses for both of the ladies. jack, if it won't be too much trouble, will you bring them in?" jack darted out, and returned with two ample patterns of heavy black silk, one for his mother, the other for his aunt. aunt rachel would not have been human if she had not eagerly examined the rich fabric with secret satisfaction. she inwardly resolved to live a little longer. there was a marked improvement in her spirits, and she indulged in no prognostications of evil for an unusual period. mrs. clifton and ida stopped to supper, and before they returned to the hotel an early date was fixed upon for the hardings to remove to philadelphia. in the evening jack told the eventful story of his adventures to eager listeners, closing with the welcome news that he was to receive the reward of a thousand dollars offered for the detection of the counterfeiters. "so you see, father, i am a man of fortune!" he concluded. "after all, rachel, it was a good thing we sent jack to philadelphia," said the cooper. rachel did not notice this remark. she was busily discussing with her sister-in-law the best way of making up her new silk. chapter xxxvi conclusion as soon as arrangements could be made, mr. harding and his whole family removed to philadelphia. the house which mrs. clifton had given them exceeded their anticipations. it was so much better and larger than their former dwelling that their furniture would have appeared to great disadvantage in it. but mrs. clifton had foreseen this, and they found the house already furnished for their reception. even aunt rachel was temporarily exhilarated in spirits when she was ushered into the neatly furnished chamber which was assigned to her use. through mrs. clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working himself for hire. ida was such a frequent visitor that it was hard to tell which she considered her home--her mother's elegant residence, or the cooper's comfortable dwelling. jack put his thousand dollars into a savings bank, to accumulate till he should be ready to go into business for himself, and required it as capital. a situation was found for him in a merchant's counting-room, and in due time he was admitted into partnership and became a thriving young merchant. ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare beauty and attractive manners caused her to be sought after. it may be that some of my readers are expecting that she will marry jack; but they will probably be disappointed. they are too much like brother and sister for such a relation to be thought of. jack reminds her occasionally of the time when she was his little ward, and he was her guardian and protector. one day, as rachel was walking up chestnut street, she was astonished by a hearty grasp of the hand from a bronzed and weather-beaten stranger. "release me, sir," she said, hysterically. "what do you mean by such conduct?" "surely you have not forgotten your old friend, capt. bowling," said the stranger. rachel brightened up. "i didn't remember you at first," she said, "but now i do." "now tell me, how are all your family?" "they are all well, all except me--i don't think i am long for this world." "oh, yes, you are. you are too young to think of leaving us yet," said capt. bowling, heartily. rachel was gratified by this unusual compliment. "are you married?" asked capt. bowling, abruptly. "i shall never marry," she said. "i shouldn't dare to trust my happiness to a man." "not if i were that man?" said the captain, persuasively. "oh, capt. bowling!" murmured rachel, agitated. "how can you say such things?" "i'll tell you why, miss harding. i'm going to give up the sea, and settle down on land. i shall need a good, sensible wife, and if you'll take me, i'll make you mrs. bowling at once." "this is so unexpected, capt. bowling," said rachel; but she did not look displeased. "do you think it would be proper to marry so suddenly?" "it will be just the thing to do. now, what do you say--yes or no." "if you really think it will be right," faltered the agitated spinster. "then it's all settled?" "what will timothy say?" "that you've done a sensible thing." two hours later, leaning on capt. bowling's arm, mrs. rachel bowling re-entered her brother's house. "why, rachel, where have you been?" asked mrs. harding, and she looked hard at rachel's companion. "this is my consort, capt. bowling," said rachel, nervously. "this is mrs. bowling, ma'am," said the captain. "when were you married?" asked the cooper. it was dinner time, and both he and jack were at home. "only an hour ago. we'd have invited you, but time was pressing." "i thought you never meant to be married, aunt rachel," said jack, mischievously. "i--i don't expect to live long, and it won't make much difference," said rachel. "you'll have to consult me about that," said capt. bowling. "i don't want you to leave me a widower too soon." "i propose that we drink mrs. bowling's health," said jack. "can anybody tell me why she's like a good ship?" "because she's got a good captain," said mrs. harding. "that'll do, mother; but there's another reason--because she's well manned." capt. bowling evidently appreciated the joke, judging from his hearty laughter. he added that it wouldn't be his fault if she wasn't well rigged, too. the marriage has turned out favorably. the captain looks upon his wife as a superior woman, and rachel herself has few fits of depression nowadays. they have taken a small house near mr. harding's, and rachel takes no little pride in her snug and comfortable home. one word more. at the close of her term of imprisonment, peg came to mrs. clifton and reminded her of her promise. dick was dead, and she was left alone in the world. imprisonment had not hardened her, as it often does. she had been redeemed by the kindness of those whom she had injured. mrs. clifton found her a position, in which her energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she leads a laborious and useful life in a community where her history is not known. as for john somerville, with the last remnants of a once handsome fortune, he purchased a ticket to australia, and set out on a voyage for that distant country. but he never reached his destination. the vessel was wrecked in a violent storm, and he was not among the four that were saved. henceforth ida and her mother are far from his evil machinations, and we may confidently hope for them a happy and peaceful life. the next volume in this series will be shifting for himself. file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. html version by al haines. owindia: _a true tale of the mackenzie river indians_, north-west america. by charlotte selina bompas the story of owindia. a pretty open spot on the bank of the great mackenzie river was the place where owindia first saw light. one of the universal pine forests formed the back ground, while low shrubs and willows, with a pleasant, green carpet of mossy grass, were the immediate surroundings of the camp. the banks of the mackenzie often rise to a height of sixty feet above the river. this was the case in the spot where michel the hunter had pitched his tent, or "lodge" as it is called. a number of other indians were camped near, led thither by the fish which is so abundant in our northern rivers, and which proves a seldom failing resource when the moose or reindeer go off their usual track. the woods also skirting the river furnish large supplies of rabbits, which even the indian children are taught to snare. beavers too are most numerous in this district, and are excellent food, while their furs are an important article of trade with the hudson bay company; bringing to the poor indian his much prized luxury of tea or tobacco, a warm blanket or ammunition. as the spring comes on the women of the camps will be busy making "sirop" from the birch trees, and dressing the skins of moose or deer which their husbands have killed in the chase. there are also the canoes to be made or repaired for use whenever the eight months' fetters of ice shall give way. thus we see the indian camps offer a pleasant spectacle of a contented and busy people; and if they lack the refinement and luxuries of more civilized communities, they have at all events this advantage,--they have never learnt to need them. michel, the indian, was a well-skilled, practised hunter. given a windy day, a good depth of snow, and one or two moose tracks on its fair surface, and there was not much chance of the noble beast's escape from michel's swift tread and steady aim. such is the excitement of moose-hunting; and such the intense acuteness of the moose-deer's sense of smell and hearing, that an indian hunter will often strip himself of every bit of clothing, and creep stealthily along on his snow-shoes, lest by the slightest sound he should betray his presence, and allow his prey to escape. and michel was as skilled a trapper as he was hunter; from the plump little musk-rat which he caught by the river brink to the valuable marten, sable, beaver, otter, skunk, &c., &c., he knew the ways and habits of each one; he would set his steel trap with as true an intuition as if he had received notice of the coming of his prey. many a silver fox had found himself outdone in sharpness and cunning by michel; many a lynx or wild cat had fought for dear life, and may-be, made _one_ escape from michel's snares, leaving perhaps one of its paws in token of its fierce struggle, yet had perished after all, being allured in some opposite direction by tempting bait, or irresistible scent laid by the same skilful hand. in bear hunting also michel was an adept, and he lacked not opportunity for this sport on the banks of the mackenzie. many a time would he and, perhaps, one other indian glide down the river in his swift canoe, and suddenly the keen observant eyes would detect a bear walking stealthily along by the side of the stream! in an instant the two men would exchange signals, paddles would be lifted, and, every movement stilled, the men slowly and 'cannily' would make for shore. in spite of all, however, bruin has heard them, he slakes his thirst no longer in the swift-running river nor feasts luxuriously on the berries growing by the shore. the woods are close at hand, and with a couple of huge strides he reaches them, and is making with increasing speed for his lair; but michel is his match for stealth and swiftness, and when one sense fails, another is summoned to his assistance. the eye can no longer see the prey, but the ear can yet detect here and there a broken twig revealing the exact track it has taken. with gun carried low, and treading on in breathless silence and attention, the hunters follow, and soon a shot is heard, succeeded by another, and then a shout which proclaims poor bruin's death. alas, that gun which has done such good service for his family, which was purchased by many a month's labour, and carefully chosen with an indian's observant eye: what misery and crime was it not to effect even in that very spot where now the little group of indians dwelt happy and peaceful, little dreaming of the deed of violence which would soon drive them panic-stricken from their homes! a very marked feature in the character of the indian is jealousy. how far the white man may be answerable, if not for the first impulse of this, at all events for its development, it were perhaps better not to inquire. the schoolboy is often first taught jealousy by the undisguised partiality for his more attractive or highly gifted companion, evinced by his teachers; the indians are at present in most respects but children, and they are keenly sensitive to the treatment they receive from those, who, in spite of many benefits bestowed, they cannot but look upon as invaders of their soil, and intruders upon some of their prerogatives. in our mission work we find this passion of jealousy often coming into play. it is most difficult to persuade the parents to trust us with their children, not because they doubt our care of them, but for fear of their children's affections being alienated from their own people. it is sometimes hard for the same reason to get the parents to bring their children to holy baptism: "you will give my boy another name, and he will not be 'like mine' any more." and michel the hunter was but an average type of the indian character; of a fiery, ardent nature, and unschooled affections, he never forgot a wrong done him in early youth by a white man. his sweetheart was taken from him, cruelly, heartlessly, mercilessly, during his absence, without note or sign or warning, while he was working with all energy to make a home for the little black-eyed maiden, who had promised to be his bride. if michel could but once have seen the betrayer to have given vent to his feelings of scorn, rage, and indignation! to have asked him, as he longed to ask him, if this was his christian faith, his boasted white man's creed! to have asked if in those thousand miles he had traversed to reach the red man's home, there were no girls suited to his mind, save only the one betrothed to indian michel! he would have asked, too, if it were not enough to invade his country, build houses, plant his barley and potatoes, and lay claim to his moose-deer and bear, his furs and peltries, but he must needs touch, with profane hands, his home treasures, and meddle with that which "even an indian" holds sacred? it might, perchance, have been better for michel if he could have spoken out and unburdened himself of his deep sense of wrong and injury, which from henceforth lay like a hot iron in his heart. the italian proverb says, "it is better to swear than to brood;" and whether this be true or not, it is certain that having to swallow his resentment, and endure his agony in silence, embittered michel's spirit, and made him the jealous, sensitive, taciturn man he afterwards became. and among many other consequences of his youth's tragedy was an unconquerable horror of the white man; not but that, after a time, he would work for a white man, and trade with him, so long as he need not look upon him. he would send even his wife (for michel took unto him a wife after some years) to fort simpson with his furs to trade, rather than trust himself in the neighbourhood of the "tene manula" (white man). once, it was said, that michel had even so far overcome his repugnance as to pitch his camp in the neighbourhood of fort simpson. he was a husband and a father then, and there were a number of indians encamped in the same locality. it might be hoped that under these circumstances the past would be forgotten, and that the man would bury his resentment, and extend a friendly hand to those, not a few, among the white men who wished him well; but jealousy is the "rage of a man." in the middle of the night michel roused his wife and little ones, declaring that the white man was coming to do them some mischief. bearing his canoe upon his head he soon launched it off, and in his mad haste to be away he even left a number of his chattels behind. only once more did michel appear at the fort, and that on a memorable occasion which neither he nor any who then beheld him will be likely to forget. it was on a dark, cold night in the winter of , that a dog-sleigh, laden with furs for the company, appeared at fort simpson, and having discharged his load at the fur store, the sleigh-driver, who was none other than accomba, the wife of indian michel, proceeded to the small "indian house," as it is called, to spend the rest of the night among her own people. she was a pleasing-looking young woman, with bright expressive eyes, and a rather melancholy cast of countenance. she was completely enveloped in a large green blanket, from the folds of which peeped over her shoulder an infant of a few months old, warm and comfortable in its moss-bag. a blessed institution is that of the moss-bag to the indian infant; and scarcely less so to the mother herself. yet, indeed, it requires no small amount of patience, skill, and labour before this northern luxury can be made ready for its tiny occupant. through a good part of the long winter nights has the mother worked at the fine bead-work which must adorn the whole front of the moss-bag. by a strange intuitive skill she has traced the flowers and leaves and delicate little tendrils, the whole presenting a marvellously artistic appearance, both in form and in well-combined colours. then must the moss be fetched to completely line the bag, and to form both bed and wrapping for the little one. for miles into the woods will the indian women hike to pick the soft moss which is only to be met with in certain localities. they will hang it out on bush and shrub to dry for weeks before it is wanted, and then trudge back again to bring it home, in cloths or blankets swung on their often already-burdened shoulders. then comes the picking and cleaning process, and thawing the now frozen moss before their camp fires. every leaf and twig must be removed, that nothing may hurt the little baby limbs. and now all is prepared; the sweet downy substance is spread out as pillow for the baby head, and both couch and covering for the rest of the body. then the bag is laced up tight, making its small tenant as warm and cozy as possible; only the little face appears--the bonnie, saucy indian baby face, singularly fair for the first few months of life, with the black bead-like eyes, and soft silken hair, thick even in babyhood. accomba threw off her blanket, and swinging round her baby, she seated herself on the floor by the side of the roaring fire, on which the friendly indians heaped billet after billet of fine dry wood, till the whole room was lighted up by the bright and cheerful blaze. it was not long before a number of other indians entered,--most unceremoniously, as indians are wont to do, and seated themselves in all parts of the room, for they had heard the sound of sleigh bells, and were at once curious to know the business of the new arrival. a universal hand-shaking took place, for all were friendly, being mostly of the same tribe, and more or less closely all connected. pipes were then lighted alike by men and women, and a kettle of tea was soon singing on the fire. accomba draws out from the recesses of her dog sleigh one or two huge ribs of dried meat, black and unsavoury to look at, but forming very good food for all that. this is portioned out among the assembled company; a bladder of grease is added, and seized with avidity by one of the party; a portion of this was then melted down and eaten with the dried meat; while the steaming tea, sipped out of small tin cups, and taken without sugar or milk, was the "loving cup" of that dark-visaged company. and far into the morning hours they sat sipping their favourite beverage, and discussing the last tidings from the woods. every item of news is interesting, whether from hunter's camp, or trapper's wigwam. there are births, marriages, and deaths, to be pondered over and commented upon; the indian has his chief, to whom he owes deference and vows allegiance; he has his party badge, both in religion and politics; what wonder then that even the long winter night of the north, seemed far too short for all the important knotty points which had to be discussed and settled! "you have had good times at the little lake," said peter, a brother of michel's, who was deliberately chewing a piece of dried meat held tight between his teeth, while with his pocketknife he severed its connection with the piece in his hand, to the imminent peril of his nose. "i wish i were a freedman: i should soon be off to the lake myself! i am sick of working for the company. i did not mind it when they set me to haul meat from the hunters, or to trap furs for them, but now they make me saw wood, or help the blacksmith at his dirty forge: what has a 'tene jua' to do with such things as these?" "and i am sick of starving!" said another. "this is the third winter that _something_ has failed us,--first the rabbits, then the fish ran short; and now we hear that the deer are gone into a new track, and there is not a sign of one for ten miles round the fort. and the meat is so low" added the last speaker, "that the 'big master' says he has but fifty pounds of dried meat in the store, and if indians don't come in by sunday, we are to be sent off to hunt for ourselves and the wives and children are to go to little lake where they may live on fish." "we have plenty of fish, it is true," said accomba; "we dried a good number last fall, besides having one net in the lake all the winter; but i would not leave the company, peter, if i were you,--you are better off here, man, in spite of your 'starving times!' you _do_ get your game every day, come what may, and a taste of flour every week, and a little barley and potatoes. i call that living like a 'big master.'" "i had rather be a free man and hunt for myself," put in another speaker; "the meat does not taste half so good when another hand than your own has killed it; and as for flour and barley and potatoes, well, our forefathers got on well enough without them before the white man came into our country, i suppose we should learn to do without them again? for my part, i like a roe cake as well as any white man's bread." "but the times are harder than they used to be for the tene jua (indian men) in the woods," said accomba with a sigh; "the deer and the moose go off the track more than they used to do; it is only at fort rae, on the big lake, that meat never seems to fail; for us poor mackenzie river people there is hardly a winter that we are far from starvation." "but you can always pick up something at the forts:" replied a former speaker; "the masters are not such bad men if we are really starving, and then there is the mission: we are not often turned away from the mission without a taste of something." "all very good for you," said michel's wife; "who like the white man and know how to take him, but my man will have nothing to say to him. the very sight of a pale face makes him feel bad, and sends him into one of his fits of rage and madness. oh, it has been dreadful, dreadful," continued the poor woman, while her voice melted into a truly indian wail, "for my children i kept alive, or else i would have thrown myself into the river many a time last year." "bah," said peter, who being the brother of michel, would, with true indian pertinacity, take part with him whatever were his offences; and, moreover, looking with his native instinct upon woman as the "creature" of society, whose duty it was to endure uncomplaining, whatever her masters laid upon her. "bah; you women are always grumbling and bewailing yourselves; for my part, if i have to starve a little, kulu (the meat) is all the sweeter when it comes. i suppose michel has killed enough to give you many a merry night, seated round the camp fire with some good fat ribs or a moose nose, and a fine kettle of tea; then you wrap yourself in your blanket, or light your pipe and feel like a 'big master.'" peter's picture of comfort and enjoyment pleased the indians, and they laughed heartily and testified their approval, all but poor accomba. she hung her head, and sadly fondled the baby at her breast. "you may laugh, boys," she said at length, "and you know what starving is as well as i do, though you are pretty well off now; it is not for myself i speak, i can bear that kind of thing as well as other women, but it comes hard for the children. before se tene, my man, killed his last moose, we were starving for nearly two moons; a little dried fish and a rat or two, and now and then a rabbit, was we got: even the fish failed for some time, and there was hardly a duck or partridge to be seen. we had to eat two of the dogs at last, but, poor things, they had little flesh on their bones." "eh! eh! e--h!" exclaimed the indians, who however undemonstrative under ordinary circumstances, can be full of sympathy where they can realize the affecting points of a story. "and the children," asked one of the party, "i suppose the neighbours helped you a little with them?" "one of my cousins took little tetsi for a while," replied the poor woman, "and did what she could for him, but they were all short of game as we were, only their men went off after the deer, and plenty, of them got to the lakes for duck; but michel,--" "well, what did he do? i suppose he was off with his gun the first of any of them?" said peter. "i'll venture there shall not be a moose or deer within twenty miles, but michel the hunter shall smell him out." "yes, he went at last," sighed accomba; "but my man has had one of his ugly fits upon him for all the winter; he would not hunt anywhere near the fort, for fear of meeting a white face; and he vowed i was making friends with them, and bidding them welcome to the camp, and so he was afraid to leave it; and then at last, when i begged him to go and get food for his children, he swore at me and called me a bad name, and took up his gun to shoot me." "oh, i suppose he only said that in sport," said another of the party; and yet it was plain that accomba's story had produced a great sensation among her auditors. "_in sport!_" exclaimed accomba, now fairly roused to excitement by the apparent incredulity of her listeners; "_in sport_, say you? no, no, michel knows well what he _says_, though sometimes i think he is hardly responsible for his actions; but look you, boys, my husband vowed to shoot me once, and i stayed his arm and fell on my knees and tried to rouse him to pity; but i will do so no more, and if he threatens me again i will let him accomplish his fell purpose, and not a cry or sound shall ever escape my lips. but you, tetsi," continued the poor woman, who was now fairly sobbing, "you are his brother, you might speak to him and try to bring him to reason; and if i die, you must take care of my poor children,--promise me that, tetsi and antoine, they are your own flesh and blood, do not let them starve. 'niotsi cho,' the great spirit will give it you back again." there was a great silence among the indians when accomba had finished speaking. an indian has great discernment, and not only can soon discover where the pathos of a story lies, but he will read as by intuition how much of it is true or false. moreover, michel's character was well known among them all, and his eccentricities had often excited their wonder and sometimes their censure. the poor woman's story appealed to each one of them: most of all did it appeal to the heart of sarcelle her brother, who was another occupant of the room that evening. "it is shocking, it is monstrous." exclaimed he at full length. "my sister, you shall come with me. i will work for you, i will hunt for you and your children. michel shall not threaten you again, he is a 'nakani' man; he does not know what he says or what he does, he is a bad 'nakani.'" "i think some one has made medicine on him," said another; "he is possessed, and will get worse till the spell is off him." this medicine making among the northern indians is one of the most firmly rooted of all their superstitions. the term is by no means well chosen or descriptive of the strange ungodly rite; it is in reality a charm or spell which one man is supposed to lay upon another. it is employed for various purposes and by different means of operations. you will hear of one man 'making medicine' to ascertain what time the company's boats may be expected, or when certain sledges of meat may come to the fort. another man is sick and the medicine-man is summoned, and a drum is beaten during the night with solemn monotonous 'tum, tum, tum', and certain confidential communications take place between the doctor and his patient, during which the sick man is supposed to divulge every secret he may possess, and on the perfect sincerity of his revelation must depend his recovery. the accompaniments of this strange scene vary according to circumstances. in some cases a basin of blood of some animal is made use of; in most instances a knife or dagger plays an important part. i have seen one of these, which, by-the-by, is most difficult to obtain, and can only be seen by special favour. it is made of bone or ivory, beautifully carved and notched at the edges, with various dots or devices upon it, and all, both dots and notches, arranged in groups of sevens! after some hours the spell may be supposed to work, the sick man feels better, the excitement of the medicine-man increases, all looks promising; yet at this moment should a white face enter the house or tent, still more, should he venture to touch either doctor or patient, the spell would be instantly broken, and the whole process must be commenced anew. the spell has been wrought upon a poor cree woman at ile la c. she is perfectly convinced as to who did her the injury, and also that it was her hands which it was intended should suffer. accordingly each spring, for some years past, her hands are rendered powerless by a foul-looking, scaly eruption, which comes over them. indians have been known to climb an almost inaccessible rock, and stripping themselves of every vestige of clothing, to lie there without food or drink, singing and invoking the wonder-worker until the revelation of some secret root was made known, by which their design for good or evil might be accomplished! a cree indian, a man of sound education, related once the following story:--"i was suffering in the year ----from great distress of body, and after seeing a doctor and feeling no better, i began to think i must be the victim of some medicine-man. i thought over my adventures of the last year or two, to discover if there were any who had reason to wish me evil. yes, there was one man, a swampy indian. i had quarrelled with him, and then we had had words; and i spoke, well, i spoke bitterly (which i ought not to have done, for he was the injured man) and he vowed to revenge himself upon me. this was some years since, however, and i had never given him a thought since the time of our quarrel, but now i was certain a spell was over me, and he must have wrought it,--i knew of no other enemy, and i was determined to overcome it or die. so i saddled my horse and rode across country for thirty miles till i reached the dwelling of the swampy. the man was outside, and started when he saw me, which convinced me more than ever that i was on the right scent. i put up my horse and followed my man into the house whither he had retreated; and wasting no time, came to the point at once. drawing my revolver and pointing it to his heart, 'villain,' i exclaimed, 'you have made medicine on me: tell me your secret or i shall shoot you dead.' i never saw a more cowed and more wretched-looking being than my man became. i expected at least some resistance to my command; but he offered none; for without attempting to stir or even look me in the face, he smiled a ghastly smile, and muttered, 'it has done its work then--well, i am glad! look in your horse-saddle, and never provoke me more.' i hesitated for a moment whether to loosen my hold upon the man, and to believe so improbable a story; but on the whole i deemed it better to do so. he had fulfilled his threat of revenge, and had caused me months of suffering in body and mind; he knew me well enough to be sure that i was in earnest when i told him that his life would be forfeited if the spell were not removed. so i released my hold and quitted the house. on cutting open my saddle i discovered that the whole original lining had been removed and replaced by an immense number of baneful roots and herbs, which i burnt on the spot. how this evil deed had been effected i could not even surmise, but so it was, and from that hour i was a different man--my mind recovered its equilibrium, i was no longer affected by pain and distress of body, or haunted by nightly visions. those who smile at the medicine-man, and are sceptical as to his power, may keep to their own opinions; i believe that the almighty has imbued many of his creatures, both animate and inanimate, with a subtle power for good or evil, and that it is given to some men to evoke that power and to bring about results which it is impossible for the uninitiated to foresee or to avert!" but we have wandered too far from accomba and her sad history. we must now transport the reader to that portion of the shores of the mackenzie which was described at the opening of our story. the scene indeed should be laid a few miles lower down the river than that at first described, but the aspect and condition of things is but little altered. a number of camps are there, pitched within some ten, twenty, and thirty yards of each other. the dark brown, smoke-tinted leather tents or lodges, have a certain air of comfort and peacefulness about them, which is in no wise diminished, by the smoke curling up from the aperture at the top, or the voices of children running in and out from the tent door. these are the tents of mackenzie river indians, speaking the slave tongue, and mostly known by name to the company's officers at the neighbouring forts or trading posts, known also to the bishop and clergy at the mission stations, who have often visited these indians and held services for them at their camps, or at the little english churches at fort simpson, fort norman, etc. etc., and those little dark-eyed children are, with but few exceptions, baptized christians. many of them have attended the mission schools for the few weeks in spring or fall, when their parents congregate round the forts; they can con over portions of their syllabic prayer-books, and find their place in the little hymn books, for "o come, all ye faithful," "alleluia! sing to jesus;" and "glory to thee, my god, this night," while such anthems as "i will arise," and others are as familiar to the slave indians as to our english children. yes, it is a christian community we are looking at; and yet, sad to say, it is in one of those homes that the dark deed was committed which left five little ones motherless, and spread terror and confusion among the whole camp. it was a lovely morning in may, . the ice upon the mackenzie river had but lately given way, having broken up with one tremendous crash. huge blocks were first hurled some distance down the river, then piled up one above another until they reached the summit of the bank fifty or sixty feet high, and being deposited there in huge unsightly masses, were left to thaw away drop by drop, a process which it would take some five or six weeks to accomplish. some of the men had lately returned from a bear hunt, being, however, disappointed of their prey--a matter of less consideration than usual, for bruin, being but lately roused from his long winter sleep, was in a less prime condition than he would be a few weeks later. michel, the hunter, had one of his "ugly fits" upon him;--this was known throughout the camps. the women only shrugged their shoulders, and kept clear of his lodge. the men paid him but little attention, even when he skulked in for awhile after dark to smoke his pipe by their camp fire. but on this morning neither michel nor his wife had been seen outside their camp; only one or two of the children had turned out at a late hour and looked wistfully about, as if longing for someone to give them food and other attention. suddenly, from within the lodge a shot was heard, and a terrible muffled sound, which none heard without a shudder. then came the shrieks of the terrified children, who ran out of the lodge towards their neighbours. by this time all the indians were aware that something horrible had occurred in michel's camp, and from every lodge, far and near, they hurried out with looks of dread and inquiry. the farthest lodge was not more than sixty yards from that of michel, and the nearest was hardly a dozen yards removed, although a little further back from the edge of the bank. when the first man entered the lodge it could not have been more than a few seconds after the firing of the fatal shot, for michel was still standing, gun in hand, and his poor wife sighing forth the last few breathings of her sad and troubled life. she had kept her word, and met her death without one cry or expostulation! it might have been heard from far, that groan of horror and dismay which sprung spontaneous from the one first witnessing the ghastly scene, and then from the whole of the assembled indians. "se tue! se tue!" "my sister, my sister!" cried the women, as one by one they gazed upon the face of the departed; then kneeling down, they took hold of the poor still warm hand, or raised the head to see if life were indeed extinct; then as they found that it was truly so, there arose within that lodge the loud, heart-piercing indian wail, which, once heard, can never be forgotten. far, far through the tangled wood it spread, and across the swift river; there is nothing like that wail for pathos, for strange succession of unusual tones, for expression of deep need--of the heart-sorrow of suffering humanity! in the meantime the chief actor in that sad tragedy had let the instrument of his cruelty fall from his hand; it was immediately seized by one of the indians and flung into the river. michel made no resistance to this, albeit even at that moment it might have occurred to him that being deprived of his gun, he was shorn of well nigh his only means of subsistence. he turned to leave his tent, and with a scared, wild look, slowly raised the blanket which hung at its entrance; but he was not suffered to escape so easily: the men of the surrounding camps were gathered close outside, and as with one consent, they laid hold of the miserable culprit and pinned him to the spot; then ensued a fierce babel of tongues, each one urging his own opinion as to the course of treatment befitting the occasion. the din of these many voices, mingled with the sad wail of the women in the tent, made an uproar and confusion which it would be hard to describe. it ended, however, by one of the indians producing a long coil of babiche, and to this another added some pieces of rope, and with these they proceeded to bind their prisoner hand and foot, and then again to bind him to one of the nearest trees. having succeeded in doing this effectually, but one thought seemed to seize the whole community,--to flee from the spot. but one other duty remained to be performed, and this they now prepared to carry out. the funeral rites of the north american indian, it need hardly be remarked, are of the very simplest description; indeed, it is only of late years, and since christianity has spread among them, that they have been persuaded to adopt the rites and ceremonies of christian burial. formerly, in many instances, the body of the deceased would be wrapped in its blanket, and then hoisted up on a wooden stage erected for the purpose; after which the friends of the departed would make off with the utmost speed imaginable. sometimes even this tribute to a lost friend would not be forthcoming; the indian has an unspeakable dread of death, and of the dead; from the moment that the heart of his best beloved has ceased to beat, he turns from the lifeless form, nor cares to look upon it again. the new blanket which, perhaps, was only worn a day or two by the departed, will now, with scrupulous care, be wrapped around his dead body; for although he were blanketless himself, no indian could be persuaded to use that which had once been a dead man's property. then, it may be, the corpse would be left lying in the leather lodge or tent, which would afterwards be closely fastened up; and it has sometimes devolved upon the missionaries to spend the night outside, watching the camp and keeping a fire burning in order to ward off dogs or wolves, which would otherwise undoubtedly have broken into the tent and made short work of the lifeless body deserted by all its friends and neighbours and dearest connexions. in the case of the wife of michel, however, there arose a feeling among her people in the camp, which appeared to be unanimous, not to leave her poor mangled body deserted in the lodge, but at once to commit it to the earth. accordingly the women ceased their wailing, there was a call for action, and each one bestirred himself with as much earnestness and self-restraint as possible. two or three of the men started off to dig the grave (a work of no small labour at that time when, be it remembered, the frost was hardly out of the ground), others gathered round the women who were wrapping the deceased in her blanket, with her shawl and handkerchief, her beaded leggings, and moccasins, which were hunted out, one by one, and put on her with loving, albeit trembling hands. then the poor lifeless form was lifted out of the tent, and carried a few yards further back from the river, to where the grave was being made ready. here all was soon prepared; silently, reverently the body was lowered into its shallow resting place; the earth was thrown over it, then a young fir-tree was cut down, shorn of its bark, and driven upright in the ground, and a few streamers of coloured rag or ribbon, furnished by the women, tied on to the top of the pole. the task was ended, and the young mother of twenty-eight years, who awoke that morning in the full bloom of health and vigour, was left to slumber on in that long sleep, which shall be broken only on the morning of the resurrection! and now, indeed, there was nothing more to be done, they must flee from that desecrated spot as soon as possible. with one accord, every tent and lodge was taken down, bundles were packed, canoes were lifted into the water, and in less than two hours from the commencement of these operations, the whole work of packing and dislodging was effected, and six good-sized canoes, with three or four smaller ones, were bearing their freight of men, women, and children, to the opposite bank of the river. in describing the events of that morning but little mention has been made of michel's children; they were not, however, forgotten. as soon as the first shock of the discovery was over, and the women had a little expended their feelings and emotions in the tears and wail of sorrow, they began to turn their attention to the motherless little ones. and first they gave them food, which would be an indian's preliminary step under every emergency; then, they folded kind motherly arms around them, and imprinted warm kisses on the terror-stricken faces; and by all such fond endearments they strove to make them forget their sorrow: for an indian, passive and undemonstrative as he may be under ordinary circumstances, is full of love and tenderest offices of pity when real occasion calls them forth. it was thus, then, that the children were taken and dispersed among the various families in the rapid flight from their recent camping grounds. the canoes had started, and were being paddled at full speed across the river, when suddenly, to the dismay and amazement of every one, the figure of michel was seen standing by the river brink! had a spectre at that moment presented itself before them, they could hardly have been more astonished; but the poor man's actions were at all times strange and unaccountable; and that he should have released himself in so short an interval from his bonds, was only consistent with the whole character of the man who had always proved himself equal to every emergency, and defied any attempt to thwart his designs. the language used by the miserable man on the present occasion was bitter and abusive; it related to his children, who he said were being taken away that they might be delivered to the white man; but his words fell idly upon the ears of the indians, who only shuddered as they gazed upon his dark visage now distorted with passion; and his whole figure, to which portions of the cords which had bound him were still clinging, presenting the appearance of a man possessed, the veritable nakani--(wild man of the woods,) in whom the indians believe, and whom they so greatly dread. it was not until the indians had reached the other side of the river, which at that part may be a mile and a quarter wide, that they collected together and became aware that _one of the children was missing!_ that this should be so, and that in their terror and haste to depart they had forgotten or overlooked the baby, still a nursling, who must have been crawling about outside the camp during the fatal tragedy of that morning, may seem strange. more strange still, that not one of that party should have thought of going back to seek her. but the female infant occupies an insignificant place among those uncivilized people: the birth of one of them is greeted with but a small fraction of the honours with which a male child would be welcomed. and into the causes of the death of not a few of these girl-babies it would perhaps be painful to enquire; but many a poor indian mother will delude herself into the belief that she has done a merciful act when the little infant of a few hours' life is buried deep under the snow, the mother's sin undiscovered, and "my baby saved from starvation." and so the poor indians of our story troubled themselves but little about the missing babe, and there was certainly a bare possibility that the father might come upon it and succour it--for michel had always been a kind father, that he might possibly find and carry the child to one of the camps not far distant, where it would, for a time at least, be cared for. the camps therefore were pitched in the new camping ground; the men of the party were soon off, laying their fish nets; the women, gathering round their camp fires, renewed their wailing and lamentations; the little ones slept, worn out with fatigue and sorrow, and ere nightfall every sound was stilled. the stars shone out on those few clustered tents,--and on that solitary grave the other side of the river. the aurora spanned the northern sky, and played with bright and flickering light, now tremulous upon the blue ether, then heaving and expanding, spreading itself out with indescribable grace and beauty. then it would seem to gather itself together, folding its bright rays as an angel might fold its wings: for a time it is motionless, but this is but the prelude to more wondrous movements. soon it commences to play anew, sending its flaming streamers in new directions, and now contracting now expanding, filling the whole heavens with glory of an ever-changing hue. but there is yet another wonder connected with this, which of all the phenomena of nature, nearest approaches to the supernatural: it has uttered a sound--that beautiful sheaf of many tinted flames! once, twice, we have heard it, or if it were not _that_, it was an angel's whisper! in that great solitude there is no fear of any other sound intruding to deceive our ear. there, is such deep silence over hill and dale that scarcely a leaf would dare to flutter unperceived, and the ear might start to catch the sighing of a breeze. but this faint sound, given on rare occasions by the aurora, unlike any sound of earth, yet seems in perfect keeping with the marvellous and spiritual beauty of the phenomena, and but increases and deepens the awe with which it must ever be beheld. but on this memorable night there was yet another sound, which from time to time broke upon the almost unearthly stillness: this was the cry of an infant, coming from the neighbourhood of michel's camp. the little one, of whom mention has already been made, had, it seemed, been, forgotten by all, or if once thought of, there was yet no effort made to save it from the doom which, to all appearance, now awaited it,--the indians comforting themselves with the hope that the father would look after it, and the father supposing, not unnaturally, that all his children were together taken off by their indignant friends and relatives. and so the little one, who had been but a few hours previously nestling in her mother's arms, spent that cold night of early spring unsheltered and alone on the high bank of the river whither she had crawled in the early morning hours. one could fancy its plaintive cry increasing in vehemence as the hours wore on, and cold and exhaustion overcame her, with a sense of weariness and desolation unknown, unfelt, before. there must have been a sad feeling of wonder and perplexity at the unwonted silence which reigned around her, at the absence of all familiar sounds and voices. true, her father's dogs were there, faithful watchers through the night, who had helped to keep the family in food and fuel through the long winter months, hauling the sleighs, laden with moose or deer's meat; or with good-sized fir trees, morning by morning, for their camp fires. strong, faithful creatures they were, patient and enduring, sharing all the hardships and privations of the indian, with a fortitude and devotion to be met with nowhere else. it would have been hard enough to tell when those four watchers of the little one had had their last good meal; the scraps awarded to most dogs seldom could be spared for them,--the very bones, picked bare by the hungry masters, were grudged them, being carefully kept, and broken and melted down for grease (that most necessary ingredient in northern diet.) sometimes indeed their famished nature would assert itself, and they would steal something, it might be a rabbit caught in the snare near the camp (a most tempting bait for a hungry dog) or perchance a choice piece of dried fish hung high, yet not quite high enough to miss the spring of "capri" or "muskimo;" or a piece of soap lately purchased of the white man, or even a scrap of moose-skin reserved as shoe leather. all helped to assuage the pangs of hunger, yet these indulgences would be dearly purchased by the inevitable cuffs and blows which followed, till the poor brutes, scarred and bleeding, were fain to creep away and hide in some hole, until the imperative call or whistle made fresh claim for their services. how little do we know for whom we are pleading, when, morning by morning, we beseech our dear lord to "comfort and succour all them who in this transitory life are in trouble, sorrow, need, sickness, or any other adversity!" and still less able are we to realize the countless answers to our feeble prayers already winging their way to every portion of the inhabited globe; o'er moor and fen, o'er lake and sea and prairie, in the crowded town and in the vast wilderness. was it in blessed england, where the sun has long past the meridian; while here in the far north-west, there are but the first faint tints of early dawn:--was it in england, or in some far distant isle of the sea, or on some outward bound ship--where the sailor finds time but for a few hurried words of daily prayer--that that heartfelt petition went up, offered in the blessed name, which won for the helpless infant on the river-bank the succour brought her? a small birch-bark canoe was wending its way up the river on the morning following that on which michel's wife had met her death. it came from fort little rapids, and was proceeding to fort simpson, some miles up the rivet. there were three men in the canoe, a cree, or swampy indian, in the service of the hudson's bay company, and two slaves or etcha-ottine of mackenzie river. they were paddling rapidly, having lately been ashore for breakfast, and being anxious to reach fort simpson as soon as possible. la v.'s custom was to take the left bank of the river going up stream; but on this occasion, for no particular reason which he could give, he agreed with his men to take the right side. they had not long past the region of the smoky banks [footnote: "the region of the smoky banks." these fires, called "boucanes" by the canadians, occur in several parts of the mackenzie and athabasca district. in the neighbourhood of lake la biche, and also along the miry bank, a number of jets of hot steam find vent through the mud, and make the waters of the river bubble. above fort norman, on the mackenzie, in several spots the banks give out smoke and occasionally flames. these fires have existed for ages, and are regarded with the greatest awe and superstition by the indians. a little higher up the river there are hot springs and a small solfaferra, like the larger one near naples.], when a sound was heard which caused the three men simultaneously to stop their paddling and listen. it occurred again and yet again, at long intervals; one man pronounced it a dog, but la v. shook his head, and declared it to be the cry of an infant, and that he would put ashore and ascertain if it were not so. very faint was that cry, and waxing, even as they listened, still more feeble; were it dog or infant, the cry was evidently from one in the very last stage of exhaustion. soon, as they drew closer to the bank, the fir poles of the lately forsaken camp suggested the probability of the spot from whence the moans proceeded. the men drew to shore, and hauled up the canoe, while la v., whose curiosity was much excited, sprang out and proceeded to climb the bank. on the summit of the bank close to the edge lay four dogs; or rather they had lain there, but they all started up, and looked defiance, as soon as steps were heard approaching their charge. close within the circle they had formed around her, lay a little bundle of rags, wrapping the now nearly lifeless form of a thirteen months old child. apparently, the moans which had met the ears of the men in the canoe were her last, for on lifting her up in his arms, la v. could detect no signs of life. for how many hours had she lain there, without food or warmth, excepting that afforded by the dogs, who lay closely round her? but there was no time to speculate. without a moment's delay the men cut down three or four young fir trees, and proceeded to make a fire; and la v., folding the little one in his "capot"--sat down and tried to bring back life and warmth into her. in a short, time, a kettle was boiling on the fire; tea was made, and, with womanly tenderness, a few drops were administered. after a little time the men had the comfort of seeing a favourable result of their efforts. a little natural warmth returned to the poor body, some action at the heart was perceptible, and the dark eyes opened and sought--the mother! that evening the three men and their small burden reached fort simpson, where the news of michel's crime and the dispersion of the indians was already known. there was no doubt now as to whose the rescued child might be, and it was touching to see how one and another of the indian mothers came forward and offered to adopt it as her own. yet it is no light charge for an indian to undertake to rear a child not her own, at so tender an age; and it is especially hard in a country where milk is not to be procured, and where fish or rabbit soup is the only substitute for an infant's natural food. minneha tried it, however, for a few weeks. she was cousin to poor accomba, and spent whole nights in wailing and lamenting, saying, "my sister! my sister! why might i not die instead of you? oh, my sister, who shall mother your little ones? who shall work for them? who shall hunt for them, and bring them the young sayoni skin (sheep skin) from the mountains? who shall bring them meat when they are hungry--the fine fat ribs, the moose nose, or beaver tail, and the fine bladders of grease, which we cook with the flour from the white man's country? you were proud of your 'tezone' my sister. she had your eyes, dark as the berries of the sassiketoum, and they flashed fire like the aurora of winter nights. your laugh was pleasant. oh, my sister! like the waters dancing over the stones, it fell: it was good to listen to your words when we were partners in the days of our childhood. our mothers dwelt together; they loved each other with sisters' love; they dwelt together among their own people. etcha-ottine were they, the finest of all tinne-zua (indian men)! you laughed and sang, my sister, when we played in the woods together; when we cut the birch trees to make sirop in the spring time; when we sewed the rogans of the birch bark, or plaited the quills of the porcupine into belts, and made our father's gun-cases, or our own leather dresses for the fall. many a time we went out in the canoe together; we paddled among the islands when the berries were ripe; we spent the night in gathering the sweet ripe fruit--moose-berry and moss-berry, the little eye-berry, and the sassiketoum. in the summer we went to the forts, and pitched our camps near the white man's house. we sold our furs to the 'big master,' and he gave us blankets and dress pieces, and beads to make us fine leggings; and tobacco, and tea, and shot, and ammunition. then we went to the praying man's house, and he kept school for us every day, and made us read in the big books; and told us of niotsi n dethe (great god), and the poor, silly wife who listened to the bad spirit, and stole the big berry, which god told her not to steal; and of the blessed saviour, who was so good and came down from heaven to save us, because he saw we were so helpless; and he loved the poor indian as well as the white man, and, told the praying men to come and seek after us, and pour water on us, and say good words for us. those were good days, my sister! why did they not last? why did bad michel come and take you away in his canoe? so many wanted you; they wanted you much, and they would have been kind and good to you. tene sla asked the big master for you, and i think he would have got you, but for your mother, who said he was not a good hunter; and nagaja wanted you, and jemmy, the loucheux boy; but your father was dead, and your mother said you must take a man who would hunt for her, and bring her meat; and so bad michel came and took you away to the praying man and to yazete koa (the church), and you became his wife. for a time he was kind and good to you, my sister, and be loved his children, and was a fine hunter. many bears did he track in the woods: he had a hunter's eye, and could see them from far, and a hunter's ear to catch the faintest sound of their feet. he would bring you deer's meat, killed by the first shot. no one could say that michel gave his children meat that had run long, and was heated and bad for food. he would bring rats in the spring time. when the water spread upon the ice, by the water side, he would track them: fleet-footed are they, and glide swiftly into their hole; but michel was swifter than they. when michel sank hooks in the lake, the fish came, fine trout from bear lake you have eaten; it was hard for you to lift it, my sister; its head was a meal for the little ones; the best for your tezone, the best for your tezone. but, ah! my sister, you have left it now. oh! cruel michel has made his children motherless! the baby looks pitiful--it looks pitiful: it stretches out its hands for its mother's breast; it longs to taste the sweet draughts of milk. ah! accomba, my sister, my partner, why did cruel michel come and take you from my side?" another cry of sorrow was heard from sarcelle, the brother of accomba, that same night, and on the day following. the poor fellow was half distracted at the loss of his sister, more especially as she seemed to have anticipated her fate, and to have prepared her friends for it. sarcelle's first impulse was to seize his gun and launch his canoe, and to sally forth in pursuit of michel; but he was a christian indian, having been baptized at the little english church at fort simpson, and further instructed at the mission school. the conflict going on in his own mind between the desire to avenge his sister's death, and the higher impulses which his christian faith suggested, were very touching. it ended in his throwing down his gun, and bowing his head on his hands while he sobbed aloud, "my sister, my sister, i would fight for you; i would avenge your cruel death, but the praying man says we must forgive as god forgives us. i throw down my gun; i listen to the good spirit speaking to my heart; but oh, it is hard, it is hard, my sister, i can see no light in this; i feel unmanly to let _him_ go free, who shot my sister to the heart, who made her shed tears, and did not comfort her; who made her the mother of his children, and left them all so pitiful, with the little one lying helpless upon the river side, and only the dogs to guard her. i feel unmanly, unworthy of a 'tene jua,' but 'niotsi n dethe' make it plain to me; oh, make me see how i can be a _true man_, and yet forgive!" * * * * * it was but a few weeks after minneha had received the rescued infant, and promised to be a mother to it, that she discovered that she had undertaken more than she was able to fulfil. it required no very searching eye to perceive that the little one was not thriving; in truth, she was dwindling away day by day, and those who were in the habit of visiting the camp gazed sadly at the little pinched face and shrivelled limbs, and foreboded that it would not be long before michel's child rejoined its mother in the 'silent land.' "owindia" was the name given by the indians to their deceased sister's child; and in truth, owindia, "weeping one," was well suited to the frail creature who since that terrible night was continually uttering a feeble moan unlike an ordinary infant's cry, but which appealed to all hearts by its thrilling tones. one day a little bundle was brought to the english mission house at fort simpson, by sinclia, daughter of minneha. the following message accompanied the bundle, which was none other than the poor little owindia, smaller and more fragile-looking than ever: "i am sick; i cannot work for the child; _you_ take her." and so it happened, that after all his horror of the white man, and his shrinking from intercourse with any of his kind, michel should be destined by his own act, to have his child received into the white man's house, and to find there in all loving care and tender offices the home of which he had deprived her. owindia still lives, and is become a strong and active child, full of spirit and intelligence, with all the marvellous powers of observation which mark the indian. she was baptized by the bishop "lucy may," but her name "owindia" still clings to her, a fitting memorial of the sad episode in her infant life, and of those long seventeen hours [footnote: the indians have a wonderful knack of measuring time by the sun and moon--"in two moons and when the sun is _there_" (indicating a certain point in the heavens), would be an indian's version of "two months hence at three o'clock p.m."] when, forsaken by all her earthly friends, god sent his blessed angels to keep watch and ward around her, to guard her from perishing from the cold and hunger, from the attack of wild beasts, from falling down the steep river bank, or any other danger which threatened the little fragile life. surely by his providence was the timely succour brought out of its wonted course, and the relief administered which one half-hour later would in all probability have come too late! of the unhappy father of owindia but little remains to be told. he wandered about the woods for some time after his merciless deed; having neither gun, nor ax, nor fish-net, he was utterly unable to provide himself food. when reduced to the very last extremity of weakness and starvation, he yet contrived to fasten a few boards together and make himself a raft: on this he paddled across the mackenzie, and appeared one morning at fort simpson, such a miserable object that some of the indians fled at the sight of him. he was put under arrest by the hudson's bay company's officer in charge, who is also a magistrate; and an indictment was made out against him. he was committed for trial and sent out by the hudson's bay company's fur boat in the course of the summer to prince albert, some miles distant, where the nearest courts of justice are held. but the whole business of michel's committal was a farce. the indians are as yet too ignorant and uncivilized to understand the nature of an oath, and even if they did so, there is not one man among them now living who could be brought to bear witness against one of his own race and tribe. when last michel was heard of, he was under nominal restraint, but conducting himself with propriety, and professing utter unconsciousness of the wild acts of his past life. c. s. b. poppea of the post-office by mabel osgood wright (barbara) author of "the garden of a commuter's wife," "people of the whirlpool," "the open window," etc. with frontispiece by the kinneys new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published july, . reprinted july, . norwood press j. s. cushing co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. to e. c. s. in remembrance [illustration: _poppea glanced wistfully across the room and then slipped out through one of the long windows_] contents chapter page i. the tenth of march ii. the wrong at his door iii. the next day iv. the feltons v. the naming vi. as it was written vii. into the dark viii. sanctuary ix. the mystery of the name x. philip xi. incognita xii. friendship? xiii. the turning xiv. a proposal xv. night and morning xvi. out of the ashes xvii. daddy! xviii. the scar on the hand xix. john angus xx. on the wings of the morning poppea of the post-office chapter i the tenth of march the six-thirty new york mail was late. so late that when the tall clock that faced the line of letter-boxes boomed eight, the usual hour for closing, oliver gilbert, the postmaster, ceased his halting tramp up and down the narrow length of the office, head and ears thrown forward in the attitude of a listening hunting-dog. going to the door, he pulled it back with a nervous jerk and peered into the night. as he did so, he was followed by a dozen men of various ages and social conditions, who, in waiting for the evening mail, the final social event of their day, had been standing about the stove, or, this choice space being limited, overflowed into the open room at the back of the post-office, with its work bench, chairs, and battered desk, topped by book shelves; for, in addition to his official position, the postmaster was a maker and mender of clocks and the scribe for all those in the village of harley's mills who could not safely navigate the whirlpools of spelling. in fact, a smattering of law, coupled with the taste for random browsing in every old book on which he could lay his hands, had given gilbert the ability to draw up a will, a promissory note, or round an ardent yet decorous love-letter, with equal success. it was nothing unusual that the men saw as they looked into the bleak march night, and yet they huddled together, listening spellbound and expectant. a week before there had been a breath of spring in the air. in a single day the heavy ice left the moosatuck with a rush, to be lost in the bay; a flock of migrant robins rested and plumed themselves in the parsonage hedge; ploughing was possible in the fields that lay to the southwest, and the wiseacres, one and all, predicted an early spring. but in a single night this vision had vanished and winter returned in driving snow that, turning to rain, coated everything heavily with ice. roadway, fences, and the sedate white colonial houses that flanked the elm-bordered main street absolutely glittered in such light as an occasional lantern on porch or fence post afforded. it seemed almost mocking to the men in the door of the post-office; in every way it had been a cruel season, this first winter of the war of the rebellion. it was not yet a year since the entire north had been brought to its feet by the loss of fort sumter, and had sent forth an army of seventy-five thousand volunteers as its reply. the gloom of repeated defeat settled heavy as a cloud of cannon smoke over new england, whose invincibility had given birth to the union of states that it now sought to preserve, the only recent glimmer of light having been grant's capture of fort donelson in february. this was discounted on the east coast by the terrifying career of the _merrimac_, beforetimes a united states cruiser, but now in confederate hands, that, by closely sheathing the wooden vessel with metal plates, had converted her into a deadly ram which no wooden ship could withstand, and already having ran amuck through the waters of hampton roads, showed the possibility of putting every union port in peril. then had come the news this very monday morning, vague in detail and almost unbelievable, that the _monitor_, the mysterious invention of ericsson, a craft that to the casual observer looked as harmless as any harbor buoy, going from new york under tow, had, on sunday morning, met and vanquished the great fire-spitting dragon that guarded the entrance to the james. it was for confirmation or details of this news that the men of harley's mills were waiting and listening for the mail-train that did not come, in their unfeigned anxiety interpreting its unusual delay as a bad omen. presently, a faint whistle struggled up against the fierce gusts of east wind; a locomotive headlight, gaining in power after every disappearance, flashed across the rolling fields that lay toward westboro. the train was coming at last. "here, take these lanterns, boys," cried gilbert, "and do some of you go down to meet her and come back with the mail-bag. it's a tough walk for binks's boy to bring it up alone in this storm." "'lisha potts, do you unhook that red light from the horse-post yonder, and if the news is good (binks will likely have it from the train crew or some passenger), wave the light above your head as you come back." this to a broad-shouldered, up-country giant, with a grim, square jaw, and hair the color and consistency of rye stubble. "good god! i can't stand this waiting and not knowing!" gilbert almost shouted as he closed the door behind the crowd and found himself alone in the now dimly lighted post-office, except for old selectman morse, white-haired and fragile, who, not being able to go out into the storm with the others, was groping his way towards the stove. "if i had two sound legs," gilbert continued, "my fifty years shouldn't stand between me and seeing and helping do what must be done down there south of washington; the bitter part of it is staying here. next month when the felton ladies come back, i guess we'll have a telegraph operator right at the station, at least that's what wheeler their foreman told me yesterday. you see, both mr. esterbrook and john angus are directors in the railroad company, and what with one's wanting to hear the good news and the other the bad, we're likely to get it. come back into the workroom, neighbor morse. after your long wait you'll find a chair easier sitting than the coal-box lid." "there's more than you that has to fight it out at home to give those that's gone free minds," replied the old man, shivering as he settled back in a carpet-covered rocker of strange construction. "dan had turned forty when he went, and now little dan has run off to follow him and he's scarce sixteen, so my fight must be fit out to keep son's wife and girl children in food meantime; but i hope the lord'll understand and count it all for the same cause." gilbert, who had seated himself at his desk and was fumbling among some papers in an absent-minded way, wheeled toward the old man quickly. "of course he will, for that's what lincoln wrote me, and he and the lord have got to be of one mind in this business if it's going through as it must." "wrote _you_? lincoln wrote you? when? how? why didn't you tell the boys? they'd burst with pride to know a letter from lincoln was in the town, much less right here in the post-office that's public property, so to speak!" cried morse, leaving his chair and stiff limbs together, and coming toward the desk almost with a bound. gilbert started as he realized what secret had slipped past his lips, hesitated a moment, and then pulling a stool from under the desk, motioned his companion to sit beside him. on the wall directly in front hung a very good engraving of washington, in a home-made frame of charred wood; under it was suspended an old flint-lock, worm-eaten in stock and rusty at trigger. below it, at one side of the desk so that it came face to face with the owner, a large colored lithograph of lincoln was tacked to the wall, framed only by a wreath of shrivelled ground-pine and wax-berries. taking a key from his vest-pocket where it lay in company with bits of sugared flag-root, gilbert wiped it carefully and unlocking a drawer in the desk that, to the casual glance, seemed merely an ornamental panel, took out two letters and a double daguerreotype case that held the pictures of a young woman and a little girl a year old. placing these things before him, gilbert leaned back, grasping the arms of his chair as if bracing himself for an effort. "last year when curtis died and it was thought well to have the post-office come up here in the centre of the town, the boys did all they could to push me for the place in spite of john angus's opposition, and mr. esterbrook drew up a nicely worded account of who i was and why i should have the office, to go to postmaster blair by our senator. of course it was done the right way i suppose, with this and that claim for consideration, but i'd never known it was me it spoke of, and somehow it didn't seem quite square, for i'm nobody. so i thought i'd just send a few words to the president, explaining things, if word of such small offices ever reached him; anyway it would ease my mind. i made it short as i could: just told him that it wasn't all money need made me want the office, for i'd a trade, but i was lonesome with only the dead-and-gone people in books for company, and i wanted something to do that would keep me near to my fellow-men, without which age is souring. "well, morse, in due time my appointment came and in with it, this--" carefully opening and spreading out one of the letters:-- "'washington, april , . "'mr. oliver g. gilbert: "'my dear sir:-- "'your letter is in my hands. i have been lonely and have lived in books. i was once a postmaster and i understand. "'faithfully yours, "'a. lincoln.' "when a couple of weeks ago, in the midst of all this turmoil, his son willie died, i waked up in the night from dreaming of mary and little marygold, and thought that mary wanted me to write something. so i says i guess i'll write lincoln that i'm sorry, and that i understand his trouble because of mary's leaving me ten years ago, and marygold the next year, and how the lord, through my crooked leg, won't let me join them quick by way of battle. i put it down right then and there and sent it the next morning, never thinking of a reply. "saturday, this came," and gilbert unfolded the second letter:-- "'washington, march , . "'oliver g. gilbert: "'my friend:-- "'it seems that we understand each other. i thank you for your letter. if the lord's will has stayed your joining in this conflict, be sure that he will find some other wrong for you to right, by your own door. "'gratefully, "'a. lincoln.' "now, morse, you can see why i haven't spoken of these letters and why i shouldn't brag of them, for they are not from the president, but from man to man. "my grandfather, whose musket hangs up there, fought through the revolution. that picture of washington is framed in a piece of oak wood from this house that was set on fire by arnold's men. grandsir' revered washington next to god, and later, when he saw him as president, he wrote a long letter, that cost eight shillings to deliver, to my grandmother, telling her of his visit to mt. vernon. one part i've always remembered, i've heard it read so often; it ran thus: 'his whole demeanor was so full of dignity that he assuredly is great enough to hold his own with kings, and be one in their company; yet though i desired to have speech with him, as others did, i dared not take upon myself to begin it. as he did not, i presently came away, much disappointed.' "don't shake your head, neighbor morse, i'm drawing no comparisons, for there's no man fit to pair with either of them; but, mind you, if washington was fit to match with kings, abraham lincoln is humble enough to be a man, a brother of the man of sorrows, who well knew loneliness in the midst of a multitude, saying, 'foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the son of man has not where to lay his head.'" a shout came down the street. hastily pushing his treasures into their drawer, the postmaster locked it with fingers that trembled, and reached the door with his old friend, in time to see the little procession crossing the road, the red lantern, held by a rake, swinging gayly above 'lisha potts's head. "it's a true victory!" he called; "we've got the paper. shouldn't wonder if next month saw the war end. hey, gilbert, now's the chance to run your big flag up with the little one atop, unless the halyard's frozen fast." "now, boys, bunch the lamps," said gilbert, presently, as he cleared a place on his work table, adjusted his spectacles, and spread out the coveted sheet. the newspaper being fully three feet in length, the print very small, and the large captions of to-day lacking, it took gilbert some time to locate the desired news. meanwhile the boys pressed closer and closer until, as he stopped for the second time to adjust his glasses, 'lisha potts, peering over his shoulder, read at the top of his voice: "naval engagement in hampton roads--loss of the frigates _cumberland_ and _congress_--great success of the ericsson battery!" "that'll do, 'lisha," said gilbert, with some asperity. "i believe that i'm reading this paper-- "_first edition_--fortress monroe, march .--the _monitor_ arrived at p.m. yesterday and went immediately to the protection of the _minnesota_ lying aground just below newport news. at a.m. to-day the _merrimac_, accompanied by two wooden steamers, the _yorktown_ and _jamestown_, and several tugs, stood out toward the _minnesota_ and opened fire. the _monitor_ met them at once and opened fire, when the enemies' vessels returned, except the _merrimac_. the two ironclads fought part of the time touching each other, from a.m. until noon, when the _merrimac_ retreated--" "never mind the whole story now, get the finish first," chorused the audience. "here on the next page," cried 'lisha. "_second edition_," read gilbert, deliberately. "the side of the _merrimac_ pierced by the _monitor_! the ericsson battery finally succeeded in forcing a long hole in the port side of the _merrimac_ and she retired with the whole rebel fleet to norfolk about one o'clock!" cheers drowned gilbert's voice, and the paper passed from hand to hand, each man reading some particular phrase that pleased him, while seth moore, one of the retired sea-captains of which every coast town at this period had its quota, banging on the floor with his cane, cried: "it isn't only a blow to the rebels but to wooden ships as well; i didn't think so much scrap-iron could keep afloat. mark my words, first thing we know even the passenger liners will all want their iron trim, and the lord knows but what even the coastwise service'll come to it some day!" it was after ten o'clock before, discussion ended, the men went their various ways. the storm had ceased, and the intense blue black of the sky set with stars seemed only a degree less cold and burnished than the ice-coated earth over which the "boys" went home, slipping and sliding; the younger making a frolic of the matter, the older clinging to the fence rails. "it's going to be a mean walk for me to-night, three miles straight up hill and against the wind," said 'lisha potts to gilbert, as he helped him fix the inside bars on the shutters, preparatory to closing the office. "then why not stop with me?" questioned the postmaster. "i couldn't think of sleeping for a couple of hours yet, and somehow, the idea of reading don't come natural to-night, though i've been mighty interested getting into the workings of the wars of the ancients, all about the way xenophon managed to get those ten thousand greeks to retreat across country, without really skedaddling. ever heard about it? mebbe you'd like i should read it to you." 'lisha, a man of the remoter farming country and timber land, used to the big open spaces of life that some call loneliness, shook his head in an emphatic denial that almost amounted to alarm, and began to button his heavy frieze top-coat. "well, well, i won't, so don't get scared," laughed gilbert, indulgently. "if folks don't thirst for knowledge, there's small use choking it down their throats. not that the best of learning comes out of books, for you learned your trade of reading the ground and the weather 'n' hunting and tracking all out o' doors." "i tell you what we'll do, go over back into the house, light all the lamps i've got, and set them in the windows for a victory illumination. then we'll cook up a nice little supper for our two selves and have a smoke by the fire. i don't often do it these days, haven't felt peart enough; but to-night, somehow, i feel skittish, like i did forty years ago when a pair of yearling steers i'd trained got first premium at the old haven fair. to-night a pipe between my teeth's not a bad habit as the parsons preach, 'lisha, but a necessity, yes, a bare, vital necessity." this proposition being in the direct path of 'lisha's own desires, he gave a cheerful whistle of consent and followed gilbert through the partly roofed grape arbor that made a passageway between the post-office and the sloped roofed house of gilbert's forefathers, that stood well back in the garden with its porch facing the hill road. "nobody'll see the lights this time of night," criticised 'lisha, as gilbert, mustering an array of six sperm-oil lamps and three sturdy pewter candlesticks, proceeded to distribute them between the various rooms, not forgetting the icy "spare chamber" upstairs, or the "foreroom" at the right of the front door with its scriptural engravings, bright three-ply carpet, and melodeon. "that's as may be," gilbert answered, while he regulated a wick, stiff from lack of use, "but they'll be there all the same, and we'll know it anyhow. what'll you have? there's beans and brown bread been in the oven all afternoon, besides apple pie, crullers, biscuits, and spice snaps in the pantry. i think this time o' night when we're wakeful anyway, we might as well have hot coffee to mix and blend the vittles and put some ginger in us. mebbe you'd prefer hard cider, but since i found the stuff was tangling the feet of some good neighbors, i haven't kept any about. yes, get a pail of fresh water while i grind the coffee; you can never get the flavor, mary always said, without fresh-drawn water come to its first boil." to have seen the neatness of the kitchen, pantry, and long, low bedroom that ran across the back of both, no one would have supposed that the house had been without the touch of a woman's hand for nine years. to be sure, at the critical periods of spring and fall cleaning the postmaster's sister, satira pegrim, a bustling widow of forty, came down from her little hill farm to officiate. why she did not stay on and keep house for her brother had been a subject of much speculation during the year after the baby marygold had followed her young mother. but though gilbert said nothing, they came to understand that without the child to care for there was not sufficient work to keep in check mrs. pegrim's nervous energy, which found vent in a species of incessant reminiscent sympathy that poor gilbert could not bear. when the only love of a silent man's life comes upon him when he is nearly forty, fairly sweeping him from his feet, and in less than three years wife and the child just forming her first words are snatched away, leaving him deaf at heart, work is the only consoler that can gain even his ear. so gilbert had baked and swept and garnished, kept the geraniums and the calla lilies and pink flowering "gypsey" in the windows, and a white spread upon the bed, and the hooded mahogany cradle-cover of pink and white basket-pattern patchwork, as it had been during those years. as gilbert added an armful of wood to the fire in the cooking stove that was set in the wide chimney place, and opened the iron door of the brick oven at the side, the bright light threw against the opposite wall his somewhat remarkable silhouette. he was fully six feet tall with close-cut, iron-gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and long, gray beard that reached his waist, and so frequently got in his way that he twisted it up and fastened it under his chin with an elastic band, or hairpin, as upon the present occasion. gilbert had craved education, but lacked the strength to force the opportunity, though his reading had nourished a gentle sentiment in him, and better speech than is often found in new englanders of his surroundings. when 'lisha had filled the kettle, the two men lighted their pipes, and slipping off their clumsy shoes, in unison, spread feet covered by blue yarn socks before the open front of the stove and, puffing comfortably, drifted into desultory talk. "it's mighty queer that john angus, leading man in this town and his folks yankee all through after they stopped being scotch, should stand for slavery," mused 'lisha. "do you suppose he's got any reason other than his usual one of taking the off side of things?" "he has big cotton interests for one thing," said gilbert; "otherwise, who can tell why he does this or that? why does he hate me? because he can't drive me off the earth, i take it. we played together as boys, but i've never presumed on that. his father left him fully two hundred acres of land, mine left me three; but it stood something like a nose on the face of his holding, coming in the south front of it. he seemed to think all he had to do was offer me money for my home; he thought i had no right to love the place where i was born, but that he had. once or twice i've been on the point of yielding, but never since it became the home of my wife and child." "that's why, then, he did all he could to keep you from getting the post-office?" "i reckon so, and now i've got it, he has all his mail sent to westboro to keep down the receipts." "whew--!" whistled 'lisha. "i didn't think he'd spite himself that far." "well," replied gilbert, "i don't know but at bottom i'm sorry for him. he's got a grand place here, a city home, and money; he's been senator, and, they say, could have been governor; but he's all alone up there without love or kin." "he had a dreadful pretty wife, and pleasant spoken. i remember selling her quail and partridge every fall of the year." "yes; when she first came home, she was not over twenty, and most as pretty as my mary. he met her when he was travelling in europe, the miss feltons said. she was there learning to sing or something. i heard her sing once up where the end of their garden stops short and the ground drops to my bit. it was just like the voice of the last wood robin that keeps singing till after dark, and then quits sudden as if he was lonesome. after living up there for ten years, she, that at first had a laughing face and skin like a peach, grew thin and white as marble, and then all of a sudden, she left him and died away in england, they say, about a year ago. some claim he was always reproaching her because she was childless; others, that once when he was away, she went to the midsummer ball up at felton manor against his wish and danced with a nephew of mr. esterbrook's so beautifully that folks spoke of it until it got round to him. he'd never let her dance before, so nobody knew she could. then next sabbath the young man walked from church with her. "i well remember the day she went, it's less than two years since. there was no running about it; she came down the hill in her carriage as if she was only going on a short journey. as she passed the shop, she plucked the coachman by the coat to stop him and came in to ask me to fit a key to her watch. i remember the watch too, small and thin, with a flower on the back in diamonds. oh, yes, angus was generous enough, and kept her well in clothes and jewels. "all of a sudden she said, 'mr. gilbert, i'm going away and never coming back, and there's nobody to miss me or be sorry.' "i was struck all of a heap, for i'd always liked her and spoke my mind, which added to his dislike of me, but i knew by her face she meant what she said. she looked like a crumpled roseleaf, so young and frail, that before i knew it, i had taken her cold little hands in mine and was telling her that _i_ should miss her, and that i never should forget the soft white slip made with her own hands she sent for marygold to go to sleep in, or how she came to comfort me in face of john angus's dislike. 'if ever i can do you a good turn, it's all i'd ask,' i said to her. "with that, she put her poor thin arms about my shoulders, looked me straight in the face, and said, 'yes, i believe you would,' and pulling my head down, kissed me on the forehead as if i'd been her father. before i got my wits again, she was in her carriage and away, and now she's dead and gone. they say that the miss feltons have heard that john angus is to be married again this spring to a woman as rich as he is, the daughter of somebody high up in new york life. so i suppose he'll raise a grand family now, and poor little roseleaf is forgotten." "hi there! the water's biled over," cried 'lisha, and soon the subtle aroma of good coffee filled the kitchen, and the men drew the table toward the stove before sitting down to their supper, for in spite of the rousing fire, the room was draughty. three clocks that hung in a row between dresser and chimney, which were undergoing the delicate process of being regulated, struck twelve with different emphases and in three different keys before gilbert had made a bed for his guest upon the wide lounge by the chimney-corner, and the two men went about the house to put out the lamps. "what's that?" said gilbert, pausing as they came down the creaking back stairs. "just a log of wood rolling off the heap on the stoop, i reckon," answered 'lisha. "there isn't any wood there; i fetched it all in," said gilbert, giving a decided start, as the noise was repeated and this time resolved itself into a rhythmic knocking on the outer door. 'lisha strode through the kitchen, picking up the poker on his way, and threw open the door. at first he saw nothing, the change from light to darkness was so sudden; then something white in the shadow beside the door caught his attention. "it's only a dog," he thought; yet as training had made him cautious, he called, "bring the lantern," to gilbert, who had stopped to pull on his coat. chapter ii the wrong at his door as the lantern held by gilbert flashed upon the furry object, 'lisha, who was bending over it, jumped back as though he had been shot, crying, "good god, gilbert, it isn't a dog; i reckon it's a child!" at the same time he gathered up the bundle, and, almost trampling gilbert in his haste, strode into the kitchen, where he laid it on the table. the outer wrapping was a well-worn buffalo-robe, and from between its folds a small, white-mittened hand was visible. for a moment the two men stood side by side, speechless with astonishment; then gilbert began to unfold the robe with fingers that trembled so he could scarcely direct them. inside the skin was an afghan of soft wool tied crosswise, while in the depths of this nest lay a child, wrapped from foot to head in coat and cap of white coney, even the face being hidden by a knitted shetland veil. the little form was so still that gilbert dreaded to touch it, but 'lisha, having pulled himself together, lifted the veil, disclosing softly rounded, pink cheeks and red lips slightly parted in regular, if rather heavy, breathing. this action disturbed the sleeper without waking her, for she relaxed the arm that had been pressed close against her breast, and from under it a tiny puppy sprawled out, dragging with it a large handkerchief in which it had been wrapped, as if to make a doll of it. he was not an aristocrat of the dog world, but one of those waifs that, decorated with a bit of ribbon, are sold on city street corners for a dollar, the appeal of their youth, added to the speculative element in all of us, finding ready purchasers for them. the puppy, tawny and roughish as to coat, having one ear that stuck up while the other lopped, and the keenest of eyes, after licking the face and the long-lashed lids of the child without getting a response, tumbled to the edge of the table and began wagging his ridiculous rat tail and making friendly advances to the men. seeing that even the puppy's rough caresses did not waken the baby, gilbert raised one of the eyelids gently, and then after holding his face close, whispered to 'lisha: "just as i thought, she's drugged with paregoric; we'll have to rouse her even if she is scared of us and makes a time. i well remember how it was with marygold when sister pegrim, not having her glasses, gave her a large instead of a small spoon of cough syrup by mistake. i'll wash her face and see if i can't liven her up. just pull that rocker over here, 'lisha, and give me the tin basin of water." as he talked, gilbert was undoing the coat and cap from which came the head of a child of about a year, covered with a mass of hair that lay in close golden rings, with here and there a tinge of copper, in strange contrast to the dark lashes and eyebrows. from the moment his eyes had rested on her, gilbert had unconsciously said _she_, for every curve and line was feminine. yet even with closed eyes, there was nothing doll-like about her, while there was almost a suggestion of resolution about the mouth corners. "now, precious, wake up and look at the pretty light," crooned gilbert, holding her with awkward hands, against his shoulder, so that her head came above it, yet in a way that no man would have done who had not held his own child. presently, the heavy eyelids drew upward, and then after the consciousness of light became complete, she looked about the room, gave a little cry of delight, and held out her hands when she saw the puppy, rounding her lips into a sound like wow-wow; but as her eyes rested upon big, ugly 'lisha, her chin quivered, her cooing voice trailed off into a heart-broken wail, and she hid her face in gilbert's neck. what the confiding touch meant to the lonely man, only he and his maker knew. it thrilled him to his finger-tips, awakened life springs that he believed forever dry, and tears, unknown to him these nine years, became a possibility, but not while 'lisha stood there gaping at him with hanging jaw. in a few moments the wailing stopped, and she began to look about once more. "fetch me a cup of water, 'lisha; mebbe she's thirsty." as he turned to carry out gilbert's directions, the young lady began to smack her lips and show by her bodily motions that she knew what the word "thirsty" and a cup in sight promised. as gilbert helped to guide it to her mouth with one hand, the corners of her lips, assisted by a little quiver of the nose, expressed unmistakable disgust at finding only water. "guess she's looking for milk same as kittens do," suggested 'lisha, tiptoeing to the table and peering into an empty pitcher. "great snakes!" his favorite ejaculation, "i spilled the last drop into my coffee. the pup wants some, too, i reckon," as the queer little beast, nose in air and tail wagging furiously, seemed bound to climb up his trousers leg. "of course she does, the lamb!" said gilbert, holding her from him upon his knee, the better to look over her. "but where is it to come from? it's half an hour past midnight and i don't like to wake up the neighbors," he mused. "got a small open kettle?" asked 'lisha, rummaging in the pantry. "i've found it; now do you fix up a place for her to sleep while i fetch her supper," he continued, with the air of one to whom the care of strange lady babies was an everyday occurrence, when, truth be told, he had never before come in contact with any young thing more delicate than a calf or a long-legged colt. "don't go to the bakers'," pleaded gilbert; "i know they're the nearest, but mrs. baker'll come back with you for sure, and i want time to turn around before any women folks bear down on me." "nope, i'm not going to confide in any female, least it's brooks's red cow. i milked for them when the old man broke his leg last fall, 'n' the cow knows me. it's only a quarter of a mile up the road; cow barn has no windows on house side; key's kept under a mustard box on the window-sill. baker took his gun to bridgeton saturday to get her cleaned. not a bit of danger, and i'll explain to 'em to-morrow. back in no time." so, jerking out his words with gestures as mysterious as if he were going to commit a desperate crime, 'lisha went out through the back hallway, lest opening the front door should let in too much air. he had no sooner gone than gilbert's whole attitude changed. settling the little girl comfortably on his knees, he began to scrutinize her clothing carefully, babbling a string of baby talk that would have been almost unintelligible to the uninitiated, but that seemed very soothing and reassuring to the child, who, after wriggling for a few minutes, as though determined to get to her feet, suddenly discovered gilbert's beard, which he had knotted up to get it out of the way of the cooking. it was fastened with a large shell hairpin that he had probably picked up in the post-office. fascinated by this unusual object, she clutched at it with both hands, gave a crow of delight, and began jerking up and down on his knee as if riding on a hobby-horse, treating gilbert's beard as its mane. next spying the puppy on the floor, she stiffened herself and prepared to slide down to him. "all right," crooned gilbert. "let's see if the little lammy can stand? yes, but not so very well," he added, as, after taking a single step, she doubled up and almost sat on the pup. "now we'll sit her on the lounge to play with doggy, while daddy gets her bed fixed." the word "daddy" slipped from his lips unconsciously, as he pulled the high-backed sofa out from the wall and propped the child up with some husk pillows and a comforter. then he stole across to the bedroom where, after choosing a key from the chain that was fastened to his pocket, he unlocked a high chest of drawers still keeping his eye on the lounge and its occupants. "she's somewhere about a year, i reckon," he said, talking to himself, after the fashion of those who are much alone. "she's bigger than marygold was at fourteen months, but not so clever on her feet. as for talking, they're something alike; marygold only said 'daddy' and 'puss,' and i guess i can piece out some words from what _she_ says when i get the time. wow-wow means dog plain enough. i must get her undressed before 'lisha comes back; he's all right, but too rough in his ways for handling a lady baby, and that's what the little one is." having taken some clothes from the drawers,--a pair of knitted socks, a little night-dress of yellow shaker flannel, and a quilted wrapper in gay-flowered print, all smelling of camphor and their long, pent-up years in the chest,--he spread them on a chair by the stove to air and warm. meanwhile, the child had nestled back among the pillows and was half dozing, the puppy clasped tight in her arms. going once more to the bedroom, gilbert stood a moment before the quaint hooded cradle, made up ready for occupancy from spread to pilch, the cradle from out of which he himself had gazed alternately at the leaves on the wall paper and the leaves against the sky, dreaming in knowledge after the manner of babies. then lifting the cradle, he carried it into the kitchen, negotiating the doorway with difficulty, for his burden was heavy and the rockers wide of angle to prevent the overthrow of the occupant. pushing his hand between the sheets and finding them clammy to the touch, he pulled them off and brought others from the inexhaustible chest. then came the undressing of the lady baby herself, which was done as dexterously as a woman might, for gilbert's fingers, used to the handling of mere specks of machinery, did not fumble with strings, buttons, or the intricacies of shield pins. moreover, memory crept into his finger-tips and guided the almost-forgotten task, even as feet that once have trodden a daily path, returning to it in the dark, after the lapse of a lifetime, follow each rise and fall. piling the clothes she had worn upon the table, he held the little feet in his big, rough palm, warming them, rocking gently the while. with a sleepy friendliness, the child nestled to him; then, twisting as though something pressed uncomfortably on her flesh, pushing her hand into the neck of the knitted shirt that gilbert had left on for extra warmth, she began tugging at something, looking into his face and patting his hand as if to ask his help. "what is it, lammy? a tight string that chokes? let daddy feel." drawing up a chain of intricate links, his fingers closed upon a thin locket or watch, he could not tell which, as it would not open. he unfastened the chain and put it with the heap of clothes, as the door opened and 'lisha, fairly blue with the cold, some of which rushed in with him, returned with the milk. the trip from the brooks farm had cooled it sufficiently to make it palatable and this time the child took a long drink, sighing with satisfaction when she paused for breath, with her four tiny teeth clenched on the thick china cup to prevent its being taken away. then with unmistakable gestures, she asked that the puppy might also have some. she sat blinking and keeping her eyes open with difficulty watching until his little elastic stomach began to grow heavy, and rummaging a bit of carpet into a sort of nest, he settled for the night, half under the stove. this did not suit the lady baby; she wished to hold the puppy and began to show a decided bit of temper, until gilbert, lifting her from the lounge, carried her on his shoulder to the bedroom, saying, "hold crying a minute, lammy, 'til daddy sees what he can find in the drawer. yes, i thought it was here;" and the child, hugging a rag doll flat faced and faded, allowed herself to be tucked into the cradle without a murmur, and fell into natural sleep, the deep hood of the cradle completely shutting off the light. 'lisha gave a sigh of relief that was almost tragic. "she's safe off to sleep and we ain't dropped her, nor broke her, thank the lord! well, gilbert, what do you think?" and the giant, spreading his hands behind him, backed toward the stove. "think? why, i reckon, after marygold, she's the sweetest little one i ever set eyes on, and in some ways she's remarkably like her, 'specially the way she sets her chin,--" "great snakes! i don't mean that," snorted 'lisha. "how do you think she come here? who brought her and why? don't it strike you as anything unusual that a child of her age, all togged out fine, should be left on a porch in the middle of a perishing cold night?" "of course, of course, 'lisha, it's unusual, and i reckon that's half the reason that i've been in a daze ever since; that, and feeling something warm and small on my knee. now she's safe and asleep, it's our duty to investigate and let her people know her whereabouts soon as i've made up the morning mail. draw up to the table and we'll find if there's any marks on her clothes. "to my thinking, it's a case of kidnapping," gilbert continued, "either for money, or perhaps spite. even parents do queer things to outface each other sometimes. oh, you needn't shake your head, i _know_; there's a chance to see a deal of life in a post-office. "whoever was making away with the lady baby likely got scared, or was sorry for the job, so left her here in a public place where she'd be soon found." "where'd they come from _last_?" persisted 'lisha, but received no answer, as gilbert was examining each garment, fingering them carefully, inch by inch, and though 'lisha did likewise, no marks of any sort, not even an embroidered initial, could they discover. the large locket of heavily chased gold, the pattern much worn on the sides, after many efforts at prying, at last flew open, purely by accident when its secret spring was touched. within, the picture of a young woman seemed to look so directly in their faces, that both men exclaimed. the face was that of a girl of eighteen or nineteen. dark brows and lashes guarded large hazel eyes, the nose was a trifle tip-tilted, and this, together with the parted lips, gave the impression that she was about to speak, while a very firm chin lent decision to the youthful roundness of the face. exquisitely shaded hair, in tints of gold, copper, and ash, curved back from the broad forehead, and was loosely braided and coiled about the small head, while resting lightly, half sidewise on the braids, was a wreath of poppies, not the flaming oriental flowers that suggest sensuous drowsiness, but delicate, rosy-flushed blossoms with petals frail as the wings of a night moth. the two men did not analyze the face that looked frankly into theirs, they only knew that it was beautiful. presently, the light caught upon the inside of the cover of the locket showing, imperfectly, letters engraved thereon. "get me my watch-glass from the work bench," said gilbert, his hands trembling with expectation. but this revealed only a single word and date,--"poppea-- ." "poppea! what's that, a place?" asked 'lisha, turning the locket this way and that in the hope of finding more. "it's a woman's name if i remember rightly, and i think i've met it in mr. plutarch's book or some history. the wife of one of the cæsars or some one of importance. i'll look it up to-morrow. anyway, the picture is done on ivory like the one of miss felton's mother that she wears in a brooch. some said it was only made of tea-cup china, so one day, when she was waiting for me to weigh a package, i made bold to ask, and she said, 'no, mr. gilbert, it is painted on ivory and is a work of art.' so i judged only the well-to-do can lay claim to this sort, which carries out what i say, as i did before, the lady baby has been kidnapped. now lets us turn in. you go in my room and i'll take the shake-down on the lounge and keep a watch on the lady baby." 'lisha, pulling himself stiffly to his feet to obey, stumbled over the corner of the buffalo-robe that had been pushed under the table and remained unnoticed. "i wonder if this thing has anything to tell on the subject," he said, spreading it wrong side up on the floor and scrutinizing the patched and faded lining slowly. "look here, gilbert! just look at that patch there in the northeast corner, that piece of felt with moon and star figgers on it! 'long about christmas, dr. morewood was up at the farm in a sleigh from the stable at westboro, his own being in the shop for new irons. he'd throwd the robe over his horse, and it slipping off, it got trampled, so he asked mother to take a stitch in it. but the hole being big, she threw in a hasty patch made from the end of an old table cover that had been in our setting room since i was knee high to a toad. what you're looking at is that patch." "you'd reckon the party that brought the child had a team from beers's stable then," said gilbert, now all eagerness. "if so, why didn't we hear the rumble of it on the ice, and how would they account for the robe when they got back?" "as for the team, it might have been a sleigh with hushed bells; we fellows up our way often fix them like that when we want to take the girls out riding on the sly and the old folks asleep. as for their going back, yer running on too fast; that's to be found to-morrow. that we've got a clew right here's enough for you now. one o'clock! great snakes! it's to-morrow right now, and me due up home to milk at six and you to pack up the first mail down. say, gilbert, don't you want me to stop at mis' pegrim's as i go up and hustle her down for the day until this child business is settled up? you'll have your hands overflowin', what with her and it and all the people that'll be in ponderin' and advisin'." "well," replied gilbert, his hands working nervously, as he twisted and untwisted the long beard from which the lady baby had pulled the pin, "under the circumstances, i guess it'll be best, and i'd be obliged if you'd hook up and fetch her yourself. 'tisn't necessary for her to stop and talk to every fence post on the way, either. as to the locket, that's most likely _her_ mother's picture; we'll keep quiet about it, lest, being valuable, it's wrongly claimed." soon comfortable snores sounded from the inner room. gilbert, wrapping a quilt about him, lay down upon the lounge without undressing. sleep would not come; instead, scenes and people of long ago flitted through the room as across a stage; the wind from chimney, keyholes, and window-sash supplying speech. presently the light of the old moon, that would loiter in the west until after sunrise, crept in the window through the geraniums and reaching out long fingers toward the cradle, seemed to gilbert's burning eyes to draw it from him. getting up, he looked at the child, rosy with sleep, still clasping marygold's faded doll, turned the cradle once more into the shadow, and kneeling by it with his arms clasped over the hood, half thought, half whispered, "i can't tell how or why, only that a child is here, but if to make up for my home-staying, as he wrote, this is that other wrong for me to right at my own door,--i thank thee, lord!" then quickening the dying fire, gilbert finished his vigil before it in mary's rocking-chair. chapter iii the next day mrs. jason pegrim needed no urging in the matter of making haste to go to her brother's assistance. during the nine years that she had lived in her farm-house on the hill, her one desire had been to get back to the village, and ever since her brother had been appointed postmaster she had spent many sleepless nights in fruitless schemes for bringing it to pass. for if the clock-maker's little shop had been a place of social opportunities to the alert widow, how much wider a field could she find in the post-office? now the opportunity had almost dropped out of a dream, as she told 'lisha potts, when she hurried to admit him in the early dawn, her toilet being so far from complete that hairpins bristled from her mouth and rendered still more incoherent her announcement. "there now, and folks say there's nothing in dreams! to be sure, the man in my dream last night that came to price the heifer was dark and you're sandy, and while i went to lead her out, he stole my best spoons out of the clock-case, and slipped out of the back door, which, of course, no potts would do, even in a dream. but where it comes out true is that a man did come, which is a matter for thankfulness, the first that's opened that gate in a week." as 'lisha explained his errand, his native shrewdness making him tell as little as possible, brief as the time was, mrs. pegrim finished the securing of the doorknob coil of hair at the back and freed her tongue for better action. "brother oliver has his hands full and wants me to come down and help him out for a week? you're sure he doesn't feel sick and doesn't want to allow it? or mebbe he's minded to get the spring cleaning done early; if so, he's too forehanded, for march cleaning won't hold over till fall, not but what i'm glad to go down and get three miles nearer to the news." while her tongue flew, her hands and feet were not idle, for, shoving 'lisha before her into the kitchen, mrs. pegrim quickly assembled a pick-up breakfast, of which she motioned him to eat in expressive pantomime, while continuing her questions. "do you reckon he'll want me for more than a week? if i thought he would, i'd put in my sunday pelerine, but if not, i'd hate to muss it. didn't specify any length of time, only said fetch her down? that's like a man. anyhow, i'll tell neighbor selleck to feed my fowls and the cow and heifer until he hears contrary, besides which, you'll have to get him to milk for you this morning if you're going to drive me down. oliver must be in some sort of strait if you can't even wait to milk and do your chores first." having packed a capacious carpet-bag, drawn down the gayly painted paper window-shades, emptied and dried the tea-kettle, and made sure that not an ash was at large on the hearth, for she still cooked in the open chimney over a bed of wood embers by the aid of pot hook, crane, and trammel, satira joined 'lisha at the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. she had barely raised it to her lips when she set it down so suddenly that the coffee splashed upon her cherry-colored bonnet strings. "'lisha potts," she adjured solemnly, "i know what it is! oliver is going to take a second and he wants me to put things in shape! and why shouldn't he if he wishes? he's got a tidy sum laid by and a trade and a position under government. of course i'll go and help him, not but what a widow must feel, losing her only brother twice, so to speak, but if i suspicioned who she is, i could ride down easier, and resign my spirits better if i knew it wasn't widow baker." "it isn't marrying anybody, so you're way off the track. it's just unexpected company that oliver ain't got time to entertain suitable, and the quicker we get down there, the sooner you'll know all about it," said 'lisha, indulging in what for him was a wild flight of fancy. after the sellecks had received instructions as to her live stock, satira pegrim relapsed into a silence that lasted for almost a mile. "how much company is there?" asked satira, launching the question suddenly in the hope of taking 'lisha unawares. "two!" he replied, a gleam of amusement flitting across his grim visage. "males or females?" "one of each." "married couple?" "nope." "brother and sister?" "i reckon not." "just friends, then?" "i guess you've hit it now, pretty near, though i should call them two down to gilbert's more sort of travelling companions that was on the way to growin' real friendly." more than this, satira pegrim could not extract, and she contented herself by weaving romance about the unknown couple, paying no attention to the beauty of the morning, wherein every ice-covered twig glistened in the sun. 'lisha pulled up at the post-office-house door, and after steering mrs. pegrim carefully along the slippery path to the side porch, having suddenly made up his mind to stay down at the village for another day, he led the horse and bobbing two-wheeled chaise to gilbert's barn that stood at the end of the lot against the high bank that made john angus's boundary. the side door being open, mrs. pegrim went in without knocking, found no one in either kitchen, bedroom, or pantry, though the general confusion told its own story; as she almost fell over the cradle, its bedding tumbled about as if to air, the last straw was added to the mystery. with a gasp, combined of suppressed speech and astonishment, she seized her bag and going up to the room over the kitchen that she had previously occupied, donned a gown of stout indigo print, and throwing over head and shoulders a wonderful shawl of her own knitting, a marvellous blend of gray and purple stripes, resolutely crossed the passage between house and post-office, and entering by the workshop door, peered through into the office in an effort to see without being seen. an unusual number of men for the time of the morning when chores are most pressing stood about the stove, while two women, one being the objectionable widow baker, were actually holding an animated conversation with gilbert through the delivery window of the beehive, standing a-tiptoe in their endeavors to see some object within the sacred precinct. at the same time mrs. baker exclaimed--"the darling!" in a wheezy tone that was meant to be confidential. to the searching eye of his sister, gilbert looked completely unnerved. his hair, usually so sleek and divided low over the left ear, stood on end; his beard was buttoned under his collarless blue flannel shirt, giving his face a curiously chopped-off appearance, while his hands shook as he fumbled with the letters, and he continually cast furtive glances behind him. finally, satira pegrim made a dive through the group of men, and, without appearing to see the women, slipped through the door at the back of the sorting bench, only to trip over a soft something on the floor, and suddenly find herself kneeling and very much jarred upon the edge of a bright patchwork quilt, in the centre of which sat the lady baby, alternately feeding herself and the puppy with a thick slice of bread which she held butter side down. in the dull morning light, the child looked more pathetic than pretty, for she had an unmistakable snuffly cold, and a pair of tears that had been quivering on her long lashes rolled down her cheeks as she looked up at mrs. pegrim. the puppy gave a shrill bark and began to play tug-of-war with a corner of the cherished shawl. at the sound gilbert turned, a look of infinite relief spreading over his face when he saw his sister. "thank the lord you've come," he jerked out over his shoulder as he handed widow baker ten three-cent stamps that she had bought merely to prolong the interview. "take 'em right back to the house and i'll come over soon as i can. she's got a cold and is wheezy; if you can't fix her up, i calculate 'lisha'd better go for the doctor." "yes, i will, oliver; the minute i set eyes on her it flashed through me, lard and nutmeg, on the chest, that's what she needs. but who _be_ they, 'nd how'd they come here without parents is what i'd like to know; that is, the child, i mean, for lots of puppies don't have any." "that's what we don't know and have got to find out. didn't 'lisha explain?" "not a word, only rigmarolled about company." "'lisha," called gilbert to the backwoodsman, who had now come in, "will you go over home with sister pegrim? she wants to talk to you 'bout last night." "i reckon if it isn't against the law, i'd ruther step in there and dish out the rest of them letters," said 'lisha; so brother and sister, the lady baby muffled in the quilt, and wow-wow nipping at the heels of gilbert's carpet slippers, went together. the door had no sooner closed behind them than the men began questioning 'lisha all together, propounding their theories of the event before which the war news had temporarily paled; for never, even in the memory of selectman morse, the oldest of them, had a baby been abandoned in the township,--much less a well-grown child of a year. mr. morse, in view of his position, appointed two of the men present to take up the clew; for in these good old days of new england, the first selectman was virtually mayor of the township and was so chosen. 'lisha, by reason of his being the first to discover the child, was deputed to go to the stable at westboro with the buffalo-robe, after which the course of the search would depend upon what the stableman could tell. "gilbert, are you willing that the child should stay here while we investigate?" the selectman asked when the postmaster returned and 'lisha had driven off to westboro; "or would you rather she were handed over to proper authorities right now?" "who might those be?" asked gilbert, by way of reply. "well, now, that raises a question of some moment," said the selectman, fitting the tips of his fingers together precisely and making a flywheel of his thumbs, at the same time adjusting his upper teeth in place with a clicking sound. that it was the wandering disposition of these teeth that had prevented their owner from becoming an orator in the cause of patriotism, he firmly believed. "if the child's an orphan foundling, she goes to the county asylum; if merely abandoned by worthless parents, she goes to the poor-house free; while if she can be attributed to a living male parent, he must pay her board either to the town or her mother." "it appears to me," said gilbert, moistening his lips nervously, and dangerous gleams shooting from his keen gray eyes, "that as you don't know where to send her, and you've no authority to take her, she will stay right where she was left! and now, boys, while i'm obliged to ye all for your interest, this matter isn't federal business, nor connected with this post-office, so if there's anything to say, come 'round to the house later on and have it out. under anything that may come out, the child is innocent, and it might come pretty hard a score of years from now if she knew she was made light of by you fellows." gilbert's voice broke at this juncture, and the boys were looking at each other sheepishly when a team rattled up to the door and 'lisha and beers, the westboro liveryman, came in together, having met at the lower end of town. "they hired a sleigh from beers's all right and hushed the bells," cried 'lisha, triumphantly. "who?" chorused the boys. "the man and woman who brought the child here, of course." "i didn't say it was a man _and_ a woman," put in beers, cutting off a generous quid of tobacco and passing the remainder around, as though preparing for a social occasion that would be a strain on the juices of speech. "this here was the way of it," he said, settling himself within easy range of the box of sawdust by the stove, while gilbert came from the hive to lean over the case where a collection of stationery, knickknacks, cigars, and packages of lozenges was kept. "you know how late the mail-train was last night, and how it stormed? well, the last train was late by that much too; after waiting 'round a spell i came home and i made up my mind i wouldn't send a team over to the depot again but trust to any folks that wanted one coming over, for it was near midnight. i suppose i must have dozed off by the stove in the office, because the first thing i knew, a man stood there by the fire stamping his feet to warm them, the spring bell on the door having waked me. 'i've got off at the wrong station, intending to go on to harley's mills,' says he in a voice like he'd an awful cold; 'can i get a team to drive my wife over? she's at the depot.' "'a team you can have,' says i, 'but i've not a driver i could send out to-night. what part are you going to?' "'to the post-office,' says he. 'maybe you'd let me put up the team there and bring it back in the morning. i'll pay you ten dollars down for security,' says he, coughing and acting tired like. "thinks i, this isn't any night for horse thieves and if i give him spunky pete, it'll be a safe risk, for he won't go but just such a ways from the stable when he balks and bolts back. "'all right,' says i, 'what kind of a team do you want, chaise or sleigh?' he thought a minute and says, 'a sleigh'll jar less a night like this, and if you've got any old rag of a robe, just pile her in.' well, he started off all right toward the depot, the bells jingling nice, and pretty soon i see the sleigh come back with somebody else within and go up the turnpike this way, and so i went upstairs and turned into bed. it was after i'd got into a good first sleep when something seemed to be pounding me in a dream and i started up with wife pulling my sleeve and calling, 'there's somebody pounding away on the front stoop and yelling like mad. do you suppose one of the mules could have broke loose?' "'one of the mules? that's spunky pete and no other,' says i, tumbling into my clothes and grabbing a lantern. he always pounds and screeches that way if i don't give him his feed first of the bunch. yes, sure enough, there was pete pounding away on the porch. at first i thought he'd served them some trick and upset them, but when my eyes fell on the lines, i knew different; they were tied to the dash rail with a bit of string! "that made me suspicious and i looked pete over as i led him to the stable. for a cold night he had surely sweat more than the short run warranted. then i noticed the bells didn't jingle--the string on the girth was gone (i found it after under the seat) and the two big ones on the shafts were hushed by being wrapped in paper. 'i wonder what's up,' says i, 'the horse has come back safe, but there's something amiss somewhere. a man doesn't give up ten dollars to ride three miles on any straight errand.' so this morning i started up to find if any company had come up to mr. gilbert's, and i met 'lisha here with the buffalo, which, i declare, i hadn't missed, and he told me the rest." "did you keep the bits of newspaper?" asked gilbert. "yes, they're down home; they're torn from _the boston traveller_ of last friday." "i wonder if any one took the milk freight down last night; it carries a passenger car," ventured the justice of the peace. "nobody, so far as mr. binks the agent saw; he loaded on some milk, but the ticket-office isn't open for that train," said 'lisha. "can you describe the man?" asked the justice of the peace, poising his pencil. "that's just what i've been trying to do for myself," said the liveryman. "not suspecting anything, i wasn't particular, and he had a dark cloth cap with a chin piece that pretty well covered his mouth. he was short and thick-set, 'n' i think his eyebrows were light, but that's about all, except that he had a long scar between the two first fingers of his right hand. i noticed that when he slapped the ten-dollar note down on the table." "he asked you how far it was to harley's mills post-office?" said gilbert. "then wherever they came from and whoever they are, they _meant_ to leave the child here, it wasn't mere chance. do you hear that, all?" "yes," answered the justice of the peace; "but as you've said that you have no kin that she could come from, mightn't she be of some distant kin down east of old curtis's, who didn't know he was dead? he'd had the office about ever since there was one and was reputed rich, you know." gilbert winced as though some one had rudely touched a vital spot, and then, turning to the first selectman, said quietly: "i don't know whether it's law or not, but i think a notice should be put in the best county paper. i reckon those from whom the child was stolen should have as much chance to know of it as if one of us had found a good horse tied at his gate. then in a month's time, if there is no clew, other plans can be made. meantime, as it seems she was left here with intention, sister pegrim and i will look after her." "that's well said--liberal too, for a man of your years--with prices what they are--" were some of the comments. "that'll do for the present," said the first selectman, gathering his gray long-shawl about him and steadying himself with his cane; "but we have a mystery among us for the first time, boys, and we must not treat it lightly. if mr. allan pinkerton was not at this time needed by mr. lincoln, i should vote that we put the case before him." then, led by 'lisha potts, who announced that he was going to finish the day by asking a few questions at the bridgeton station, the group, having already shortened their working day by a couple of hours, drifted away. oliver gilbert watched them go, and mechanically took his seat before the sorting table. he was dizzy from lack of sleep and the rush of many emotions that he had almost forgotten he had ever felt before, blended with others wholly new. his life had been slow in blossoming, the crippled hip from his very childhood had kept him aloof and apart. then he had lived in the full for three years and twilight again fell around him; for a while he had struggled against it, and then, as the neighbors said, "become resigned." now, everything was upheaved; work, his consoler, lay on the bench untouched; the sun melted the ice from the halyards, and yet he did not go to raise the flag of victory where it must be seen from john angus's windows. the hour struck and then the next before noon; he did not even remember that he had not eaten breakfast. presently the outer door opened and a pair of small, heavily shod feet clumped across to the delivery-window, through which their owner could not look, even on tiptoes, and after waiting for a few moments, the piping voice of a boy of six or so called, "it's me, mr. gilbert. i've come over to see your little girl, please." gilbert started from his revery and came toward the voice. "oh, it's you, is it, hughey, and who told you about her, pray?" "nobody told me 'xactly, but i heard mr. morse telling father and mother, and i asked her if i might come right down, and she said yes. you see, there wasn't any school this morning because it was too slippery, but now it's all wet. broken for spring, father says. see my new rubber-boots, mr. gilbert; all red inside," and he held up one sturdy leg. "as it's so close on to noon i guess i'll shut up, and we'll go in together and see little missy. isn't this about the time of day for a barley stick, sonny?" said the postmaster, taking one from the glass case as he passed. the kitchen was in its usual order; a boiled dinner was under way on the stove, beneath which the puppy slept, while mrs. pegrim sat mending some socks with the rocker drawn up close to the lounge upon which the lady baby was enthroned and playing gayly with a string of spools. when she saw gilbert, she dropped them and tried to roll off the sofa to her feet. "no, no!" said mrs. pegrim, pleasantly but decidedly, "it's too cold down there for little girls." her face flushed, puckered up to cry; then, for some reason, she changed her mind and held out her arms. "so she knows daddy already, does she?" crooned gilbert, "and here's a little boy come to see her, the very first caller. satira, this is hugh oldys from the mills--richard oldys's boy, you know." richard oldys was one of the representative men of this section of new england. he had rebuilt the original harley's mills near the mouth of the moosatuck, for which the town had been named, and made them a great distributing centre of flour and all grains. the land had come down to his wife, whose mother had been a harley and was, therefore, kin of the misses felton, who also had harley blood in the female line. while a man of less wealth than john angus, oldys was so much more liberal with it, so much broader in his sympathies and culture, that nothing of importance was undertaken in the community without his advice and sanction. as for his wife,--in that clannish and conservative little town, almost old-world-like in its simplicity and loyalty to tradition,--it was a belief that a real harley could do no wrong. coupled with this, pamela oldys was a rare woman, almost too highly keyed to the needs and wishes of others for her own peace, and wrapped up in this boy hugh, the only child that her frail health had allowed her. hugh surveyed the lady baby in silence for a moment, and then gravely shook her hand, saying, "how do you do?" a crow came from the prettily curved lips by way of answer, and she began a sort of game of peek-a-boo, covering her face with her hands and then peeping out. evidently she had lived among responsive people. "i suppose god sent her the same as usual," remarked hugh, in the most matter-of-fact way. "she's nice and big though, being so new; they're mostly blinky and queer at first, like kittens. we've never had a baby at our house; they often have them next door, but not as nice as this one." at this moment the puppy spied hugh's rubber-boots that had been left at the door, and made a dash for them, for if there is anything a young dog loves, it is either shoe leather or shoe rubber. "hi! there's a puppy. is it yours, mr. gilbert? i had a puppy once and it died, and father's going to buy me one of a better kind next christmas. i'll be seven then. there's so many cats around the mill that i hope they won't scratch its eyes out." "that pup belongs to the lady baby," answered gilbert, who was now brushing his tousled hair in front of the mirror over the sink. "did it come with her?" asked hugh, eagerly. "it surely did; she had it right in her little arms," answered gilbert, busy with a collar button and not thinking ahead. "oh, i'm so glad!" cried hugh, clapping his hands, "for now i know that if dogs come from heaven, they must go back there too, and i was afraid that my puppy would be dreadful lonely if he couldn't go where there were little boys and girls, for he just loved them." satira pegrim looked at her brother with a horrified expression. her lips opened to speak, but something that she saw in his face made her close them again. whatever her feelings as a hard-shell baptist upon the future state of dogs might be, she did not propose to shorten her visit to her brother by expressing them. "have they got names yet?" asked hugh, his attention now embarrassingly divided between the lady baby and the pup. "no, sonny; that is, i'm not plumb sure, so i'm going to take time, say until along about the first of the month, to think out a name for the lady baby. as for the pup, suppose you help me out with that. think up all the names that's short and slick, and then we'll have a choosing bee." "dinner is ready," called mrs. pegrim from the pantry, where she was slicing bread. "won't you set up to the table, hugh, and eat with us?" "i think i'd better go home now, mother didn't say anything about dinner. next time i come, i'm going to bring you something, lady baby," hugh said, gently kissing the dimpled hand she thrust into his face, "and byme by, when you can walk, i'll bring you up to my house to see my mother and lend you part of her, 'cause you've only got a daddy." "that's just it, at best there'll only be a daddy," murmured gilbert, drawing his chair to the table and eating as in a dream, in which the wording of the notice for the papers was the chief theme, until he was roused by a spoon pounding his hand vigorously, and found that the child was seated close beside him in marygold's high-chair, her eyes fastened on his face. "look a-here now, oliver," said satira pegrim, resting her arms on her elbows, with knife and fork raised in midair; "i've been thinking, suppose'n the oldys took a fancy to adopt her. wouldn't that square up everything for everybody just right? for it's plain to see that hugh's just achin' for a sister." again the forbidding expression settled on gilbert's face, but satira did not see it until too late. "mrs. pegrim, i don't know just how long you may be called to visit here, but longer or shorter, recollect one thing, you'll have no call to _think_ about my business nor to _talk_ about it to me, but just to keep quiet." "don't you want me to visit or have speech with the neighbors?" pleaded satira, her cheery voice dropping to a ludicrous whimper, as the vision of social cups of tea flavored by neighborhood gossip began to fade. "i don't ask anybody to do what they manifestly according to nature can't; i said _me_!" retorted gilbert, about whose long forefinger the lady baby had gripped her hand as a bird clings to its perch. chapter iv the feltons a month crept by with warm rains at the end of it, and the spring called the blood back to the pale tree-tops with a bound. though the people of harley's mills did not by any means hibernate in woodchuck fashion during winter, they did conserve their forces after the habits of their thrifty forebears and did not light or heat any more of their usually ample houses than was absolutely necessary. a strong tie of kinship threaded the whole community. the stately residents of quality hill and westboro road were often second and third cousins of the owners of the lonely hill farms, of the blacksmith at the cross-roads, or the joiner and carpenter, whose correct eye and a self-taught course of mechanical drawing enabled him to supply plans when required. nor did this carpenter think it necessary to call himself an architect and builder, as he would to-day, in order to back his claims to consideration. no one was jealous because the misses felton, year after year, went to new york after thanksgiving, and returned via the south late in may. rather were their doings a sort of general stimulant and tonic, administered in regular doses through the letters that miss emmy felton wrote weekly to pretty little mrs. latimer, the episcopal minister's wife, who had a love of life beyond the radius of eight hundred a year, while miss felton herself was in constant communication with her steward, wheeler, as to every detail of the management of the place, so that all harley's mills knew exactly what to expect before it happened. with the other wealthy landowner of the town the conditions were wholly different. when john angus left his house for travel or the city, the gates were closed as far as knowledge of him was concerned. ever since he had come home to take the property at his father's death, twelve years before, he had been a builder of barriers, not only between himself and those he thought beneath him, but he hedged himself with ceremony in his own household, his own inflexible will being his universal measure, and every act being in accord with a fixed plan. if, in his dislikes, he was deliberate and inexorable, those who knew him said that it was the same with his passions; in nothing had he the saving grace of spontaneity. small wonder that his roseleaf wife withered by his side until some final shock, too strong for her endurance, swept her away to die in oblivion. thus the news came to harley's mills not only that the feltons would return the middle of april because the disturbed state of the south had made their usual journey impossible, but that john angus, who had been running up at odd times all the month, was going to remodel his place for the reception of his bride in june; while following on the heels of this report, house-painters, paperers, masons, and a landscape-gardener came to confirm it. so it fell out that, for a time, the lady baby, who remained unclaimed at oliver gilbert's, became a thing of secondary interest to every one but the postmaster and satira pegrim, until the full month having gone, the village was again excited, this time by the news that gilbert had taken the final steps toward adopting the child. immediately several impromptu debating societies of villagers took up the merits of the case for and against the adoption. the women of the hospital aid society vowing, as they rolled bandages and scraped lint, that a man of gilbert's age was no fit guardian for a female child, especially as satira pegrim might be relied on to take her second at any time he should come to hand, which might easily happen in a post-office, and leave her brother in the lurch. the men did their talking in the blacksmith's shop, a place where gilbert was not likely to appear suddenly, their objections being impersonal and based chiefly on the fact that it wasn't a good plan to encourage the leaving of stray children on people's stoops, also that the presence of the mysterious child might be prejudicial to his official position; next the three ministers of the town, episcopal, congregational, and methodist, had all made friendly calls at the post-office house and asked, according to their different methods, whether gilbert recognized the responsibility he was contemplating. meanwhile, in the thick of the discussion, the misses felton and mr. esterbrook arrived. not all together, it is true, for miss emmy, being a trifle delicate and disliking the mixed air, crowds, and jolting of the cars, always drove from new york in the family carriage, a spacious landau, lined with rose satin and swung high upon c springs, the journey of fifty odd miles being broken for luncheon and a change of horses, the sedate family grays having been sent on to this point the day previous. mr. esterbrook accompanied miss emmy on this excursion; nora, maid and general factotum, making the third. as for miss felton, this means of progress was too slow. she took the train with the other maids and caleb, the colored man-servant; but even this method of progression was far from rapid, as the cars were pulled singly by horses from the station in east twenty-sixth street, a little above the feltons' house on madison square, through fourth avenue until, the press of traffic left behind, the cars were united and an engine attached. still, journey as they might, the family group that parted after breakfast in the great high-ceiled house facing the square would meet at a flower-decked supper table in a new and healthier atmosphere, without hurry or disarrangement, so harmonious was miss felton's housekeeping in the subduing of annoying details. not to understand the component parts of the household that lived, or, one might almost say, reigned, at felton manor would be to have little understanding of the conditions of the life and surroundings into which the lady baby bid fair to be adopted. the felton ladies were bostonians by birth and education, their father having been a prominent judge. failing of sons, he had, after being some years a widower, virtually adopted and educated a cousin's son to be his confidential secretary, and afterward appointed him in his will as a sort of guardian and adviser to his daughters, who were left at the respective ages of eighteen and twenty with a large property for those days. this man was william esterbrook, ten years the senior of elizabeth felton. when squire felton died, the combination household continued as before, except that the boston house was given up for one in new york, as the east winds were bad for miss emmy's throat. miss felton, however, took her aunt lucretia's place at the helm. strangers sometimes remarked upon the peculiarity of the household arrangements, where william esterbrook, in a house not his own, filled the old-world position of guardian over attractive and marriageable wards. the family friends, however, saw nothing more than a brotherly and sisterly arrangement, and this was the view that the trio thought they held themselves. the real fact was that the kinship, so remote as to be merely a shadow, had kept them all three from leading the normal life that was their due. twenty years had passed, years full of event and social intercourse with the best that either came to or lived in the land, and still it was the misses felton that bought a picture from a rising but struggling artist; gave the young poet or musician a chance to be heard; entertained the sedate at dinner or the opera, and, though they no longer joined in it, gave the young a chance to dance in their great rooms, or sit out the dances on stairs or in the trim conservatory. for, motherless and young as they had been at the time of their father's death, they realized the true social and moral responsibility of their wealth. miss felton was independent, i had almost said masculine, of action; without being brusque, she was direct and to the point, comprehended financial questions, and had an accurate judgment in real estate. tall and of elegant proportions, she wore dark rich silks of simple lines, a plain linen collar and brooch, while her splendid hair, without a thread of gray, was drawn loosely over the ears and braided close to her head. she did not seem to make any exertion to follow the fashions, and yet was always distinguished. miss emmy, having been the younger, and the pet of her father in addition, was of the spontaneous, romantic, and feminine type that, while it seems very yielding, has quite fixed ideas. she was but a trifle above medium height, with large gray eyes and light brown hair, that at forty was either heaped high in puffs, gathered in a netted "waterfall" at the back of her head, or let loose in a shower of ringlets as the whim of the moment required. she loved everything dainty, in people as well as in clothes; her skirts rippled with ribbons and lace as she trailed slowly along, her sunshades were of the daintiest, and her flowery hats bits of art that almost defied nature. lyric music was her passion, and in spite of her years she still had a pretty voice, quite the size for ballads. small wonder that between these two opposites william esterbrook, who, though of somewhat superfine tastes combined with an undeveloped sense of responsibility, was still a man, stood undecided. twenty years before, his interests had centred upon miss felton, and together they had regarded pretty, kittenish emmy as a child, a plaything. this aspect soon ceased, when emmy, coming into the social world, had taken the sedate man of thirty-two for her cavalier quite as a matter of course, and alternately bullied him and turned to him in every strait. once only he had come face to face with his manhood and resolved to make the plunge and propose to emmy, but an over-estimate of the effect it might have upon elizabeth held him back, and so the three had drifted through the best years of life, loyal to each other, yet too supremely and evenly comfortable to ever know the highest happiness. if the trio had been separated even by a season of travel, they might have discovered their real selves, for absence is often quite necessary to give the perspective for rightly judging the feelings and relations with one another. six months before, the fire of war had entered esterbrook's veins, and he, the veteran of a militia regiment, had almost broken away to join a company of his old comrades as a minor officer; but even here he was rebuffed and turned back by something wrong with his heart action that his physician discovered at the last moment. consequently, at fifty odd, william esterbrook, whom miss emmy called willy, and miss felton, cousin esterbrook, though a very well-preserved man, who had no need as yet to use either hair tonic or other toilet accessories, was possessed by a sort of self-consciousness and a certain agitated courtesy of manner. a married man of this age usually has relaxed his tension through natural processes; a confirmed bachelor, living in his own apartments, takes his ease because there is nothing to goad him to do otherwise; but for esterbrook, he was still living in the play that had absorbed his youth without realizing that it was a play, and sometimes he was horribly bored. in personal appearance he had a style quite his own. at a time of beards and many whiskers, low collar, and loose tie, he kept a clean-shaven face and still affected a modified stock. his coat--except in the evening, a prince albert--had a decided waist line; he wore spats that broke the plainness of the customary high boots of the time, and his taste in waistcoats was as refined as it was fanciful. after all, it was the hat that was the most distinguishing characteristic of his apparel. this was of the softest beaver, brushed until it shone like silk; the crown of moderate height was belled out at the top and the brim curled well at the sides. in the crown of this he invariably carried his right-hand glove, the left being always in place and neatly buttoned. this habit came of the old-time courtesy of either removing the glove when shaking hands with ladies or apologizing for its presence. once esterbrook had removed the glove with graceful ceremony before extending his well-shaped hand. now?--well, he was a bit weary of manners and customs, so that the offending glove lived in his hat. about ten o'clock on the morning after the feltons' arrival miss emmy and mr. esterbrook were seen walking on the road that ran from quality hill down to westboro. many heads looked out of windows and nodded, and not a few hands were extended over gates by way of greeting, together with bits of local news, either offered at random or for exchange. "had the ladies heard of the lady baby left at old oliver gilbert's, and his preposterous idea of keeping her?" asked the farrier's wife, who had been one of the many helpers who had married from felton manor. "had they seen miss marcia duane, john angus's intended, and was she as handsome and rich as folks said? able to wind him, who had never before bent head or knees, around her little finger? and if so, why did she take a man old enough to be her father?" "why?" said mr. esterbrook, with his jauntiest air. "john angus and myself are nearly of an age, and i'm not yet out of the running." "oh! mr. esterbrook, present company is always suspected, and then i'm sure no one ever thinks how old _you_ are; you've always been just the same," said the farrier's wife. yes, always the same, a house cat by the fire; the bitter thought flashed through his brain, yet the next moment he was stooping courteously to disentangle miss emmy's parasol from the fringe of her silk mantilla. then they proceeded along the street, miss emmy's full skirt of gray chiné silk, with its bordered flounces of pink roses, rustling as it swung about her, buoyed out by many petticoats, for this dainty lady followed the fashion without the use of what she considered the unnecessary vulgarity of a harsh and unmanageable hoop-skirt. little mrs. latimer ran out to remind her friend that the hospital aid society would meet at the rectory that afternoon, and did she suppose that dear miss felton would come and say something to the ladies about the necessity of rolling the bandages straight, as dr. morewood had said that to expect an army surgeon in a hurry to use a long bandage rolled loosely on the bias, was simply to invite a lesson in profanity. finally the post-office was reached. oliver gilbert, who was at his work bench in the back shop, put down a cuckoo clock that he was tinkering with and came forward quite spryly to meet his visitors, the limp, caused in boyhood by the ill setting of a broken hip, being less noticeable than usual. "we've come to see you first, and then to take a peep at this wonderful lady baby about whom the village is agog. that is, _i_ have; mr. esterbrook would probably rather stay here and talk with you about the new soldier, grant, who has come out of nowhere and is doing such great things. "by the way, my watch has been losing time, though sister elizabeth declares that i wind it in the dark and turn the hands backward; at any rate, it will be the better for a visit with you." then turning to mr. esterbrook, who was trying to decide which of the three morning paper she should read first, "willy, my watch, please; you have it in your pocket." as miss emmy passed through the arbor to the house, she was surprised to hear the halting tap of gilbert's footsteps behind her. "i do not need to take you from the office," she said, "for you must not forget that mrs. pegrim is an old friend of mine." "'tisn't that, but i want to know what you think of _her_." "hasn't she any name? i mean, haven't you decided what to call her?" "i've pretty much made up my mind; i had to, for she's to be baptized this afternoon." at this moment, mrs. pegrim, who had been chafing with impatience ever since she saw miss emmy go into the post-office, opened the door. by her side, standing straight and true, even though one hand clung to the woman's apron, was the lady baby. very scant was the greeting that miss emmy gave satira pegrim, for suddenly she picked up the child and, carrying her across the room, stood her upon the table so that their faces were upon a level, all oblivious of the fact that her mantilla had slipped from her shoulders and that the lace sunshade she had dropped had been seized by the pup, who bore it to his usual câche under the stove. "the darling! how could any one have the heart to desert such an exquisite little creature? positively, mr. gilbert, you must let us have her; i've always thought that i should adopt a young girl some day, twenty years hence, to buy pretty clothes for, after i grow too wrinkled and gray to wear pink and corn color, but i never before realized what a dear a lady baby could be. after all, it will be much nicer to watch her grow up; how surprised sister elizabeth will be, and as for mr. esterbrook, i wonder what he would do if i asked him to carry her home for me." as she leaned toward the child, who was clutching at her long pearl earrings, shaped like bunches of grapes, seeming to regard her as a new and improved species of doll, gilbert's hand closed on miss emmy's arm with a grip that was by no means gentle. "hush!" he said almost roughly in her ear, "we don't speak about her being deserted and talk of that sort any more. none can tell when she will begin to understand. as for her being adopted by you or any one else, that's not to be. she was not left on quality hill; no lights were there that stormy night; there were no folks awake! she was as good as born to me. there's just three of us in this, god and her and me, and we've got to work it out between us, stand or fall." "i could do so much more for her," miss emmy murmured apologetically; then stopped, checked by the expression of his face, though she did not understand it. "yes, ma'am, you could and would as far as boughten things would carry, but i've held marygold in my arms, her little fingers clasped around my neck, so i _know_, and time out of mind it's come to me that with women folks and children the _knowing_ and _feeling sure_ is more than the _having_." "miss emmy, what is a parrotpet?" satira pegrim had been on pins and needles during this interview, and in seeking to cut it short, jerked out a sentence quite as irrelevant as those two that have become famous,--"there's milestones on the dover road," and "barneses goose was stole by tinkers." "a paroquet is a bird, a small parrot. don't you remember that i kept a pair until one died and the other one grew moody and bit willy--i mean mr. esterbrook?" said miss emmy, also glad of the break in a strained situation. "no, it isn't a bird, it's something to do with bricks. they've been carting them from sloops in westboro harbor up to john angus's place this week past, and this morning, when i was raking up the leaves in the garden down beyond the apple trees, making ready to sow early radishes and lettuce, i climbed up the bank to angus's boundary to take a look, and if the old fence wasn't gone! half a dozen men were filling out the bank even with dirt from what was the old flower garden; the old shrubs was uptore and lying roots in air, and right at the end of what was the long path was a mountain of bricks. "peter nichols, the overseer, was there, so i called out and asked him what became of the fence and said i wished i could have had some of the piney roots and garden stuff that was just tossed out for filling. he says, 'there's going to be a fine brick parrotpet instead of the fence, 'cause this here's to be a rose garden, and as for the posy roots and things, i daresn't give 'em, but later on i reckon that some of 'em'll root and sprout on the filled bank your side of the parrotpet." "oh, it's a parapet you mean!" exclaimed miss emmy; "a wall something like a fort. that proves the reports that john angus is anxious to please his bride and let her carry out her tastes, for she has a charming rose garden at their estate on the hudson that ends in a stone parapet overlooking the river." "only this one overlooks the post-office and me, though i believe they _can_ see over the trees to salt water," said gilbert, dryly; and then his frown changed to a smile, as the lady baby, tiring of her fingering inspection of miss emmy's ribbons, crawled to his knee with the sidewheel motion she used when she wished to hurry, and holding her head on one side like an inquisitive bird, stretched out her arms and called "daddy!" with unmistakable clearness. "mr. gilbert, did i understand you to say that the child is to be baptized this afternoon?" asked miss emmy, presently, not a trace of annoyance at his rebuff remaining in her manner or voice. "who is going to do it, and will it be here or at one of the churches? i should like to send the lady baby some of our roses; i know she will love flowers by the way her eyes follow my hat." "mr. latimer is going to do it; he's coming here, miss emmy, and we'd be grateful for a few posies to trick out the foreroom. i reckoned to get a new paper on it before this, but it doesn't seem any season to spend for ornaments." "mr. latimer, an episcopalian? why, i thought that you were a congregationalist, and your wife was certainly the daughter of mr. moore, who used to be methodist preacher in bridgeton." "that's all so, miss emmy; but what i'm striving at in regards to the bringing up of lady baby is to be fair and unbiassed in all things where i can. now, mary belonging to one of the sects in town and me to another, it seems fair to divide 'round and give this child whatever benefit there is in the third. then, too, they've got an organ down to the 'piscopal church and we've only got a tuning-fork, 'cause whenever an organ is brought up, john angus votes it down as sinful." "aye, aye! he still holds to kirk o' scotland; he's vairy serious and canty," interposed miss emmy, with a well-feigned accent, "for his housekeeper told that last winter, when the cook asked higher wages, he couldn't give an answer until he'd pondered it on communion sabbath, which put off the evil day four weeks." "the child likes music," continued gilbert, "for only yesterday, when a fiddler with a dancing bear came past and i had him in to play, she'd a crept off after him in a twinkling while satira's back was turned, if the pup there hadn't barked and tugged her by the skirt. "well, i asked mr. latimer and explained to him, and he said, 'why not bring her to the church after service sunday morning,' but when i told him marygold was named in the foreroom, then he said he'd come up. i'm not asking a company,--satira couldn't see her way to manage,--so there'll only be jest two or three, but i'd be pleased to see you, miss emmy, if you're interested that far to take the trouble." "what is the news?" asked miss emmy, as she joined mr. esterbrook, who was walking to and fro under the maples that lined the walk opposite the post-office, a goodly quantity of their scarlet catkins decorating the wide brim of his hat. "news? there isn't any, except that mcclellan is still on his way to richmond and there are some war bonds, - 's and - 's, going on the market that i think we should all subscribe to as far as we are able. i must speak to elizabeth about them to-night." then as he raised the parasol in which there were several holes not in the original pattern and held it between her and the now really hot sun, he glanced at her face and saw, not only that it was flushed, but that it wore a wholly new expression, while the strings of her bonnet, that had been tied with a graceful precision, hung loose and bore the unmistakable print of moist fingers. her face held esterbrook's eyes until, unconsciously drawn, she looked up and in her turn was amazed at the sudden intensity of his usually placid countenance and the flash of his eyes as he shifted them. "what is it? what has happened?" he said. "has the child been temperish and vexed you, or did she pull your ribbons awry in play?" "no, she was lovely, far too lovable;" then she paused to look over the neat picket-fence into one of the many gardens that filled the spaces between street and white-pillared porches, where tufts of golden daffodils shone like prisoned sunbeams on the lawn and single white violets, short stemmed and fragrant, huddled timidly about the roots of leafless rose-bushes in the long borders. "what has happened is that in this last hour i've been away, willy," she said, as she made a wide-sweeping gesture, "so far away from you and elizabeth that i almost forgot how you looked. so far that i saw quite back to things that might have been." emeline felton had always been, within fixed boundaries, of a romantic and emotional disposition, but with that gesture, suggestive of the breaking of bonds, esterbrook felt that she swept these boundaries aside. "was i other than i am now in those far-away days? have i not always been the same to you? do i not always study your interests?" esterbrook said, again meeting her eyes that did not turn away. "yes, but you were different once, though not for long; since then, as you say, you've been always the same, and that's part of the matter." "i wish that in those other days i'd had the courage to go away far enough to see if you would miss me and then haunt you until i'd made you marry me, emeline." "and i--i wish you had!" esterbrook caught his breath: "is it too late? am i too old to change the might have been?" "ah, yes; if i married, after to-day, it must be a younger man than you. besides you could not stand the shock of telling elizabeth, and if i told her, she might send me to bed without my supper! "then at our age we must consider our obligations to society; as elizabeth puts it, how disappointed it would be if the institution known as the _misses felton and mr. esterbrook_ should disintegrate! how we should be missed, we nice _safe_ people! ah, no, willy, don't look so serious; it's only some left-over mad march hare that has bewitched me," and miss emmy laughed with the same ripple in her voice as that of the bluebird on the roof of its box in the garden. "we must not forget to be patriotic; we must hurry home to consult elizabeth about those - 's you spoke of, and please, willy, ask wheeler to make me a nice little bouquet of roses with lace paper around it by three o'clock to-day, and tie up a box of loose flowers also. i'm going to the christening of oliver gilbert's lady baby." the bonnet strings were tied as usual and the flush on her cheek had faded to its normal tint when esterbrook next glanced at his companion, but in those few minutes he too had looked back and travelled afar, and his face changed as though he had been a ghost of himself. chapter v the naming the feltons, in common with their neighbors of quality hill, dined at one o'clock and had tea or supper, according to the heartiness of the meal, at six or half past, the village and farm folk having their mid-day meal at noon. while a number of these families kept the same hours in their winter city life, during the past four or five seasons there had been a move toward afternoon dinner at five. dinner parties were given at even a later hour, oftentime not beginning until six, the feltons being among those who adopted the extreme custom. so far, however, no one had brought the innovation to upset the almost historic domestic regulations of harley's mills. promptly at half-past two on this april afternoon, the carriage came around to take miss felton to the meeting of the hospital aid society, where she was preparing to inaugurate a better system of work, the material for which was tied in a great bundle in the porch,--cotton cloth, soft unbleached muslin for bandages, and rolls of the gray blue flannel of the hue that for years after was known as army blue. "are you coming, emeline? or are you too tired after your long drive yesterday?" asked miss felton, as she stood before her bureau fastening a wide lace collar with the brooch to which gilbert had referred, and then catching the folds of her india shawl with an inconspicuous pin of scotch pebbles that blended with the fabric. her bonnet was of finely braided straw of soft brown, the chaise-top front being filled in with geraniums of crimson velvet; the broad strings of brown watered ribbon were of the exact shade of her gown. though the misses felton were but two years apart, elizabeth, by far the handsomer of the two, dressed as a doting mother, who considers that all the daintily pretty things of life belong by right to her daughter. miss emmy, who was searching for something in the many small drawers of her dressing-table, did not answer immediately, and her sister repeated the question. "i'm not in the least tired, but i'm not going with you because i've promised dear quaint oliver gilbert that i will go to the christening of the mysterious lady baby this afternoon." "do you think under the circumstances it is necessary? is it not a rather public expression of our approval of what the conservative townspeople consider a very unwise action of gilbert's?" "it certainly is approval,--_my_ approval, that is,--for really, elizabeth, the only objection that i have to gilbert's taking the lady baby is that it prevents me from adopting her myself. no, this isn't one of my little pleasantries, as you call them. i asked gilbert for her and he refused. from your standpoint it may seem strange, and i have no wish to compromise you. i've come to think now that as we are both past forty and likely to remain the misses felton and live in one house to the end of our days, it is time that, at least, we allow ourselves to hold different opinions. it will make variety and keep us fresher, you know. see, i'm going to take the lady baby these coral beads that i wore at her age. she has precisely the colored hair and eyes to wear coral; when she looks up from under her long lashes, she might be a mer-baby, or whatever a mermaid's child should be called." miss emmy chatted gayly along, nonchalantly and without the slightest air of being put out, yet miss felton knew that some great change had come over her volatile sister, but instead of accepting the warning in silence, she still felt called upon to chide. "do you think under the circumstances it is a wise thing to give ornaments to a foundling of whose antecedents we know nothing? isn't it putting possible temptation in her way?" "the knowing nothing is precisely what makes it right, my dear emotionless sister. as we know nothing about her, we can take it for granted that she is everything we could wish for. there, don't be vexed; you are so compounded of judgment and righteousness that you can't possibly understand people that want to do things simply because they feel that they must. don't wait for me, but send the carriage back, please; i'm taking down some flowers." miss emmy went on with her toilet, nora lending a helping hand now and then to adjust the net of silk and beads that to-day held her curls, but so rapid and nervous were the fragile lady's movements that she had the air of a paradise bird pluming itself, and while the color her exertions spread upon her cheeks lasted, no one would have guessed her due in years by ten or fifteen. the front yard at the post-office house was decked as for summer when miss emmy arrived. she had refused nora's aid, preferring to carry her own bundles, and had a little single-handed tussle with the gate that allowed her to see in detail the row of pink conch shells, alternating with round stones freshly whitewashed, that outlined the path. while two settees, also spotless white, of the form once used in schools, set off the bit of lawn, one resting under a tall lilac bush, the other standing aimlessly in the open, as though it lacked the decision of character necessary for a choice of background, between a crab tree, the grape arbor, or the bank that rolled up to john angus's garden. the little-used front door was open, and a pair of gigantic overshoes beside the mat told that one guest had arrived from a region where the roads were still "unsettled." satira pegrim was at the door before miss emmy had reached the top step, and rushing out, laid hold of the boxes of flowers with one hand, while she half led, half shoved her visitor in with the other. "do mind your step, miss emmy; oliver hasn't got the storm door off'n yet, he's been so eat up with worry this last month. neither have i had the pluck to attack that hall tread and turn it. it's now dark figgers on light, but bein' three ply, if turned it would be light on dark and a sight fresher; so if you kin just play to see it that way, you'll ease my feelin's. won't you step up into the best room and lay off your bunnit? "going to leave it on? well, it's real handsome, and i've heard say that folks in new york keep their hats on to most all kinds of day parties, which i lay to folks not bein' as well acquainted as they are this way. besides, there being such a heap o' ornery thievin' ones, the bunnits might get mixed or done away with if laid off'n. still, bein' as it's right here in town, i do wish you'd loosen yours; it would seem more friendly like, and as if you was one of the family, of which the good lord knows there's a lack, 'specially on an occasion like this." miss emmy laughingly expressed her willingness to take off her head-gear, and after arranging the roses in two yellow and brown lustre pitchers on the mantel-shelf, and laying the little bouquet beside the deep bowl of russian cut glass that was to do duty for the christening, she followed mrs. pegrim upstairs. "why, where is the lady baby?" she asked in surprise. "i'm letting her sleep until the last moment, and oliver, who's dressing and fussing between his room and the kitchen's, got an eye to her. 'lisha potts's in there talking to him. oliver would have 'lisha to the naming 'cause of his being the one to open the door _that_ night, you know." (this was as near as satira ever allowed herself to approach the forbidden subject.) "he balked considerable, not being used to society down here at the centre, and settin' in there now he does look uncommon like a coon they had in a cage last county fair, 'n' we-all didn't tell him one of the miss feltons was coming, for fear he'd streak it, so you'd best stand just behind the door 'ntil he gets in. "i'm turrible glad to see your bunnit off'n, and how you do your hair. only a few of the daring hereabout has fixed theirs in what's called a waterfall, and those as has looks like they'd put spice bags on the back of their necks for a crick' n' they'd stuck fast. yourn is just elegant, trickles down and hangs as easy as if there wasn't no net to gather it. "who all is coming to the naming? only first selectman morse, little hughey oldys, me and you and 'lisha and gilbert, besides mr. latimer that does it. gilbert he wanted more, but, says i, not having cleaned house i'm not ready for a charge o' the whole town 'at would come if we loosed the line, so we'd best draw it close as we can without choking ourselves, and that's how. "no, brother hasn't told me the name yet, but i suspicion it's something choice and bookish, for though gilbert never made out to get further'n three terms at the old academy (that little building 'nexed behind the new one), he's always thought a sight of books. in fact, he got something of the taste from pa, who was a carpenter and the forehandedest man about naming his family in all newfield county; he'd names for us all before he'd picked out his wife, pa had. "you ain't never heard? well, it come about this way: thomas, henry, and gideon had been the male names among the gilberts ever since they set foot in this land o' promise near two hundred years ago, and as they slumped down in one spot and didn't journey to speak of, with first, second, and third cousins all clinging to those names, things got mixed pretty well. "father, he that was to be, was jobbing around down at the harley house, which is now mis' oldys's, fixin' more shelves in grandsir' harley's liberary. my, but isn't there a sight of books there! they do claim that grandsir' harley had every one that was made from adam up to the time of his death, and the oldys folks has been buyin' ever since. "well, they knowin' and trustin' father, he put in his dinner hour there in the liberary instead o' coming clear home, and he got real interested in the printing outside the books, and he came to find there was quite a few double names he'd never heard of. so he says to himself, says he, 'i'll put a few down; they'll come handy some day mebbe, and freshen up the family,' and so he did, and after ma died we found his pocket-book all full of figgerin' on work and the names writ in the end. there was more than he ever used, there bein' only ten of us, six boys and four girls. some o' the names he'd passed over, i reckon, 'cause he wasn't quite sure of their sect. "the first of us was a girl and she was named jane grey, but didn't live out her second year; then come edmund spenser, christopher marlow, and clarissy harlow, robinson crusoe, charlotte temple, daniel defoe, oliver goldsmith, cotton mather, and lastly me, with oliver, all that's living. i was called for grandma on ma's side on account of her silver spoons, two candlesticks, and snufflers, which i didn't get, marryin' against her wishes before she died. "some of the names were a mouthful, but they did look real choice on headstones, and liven up the west hill graveyard a lot. the marble man that came from boston to set up john angus's father's moniment allowed he'd never seen such a litery crop o' stones outside east massachusetts." a knock at the door sent mrs. pegrim scurrying away, miss emmy following more slowly, as the front stairs were so steep and high that a misstep was all that lay between the top and bottom. in the foreroom mr. latimer was alone, standing hands behind him looking out the south window, the waking voice of the lady baby having called away mrs. pegrim. miss emmy had entered softly and waited a moment before she spoke. there was something about stephen latimer that always seemed as though it belonged to another world and appealed physically to her spiritual sense. though of american birth and ancestry, he was a type of the old-world vicar, well born and cultured, yet who, through his intense introspection, spends his life in a small church of a remote parish, seeing each morning's sun through the dimly colored glass of the chancel windows, as a light sent especially from heaven to him, and basking in mystic joy as, between times, his fingers draw from the organ the simple linked notes that hold the village children to their hymns. in figure latimer was rather above the medium height, spare without thinness; a smoothly shaven face was saved by distinct mouth lines and a firm chin from the perfect symmetry that seems to lack sympathy. iron-gray hair belied his age, which was barely forty years. in new england towns at this time people looked askance at men of this type. patriotism rushed to any form of dissent in which to cloak itself rather than lean toward anything that might be preëstablished and, therefore, un-american,--the middle classes knowing no distinction between catholicity and romanism. such feelings had stephen latimer met with in coming to harley's mills six years before, yet he stayed on and soon came to be reckoned with as an influence, holding his own and more, by seeing over what he might not see through. the misses felton, though not of his fold, had given st. luke's an organ, such as was not known in newfield county, and through it, latimer's influence went out even more than by the pulpit. for though his young wife played at service, on wednesday afternoons, rain or shine, he sat before the keys and let his fingers speak the words that all might hear who would. sometimes the little church was filled by the quality hill folk and their guests, sometimes a tired woman with a fretful, half-sick child, or a pauper laborer creeping in to rest from his work on the roads, would be the only audience--it made no difference in the music. presently latimer turned,--"ah, so you are here! i thought i recognized your roses. is it not a brave deed of gilbert's, this going again into the fray after time had healed his wounds and let him at least build a shelter around his sorrow? talk of the bravery of those who go to battle, i believe his courage in this matter in facing the unknown is the real heroism." "i think you are right, though i had not looked at it in this way before; i only thought of the amusement of the child's companionship, not the responsibility. ah, here is little hugh oldys." presently, satira pegrim came in, carrying the lady baby, who would have much preferred to walk, for having acquired this accomplishment all of a sudden, she was loath to relinquish it. gilbert and 'lisha potts followed. it was not until potts had come quite into the room, crossing to between the centre-table and mary's melodeon that stood between the windows, that he saw miss emmy. all retreat being cut off, he gave a sort of gasp and tried in vain to sink into the depths of his stiff-collared, deep-cuffed sunday shirt as a turtle disappears into its shell. the sight of miss emmy produced a different effect upon the child, who crowed and stretched her hands toward her new friend, quietly allowed her to fasten the corals upon the plump, bare neck, and afterward tried to look at them with real satisfaction, moving them up and down with her dimpled chin. for a moment general conversation reigned, then-- "what is she to be named? i cannot wait another moment," cried miss emmy. "it's writ in this book," said gilbert, taking a small morocco bible from the table and showing the fly leaf, upon which, in characters painfully round and precise, was "julia poppea gilbert, from her loving daddy on her first birthday, april , ." for a moment no one stirred, for all realized the final way in which the quiet man had settled the matter of birth and name, giving her an anchorage so far as might be. then stephen latimer spoke. "julia poppea! where did you find that name, gilbert?" "julia was my mother's name; seems as if there should be family in it somehow. and the other--i've read it somewhere, and it's got my fancy." (not a word of the locket.) "if i remember," said mr. latimer, hesitatingly, "it was the name of one of nero's wives; would not something nearer home be more suitable, neighbor gilbert? mary, or a flower name, if you like fanciful things, such as violet or rose?" "no, i've settled to poppea. i've known of some one called by it that wasn't kin of any neroes or spoken of in mr. plutarch's books. poppea comes near to being a posy too,--poppies, nice cheerful flowers that, come to recollect, have long lashes to their eyes, just like the lady baby." when stephen latimer explained the need of sponsors according to his ritual, and their duties, gilbert knit his brows at the unforeseen complication. "it is customary to have some others than the parents of the child to stand, as it were, in their place of responsibility in case of need; under these circumstances, surely no one can be more suitable than mrs. pegrim and yourself, neighbor gilbert." "i couldn't stand for any such strange customs or their results," said satira, closing her jaws quickly; she had been reading the sentences of promise in the prayer-book that mr. latimer had marked. "i couldn't go further than to agree to keep her in clothes, her body clean and well fed, and to say, 'now i lay me.'" "as i am in the eye of the law her father, the choice must be outside of me, parson," gilbert said slowly. "who is usually asked?" "near kin, or friends upon whom one can rely to take a true interest in the child." "then i ask you, miss emmy, and you, 'lisha potts." "i'm baptist born, but no church-member," said potts, his words forced out as by some explosive. "and i am a channing unitarian and therefore an arch dissenter," said miss emmy; yet at the same time, through the yearning of her eyes, she already had the lady baby in her arms. stephen latimer looked from one to the other, an expression of satisfaction stealing over his features as if he saw some special significance in this strange combination, then whispered to miss emmy that upon her devolved the duty of holding the child, who began to fret strangely and pucker her face for tears. latimer said something to little hugh, his music pupil, and going to the melodeon, covered and silent these many years, threw back the lid, coaxed the fitful breath and reluctant keys to speak again, so gently that there was no discord, only a far-away voice as of memory. then the two, the childish treble and the baritone, sang, "saviour, who thy flock art feeding with the shepherd's tenderest care, all the feeble gently leading, while the lambs thy bosom share." * * * * * "that was her tune, mary's, the last she sang to marygold. how did you know?" asked gilbert when the hymn ended, his voice sinking unconsciously to an awed whisper. "_i_ did not, but god does not forget." slowly and clearly latimer read the brief service of private baptism, ending with the sentence, "if thou art not already baptized, julia poppea, i baptize thee in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost--amen." "is that in the book?" asked gilbert; "then if it is, there are enough other children named that 'tisn't known about where or when, so that she isn't the only one." "no, we are none of us the _only ones_ either for sorrow or joy; in that lies the love of god, which is brotherhood;" and seeing the light of the smile upon stephen latimer's face, the child laughed and crowed, and succeeded in wriggling from miss emmy's arms down to the floor, where the pup was wagging furiously, as though trying to shake hands with everybody at once, having slipped in as mrs. pegrim hurried out for the christening cake. "it is not as light as it should be," she said, bustling back, "but i made it sponge, so's the children could have it (i've fruit cake coming for we-all). it was the last of the limed eggs i used, and though fresh to taste, they do act sort of discouraged when it gets spring o' the year and the responsibility o' hefting sponge cake is laid on them. "would you mind, miss emmy, seeing as you stepped so far into the family, as to cut it, i mean break it, as a knife spiles sponge cake, while i pour the coffee?" "hasn't the pup got any name yet?" asked hughey, joining the pair on the floor. "mr. gilbert, you promised he should have a name and that i might help choose." "the boys in the office of nights call him mack, after that little general mcclellan, 'cause he's always busy barking and running about, planning great things he never does, so i reckon that'll stick to him." "oh, i forgot! i've brought _her_ a present," and hughey tugged at a small parcel that was bulging from the pocket of his overcoat. "it's tin soldiers and a little cannon; father brought me them from bridgeton. aren't they fine? i'll show her how to stand them up." "i've a whimsey name for you," said miss emmy, as she set down her coffee cup, a relic of grandma gilbert's old lowestoft with the little half chinese flower on front and in bottom, and stooping over the child, kissed the rim of her ear that had an odd break in its curve like the blemish on the petal of a flower that has folded too tight in the bud, "a name that won't mix you up with any mrs. nero. you aren't to be called lady baby any more, but poppea of the post-office!" poppea, however, gave no heed; she was absorbed in the ecstatic task of tasting tin soldier. chapter vi as it was written the twilight had been long for april, as though the vivid sunset colors had fairly dazzled night, but now it was fading. oliver gilbert sat before his desk in the workshop. he was not looking at what was before him, but out of the window across road and fields to where a pearly mist, in which floated the crescent of the new moon, hung above moosatuck. the rush of the river over the last dam that checked it above the mills was occasionally punctuated by the cry of a little screech-owl or the call of a robin shifting its perch, while the rhythmic chorus of peeping frogs insisted upon "sleep-sleep-sleep." that gilbert was tired was apparent in the deepened lines of his face and droop of his shoulders, but it was wholly fatigue of mind. the adoption which had for a month filled his waking and sleeping thoughts was a thing accomplished. a week before, when the matter hung in the balance, possession of the child had seemed the finality. to-night it appeared as merely an open gate through which stretched a vista beyond ken; across this many figures passed to and fro, but with faces in shadow or averted. a question asked by satira pegrim at supper had given birth to the entire throng. "don't you calkerlate, gilbert, it'll be best to lead her up to calling us aunty and uncle? then byme-by, when she comes to know, as know she must, there won't be such a mess o' unravellin' to do." gilbert had answered hotly, chided her unreasonably, ending by saying that the child called him daddy already, and that it could do no harm as she grew up for the two white stones on the hillside to stand for mother and little sister. perhaps, god helping, she might not learn the truth until she was a woman and married. then it need not hurt so much. thus gilbert drugged himself reckless with hope, after the manner of us all. darkness fell about him as he sat, his head fallen between his hands, the side rays of the post-office lamp only seeming to draw the shadows closer. presently he pulled himself together, lighted the other lamps in office and workshop, talking to himself in an argumentative strain as he walked about. one man came in for a paper of tobacco and another for some stamps, but seeing that the postmaster was preoccupied, they did not linger. "that's just what i'll do," he said, as though after arguing with some one he had suddenly achieved a conclusion. again seating himself before the desk and selecting a particular key from the chain he continued the conversation with the opponent who, being speechless, could not contradict. "when i was a boy, i always was scheming to write a book some day that should be printed out like them in squire oldys's study. the printing won't be compassed, but i can write out all that happens from _that night_ on concerning the child, and the village doings, so's it'll be there plain and no hearsay when she comes to read it and i'm not here perhaps. yes, and i must not forget discretion in the doing of it. mr. esterbrook lent me some books of mr. pepys's, his remarks on his own and neighborhood doings. they were fine and edifying in parts, but lacked the discreetness and holding back i always find in mr. plutarch. i wonder anyhow, if in the beginning books weren't written just for the sake of talking to some one." after searching in a cupboard under the desk, gilbert drew out a large ledgerlike volume, bound in sheep. the cover was worn merely by lying for years side by side with its shelf mates. the pages within were of thick smooth paper, finely ruled. gilbert tried several pens, quill and steel, and finally brought a new one from the office; then slowly and painfully he inscribed on the first page:-- _as it was written--by oliver g. gilbert for julia poppea, beginning march , ._ next he took his two precious lincoln letters from their drawer and fastened them between the first and second pages by corner strips of gummed paper. then began the diary. two hours passed ere he had finished the first week, but as time went on, he would naturally grow more brief--the more action the fewer words. * * * * * by the first of may the reconstructed post-office household was accepted as a matter of course, satira pegrim having leased her farm for a three years' term to 'lisha potts, and stored her furnishings in the empty half hayloft of the post-office barn. when urged by potts to sell her farm, she had answered: "no, gilbert or i either one of us may feel called to marry, then what's to do? 'cause i wouldn't be number four to deacon green with his white chin whiskers, and his 'it's all for the best' and other heartless sayings when number one, two, and three was took, or, i claim, clean froze to death, isn't to say i'm set against the institution. to camp 'longside of an ice pond isn't marriage. i never did like lizards, real or human, since brother cotton mather put one down my neck in sunday-school the day sister clarissy harlow 'sperienced religion and i screeched so folks thought i had it too." on may day itself, poppea emerged from the hands of satira pegrim clad in the first attempts for many a year of that good woman in fashioning clothes for a child. the result was a sunbonnet of brown-and-white-checked gingham, a sack-shaped slip of the same material, reenforced by the species of extension-legged underwear called pantalets, below which came a glimpse of sturdy ankles and feet shod in stout ties. this being the universal garb of children of her age and station all over newfield county, the color of the gingham being diversified. miss emmy felton had protested and begged to be allowed to keep the child in dainty nainsook and dimities, ribbons, and flowery hats, but gilbert had stood firm that in clothing at least she must be like the neighborhood children, as he expressed it. thus poppea began life at harley's mills without pretence, having for guardian mack, who was fast developing into a brown-and-white hound of medium size, a trace of setter blood showing in the grain of his hair, and having the forethought and human intelligence that is more often found in dogs of unknown parentage than in pampered thoroughbreds. the parapet that made a barrier between the angus garden and gilbert's home acres was finished. a series of massive stone urns, filled with foliage plants that topped it, seemed in the half light of night and morning like seneschals in plumed helmets, keeping watch over the doings of those humbly encamped below, whom they suspected, but might not displace. yet what does nature care for such distinctions and boundaries? she does not even stop to snap her fingers at them, but simply keeps on surrounding, overlapping, or undermining all barriers that oppose her plans. the wash of earth and water from windy hill was toward gilbert's orchard, with its trees of mossed-branch crannies and knot holes, beloved of robins, bluebirds, and woodpeckers, where the ample red cow flavored her cud with apple blossoms, meadow mint, or nips of the sweet corn in the vegetable patch, according to season and the location and length of her tether. down through the ground gaps in the parapet, a combination of architectural design and necessity, came the spirit of that other garden that the roseleaf wife had created, tended, and left to outlive her. from the bank presently there sprang a bunch of tulips here, a crimson peony there, a musk rose-bush in the débris put forth new branches reaching toward the light, then came the matted green of violets, tufts of velvet sweet william, a wand of madonna lilies. all through this season and others some deep-sleeping seed or bulb put forth, johnny-jump-ups, prim quilled asters, and, with june, there swayed a flock of butterfly-winged poppies that in still other seasons would wander from their earth bank and alight among the plumes of orchard grass to colonize all the sunny spaces. this was the child's playground, where she first rolled among the daisies, while mack, led by his nose, made quest of ground-hog and cottontail; there she sucked clover honey, was stung by jealous bees, solved the first mystery of the nest and eggs, told time by puff-ball clocks, and by and by, through playing make-believe, approached the real. like the good fairy of a story who always comes to the christening to mend with her gift any evil that others have wrought, so at poppea's naming, nature the mother was the invisible sponsor, who gave her three gifts: love of the beautiful through eye and ear, love of the best through a warm heart, and the precious gift of the tears that cleanse the spirit. as soon as the wind-flowers starred the lowlands and the red bells of the columbine swung from their many shrines in the rocky banks, oliver gilbert once more resumed his sunday habit of taking a posy to mary and marygold in god's-acre on the hillside. when the afternoon was right, poppea went with him, riding in the old chaise safe in the grasp of daddy's left arm. it was on one of the first of these visits that gilbert began to train the five-fingered woodbine, that, creeping through the half-wild grass, clung to the two white stones and would not be denied. heretofore he had always pulled it away ruthlessly, but now he plucked a leaf here, a tendril there, coaxing it gently to make a living frame about the names and date of day and month, but praying it to overgrow the _year_ that filled a sunken oval near the base of both the stones. while he worked, he prattled unceasingly, as a child might, to the little one crawling in the mossy grass to gather the light-hued, short-stemmed violets and soft-pawed "pussy-toes." she neither paused nor seemed to heed, yet two sounds heard week after week lingered in her brain until her tongue should one day release them, and these words were "mother" and "ma'gold." there was no fourth of july celebration at harley's mills that year,--no picnics, no speeches. the depressing summer of mcclellan's fruitless meanderings, as well as lack of money, forbade crackers or fireworks, so that the return of john angus with his bride, the second week of the month, was an event that helped to relieve the general tension. mr. binks, who saw mrs. angus on her arrival as she crossed the platform of the little station, reported:-- "she's good-lookin', middlin' young 'n' dark haired with pale skin. she's a high stepper 'at knows which way she wants to go, 'n' mark my words, if john angus's goin' to foller like she 'spects him to, he'll have to act freer and more quick'n he ever did for t'other one." next day the village had a shock almost as great as if lee had suddenly entered washington. mr. and mrs. angus appeared, walking in the village street, he holding her sunshade to the best advantage, while she let her flounced, fresh organdie gown brush the ground that she might clasp both her hands over her husband's arm, the white roses on her wide chip hat tickling his ear the while as she moved her head in talking. in and out of the half dozen shops they went marketing (john angus had habitually marketed in bridgeton), she chatting gayly. presently, as they reached the post-office, there was a pause. then she was heard to say, by a loiterer who sat upon the steps:-- "don't be tiresome, jack; you mustn't expect me to help keep afloat senseless old grudges. please open the door, it hurts my hand. oh, what a lovely child!" for though angus did not actually enter with her, he held the door back without further opposition. "i will take box fifteen," she said to gilbert with decision. "i see that it is vacant. is that your little grandchild? no, your daughter? you must let your wife bring her up to see me some day. i'm devoted to little children." "i thought that he looked red and was getting mad," the witness said, "but when she come out, she stuck a big yaller rose she was wearing in her belt right under his chin, and says she, 'jack, do you love butter?' oh, lordy, i thought i'd die, her callin' john angus jack, and ticklin' of his chin!" quality hill called immediately, both those who had previously known mrs. angus in new york as miss duane and those who had not. meanwhile the stern mansion on windy hill relaxed and bade fair to become a factor in the town, drawing its social life westward. there was much discussion among the village people as to mrs. angus's age; at one of the feltons' piazza days at home, miss emmy, by a process of calculation all her own, said thirty-six, but mr. esterbrook gallantly declared that as looks should be the only way of reckoning such matters, the lady could be barely twenty-five. when mrs. angus returned her calls, a trim footman in white tops seated by the coachman on the box of the barouche, the first ever brought to harley's mills, the good folks stared and raised their hands. when she took a pew at st. luke's church, her husband escorting her to the door each sunday, they lost their breaths completely. but when she invited all to a garden party to see a new lawn game called _croquet_ that had been sent her direct from london by a married sister, they found their tongues again to wonder if the mastering of its fascinating mysteries would in any way impeach their loyalty to the declaration of independence; then straightway succumbed as to an epidemic, grace hoops, battledore and shuttlecock, and even archery having to yield it place. if marcia angus handled her husband somewhat dramatically, his satisfaction seemed complete as it was deep. only two in the place, gilbert and miss emmy, ever whispered even to themselves that she was playing the sort of comedy that is only possible to a woman when some motive of ambition rather than her affections has sway. so that it was a relief to both when, on the anguses' return from town late the next spring, the touch of nature that makes all women kin colored the village gossip, and it was known that at last there would be a child born in the great house on windy hill. satira pegrim, who chatted often with the gardener's wife, though her brother had never let her take poppea for the oft-requested visit to the hill, repeated wild tales of the fineness of the cambric needlework and lace upon the little wardrobe; of the blue silk draperies of the south room now fitted for a nursery; of the gilt bassinet, with its pillow and spread of real lace, and bed, they said, of swan's-down. finally a new rumor was whispered and then took visible shape. harley's mills, with its staff of competent women, single and widowed, who were ready and willing to "accommodate," was overlooked; an english head nurse of the brand accustomed to rear an infant from its birth and chosen by mrs. angus's sister, who had sent croquet, appeared in the stalwart person of a mrs. shandy. then the village pursed its lips, folded its hands, and waited. * * * * * _some random extracts from oliver gilbert's book, , jan. ._--three million slaves were freed to-day according to the promise of september. it had to be, but now i'm wondering what will become of them. poppea may see the working out of this, though i shall not. having her, there's somebody ahead to hand out hopes and fears to. without somebody ahead to keep up with, old feet must stumble and get tired on the march. _july the ._--meade is in command and they're at it again hot and heavy around gettysburg. morse's boy is there and his grandson, or they were when it began. we've all been living around the station for the last three days, just gasping for news like stranded fish for water, but half the time the operator can't get the wire, and then it's only that they're at it still, with lee to the better last night. my head is on fire and seem's as if my hands can't feel. what if they should win--but they _can't while lincoln's above ground_. _july ._--we've won gettysburg; but now the fight's over, the fields yonder are just seeded down with bodies, blue and gray together. the union's safe, and all the town boys, big and little, are firing cannons and muskets, there not being a store that's charging for powder! there's been hallelujahs in the meeting-house, bell-ringings and speeches on the green. i've run up both the flags, one atop of t'other, and yet now it's night and i've come in out of the crowd, it seems like i must put a bit of black out somewhere for _those others_! the picture of them in the glass looks darkly, but byme-by, when poppea comes to read this, mebbe it'll shine up clear and be seen face to face. joy and sorrow, there's always the two around; the matter is _which of us gets which_. _july ._--it's just come in by 'lisha potts that plucky grant, who's been meandering down-stream and in the marshes this long time, got safe down the river past the fort and in back of pemberton's men, and through battering and starving, vicksburg has given in! _hallelujah for victory!_ say i with the rest, yet i can't get the thought out of my head of those famished women and children living in ground-holes and caves to keep out of shot range. maybe when poppea is grown, there'll be some way of keeping peace and right _without this murder_. perhaps it might come about even through women themselves! who knows? _july ._--joy and sorrow! both amongst us in this village. john angus's wife has borne him his long-wished-for son, but she is dead! oh, god! what has he done to be so dealt with? he bent his will considerable through love of her, or maybe it was pride. must it be altogether broke? or is it because he withered little roseleaf? i hauled my victory flags down just so soon as dr. morewood told me. then i run the little one back, halfway up. i wouldn't want angus to think that i bear malice or was aught but sorry; though if i told him so, he'd likely read it as a taunt. mrs. angus was pleasant spoken to the child and me; mebbe some day poppea can pass those kind words back _to the little boy_. _july ._--to-day they buried her up in god's-acre on the hill. the flowers and singing were beautiful,--'specially the little boys from mr. latimer's church that he teaches music. hughey oldys sang one piece all alone about flying away on the wings of a dove to find rest. it took me straight up after it and set me down far away, wondering where little roseleaf lies and if any bedded her with flowers and singing. the women folks brought home satisfaction from the funeral anyhow, for there on a graven silver plate was the age out plain--"in her thirty-seventh year." * * * * * _ , july ._--early tried to get into washington yesterday, but he didn't. what a terrible year it's been so far, and only half over. blood it seems everywhere, in earth and sky and sea. our boys dropping down at more'n a thousand a day, week in and week out. can we hold out? yes, to the end, with patience; for lincoln says, "victory will come, but it comes slowly." there's nobody else left to go soldiering from this town. 'lisha potts was the last likely one and went yesterday. his mother has come down to widow baker's and they've sold most of their stock,--fodder and labor both being so high. three dollars a day for a man at haying. tough bull beef at thirty cents the pound; sack flour taken over from the mills is at the rate of seventeen dollars a barrel, and taxes up to eight mills from five, they say, to help pay the war debt; things look pretty blue in my purse. did i do wrong in keeping the child from those who could do better by her? sister satira is all shook up by 'lisha's going. i never suspicioned before that they were courting. but she claims ever since he hired her farm it sort of seems as if she belonged with it, and he claims ever since she left and shut the door more'n half the place is missing. satira isn't in any hurry, even if 'lisha hadn't enlisted, for she says she had less than a month's courting before and poor quality at that, so now she means to make it last. i pray she does. what would become of us? _nov. ._--_the union is safe for lincoln is reëlected!_ * * * * * _ , feb. ._--lincoln wanted to pay the owners something for the slaves set free, but the cabinet would not let _him_! others wanted to hang the chief rebel leaders, but he would not let _them_. so it goes. i want the child by and by to think of this every time she sees those letters that he wrote her daddy, so's she'll remember what times and doings she came into to make her loyal to the land and the folks that stand next her. this month the thirteenth amendment to the constitution was passed that cuts out slavery from every state and territory. so help us, god! that every soul of us on this soil may be free forever more, black or white, man, woman, or child. keep us from bondage to ourselves, for slavery isn't only the body being bought and sold. _march ._--yesterday, lincoln took oath again. _march ._--'lisha potts came home to-day, honorably discharged and wounded some, but not past mending. he's been in three battles, and looks old enough to count out those four years that he's younger than satira. dave morse came with him, but little davy lies at gettysburg. it seems as if we ones behind can't keep our hands from touching and feeling of the flesh of them that was there, or our eyes from searching the eyes of them that have seen! _april ._--yesterday, lee surrendered and richmond fell. this ends the war. yet woe is still upon the land. what martyrs' blood must be shed to cleanse it? _april ._--_he is dead! assassinated! none else would suffice!_ _april ._--to-morrow we are going to see them take him home, the child and i. the fennimans have made me free of their front porch; they have a house on union square, new york. he will pass that way. the neighbors think i'm crazy to take a child of four or five. she may not understand, but she will see, and byme-by, some day, it will come back to her, and she'll be glad that daddy took her with him. _april ._--we left at daybreak. as it was raw and threatening, the child wore a little blue cloak and cap like a soldier's that satira made to please her last winter. it being eight years since i've seen the city, i was forced to ask my way, but mr. esterbrook being at the station to meet some friends, he counselled me. carrying poppea, for the streets were thronged, i went out to madison square and so down to fifth avenue. black on every side, hanging from roof to street, black-banded flags, black bands on people's arms, the great clock shrouded in black. there were no public stages on the streets that i could see, so i walked down fifth avenue to seventeenth street, then eastward to union square, and so down to fourteenth street. one large building in particular was covered with black from the dormers down to the street, with all the windows hid by black-trimmed flags. i asked a passer-by whose house it was, and he told me that it was the home of a society called the union league, formed by the best men of this city for the upholding of the union. we got to the house at half after one o'clock. i don't know how long we waited, bells tolling. a groan ran up and down the street, and then a great silence. from where i stood out by the fence, the porch and verandy being crowded, i could see the black-covered horses swinging round the corner from broadway, and after them the car. down the street it came, from the corner seemed an hour. i lifted poppea to the iron fence post by the walk. the groan rose once more, and then silence, with all hats off. when the car passed, it seemed as though the world was dead, and that after the minute guns would follow the last trump! gazing before her at the car, the child pulled her little soldier cap off, then whispered to me, drawing my head down, "i don't see him, daddy. is he going to heaven in that bed asleep?" "yes, yes," i said. "'n' when he wakes up, will he see muvver and ma'gold and tell 'em we was here?" a band struck up a dirge, so i didn't have to answer. i can't but think perhaps he'll find _her_ mother, and tell her that there's an old fellow who couldn't fight, that just lives to right her wrongs. after the car a stream of faces followed, men and more men of high-up societies and committees. i was looking at them without seeing, until one man passed and looked back as he went, at us i thought. it was john angus! my suz, but he's aged or something. his face was drawn as if by pain or anger, i can't judge which. poppea saw him too, and as he passed she waved her hand, she's such an eye for faces. then she turned her mind to some cakes the ladies gave her, with pink tops. it's wonderful how nature eases things for children. _may ._--the anguses are back, and folks say that philip is not well, does not keep his footing as a boy should who is turning three. satira saw him yesterday, sitting in his little coach behind the parapet, and she says he looks old and tired across the eyes. some doctors are coming from new york to-night to see him. morewood only shakes his head when asked, as much as saying, _i know_, but he will not believe _me_. _may ._--mrs. shandy came down to satira last evening crying, and blurted out that philip has a twist or something in his backbone,--pott's disease they call it. he will be a hunchback. "an' when he looks at me so lovin' with those big gray eyes of his, it seems that i can't bear it," she sobbed right on satira's shoulder. "what did his father say?" asked she. "mr. angus? well he was hard struck and stayed above stairs all yesterday. but this morning he came down and says to us help standing by, 'do all the doctors say, but never mention to my son or to me that he is different from other boys. who breaks my order--goes.' ah! mrs. pegrim, but he's got an awful pride and will; i have my _doubts if god himself could break it_." * * * * * _ , may._ poppea is past six now and the misses felton think she should have lessons. she knows her letters from her blocks, and hughey oldys reads fairy books to her, but it's the hill-country speech that worries me, and also the felton ladies. when i talk, i talk like those i live among, but when i put pen to paper, i do better, and write more like those i've met in reading. miss emmy wants to learn her every day so when she's eight she can go to the academy, and being a lady baby as she was, not shame her breeding. for manners, she's catching them already, and stephen latimer says she has a great ear for music, and can sing anything she hears hugh sing in sunday-school; not out loud, of course, but soft and strange, like a young bird that's trying. chapter vii into the dark during the week of the greenest christmas that had been known at harley's mills for years, sudden and bitter cold turned a heavy rain to an ice-storm that locked village and country-side, laying low great trees by the clinging weight of icicles, freezing outright more than one veteran crow in the roost on cedar hill, and making prisoners of the ruffed grouse and bob-whites in their shelter of hemlock and juniper in the river woods. in two nights moosatuck became a vast mirror, in which the figures of the skaters by daylight and torchlight were reflected, framed by wonderful prismatic colors. below the falls, however, the water, tempered by the breath of the sea, bedded the wild fowl, repulsed by the ice-pointed reed bayonets from their usual shelter. from all the bordering towns the people gathered along the banks this particular wednesday afternoon in a spirit of holiday festivity, whether they took the part of actors or spectators. contrary to the custom of years, the feltons and mr. esterbrook had returned to quality hill for the week, though quite against the wishes of miss elizabeth, who insisted that for miss emmy, with her sensitive lungs, the tropic atmosphere of a steam-heated new york house, with double windows to prevent even a breath of fresh air from entering unduly, was the only place. miss emmy, however, had rebelled, and seemed bent upon following the advice of a young practitioner, who had for two years been propounding the radical doctrine that fresh, cool air was the natural cure. the absurdity of his theory was on every tongue, even though he was backed by a few women of the progressive sort, who are always said by others to fly in the face of providence. be this as it may, a quaint old push-sled that had belonged to madam harley, and been many years in the loft at the mills, presently appeared on the ice, propelled by patrick, somewhat indignant at his descent from the thronelike box of the carriage. when above a mass of fur robes miss emmy's eager face appeared, framed in a chinchilla hood tied with wide rose-colored ribbons, she was quickly surrounded, even before she had time to shrug her shoulders free and draw one hand from the depths of her great muff, extending it toward a young girl who had come toward her with the grace of a swallow skimming the air, bending to kiss her almost before she had paused, saying in the same breath: "oh, miss emmy, i'm so glad that you've come out; i was afraid that we had missed you, and i must be going soon, for i promised daddy that i would be home by four. no, it's not cold if you keep moving, but it will never do for you to sit stock-still. please let hugh push and i will skate beside you, and patrick can wait in that old shed yonder, back of the bonfire the boys have made. "we've been pushing philip angus all the afternoon. his tutor is ill, and the man that brought him out only stood about stamping his feet and beating his hands. it must be hard enough not to be able to skate, for there's nothing like flying down with the wind and fighting your way back in spite of it, without having to be stuck in one spot like a snow man. so we simply made philip fly along, until he said that he really, truly felt as if the runners were on his feet instead of on the sleigh, and his cheeks grew red and his big gray eyes shone so. he is such a dear little fellow, miss emmy, and so clever at making pictures and images of anything he sees. last summer he made mack's head out of pond clay and baked it in the sun, and it was ever so much like mack when he holds one ear up to listen, you know. then he tried to do a head of aunt satira, but it wasn't so good; the nose and bob of hair behind looked too much alike. but then he coaxed mack up through one of the parapet holes into his garden, but he had to look over at aunty where she sits to sew or shell peas under the first apple tree. you see, philip and i can't visit to and fro like other people, because his father is angry with daddy about something that isn't daddy's fault, but we love each other over the parapet just the same, so now i have two make-believe brothers, little philip and big hugh." poppea had chattered on without a break in obedience to a signal from miss emmy, who, putting her muff to her face, indicated that the young girl must carry on the conversation, as she did not think it wise to talk in the face of the wind. then looking about for hugh oldys, poppea saw that he was evidently searching for her in the zigzag line of skaters near the opposite bank, and as a wave of her scarlet muffler did not attract his attention, she started in pursuit, still with the grace of birdlike flight that makes of motion an embodied thought rather than a muscular action. as she glanced after the girl, miss emmy seemed to see as a panorama all the years between the time that she had first found the lady baby in the post-office house, with hughey oldys giving her his beloved tin soldier and the present, nearly thirteen years. poppea, now at the crisis of her girlhood, hugh in his first college year. did she realize the lapse of time? in some ways not at all. mr. esterbrook was as courteous and precise as ever; if his morning walk was a little shorter and his before-dinner nap a little longer, the change was imperceptible to any outsider. but it was through her interest in poppea that miss emmy knew that time was passing, and yet the same interest kept middle age from laying hold upon her, either physically or mentally; poppea, whom miss felton had from the beginning called julia as a matter of principle, the second name having too theatrical a flavor to suit her. at first it had been the little child of five, coming to take her lesson in needlework on squares of dainty patchwork, one white, the alternate sprigged with blue forget-me-nots. the tiny silver thimble and work-box as a reward when the doll's bed-quilt was completed. with this came almost unconscious teaching of pretty manners, rising when some one enters the room, standing until all are seated. next came the discovery that poppea was all music and rhythmic motion to her toe tips. at one of the summer afternoon concerts for which felton manor was famous, louis moreau gottschalk had been the soloist, playing some of his cuban dances, when to the surprise of all, the child of seven, who had been sitting on the porch steps listening intently, got up and, creeping inside the window of the music room, began to dance, suiting her steps to the music, now slow, now rapid, perfectly unconscious that any one was present, until the great emotional pianist, glancing up, finished abruptly, pausing to applaud, and poppea, brought suddenly to herself and covered with confusion, fled out into the shrubbery, where, her face hidden in mack's soft neck, she cried out her excitement. then followed the music lessons, poppea's legs dangling from the high piano-stool as miss emmy leaned over her, repeating the ceaseless, "one-two-three (thumb under) four-five-six-seven-eight" of the scale of c for the right hand. now, born of the last christmas, a small upright piano stood in the foreroom of the post-office house, the room being further transformed by frilled draperies, flowery paper, and a few good prints, while in another year, poppea would, if oliver gilbert could bring his mind to allow it, go away to school to have the necessary companionship of girls of her own age; not that she had the slightest feeling of aloofness or did not mingle with the village young people in the simplest way. it was the village people themselves, not poppea, who seemed to hold aloof, as if they did not know how to place the girl, who, though belonging at the post-office, had the freedom of the felton home, calling the ladies "aunt." gilbert could not realize this, and a possible parting put him in a state of panic, not only for himself, but for her. what questions might be asked her? what doubts raised? the misses felton and mr. esterbrook, on this topic being united, said, "farmington, of course!" yet they had to confess that there were certain difficulties in the way, and were oftentimes inclined to agree with hugh oldys's mother, who said in her gentle way, "you may be right, cousins felton, but my feeling would be to keep the dear child here close amongst us, stephen latimer helping, so that when the time comes when she must realize her natural loneliness, she need never otherwise feel alone." miss emmy's momentary fit of retrospection was broken by the return of poppea and hugh, skating "cross-hands," and in a moment miss emmy was whirling over the ice until she began to feel, like philip angus, that the runners were on her own feet. after a mile of this exhilaration, hugh pushed the sled into a little cove, to the shelter of the high bank and a hemlock tree combined, that he might ease his numb hands and give poppea a chance to collect her straggling hair. "how do you like that, cousin emmy?" he cried. "if it wasn't that gripping that confounded handle bar paralyzes my hands, i could push you clear up to kirby; the mischief of it would be coming down again. face the wind, poppy, then your hair will blow back so you can grab it." hugh, of man's strength and stature, was still a boy in the joy of life that was stamped in every line of his frank, well-featured, dark face. his hair, tousled by a fur cap, had a wave above the forehead; his almost black eyes looked straight at you without boldness. the corners of both nostrils and mouth had a firmness of curve that might either develop to a keen expression of humor or the power of holding his emotions in check. as he looked at poppea who, having taken off her red woollen hood, was struggling to rebraid her long hair that had escaped from its ribbon, his expression was of the affectionate regard of a boy for his sister, who is also his chum, and so much a part of his normal life that it never occurs to him to analyze their relations. "here's your ribbon," he said, tossing it to her at the moment she reached the end of the strand. "it blew into my hands a quarter of a mile back. you tie and i'll hold; i never could manage a bow." "put on your hood quick or you'll lose that too," laughed miss emmy, revelling in the youth and freshness of the pair before her. so poppea tied tight the ample head-gear crocheted by satira pegrim's generous, if not artistic hands, and in so doing, hid her thick, long mane of golden brown, with the tints of copper and ash that painters love. beautiful as her hair was, the great charm of her face lay in her eyes. these, a casual observer might say, were hazel, but at times they held slanting glints of gold and green, like the poppy's heart, shaded by dark lashes, and all the opal colors: yes, even the fire opal. sometimes as they looked out from under the straight, dark brows, their expression would have been wistful, almost sad, had it not been for the upward curve of the lips and tip tilt of the straight nose that separated them, the sort of a nose that in a child is termed kissable. "once more up to the turn," said hugh, "and then home. i'm afraid it will snow to-night and spoil the skating." "no, home now; that is, for me," answered poppea, looking for a hump where she could take off her skates. "daddy hasn't been feeling quite well for a few days and he likes me to look over the mail after he has tied up the packages. you see, he mismarked one, day before yesterday. quarter of four already? then i shall be late." "not if we take a short cut across the fields and go down the hill through the cemetery. there's no snow to speak of, and it will be easier walking that way than over the icy main roads. yes, i'm going back with you; i've got to, anyway, for father told me to go to the express office and also buy a lot of stamps, and i forgot both this noon. "bah! how cold my hands are! i wonder if, by any chance, mrs. pegrim would give a couple of tramps a cup of tea and a doughnut." "not tea, hugh, chocolate with whipped cream on top, and i'll make it. i've learned up at the feltons'; the aunties have it every afternoon, and it's delicious." in this mood, the girl and man tramped over the brown-and-white meadows with their tumbledown stone fences, until in the high pickets of the graveyard fence they met the first real obstruction, which they avoided by going around to the north gate that opened above oliver gilbert's plot. "i hope the ice hasn't broken the young dogwoods," said poppea; "they were growing so nicely. no, but they are bending. stop one minute, hugh, and help me break off the biggest icicles that are weighing down these branches until they will snap. "oh, look! the ice and wind have torn all the vines from mother's stone and daddy will feel dreadfully; he's trained it so as to make a frame and he would never let me touch even a leaf. i wonder if we can put it back? no," and she stooped to lift the vine; "the ice is too heavy." as poppea bent over she suddenly slipped to her knees before the stone, her eyes fixed upon it with an intensity amounting to terror. hugh, close behind her, followed her glance. for a second, neither moved or spoke, then turning toward him, her hands outstretched and pleading, she cried:-- "look, hugh! look quick, and tell me if the snow has blinded me, or are those numbers ?" he stooped and looked intently before he answered what he already knew, had known, these half dozen years; then said, "it is , poppea." "but it must be a mistake then of the stone-cutters, that we've never noticed before because of the vines; it should be _ _ , the year that i was born and mother died, so that i never saw her. "don't you think that is the way of it, hugh? why don't you speak? what ails you?" again she turned from the stone to look him in the face. something she saw there struck a chill into her more penetrating than the icy ground on which she continued to kneel. poor hugh oldys! what avail was his athletic strength or moral courage? if his playmate had been drowning, burning, or in any other form of physical peril, he could have dashed through anything, or even killed men to rescue her from harm, but now--he stood facing the intangible, with bent head, helplessly groping for some way of escape, not so much for himself as for poppea. the truth lay bare before them, and he knew that it could no longer be veiled. the protective instinct of manhood told him to get her home quickly and under cover, that the blow need not seem so brutal as in the open cold. while he was trying to collect himself and form a plan, poppea's intuition, keyed almost to second sight, was reading his mind through his eyes. "you do not think the date is a mistake, but you don't know what to say!" the words came out so slowly that her lips hardly seemed to form them; then poppea faced the stone once more, her hands pressed to the sides of her face. "if is right, then '_mary, beloved wife of oliver g. gilbert_' can't be my mother. do you understand, hugh? not my mother. why don't you speak? oh, do say something, hugh; that is, if you understand!" stumbling to her feet, poppea went to the little stone and, pulling away the vine, exposed the other date, ! "then marygold isn't my sister either! who was my mother, hugh? and daddy--isn't daddy my father? tell me, you must!" grasping hugh by the shoulders, half to steady herself, half in frenzy, she shook him as she swayed to and fro. "come home, poppea, and ask daddy himself; he is the one to tell you all about it," the lump in hugh's throat almost stopping his voice, as he took her arm and tried, without force, to turn her homeward. but poppea was at bay. still holding fast and looking in his face, she gasped:-- "what were my mother's and father's names? tell me that _now_! where did daddy get me? tell me that!" unconsciously hugh shook his head, at the same time his lips said, "this also you must ask daddy." "that means that no one knows; that i'm not anybody, not anybody," she repeated with a moan. "did miss emmy and mr. esterbrook and 'lisha and aunt satira and everybody know but me? does little philip know? take your hand off my arm, hugh. i'm not going home any more; how can i, when i haven't a home or even a _dead_ mother or a daddy, and every one has deceived me?" the poor young fellow, meanwhile, was trying to lead her toward the highway gate in the hope that a team might pass so that they could beg a ride, for heavy snow clouds were hastening the dark, and even he began to feel the chill of it through his pea-jacket, while poppea was colorless and rigid as one of the icicles that hung from the trees. could this be the same being who, less than an hour before, joyous and radiant, was skating up the river holding miss emmy by the hand? if she had cried, ever so passionately, it would have reassured him. "if you don't want to go back, you must go over to my mother or miss emmy," he said, as she again halted outside the gate in sight of the cross-roads. "listen, i hear a wagon in the turnpike; wait a moment while i stop it and beg a ride down; you are trembling all over, and if you stay here any longer, you'll be very ill maybe." hugh ran down the side road to the turnpike in time to stop the team, a wave of relief sweeping over him when he saw that it was 'lisha potts taking his evening milk down to the centre. ('lisha, who was still courting satira pegrim.) to 'lisha no explanation was needed save the fact of the discovery of the date and the need of getting poppea home. "great snakes!" he ejaculated, closing his jaw with the snap of a steel trap. "so it's come at last! at the very first i rather sided with gilbert's keeping the thing dark from her, but satiry had the common sense,--'it's got to come,' says she, 'so why not let her grow up with an aunty and uncle and fetch up to it drop by drop instead of gettin' the whole thing some day like a pail of cold water on the head that may jar the brain.' now it seems the cold water's come. go back and fetch her, hughey man, i'll wait; but i can't turn this long wagon on a hill noway, nohow." hugh hurried back, calling poppea's name as he went, but when he reached the gate, she was gone. rushing frantically to and fro, he looked back into the graveyard and behind the long line of stone fence opposite that the night was fast blending with its other shadows, but poppea was nowhere to be seen. "she would ha' passed this way if she'd gone down home," said 'lisha, now thoroughly startled at hugh's drawn face and hurried words of what had happened. "i can see almost all the way down the other road, and she ain't on that. 'tain't like she'd take to the hill-country this time o' night. anyway, it isn't no use trying to track her; the ground's froze so hard it doesn't take a hoof print. well, come to think of it, if that isn't darned queer! it was froze jest like this the night she was left at gilbert's! best come down to the centre and i'll drop this milk and borrer a buggy and you and me'll do some tall searchin'. it does look some as if the lord had meant i was to be sort of trackin' of the little gall from the beginnin'. but mebbe it's jest because i'm a good deal round about and keep my eyes open. "you'll best tell gilbert, but make him stay to hum, and we'll do the searchin'. it's no fit night for his lame leg; jest say 'lisha potts's going on the trail and he'll trust me, and mention to satiry that the coffee-pot on the back of the stove'll make a nice picture for us when we get back." meanwhile, the long-legged horses were making good time toward the village, and presently, as hugh entered the post-office, he could see oliver gilbert's face looking anxiously up the road through the window by the beehive, for the binks boy had already come for the mail-bag. "where's poppy? has anything happened? don't say she's fell through the ice and drowned!" gilbert said almost in a whisper. "no, no, she's safe enough," and hugh paused, realizing that even these words might not be true. "sit down, daddy" (hugh had fallen into using poppea's epithets). "i must tell you something." hugh told all as it had happened, repeating poppea's broken sentences word for word with unconscious emphasis and pathos. then, after giving 'lisha's message, he stopped short and, still standing, looked at the old man, who was sitting motionless. gilbert arose with difficulty, steadying himself by the table corner. "go, hugh, and do you and 'lisha do the best you can. she--she came to me in the night, and in the darkness she has gone from me," and hiding his face in his arm he left the office and, stumbling across the passage to the house, passed through the kitchen and entered his bedroom, where he closed and locked the door. hugh followed to say a few words to satira, and remind her of the deserted post-office. she, overcoming her desire to set forth the fulfilment of her prediction in all its details, sat down suddenly in the rocker, head between her hands, until the honest tears spattered both on the floor and on the coat of old mack, who, gray and rheumatic, still kept the place, half under the stove, that he had first chosen almost thirteen years before. oliver gilbert meanwhile paced up and down the inner room, the irregular tapping of his heels telling its own story to satira pegrim, though she could not see the pitiful working of his face or the nervous clenching of his long, thin hands. presently he paused by the hooded cradle that stood as of old between the bed and wall. lighting a candle, he set it upon the chest of drawers, where its rays fell upon the cradle. upon the white counterpane was a little bouquet of prince's pine, wintergreen berries, and holly ferns that poppea had placed there on christmas eve. stiffly gilbert dropped to his knees, his arms clasped about the cradle as on that first night.--"god keep her and lead her in somewhere out of the cold and harm. oh, lord! i've been short-sighted and selfish. i wanted her for my very own so bad that i've lived out a lie rather than have the truth come between ever so little. now she is suffering for it when it should only be me. i was puffed up and said to myself in my pride,--'a wrong has been laid at my door because the lord knew that i would right it,'--but instead i have added to it. oh, lord! have pity; keep her away from the river and the railroad and brook's pea-brush swamp until she gets time to think." chapter viii sanctuary when hugh oldys left poppea by the graveyard gate, her first blind impulse was to hide somewhere, anywhere from familiar faces, this being an instinct common to all healthy young animals when either physically hurt or in trouble. knowing as she did all the by-ways, lanes, and pent roads of the entire township, the very last thing she thought of was to follow the highway or any of its cross-roads. so when hugh was peering among the shadows of the walls and bushes that hedged them on either side, poppea was crossing the graveyard toward the northeast gate by which they had entered, flitting swiftly behind the larger stones for concealment. she had no voice to answer hugh's call even if she had wished to; her throat was contracted and dry, and to her ears, still ringing with the rush of blood brought by the first shock, his voice sounded miles away. when finally she heard the rattle of the milk wagon going unmistakably downhill, she stopped her efforts at concealment, and walking directly to the round hill above the graveyard took such a view of the surroundings as the dusk would allow. the bitter north wind sweeping down from the hill-country turned her about when she faced in that direction, putting an end to a wild idea she had of spending the night in a rough camp the young people had made the previous summer in the hemlock woods. the moosatuck was already being outlined by many bonfires and all the lanterns that the young folks could collect, for they meant to make the most of what might prove the only snowless skating of the winter. the village lights began to twinkle below, and an up train, stopping at harley's mills station, drew out again, taking long breaths, and, creeping through the fields like a great glow-worm, made its way toward bridgeton. there would be a down train in a quarter of an hour; could she reach the station in time, she might gain the last car from the brook side of the track without being seen. then she realized that she had no money, and the felton ladies, her only friends in what was to her the fathomless mystery of new york, were at quality hill. could she have gone to mrs. oldys, sure of finding her alone, and begged to be hidden for a few days, that would have suited her mood and necessities the best. as she closed her eyes for a moment, she saw the peaceful picture of mr. oldys sitting with his evening paper by the fire in the library of endless books in their white, varnished cases, discussing the doings of the day with hugh. through the doorway into the dining room was a glimpse of white-clothed table, a jar of flowers, and the delicate outlines of mrs. oldys' sensitive face, as she bent over the great silver tray, tea-caddy in hand, watching for the first puff of steam from the kettle in order to complete the brewing of her perfect tea, and summon the father and son to table. to go there would be once more to give herself up to all the dearest things of home that she had experienced through the kindness of friends, but thought that she must forever more lack; but above all, she was held back by a bitter feeling of resentment toward those who had been kind to her, for had they not all banded to deceive her? she, who was nobody, saved from charity possibly,--so quickly did her mind travel ahead of what she knew,--from being a town charge! at this bitter moment, the conventional expression came back to her as applied to a child who was being brought up by the widow baker, much being expected of her and little done for the girl. poppea did not analyze her feelings, she was too young and too miserable for any logical reasoning; it was only that impressions crowded her brain with the rapid confusion of a nightmare, and at this moment the germs of two distinct natures began to develop rapidly: one sensitive and emotional; the other stern, proud, and unflinching to the verge of stubbornness. for a few moments she stood thus, overlooking the village, the upland, and marsh meadows that stretched to salt water, until it seemed that the winking eyes of the lights, one red and one yellow, that guarded the entrance of the shallow bay, were beckoning her to come to them. as she waited, a curtain dropped about her from the clouds, and fine, crisp snowflakes melted upon her upturned face. then she began to walk rapidly through the pasture, but whichever way she turned thickets of bay or huckleberry bushes caused her to go back, until, tired with groping, her feet found a worn track, one of the many cow-paths that wound about the lot. keeping to it, no longer trying to think but walking blindly, she slipped and lost the narrow hollow worn smooth in the thick old turf; then picking it up again, stumbled on. after she had gone many miles, as she thought, the path came to some bars; two of these were down, left so probably since the cows had made their last homeward trip in november. on the other side of the bars, the path that had previously zigzagged down a steep hillside continued on a level, and the whistle of a locomotive sounded very near. in a few minutes more a great hayrick stopped her short, and feeling a way around it, she could see two cows, who were pulling their supper from one side of the stack that had been hollowed into a sort of shelter by many such meals. then a lantern shone a few steps ahead, and a voice, that she recognized as belonging to an old neighbor of their own, called the cows into the shelter of the barnyard. poppea, finding that she had travelled only a mile and was within a few feet of the village street, and thinking that the farmer had awakened and come to protect his cattle from the storm, was tempted to crawl into the hay for warmth and rest; her feet were almost without feeling, her hood and muffler were frayed in many places; she shivered so that she had bitten her tongue until it bled, and faintness was creeping over her. as she groped to find a place where the hay was loose enough to make a place for her body, the clock in the tower of st. luke's struck melodiously, not counting out ten or eleven strokes as poppea expected, but stopping short at six. it was the joy of stephen latimer that both clock and bells sent forth a cheerful message of love and hope for what good time might bring forth rather than a warning of passing hours. 'lisha potts had once voiced this interpretation with his characteristic direct emphasis, saying one day to miss emmy, who had given the bells and was asking his opinion of them:-- "yes, marm, they're real coaxin', persuasive, and comfortable; the first church bell allers calls jerky like, 're-pent, re-pent, re-pent,' and the hill meeting house's says, 'h e l l! hell! _hell!_' plain as words, so's i don't feel called to go, though they do say bein' set against a rock has a powerful lot to do with the expression." be this as it may, the chimes had hardly ceased when poppea left the haystack and found her way to the main road through another pair of bars, familiar to all the village children as the daily short cut to the academy. perhaps the church door might be unlocked, it often was; surely no one would look for her there. the snow flurry was one of a series of squalls, that stopped long enough for her to see her way across the road, also that a dim light came through the chancel window. then the snow began to fall again in large, loose flakes that quickly filled her footprints. her scarf caught upon one of the shrubs that lined the bit of flagged path from road to door, and when she had pulled herself free, she noticed that the outer porch door stood open; then the notes of the organ reached her. what day was it? it took her a full minute to remember that it was wednesday, the afternoon upon which stephen latimer played the organ, only it was much later than he usually stayed. expecting that the people might come out at any moment, poppea tried to turn away, but she was nearly spent. pulling herself into the vestibule with great effort, she looked through the diamond panes of the inner door into the church; it was quite empty save for the figure of latimer himself at the organ, a single lamp above his head breaking the darkness. the truth being that the skating carnival had drawn all the people toward the moosatuck, and finding himself alone, latimer had this day let loose his very soul, dreaming and playing on, oblivious of time or falling night. cautiously poppea pushed open the felt-edged door and crept into the church, watching intently for any move on the part of the player. once within she slipped into the first of the pair of pews, that were in the deep shadow of the loft that once held the organ before the new instrument had been placed beside the chancel. the backs and door ends were high to keep out draughts; likewise these pews were seldom used except for the infant class. sinking upon the tufted seat, after trying in vain to sit up, she gradually took a half-crouching position, her head and shoulders supported by one of the little carpet footstools. oh! the unspeakable relief of it, after the hour out in the storm, this being surrounded once more by friendly walls, the sudden cessation of cold, the light, the subtle fragrance of the fir trees and pine of the christmas greens, and the sight of a human being who was, at the same time, unconscious alike of her presence as of her misery. stephen latimer, sitting upon the organ bench with the soft light of the oil lamp outlining his face, looked little, if any, older than on the day when he had baptized poppea. it was his double vocation that kept him young, for in reality he led two separate lives: in one he was the tireless and sympathetic priest; in the other, romanticist, musician, and dreamer. to-night he was leading this second life to the full. once he set the stops in order as though he had finished, then releasing a few of the more delicate, he began to improvise, weaving together the themes of the christmas carols in which he had been drilling his little choir throughout the advent season. the very joy of the strains seemed to mock the young girl listening back among the shadows, and she sat upright with a gesture almost of impatience, so far away seemed the singing and lighted tree of christmas eve. presently his mood dropped from exalted joy down into the depths of stern reality, and the little church began to tremble with the opening chords of the _stabat mater_ of rossini. poppea knew nothing of the meaning of the music or the idea that it interpreted, yet the emotion of it seized upon her, and she felt that something inexplicable had found her in the dark hiding-place, and was struggling with her body and soul. her breath came quick and fast when latimer began the massive splendor of _cujus animam_, and when he let the stop _vox humana_ sing the unpronounced words of _sancta mater_, it seemed as though she must cry out, while the _amen_ exalted her, but painfully, and without final relief. evidently, it had somewhat the same effect upon the organist, for he stopped abruptly, wiped his forehead, that was beaded by the masterly exertion, and, passing his hand wearily across his eyes, shut off the stops still quivering with passion, leaving only _vox humana_, and then, after a moment's pause, played the hymn of childhood, as though convinced that in its simplicity alone lay peace. "gentle jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child." poppea rose to her feet, grasping the back of the seat in front of her: the hymn was the first that gilbert had taught her while she still slept in the hooded cradle. at last god was merciful: the tension broke; tears rained from her strained eyes and began to quench the fire in her brain. burying her face in her hood to stifle the blessed sobs, she again crouched in the pew corner. at the same time, the door opened and mrs. latimer came into the church; feeling her way, she steadied herself by the door of the pew where poppea lay until her eyes focussed to the surroundings. as latimer reluctantly closed the keyboard with the lingering of one parting from a friend, she called, walking toward him as she spoke: "stevie dear, what have you been about? it is half-past seven and the popovers that i made for tea have grown quite discouraged. i was expecting you hours ago, but hugh oldys came rushing in looking so ghastly that he put everything else out of my head. he was coming home with poppy gilbert from skating, they took the short cut across the graveyard--" then, as mrs. latimer reached her husband, she leaned over his shoulder and finished the sentence, but the crouching girl knew its import perfectly. in a moment, husband and wife were hurrying from the church. as stephen latimer stooped to bolt the swinging inner door, poppea heard mrs. latimer say, "elisha potts and hugh are hunting everywhere, but if they do not find her by nine o'clock, don't you think we would better ring the church bells to collect the skaters and have a general search?" "yes, if it must be; but i wish we could find some less public way of reaching her, she is such a sensitive child, yet very proud beneath the surface. do you know, jeanne, she very often reminds me of you yourself. if you had fled before a cruel hurt, would you like to be brought home by the ringing of bells?" "no, stevie, all i should need _now_ would be time to remember and know that you were waiting for me with your arms outstretched." then the doors closed, and poppea was a prisoner. yet in those few moments she had been given a glimpse of the perfection of one of the great mysteries of life, and it made a lasting impression on the soul of the girl who was pushed into womanhood in a single night. for the time being she had what she most needed, rest and silence, with the single lamp that had been forgotten, to prevent the oppression of darkness. she was too physically numb to care what happened during the next hour or realize the possible necessity of the ringing of the bells. fixing herself as comfortably as might be on the narrow seat, she fell into a heavy sleep pillowed by the little carpet stool worn bare by the restless feet of the infant class children. * * * * * meanwhile 'lisha potts and hugh oldys had gone to all the places where poppea would have been likely to take refuge, and finally, a little before nine o'clock, meeting with stephen latimer at the feltons', where they snatched a hasty supper, held an impromptu consultation. "do you think," sobbed miss emmy, "that she could have drowned herself? it's all open water below the dam at harley's mills." "no," almost shouted latimer, "and do not let us give the ugly thought shape even by suggestion. to a healthy-minded, responsible girl such as poppea, the idea would not even occur, for suicide is the final proof of irresponsibility. that she may be wandering, dazed, in the bay marshes is my greatest fear; still, before we make a general hue and cry, let us go back to gilbert's and ask him his exact wishes. whoever may be her father after the flesh, gilbert is now according to the law." "yes," seconded 'lisha, "we'd best go back and ask daddy, and keep a good lookout by the way. she may head for home after a while, but not have push enough to get there." for the third time during the twelve hours the mood of the weather had changed. the wind had parted and banished the heavier snow clouds, and the moon, edging its way persistently through those that remained, made the lanterns that the three men carried almost unnecessary. * * * * * oliver gilbert had sorted and distributed the seven o'clock mail, closed the post-office at the earliest legal moment, and was sitting by the kitchen fire; that is, he sat there in the brief intervals when he was not peering from the window toward the road or listening at the different doors where the wind kept up a disconcerting tapping and rattling. for the third time satira pegrim spread supper before her brother, but she had ceased urging him to eat. mixing his coffee exactly to his taste, she set it close to his elbow and then silently left the room. as she closed the door at the bottom of the attic stairs and began a creaking ascent, gilbert called after her: "satiry, will you fetch the pair of little iron fire dogs from under the eaves when you come down? they lie to the north side under where the seed corn is hung." noticing the food apparently for the first time, he ate a few morsels, drank the coffee slowly, and then going to the side porch collected a large armful of logwood topped with kindlings which he proceeded to carry upstairs with no little difficulty, and coming in collision with his sister on the landing at the top. "sakes alive, man, what are you doing!" she cried, almost dropping the heavy andirons. "i'm going to take out the chimney board in poppy's room and start a fire so's it will look real cheerful when she comes home--for--she'll be tired and cold--most like. mayhap the hearth'll need brushing," he added; "the swallows' nests always fall down of a winter." the spare bedroom that was now poppea's had an empty look, in spite of the bright-flowered wall paper and braided rugs. the straight white drapery at the windows, and on the old high-posted bed in which several generations had been ushered into the world, suggested ice and snow to gilbert rather than a soft fabric. "haven't you got a warm-looking comfortable to throw over that?" he said to mrs. pegrim, who was standing in the doorway, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the bed without looking at it. when, after a few minutes of kneeling on the hearth and coaxing with the bellows, the ruddy glow of the fire had penetrated all the ghostly nooks, gilbert got up and looked about with a sigh of satisfaction, letting his eyes rest upon the white bed for the first time. asking satira to watch the fire until the sparks from the kindlings had subsided, he lit a lantern and made his way slowly to the little workshop back of the post-office, and seating himself before his desk, drew out the shabby ledger in which was written the record of the years since poppea's coming. below the record of the previous day he drew a heavy line. then writing _december twenty-eighth_, across the entire page, he traced under it, writing painfully and making three strokes to every letter,--"this day has the lord taken the pen from my hand to put it into hers. in three days comes a new year. amen." from a panel beneath the drawer, that flew open when he touched the spring, he drew the miniature and its slender chain, wrapped in a piece of chamois leather. it was several years since he had looked at it; yes, he was almost sure that the young woman must be of poppea's blood, if not her mother, for the likeness between the two was now more than mere fancy. dropping it into his pocket, he returned to poppea's bedroom, where he fastened the miniature against the frilled pincushion on top of the high chest of drawers, and lighting the candles in the two straight glass holders that had been miss emmy's christmas gift, set one on either side of it, then laid the precious book upon her work-table by the window, and crept back to the kitchen, where mack was whining uneasily as though he missed some one, and scratching at the door to be let out. * * * * * elisha potts took the lead as the three men started on their slippery walk from quality hill down through the main street of the village. as they reached the rectory, mrs. latimer flitted out to ask for news. when they came abreast of the church, her husband, who had a veiled idea that he had left the lamp burning, glanced up at the chancel window only to be reassured that all was dark within. brief as the stop was, hugh oldys, who had half turned toward the flagged pathway, saw something fluttering from one of the shrubs; raising his lantern he recognized it as a fraying of poppea's scarf. "she has passed this way," he cried, "and since the snow has stopped, for the worsted is quite dry, while the bush is crusted!" but lowering the lantern to the pavement, the footprints there shown were confused and told nothing, as mrs. latimer had gone in alone and come out with her husband. "have you the keys, mr. latimer? we must look here, though of course she may have merely stumbled into the bushes and gone on." "i have them in my pocket, but i was in the church alone until half-past seven and heard no one." "most likely not, if you was a-playin' the organ," said 'lisha, "for you kin make her beller powerful disconcertin', parson. lemme have them keys." * * * * * how long poppea slept, she did not know. when she awoke, the church was in total darkness, the lamp having burned out, and the cold of the floor was creeping up to where she lay. sitting up, she touched everything in reach, yet could not place herself. was it one of the mazes of a bad dream? then the pungence of the fir trees came to her, and the moon without outlined the long window over the chancel. something shook the outer door, and then some one fumbled at the keyhole of the inner. the door was cautiously pushed open, and poppea heard hugh oldys's voice saying, "go quietly and don't stamp so, potts; she may be asleep," and then stephen latimer's lantern was turned so full upon her face that she raised her arm to shield her dazzled eyes. hugh and elisha drew back into the doorway, and it was latimer who, sitting beside her, said: "we have come to take you home, poppea. how long have you been here?" the answer came in a whisper. "ever since six o'clock." "then you were here while i was playing; it was you who were struggling with yourself. it seemed to me suddenly as i played that some one was in hard conflict, and that i must play to help them in some unseen way. i did not dream that it was you, my child. now i know from the soul that struggled with me that you are ready to go home." "let me give her some supper and go up with her," begged jeanne latimer in her husband's ear, as she, alarmed by their long stay in the church, joined them when they were leaving. "send hugh home, and ask potts to let oliver gilbert know that she will soon be there. she needs a woman of her own sort to be with her at this moment, not satira pegrim." a pressure of the hand from latimer told her that she was right, and putting an arm about poppea, she drew her into the rectory and ministered to her by the dim firelight, and presently the two were driven to the post-office house by potts, going together to poppea's room without meeting any one except old mack. for a moment poppea paused, her hand on the doorknob. the crackling sound of the fire within made her turn it quickly. mrs. latimer hastened to undress her, for she was nervously exhausted, and a red spot glowed in the middle of each white cheek. as poppea stood before the chest of drawers to braid her straggling hair, her eyes fell on the miniature. seizing it, she gazed at the face intently, and then, with dilating eyes, turned to mrs. latimer. "who is it?" she whispered; "how did it come here?" "you brought it with you about your neck the night you came. we do not know, daddy and i; we can't be sure, but we think it must have been your mother." without speaking, poppea looked at it once more, put her hand to her face as though struggling intently with memory, pressed the picture to her lips, and then slipped the chain about her neck. lying back between the white curtains with the flowery counterpane across her breast, her loosely braided hair wreathing her head, the resemblance to the miniature became almost startling, but jeanne latimer put a restraint upon her tongue and all she wished to say. stooping, she quickly kissed poppea good-night. "shall i never know anything more?" poppea asked pleadingly; "isn't there anything to tell except that i am not me--that i don't belong to them?" "yes, a little more, but the telling of that belongs to daddy." then even as mrs. latimer spoke, poppea's expression changed, the mouth hardened, and a rigid expression mantled the delicate features, that remained after the long fringed lashes shut out the changeful fire of her eyes. waiting a moment to see if they would open again, mrs. latimer tiptoed out. from forcing her eyes shut, poppea really dozed, and only awakened as the candles gave their final splutter before going out. mack lay upon the mat before the fire twitching and whining in his sleep. starting up, she felt, rather than saw, that there was some one in the room. peering around the curtain, she came face to face with oliver gilbert, who, wrapped in his double gown, was sitting in the deep chintz chair by her bedside. instantly a long, thin hand was laid upon hers that struggled under it for a moment but could not pull itself away. "some things are real if others are hid from us for a little while, poppy. you see your home is here, yours to have and hold under love and law, and you see you've still got a daddy; perhaps if you'd _say_ the word just once, we'd both feel better." the prisoned hand stopped struggling; raising herself on one arm she repeated slowly, "yes, i've a daddy." then she hid her face upon his shoulder, the miniature of the other poppea dangling from her neck. when she fell asleep, he did not go away, but sat there, replenishing the fire lest she should wake in some new terror. thus gilbert kept his second vigil until dawn. in putting a last stick upon the embers he stumbled over mack, who did not move; his faithful old life had gone out peacefully in the night, and with it his mistress's careless girlhood. chapter ix the mystery of the name it being saturday and market-day, satira pegrim had gone to bridgeton with 'lisha potts to look at furniture, for liberal as to matters of time though potts was as a wooer, he had told satira on christmas day that when a man reached fifty it was time he did something more about settling down than talk of it. satira, on the whole, had enjoyed a very pleasant courtship during the years of her reign at the post-office. it is given to few women to attend the county fair for thirteen consecutive years at the expense of the same man without incurring further responsibility. she was now divided between conscientious motives about leaving her brother until poppea was able to keep house, and the fear lest 'lisha become discouraged and transfer his affections to judith, daughter of the widow baker. this veteran, having failed to secure a second spouse for herself, was now trying to checkmate in turn every available man in the county for the benefit of her daughter. the bakers lived almost opposite the pegrim farm that 'lisha leased, and well satira knew that nearness means a good deal, especially in winter, so she had consented to look at furniture, saying demurely at the same time:-- "of course, if you wish my housekeepin' 'xperience in trading, it'll pleasure me to give it, but if you want a woman that can rush into things helterskelter and unthinkin', why not try judy baker?" "no old maids for me, satiry," he flung back, slapping his knees to give emphasis to his words. "when i get spliced, it'll hev to be either a young woman or a widder, the last bespoke and preferred." "sakes alive! and what's judy but a young woman? she's only turning twenty-four." "age hasn't got a thing to do with it; there's old maids at twenty and women folks turning forty that though unmarried ain't, and is young." "oliver gilbert, he hit them differences plumb on the head once't some years back, when he was havin' considerable trouble in making folks understand that he wasn't calculatin' to take a second. gilbert he's read lots of unor'nary thoughts in books, and he says, says he: ''lisha, there's three kinds o' females when it comes to considerin' matrimony: widders that understand us men through 'xperience; just plain nice women folks that know what's necessary about us by intooition, as the lord meant they should; and old maids that thinks they're dead wise, but all they know's by suspicion. now don't you take one of those last, 'cause they suspect so much more bad of us than we really are that their idee is darned hard to live up tew!' well, just at that time what i took to, was not gettin' married, but to the woods, and went in for trapping and lumbering for quite a spell. "judy baker's terrible knowin' by suspicion. when she shakes hands, she'll jerk hern away before a man's really caught his grip, like she most _knew_ he was goin' to squeeze it, which he, bein' i, hadn't no such idee. then she looks mad, 'cause he, bein' i, didn't." after this complete understanding, satira pegrim, who felt that in addition to the trip of inspection 'lisha deserved some more positive encouragement, told him that if he would begin and mend the fence up at the farm and reshingle the buildings, she would begin to sew her carpet rags and sheets, and that would give them both time to be ready by poppea's sixteenth birthday--this being the earliest age in newfield county at which a well-brought-up girl could be expected to keep house, with a neighbor to accommodate in matter of washing and house cleaning. 'lisha, jubilant over something so definite, not only bought tickets for christy's minstrels that chanced to be in bridgeton that night, but insisted that they two sup at the railway hotel as well. hence satira's prolonged absence. thus it chanced that in two days after the night of poppea's awakening, the post-office house, put in order from attic to porch, was left in her charge, and in the afternoon she read gilbert's record written in the old ledger, they two sitting together in the long kitchen where the first scene had been set. as she read, gilbert, from the south window, where he sat fitting and adjusting an intricate bit of clockwork, furtively watched the varying color and expression of her face. after slowly reading his simple story, poppea could not feel for a second that she was an unloved intruder, or fail herself to be filled anew with love for the old man who had opened his door. her quick intuition and rapidly developing mentality scanned between the lines, learning of many acts of self-sacrifice and devotion that gilbert believed locked securely in his own thoughts. it was the _why_ of it all that rankled: the circumstances, people, or both that had made the charity necessary. when the girl thought of this, a steely flash came from her eyes, and the will that had been latent, except for childish bursts of impetuosity, set its signals at the corners of lips and nostrils, making the watcher sigh. "well, perhaps she may need it to stiffen her up by and by, who knows," said gilbert to himself; "if only the lord lets her always love something harder than she hates something else." dear, patient oliver gilbert, in those few words he summed up the struggle that poppea must fight her way through in the next ten years. would she be victor or vanquished? as a girl glides unconsciously into womanhood, the mysteries that surround her are like the intangible, yet real, mists of daybreak that may clear away before the purifying rays of the sun, or solidify into angry storm clouds to blot out the entire day. in addition to these, over poppea there hung what to her was a darker cloud,--the mystery of the name; and the only rays that could penetrate its shadow must come from the sun of love. presently poppea closed the book, and after resting with her arms clasped about it for a moment, laid it on the table. going to the window where gilbert was sitting, she stood behind him, stroking his hair gently and smoothing back one troublesome lock that kept falling over his eyes. then stooping and laying her cheek upon his, she whispered:-- "daddy, please say that i need not go away anywhere to school. i can learn a great deal more at the academy if i try, and besides the felton aunties and mr. oldys lend me so many books, and they are going to have a french teacher next summer, and miss emmy has asked me to read with them. i want to work hard at my music, so that by and by i can play an organ perhaps, or sing in a bridgeton choir. and i must help you in the post-office. you've said so often lately that people are more careless of their spelling than they used to be, and do not write the addresses well, that i'm quite sure your eyes are getting tired. please, daddy? it will make things so much easier." gilbert paused a moment in order to control his eagerness to assent. "i never wanted you to go away, child, but for your own good, and now--it doesn't seem to me that i could bear it. miss emmy thinks, though, that you'd be better of a little change, and she's spoken with me about your going down to them next month to spend a fortnight or so, to see the city, hear some good singing, the opery she calls it, and things like that. wouldn't you like it, poppy? yes, i thought so. well, you go try your wings outside of harley's mills a bit, dearie. mayhap you'll think you've never tasted life before, but if you get homesick for daddy and the post-office, and feel peeky for a sight o' the river again and a sniff of the salt harbor wind that blows over quality hill, they'll be here, and all you've got to do is just to come right back." * * * * * a month later, poppea was standing between the heavy crimson curtains of one of the feltons' parlor windows on madison avenue, overlooking the square. the sound of the traffic from the opposite side where fifth avenue and broadway meet and cross was deadened to a sullen roar by the heavy double windows except when the stages passed, and then for a moment the distinct sound of hoof and wheel was distinguishable. over in the park many children were playing, rolling hoops to and fro, or wheeling about on roller-skates, having a row of small wheels set lengthwise under the foot that made the sport as much a matter of equipoise as ice skating. poppea longed to join them, to rush along and feel the air around her and facing the wind, meet it halfway. for an airing she went to drive every day with the felton ladies in the new landau which was lined with tufted blue satin, with little mirrors let into the side panels. sometimes they drove up fifth avenue to central park, through the east drive to the turn and back again, at a decorous and leisurely pace, poppea and mr. esterbrook sitting opposite the ladies, who were continually bowing and smiling to those in other carriages that they passed. even as late as to , all those who kept private equipages were well known to one another, and if a stranger appeared in mrs. ---- barouche, the identity was soon revealed by the sending out of cards for a more or less stately reception to meet the guest. the informal and irresponsible afternoon teas of the last two decades of the century, their chief motive, as voiced by the autocrat, being to "gabble, gobble, and git," were as yet unconceived. sometimes a party of young folks on horseback, followed by an instructor, would come in sight, winding among the trees that separate drive from bridlepath, and pass before poppea, all eagerness, could really see them, for except on very mild days the carriage windows were closed in spite of miss emmy's protestation that she never really breathed except in the open air. the windows of madam felton's coach had always been closed against the east winds of boston fifty years before, and miss elizabeth felt that to do otherwise would be too much of an exhibition of change. if miss emmy chose to sleep with her bedroom window open, that was a different matter; eccentric, of course, but inconspicuous. one day mr. esterbrook had suggested that they two should leave the carriage, walk back to the entrance gate and take a stage or a horse-car home. how poppea had enjoyed it. there had been enough wind to ripple the water of the reservoir, and the gulls were flying over it, preparing to bed down for the night as they did on moosatuck. another time, the ladies always being interested in everything concerning the good of the city, had driven across the park and out the west side of it to see where the building of the museum of natural history was to be located, the laying of the corner-stone by president grant having been set for the following june. continuing on over poorly paved streets or muddy roadways that ran between partly decayed country houses, or the shanties of squatter settlements, they came within sight of the hudson, making their way northward through manhattanville and bloomingdale to a hill called claremont, where there was a place of refreshment in an old farm-house. the sight of the glorious river sweeping down between the high walls of the palisades, with shadowy suggestion of headlands and mountains, made the young girl's breath come quick and short. she could not keep her eyes from the window and she spoke either in monosyllables or kept silent. could she, might she go out on the bank and see, not through the glass, and feel the wind that was bending the old tulip trees with the rattling seed cups? alas, no; it was a place of public entertainment where one, especially a young lady, must be very careful to do nothing unusual. so, though miss emmy looked as though she would not only have encouraged poppea in her desire but gone with her if it had not been so cruelly windy, they turned their backs on the wonderful panorama, while patrick sought an easier, if less picturesque, way home. he, in fact, scowled upon the whole trip to such an extent that it was not repeated. the horses, used to half a dozen miles at most, had sweated unduly; the rim of one of the newly painted wheels had sunk between two cobbles and become badly scratched, while patrick himself had been jolted to such an extent that he had been obliged, in order to keep his seat, to adapt himself to circumstances and do something more than sit on the box and hold the reins, a new condition which raised his ire. it may be said with truth that the tyrannical family coachman of the old régime in new york was the logical and fitting ancestor of the arbitrary chauffeur of to-day. the first, however, having only the "lame horse" plea as his weapon; the other, any one of an endless series of complicated intestinal diseases concealed in the corpulent tonneau. thus, after the first week, poppea's exercise was limited to the correct walk for girls of her age, up or down fifth avenue to washington square, or with nora for attendant, dressed in the neat garb of a city maid, down twenty-third street and eastward to gramercy park, a key to which exclusive enclosure had been given to the misses felton by one of their many friends in the surrounding houses. she often looked longingly at the girls of her own age who walked in groups of twos and threes, chatting vivaciously, the maid following far enough away to be out of sight if not out of mind. at home she had never felt lonely. now, for the first time, she realized that she had no real girl companions of her own age. this particular afternoon when she stood between the curtains, a hand on each, looking alternately out into the square and then down the length of the three great rooms, divided by marble columns, their size further magnified by the vistas seen in the pier and mantel mirrors, she felt like some wild thing at bay. the ladies had gone in the carriage to staten island to visit a distant relative who was ill, taking nora with them. mr. esterbrook had lunched as usual at his club, the union league, only a few blocks further up the avenue, it having been his considerate custom to leave the house to the ladies and their friends at mid-day ever since luncheon had taken the place of early dinner. poppea tried to open first a front and then a back window to get a breath of air, but without success. she was too wise now to refresh herself by sitting on the outer doorstep, since the doing of it, during the first week, had brought a very decided remonstrance from the usually sympathetic miss emmy. for a minute she was minded to get her hat and join the children in the square; then some street musicians with harp and violins struck up before the next house, riveting her attention. the playing was spirited and the time good, though imperfect as to technique. the pent-up energy in poppea began to surge and sway her body to the music. stepping from the recessed window before the long mirror, where there was a space clear of furniture, she began to dance, not with set steps or calculated gestures, merely letting the music lead her. when she finally stopped, head forward, a sort of half-mocking courtesy to the looking-glass, laughing,--her good temper restored,--she was startled to see a reflection besides her own, that of a young man of perhaps eight and twenty, of medium height, clean shaven at a time when this was uncommon, immaculate as to clothes, having an air of being perfectly at ease in unusual surroundings that poppea noticed even in her confusion. caleb had ushered him through the sliding door unthinkingly, for the colored servitor was standing transfixed, one hand raised in warning, saying in the brief time that it took poppea to prepare for flight:-- "sho, i didn't know you was here, miss poppy; i 'lowed marsa esterbrook was corned in." then in a confidential whisper to the caller as the girl slipped past him and flew rather than ran up the thickly padded stairs, he added:-- "it's jest miss poppy, a young missy from de country that miss emmy thinks a mighty heap of. she was lonesome-like i reckon, and just a-dancin' to keep up her spirits. do set down, marsa winslow; the ladies should shuah be back by now and they'll feel powerful bad to have missed you. i well recomember your lady mother back in the old boston time; she and miss emmy was like two twins for standing up for each other. "oh, so you'se livin' in new york an' can drop in any time. i'll deliber your message wif honah, sah, to the ladies' pleasure," and caleb bowed the young man out, laying the silver salver with the bit of pasteboard in a spot upon the hall table where it could not fail to attract attention. the card read, bradish winslow, the loiterers' club. "i should like to meet that girl four or five years hence; she's a wonderful bit of live color already," was winslow's mental comment as he went down the steps, hesitating at the foot whether he should go up or down the avenue, or across the square. poppea, having gained her room, where the windows consisted of a single sash, threw one of them wide open, and kneeling on the floor so that her chin rested on the sill, drew in a long, refreshing breath. for a moment she wondered who the caller might be, and thought of her dancing with regret, but on the return of the misses felton they had such a delightful bit of news to impart that she forgot even to ask his name. the following week the opera of lohengrin was to be sung, christine nilsson taking the part of elsa for the last time in new york. no such voice, miss felton declared, had been heard in america, except possibly that of nilsson's countrywoman, jenny lind. to hear her would be a musical education in itself for poppea; so not only had a box been secured for the night, but stephen latimer and his wife were coming to complete the party, in spite of the fact that there were some who thought the witnessing of all dramatic performances unclerical. that evening miss emmy played some fragments of the opera on the grand piano, promising poppea that stephen latimer should explain its construction and motive to her when he came. for a few days poppea forgot her desire to run away in thinking of the opera, and trying to pick out bits from the score, but its complication baffled her and she had to content herself with persuading nora to continue their walk from gramercy park down irving place to fourteenth street that she might look at the outside of the academy of music that was her mecca. when the strain began again and she was once more longing for freedom and a five-mile walk up the bank of the moosatuck, alone or with hugh, the magic day came and with it the latimers, mrs. stephen dimpling under a bewitching spring bonnet entirely of her own manufacture, a cherished possession. this, miss emmy told her playfully but firmly, she could _not_ wear to the opera, but that bachmann should dress her hair when she came to do theirs. "no matter what stephen may say to-night, i'm going to dress you to suit myself," said miss emmy. "this pink brocade with the silver trimmings, your hair loosened into a crown of puffs with the pink feather at the side, and the coral comb. the coral necklace and the white lace shawl for shoulder drapery, if you think low neck a trifle too much for a clergyman's lady, and these white gloves topped with coral bands." "i will wear the white gloves gladly," said jeanne latimer, looking at her two forefingers rather ruefully. one was roughened by the use of the vegetable knife, for the times had been hard and houseworkers scarce at harley's mills that winter; while the other was pricked deep from the sewing of harsh muslin for the clothing that some would otherwise have lacked. "but really, miss emmy, don't you think it would look more honest if i wore my own gown?" miss emmy laughingly acknowledged that perhaps it might, yet held her point with determination, and eight o'clock saw the party of six gathered in the opera-box, their faces differing almost as much in expression as the details of their clothing. jeanne latimer and miss emmy were what might be called very much dressed without having overstepped the bounds of good taste. miss emmy wore pale blue satin with much fine lace and pearl ornaments; though pale in the morning, her color always grew somewhat hectic at night and helped justify a combination by far too young for her years. while jeanne latimer enjoyed the novel sensation of wearing her gay attire, miss emmy's pleasure came from the conscious result of wearing hers. miss felton, who sat behind her sister, wore an almost straight robe of black velvet; the point lace fichu crossed in front and fastened by a heavy diamond brooch, her only ornament, covered all but her slim white throat. her hair was parted in bandeaux and coiled at the back of her head as usual, the only addition being two waxy white camelias tucked into the mass. during the last two years, however, a decided thread of silver had woven itself among the dark coils. talking in short sentences to, rather than with, mr. esterbrook, who sat next her, she had an anxious air and seemed to be striving to keep him awake, for scarcely had they been seated when an air of intense weariness came over his elaborately dressed person, and he began to nod. the remaining two of the party thus had the right-hand corner of the box to themselves, poppea, in her simple white summer muslin relieved by a cherry sash, sitting in a low chair, with stephen latimer back of her. from the moment of their entrance, he had busied himself in explaining the great building to her, from the arrangement of the seats, boxes, and orchestra, to the uses of the prompter's egg-shaped box. music and certain phases of human nature that he felt allied to the divine were the food for this man's dreams, and to-night he would have both very near. presently the orchestra took their places, falling into silence at the tap of the leader's baton and the prelude to the first act began with the high notes of the grail motif, rising to a climax of trumpets and trombones, then fading away to silence again. with a word here and there to focus the story of the libretto, latimer called poppea's attention to the new theme, where the herald calls for a champion for the accused girl, the elsa motif is voiced by the wood-wind instruments, and presently lohengrin appears in the boat drawn by the swan. to poppea the scene had the mystery of fairyland, but it was, at the same time, her first glimpse of visible active romance, and through the scenes that followed came her primal realization of the love of man and woman as separate from the friendship of girl and boy. when lohengrin sets the one condition for the marriage that elsa shall never ask him his name and latimer explained the _mystery of the name_ motif, poppea with hands clasped in the folds of her gown sat with strained eyes and parted lips scarcely breathing. once heard, this motif never left her ears, whether it was whispered by the wood-wind instruments, the horn, or proclaimed by the whole orchestra, as when in the scene of the bridal chamber the knight calls elsa passionately by name, but she, not knowing his, may not speak it, and so at last rebels and demands to know. as latimer watched poppea's face, he saw the change that fell upon it. the joy of music, color, and pageant faded from it, until, finally, when the boat, now guided by the dove of the grail, bears lohengrin, its knight, away and elsa falls fainting, he saw poppea's lips, from which the color had fled, frame rather than say:-- "she would not marry him because she did not know his name, and when at last she knew it, he had to go away; suppose, oh, suppose--?" poppea turned her head from him, but latimer, through the music and the dreaming, read the thought that had taken possession of her. the latimers returned to harley's mills the next afternoon, and stephen, at his wife's instigation, asked miss emmy if poppea might not accompany them. "it's very hard for her, stephen," she said; "she isn't in a natural frame of mind now at best, and all the new things she sees and feels exaggerate it. i know how it is; last night, at first i loved my fine feathers and then they pricked like pins, and i thought, 'oh! suppose i should have to wear them always and play a part and turn into some one else and never go back to tell you what day of the week it is, stevie, or play the organ and peel potatoes and make nighties for stiff old mrs. ricker, who scolds because it is so much trouble to wear and wash them!' it simply paralyzes me. "i _know_ that poppy feels, 'suppose i should turn out to be somebody else, who was born to live indoors and be shut in by these double windows and never get back to daddy and the post-office, and never any more hunt for lady's-slippers and arbutus in the moosatuck woods with hugh.' "i never could understand why people's friends always try to get them away from home if there's anything they want them to forget. at home i can always keep a worry in one place and needn't go out of my way to look at it, but when one is away, it may turn up unexpectedly at any corner." miss emmy, however, had replied: "send poppea home with you when she's only been here two weeks? not a bit of it. the house hasn't been so gay in my memory, besides, i'm having nora and the seamstress turn her out such a lot of pretty clothes. i'm sure, too, i'm giving her as nice a time as any girl could ask." a few days later the roving mood returned, and would not be restrained. when the ladies had gone to a morning charitable meeting, leaving poppea practising some little ballads she had found in one of their many music books, she slipped on her going-out things and, closing the front door, made her way quickly across the square to where the omnibus passed that mr. esterbrook had taken the day they two had left the carriage in central park. once in the park, she felt sure she could find her way to that high bank overlooking the river, where she could feel the wind from the hills on her face and look at the water that was always coming, always passing, and yet never left one behind. she had a small netted purse of dimes and nickels that satira pegrim had given her on parting, with the admonition, "'tain't but what they'll feed and lodge you, poppy, and more too; 'tisn't that, but mebbe you'd fancy an apple or a bit of spruce gum, and not be able to lay hand on it without buying, or need a penny for an organ monkey, for they do say that all the organs that goes through here in summer heads for new york in winter, and consequently monkeys must be plenty. there's 'busses in new york, too, they say, and most like you'd like to make a change from carriage riding." thus equipped, poppea paid her fare and stole into a corner, where she remained until the omnibus reached the end of its route. her walk up through the park to the northern outlet was easy, but after that, the other mile was broken and irregular; for though there were old country houses here and there, interspersed with newer buildings, the ground was hilly, many shanties perched upon the rocks and huddled together in the open fields. once she asked her way of a pleasant-faced woman at the gate of a large, brown building which proved to be an orphan asylum, and her informant told her that the location was called bloomingdale, that another large building set in ample grounds that they could see to the northward was the asylum, and that if in going back she would walk down the bloomingdale road (broadway) a piece, she would find a stage that would take her back through manhattanville and harlem into the heart of the city. also she cautioned poppea not to loiter, for the water side was a lonesome spot for girls. at last the river was in sight. getting her bearings, she crossed a lot where a friendly cow followed her, trying to lick the rough woollen of her coat, and crawling between some rails, reached the bank that she had remembered, sitting to rest upon a low stump, where had been laid low one of a group of giant tulip trees. the grandeur of it almost oppressed poppea for a moment, then it seemed to compact itself and close up until the river became the moosatuck winding its way from the hill country down to the mills, and then onward through the marshes to the bay. there were not many boats upon it, but one was hers, built by 'lisha potts, and one was hugh oldys's, and they two were deciding which boat they should use, and whether both should row or only hugh, for often they rowed together. then the second boat disappeared, and poppea rowed her boat, and in the stern sat daddy fishing--daddy, who seldom took a holiday. how young he looked when he caught that fine big bass; what jolly stories he told, and how good satira pegrim's basket lunch had tasted. this vision was vivid, and reminded poppea that she was hungry. close in some bushes beside her a song-sparrow warbled his clear spring ditty, and the lump that had been gathering in her throat tightened and would not be swallowed. scrambling to her feet she took one final look up and down before turning homeward, and, as she did so, her eyes fell upon a small marble shaft surmounted by an urn that stood not a dozen feet from where she had been sitting. there were several like it in the hill graveyard at home, but this could not be a graveyard with only a single stone. going near she looked for a name or date, but found only these words, _erected to an amiable child_. who was it? was this another mystery of a name. had the child none? waving her hand good-by to the great river, she retraced her steps toward the bloomingdale road, and at that moment she heard in her ear, with bell-like clearness, the voice of gilbert, calling to her as he often did when she stayed out late in the bank garden below the orchard: "come home, poppy, it's lonesome for you out there by yourself; besides, daddy needs you!" yes, daddy needed her; that must be the answer to everything that troubled her. the next day it was poppea who asked if she might go home, and miss emmy said yes. chapter x philip when poppea was nineteen, she became the assistant postmaster at harley's mills, with all the legal formality that the name implied, mr. oldys having "gone on her bond" as the local saying ran. not that gilbert's mental faculties were in any way impaired, but at seventy he was naturally less alert physically, and the long hours told on him. at least poppea said so, and urged him to spend more time in the garden during pleasant weather in company with his pipe and one of his well-worn books. these, however, had palled upon him, or, as he once told stephen latimer, "it seems as if since poppy grew up and into things, mr. plutarch is rather far back, and i don't any more care if alcibiades returned or not, or much about the siege of troy, though that's livelier. i want something with more up-to-date flesh and blood in it that'll help me to understand things that come up." latimer had suggested shakespeare as a remedy, at the same time offering to lend gilbert an edition that had clear print, and yet could be kept in the pocket. so from the day that latimer brought the books, gilbert had been under a new spell, while at the same period miss emmy had given poppea the waverley novels, which still further changed his emotional horizon, and made him the more willing to leave the office in the warm june days and go to the bench under the widest spreading tree in the old orchard, with clover all about and the brilliant hues and perfumes of what poppea called her parapet garden showing between the trees. satira pegrim and 'lisha potts had finally joined names and farms, though the bustling woman had left her post of vantage at the village with many regrets. when mrs. shandy, philip angus's erstwhile nurse, had been obliged to leave him at fifteen altogether in the hands of a tutor, she had gladly, for the sake of being near the boy whom she almost worshipped, slipped into satira's shoes as general caretaker at the post-office house, for poppea's earnings, with her voice and as gilbert's assistant, made such a helper possible. no one in the village ever thought it strange that poppea should fill a position hitherto occupied by a man. once harley's mills, in the person of its elderly females, would have raised its hands in horror at the thought of a young girl engaging in public business; but the civil war had changed all that by becoming the origin of the general necessity in north and south alike for the woman's stepping into the man's empty shoes, so that the labor horizon for all time widened for all women. from john angus had come the only objection to the innovation. he said openly on several occasions that the charge of the united states mail should not be left in hands that were only fit to tie ribbons or tell a fortune with cards. this superficial criticism was attributed to his old grudge against gilbert and his evident disgust at not having the chance to dislodge him that a change of postmasters might have rendered easier. as he took no steps toward doing anything in the matter by the usual method of presenting a petition, it was supposed that he had forgotten it, especially as immediately after, angus went to europe to be gone six months, on business, his lawyer announced, the truth being that the inscrutable man, jarred and rent by many disappointments and his own unyielding temperament, had received several warnings that he held life by a rather uncertain thread. too secretive to confess that he was not well by calling in local physicians, he had gone abroad to seek advice under the plea of business. the last disappointment that he had forced himself to bear with an immovable exterior was concerning philip. never from the day that he knew that his only child had the inexorable disease covered by so short a name, had he allowed any one to sympathize with him upon the subject, nor had he admitted by any word or sign that the boy was suffering from any physical limitation. philip's life was arranged upon the same plan as that of normal children, and nothing by way of affectionate regard or added companionship was allowed to fill the place of all that he must refrain from doing. thus the greatest craving that the child had was for the warmth and protection of affection; he saw the fathers of other boys whom he sometimes visited put their arms about the lads' shoulders, draw them to their knees, or make room for them in the great easy-chair, where confidences about the work and play of the day were exchanged. not so with philip; the little real love that made him hunger for more had come from the servants and mrs. shandy, when they felt that they were out of eye- and ear-shot of the master. even this was stopped when philip was fifteen by mrs. shandy's dismissal because john angus deemed that she was retarding his son's development and keeping him childish. henceforward a tutor and various teachers of languages were the boy's associates, for philip must needs go to college and become, if not a lawyer, a man of affairs and politics like his father. now philip loved learning, but on its æsthetic rather than positive side; beauty of form, color, sound, all appealed to him intensely, and the thought of the beauty shone from his great gray eyes and beautified every feature of his exquisitely modelled face, as though in this nature had outdone herself. from the time he was a mere baby he had watched every butterfly and bird and tried to copy them in what mrs. shandy called his mud pies; which taste, as he grew, developed itself into a wonderful ability to comprehend both the anatomy of things and their spiritual expression. from time to time, during his winter city life, he had bought small copies of the great statues, for at least he was never at a lack for spending money, and gazed and gazed at them until he knew every curve and line by heart. in short, as boy and youth, philip's one desire was to be a sculptor; but though john angus never interfered with his modelling as a recreation, to his appeals to be allowed to enter a studio and study seriously he never made the slightest reply, and the preparations for college were forced on. one day philip's brain strength had flagged, suddenly, and, as his father thought, unaccountably. once again physicians gathered, and this time the word came to john angus, "if you wish your boy to live, his life must be of the open, and his work, if any, something that he craves and loves." then again did john angus shut himself up for a day and night, to emerge as before and accept the inevitable with a denial of any need of sympathy. in a week he announced that philip was to study modelling, therefore an outdoor studio was to be built in the garden, and he was to be under the guidance of clay howell, a famous sculptor, who not only had studios in rome and new york, but also a summer home at westboro. the latest tutor was retained as a companion, and angus, more ill than he would confess even to himself, set sail at christmas nominally for a six months' absence. philip had as a child a beautiful soprano voice which, by the time he was seventeen, had developed a tenor quality without losing any of its impersonal boyish sweetness. stephen latimer had taken great pains in its training, and in his friendship the boy had found the one soul who seemed to understand without spoken words. it was through this companionship that he found that other that seemed to him in his dark hours of self abasement and disappointment, the one light that kept hope alive,--this was poppea. as a child he had longed to play with her, and used to watch her by the hour through the port-holes of the parapet, while she was working in the garden that extended from the treasure-trove bank little by little until it finally reached the apple trees. that they might not be playmates mrs. shandy made plain to him, though never the reason why. later on they had met at children's parties at the feltons' and at the choir practice at st. luke's, and poppea had always so sweet and gentle a way with him, that when he used to dream of angels or try to think what his mother must have looked like, poppea's face was always blended in his visions, for he never _felt_ the stately portrait by huntington in the library to be his mother. when at last it was decided that he was not to go to college and life held out an olive branch to philip, poppea seemed to be the dove that brought it; poppea, for whom stephen latimer asked philip to play accompaniments when she went of an afternoon to the rectory for a singing lesson "between mails," and jeanne latimer could not be of the party. to latimer, philip seemed a mere child; it never occurred to him that he might be reckoned with emotionally and sentimentally as a man, and it rejoiced his gentle heart to see the boy so happy. any boy is spiritualized and made better by the sympathetic companionship of an older woman if she be of the right mettle, and latimer believed that this companionship would give philip the very thing, the conception of the essence of woman's sympathy, that he had lacked all his sad life and that must be realized if he was to grapple successfully with his art. consequently, he was quite unprepared and almost angry, when after coming into the room one day while they were practising, jeanne had said:-- "have a care, stephen dear, that you do not develop a tragedy in, as you say, cultivating philip's artistic perceptions. will it be well, think you, that he falls entirely in love with poppea?" even then latimer would not understand. "there are many kinds of love that are far removed from tragedy," he answered. "yes, but to a sensitive dreamer for a woman like poppea there is but one love," she had replied almost vehemently. "you are mistaken, jeanne, in this. i am with them, and i stand between their thoughts as they pass, and my soul reads them. the safety lies in that poppea is what she is." "time will prove," said jeanne, half sadly. by the very insistence of certain word combinations this commonplace saying of his wife refused to leave latimer's memory, and even though it failed in any way to impress him, it left an irritation like the prick of an invisible thorn. meanwhile, poppea and philip drew nearer together each day. howell was finishing a large and important piece of work at his westboro studio, and for this reason remained there during the summer, and there it was that philip went every day. the master, to test his creative quality, told him to set about the bit of work he felt he would most like to do, and that he would help him with the technique. philip's response had been to bring a rough crayon sketch that he had made of poppea's head and shoulders the last summer when he, looking over the parapet, had seen her pick up a little bird that had fallen from the nest and, after holding it in her hand a moment to still its flutterings, put it back with its brothers. under the drawing was written _amor consolatrix_. "who is it?" the sculptor had asked abruptly. "she will make a good model. i will send for her to come up here if she lives in the neighborhood, as i suppose she does." "oh! i couldn't ask her; she isn't a model, but i can remember her face as well as if she were here. is it not perfect?" "head is well set on; forehead, eyes, and chin good; nose a bit too much tipped up for classic proportions." then, as he saw philip's face flush and quiver, he added "after all, noses are a matter of taste nowadays when we are getting a long way on the road from greek placidity, that in the female face expressed little but form, toward the expression of temperament. she'll do, my lad, she'll do; if for no other reason than that you think so. "who is she, that is neither a model nor askable?" he inquired a half hour later, as he looked over from his work to where philip was wrestling mentally and physically with the lump of clay of the size for a bust that the attendant had set upon its block. "poppea gilbert; she lives at the post-office in our town, and there is nobody quite like her," philip answered, his shyness suddenly rent by the man's offhand air of comradeship, as well as in response to his own need of some one to whom he might speak without restraint. howell seldom took pupils, and the price that john angus had offered him for his services would not alone have tempted him, but the boy had interested him from the first. now, as he stood there watching the eager face, the light in his eyes, the energy with which he was attacking a well-nigh impossible task, he sighed and said to himself: "so long as he believes there is no one like _her_, whoever she may be, so long will he be able to work. her strength will make up for his lack--but if his belief ends--" here howell had made an unconscious downward gesture that in its expression of complete destruction knocked the index finger from the outstretched hand of the figure upon which he was impressing the final details. for poppea the last year had been rather lonely, so that the post-office work was welcomed as a distraction as much as a necessity. a break had come in the one companionship of her life, for after graduation from college and the law school, hugh oldys, to carry out the carefully laid plans of his father, was spending a year in foreign travel before settling in new york, where a niche was waiting for the young man of whose ability and qualities of determination no one who had come in contact with him during his college life had any doubt. during all this period hugh had come home at the week ends, so that there had been no absolute break; but when he had finally gone, poppea felt herself surrounded by a sort of open space wherein the air blew chilly and nothing offered a satisfactory shelter. she did not fully connect cause with effect in all its subtlety, but confessed to herself a loneliness that came simply from the cutting off of her glimpse of the outside world that hugh had given her. his letters came at regular intervals, but they were largely of things, not people, and least of all himself, so that it was only when she went to see his mother and heard her homely talk that she felt any of the vitality that belonged to the real hugh. as for mrs. oldys, her eagerness to have poppea with her was almost pathetic. locked in her heart, where no one suspected its existence, was the simple mother-vision that so few cherish in its unselfish perfection: in this lay the future of her boy, spent away from her if it was best, and her place supplied by a younger woman to whom the knowledge she had held of his innermost thoughts must be transferred. but in this plan of hers for these many years it had been poppea who was to be that other woman. poppea, whom she had watched and brooded over almost as though she had been her own, and to whom now she revealed day by day the devotion with which she had surrounded this only child without in any way letting it hamper his freedom or his manhood. no word or hint was ever dropped by her, and yet her belief in the outcome was as firmly fixed as if it had been a vital point of religion. would her faith be shattered? who could tell or count the pulse beats of a man and a maid, that, being good friends, have temperament and the world before them? hugh was now trying one with the other. might it not happen, far away as it seemed, that the change might also lie before poppea? it was now may; in august hugh would return. as for the other traveller from harley's mills, john angus, he was due at almost any moment, and the chill that was settling over his household at the prospect was a tribute to the awe in which he was held that, had he been asked, he doubtless would have preferred to any demonstration of affection. philip alone seemed to look forward with pleasure to seeing his father. he was in love with his work; howell, seeing genius even in his crude efforts, had not only written john angus, but had told the boy himself all that he dared, knowing that his temperament lay too much on the side of self-abasement to take undue harm from praise. moreover, philip had, with his master's help in technique, the expression being all his own, finished the bust of poppea and had placed it at the window of his garden studio, where the beauty of its modelling was brought out by a background of living green. surely john angus must be pleased; must see at last that his son had not so much found his calling as that it had found him. all about the studio were a score of other attempts of philip's, very crude, and yet none lacking in a truthful force, and in half of these, what might be called the poppea motive was visible. this he did not realize, nor would he have thought it strange if he had. why should he not worship her? his feeling had been the motive of all art in all ages. so had many a dreaming monk of old in a cloistered garden wrought his thought into a missal's page, his inspiration coming not from his walled-in self, but from the light upon it, shed, it might be, from the ideal of the real virgin behind her image in the dim-lit shrine. it chanced that upon the afternoon of john angus's unheralded return, poppea and philip had been bidden to the church to practise a duet which they were to sing on whitsunday at st. luke's. this time stephen latimer accompanied them on the organ, and the pair standing side by side in the front choir stall facing the empty church, poppea leaning forward slightly that she might see the music philip held, with a tender, protective air, made a picture that would have appealed to any painter. going to his home to find it empty, angus felt a quickening of the blood, a desire to see his son for his own sake, perhaps for the first time. howell's words had pleased him in spite of himself; the crude, early american idea of material progress was now rapidly making way for the realm of literature and art. his life abroad had opened his eyes. to be the father of a famous sculptor had its mitigations, and then too, narrow though he was, he could not but realize the underlying compensation that art deals with the spirit of things and makes as naught any physical defect in its medium. philip should also travel; he himself would take him. so on the whole, john angus was in what might almost be called a genial mood when, on hearing that his son was down at the church with stephen latimer, he ordered the carriage (he had walked up from the station) and went to seek him. he also looked in much better physical condition than when he went abroad, and only those who are expert in such matters would have detected the tension at the corners of the nostrils that came from the continual apprehension of the heart condition that had been his for years. "they are in the church," jeanne latimer said, as he greeted her with the polished manner for which he was famous on the doorstep of the rectory. then she had fled indoors with the swift sense of foreboding and desire to reach cover that a bird feels when, on a summer day, the wind suddenly changes and the murmur rises of a thunder cloud that as yet but edges the horizon. angus, hearing music, opened the door and stepped into the shelter of the very pew that had shielded poppea that winter night more than six years before. why he did it he could not have said, but when one is watchful and suspicious by nature, the habit often becomes the dictator. having turned aside, he waited until the song ended, waited in a condition of mixed rage and pain that amazed him, feelings stirred in him which he believed buried; he seemed in some distant place; he could not account for himself to himself. even then he did not move at once; the blending of the voices to any other ear had been uplifting. as philip stepped from the stall to the lower level of the chancel steps and poppea laid her hand lightly on his shoulder to steady him, john angus caught the expression of his face, and suspicion, as ever, being his interpreter, he gnashed his teeth. in another minute he was walking up the aisle masked in the perfect self-control he wore to all outside his household. "philip, i have come for you," he said in clearly modulated tones, not realizing that a warmer greeting might be expected after five months of absence. "some other day, mr. latimer; i've only within an hour returned and wish to see my son," without even a hand clasp, was his reply to the rector's outstretched hand, words of greeting, and invitation to join mrs. latimer in a cup of tea in the rectory. to poppea he did not speak; looking toward her, he swept her with a deliberate stare in which dislike and absolute non-recognition were curiously blended. she at first had been impelled to look away, but feeling his glance, she turned and met it proudly, head erect, without either contempt or flinching, and even as she stood thus, john angus, gathering up the boy's music and the cloak he always wore, hurried him from the church, without time for a word of explanation or good-by. "poor philip," said poppea, lowering her head, while tears filled the eyes she turned toward latimer. "yes, poor philip," he echoed; "yet not so poor in any way as john angus." * * * * * once in the carriage, the man's self-control seemed to dominate him once more. he said nothing about the happenings of the past few minutes, but turned the talk to philip's work, even before the boy himself had recovered from the suddenness of the meeting with its incomprehensible discordance. the tutor, who had been in bridgeton, whither he frequently went during philip's practice afternoons, had returned, and in an agony of apprehension was superintending the arrangements of the tea things on the screened veranda overlooking the garden. he need not have trembled, for john angus paid no heed to him after a formal greeting, but relaxed unusually in his effort to interest philip and draw him out, and the boy, warming under his father's rare interest, spoke frankly of his hopes and fears. "now will you come to the studio and see it for yourself, father? of course it's lumpy and out of line in many ways yet, but howell says that i can do it over and over until it is right, and then, perhaps, you'd have it cut in marble, not because it's good, but because it's the first and i love it so." hand in hand father and son crossed the garden, the maids and men-servants peeping from their various windows in amazement until the pair disappeared within the studio door. "there she is, father. do you think it is like her?" philip asked eagerly, pulling the wet cloth from the bust, for every day he saw the need of an added touch here and there. john angus had seated himself in a high-backed, carved chair and was gazing at the bust with fierce intensity; whenever he turned his eyes away, it was to see its lineaments in the crude attempts that filled every nook in the long room. "like? who is it?" he finally managed to say in well-feigned ignorance. "ah, then it can't be, if you do not know, for you saw her singing with me at the church half an hour ago. it is poppea gilbert from the post-office house. i suppose it was foolish of me to try to make her as lovely as she really is, though howell sees the likeness, and yet you did not know." "lovely! know!" john angus half shouted, jumping to his feet and going toward philip with an almost threatening gesture. "do _you_ know who this woman is, this adventuress? she was a waif left on oliver gilbert's doorstep; he took her in and bred her up, what for no one knows, unless to harry me; he who with his paltry four acres of ground and his damnable yankee independence has been the only man who has dared to balk me with success. but now his time has come." "i only wish she had been left on _our_ doorstep; how different everything might have been," said philip, who in a moment seemed to have gained bodily height through the sudden development of spirit. "yes, so do i!" shrieked john angus, "and, as you say, everything would have been different, for i should have sent her to the almhouse! "what do you know of those she came from? tell me that. what do you know?" continued the man, lashed to frenzy. "what do i know of you or you of me, either; what we are or may be?" said philip, in the accents not only of manhood, but of a champion, the words coming from lips that once and for all had ceased to tremble. "but i do know that poppea is a good woman and that i love her." with a word that rang in philip's ears for many a day and night, john angus turned upon him as if to strike him down, even as long ago he had struck his roseleaf wife the day before she left him. then as an invisible something stayed his hand, he rushed across the studio, and picking up a chair, brought it down full upon the bust, crashing it outward through the window in many fragments. for a moment philip stood with one arm across his eyes as though to shut out what to him seemed murder. then dropping it to his side, he faced his father, who, his wrath having reached a climax, had sunk back in his chair, clutching his side, while an awful expression of apprehension crossed his face. "i cannot tell you to leave the room, for it is yours; but i must go," philip said slowly and clearly, then crossed the studio and closed the door quietly behind him. for two days no one but the tutor saw john angus, who remained in his room, to write important letters, the tutor said. then word went forth that the house would be closed for the summer, as father and son were going yachting for a change of air. chapter xi incognita philip and his father went away in early june. there were, of course, many rumors about their plans, one being to the effect that the house on windy hill might not be reopened for several years, in spite of the fact that greenhouses and gardens were to be maintained as usual. one thing alone was certain, that they were to spend the summer either on board the yacht of a mr. challoner, john angus's close business associate, or at his house at one of the resorts on the maine coast. poppea had seen very little of philip since his father's return, for his singing lessons had become more and more irregular, until they finally ceased. stephen latimer, when he frankly asked john angus the reason, was met by the vague excuse that he had been so long away that he wished his son's society; there was much to be arranged. also philip was tiring of singing. on the day before he was to leave, poppea met philip at the feltons', whither he had gone to say good-by. when she entered, he was in the great, cool library, and the blinds being drawn to keep out the afternoon sun, all the light in the room seemed focussed on his face where he sat by the book-strewn table, his head resting on one hand. he was so intensely quiet and so pale poppea's heart went out to him more than ever; that he was suffering pain not merely physical she was sure, and equally so that she must not ask its cause. nora came into the room at that minute to say, "miss felton and mr. esterbrook had gone to bridgeton and would miss gilbert come upstairs? miss emmy was suffering from a bad headache, and so mr. philip must excuse her." "then i must tell you good-by and go home," philip said to poppea; "harvey is waiting for me with the chair, for somehow i'm rather tired this week. please come into the light and turn your face as i saw you in the garden from the parapet the day, long ago, when you picked up the little bird. there, that is it. i want to remember every line to take with me, for i shall be so lonely." "and i too, philip. look up at me and remember, that whatever is worrying you worries me also, and let me halve it with you," and poppea, stooping, lifted his face and kissed him gently on the forehead. the young man bent his head as if in reverence for an instant, then raising it again to look poppea in the eyes whispered, so far away his voice sounded, "i shall not be lonely any more, for it seems as though you must have called my mother's angel and she kissed me." and yet john angus could not understand, and would not had he been there. * * * * * the summer residents of quality hill had returned in full force, increasing the work at the post-office so much that poppea had but little time to herself. yet she was satisfied so long as everything ran smoothly and no possible criticism could fall upon the postmaster; for it was not only the income and certain fixed position that mattered so much to oliver gilbert, but in and about the associations of his appointment were woven the very elements of his patriotism and the verbal contact with lincoln that became more precious as time went on. of course gilbert knew that the day would come when he must resign what he called his trust, but that was not yet. in some respects he felt his seventy years less than he had the weight of a lonely fifty. that his conducting of the business might be unsatisfactory or the post-office might be taken away from him had never troubled his thoughts even remotely. it was therefore a great surprise to both postmaster and mistress, when one day, about the middle of june, a duly accredited government inspector appeared one morning, and after going over the accounts and putting many abrupt and, to those in charge, meaningless questions, took a seat by the sorting shelf, opened a newspaper, and seemed prepared to spend the day. the visit being all the more strange from the fact that the usual but rather perfunctory official visit had been paid less than two months before. when noontime came and the official made no move to leave, gilbert, knowing that there was no suitable place of refreshment in town, with old-time hospitality asked the stranger to join them at their mid-day meal. the invitation was accepted, and the moment that the official left his post behind the beehive, his entire manner changed; he talked and laughed with gilbert in a way that dismissed a growing apprehension, complimented satira potts, who was substituting for the day, upon her cooking, and kept his eyes fastened upon poppea in a way that made her color hotly and then turn rigid with resentment, saying that he had heard harley's mills was a very quaint town, and that there was a pretty walk by the river toward the hills. wouldn't she be his guide that afternoon? poppea, feeling that she must hold herself in check at any cost, replied that she could not leave the office, but that oliver gilbert would doubtless drive him about town with horse and chaise; then turning to the old man, she urged him to go, as he had been out so little of late. poor gilbert, entirely oblivious of the undercurrent, protested that he could do all the office work required before night, saying in good-hearted indiscretion, "go you out, poppy; the young gentleman will enjoy the trip much better than with a half-deaf old codger like me." for a moment poppea struggled for words less abrupt than "i will not go," with which to extricate herself from the net. then satira potts (who was pegrim, and having once taught poppea what she called her manners never forgot it), grasping the situation, rose so suddenly from the table that she scattered the crumbs that she had in her apron, and said, "poppy couldn't go with you noway, nohow, mister--i don't think you've mentioned your name. our newfield county girls don't take up with strangers, and besides, even if they did, miss gilbert, holding what might be called a public place, has got to draw the line even shorter!" gilbert, who had raised his hand deprecatingly toward his, as he considered, too officious sister, stopped short as he caught sight of poppea's face, while into the other man's eyes there flashed a glare of rage which was far less offensive than the expression it replaced. getting up slowly with an affected yawn of boredom, he bit the end from a cigar, lit it without asking leave, nodded curtly to the postmaster and, picking up his bag of papers and hat, which he put on before reaching the door, went on his way. "shoo! scat!" said satira potts, who, following him closely, drove away a stray cat from the porch and scattered the remaining crumbs in her apron on the flagging for the birds. for a minute gilbert and poppea sat looking at one another, then he said: "i wonder why that smart aleck dropped in here just now and hung around so? most likely missed connections in bridgeton for somewhere else and thought he'd pass the time and get a dinner. he wasn't mannered like the regular inspector that's been here for three years past. it's too bad he riled you so, poppy; it's likely he thought he was being polite and pleasuring of you." it was well for his feeling of content that gilbert did not look back, for when satira potts returned to the kitchen, poppea, who had left the table for the window and was looking with eyes that did not see up through the orchard to the back garden, wheeled suddenly, and, throwing her arms about satira's neck, began to sob with the broken-hearted abandon of a child. "there, there, dearie, that skate has gone flying, so don't you care. i sensed right off the way he was squinting at you, and if only you hadn't been born a lady baby, and so mustn't, i could have wished you'd slapped his face." all that afternoon and for many days, whenever poppea paused in her work in the office or in the bank garden, where the flowers seeded from the garden above ran riot and needed much restraining, the thought, "i wonder, oh, i wonder, who sent that man here?" came to her. one day, as the insistence of the query was beginning to pass, miss emmy sent for poppea to come up to luncheon and hear the plans for the afternoon and evening entertainment that the felton ladies were in the habit of giving each year, either at rose time or at midsummer. this year, the season being late and also the roses, the twenty-first of june, the summer equinox, was chosen; for, as time went on, the ladies felt less like entertaining and keeping open house in the humid july weather, though they did not yet acknowledge it even to one another. but at sixty and sixty-two, why should not even those to whom that form of tyranny known as duty to society is a law relax, and prepare to spend the afternoon of life a little more naturally? as for mr. esterbrook, at threescore and ten, relaxation of any kind would be impossible. for the last dozen years, having practically ceased to take manly exercise, he was propped by his rigid surroundings, courteous formalities of the old school, and clothes to such a degree, that had he sought to escape from them, collapse would have resulted, and it would have been as impossible to collect him as water that suddenly rebelled against the confines of its pail. the ladies themselves could hardly have told when the thinning iron-gray hair had been first subtly concealed, and then replaced by a wig of its own exact shade; nor did they know that he had abandoned billiards at the club in favor of whist or piquet, because following the course of the red or white balls over the vivid green cloth with eyes slow to focus had twice given him a fit of vertigo. as for riding, oliver gilbert, hip-crippled as he was, could still throw himself across the old white horse and follow the cow to its hill pasture, while the very thought of riding made william esterbrook dizzy; so wide apart is the life natural from the life artificial. the afternoon reception, poppea found, was to be general, the bridgeton band supplying outdoor music; the evening function, an affair in costume combined of music, dancing, and a half-dozen tableaux of the seasons. to the latter the residents of the hill and their guests, together with the feltons' more intimate neighborhood acquaintances, were bidden. before leaving home, poppea had resolved to decline miss emmy's invitation to the evening party. hugh being away and also jeanne latimer, she was not in the mood for going among strangers, as they would largely be. then, too, a sense of depression had hung over her of late, as she realized for the first time that the comparative luxury and special privileges that her contact with the feltons had surrounded her, were not only not hers by right, but that at any time she must become, at least in part, the financial protector of the man who had for twenty years protected her. virtually she was living under false pretences when she went to the feltons and mingled with their guests. as a child it had been different; now it must stop, and the sooner the better. she did not find it easy to carry out her resolutions at once when she found that miss emmy took it for granted that she would sing half a dozen of the songs that stephen latimer said few others could sing so well, either from point of phrasing or simple pathos. besides, miss emmy argued, new york friends would be there who might help her to turn her music to account, and as for the costume, anything dainty and summerish would do. there was a chest full of old muslins and flowered organdies in the attic from which poppea could surely select something, and nora should help her fashion it if she herself lacked time. under such circumstances how could poppea refuse those who had made music possible, as well as given all her education, even to the final lessons in french pronunciation that made the creole songs fall from her lips in such perfection. so saying to herself, "only this once," she had gone to the attic chest in question, and selected from it a soft green muslin with embroidered fern fronds scattered over it, a relic of the days when skirts were six yards full and further amplified by three flounces; then declining nora's help, she took it home to brood over. as she went slowly down the stairs, the muslin gathered into a hasty bundle, miss emmy called to her from her morning room where she was sealing some invitations, the social secretary not, as yet, having become an institution. as she waited for the notes, poppea, glancing idly about the room, caught sight of a colored print of gainsborough's mrs. robinson as perdita, in her pretty furbelows. this gave her an idea that once at home she quickly put into form with scissors, thread, and needle. to the muslin bodice, made a trifle low, frills falling from the half sleeves, she added an open-fronted over-skirt, which, being caught back below the waist, gave somewhat the appearance of the print. then, other matters calling her, she put the dress away until the day came for the party. by this time she had forgotten how perdita had arranged her hair, and she had also discovered that the even green of the muslin looked monotonous by lamplight. ah me, what could she do? mrs. shandy, being appealed to, with true bucolic british taste could suggest nothing but "red ribbons, and plenty of them, to liven of yourself up, miss." walking about the room at a loss how to proceed, poppea picked up the miniature of her "little mother" as she called her to herself, that other poppea with the wreath of fragile summer poppies in her hair. it had become almost a habit, this looking at the picture in moments of perplexity either serious or trivial, as though the laughing eyes and parted lips could in some way respond. in this instance, the reply, though indirect, was instantaneous. "the poppies twisted in the hair and bunched at the neck; could anything be better!" cried poppea, "and the garden is full of the fall sown ones, open and in bud. frail as they are, if i pick buds this morning and put them in water in the bright sun, they will be open by afternoon and keep open if i do not let them see the dark. the leaves are the color of the muslin, only of a lighter shade. thank you, little mother!" as poppea dressed that evening, taking the flowers that she had transferred from sun to lamplight to put in her hair when she arrived, she again turned to the miniature, talking to it as if it were a person. "you've stayed here by yourself too long," she said; "to-night you shall go out and whisper to the people who will hear me sing and ask them to be kind." slipping the chain over her head, she let the locket hang half veiled among the folds of drapery that crossed her bosom. there was no one but nora in the dressing-room at the feltons' when poppea looked shyly in, and, seizing the chance, dropped music and light shawl upon a chair to arrange the flowers. they adjusted themselves easily to her coiled hair. in a half wreath with a great bunch at the waist, so intangible did they seem in their cloud colors of rose, pink, salmon, and flame fading back to white, that it was impossible to believe that they would not flutter away from their perch like butterflies. "look at that now! there isn't a dress here to-night'll touch yours, dearie," said nora, hands raised in honest admiration. "but i mistrust them posies not to last long, gi'n you dance too hard." "that's precisely it, nora," said poppea, a mischievous smile banishing the little pathetic droop that her lips sometimes wore, and the opal colors flashing from the black-lashed eyes. "i must not dance, but sing my songs and disappear, else my finery will drop away as cinderella's did when the clock struck." downstairs among the maze of faces, she saw that of stephen latimer, and motioning to him that she was there when needed, poppea glanced wistfully across the room, slipped through one of the long windows, then drew into the shadows where she could see and not be seen, except as the light fell now and then upon her eager face as she leaned forward to watch the tableaux, dreading the time when she must step before so fashionable and critical an audience. evidently, she had not been as wholly unobserved as she thought, for miss emmy, who had reached the veranda through another window in company with a youngish man, came toward her, saying:-- "ah, here she is, bradish, keeping quiet until her own time comes. julia dear" (miss emmy often used this name in formal society), "this is mr. winslow, the son of my dearest boston friend, who wishes to meet you. it is the first time that we have been able to lure him into the country, and we wish him to like it. where is your shawl, child? it is quite breezy here, and you mustn't risk your voice. upstairs? no, don't go; i will tell nora to fetch it," and as miss emmy flitted away, her shimmering silver costume, with a crescent and gold stars in her fluffy light hair still guiltless of gray, caught and held the combined lights of moon and lamp, helping to perfect the part of "evening" for which she was costumed. for a moment after she had recognized mr. winslow's bow, poppea continued looking into the room. she wished that miss emmy had not introduced her to this stranger; she did not care to talk, but to remain quiet and alone. then making an effort, she turned toward him to put the orthodox query as to what character he represented, when before the sentence was half framed, she realized that he wore conventional evening dress, and her air of embarrassment turned to a smile when she saw the half quizzical, half satirical expression of his cleanly shaven face. "confess that you not only did not look at me, but that you are rather vexed at either being obliged to do so now or be rude," he said, placing a chair with a dexterous turn of the wrist in the exact spot where she could continue to look at the tableaux and yet be seated. "i'm afraid that you are right, and yet i will not allow that i was even almost rude to one of the aunties' friends. it is this way; i am to sing to-night before all these men and women from the city who know what music means; i have only sung before here in the church for mr. latimer or at some little musicals at bridgeton. if i had to go into the room now and be shut in among them all, i should simply run away. so i came out here to find myself, and when miss emmy spoke your name, i was so far away that i do not think i heard it. pray forgive me." something about the direct simplicity of her excuse touched a new chord in winslow's perfectly controlled nature. this was not the simpering, self-satisfied young woman of the small towns who usually, when taking part in amateur social functions, keeps well in the limelight. he drew up a second chair, saying quietly: "i understand so well that i will either go away or stay and play watch-dog; which do you prefer? i see two callow youths in there who are looking toward this window as their only loophole of escape, but they will not come until i go." "then please stay," said poppea, with a shimmer of a laugh, soothed into perfect tranquillity by the self-possession of her companion,--a condition that caused her much wonder when she afterward analyzed it. much clapping of hands announced the completion of the first group of pictures, and the stringed quartet struck up a strauss waltz, to the compelling measure of which poppea's fingers, hanging over the back of the chair, tapped time. "are you fond of dancing?" "yes and no; there are times when it seems as if i must dance, but i do not believe that i could ever dance to order." "i have seen you somewhere before, but very long ago," he said abruptly. "yes, i remember your face. i have been thinking and thinking when and where. ah! now i have it!" poppea exclaimed, flushing deeply, so that even in the moonlight it rivalled the color of the flowers in her hair. "do you remember once calling upon the felton ladies in new york one afternoon and finding a half-wild girl dancing before the parlor mirror?" "by jove! that's it, and you were the little girl! i can see it all perfectly. i should judge that it was one of the times that you danced because you must, was it not?" "oh, yes, the windows were so heavy that they would not open, and the carpets so thick they held my feet, and i began to feel as though i were in prison and should never get out, and so i danced to be sure that i was alive." "do you know what i said to myself as you slid away behind the heavy stair guards?" "probably that you wondered why the feltons harbored such a barbarian." "no, that i wished that i might meet you again six or seven years hence; and you see i have my wish." noticing that poppea seemed once more inclined to withdraw into herself, winslow dropped the personal tone that he had been forcing into the conversation and sought more neutral ground in his next venture. "if, as i understand, you have lived about here all your life, you can give me some help in a little matter of business, that, combined with pleasure, brought me here. i suppose, of course, that you know every resident in the town?" "most surely, as well as almost every one who comes to or goes through it;" poppea was going to add, "because all news comes to the post-office," but a sudden influence caused her to suppress the last sentence. "very good, now i will explain my errand, if you have the patience to listen, and i have confidence in asking that what i say will go no further, because the matter concerns others rather than myself." poppea, nodding her head in assent, leaned forward, her lips slightly parted in an attitude of undivided attention. "a cousin of mine, a young new yorker, who is working his way into politics _via_ being secretary to the postmaster-general, was intrusted to look up a matter in this vicinity during a week of vacation. meeting me at the club a couple of days ago and finding i was coming here, he asked me to help him out by doing the investigating and letting him spend his time in town. "it seems that postmaster gilbert, here at harley's mills, is getting rather old and doddering, and has for his assistant a young woman, a foundling or something, that he has brought up. complaints have been coming in for the past year of the conduct of the office from a man who is not only a prominent resident here, but one who has strong political influence both in new york and washington." poppea straightened herself, opened her lips to speak, but no sound came; meanwhile winslow, intent upon reciting the story word for word as he had had it from his cousin, paid no heed. "under ordinary circumstances a change would possibly have been made on the matter of age, but as the complainant is known to be a man of violent prejudices and the appointment was one of the few now existing made by lincoln himself, extra trouble was taken in the matter. examinations showed the accounts to be all straight, and there the affair halted on both sides. "a month ago new complaints came from the same source in a different key; the young woman, called by the fantastic name of poppea, it seems, was causing trouble among the youths of the town, and the complainant did not hesitate to call her a dangerous adventuress. a special sent to cast his eye over the ground brought back an unsatisfactory and garbled account. now my point is, can you from an outside and perhaps kinder point of view set me straight upon this matter?" it seemed to the woman sitting opposite that she had lived a lifetime while winslow was speaking; shame and courage, despair and pride, were all struggling for the mastery, and courage, with the chance for justification, won. "yes, i know them both, the postmaster and his daughter, as well as john angus, the man who has complained." "then his dislike is public property?" "most assuredly; he has harried oliver gilbert for years because he would not sell him his homestead to round out his own land." "very good, a motive proven; that settles one point," said winslow, with legal brevity. "now how about the girl?" "that is--not, cannot be told in so few words," said poppea, nerving herself with a visible effort. "it is true that she was a foundling left in a storm upon oliver gilbert's porch. he took her in for the sake of his dead wife and baby marygold. then he grew to love her until he quite forgot she was not his own, and she thought all the world of 'daddy,' as she had learned to call him. by and by as he grew older she naturally helped him in the office until, as the business grew and she became of age, she was appointed his assistant. "she tried, oh, so hard, to work steadily and not forget her place, but she could not help the fact that john angus's son, a couple of years younger and a cripple, who had no one to be kind to him, liked to talk to her. she couldn't help being glad to find some one to help make up for the sisters and brothers she had never known, for all the real kin she had was an ivory miniature of a young woman with a wreath of poppies in her hair, that hung about her neck on a gold chain the night she came to gilbert's. there was one word engraved upon the locket, 'poppea' and a date, ' .' so they two practised singing together with mr. latimer down at st. luke's, philip and she, and he made a bust of her, for he is studying to be a sculptor. but john angus did not understand, and though no one but himself knows what he thought, it is bringing evil to poppea, for the last man they sent from washington dared to insult her. yet all she asks is to be let work for her daddy until his quarter century is out and he resigns; for it would kill him if he thought that any one could say anything against him or his that could take away the trust that lincoln gave him." poppea stopped, her hands twisting at a flower that had fallen to her lap, and then looked quietly at winslow as though waiting for his answer. as for him, he was completely taken out of himself and his acquired stoicism in regard to all things feminine. the spectacle of the beautiful young woman pleading the cause with such unconscious dignity swept him from his feet and made him feel until he tingled. "well?" she queried at last. "you have made it as plain as if i had seen the whole business myself, and i'm no end grateful for the trouble you've taken. this meeting seems to have been quite providential for the post-office family; all i need do is to take a look at them to-morrow and leave. let me think quickly; there is so much more i wanted to say to you. i see the musical dominie coming our way, and they are drawing the curtains on the last tableau." "yes, it _was_ providential your coming, but there is one thing more to be said, and i must say it before you go to the office to-morrow. look at this," and bending toward him, she held out the locket on its chain that had lain concealed in the folds of her waist, pressing the spring that opened it as she did so. winslow looked and then grew bewildered. "read," she said. "'poppea, .'" "then you are--impossible!" "poppea of the post-office, whom you have heard accused, and have tried, and, i hope, acquitted for her daddy's sake." but the eyes that she turned so bravely to meet his reassuring ones were full of tears that could not be recalled. "what a brute i have been," he said, standing with bent head. then stephen latimer came to lead her in. "you will dance with me or at least speak to me afterward?" winslow managed to ask, instinctively expecting refusal after the ordeal she had gone through. "this is one of the nights i could not dance; in fact, i doubt if i ever shall again." winslow sought out the darkest corner of the porch, where he was yet within sound of her voice. lighting a cigar, he gave himself over to an uninterrupted train of musing, while those within who missed him thought him merely escaping them after the manner of a man of the world, who, having been courted for a decade by maids, wives, and widows, prefers his own society. after the final applause, which was unusually long and loud for such an audience, had ceased, winslow threaded his way rapidly through the rooms in search of _incognita_, as he called her to himself, but she was nowhere to be found. "the excitement of her success was too much for the dear child," said miss emmy, taking his arm and switching him in the direction where he cared least to go. "i've sent nora home with her in the coupé, for she looked really overdone. don't be so disappointed; you can go and inquire for her to-morrow." when winslow broke away from his hostess at last, he wondered what had happened to him. he had intended leaving in the morning if he had completed his inquiry. well, he would sleep on it; some impressions lose their color the next day. but in the morning he resolved to telegraph his cousin and put off going at least until another to-morrow. chapter xii friendship? when the next morning came, poppea kept her bed for the first time since the childhood days of whooping-cough and measles. from sunrise waves of intense heat swept the village and outlying country, intensified rather than veiled by the low-hanging mists. yet this alone could not account for the flushed cheeks and restless sparkle of her eyes, or the weariness of limb that almost refused to let her move. the fact was that she had not slept, but each hour of the summer night had brought a new phantom with which she had struggled. in so far as it was possible, she had ceased to dwell upon the theme of _the mystery of the name_, now it had returned with new force to haunt her, and with it the persecution of john angus. this in itself was hard enough to bear, but it meant also complete separation from philip, who had come to be such a part of her inner life that no one else seemed fully to comprehend that even the idea of readjustment was impossible. the unintentional abruptness of bradish winslow in stating the pith of angus's complaints against the post-office, by its very shock had brought her face to face with the fact that she had tried to conceal even from herself. oliver gilbert was swiftly coming to a time when, if he did not resign, his age and slowness of motion might surely be cast up against him for some trivial oversight that would, in a younger man, pass unnoticed. for a time the danger of dismissal was probably averted; that is, if winslow's attitude of apparent sympathy was sincere. was he to be trusted? standing face to face with him the night before, it had not occurred to her to doubt him. away from him, a certain sustaining magnetism coming from his entire confidence in himself, blended with an agreeable personality, was lacking, and poppea wondered if he had read her aright, or taken her justification as a clever bit of acting. and why not, if john angus could so misjudge her! other women of her age and naturally emotional temperament might take peeps into the promised land of love and romance even before the gate opened and they were bidden to enter. the knowledge of her own name was the only key to the gate for her; she had long since resolved this, that evening at the opera when the knight of the grail, to her a real personality, had disappeared. but since then the doubt had come to her, suppose that the knowing proved to her also a final barrier instead of the key? oliver gilbert was appalled at poppea's indisposition, which he viewed in the light of a positive disaster. leaving his six o'clock cup of coffee untasted, he went about putting up the early mail with shaking hands and a lack of precision that might well have called down criticism, had it been observed. neither did he draw comfort from mrs. shandy's common-sense assurance that "miss poppy is only a bit done up with the strong heat coming all of a sudden, and having to sing before such a gathering of the quality for the first time. when she's rested a bit and had a nice cup of breakfast tea and some toast, she'll be quite another thing." the doctor must be had! nothing else would satisfy gilbert. so, about eleven o'clock, when miss emmy drove down in the barouche to tell poppea the pleasant gossip about the party, together with the comments upon her singing, encountering bradish winslow in spotless white clothes sauntering in the same direction, dr. morewood's chaise came up the westboro road and halted at the gate of the post-office house a little ahead of them. miss emmy, on hearing that he had called to see poppea, followed him into the house, while winslow went into the office and, over the buying of a newspaper, drew gilbert into conversation. whether it was the tea and toast that had the predicted effect, or the fact that poppea had finally acquired the mastery of herself and remembered that winslow had promised to look at the post-office and its master through his own eyes and judgment, at the moment that miss emmy was ushered into the parlor she heard, through the open window, dr. morewood's voice talking to poppea in the room above. "something is worrying you, child; get away from here for a week and look at things from a different place," he said. "if it's too lively for you at felton manor, go over to the mills. dear little mrs. oldys is nearly down ill through homesickness for hugh, and the next best thing to seeing him will be to see some one who knows him to whom she can read his letters. it'll do you good to go up there, with that view over the moosatuck to the hills that every sunrise is like a glimpse of the promised land, and it will be a perfect godsend to her. do you know, sometimes i think that plucky little woman is simply clinging to life by the love she has for her husband and son. i've been so impressed with the idea this spring that about a month ago i wrote hugh asking him if he couldn't shorten his trip and come home early in august, so as to give some leeway before he goes to his new work in september. "i am going up to the oldyses' now; may i tell madam that you're coming, say this afternoon?" poppea was looking out the window to where the grim outline of the chimneys and roof of john angus's house could be seen above the vines that covered the parapet. yes, she realized that she must go somewhere if only for a couple of days, to be out of sight of that dominant house and all that it implied, until she could pull herself together once more, so she nodded in assent and followed the doctor downstairs. "not sick, but playing lazy and caught at it," was her reply to miss emmy's outstretched hands, and eyes full of sympathy. "you see that putting on fine feathers and spending an evening with the quality has quite turned my head," she continued, forcing her sprightliest manner that miss emmy might be led from questioning her too closely. "then your head will have to stay turned, for every one who heard you sing last night wishes to hear you again," and the loquacious little lady ran over a long list of names that represented not only many of the bricks and beams of new york society, but much of the decorative superstructure as well. "you always said that you wanted to step out and really do something against the time when daddy would be too old to keep the post-office, and now here is the chance. you are to come to us in new york and be properly introduced at our first musical of the winter, and then you will have all the engagements you can fill at fifty dollars each for the rest of the season. two or three a week will be a plenty and leave you time for lessons with tostelli or some one equally good. then, by and by, when you have acquired manner, and you are well known, you might consent to sing at a few public concerts, given of course under the patronage of our best people. but we mustn't whisper of that yet; sister elizabeth would not hear of such a thing. you will naturally spend the winter with us, for the post-office work is very light in the off season, i've heard you say. "i will tell you a secret," and miss emmy drew poppea toward her with a dramatic air of extreme caution. "i've come to the time at which i used to think i should adopt a young girl. i can no longer wear pink and pale blue with impunity! i'm growing sallow! i must, therefore, think out pretty costumes for some one else--for you. for the first winter, simple dresses with flower trimmings will be very telling; violet tulle and wistaria, corn-colored gauze and cowslips," and miss emmy's hands, flexible and nervous, described the lines and folds of flower-wreathed draperies, as she spoke. "what do you think? don't you like the idea, child? i'm going to carry you off to the manor for luncheon, and afterward to call on some of the hill people before their guests, who came for last night, disperse. there is nothing like striking while the iron is hot, but especially with people of the _beau monde_; if you let them cool off, there's the heating process all to be done over again, whereas this time it was simply a case of spontaneous combustion with you as the spark." in spite of her vivacity and high spirits, miss emmy coughed wrackingly when she stopped, and even a casual observer could see the ominous falling away at the temples and behind the ears, as well as the wrinkling of the throat under its bertha of embroidered mull. "i like the idea of singing as an employment," said poppea, when miss emmy paused long enough to let her be heard; "but as to all the rest--well, that would have to be on a business basis also. from the moment i begin to earn money, i must pay money. you see, dear aunty, up to now it's been all for love and love in return, and now--it must be different." "don't be obstinate, poppy, for if you are and put on that determined look, i shall have to call you julia, even in private." "no, i'm not obstinate, neither can i change; it is simply this, i cannot allow myself to be an object of charity any longer. ask mr. latimer. i have talked of it with him, and he understands. ah, aunty, aunty, i cannot go on standing in false positions. if they like my singing and it is worthy, i will sing, but i do not want it to come by social favor only." "think it over, child, and don't try to fly with ideas for wings that may do very well here at harley's mills, but not in new york," miss emmy replied, rather tartly for her. "i don't think that in your present state of mind you will improve your prospects by calling on those who heard you last night; they would best keep you in mind as the dreamy looking girl with downcast eyes and poppies in her hair." miss emmy walked out to the carriage without more ado, while poppea wondered if it was going to be her fate to be misunderstood. going to the post-office, she encountered winslow, who was occupying a chair inside the beehive and alternately chatting with and scrutinizing gilbert over the edge of a _new york herald_ in which he was ostensibly studying the stock market. by the furtive glance that gilbert gave her, poppea knew he had been talking of her, therefore her color heightened, and no one less keen than winslow in taking every detail of a woman's appearance in a casual glance would have noticed that the shadows under her eyes were not those of her lashes. she was dressed in a straight white gown akin to that of a trained nurse in its simplicity, without a single touch of color other than her hair; yet the effect in the bare surroundings of the shop was to envelop her with a virginal freshness that appealed to winslow even more than the more poetic costume of the previous evening. "having made the acquaintance of cinderella, who vanished, i've now come to call upon the postmistress, hoping that she will not also disappear," he said, taking her hand with a caressing touch that was personal enough to be remembered, but not of a quality to be resented. "sit down here, child, and just cast your eye over this money-order to be sure if it is right, for stephen latimer may come for it any time. mr. winslow will excuse you a minute, i reckon," said gilbert, as poppea hesitated a moment in embarrassed silence, not knowing whether she should ask winslow to the porch or garden, or merely take the call in her official capacity. the request decided the matter, and as gilbert went over to his work bench to become instantly absorbed, she slipped into his revolving chair, glanced rapidly over the figures, separated note from stub, and returned the book to the drawer. when she again faced winslow, her hands were clasped rather nervously in her lap. "i came over this morning for two reasons," he said, as though in answer to a question in her eyes. "i was afraid that last night's excitement was altogether too much of a strain, and i wanted to reassure myself by a peep at you. then i wished to tell you in plain, open daylight how deeply i feel about my unknowing brutality concerning this post-office business, and to ask you, if you can help it, not to let it tinge or prejudice your feelings about me, but to judge me only by the outcome. as it is, no one else need ever know the details except our two selves." the look of intense relief that lighted poppea's face and raised the drooping lip corners was perfectly apparent to winslow, and also told him that doubt as to this outcome had probably broken her rest. "i do not think of it as brutality even though it hurt, and though i shall not tell daddy, because he would grieve himself sick, i _must_ tell mr. latimer, because he has always known of everything concerning me, and helps me understand my troubles by holding them, as he says, in trust. for the rest, i can only thank you for taking the trouble to consider a passing stranger." "i do not feel that you are a stranger; i did not when i first saw you dancing before the mirror, or yet again on the porch last night. you are to me youth and all the good that belongs with it. we have met twice by accident, the third time by intent; does not that make us friends?" as far as his emotions were concerned, bradish winslow at six and thirty might be said to have his second wind. the things that appealed to him with any permanence in these days knocked first at the door of his judgment where his æsthetic taste was doorkeeper. it was by this route that poppea stole swiftly along until his heart was reached, and responded before he even remembered that he had one. then, too, she was as refreshing as the first sun-ripened strawberries of june after the complicated winter confections of the club. winslow found himself leaning toward poppea, holding her eyes and speaking with a vibrating eagerness that would have surprised any one of his half-hundred city intimates, both male and female. of a distinguished family, rich in moderation, and with no one to please but himself, winslow, though an indispensable social factor, was, as far as women were concerned, a devoted cynic, always at the beck and call of some modish woman, usually either married or a widow, but whenever the chains of his own forging seemed likely to fetter, he had always eluded them, to seek safety in numbers once more. he had no further reason for sitting in the stuffy little post-office than to see poppea; he had no other reason for having stayed the second day at the hill, and yet, with all of his resources, quick wit, and elastic principles, he could devise no way of prolonging the interview or bringing poppea into less conventional relations than her expressions of gratitude implied. his hesitation surprised him, for on a still briefer acquaintance he had brought a very difficult and much-sought widow to ask him to luncheon, after which she had taken him to a round of "teas" in her carriage. winslow realized this as they sat there, presently talking of inane and safe topics, such as the heat, the city people visiting on the hill, and the tennis match to be held there next day, and it was almost a relief when stephen latimer, coming for his money-order, told poppea that the oldyses' rockaway was stopping at the rectory and would be down for her in a quarter of an hour. as latimer showed no signs of leaving immediately, there was nothing left for winslow to do but bow himself out, more awkwardly than stephen latimer, who had known him of old, would have believed possible. once in the roadway, where he could throw back his shoulders and strike out, the web that he had sought to spin as a spider, but which had held him like a captive fly, parted, and he admonished himself in no measured terms. "i wouldn't have thought it of you, brad, my boy; there you sat as dumb as a fish, and she, when she got through being politely grateful, looked absolutely bored. it must be because you feel out of your running in a real cow-country place like this. is it possible that you're falling in--? no, it's nonsense! but you'd give a pile to make her look in your face with something other than gratitude in her eyes. well, maybe she'll go to the city some day, who knows. meanwhile, we'll not let out of sight be out of mind." this resolution was the foundation of a series of subtly chosen gifts sent at regular intervals that, coming in the mail, poppea could not fail to see. as, however, after the first, from which fell a pressed poppy, they contained no sign, she could neither acknowledge nor return them, for their source was a matter of inference only. neither did she know that winslow, summering here, there, and everywhere, from newport to the north cape, had left an order with his agent for the sending of the remembrances; consequently, in spite of herself, he was kept in mind, and she was somewhat touched, according to his plan. * * * * * poppea was shocked when she reached the mill house to find how much madam oldys had changed in a few weeks, and she reproached herself for not having seen her oftener. but the house had seemed so strange and still without hugh that she had avoided bringing herself face to face with its emptiness. yes, as the doctor said, the chord that held her soul in her body was madam oldys's love for husband and son. this poppea saw as she knelt on the mat beside the straw lounging chair on the deeply shaded porch and watched the rapid pulsing at the thin temples as the time drew near for mr. oldys to come home to tea. he was very busy these days in remodelling the mills and fitting them for a new manufacturing enterprise that should not only retrieve the heavy loss of the last years in the waning of the old business, but give work to the men who had built their homes and houses about him and the surging outlet of moosatuck. this night he was unaccountably late, and poppea had already run the gamut of plausible excuses before charlotte came out to inquire, after the comfortable manner of the old colored servant, if missy oldys wouldn't better have her tea before she went all gone from waiting. but a negative shake of the head was her answer. "i think, my dear, that i will walk down to the gate to-night as usual, where i can see beyond the turn," she said to poppea, at the same time trying to rise without aid and finding it impossible. "he is coming!" cried poppea. "mr. oldys has this moment turned into the road from the little gate in the south meadow. ah, he has a man with him, a stranger; some one about the new machinery, probably, which accounts for his being late. there, he is waving his handkerchief, so everything is right," and poppea waved hers in return, thus keeping up the significant little signal that had passed between this sweet old couple every summer evening, time out of mind. "a stranger," the wifely anxiety instantly merging into the hospitable interest in a guest. "then please ask charlotte to add coffee and one of what hugh called 'her hasty hot dishes' to supper; the ham omelet will be best. he may have come by train and had merely a sandwich at noon." poppea gave the order, and on her return looked again at the pair who had almost reached the gate. she had never before realized that mr. oldys either stooped or was short of stature; in fact, he was taller than the average, but his companion, broad-shouldered, dark, and trimly bearded, towered over him by half a head. at the gate they paused, and mr. oldys, putting his hand on the other's shoulder, leaned affectionately on it, while the stranger lifted and waved the wide-brimmed soft felt hat. it was hugh! the forehead line told the tale to poppea that the beard had concealed. with a swift gesture that warned the pair to come slowly, dreading the shock to madam oldys that might come from the unexpected, poppea knelt again by the chair, and putting one hand each side of the face, still beautiful with all its delicacy, turned it toward her and whispered:-- "close your eyes and think of some one you would like to see coming across the field, then make a wish, for the fairies are about to-night." the lids quivered and closed, then opened, and the eyes that read poppea's were full of new life. "it is hugh! it is my boy! all day i have felt him come nearer, closer, but i thought it was only in spirit. give me your hand; he must not find me idling. see, i am stronger already;" and madam oldys not only stood up, but walked toward the steps, barely leaning on the arm that poppea stretched out to steady her, to be grasped the next moment by a strong pair of arms in an embrace that stifled her cry halfway and lifted her from her feet, while as poppea tried to slip back, she found her hand held in the same grasp and a kiss fell squarely upon her lips. she did not blush then or separate the greeting in any way from the good-by of ten months before. but later, as they gathered about the supper table where madam oldys sat behind the tray, handling the chubby tea-caddy for the first time in months, and poppea looked at hugh as he attacked the "hasty hot dish" with a traveller's relish, she knew that he was and yet was not the same. the span of the months and distance had added immeasurably to the man, but the boy, the chum, the comrade, that he had been even throughout his college days, had vanished, and a hot color flushed her face up to her hair roots until she became so conscious of it that she put her hand up as though to shade her eyes from the light. before, hugh oldys had been clean shaven and slender for his height; now he was filled out without fleshiness, and a closely trimmed beard and crisp, clearly pencilled mustache gave a new masculinity to his face without in any way concealing the determined yet flexible lips or the nostril curve that told of nerves high strung but perfectly under the control of will. naturally it was hugh who talked the most, his father putting brief questions and gazing in deep contentment at his wife, who, without expressing a shadow of the loneliness she must have felt or even asking hugh why he had shortened his year by nearly three months, was reviving and expanding; a miracle under their very eyes, like the refreshment of a plant that, withered and famished, takes hold of life anew even at the breath of the wind that brings rain. a year before, poppea would have stayed on as a matter of course, one of the family group, but now she felt that on this precious evening the three should be alone together, and when hugh went upstairs to change to a coat more suitable to the sultry night, she whispered a few words in madam oldys's ear about feeling quite rested and not being needed now for company; then with a nod to mr. oldys, finger on lips, slipped through the side hall where hung her hat and scarf, and thence through the garden gate into the depths of the june evening, where every bush held a flower in bud and every tree a sleeping bird. the oldyses saw nothing strange in her going, for she had always come and gone at will. rather it was another proof of her thought of them, this silent understanding that three was company that night; besides, a half-mile walk alone on a street where each house kept watch over its neighbor, was a mere nothing to a village girl. "where is poppea?" was hugh's question on reëntering, his hands full of the trinkets of travel that he had pulled hastily from his grip. "gone home? alone in the dark? why, mother!" and dropping his burden in her lap, he went out the low french window and sprang over the piazza rail without turning the corner for the steps. mother and father, sitting side by side, exchanged glances and a hand pressure that revealed that they two recognized a change in hugh, but that they were well content in the knowledge. poppea walked down the side road to the main street that passed the base of quality hill before she heard the rapid footsteps behind her that halted presently by her side. no word was spoken, but her hand was drawn through a muscular arm and held there fast. a year ago this might have happened without comment, but the arm was not the same, neither the hand that rested on it. "what made you run away, poppea? you never did before; that is, never but once." as soon as he had completed the heedless sentence, hugh was sorry, while to poppea it was as though some one had spread the last seven years of her life before her guised in a knitted fabric, and slipping the thread, bade her ravel it stitch by stitch to its beginning. "i thought you would wish to be alone with the home people," she said, searching for her words as if they were packed away for lack of use. "and what are you if you are not one of the home people? what else have you ever been to me since the day that i first saw you and for a moment wasn't quite sure whether i wanted you or the puppy the most?" poppea could not answer at once; the ground seemed unsteady. the months of parting had broken the old shuttle and snapped the thread; what pattern would the new loom weave that the meeting had set in motion? at this moment they were passing the church, and the lamp in stephen latimer's study cast a path of light across the turf almost to their feet, against which the outline of his face was silhouetted. "aren't you going in to see the latimers?" she said, forgetting that hugh's last question was unanswered. "no, not to-night; to-morrow. this hour is mine and yours, poppea. why do you shiver so and draw away; you've always taken my arm?" "i didn't know that i was doing either, but somehow everything seems different to-night, strange and new. perhaps it is because i've not been feeling quite myself for a few days. only this morning the doctor sent me up to the mill house for a change." then, in her turn, poppea regretted the final words. "and my homecoming has sent you away when you were tired, and that is why you falter. this is a bitter thought." "it is not exactly that; i don't know what it is, but that i seem to bring distress upon all those i care for," and from a rush of half-coherent words he heard of her friendship with philip and its results to him, and in a partial way the danger to oliver gilbert. as she talked, they had reached the post-office house gate. the house itself was dark, but a light shone from gilbert's workroom. on the side porch the ample figure of mrs. shandy rocked to and fro, fanning vigorously. as poppea turned toward the steps, almost stumbling in her fatigue, hugh guided her along the path to a bench by the orchard edge, an old schoolhouse bench with a platform under foot that he had made once, years ago, when gilbert had chided poppea for letting the dew spoil her new sunday shoes. "sit here," he said; "take off your hat and let the air blow through your hair, while i get you some water." how good it seemed to have some one say with authority, "do this," or "do that," the unspoken motive being "because it is for your good." then she began to realize that during the last few months she and daddy had rather been shifting places in point of responsibility. she drank the water slowly and gratefully, knowing through the clear starlight that his eyes were on her face, and as she drank she breathed the perfume of the half-double damask roses that had long ago crept from the garden above the parapet to make a thicket on either side the bank. "a little while ago you said that everything seemed different and strange. then both of us feel this. i had not landed on the other shore last autumn, hardly left this even, when the wrench of parting told me that everything was different, and would remain so. but i wanted you to have a chance to feel it for yourself if might be, and i kept it from my letters,--though i knew they were like wretched guide-books,--because i dared not let myself go. "to-night, when i came back, hurried by dr. morewood's letter, and saw the woman who gave me life clinging to my little comrade, i knew the time had come when i must tell her that my love had changed." "then can we no longer be friends?" poppea asked faintly. "must i lose you, too, as i have lost philip?" "always friends, poppea; that is the beginning. are not stephen latimer and jeanne friends? and my father and mother also? but it must be more than friends, everything that a man and woman may be to each other. the change is that i love you as latimer does jeanne, that i want you for my wife. "is that strange to you, poppea? or does it seem to you as it does to me, the fulfilment?" and hugh leaned toward her, pale and anxious, in the starlight and holding out his arms. poppea turned quickly as though she would let him take her, then catching her breath, drew back, covering her face with her hands, while a half-forgotten harmony forced itself on her ears, and once more the knight of the grail waving farewell, with the mystic sadness on his face, passed before her mental vision. "oh, hugh!" she moaned, "i've lost you, lost you! it isn't what i feel; it isn't what i wish! don't you see that i can never be any man's wife, much less yours, who knows my whole life through, until i can give my own name with my love?" "that is for me to say, and i say yes!" cried hugh, holding her to him as though to prove her need of protection. "no, it is for neither of us to say; it is something beyond ourselves. i cannot tell why, but i know it," poppea answered, without the tremor of the previous moment, but with a pleading dignity that made hugh drop his arms. "suppose that something should some day come to light, when it was too late, that made it wrong for me to love you, we might not be able to bear the harm of it only ourselves." then springing up with all the intensity of nerve and lithe motion that marked her dancing, she stood before him, with hands clasped, beseeching. "oh, hugh, hugh, can't you help me; won't you help me find out who i am? for sometimes i think that daddy knows and will not tell!" "and if i can, is that all that stands between us, poppea? look into my face so that i can see your eyes when you answer me." "oh, hugh, be patient with me, be merciful! how can i say until i know my name, for it may be--that i have no real right to any." it was so long before hugh spoke that poppea found herself counting her heart-beats, so keenly was the silence borne in upon her. then she said timidly: "meanwhile, hugh, could you--could we go on being friends? your mother and daddy, what could i say to them if we didn't speak? what should i do without you?" once more he drew her toward him, this time gently, not passionately. "it isn't an easy road that is before us, little one, but it is hardest for you, because i must, in any event, go out to make my way. though i do not agree with your resolution, i do not say it is wrong. "i love you, man to woman; that is where i stand. you must not forget this for a moment, as i shall not. but you must not fear that i shall harry you. i shall not tell you this in words again until you say to me, 'i need you, hugh.'" "not even if the mystery of the name is solved?" "not even then, for only under such conditions will you cease to be on your guard, and without frankness the name of friendship would be a farce." "and your mother, if she asks you--i think now she has perhaps thought--" "yes, she loves you, poppea, as my mother should love my wife. she is the only one who has a right to ask. i shall tell the truth, which is that we have come to a perfect understanding. "one thing more, poppea; remember _you_ are not bound." if he could only have known the aching loneliness that fell upon her at these words; again she seemed to feel herself cut adrift. with a sudden turn she clung to him, and he, lifting her face, kissed her on lips and eyes, whispering, "to-morrow or five years hence, you need only speak or write the four words." chapter xiii the turning when one has spent the early morning hours of a journey, in which no steps may be retraced, in following a fairly straight and level path through a familiar wood, hindered only by a few briers, with sheltering trees above, pleasant vistas on every side, and in friendly company, hope rises high and straightway trusts the path ahead. but when an abrupt turn shows there is a steep to climb, the pathway itself becomes confused, indefinite, treacherous, and the guiding voices have scattered, some going one way and some another, what must one do? hesitate? sit down to think it out? or still walk on foot-length by foot-length, trusting to circumstance for keeping the course that one may not divine? it was at the turn of such a road as this that poppea found herself; she could not go back if she would, and friendly voices called in opposite directions from her own instinct. of one thing only she was quite sure, she must go on without a pause lest in it she lose courage; she must climb on her hands and knees even, if necessary. the only mistake she made was in thinking, as we all have done at times since the days of the self-gratulatory st. paul enumerating his trials, that she had reached the turning alone. if she had but realized it, oliver gilbert, near the end of his journey and travelling in the opposite direction, was confronted by the same sharp turn and the same barrier, that to each this bore the same name--the future! if poppea had been pondering how she could help her daddy and lead him naturally toward the resigning of his office, gilbert was conscious of a like necessity, but this was nothing compared to the appalling realization of poppea's womanhood that had suddenly confronted him. in gilbert's simple mind, when a girl crossed the boundary of the twentieth year, the mating time was at hand, and each year after that she remained unbespoken if not married, reflected in some way either upon her good looks, disposition, or opportunities. as in all rural districts, there were many long courtships in newfield county lasting from half a dozen to even a dozen years, but after the serious intentions of the man were recognized, and the woman was spoken of as "his intended," then the couple passed from the interest of the match-makers into a sort of intermediate state, wherein they were both supposed to be working for a common end and the duration of which was considered purely their own business. as oliver gilbert looked about at the eligible male population of the country-side, his perplexity increased; many were prosperous after their own standards, and some were even ambitious, but which one of them was fit to mate with poppea? moreover, such an idea had never seemed to occur to any of them. the only youths, who, dressed in their best, had come of a saturday evening to lean on the little shelf before the window of the beehive and cast boldly admiring glances and random and irrelevant remarks at the postmistress, were of the verdant and irrepressible sort that gilbert would not have tolerated for a moment, and that poppea had effectually withered by giving absolutely no more heed to their pleasantries than to the wind muttering about the windows. the matter that had brought gilbert face to face with the rock behind which lay the pathway to futurity, was a call from a prosperous manufacturer of bridgeton, a clean, well-built man of five and thirty, self-made and commercially intelligent, if lacking the culture that marks the man of real education. he had met poppea at the church, where she had sung for several months the previous winter, and was sincere and outspoken in his admiration of her. in a straightforward way he had come to the point and, with old-fashioned courtesy, asked gilbert for permission to court his daughter, stipulating that he wished no influence brought to bear upon her, only leave to make his own way if he might. the whole thing was so sudden, and came from a sky so wholly cloudless, that gilbert had difficulty at first in keeping down a choking resentment at the man's presumption, while, at the same time, these feelings were checked by the realization that as the world measures, the man who owned a well-equipped factory, and had half a hundred men on his pay-roll, was the one who was condescending. these mixed feelings caused gilbert to hesitate, begin a sentence only to break it off, and finally, flushed and perspiring, say, "i'm afraid that you don't understand; it isn't all just what i've got to say about it nor poppy, either, sir." then very quietly and with a good deal of dignity, this man had drawn near to gilbert, and, lowering his voice, said: "that's what i do understand; i know that she isn't your own born, for i was a lad driving for the westboro stables the time that she came here. fifteen years before that, i was left the same way at deacon tilley's in north bridgeton, so there's no need of explanations between miss gilbert and myself; neither will have aught to hold against the other in family matters." a groan had escaped gilbert, before he could control himself sufficiently to say briefly that poppea, being of age, was her own mistress. but after the man had gone, he paced up and down the shop, his hands working nervously, until at last big tears rolled down his cheeks, and, sitting at his desk, head on his arms, he said aloud: "the lady baby as good as asked in marriage by a boy left on old tilley's steps, and then driving teams for beers, and nothing for either to throw at the other! well, why not old gilbert's steps as well as old tilley's? what can i say? i _feel_ the difference, but that isn't proving it! "i wonder what you'd have done, if you'd been cornered this way," he continued, looking up at the portrait of lincoln, that hung in the same place as on the night of poppea's coming. but now, a well-grown ivy plant was wreathed about it, growing from a pot that stood on the window ledge in a spot that the sun visited daily throughout the year, showing that a woman's affection had been added to that of the old man's hero-worship. "would you have stopped still just long enough to tell a story to make folks laugh, and then gone straight on and walked over or out of the trouble? could you have done that if you'd had a more than daughter that was too good for any man and yet a nameless man asked for her on equal terms just because she _wasn't_ your daughter?" as the incoherence of his speech dawned upon him, he threw back his head and laughed aloud, then stopped short, calmed and steady of hand, as if there had been something almost prophetic in the sound. this had happened on the day of poppea's visit to the mill house and hugh oldys's return. a week afterward, poppea, very quietly and with some hesitation, broached the subject of singing in new york and of its possibilities, together with her intention of taking lessons of a famous teacher, who had been an opera singer, was a friend of the feltons, and feeling the need of rest, was to spend the month of august with them on the hill. instead of the opposition that she had expected, both on the ground of gilbert's seeing neither the necessity of self-support nor of her partial separation from him, he not only gave a cheerful assent, but a look as of a weight having been lifted from him crossed his face, and he broke into what was for him voluble conversation about the virtue of having something to do and doing it "up brown"; for this move of poppea's told the old man what he most wished to know, that either the bridgeton admirer had altered his intentions or been repulsed. then drawing from his pocket a letter that had come by the milkman and not the post, gilbert said: "come to speaking of winter, poppy, there's something that i've had it on my mind to tell you, but i couldn't see my way clear of it until to-day, and i didn't want to hamper you ahead. mrs. shandy has set her mind on going back to the old country next fall, as there's less and less likelihood of her seeing philip, and she says the living so near is only an aggravation. now to-day comes a letter from sister satira potts. she writes that 'lisha has a chance to get the contract for cutting all the grown chestnut timber from the stryker hollow tract that lies along moosatuck, to the west side, about twenty miles to the north of bridgeton. if he takes it, and it will advantage them greatly if he does, he will have to stay in the camp all week and only come home for sundays, satiry thereby being left lonesome. so the pith of her letter is, that she's sort of feeling 'round to see if there is any chance of her being wanted down here for the winter, as it is handier for 'lisha to come here from bridgeton than to take the drive round about home. i reckon it'll seem good to me to have sister satiry potts back here. mrs. shandy's strong in british ways of toast and tea, boiling green peas and mint together, and having a forceful way of _looking_ me into a clean collar at meal times when i've chanced to lay mine by for comfort. but for coffee and pancakes, brown bread and beans that's cooked until they're swelled to burst, but daresn't, being checked at just the moment, give me satiry, who also speaks right out about my collar and such, without ado. "so you see, child, that old daddy'll be well cared for, and you'll have a ready listener to tell all about the city doings to when you come back; for if they fancy you down there, there'll be a great to do; most likely you'll have flowers thrown at you; i've read about its being done for opery singers in the paper, and if they, why not you? though likely, if you're singing in folks' houses, they'll hand the posies to you, instead of throwin', as being more polite and safer for the mantel ornaments and mottoes on the wall. "oh, child, child," he continued, as, leaning over his chair in her old-time way, poppea had laid her soft cheek against his grizzled beard, and at the contact the mental vision of each grew clearer, "a couple of weeks ago, all at once, things fell into a sort of heaviness, and as late as yesterday i couldn't seem to see the way ahead. but now i think the corner's sort of swinging to the turning, and pretty soon we may come to another good stretch of road, and if the lord hasn't other plans, mebbe he'll let me walk beside you on it for a little piece yet, until younger company comes up that's spryer, poppy. and when they do, remember one thing, honey-clover, don't let old daddy hold you backward; step right off brisk. daddy'll be content to stop behind, so long as he sees you on before." "don't, daddy, don't," she whispered, putting her hand over his mouth to stop him. "nobody else is going to walk beside me; it's either you or loneliness, so never speak of falling back." she did not repeat the reason that she had given hugh oldys, but gilbert quickly divined it from the tension of her arm, and the momentary joy that he had felt was stifled in a sigh as though self merged in super-self. * * * * * in early autumn, hugh oldys went to his work, and though he usually returned for sunday, it was not always possible. to his mother the break seemed more complete and of a different quality than the separation either of his college life or his travels; these had been tentative, the last final. it was the first independent stepping out of the only one, upon the way that leads from home, not toward it, even by an indirect circuit. almost at the same time, philip had returned, and had taken up his work anew at howell's studio at westboro. physically, he looked much improved; his skin was sun-browned with sometimes a dash of color, he weighed more, and his face had gained in strength and resolution. but when he had been at work a month with the master, howell saw that what he was gaining in accuracy and flexibility was more than discounted by a total lack of inspiration. "where is she? what has become of the young woman who is not a model or to be had for the asking? why not try the head once more from memory?" howell asked abruptly one day, after his pupil had worked for an entire morning with the listless accuracy that is almost infuriating to the real artist. taken off his guard, philip cried out:-- "she is dead! my father murdered her and threw the pieces out of the window." for a moment howell was startled. then, as he looked at the face turned toward him, proud yet quivering at a wound, he read therein a tragedy whose underlying principles were greater than mere murder. "come and tell me about it, or you will let it kill your work and you also," he said, fastening his eyes upon philip in compelling sympathy, at the same time stretching out his hand with a gesture wholly compassionate, and motioning him to follow to an inner room beyond the studio, where strangers never entered. it was quite an hour before the pair returned, the master's arm resting on philip's shoulder. "now," he said, "we will make alive again, for that is the sculptor's trade. this is my studio, and what i tell my pupils to do, they obey if they are able, and it is the concern of no one outside. but this time make her joyous and not pensive, in love with life; make her look up; part her lips as though she were about to sing; twine poppies in her hair to carry out her name; a butterfly on her shoulder, the greek emblem of immortality. then she shall live here with us, and you can look at her when you see nothing but bone and muscles in the lump of clay you are working." so philip went to work once more, buoyed up in that some one understood and did not scoff, and that some one was the master, who knew. but he saw the real poppea only once to speak to her, at stephen latimer's, before the time when the felton ladies bore her with them to new york for her musical début, in that season of social introduction that is crowded between thanksgiving and christmastide. she was cordial and the very same when looked at from a distance, but when philip stood before her, he was conscious of a subtle change, a certain veiling and holding back of self, where all had been spontaneous and freely given before, yet, as a woman, this added distinctly to her charm. "can she know about my father; is it turning her away from me?" was his constant thought, finally to be banished by the impossibility of such a thing being the case, for the studio walls had no ears, and violent as john angus was in private, philip well knew from his summer's experience that it was no part of his father's policy to hold up his dislikes or grievances for the public to peck at. the next time that he saw poppea it was through the doorway of a flower-trimmed room, where she had been singing. during the intermission a stringed quartet was playing mendelssohn's _songs without words_ from behind a screen of palms. in the circle that surrounded her, to which she was in course of being presented by miss emmy, the evening gowns of women were equally mingled with the black coats of the men, while the figure nearest to her, holding her bouquet of maréchal neil roses and ferns, was that of bradish winslow. as philip gazed hesitant about entering alone and yet wishing to, he stepped backward, and in so doing jostled some one who was looking over his shoulder. turning, he saw that it was hugh oldys. "are you going to speak to her?" philip asked eagerly after the first words of greeting. "yes, surely, i am only waiting for the crowd to thin a little; i think, philip, that she will be glad to see some home faces among all these strangers." as they waited, caleb came through the wide hall with an envelope in his hand, peering anxiously into every masculine face. when he caught sight of hugh, he drew close to him, standing on tiptoe the better to reach his ear. "this here's a telegraph despatch fo' you, marsa hugh, and de boy what brings it says it's a 'mergency and wants to be opened spry. doan yo' want to step in the little 'ception room and circumnavigate it private like? dem 'mergency despatches is terrible unsettlin', sah!" hugh seized the envelope, opening it with a nervous twist as he crossed the hall to the room indicated by caleb where there was a drop-light, philip following close. "your father has had a serious accident. your mother unstrung. bring up maclane or grahammond, to-night, if possible. stephen latimer." hugh dropped into a chair, and spreading the paper on the table, read it a second time, motioning philip to do likewise. "maclane and grahammond are both brain specialists, i think; it must be that the accident is to his head. i wonder where they live," he said, half to himself and half aloud. then turning to caleb, who stood at a respectful distance, the embodiment of discreet curiosity, he asked him if there was a city directory in the house. "not jest that big ornery volume what dey keeps in drug stores, marsa hugh, but miss emmy, she's got de little blue book on her desk, what records all de quality, sah, and guarantees 'em true, and i'll fotch it right away." hugh jotted the two addresses on a card, then rising, shook himself as though to be sure he was awake. at this moment the tones of a clear mezzo-soprano voice floated across the hall. "what's this dull town to me? robin's not here!" poppea was singing _robin adair_. hugh listened until the verse was ended, his face white and drawn with contending emotions. then turning abruptly to philip and reading both comprehension and sympathy in his glance, he said abruptly:-- "tell her that i've been here, but was called away by bad news from home. no--not that, it might spoil her evening. only say that i could not wait," and taking his hat and coat that caleb was holding, he went out. by the time poppea had answered the last encore that her strength would allow, a creole folk-song ending in the minor key, philip had made his way through the throng that surrounded the girl, who was radiant with a success that must appeal to her artistic sense, if her natural woman's love of approbation was in the background. when she saw philip, her whole expression changed and softened, while the lips that had been parted in laughing repartee drooped to wistfulness. bradish winslow, who still kept his post, noticed the change at once, and, following her eyes for the cause, was surprised at his own feeling of relief upon discovering philip. poppea came forward and, refraining from putting her hand upon his shoulder in the old way that marked his boyishness, greeted him as she would any other young fellow of nineteen, drawing him into a little group back of the long piano where he saw miss emmy and half a dozen of the quality hill colony. at the same time, he was conscious that her eyes were looking over his head in a rapid search for something or some one that she did not see, which reminded him of the message. "hugh oldys has been here," he said, "and was very sorry that he could not wait to see you." "then he has gone? why could he not wait?" philip, who read poppea's moods with mercurial swiftness, was tempted to add some words of explanation, but winslow, hearing poppea's question, intervened, saying, to her ear alone:-- "now you have earned a rest in cooler air where you can enjoy the reflection of the pleasure you have given. miss emmy has a surprise for you; capoul, the most expressive emotional tenor of a decade, is coming in from the opera where he is singing wilhelm meister in _mignon_. you have never heard it? ah, there is so much music that i wish to hear again for the first time through watching you hear it." the next morning poppea slept late, owing to the fact that nora had slipped in and closed the shutters fast. she had intended taking the early train for home, as three days would elapse before she was to sing at an afternoon concert given for the benefit of a fashionable charity. when nora finally judged that it was proper for the household protégée, in whom she took no small pride, to awake, and brought her coffee and rolls to her room, after the feltons' winter custom, poppea found herself undergoing a sort of nervous reaction caused by the excitement of the night before and the lack of air in the shuttered room. twelve o'clock was the next train possible, and entering the library to make positive her going, she found stephen latimer standing before the fire, while the ladies and mr. esterbrook sat opposite him in benumbed silence, miss emmy having her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. miss felton motioned poppea to the lounge beside her: "mr. latimer has brought us dreadful news! please tell her, stephen." for a moment poppea thought that she would suffocate; suppose that daddy was dead and she away! then she found herself listening as through rushing water to the story of how mr. oldys, when superintending the placing of a heavy piece of the new machinery, had been instantly killed by its fall. the mill hands, becoming demoralized in their wild rush to get a physician, had broken the news abruptly to madam oldys, which at first she did not believe. but later, when they brought her husband home and dr. morewood was sitting by watching for a heart collapse, her mind, not her body, had suddenly given way--not weakly or plaintively, but violently, in a manner that no one who had witnessed her frailty would have deemed possible, so that restraint was imperative. hugh had been sent for the previous evening, and two specialists were even then on their way to harley's mills for consultation. latimer himself had come down to inform hugh's new employers, as well as to do some friendly acts of necessity. "i am going home at noon," was poppea's spoken answer to latimer, but between the brief words he read much besides. "i expected that you would, and told oliver gilbert so in passing," was his reply. "how is hugh?" was her first question, when after the bustle of transit they were seated in the train with no other passengers in their immediate vicinity. "perfectly quiet, but as one stunned; his sorrow for his father is deep enough, but his anguish at his mother's condition is heartrending." "is there--do you think that there is anything i could do if i should go there?" she faltered. "not now, my child; it is a time when no friend and not even a man's wife must come between him and his sorrow, his thoughts are only for the eye of god. such help as charlotte needs below stairs is being given by jeanne and satira potts." "and the funeral?" "will be from st. luke's to-morrow." the next day poppea and oliver gilbert followed with the rest, the feltons, mr. esterbrook, and half the summer colony. she only caught a glimpse of hugh, who, tearless, looking neither to the right or left, seemed hewn from marble. how could she go back to town, poppea thought, and wreathe her hair and sing? if only she knew, if she could comfort hugh in anyway; but he saw no one but stephen latimer. she had set her feet on the path of self-support and could not leave it now; there was nothing to do but wait. two weeks passed and public interest in hugh oldys's affairs had reached a high pitch. were the mills to be abandoned? what would become of the expectant men? then it was whispered, though not maliciously, that mr. oldys's affairs were seriously involved, and that a strong, alert man with a keen business head would be required to save the property. poppea being at home one morning within the month of mr. oldys's death, stephen latimer came to the post-office house, and being as usual questioned as to whether there was any improvement in mrs. oldys's condition, said, almost as though he were giving a requested message.-- "no, there is none, nor ever likely to be; the specialists gave this as their decision yesterday and advised that she be sent at once to a trustworthy asylum, because the strain of her care, even if competent nurses came between, would be too much for any one person." "will hugh let her be taken away?" asked poppea, with dilating eyes and hands tightly clasped. "no, never! he says that from now on he will, if necessary, withdraw from everything else to care for her and keep the home intact, in case that she comes to herself, and missing something, wonders. "this is not all," latimer continued. "in order to have the money to care for her, his father's funds being all placed in this new venture, he must leave his profession, assume immediate control of the mills, and fight it out to a finish. but in this forced work lies his salvation. when i saw him to-day, i marvelled at the new nobility of his face. resolution has always been its chief characteristic, now resignation is blended with it. god grant that hope, born of the two, may presently soften its set lines." that hugh had wholly put away his need of her was the meaning that poppea took from latimer's words. then she, too, would lose herself in work, and the next day that she went to the city to sing, she let miss emmy persuade her that she owed it to her art to tarry between times and take the lessons that tostelli was so eager to give her. when once hard at work, with the best music to be heard by way of relaxation, small wonder if the days were winged to poppea, and at times disappointment and responsibility alike seemed the unreal things of life; she would have been less than a woman had it been otherwise. chapter xiv a proposal on returning from her singing lesson in the middle of a bitter cold january afternoon, poppea had walked the short distance from chickering hall back to the felton house on madison square, so far up in the clouds that she was quite unconscious that her feet touched the icy pavements. for not only had tostelli commended her improved vocalization with true italian fervor expressed in elaborate french, but he had praised her first teacher, stephen latimer, saying: "he who has brought out mademoiselle's voice thus far without a scratch or strain or a falsity has done so much that she may hope to be anything that she wills, even an _artiste_ of the grand opera, after much study abroad. that she can also act, i am ver' certain, for what she sings that she is for the time, gay, _triste_, _pathetique_, simple _comme en enfant_, _mais toujours naturel_, _toujours ravissante_." then he had asked her to take the leading part in an operetta that was to be given by his pupils toward the end of the season in one of the ample old houses on gramercy park that boasted a perfectly equipped private theatre. so buoyed up was she by his words that she had crossed the park, the exquisite articulation of its crystal-covered trees still further keeping up the illusion of fairyland wherein she was for the moment living, and reached the steps of the house, before she realized where she was, and that she was expected to make a round of calls with miss emmy instead of going to sit by the fire and think it all out as she desired. she had been in the company of others all day and had the need, possessed by all those of her temperament, to be alone to realize herself. "are the ladies at home?" was her question to caleb as he opened the door, knowing that the day's history would be forthcoming. "yes, missy, and mr. esterbrook too; he doan seems to feel right peart to-day. he didn't go to the club for his luncheon, and he isn't going to the painter man's what's doing his picture. miss 'liz'beth's going out later, but miss emmy's 'cided not to budge herself, and's taking her comfort in the sitting room, where i'm to bring de tea soon's you come." "good!" cried poppea, running up to her room as swiftly as she had done many years before when winslow had caught her dancing. only this time, instead of kneeling in front of the open window for breath, she threw off her street things, loosened her hair that had been compressed by her hat, and slipping on a soft crimson wrapper that she and satira potts had fashioned when she had been getting together what the latter insisted upon calling her "trowsoo" for the city, went down to the sitting room, the door of which stood hospitably open. the upstairs sitting room was one of the unsurpassed institutions of the day among those who had sufficiently ample houses to allow for it. usually occupying the front room of the second floor, it served both as a watch-tower of the street and a comfortable place of retreat when "not at home," or "engaged," according to the moral veracity of the family, was the word at the door. while there is a certain responsibility about the coherent furnishings of all other rooms, from the music room of bare floor and scant drapery to the library with its heavy rugs, draped alcoves, and precise shelving--the sitting room may take tribute from all others. a small upright piano, an open case of books, a table serving both for writing and a comfortable litter of magazines, deep nestlike chairs and a lounge that invites impromptu sleep without the ceremonious disrobing suggested by a bedroom, a joyful canary or two, and a shelf of blooming plants in the sunniest window complete the setting. the modern living room is undoubtedly grandchild of the sitting room that abdicated in its favor a quarter of a century ago, owing to an increasing contraction in house room. for the living room in ordinary houses is more often a combination of library, drawing and dining room, than a separate bit of luxury; also it is usually on the first floor, and therefore below the range of safety for flowing hair, kimonos, slippers, and pajamas. when poppea entered the feltons' sitting room and saw miss emmy in one of the deep chairs, released from stays and elaborate hair-dress, actually sitting on her feet in curled-up comfort, while she petted diva the great fox-gray angora, so-called from the vocal quality of her purr,--whose wonderful fur enveloped her mistress like a lap robe,--she knew that miss elizabeth had already gone out and she felt a sudden relaxation and rush of comfort that brought tears of pleasure very near to her eyes. "ring for the tea, child, and then we can shut the door and be by ourselves," said miss emmy, keeping her eyes fixed on the fire. when caleb had brought in and lighted the kettle lamp and put another lump of the unctuous liverpool coal upon the fire, poppea seated herself on the tiger rug by miss emmy's chair and fed bits of sally lunn cake to the cat while she waited for the elder woman to speak of the something that lay behind her eager, restless expression. "tell me about your day," said miss emmy, abruptly. poppea began with her call at mrs. hewlett's, that the songs for her afternoon musical of the next week might be chosen. in addition to the list of old english ballads, mrs. hewlett had asked if she knew any darky songs, and finding that she did, suggested that she make a separate specialty of these as novelty was a _must be_ in social entertaining. then gloria hooper had taken her home to luncheon almost forcibly, and there bradish winslow had drifted in and walked with her over to chickering hall. tostelli's comments and the hopes that were aroused in her rounded out the narrative, while she waited, hands clasped about her knees and her eyes gazing into miss emmy's, for her judgment upon the matter. "you are beginning, poppea. every one is very nice to you, as they should be, and new york seems to you the promised land; so it seemed to me thirty-five years ago. this singing, half socially, half professionally, is very pleasant while it lasts; but if, when the winter is over, you've made up your mind that you are going to let music hold the first place, then you must go on,--go abroad and study with the concert stage, if not opera, for the goal." "oh, aunty, aunty, you fly too fast!" poppea cried. "daddy is first, though music fills up all the gaps and fits in between times and people, and is letting me earn enough to save and help daddy when he shall need it. i am not even dreaming of opera, and 'abroad' is such a far-away place. why can't i stay where i am for at least a half a dozen years?" "why? because they won't let you;" then as if she feared by the look of pained wonder on poppea's face that she had gone too far in the rather bitter mood that was upon her, she laughed lightly. "there, there, you mustn't mind my nonsense, but i'm in a state of rebellion myself to-day, and so wish every one else to be likewise. i've just told sister elizabeth that i will go on no more of the wild-goose-chase performances known as 'making formal calls,' and that after the dinners and other entertainments that are already afoot between now and march are over, i shall withdraw from what is known as 'society'; not from my real friends, mind you, but merely from the tyranny of the thing that should be called the 'institution for amusement at the expense of one's own and one's neighbors' comfort.' if elizabeth wishes to continue, she must, to use a card phrase, 'go it alone.' "i am going abroad in the early spring, and when i return, i mean to spend most of my time at westboro, and see if jeanne and stephen latimer between them cannot find some work for my hands and brain that will keep my heart from either freezing or turning wholly to stone," and miss emmy broke off and held up diva before her face in a vain effort to suppress a dry sob that made her voice tremble. "why, miss emmy, i have always thought that you loved new york and all the people with whom you have lived so many years,--the art galleries, theatres, music, shops, and all the rest. don't you remember what you said to me about it last autumn when you urged me to come down and try my luck? that no american has lived or is fit to judge how or where they will spend their lives until they have seen and known new york," and poppea arose to her knees in front of her admonisher, an expression of incredulity on her upturned face, and her hands clasped in a half-beseeching, half-defensive attitude. "yes, i believe i did say that among other things, and it is true none the less because, after having tried it for the best of my life, i have decided to leave it before it leaves me. the new york that i knew is passing in more senses than one. when i first came to it, making the journey from boston by boat, washington square was the north side of the residential city limit, the present corners of fourteenth street and fifth avenue cow pastures. there were many charming country houses all through the northern part of the island and more especially near the hudson, bradish winslow's grandfather, on the maternal side, living in one of them. we ourselves went to visit at the waddell mansion set on the edge of a farm with its wheat fields near what is now the corner of fifth avenue and thirty-seventh street, the site of a church, a crowded city in itself and this was less than forty years ago. young as you are, you can see the changes that seven or eight years have made, poppea." "yes, i remember the fire-bell that pealed out numbers, and people looked in little books that they kept in their pockets to see in what district the fire was. nora used to take me to a place down in fourteenth street where i fed goats and chickens through the fence, and there was a house on broadway a little above union square that stood in a high-fenced garden where we used to feed the peacocks. "but now the streets seem so much gayer and better lighted at night, and then it is easier to get about; there are so many street-cars instead of the slow, jolting busses, and the elevated railroad over there on sixth avenue is almost like flying. though i'm very sorry there is to be a new opera-house so far uptown in the place of the dear old academy, for i suppose the first of a thing must always seem the best because it is the first," and poppea's first night at the opera again came before her, but this time there was more pleasure than pain in the memory. was it possible that she had been too sensitive? the people by whom she was surrounded seemed to make her one of themselves without question, and yet, coming from quality hill as many of them did, they must all know. "it is not simply the growth of the city that appals me," she heard miss emmy's voice say as if from a distance. "formerly, society was one; you knew your friends well, their houses and their coachmen in the distance. we who entertained did it to give our friends pleasure to the best of our ability. now people are beginning to entertain to outvie, and this bidding for guests and the game of chance, where the victory is to the purse if it is only used with a certain degree of discretion, is drawing strangers to our social midst, and presto, society is no longer one but many, and we shall soon be driven by the crowd from our houses to entertain in hotels. "look at this!" and miss emmy tossed a couple of cards into poppea's lap. one was the ordinary engraved card of a formal afternoon reception announcing that mrs. john sellers and the misses sellers would be at home on january the twenty-fourth, from four to seven. the second card bore simply the name of mrs. m. e. wilson, the address on both cards being the same. "i do not see anything amiss about these cards," said poppea, examining them carefully. "not in the cards, but in the facts back of them. maria wilson, one of the best known of the old set, has a large house, well furnished, but her husband's means have been decreasing ever since the tweed ring panic ten years ago. the sellers are from minneapolis, rich, ambitious, and their daughters decently educated, but as a family in a social sense positively unknown. maria wilson has rented them her house for the winter, herself included, for an enormous price. it is at their reception in her house where she is to stand sponsor for them, and if it is a success, it shows that society in new york is no longer able to stand upon its own resources. it is the entering wedge, for as soon as we cease to know personally those we invite, one must have police in dress suits to see that the strangers that come do not steal the spoons." "how do you know all this, aunty dear?" asked poppea, a bewildered expression crossing her face as she began to wonder if the social fabric could possibly be woven of other than the silk and fair colors in which it presented itself to her. "know? maria wilson came here to luncheon to-day and not only told me the scheme, but asked me to receive at _her_ reception (as she called it) and bring you to sing 'in a perfectly friendly way,' which, of course, means without pay. i'm quite through with it all, and then, besides, dear child, i'm very tired; lately i only seem to breathe an inch at a time when i'm in a close room. i must get away and be myself for a little, even though it is a rather poor thing to be, i'm afraid. "now as to this trip abroad--i want to see england in may and then go to the continent for two months, and you must go with me, poppea." "you want me? but how about miss elizabeth and mr. esterbrook? are they not going?" "no, dear; i have struck at last. it is late in the day, i allow, but once before my eyes close i must see through them without benefit of the spectacles of other opinions. besides, poor willy is losing his hold upon things. even elizabeth has agreed that we must put our affairs at harley's mills into the hands of hugh oldys, and mr. cragin, our lawyer here, has practically all the responsibility at this end. poppea child, whatever you do or do not do in this world, do not put off living your life to the full every day that it is possible. to-morrow is a good word for hope to know, but remember that it is a bad word for a woman's heart to feed upon. will you go with me, dear?" poppea was looking into the fire, watching the little flock of sparks creep up and burn a pathway through the soot. "folks going to meeting," satira pegrim had called them when she had watched the same procession, born of the wood embers, in the foreroom chimney. without looking up, she could feel miss emmy's eyes upon her face and knew that the question in them was a double one. "i should like to go abroad with you," she said at last, still keeping her eyes upon the fire, "and i crave living to the full, but that it might hurt some one else and, through them, me." "that is what i thought for years, and now i know that what i thought would hurt another did not exist. you say that you would like to go. now the remaining question is, will you?" "i will try to make it yes, but between now and then something might happen or daddy might need me, dear miss emmy." "that will do for a beginning, child. see, the kettle has quite boiled away and you must have fresh water." "de mail, ladies," said caleb, advancing at that moment with half a dozen letters on his salver, while at the same time they discovered that diva, unobserved, had finished the cake. miss emmy's mail consisted of invitations, while of poppea's two letters one was from oliver gilbert, the other from hugh oldys. gilbert wrote carefully and in detail of every village happening, how that it was proposed, through the influence of the quality hill people who did not like the prosaic name of the old town, to unite westboro and harley's mills into a single town to be known as west harbor. in this case the westboro post-office would be consolidated with his, and he thought, under the circumstances, with the double work, he would be justified in resigning "his charge." what did poppea think of it? then he dwelt upon hugh oldys's kindness in coming frequently to see them and supping at the post-office house on sunday nights. but he did not add that hugh had cross-questioned him most keenly and persistently about any possible ideas that he might entertain about poppea's origin, and had quietly told him that sooner or later he should find it out, thus putting gilbert into something akin to rage; for, blindly enough, the one dread of his life was that some one should appear to claim the lady baby. for the moment poppea was divided. was this change, by any chance, another scheme of john angus's to oust her daddy, or was it a providential happening to render it easy for gilbert to retire? being optimistic under all her trials, she decided upon the latter and turned to the other letter. hugh wrote in a subdued rather than in a sad key and, without reference to the interim, picked up their friendship as it was before the night of his return when the fabric began to change its weave and pattern. that he felt the need of her old-time letters and direct companionship he did not hesitate to say, at the same time taking it for granted that his would be a comfort to her. he told her freely of his daily routine of life and asked for hers in such a frank way, free alike from either restraint or curiosity, that the comrade emerged once more, and she resolved again to write him the weekly letter of his college days. ah, what a boy he seemed, however much his manhood had been tried and developed in the last few months, compared to the men who crowded about her at the musicals, lavish in words of praise, personal compliments, and gifts of flowers. to be sure, they all seemed a part of the play world in which she was living--all but bradish winslow, and as he in a sense had stepped accidentally into her life in its own home surroundings, so he seemed in a way to belong to it. "a polished man of the world" was miss felton's favorite expression concerning him; yet knowing this as she did, there was something about winslow's personality, his deference, at once soothing and stimulating, that when she was with him made it the most natural and desirable place for her to be; but when he was absent, the condition was altered, and she not only wondered at a certain influence that he held over her, but experienced a sharp sense of repulsion at it. it was the last of march when the rehearsals for the operetta drew to a close. the performance would be given in easter week. two large houses were to be thrown together for the occasion,--one for the musical part of the affair, the other for the cotillon and supper following, the two being joined by a covered passage between the gardens in the rear. poppea's character in the rather fantastic performance was that of a young girl of the pastoral type, who for a part of the play personated an actress, and for this scene, in which there was a dance, she was to utilize the green muslin perdita gown of her first appearance at quality hill. of course at this season the poppies must be artificial and more abundant for stage effect, and after many protestations she was told that she simply _must_ have her eyes pencilled and a dash of color added to her cheeks to guard against nervous pallor. when the night came, mr. esterbrook was not well, and miss felton, for some accountable reason, in no mood for going out, so that miss emmy and poppea went to the hoopers' alone in the depths of the last new carriage which, as though to carry out miss emmy's announcement that her days for light blue and pink were over, was lined with rich wine-colored cloth. poppea hardly knew whether she wished most to go or to run away, but by the time that she stood behind the dark green plush curtain peeping at the audience from between its folds, the desire for achievement had come to her, and she was ready to stay and conquer. very lovely were the young society girls of the chorus arrayed as shepherdesses; unembarrassed and statuesque was the contralto of the piece, gloria hooper, otherwise daphnis, the lover, a superb brunette and daughter of the house; but for the time the sense of the music dominated her; she was no longer poppea of the post-office in whose way stood many fears, but sylvaine of the invincible charm, whom she was personating. among the familiar faces in the audience, philip's and bradish winslow's were the only ones that her memory retained as the orchestra finished the tinkling overture, full of the piping of shepherds, the sound of cow-bells, and the tripping of dancing feet, and the curtain was drawn aside. then in a moment all faces vanished but that of tostelli, who was conducting from under the shelter of a thick palm in a tub. he had faith in her, nor was it misplaced. after the first act there was a storm of applause and flowers. in coming forward to bow, hand in hand with gloria, her eyes fell upon a figure standing behind the last row of chairs. it was john angus, who had evidently come without knowledge that poppea was taking part, for the expression of his face was so blended of surprise, incredulity, anger, and something else akin to dread, which she could not formulate, that she was obliged to close her eyes for a second to blot it out, and then fortunately sylvaine again absorbed her. it was toward the end of the last act that the dance came, and as the time changed for it, something compelled poppea, she abandoned the set steps she had been taught and improvised until the measure ended. then the final storm of applause descended upon her. "brava! brava!" tostelli cried. coming from under his bush, he first shook her by both hands and then kissed them publicly, saying for her ear alone, "for you the grand opera is near--very near!" still the applause continued. tostelli looked at her to see if she could stand a repetition of the intricate song of the rather artificial scene, but she shook her head. the revulsion had come; she was no longer sylvaine but herself, alone and among strangers but for the face of philip, whose eyes hung on her own. stretching out one arm as though to enjoin silence, she stepped forward, her eyes seeing above and beyond. then the clear legato notes of _robin adair_ rang forth. "what's this dull town to me? robin's not here!" the effect of this sudden transition was marvellous, tears filled eyes to which they were strangers, and for no reason that their owners could understand. then poppea, as soon as she could break away, her arms laden with flowers, looked for miss emmy, her one desire being to get home and be alone. but winslow, who was her shadow for the time, told her that miss emmy had heard through some one who had come in from the club, where dr. markam, the feltons' physician, happened to be spending the evening when sent for, that mr. esterbrook had been taken suddenly ill. miss emmy had at once returned, and would send nora back in the carriage for poppea as soon as possible. "is there any quiet spot where i can wait?" begged poppea; "i'm so tired." "yes, at the end of the hall there are chairs among those palms; go there, and i will bring you some supper, for i'm sure that you are hungry quite as much as tired." for a few moments poppea waited at the place indicated, then the cooler air of the improvised passage, which was quite empty, tempted her, and crowding herself behind one of the curtains with which it was draped, she found an opening through which she could breathe the air of the first truly spring night. approaching voices sounded that she recognized as belonging to the three women who, aside from the misses felton, had done the most toward her establishment--mrs. hewlett; her hostess mrs. hooper, gloria's mother; and a young widow, hortense gerard, a favorite cousin of bradish winslow's. fearing that they would insist upon her dancing the cotillon if she made known her presence, poppea remained behind the curtain, and they, evidently in search of air also, seated themselves near by on a low divan. presently the sound of her own name made poppea regret her action, but it was already too late. * * * * * _mrs. hewlett._ "well, miss gilbert has certainly achieved a great success; what a social institution she has become in a few months!" _the widow._ "yes, but she will cease to be as quickly as she has achieved; the very fact that we have admired her so much this winter is the reason why no one will want her next." _gloria's mother._ "i'm not so sure of that, hortense; i only wish that i could be. i'm afraid she's come to stay, or thinks she has as far as the men are concerned; they all take her _so_ seriously. my johnnie had the folly to say this morning that as soon as he was a senior he should offer himself, and you know very well that your cousin bradish won't let us say a word about her in his presence. why didn't the feltons have better sense than to take her into their family, a less than nobody? it puts the whole thing upon a semisocial footing: otherwise we need not have recognized her except by the envelope with the check in it." _mrs. hewlett._ "i think you are a little hard on her, charlotte; she's a very sweet girl and not responsible for her origin, or rather lack of it, though of course it would be deplorable if she should marry one of our sons." _the widow._ "_i_ think i'll put it into some rich old rascal's head to offer to put up for her training abroad for an operatic career: she'll surely jump at that bait. possibly even brad might work himself up to that extent; in fact, i think it's a case when he would put himself out to any degree short of matrimony, which proves her dangerous, for if brad will go so far, others less seasoned will go the whole ribbon. she's probably got a lot of magnetic bad blood beneath her baby skin. think of her art and craft in dropping into _robin adair_ to-night after that frenchy rigmarole. yes, she's got all the born wit of an adventuress, and she must go before she outwits us." _mrs. hewlett._ "i had never thought of her in that light, before, but of course it may be so, and no mother wishes her sons to--" * * * * * they go on to the ball-room. poppea clings to the curtain for support, her hand showing her hiding-place to winslow, who has come through an opposite curtain with a plate and a glass of champagne. "drink this!" he said, in a voice that trembled. but poppea shook her head. "how long have you been here? ever since those shameless fence cats came?" another motion of the head, this time in the affirmative. "then you've heard every word they said?" "yes," poppea's lips managed to say. at the same time pride came to her rescue; she raised her head and looked him in the face in a way that was both supplication and a challenge. hastily putting aside the food that he had brought, winslow threw back the curtain, and before she could resist, drew her into an anteroom out of the passageway. "sit down!" he commanded. poppea dropped into a chair, but still kept her eyes, now grown dull with despair, upon him; in fact, it seemed impossible for her to remove them. "don't look at me so, child! i should like to wring every one of their scrawny necks; only tell me what to do, and i will do it." "you can do nothing," were the words formed by poppea's dry lips, but no sound came. suddenly stepping toward her and resting one knee on the divan, he began to speak rapidly in a voice whose vibrant tones were moderated with difficulty. "i can, perhaps, do nothing alone, but _we_, we can do everything. "marry me, poppea. i love you wholly, finally, and have ever since the night when i first met you, also on painful ground. but together we will put away the pain, and you shall trample on those harpies that have stuck their claws in you. as bradish winslow's wife your word will be law, your position in society unassailable, and my cousin hortense in particular will come grovelling to you by to-morrow, afraid of what she thinks you may know of her. "come to me, child, and let me protect you once for all!" poppea dragged herself slowly to her feet until her face was on a level with his, her eyes still fastened upon him, but the dulness was gone, and they blazed with a wild fury akin to delirium, and the color in her cheeks outdid the rouge that had not been wiped away. "there is no one among them all to compare with you!" he whispered, his voice turning hoarse; so moved was he by her wistful beauty that it became a pain. she did not seem to hear the last words; her anger blazed out and cooled, and her motions were like those of a somnambulist. she put her hand to her head as though listening for something that she had forgotten but yet expected, but the knight of the grail and his music had deserted her. "yes, i will marry you," she said in steady, monotonous voice, wholly lacking in emotion. "come then, we will go in and announce it to our hostess before the trio may guess the good--that they have done," and he leaned forward to clasp her to him, but as she shrank back, one arm before her face, still as some one who walks in a dream and wards off danger, he merely drew her hand through his arm, still grasping it. "not to-night, to-morrow! please let me go home!" and at that moment a man-servant came up to say that miss felton's carriage and maid were waiting for miss gilbert. chapter xv night and morning the picture of the night was in three panels,--that of the morning in one. according to nora, mr. esterbrook had suffered a shock, that indefinite something that may mean so many things. he had been in the library and had evidently fallen in crossing the room. miss felton had found him and had sent for two or three doctors, who were now with him; she was terribly upset, and so the woman babbled on until the house was reached. three coupés were lined up before the door, and the house was lighted from top to bottom. poppea judged that the physicians were still in consultation. the cook opened the door, explaining that caleb was wanted upstairs, and that nora was to go at once to miss felton. on her way to her room poppea passed through the sitting room and tapped at miss emmy's door, which stood ajar, but there was no answer; the room was empty, so she continued on her way. turning up the light, she looked about the pretty bedroom, her eyes lingering on each article it contained. was it possible that only four hours had elapsed since she had left it? yes, the little dresden clock was tinkling twelve. flowers from a concert of two days before filled the jars on the mantel-shelf, then she remembered that all the tributes of that evening had been forgotten and left behind. philip had brought her a wicker basket of daffodils such as later in the season starred the bank garden below the parapet at home. she hoped that he would not know and be hurt; as for the rest, what did it matter? the night was warm, yet she closed the window, and crouching before the hearth, lit the symmetrical pile of small logs put there chiefly for ornament. stripping off her gay attire and dropping it in a heap on the floor of the dressing closet, she threw a wrapper about her and again kneeled before the fire, as though its upward motion was a spell against the loneliness of the room. as she looked at the curling flames, her eyes dilated, and a terror that was an absolute pain swept over her: a strain of music had penetrated the fog that enveloped her brain; it was the song of the knight--the knight of the grail. "oh, god, what have i done?" she whispered to the fire, "promised to marry bradish winslow, when i have vowed that i would never marry until _that_ is no longer a mystery. promised to marry him, not for love, but to trample on those who were trampling on me. it is true that when i am with him there is something that makes me wish to stay, but when i am alone, i want to keep away. there is no one to speak to, no one to ask; if only i could feel daddy's hand upon my hair to-night. ah, little mother, won't you ask god to help me in some way that i can feel and understand? to-morrow it will be too late!" clasping the locket to her breast, she crouched lower and lower until her face almost touched the fire guard. the wood snapped and a live coal fell upon the carpet. crushing it out with her slipper, her eye fell upon something white beside the hearthstone. picking it up she saw that it was hugh's weekly letter that she had read and laid by the clock and that a draught had wafted to her feet. holding it between her palms, she gradually grew calm, and as she looked at it the only recourse opened before her: she must write to winslow so that he would receive the letter when he awoke. going to the secretary with its litter of invitations and complimentary social notes, she swept them to the floor with a gesture half contempt and half full of the regret of renunciation. then having cleared the shelf, she began to write, slowly as a child pens its copy, giving each letter a separate stroke and weighing its value. she had need of this care, for before she had finished, the sheet was wet with tears. quarter of one, tittered the silly little clock. poppea knew that no mail would be taken from the pillar at the street corner before six, but it might be her only chance to get out unobserved. the lights in the extension, where mr. esterbrook's rooms were located, were burning brightly; now was her chance. slipping on a long ulster, she went down without meeting any one, threw off the night latch on the door, and closed it behind her. two of the cabs had gone, and the driver of the one remaining slept upon the box. it was but a step to the corner and back, the only live thing that she encountered being a long-bodied cat which seemed to separate itself from the shadow of one pair of steps only to be swallowed by another shadow farther on. gaining her room once more, she put out the light and threw herself upon the bed without undressing. in the room beyond, which was miss felton's, miss emmy was pacing to and fro. the consulting physicians had gone and their own family stand-by, dr. markam, was now coming from mr. esterbrook's quarters ushered by caleb, miss felton remaining behind. "tell me the best and worst," said miss emmy, following the doctor down to the sitting room. dr. markam looked at her keenly as if to gauge the quality of her emotion, then said tersely, "the best is that he may be quickly released by another stroke, the worst that he may live for years partly or wholly helpless and with clouded mental faculties. go up and try to persuade miss elizabeth that it is unnecessary for her to remain. she is not used to illness or misery. caleb will stay to-night, and the nurse that i shall send will be here by daylight," and after drinking the glass of wine that caleb offered him instinctively, he went out, thinking to himself how little his old friend esterbrook had, at the end of life, to show for the elaborate trouble of his living. thus bidden, miss emmy crept softly into the outer room of mr. esterbrook's suite, then, not finding elizabeth, she went through the dressing closet to the inner room where a night lamp burned with the pale rays of moonlight. on the bed in the corner she could see the outline of mr. esterbrook's form, still as though he no longer breathed. a second look revealed a stranger object. kneeling by the bed in the attitude of passionate despair, her face buried in the quilt, her hands clasping the rigid one, was miss elizabeth. miss emmy could not at once take in the details; her natural supposition was that her sister was ill or had fainted and slipped from the near-by arm-chair. going to her she touched her on the shoulder, and in a low tone gave the doctor's message about the nurse and the sufficiency of caleb for the night. suddenly miss felton turned, but without moving from her kneeling posture, and her sister started back, amazed at the entire change in her face. haggard and worn, furrowed under the eyes and pinched at the nostrils, it was a woman of seventy-five, not sixty-four, that looked up, while the carefully braided hair, always so exact a coronal to the unbending head, was loosened in a gray, dishevelled mass. again miss emmy tried to explain the doctor's words. pulling herself to her feet with difficulty, miss felton clutched her sister by one shoulder, almost screaming in her ear. "i will not go! i will not have a nurse! caleb will stay with us; caleb will be sufficient." then as miss emmy did not move or seem to understand, she shook her arm. "i am going to care for him now, because i love him, have always loved him, and you, or else your shadow, have always stood between. if he could have stepped out of it for a month, a week, he would have known. i thought once that you too loved him and you were my frail little sister, my charge, and so i repulsed him, suppressed my nature, and kept back. but you, you called him 'willy' and played kitten and knitting ball with him until you tired, until it was too late. now he will never know; but if he lives, and i can make him comfortable, he may perhaps realize the comfort, and through it that i love him. now go--and leave us together at last! and if the people talk, tell them that miss felton does not care!" shaken, nay, almost shattered, miss emmy dragged herself from the room, clinging from chair to table like a child who creeps. of all the possibilities of life, this that had happened seemed the most impossible. elizabeth, the emotionless woman of perfect balance and judgment! like a condemned criminal but half conscious of what he is accused, she groped her way along the hall. she must speak to some one, it seemed, or lose her mind. poppea had sent a message by nora that she must be called if needed. surely her need was great, so she opened the girl's door and listened before entering. "i am not asleep," said poppea from the white draped bed, and raising herself on her elbow, she lit the night lamp on the bed stand. "is he--is mr. esterbrook any worse? is he very sick?" "yes, but being sick is not the worst," and miss emmy told poppea briefly what her sister now seemed to glory in, willing that the whole world should know. clasping her arms about the fragile creature, scarcely more than a bundle of ribbon and lace, poppea held her close, crying, "poor aunty, dear aunt emmy, you are not blamable, neither did _you_ know." after a few minutes the girl's human sympathy relaxed the tension, and freeing herself, miss emmy sat down by the bed. "what is it, child? you are not yourself to-night, any more than i am. were you not well received? something has happened. what is it?" poppea shivered as she tried to frame a sentence that should be truthful and yet not reveal, then she said:-- "one day you said that i could not keep on for long singing as i had this winter 'because they will not let you.' every one was very kind, but afterward--it chanced to come to me that the women on whom i counted 'will not let me' continue, as you said, so i am going home, again--to-morrow." "that is not all, poppea." "that is all that i shall ever say," she answered with the fixed intent that always astonished those who for the first time realized her capacity for firmness. "you do not need; i understand. i, too, am going home to the hill, poppea, because they will not let me stay." "oh, aunty! aunty!" she cried, "lie down beside me. i'm afraid, afraid of i don't know what, as i used to be when i slept in the little hooded cradle and daddy came and put mack in beside me and sat and held my hand." then peace fell gently on miss emmy because this young creature needed her. * * * * * bradish winslow left the hooper's as soon after poppea as he might without having the two departures coupled. not for the first time in his life had he been repelled and enraged by the absolute lack of social sincerity on the part of the group of women who, in their day, were the cohesive element of society. yet he never realized the responsibility in the matter of men of his stamp who condone nearly everything in a woman so long as she is modish and amusing. lighting a cigar and leaving his top-coat open that he might feel the vigor of the night air, winslow strolled slowly from gramercy park westward to the loiterers' club. contrary to his usual gregarious habits, he made his way to one of the least brilliantly lighted retiring-rooms, and ordering some club soda and scotch, a kind of whiskey that was considered a marked eccentricity in the era of rye and bourbon, stretched himself on a sofa, hands behind head, and gave himself up wholly to steadying his nerves. an hour later he entered his own bachelor home, a substantial and conservative house in one of the wide streets that cross lower fifth avenue, a little north of washington square. the house was neither his birthplace nor the home of his childhood, but a legacy from a great-aunt, the last of the bradish name. it was twelve years since a woman other than a caretaker or housemaid had lived in it; the first six it had remained virtually closed, while during the second half of the period, winslow had developed the two first floors as suited the fancy of a man who entertained elegantly and conservatively, not choosing to establish a carousing bohemia at too close range. if he had some or any of the vices of his class and position, he chose to pursue them away from his normal surroundings and at his own pace, where at any moment he might either outdistance them or drop behind without clamor. hence the house, as he entered it with his latch-key, had the subdued and grave air of any family residence in the same quarter. turning out the lights in the lower rooms, he went to his personal suite on the second floor, lighted some gas-jets in the three rooms, rang for his man, and gave directions that he was to be wakened at half-past nine, breakfast in his room, and would under no consideration see any one before eleven o'clock. then as the valet, but half awake, stumbled out, steadying himself by the portières as he drew them to, winslow gave a sigh of relief, and flinging himself into a chair before the hearth, as poppea had done, he stirred the embers and kindled a fire that was not for warmth but like summoning a sympathetic yet reticent friend. winslow's feeling during the two hours since he had, as he considered, rushed to poppea's rescue was dual; he congratulated himself not a little that for once in his life he had let himself be swayed by a generous impulse and his own emotion. also his curiosity was very expectant as to the stir that would be made by the announcement of his engagement to poppea on the morrow and the consternation it would for various reasons cause. he could see the pallor come to the unprotected portion of his cousin hortense's cheeks as she wondered if "brad" would ever tell that baby-faced girl how desperately she had worked to enmesh him, and how deliberately and cleverly he had forced her to show a trumpless hand. then there were others, and the thoughts of them were here and there tinged with regret. he had never been unscrupulous in his pleasures; he had simply lived life to the full as he saw it. as he was in a somewhat exalted and generous mood, why do things by halves? going to a large mahogany secretary in the corner, he unlocked a deep drawer that was hidden by a panel and took therefrom several bundles of letters and some photographs; to these he added a picture from a silver frame on the mantle, of a very charming dark woman, well-groomed and poised, but with an air of not belonging exactly to his world. he held the bundle to his chest a moment as he stood looking into the fire; opening a pit in the middle of the molten coals, he cast the letters into it, not even glancing at the superscriptions, and only separating them sufficiently to be sure that they would ignite, sat and watched them until they were consumed. from their ashes came a more natural mood. the house was at best rather gloomy; how poppea's coming would brighten it, and her voice echo up and down those great rooms when she laughed; for he meant that she should laugh and have no time for tears. the idea was very soothing; he wondered why he had never seriously contemplated marrying before. jove! but she was beautiful and unusual; he would have a miniature painted of her in the green muslin with the poppies in her hair. then he would take her everywhere that people might envy him her loveliness. no, he would not! formulating the thought brought a sharp revulsion. he would take her abroad, away from the carpers and fawners alike, where they two should be alone; for, after all contributing motives, what he had said was true, he had loved poppea at first sight, and as far as the better side of his nature was concerned, he loved her finally. what a splendid ring he would buy her to-morrow, no to-day! a ruby held in a setting of poppy leaves to form the flower. ah! but she already held the spell of oblivion over him. he liked to feel this. of course they would be married in a month; there was no reason for delay. the old man gilbert? that was easily fixed: an annuity as a parting gift from poppea and some tears, of course. it would be strange if she did not show some feeling, and besides, ingratitude was one of the traits he most detested in a woman. so when winslow at last settled himself in his bed, severe almost as a hospital cot, that stood in an alcove curtained from the luxurious room to which it formed a sharp contrast, there was a smile on his lips, and closing his eyes, he brought his finger-tips together, touched them fervently, and flung a message into the dark. he well knew how to play the lover, but it was only this night that he realized what it was to be entirely in love with some one other than himself. * * * * * the morning, like the night, was mild, but with the chilly undercurrent suggestive of sudden rain that divides april from may. the city, always early to awake in some quarter, now wore its widespread spring alertness, and the venders of plants in a cheerful burst of bloom added their cries to the street sounds. looking toward the square for a sign of color in the tree-tops, poppea saw a jet of water rising from the fountain that filled the air with spray through which some birds were flitting. that the fountain was being set in order showed that the same spring impulse was moving the city wheels that sent all the little hillside springs rushing madly to swell the tide of moosatuck. how she hungered and thirsted for a sight of it! * * * * * at half-past nine, precisely to the moment, the time that he had been directed, winslow's valet came in, closed the windows, drew the curtains across the alcove, and after arranging the toilet articles in the ample bathroom, which was also used as a dressing-closet, went out until the bell should say that his master wished his breakfast. for accustomed to luxury as winslow was in externals, his primitive tastes were direct and simple and he detested the fuss and servility of bodily service. when in half an hour's time, clad in a comfortable bath-gown, he lounged into the library and rang for his coffee, picking up the letters that were neatly piled on the desk, so quickly does the mind of man travel to direct issues, that he was already considering the coming change of breakfasting in one of the smaller rooms below stairs, and picturing poppea, gowned in some filmy draperies, flitting in like one of the streaks of morning sunshine. as he glanced carelessly at the writing upon the various envelopes that he might receive a clew as to which, if any, were worth the trouble of opening on this particular morning, poppea's characters fixed his eye. it is true that he had previously received but two or three brief notes from her, acknowledging flowers or an invitation, but the writing, full of decision and so opposite from the girl's almost poetic appearance, was of the type that is called characteristic and became fixed in the memory. so she was moved to write immediately upon getting home, was his first thought; but instead of hastily tearing the note open, he turned it slowly and reflectively in one hand as he poured himself a cup of coffee, then drank it deliberately, and seated himself, before releasing the letter with a careful stroke of the paper-knife. he had vainly tried the whimsical experiment of judging of the contents by the sense of touch. everything about his connection with poppea had been unusual, hence its added piquancy. why should he not expect that its completion should be on the same plane? he almost dreaded the finding of a gushing and honeyed first love-letter of the newly engaged girl in her early twenties. he read the letter through, then rubbed his eyes, turned the paper to the light, and read anew. in it was expressed gratitude to him coupled with self-reproach for allowing a bitter hurt to be revenged even in thought by the idea of marriage. there was a request for forgiveness, not for the retracting of a promise so much as for the sense of injury that had made the promise possible, and then the final statement that she would never take another's name until she had one of her own to yield. piteous as was her agony of mind expressed, not so much in the words used as in their haste and almost incoherence, winslow felt forcibly that the nature that lay beneath had its depths and measures of pride that his world could not fathom, because it was based upon a frankness, a fundamental _noblesse oblige_, that could neither be denied or argued away. a princess poppea was, though wandering from her kingdom. one thing was evident through it all. she had been doubtless attracted to him in a way, but she did not love him; her suffering, therefore, was complicated, but not keenly direct, as more and more every moment he felt his disappointment to be. also the wind was taken out of any fanciful balloon of his self-sacrifice, and it fell collapsed. no, she did not love him,--"by god, but she shall!" he cried, bringing his clenched hand down on the stand with a fervor that dashed the delicate porcelain cup and saucer to the floor in shivering fragments. "life's been getting a sleepy nuisance these two years. what better to wake me up than to track her origin and find her name? time, money, and grip i've got, if luck will only come in and take the fourth hand! "what a conquest to remove her fantastic fortress and make her desire my love at one bound!" this was the second time that a man had made this wish; a different man pitched in a different key. this man, like the other, having made a resolution, went on his accustomed way, which in winslow's case was to dress with unusual care, a dark red carnation, the prevailing flower for morning wear, in his buttonhole. his business affairs calling him down town but three days a week, he took a leisurely morning walk to the club, where he read the papers and listened to other news that would never appear in print. on some one's remarking upon the success that miss gilbert had achieved the previous night, that she had left early on account of mr. esterbrook's sudden illness before all the deserved congratulations had reached her, and that those who knew her best said that not less than two men of wealth were ready to back her for the study necessary to an operatic career, winslow merely looked up, apparently only mildly interested, and observed in neutral tones:-- "her voice has operatic capacity doubtless, but i should judge she lacked the physique. by the way, what is the news of poor old esterbrook? a nice outlook ahead of us who grow old as bachelor dandies, i must say." but what he _thought_ was, "the cats have begun to weave their cradle for poppea's undoing, and when they find she has gone, they will lay it to their strategy. damn them!" chapter xvi out of the ashes poppea's chief wonder on her return home was in finding everything precisely as she had left it. a single winter does not witness a very great change in place or people, but to poppea, so much having been crowded into those few months, it seemed as though the children of the village should have become men and women in her absence. by the first of may, miss emmy had returned to quality hill. miss felton had decided to remain with mr. esterbrook in the madison square house for the present, the outlook being pleasant, though the nearness of the doctor was her first thought. as for mr. esterbrook himself, he had rallied sufficiently to be put in a wheel-chair. his right side was paralyzed and his speech as yet well-nigh unintelligible, so that his wants were filled mainly by the intuition of miss elizabeth and caleb. in spite of his absence of the previous summer and a report that it was to be repeated, john angus had returned to harley's mills rather earlier than usual, and stephen latimer, the only one of the people who had received more than a casual greeting, said that he was looking ill, and that he had virtually confessed to latimer that the winter had been a hard one to him, this being the first time that he had ever mentioned his health. the new venture at the mills was beginning to see daylight, for hugh oldys's inexperience was offset by the loyalty of the men who surrounded him. there was much also in connection with the growing plant that interested hugh in an altruistic way, and already, in cooperation with stephen latimer, he was establishing relations with his employees and their families entirely different from those obtaining in the near-by new england factory towns. it was poppea who felt herself the odd number. within the limits of a certain suppression of force, she had always seemed content, and her quiet, well-directed energy had been the reverse of the restlessness that now possessed her. she worked at everything with a feverish intensity wholly new and very disturbing to oliver gilbert, whose daily life had been unconsciously regulated by her impulse. poppea not only took charge of the making-up and sorting of the two heaviest mails of the day, but had undertaken a new and gratuitous task,--the writing of letters to the old country for those who either could not write at all or could only pen their names and had no way of pouring out their feelings to those they had left behind. in addition, she had announced her intention of doing all the housework herself when satira potts should leave, for although mrs. shandy had returned in april from her visit home, hugh oldys's need of a housekeeper had taken her from the field. jeanne latimer, who had been appealed to both by satira potts and miss emmy as the one most likely to convince poppea of the foolishness of such a course, ended by indorsing the girl's resolution, for she felt the growing tension that the others did not notice, and knew well, from her own temperament, that only what sometimes would appear to be foolish activity keeps the nerves elastic and from snapping. one day, in talking to hugh oldys about the life in the city, when he had expressed, as far as he ever allowed himself to, the feeling of being out of the midst of things after having once broken his way in, he turned the matter quickly by saying to poppea:-- "and you, how did you like the new york life? i do not mean the outside things, the theatre, music, galleries, and shops, but the inner life that you led of yourself?" as he spoke they were walking down the road from quality hill toward the village and the afternoon sun was sifting through the hilltops that gradually increased in height as moosatuck disappeared among them,--a slender, silvery thread unravelling toward its source. for a moment the girl stood looking afar off to where one hill, called the mountain by the local youths who climbed it, arose above all the others; presently she said, speaking as of a state of existence where in passing through she had lost something of herself:-- "the life, the real life there in the city? oh, hugh! at first it seemed like being on the mountain where everything is spread before one. you are very lonely, to be sure, but still, somebody, and then suddenly you find that you are nothing at all but the wind among the grass that falls away as night comes!" and reading from what she did not say rather than from what she did, hugh sighed and then quickened their pace, wondering what would be the end of it all for both of them. that night, or rather morning, the fire signal was given by one of the factories on the westboro road, to be repeated the next moment by the whistle of the owl express due to pass at three, and which halted presently, tolling its bell dismally. instantly the male portion of the village was in its boots and trousers and running toward the red light at the north horizon. this was soon found to come from the railroad station at harley's mills. 'lisha potts, who had arrived at the post-office house with his team the previous evening to take his wife home the next day, was among the first to reach the building which had been set on fire at one end of the roof, presumably by a passing train. breaking into the ticket-office to haul out a small safe, and such express packages as had not been delivered, was the work of a few moments, while some energetic villagers, with more vigor than discretion, rushed into the attic and threw from the dormers a lot of old lanterns, boxes, broken bits of furniture, and like rubbish already partly on fire, that had been accumulating there ever since the station was built and antedating the checking system. the lanterns, of course, were shivered to atoms in transit, while the other smouldering stuff was promptly seized by the crowd below and dumped into the little brook that ran along the north side of the track. after these efforts, no attempt was made to save the building, for there was no water-supply, or fire company other than a bucket-brigade, which was ineffectual against the keen spring wind that was scattering the brands over the thirsty old shingles. the burning station furnished an hour's spectacle both for the villagers and the passengers on the owl express which, being on the near track, had to wait; then shrivelled into a cellar full of ashes crossed by a few charred beams, the fire of which was soon changed to harmless smoke by the efforts of the bucket-brigade. the express ceased its tooting, gave one long and two short whistles, and proceeded on its way; while after the safe and miscellaneous contents of the express office had been transferred to the freight-house, the throng turned homeward to snatch a little sleep in the couple of hours that remained before the working day began. 'lisha potts was so thoroughly awake that it did not seem to him worth while to go to bed again, especially as he wished to make an early start for home. satira, having also been to the fire, was in a bustling mood, so she prepared some of her famous coffee, and the pair sat down to a four o'clock pick-up breakfast in the kitchen of the post-office house, with many cautions of silence interspersed with little jokes and much chuckling that belonged to a young couple on the verge of eloping rather than to people of sedate years who were about to take up housekeeping once more after a winter of partial separation. presently 'lisha stood in the doorway facing the east, watching the sky redden until the climax was reached in the coming up of the sun over moosatuck, while the swifts wheeling in and out of the stone chimney behind him were making mimic thunder. he was undecided whether to begin at once the grooming of his horses or take a stroll along the lane that indirectly joined the two main roads and get a sniff of the mist-laden morning air so necessary to those whose life has been of the open. choosing the latter, he had gone but a dozen rods when he met the station-master, who had come across lots with the direct intention of hunting him out. it seemed that the mass of smouldering débris cast from the attic into the brook had bunched together and formed an impromptu dam, to the extent that the little stream, unusually lusty from the spring rains, had been diverted from its course to the switch track, where it was now busily washing the ballast from between the ties. the station-master's errand was to see if 'lisha would hook up and cart the stuff about half a mile farther down the road to where a bottomless bog-hole conveniently consumed the refuse of the community. armed with a potato-digger by way of a weapon, 'lisha was soon loading the sodden stuff into his long wagon, which he chanced to be driving the night before, when he had come direct from the lumber camp to the post-office house. "do you reckon there's any of this old stuff that's any good to dry out?" he asked the station-master, who was standing on the switch track on the lookout for the milk train. "nope; there's no company property amongst it, only a lot of odds and ends that's been up there since old binks's day, and his widder didn't see value in to move. that little cow-skin trunk i've never seen before; it must have lain away in the dark pit behind the chimney; it might have been a sort of a curiosity if it hadn't been scorched and bulged, but as it is, better dump the whole lot and done with it." not until 'lisha was unloading the steaming and ill-smelling mass did the box in question excite his curiosity; then dropping it to the grass, he finished his task and swept out his wagon before waiting to examine the trunk. the lock had been broken and rusted away, the strap also had disintegrated, so that all that held it together was a loop of wire. jerking the top up disclosed a mass of smoking rags and a few bundles of scorched papers. the smell of the burned hide with which it was still partly covered nearly choked 'lisha as he stooped to finger the contents. he was about to gather the things together and give the trunk a mighty toss into the swamp, when a bundle of yellow papers, swelled by the dampness and heat, squirmed and fell apart, leaving a long envelope, in fairly good condition, lying face upward. it was merely the sudden movement of the papers that drew the man's eye toward them, but he quickly went nearer for a second look, then seized upon the letter with hands that shook so that the characters danced about like will-o'-the-wisps before him. yes, the address was plain enough, a well-known name, written in a delicate, pointed hand; the sight of it made his heart beat like a nervous woman's. turning the letter, he saw that the large seal on it had never been broken. carefully wiping it on his coat, 'lisha put it in his pocket and began to stir the other papers, but very carefully, for the heat and moisture made it very easy for a careless motion to turn the bundles into pulp. "to whomsoever's hands these papers may fall," was written across the wrapper of the most considerable package, while even as 'lisha read it moisture altered the writing so that its identity vanished in a blurred streak. quickly realizing that unless the papers were carefully dried and separated their purport would be lost, he tipped the water from the trunk and closed the lid, saying apparently to toby the near horse, after the fashion of a woodsman who talks to his animals:-- "there's suthin queer about this trunk, but as i be the hands the papers have fallen into, i reckon i'll look into them." then, as an impetus akin to an electric spark touched the mists of conjecture that were gathering in his roomy if not systematically ordered brain, he jumped fairly off the ground, shouting:-- "great snakes! suppos'n' these here have something to do with the lady baby! maybe the box was meant to come along with her; those rags there look as if they was once baby clothes. but how did them villains that left her get her switched off from her goods, and why ain't the letter 'dressed to oliver gilbert instead of to--my lord! but this here's a dilemma with three horns, not the two-horned, ornery kind. "if i take 'em to satiry, she'll be so fussed up she'll worry 'em to bits before read; if oliver gilbert or poppy gets 'em and i'm on the wrong track, as i've nothing yet but instinct to prove that i ain't, it'll pull her heart out with disappointment or maybe give him a stroke, for strokes comes frequent to folks turned of seventy. if a thing's so red-hot you can't handle it, there's folks that by nature's meant to do it for you, and them's the doctor, the lawyer, and the parson. i reckon in this case the parson's the best, 'cause if the lord has let down a bit of his wisdom, discretion, and loving-kindness in a sheet by four corners in this neighborhood, it's fell on stephen latimer. "i'll just clip over there by the back way and leave the box and home again before a soul's awake to spy and whisper; hey, toby 'n bill?" and the horses, accustomed to respond to his cheerful address and being keen for breakfast, replied by a doubly shrill whinny. it was past six o'clock when 'lisha drove into the yard of the rectory. latimer had but then returned from the cottage colony at the mills, where he had given courage to a young mother on the road of shadows that seemed doubly lonely in that she would leave her new-born son behind. latimer wore the look of having himself walked in the beyond at day dawn, and rough 'lisha, no less than jeanne, was struck by the illumination of his face. at 'lisha's whispered surmises concerning the contents of the trunk, he showed no surprise, but the rapt intensity that surrounded him increased. "take it to my study," was all he said; and when jeanne came in a few minutes later, attracted by the sound of voices, 'lisha had gone, and her husband sat looking at the object on the floor, his hands clasped as though he prayed. he read the question in her face, all the more beautiful to him that the love and care of others had left their life-lines on the cheeks that were once as round and dimpled as a baby's. telling the bare facts, he added: "something was struggling to make known that this was coming, for all last night the face of the new-born babe i christened was poppea's and the other face that of her mother. the day will come, jeanne, when there will no longer be anything unnatural about the happenings that we call visions and miracles, because the knowledge will have come to us to understand them." then after breakfasting together in the sweet spring morning, in quiet confidence, only separated in degree from the other couple who ate at the post-office house before the dawn, stephen latimer lay down to take some open-eyed rest before examining the trunk. when he began the work, he cautioned jeanne to refuse him absolutely to all callers. then, provided with blotters, a thin paper-knife, and warm irons, he spread a sheet upon the study floor and raised the water-soaked lid. all through the morning he worked, separating and drying. at noon, when jeanne opened the door, he did not turn his head, and setting the tray of luncheon where he could see it, she closed the door again without speaking. when supper-time came and she again entered, the papers were arranged upon his desk in tidy piles, and he was reading. he stretched his hand out for the cup of tea she held and still kept at his task. it was after eight o'clock when he called her, and white and exhausted as he looked, she saw at once that he had reached some definite conclusion. begging him to take at least a bowl of soup, he assented, and then drew her to him on the seat before the open window. holding her hand as if the tender grasp of it would focus and harmonize his thoughts, he sat a moment silent, as though he had lost the gift of words. "was poppea's secret hid among those papers?" jeanne finally asked, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer. "and if it was, do tell me quickly and simply who she is, and then the why of it after. you don't realize, stevie, what the strain of this long day has been upon a woman." "it can be told quickly, but for the rest it's not a simple matter," replied stephen, trying with his tired brain to sort his ideas and put them in sequence. "the papers in this trunk are various family letters, the certificate of poppea's birth and baptism and some of her mother's diaries--" "yes, yes! but _who_ was her mother?" cried jeanne, the uncontrollable impetuosity of youth returning to her, so that she rose to a kneeling position on the window-seat and almost shook her husband, so vigorously did she grasp his shoulder. "helen dudleigh, john angus's first wife; she whom gilbert calls 'the little roseleaf.'" "helen dudleigh!" jeanne repeated in an indrawn voice. "then poppea can have no legal father, because john angus's first wife merely left him and there was never a divorce. perhaps this was the reason for her going, you know none was ever given; but no one ever dreamed that any fault lay with her." "yes, it was the reason of her going, yet no one need ever dream of legal wrong, for john angus himself is poppea's father." jeanne fell back, and then, after searching her husband's face and reading there that he was speaking the unmetaphorical truth, she drew a low chair to where she might continue to look at him and whispered:-- "go on!" "there is much detail among those papers that belongs to poppea alone, but this is the brief story that i have drawn from them. "over thirty years ago, john angus was travelling on the continent when, at the same hotel where he was stopping, he met an english artist, walter dudleigh, who was staying there, both on account of his health, and because his young daughter helen was studying singing. "dudleigh was a widower of good birth but of frail health and uncertain means. that angus was at once struck by the girl's delicate beauty--she was then only eighteen--some of these letters prove, and after hearing her sing at a fête of flowers given by the conservatory, in which she took the part of a poppy, he proposed to her, or rather to her father for her. the artist, knowing that he had only a short life before him and no one with whom to leave his child, urged on the match, and as a wedding gift to his son-in-law, painted a miniature of helen as she had appeared at the fête with the poppies in her hair, having the fanciful name of poppea engraved in the locket with the date. "this is, of course, the miniature that hung about poppea's neck when she was found. "dudleigh died of hemorrhage of the lungs almost before the honeymoon was over, leaving the girl an unexpected two thousand pounds that came from her mother, and angus soon after returned to this country with his girl wife. "from the first she seems to have had a hard time of it. an emotional child with an artistic temperament, thrown not only among strange people and customs, but married to a man who always commanded and never explained, and who considered that implicit affection, if it might be so called, was her legal duty, a sort of commercial article that he had bought, and nothing to be either won or kept by consideration or tenderness. she, chilled and lonely, evidently did not make the marked social success he desired, and his constant reproach was that she bore him no children, for john angus seems to have had an exaggerated idea of the political importance of founding a family, so often held by those of no especial ancestry. "ten years wore away, and helen angus, still under thirty, had faded to the timorous, trembling shadow that we knew, when one summer, the love of youth and life taking a final flicker, in john angus's absence she came out of her seclusion and took part in some of the feltons' entertainments, and renewed her habit of going to church, which had dropped away. at this time it chanced that mr. esterbrook's nephew, a young army officer, met her, danced with her, and showed her some courtesies, but no more than any woman might receive. nevertheless, on his return, angus upbraided her for going out, and upon her maintaining her own defence for the first time in many years, he struck her furiously and left the house, not returning for more than a week. "during this period of outraged feeling and humiliation, she discovered that at last a child was to be born to her, and resolving that john angus should not have it in his power to torture another human being as he had herself, she determined to go away, leaving a letter saying that the price of her silence concerning his treatment culminating in the blow was that he should not try to find her. public censure on his private conduct was not what was desired by angus in his prayer-meeting and political purity pose, so he seems to have heeded her request. "helen angus went directly to the little village in hampshire on the isle of wight where she had spent her childhood and sought out betty randal, a woman of fifty, who had also been her nurse and managed their little household prior to her father's going abroad. with betty she arranged not only to care for her during the coming crisis, but if a daughter should be born, to keep her as long as her little sum of money lasted and to teach her to earn her living and thus make it possible for her to be free from her father if she so desired on learning her mother's story. "a girl was born and duly baptized helen dudleigh, by the rector of st. boniface's near bonchurch, and the mother, worn out by contending emotions more than disease, lived to see her daughter three months old, and then was laid away, according to a death notice in a hampshire paper. this notice was in an envelope lettered by an illiterate hand and is dated two weeks after the last record in helen angus's diary. that she knew that she could not live is certain, for all the written evidence was carefully prepared and the writing is decipherable in spite of time and the blur of moisture. "one package contains helen angus's marriage certificate and the certificate of poppea's birth and baptism; another her diaries and some letters marked, 'not to be read by my daughter until she is either eighteen or forced to return to her father.' and then a single thick letter (the one that had attracted 'lisha potts), sealed and addressed to john angus, and underneath in brackets the words, 'to be delivered in case he should dispute my daughter's paternity.'" as latimer paused to wipe away the drops of sweat that stood upon his forehead, he laid the letter on the table beside his wife and both looked at the yellow paper and blurred writing with a feeling of awe at the living evidence of the poor little roseleaf, wife who, beneath their very eyes, had suffered so much in silence and then as silently gone away to die. hot tears trickled between the fingers that jeanne held before her face, but after the relief they brought, questions again formed themselves. "but how did the child come here so soon and why was she left at oliver gilbert's instead of the angus house?" asked jeanne, "and how could the little trunk have been hidden away so long?" "the last question might be easily answered," said stephen. "it was left in the height of the excited war times when the checking of baggage was not as rigid as it is now. in fact, merely the name of the village may have been on the box, which was put aside until called for and presently forgotten." "as to how poppea came here, was separated from her possessions, and left at the wrong door, there we have another and unsolved mystery that must be learned from the man who left her, the man with the scar on his hand." "was it the wrong door after all, stephen? has she not been protected and loved as her mother would have wished until she knows what love is, even if she has suffered in a lesser way?" "yes, jeanne, in one way; but do you realize, at the same time, in what a light she has learned to regard her father, and that a knowledge of his unrelenting spite is almost a part of her being? in all this is her mother justified, but how inextricably it complicates the future and its relations to every one concerned." "how and when shall you tell her, stephen? to-night?" "no, i am much too worn. i will write her a brief note at once, saying that papers have come to me concerning the identity of her parents, and asking her to come here at once. she will get the note in the morning mail and be able to accustom herself to the contents without the effort of speech." "why do you not go to her?" "because poppea will need to be alone with her mother's papers for a space. it would be too trying if she should hear it first amid the confusion at the office or in the company of any one, even of oliver gilbert." "is it not strange, stephen, that 'lisha potts, who was the first to open the door that night, should have been the one to bring this all about?" "yes, jeanne, more than strange; we seem to be floating in mystery. no, i cannot sleep yet; i must let the organ speak to me. come into the church for a little while, dearest, and sit beside me while i play." chapter xvii daddy! early in the afternoon of the day after the fire, as stephen latimer sat writing in his study, a shadow that did not shift fell across his paper. glancing up, he saw poppea, who, coming in the door behind, stood looking at him as intently as though she would force him to yield up his thoughts without the medium of words. latimer, who knew that it would be a trying interview, sought vainly to gauge her mood by the expression of her face. when he thought, by the wistful lines of the mouth, that tenderness was uppermost, the calm and searching look from her eyes revealed indomitable pride, the trait of her later development. "will you stay here?" he said, trying to gain time and turning jeanne's special low chair with its back to the bright light, "or would you rather go down into the sitting room?" "here, if you please," she replied, yet making no move toward the chair. then, as he sat fumbling with the papers, she took two or three steps forward so that she could steady herself by resting her hands on the table. "please do not try to be ceremoniously polite, nor look away from me. i know that you have something to tell me that you think i shall not like to hear, perhaps cannot bear. be it so, but remember you are making it less hard by telling me yourself. now you must speak at once, for i think if this uncertainty lasts another hour, my heart will stop through dread." latimer stood up and faced her, moistening his lips the while, as if trying to grip his words. "it is mainly good news, not bad, dear child," he said at last. "it is the uncertainty of how best to begin coupled with fatigue of nerves that makes me hesitate. perhaps you would better read the papers first"--pointing to the packages on the table. "where did you get them?" latimer told her as briefly as might be. "no, i cannot read them until i _know_; the printed words would prolong that,--my brain is already on fire, i think. if i question, will you answer, mr. latimer?" "yes," and he pointed once more to the chair, feeling that he himself had not strength to stand. poppea, always alert to the needs of others, realized this and seated herself, grasping the arms of the chair with a tension that made the blood settle about her finger nails. "you know who my parents are?" "yes." "were they married?" "yes." "are they living?" "your mother is not." "i think that i knew that; _she_ would not have left me on a doorstep. is the miniature in the locket my mother's portrait?" "your mother at nineteen." "ah, then, at least, i need not give up that idea! i have been telling her so many things these last years that i could not let her cast me off, and i could not leave her," poppea murmured, looking over latimer's head out through the open door. "would you not better read these papers now?" latimer almost pleaded. he had been at many death-beds, and had once walked beside a murderer to the gallows without flinching, exalted by his calling, and able to impart his confidence to others; now not only were his sympathies worked to their highest pitch, but there was a complicated moral aspect about the case that might at any moment be turned at him in a way to render him speechless. "only one more question before i touch the papers," and poppea crossed the room and again stood by the table facing the clergyman. "_who_ was my mother?" now that the moment had come, latimer's perturbation vanished, and rising and resting his hands also upon the table, he faced her, holding her eyes by the firmness of his own. "your mother was helen dudleigh, the first wife of john angus." for a moment poppea did not speak; she was communing with memory; when she did, the voice was but an echo of her own. "helen angus, the roseleaf wife that daddy has often told me about, who went away alone and died far off; who stopped to speak to him at the shop and have her watch fixed when she was leaving. i wonder if daddy has not dreamed of this, for he has told me of her over and over again." then poppea's wistful expression changed to one of new uncertainty. "but how can that be, mr. latimer? the roseleaf wife never was divorced from john angus, daddy says, and so she could not have been married to my father. was he mistaken, or are you?" "neither of us, my child; do you not understand?" putting one hand to her forehead, she thought with knitted brows, then gave a sharp cry and started back. "you don't mean--you can't mean me to think that john angus is my father! no, god couldn't be so cruel to daddy and to me. anything, any one but that man! i would rather have never known at all or have had my mother alone and closed my eyes to all the rest." "think what you say, poppea!" "it is because i am thinking that i say it; i would rather for myself alone have been born outside of what is called wedlock; it would have been more natural and less horrible!" "but it is not for yourself alone, remember that. if the end lay with ourselves and we could bear all the penalty, there would be many a law that every one of us in our time would push aside or shatter. but we are of the race on whom the charge is laid, _thou shalt not!_ and when we throw it off, the next in line, who has not felt the pressure of our motive, bears the penalty." "i am the next and the end, and if i had to suffer, it would be alone." "read, little one; read the papers and think awhile in quiet. then sleep on it; to-morrow you may feel differently." "to-morrow? there is no to-morrow to hate. you yourself told me years ago that love is the only thing that owns to-morrow." for a moment latimer winced, but only for a moment. "yes, and love will make the to-morrow yours, the love of your brother philip!" "philip--he? philip, my brother! oh, god, have mercy and forgive me. i had not thought of him," and poppea crouched by the table, burying her face in her hands. quietly and firmly stephen latimer raised her. leading her to his chair, he pointed again to the papers; then, saying, "jeanne and i will be in the room below; if you wish either of us, knock on the floor," he left the room, closing the door behind him. at intervals during the afternoon there was a sound of rapid footsteps overhead, as though poppea was pacing the floor, but all else was silent. it was almost supper-time when they heard steps upon the stairs, and poppea came slowly into the sitting room, the papers gathered into a bundle in her arms. jeanne went to her, clasped her arms about her neck and kissed her; she then slipped out, saying she would hurry tea and that poppea must stay to take the meal with them. when poppea, having wrapped her bundle in the light shawl she had brought, came toward him, latimer was again surprised at the change in her whole bearing. passion and tension had alike disappeared from her face, and though she was pale and her eyelids showed traces of tears, the eyes were clear and calm. when she spoke, there was no uncertainty or vacillation in her tone, but a quiet resolve that seemed as though it should have come through the experience and self-control of years instead of a single afternoon. "jeanne is very good, but i think i would best go home now; there are several things that i must do to-night." "what are they, poppea? i should think that you would need to rest first of all. stay with us now, and after supper we will walk home with you." "if you will do that, i will wait, for then you will stop and tell it all to daddy while i do--the other thing. oh nothing, nothing you could do would help more than telling daddy, mr. latimer, for i think it will be easier for him as it was for me to hear it from you. i only wish this had not happened while he is here, now he _must_ know; yet after all, what he _thinks_ will be the only difference it can make." "what is the other thing, my child, that you must do to-night?" latimer persisted. "go up to see john angus and show him these," and from her loose blouse she pulled three papers, the certificate of her birth, baptism, and the sealed letter. "but, poppea, you must not do this yourself; suppose he will not listen, does not believe, or, possibly, in his bewilderment, should say something hard for you to bear and impossible for you to forget." "he has already done that more than once." "be reasonable, my child; this is a matter for a lawyer, who will take the case from its legal aspect only and see to it that your claims are publicly maintained." "my mother did not have a lawyer when she went away; she made no public claims, neither shall i." "then let me go to angus as your friend, or else hugh oldys, who would be both friend and lawyer; you cannot possibly realize the position in which you may place yourself or, for that matter, place us all, through your suffering." "i do not mean to be wilful, but this that i must do to-night and what i have to ask concerns only we three,--my mother, philip, and myself,--so i must go alone; a half hour will be more than enough, and there will be no trouble. will you not also tell miss emmy and hugh? he has tried so hard in every way to find out what this fire has made known, purely for my sake, because he knew how much it meant to me, not that he cared. i want him to know before any one else but daddy, and i hope--i pray that he will be _very_ glad," and a look crossed poppea's face that she did not know was there, but latimer saw it, and his heart sank as he replied:-- "in these dark days hugh oldys keeps both joy (of which he has little) and sorrow to himself, as if the sharing of either might divert him from his fixed purpose concerning his mother." then stephen latimer ceased urging and they went to the supper table, all three creating talk merely to avoid the strain of silence. it was a little past eight o'clock, the hour for closing, when poppea and stephen latimer reached the post-office; the only light other than from the street lantern came from oliver gilbert's workshop. going softly to the farther window, poppea looked in, beckoning latimer to follow her. gilbert sat at his desk, with all his little relics spread before him, the daguerreotype of mary, a little black paper profile of marygold, the shoes poppea had first worn, and various photographs of her, from one taken at the county fair in company with hugh oldys, to the rather dramatic picture by sarony in her first concert gown. then putting these back into their drawer, he drew out the old ledger, read his lincoln letters through, touching them lovingly. after putting these also away, he crossed the room to the work bench, lighted both lamps, and, in spite of the sultriness of the evening, began to work, now and then glancing first at the clock and then at the door, with a sigh. "i wonder of what he is thinking," said poppea. "please go in, mr. latimer, and tell him that i am coming very soon. if i should go to him now, even for a minute, i should stay and these papers would be burned," and poppea pressed her hand to her bosom as if to brace herself by the knowledge of what she carried. "no, do not come with me, it is only a step up the hill and the moon is rising." so saying, poppea turned the corner of the post-office and went up the hill road. when she reached the massive gate, she paused before she laid her hand upon the latch, which, in all these years of proximity, she had never before touched. it yielded easily, and she found herself walking toward the house, guided on her way by the long beds of heavily scented hyacinth and narcissus that outlined the path. a bronze lamp hung in the porch, the front door stood partly open, and poppea could see lights in the long hall beyond. she was surprised at her own calmness. when she pulled the bell that jangled sharply through the great rooms, she felt no less at ease than if she had rung at the feltons' door. the butler, who answered the summons, was the one to evince surprise, or perhaps dismay is the apter term, for the feud as it was regarded between the great house and the post-office was well known below stairs, and of course mightily exaggerated in its details. poppea said very quietly, "please ask if mr. john angus can see miss gilbert on business." the butler, however, wishing to take no risks, motioned poppea to follow him, and throwing open the door of one of the rooms on the left of the long hall, announced in ringing tones, "miss gilbert to see mr. angus on business!" then promptly disappeared down the corridor only to slip back into the adjoining room where he could be a party to what was, to his mind, an occasion where anything including murder might happen. as poppea advanced into the room which was john angus's library, he arose slowly from one of the deep chairs in which he had been half dozing, half reading. for a minute she thought that he had not heard her name. john angus, whatever his feelings might be, always kept up at least the external traditions of courtesy in the ceremonious rooms of his own house. coming forward, but without asking her to be seated, in coldly civil tones he asked her what he could do for her, at the same time trying to gain an advantage by guessing her errand. had she, possibly, laid to him the scheme of consolidating the two post-offices under a new name? was she come to either beg or offer quarter in the shape of the original bit of land he coveted? or, the feeling of apprehension that had come over him the night that he had seen her personate sylvaine returned with redoubled force, but he pushed it aside as being too improbable. seeing that she was looking at him fixedly and did not reply, he repeated the question, motioning carelessly to a chair as he did so. poppea remained standing, and drawing two of the papers from her dress, she held them towards him, saying, "read those." there was no insolence in her words or manner, but there was that quality in her that precluded any idea of refusal. without even feeling surprised, he took the papers and carrying them to his reading lamp, unfolded them deliberately. the minutes passed slowly; when perhaps five had elapsed, he turned an ashy face toward poppea, and asked curtly:-- "where did you obtain these papers, and how long have you had them?" poppea answered with equal brevity, then there was another pause. "have you any other proof of this claim that you are making?" angus asked, his hand shaking so that he laid the papers on the table with difficulty. "i am making no claim for myself; i am merely acting for my mother," she replied, never taking her eyes from his face. "as to further proof, i have this letter that my mother left for you, should you raise the question." angus took the letter in his hand, saw the address in the characteristic writing of his first wife, and the words below in the corner. crushing the envelope in an effort not to drop it, he said quickly:-- "i did not say that i disputed your claim to be the daughter of helen dudleigh, for you resemble her very closely, now that i see you for the first time face to face." "ah! you see it then; was that why you left the room so suddenly the night that i sang in the dress of the miniature?" "yes, it was," replied angus, amazed at his direct answer, yet unable to hold it back. "if it is not that but the other part that is in dispute, then you _must_ read the letter!" john angus looked at her, then at the envelope, an angry flash in his eyes, the color surging back to his face until it was suffused with a deep, veiny red. "and if i do not choose to read it? if i prefer to set a match to it, instead of troubling myself with what might be the clever scheme of an--" here angus paused as though he were conscious of being swept farther than he cared or dared to go. "adventuress," said poppea, "the same name that you gave me a year ago in your complaint to the government about the post-office." angus's eyes dropped before the unexpected accusation, and poppea continued:-- "you are perfectly at liberty to burn the letter, but you will not until you have read it, because you are more anxious to know its contents than to justify my mother or me." it is always the unexpected that subdues a man of john angus's fibre, who lives by carefully made and guarded plans and prides himself on the fact of never changing his mind, and poppea's quiet persistence, void of either impertinence, threat, or beseeching, was the last thing he had ever dreamed of encountering. slowly he broke open the seal and envelope, having some difficulty in unfolding the single sheet that it contained, as the moistened ink had become sticky and in drying had left an offset that made the letter difficult to decipher. as he read he turned toward the light and poppea could not see his face, but after he had refolded the paper and put it in his pocket, he continued sitting in the same position until, the silence becoming more than she could bear, she closed her eyes and tried to call up the picture of daddy poring over his little relics at his desk in the shop, to give her relief. when a slight noise caused her to open them, angus was standing before her, his breath coming spasmodically, the drawn look having again driven the color from his face. "what do you wish?" he asked abruptly. poppea knew then that a more complete verbal explanation was unnecessary. in that brief sentence and its intonation lay the acknowledgment that she sought, while, at the same time, her comprehension of his moods, in spite of her dislike of the man, proved the bond of fundamental relationship. "what do you wish?" he repeated. "that you shall tell philip what i _am_ as decidedly as you once told him--what i was _not_." if it had been possible for angus to be abashed, one might have said that he was so now. in the suddenness of it all this phase had not occurred to him, but his dominant will soon overcame what he put down to the momentary physical weakness that had overcome him many times during the past year, and he said, with his old air of conferring a favor:-- "i will explain to my son to-morrow. i mean when do you wish to come--" (he was about to say home, and then the hollowness of the term even to his comprehension changed the words) "up here to live?" ignoring the second part of the sentence wholly, poppea repeated:-- "philip must know now, to-night. suppose for one of the three to-morrow should not come? i hear him on the stairs. will you not call him in?" there was something in poppea's suppressed passion that froze john angus and caused his faculties to work more slowly than their wont. as he hesitated, trying to frame some moderate and dignified phrase, poppea, unable to stand the strain of being alone with him any longer, finding her self-control vanishing and rash words pressing at her very lips, called:-- "philip, philip, come here to the library--it is i--poppea!" the slow steps quickened at the unexpected cry, and pushing the door open so vigorously that it crashed back against a piece of furniture, philip came in--glanced at poppea and his father both standing--remembered the latter's fury on the day that he had broken the plaster bust. straightway going to poppea, he threw one arm about her, and then turning, said:-- "what are you saying to her, father? why did she call me as if she were afraid?" with the air of one to whom philip's coming was at precisely the desired moment, angus replied, "she called you that i might tell you that she is your half-sister, philip; the daughter of my first wife." all at once poppea was kneeling beside philip, her arms tight about him, whispering, "i called you because i need you, shall always need you to help me to bear this." looking down into her upturned face, an almost holy light came into philip's eyes as he repeated softly, "sister? you are my sister? then that is what it means that i have been feeling for you all these years. oh, sister! _i_ need _you_; i have always needed you to help me bear to _live_." in that young face with all its artistic capacity for intense joy as well as suffering there was stamped already the knowledge that in such affection alone could he find place, that the barrier of his infirmity stood forever between him and the other love of woman. as they spoke thus together john angus waited for a moment, considering them critically. noticing the little blemish on poppea's ear, he involuntarily raised his hand to his own ear bearing the same mark. poppea had all the first fresh beauty of his wife helen, that after the days of courtship he had thought to possess forever by mere force of will and legal right; but in poppea he saw much of the strength of his own resolution with this, to him, incomprehensible cross,--poppea knew what love meant, but angus understood only the power of ambition and authority. there she was, his daughter, yet only the unwilling kin of flesh, always to be a stranger in spirit. then as he saw that the two had forgotten his presence, he left the room to seek his own chamber and pace up and down in a half-physical attempt to readjust himself to the circumstances that had overtaken him. after all, he argued, thanks to the feltons, his daughter was an accomplished woman with many friends. at last he would have some one to make his house a social centre, and probably she would after a time make a brilliant marriage. he had heard that bradish winslow had admired her--there would now be no reason on his part why he might not follow the game to a suitable finish. toward oliver gilbert, however, his old-time resentment, instead of diminishing, was increased. how was it that this humble man always managed to come between? how utterly abominable to be obliged to assume an attitude of obligation! had his wife helen directed in the case of her death that the child be left with gilbert as a sort of spite to himself? or was it a mistake and the intention been to leave her at his house on windy hill? in either case he held gilbert to blame, for he, in his comparative poverty, had supported the child and naturally (from angus's standpoint) would expect recompense, while the very act had deprived angus of rearing his own child. in this way he worked himself into a commendable fit of righteous indignation, entirely forgetting that had poppea been left at his door, without the subsequent evidence, he would have been the first, on principle, to have sent her to the town farm. * * * * * as poppea made her way up the hill, stephen latimer opened the door of oliver gilbert's workshop. gilbert put down the bit of work at which he had been tinkering, and leaning back, hands behind head, prepared to enjoy a comfortable dish of talk with the dominie, who could always move satisfactorily from books and the political outlook to farming and local news, without either exertion to himself or condescension toward the listener, and then, first and last, he was always ready to speak of poppea. after delivering the girl's message that she would soon return, the consolidation of the two towns under the name of west harbor, now practically an accomplished fact, was discussed, then the burning of the railway station naturally followed. "has 'lisha potts been in to-day?" latimer inquired. "no, but he'll be down to-morrow; satiry insists that she's coming to bake us up once a week or so. poppy don't want it, but i must look to it she don't overdo her strength; you see she isn't in body one of our hard-working race, mr. latimer. i sort of think her mother was a rather delicate woman." with this for the entering wedge, mr. latimer saw his way to going farther. "then you have some idea about her mother? i have thought this for some time. i have an idea also, more than an idea; suppose we compare them," and he told briefly of the trunk of papers and 'lisha finding them. instantly gilbert's bent shoulders straightened, new life came to his eyes; leaning forward he sat in an attitude of such expectant certainty of what he was to hear that latimer could not help smiling as he said, "poppea's mother was--" "helen angus, little roseleaf, wife of that man who drove her to do what she did!" broke in gilbert, unable to hold his conviction any longer. "no one who knew her could blame her,--i, who know what angus is and was, least of all. young esterbrook was a dashing, taking blade, like many an army man, not steady like his uncle. i kept track of him for years one way or another; he never married, and was killed in indian warfare near cheyenne, so he would never have turned up; and yet, of course before the world this will be a blight upon poppea. i wish 'lisha potts had dropped the papers in the bog; i wish to god he had, mr. latimer! could you find it right in your conscience to burn the papers and let the past be buried? need _she_ know?" "she knows already, gilbert." the old man groaned and struck his clenched hand on the table. "ah, well," he said, "that takes it from my hands and the temptation with it, but it's hard, right hard, to feel, link by link, that my power to protect her from trouble is going. but," as an idea made him brighten again, "she can keep my name, can't she, dominie? it's hers, isn't it, by law?" "yes, gilbert, it is hers for good unless she chooses to renounce it," latimer replied fervently. "but stop a minute, old friend, think--suppose that young esterbrook was _not_ poppea's father, and that the only wrong (though it was a virtue, not a fault) that helen angus did was in preferring to have her child born away from the atmosphere of tyranny that was crushing out her own life. could you be glad? not for yourself, not for ourselves, but for the law's full measure?" for a while gilbert sat so absolutely motionless that latimer began to fear that he was suffering some sort of shock, while it was merely the slowness of his comprehension of what had never before occurred to him ever so remotely. a moment later, he started up with blazing eyes and all the fury of a madman. "that! that! oh, my god! then he can take her from me in my old age, from me who have reared her. he can take her, but he cannot love her as i have nor make her love him! i withheld the bit of land, my birthright, that he coveted, and this is my punishment! "pray and pray quickly, dominie; it isn't the dying of the body that must soon come that i fear; no, nor even the craziness that is reaching out after me. i'm losing my hold on believing! it's all slipping and slipping until i'm going down out of sight of mary and little marygold. help me! stephen latimer, help me keep my faith! not in the everyday prayers from books or bible; i want something nearer, something said by some one that has lived and suffered in the times that i have! "there on that card that hangs under his picture--he knew,--he suffered. i've pieced his words together for my need, and said them every day and night these many years. now all is a blank, i can't remember them," and gilbert fell upon his knees, his head covered by his arms, strangled with sobs. following where gilbert pointed, latimer saw an old calendar card hanging below lincoln's portrait. seizing it, he found on the reverse side gilbert's crooked writing, and straightway kneeling beside him, one arm about his shoulders, he read this prayer:-- "'keep us free from giving offence, o lord; neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction. let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us do our duty as we understand it to the end.' "'both of us read the same bible and pray to the same god. each invokes his aid against the other. the prayers of both cannot be answered--thine it is to choose between us. "'thou hast thine own purposes. woe unto the world because of offences, for it must needs be that offences come, but woe unto that man by whom the offence cometh." through thine aid keep us with malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as it is given us to see the right; let us strive on to finish the work and to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thee, o god, for the sake of him who suffered to teach us how to bear suffering.'" after latimer's voice ceased, there was again a long silence, as if each man prayed alone. then gilbert pulled himself slowly to his chair, and with hands clasped upon his knees to hide their trembling, he said clearly, as if reading his own death sentence over in order to become used to the sound of it:-- "i must not forget! she will go to her own home and father upon the hill--" "daddy!" came the cry from the open door. a rush across the room and poppea was clinging to the old man, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "daddy! dear daddy! don't you know that this is my home, and that you are my father, just as god is, because we love each other?" then it was stephen latimer's turn to steal away and turn his footsteps to where jeanne was waiting with anxious eyes, straining to see through the dark. chapter xviii the scar on the hand stephen latimer, as soon as might be, communicated with the few people that poppea considered had a right to know of the solving of the mystery of the name, and these were the felton ladies, satira and 'lisha potts, and hugh oldys. he wrote the details to miss felton and 'lisha, but called upon miss emmy and hugh the same evening. if there is aught in the saying that bad news spreads like fire in dry grass, while good news requires three kindlings, then the news concerning poppea must have been considered very bad indeed. owing probably to the eavesdropping of the butler, accounts more or less garbled appeared within two days, not only in the local and county papers, but in the new york journals as well. it was only in the latter, however, that anything was attempted like writing up the matter as a streak of good luck, upon which the heroine, as poppea was called, was to be congratulated; one paper adding optimistically that she would, the coming season, open her father's house to those who had the past winter welcomed and entertained her solely on account of her incomparable charm coupled with her vocal ability. the way in which those nearest to her took the change was the greatest possible proof of their single-hearted love for herself alone. 'lisha received an unexpected rating from satira, who told him he'd have better let beaver brook wash out the whole railroad company than have fished out that box of misery. miss emmy took a more conventional view of the matter, but ended by saying with a sigh, "as long as poppea could not have grown up with the knowledge, it was better unknown." hugh oldys alone remained absolutely silent; finally, poppea, who was waiting with feverish eagerness for him to make some sign, received these few lines from him. "i am glad for you if you are glad, little comrade. yet oftentimes lately it has seemed to me that the positive knowledge of a thing is so much harder to bear than the vague lack of it, that i have ceased to ask, why? "as ever your friend, "hugh." over these few words poppea pondered long and sadly, seated in the window of her little bedroom with the warm air of late may again bringing the fragrance of apple blossoms with it. it was not yet a year since they two had walked home together and she had hidden her heart that with the first lift of its wings was poised, ready to fly to hugh, and at the same time she proffered him friendship. her motives, surely, had been of the most unselfish, and, as she then thought, far-seeing, but now how insignificant they seemed compared to her loss that lay in hugh's acceptance of them. if she could have felt one pulse of the old pressure in his hand-clasp when they met, or read the faintest inclination toward a need of her between the lines of the brief note, how quickly she would have revealed herself. not only had she ceased to be a necessity, but rather it seemed were their meetings becoming a strain upon him, where even his cordial outward friendship was forced. ah, back, far back, her thoughts flew, no longer the strains of the motive of the mystery of the name sang to her brain; like elsa, in the pursuit of the mystery, she had not gained but lost. moreover, though she was happy in the fact that she might now see philip without restraint or reproach, her joy must be pale compared to his, for to him she was all. for a week or more john angus had made no move other than to see that a proper statement of the facts of her birth was added to the village record, writing tersely to poppea that he had communicated with his london solicitor to have all possible details traced out; then he waited. the second week brought another note addressed to miss angus, asking her to fix the time of her coming home, as there were some necessary preparations to be made. this note remained unanswered for several days, not because of anything contemptuous or insolent in poppea's attitude, but for the reason that she did not know how to word her refusal in order to make it final without first consulting stephen latimer, and yet if she did so, she feared that he might, from his high impersonal standpoint, try to dissuade her; until, as she was about to write, the new york lawyer of john angus called at the post-office house. he was a polished man of the world as well as a legal light, but all the subtly drawn pictures of advantage presented with the intricacies of his calling were shattered upon the bare rock of her simple statement, "this is my home, and i shall not leave daddy or drop this name that has sheltered me so long." utterly baffled, the lawyer's admiration for the girl's firmness did not prevent his returning to angus and imparting something of the bitter and sarcastic mood that opposition develops in legal temperaments. so that while angus ceased his attempts to bring poppea to him, he brooded over the matter to such an extent that he really came to believe that he alone was wronged. if he had been physically able, he would have again closed the house and gone away, but he could no longer hide his increasing feebleness even from himself; consequently he had lost the first field in his effort to conceal his condition from others. besides, philip, once more established at his work, was now to be reckoned with,--philip with a man's spiritual courage and his newly acquired strength of having kin, no longer bearing that brand of utter desolation,--the being the last of one's race. all the other outlets being closed, john angus fell back upon the law for solace, and with its advice constructed a will under which, outside of the cautionary sum of one hundred dollars, poppea was to benefit in no way by his estate. this was so tied up that philip also would lose his rights if he attempted in any way to share with his sister, and the document being duly signed, sealed, was stowed away in the little safe inserted in the wall by his bed head. he would not be within hearing of criticism when the paper went into effect, so angus, wearing his usual air of inscrutability, took up his life much as before, save that he suddenly announced that, owing to philip's love of the sea, he would build a midsummer home for him with a studio attached, on a strip of land that he owned on the west side of quality hill, where the moosatuck joins the bay; and almost before the community had grasped the news the quaintly gabled house was under way. with poppea the matter was not to be allowed to rest so soon. letters came to her from all quarters, congratulating her, giving invitations for visits, the sudden desire for her company all too evidently the result of her supposedly changed condition. gloria hooper wrote more than cordially, while mrs. hewlett, the well-meaning but very dense mother of the two susceptible sons, ended her letter with this dubious sentence, "i take great credit to myself, dear child, for always having believed that you were not what you seemed to be." others yet asked her plans and prospects in the most direct language, with all their social training missing the fine reticence in this matter that had marked the neighborhood people of harley's mills. in early june poppea went up to visit miss emmy for a few days. brave as this little lady had been, the complete breaking up of the family arrangements of years, and the lack of miss felton's strong personality against which to lean, was telling upon her sadly. her idea of a summer abroad, once abandoned, was now again under discussion. a summer of long periods of rest rather than hasty travel, with nora for maid and poppea for companion, was the doctor's advice, and at the same time he said that when the july heat came, it would be necessary for miss felton and her charge to leave the city, and where else could they be so comfortable as the great house on quality hill. miss emmy had been talking over the journey with poppea, who at last had consented to go with her, the final inducement being that she could visit hampshire, and in learning any possible facts concerning her mother's life and death there, bring her nearer as a reality. the third week in july was the time now set, and the _normanic_, with its popular captain, the ship chosen, after much debate. that other time, in the sixties, when miss emmy had been on the verge of breaking away, the _scotia_, with its ponderous side-wheels, had been the only vessel to which women of sensibility felt that they could trust themselves. jeanne latimer had come up for afternoon tea, and the two sat upon the broad piazza overlooking the rose garden, already showing the golden yellow of the scentless, old-fashioned, half-double brier roses contrasting with the vivid crimson and rich perfume of the jacqueminots. each one of the three women was in a reflective mood, in which, strange to say, the thought focussed about each other rather than about themselves. "where is mr. latimer?" asked poppea. "this morning, when i met him on the village road, he promised that he would surely come up this afternoon to help us plan the english end of our journey; besides that, he was to explain to me the best way for daddy to write to washington concerning the new post-office. he cannot, of course, resign from an office that will cease to exist the first of next january and he hopes to hold it to the end. but he wishes to write in such a way that it will be clearly seen that he does not desire the new _west harbor_ position. not that they would give it to so old a man, but it satisfies his pride not to allow himself to be merely dropped. "think of it, aunt emmy, very soon poppea of the post-office must give up the name you gave her, not that she leaves it, but it will drop away from her." "why not take your mother's name, then?" said jeanne latimer. "helen is more fitting to the woman than poppea, though of course to us you will be poppy for all time." "that also is one of the things about which i wanted to speak to mr. latimer. do you think that he is coming?" "he started with me, but as we were waiting at the church to see the men who are doing something to the water-power that works the organ, will burt, one of the young doctors from the bridgeton hospital, came past on horseback, riding like mad. stephen waved to him, for as a boy he had been one of his music pupils, and he stopped short. it seems that he was on his way to the rectory on an errand that he had undertaken for its very strangeness. "late last night a short, thick-set man was brought into the hospital, a brakeman from one of the through freights, and apparently a new hand on the road, for he did not know of the low bridge at moosatuck junction, or understand the signal lights. he was swept off and crushed against the pier. though hurt to death, he had remained conscious, and early this afternoon, when rallied to the utmost by drugs, asked to speak to one of the physicians alone. burt, chancing through the ward, was appealed to. there was something about the man that struck him at once; past fifty, and bearing the signs of dissipation and recent neglect of his person, he did not come of the grade who keep to the road at his age. when he spoke, his words confirmed the impression. "'what place am i in, doctor?' he began. "'bridgeton, connecticut,' burt answered. "the man repeated the name to himself several times, and then asked:-- "'would that be near a little place called harley's mills?' "'the next town to it.' "'is there a clergyman hereabout who would, think you, do an errand for a man that, being already dead in his legs, cannot do it for himself, a matter of--well, we'll say _business_ rather than religion?' "burt told him that there was a roman catholic priest always within call, besides ministers of other denominations that could be had; but the man sighed, hesitated, and finally said: 'i'm english born, though i've long ago sold out my birthright, yet there's that much left of it that makes me want to say what i must to the one that's the nearest like him that used to teach us our duty in the little church betwixt the wheat fields over there. i want the one that has the white robe, the book, and the law behind him; but maybe, sir, you do not understand?' "burt did understand, however, and remembering that the rector of st. john's in bridgeton was ill, came galloping over for stephen. why he did it, or put stephen to the trouble, he himself could not say, for maimed railway men and similar requests are not uncommon in a hospital. stephen borrowed a horse from hugh oldys and fully expected to be back again by six; it is after five now. shall i make the tea, miss emmy? he would be vexed to have you wait." how many odd moments as well as times of painful suspense the tea-tray has bridged over. many a time the period of waiting for the kettle to boil has given the necessary pause to think that has changed a whole life, and the need of balancing a cup and saucer in the hand has made an excuse for looking down when looking up would have betrayed the whole. as jeanne pottered and poured, poppea's wandering eyes caught upon a mere speck in the distance on the lower bridgeton road. as it reached the great span over moosatuck it took the shape of horse and wheels. before it reached the turn below the hill, she knew rather than saw that it was hugh oldys's outfit with stephen latimer driving, and that he was in great haste. though she neither spoke of it nor betrayed the slightest interest, yet her heart pounded so that the hand that held the cup pulsed in response, and she shifted it to the table, where she deliberately stirred the sugar. then, feeling that she could no longer sit still, she said, looking toward the roses:-- "what a superb flower that is on the third bush. may i have it, miss emmy?" and she swung herself lightly over the rail at the end of the porch opposite the steps and arrived at the head of the walk with her rose at the same time that latimer drove in the gate. seeing her, he threw the reins over the dashboard and jumped out; he had the same pallor, coupled with the tension of suppressed excitement, that he had worn the day after the fire. coming directly toward poppea, he said:-- "can you go through one more ordeal, the last?" "yes," she answered quietly. "i knew that it was coming half an hour ago. is he dead? the man with the scar on his hand?" latimer, startled in spite of himself at her words, merely nodded his head for yes. "i felt that it was he when jeanne told me you had been sent for. won't you please come and tell us all together, jeanne and miss emmy? i have not the courage i once had; i cannot seem to bear things alone." while latimer walked slowly up the steps, his wife had time to gauge, in a degree, the scene he had been through, before poppea, who was in advance of him, said, in answer to the questioning look upon the face of both women:-- "the man whom he went to see was the one who brought me to daddy; now we shall know how," and dropping to a stool by miss emmy's side, she rested her head upon the elder woman's knees, as she was used in the old days of confidence before things began to happen. latimer took the cup of tea that jeanne brought to him, and then another, before he drew his chair closer to the group of women and began, trying to compress his narrative as much as possible for the sake of all concerned, while he spoke as to poppea alone. "the man brought to the bridgeton hospital was peter randal, the son of betty randal, your grandfather dudleigh's housekeeper and your mother's nurse. when your mother returned to hampshire and you were born, peter was away at sea, but came back soon after her death and married an old sweetheart, a pretty barmaid of the town. betty randal, though to all appearances in the prime of life and best of health, died suddenly a few months after your mother, without having had time to carry out any of her directions or safeguard you in any way, so that peter and his wife found themselves left with you on their hands and the temptation of a snug fortune before them, because your little sum of money had been at the time entirely in betty randal's control. "peter's wife had a sister in canada, who made great representations of the fortunes to be made there in farming if one only had money in hand; so after much persuading, peter yielded doggedly to the scheme of keeping your money, which it would have been really difficult to prove did not belong to betty herself. "peter, however, refused even to think of the plan of leaving you at some foundling asylum instead of taking you to your father, and insisted upon going to canada by way of boston, bringing you with them, and leaving you with john angus _en route_. he also had sufficient family feeling to take with you the papers your mother had left, upon which he knew betty had set such store. "knowing nothing of the country, they found upon their arrival that boston was far east of their destination, and so, going to new york, worked their way backward, getting off in the confusion of the war excitement and the late train at westboro, while the box, hastily addressed to john angus, harley's mills, and not checked, was dropped off at this station, the tag evidently having been in some way mutilated in transit so that the place of destination only remained. "on asking some chance loungers at the westboro depot the direction of john angus's house at harley's mills, randal was told 'the first above the post-office,' and to that they drove, not realizing that their guides in this case considered the joined house and office as one building. in the fury of the storm the randals only waited to be sure that the door was opened, and going to bridgeton, were lost among many other travellers. for some time everything went well with the pair, and then luck turned. peter's wife left him after securing the farm to herself, and first the man took to the road, trying in some way to return to the old country, but in spite of all, a bit of deep-down remorse made him wish to know what had become of the baby helen on his way.--the rest you know." "what will they do with him?" asked poppea, softly. "that which he asked of me," said latimer. "i must have known you would have thought of it, and yet there must be an odd touch of the same race feeling in me too. thief as he was, his people were once loyal to mine, also i wish i might have thanked him for his mistake." "i did it for you, child, and for us all," and in the look that poppea turned on him he read a gratefulness beyond words. chapter xix john angus in the early part of july, a lift having been added to the house to accommodate his wheel-chair, miss felton and caleb brought mr. esterbrook to quality hill. the homecoming was in itself pathetic, but not to be compared with the starved and yearning affection that beamed from miss felton's eyes every time she looked at him, followed by an expression of gratitude when he managed to express the simplest wish. in appearance the old man was as trim and dapper as of old; he never was allowed to be seen below stairs without his light gray or buff spats, and this toilet was made afresh every afternoon, though as to the evening there was no change, for he supped in his room and was put to bed by eight o'clock. of waistcoats and neckties he had a fresh assortment and appeared to take pleasure in them, and in some way express his choice to caleb; but aside from the physical difficulty of speech, such as he could command had the aphasia warp, so that he usually said the opposite of what he meant, thus bringing an added bitterness to miss elizabeth. when she was in the room, he followed her with his eyes and sometimes refused to eat at all unless she fed him, and he often held and patted her hand when she walked beside his chair under the old shade trees, but when he tried to call her by name, it was always emmy that he said and not elizabeth, or beth, as she had been called in childhood. sometimes miss felton would try to argue, saying:-- "this is elizabeth. you know elizabeth, do you not?" but still he would laugh noiselessly, the laugh of senility not mirth, and nod his head to and fro, saying:-- "know emmy? know emmy? yes, yes, emmy!" and sometimes throw kisses to her with the hand that he could move. so finally she let it pass unnoticed. but miss emmy, being once within hearing of it, conceived an intense aversion to the poor man, and afterward kept entirely out of his sight. after a time of absolute silence, poppea took up her singing with fresh interest, and stephen latimer noticed the increased volume as well as sympathy of her voice. after all, it seemed a pity to put any check upon such a gift, and little by little he began to speak of the desirability of her still further developing it as an art, even as her brother philip was developing his gift of modelling. latimer well knew that poppea's nature was not one of those who can eke out a life of small things without the force of a mastering love to blend them into dignity, and so he talked of study abroad and travel until poppea herself began to take up the idea. early one evening she had been walking up and down the grassy garden path, watching the poppies fold their petals, palm to palm, for the night, taking the form of pilgrim's cockle-shells, and all at once it came to her that these flowers from the old garden on the hill above had doubtless been planted by her mother long ago, for they were english poppies, delicate of tint, and not the heavy-hued orientals. how wonderful it was, this handing down. touching them lightly with her finger-tips as she walked, her heart began to sing back to that long ago, and then the music welled from her lips, all unconscious that she had two auditors; john angus, sitting above on his piazza, muffled and chilly even in the balmy evening, and a man, who with the air of a stranger, had been walking up and down the road. finally he opened the gate to the post-office house, but instead of following the sound of the music to its origin, proceeded to the door and knocked. presently oliver gilbert came stumbling out into the twilight, and, cane in hand, made his halting way into the garden. "poppy," he said, "there is some one who wants to see you; it's that mr. winslow who came down last summer, the day after the felton ladies had the party. do you remember?" "yes, daddy," said poppea, "i remember,"--the words feeling cold to her lips like drops of dew. "will you come indoors? or shall i tell him you are here?" "i will come in," she said, rising quickly from the bench on which she had been seated for a moment. no, she did _not_ want him to come there, for beside her in the twilight seemed to be sitting the ghost of hugh. yet slow as gilbert was, he gained the house before her, and when she reached the porch, it was bradish winslow alone who stood in the open doorway, both hands extended. "i have been abroad; i did not know until yesterday," he said at once without other greeting--as if she must have wondered at his silence. "and now the thing of which you made a barrier has vanished, how can you keep me out, how can you hold me away even if you want to, little one? but you don't, you can't; ah, child, child, do you know how i have missed you? how i had to put the ocean between in order to obey the plea in your letter?" he had seized her hands in his greeting and still held them, drawing her nearer and nearer to him by a power that was not wholly physical force; while she, having forgotten a certain magnetism she had always felt in his presence, did not know how to protest. finally freeing her hand, she pulled forward a deep porch chair, and intrenched in its protecting arms, motioned him to take its mate. "i did not know that you were away," she managed to say at last. "then why did you not write me only one word, 'come'?" "because, because," she stammered miserably, "i didn't think of it, because it was better that you shouldn't," and she hid her face between her hands to free it from the yearning of his eyes. "poppea, do you not understand how much and why i care for you, for yourself and that only?" he said presently, his voice changing from the ringing, joyous tone of his greeting to one serious to the verge of sadness. "i believe that you do, with all my heart and soul," she answered, and continued in an almost reverent tone, "few men would have acted toward me as you did that night of humiliation. i did not realize it fully then, but i do now, and this makes me understand all the more the difference between what you offer me and the best i have to give." "even so, a little is a beginning, dear, and i can wait in patience if you will only let me be near you and teach you what love means. you do not even yet dream what it is, you, who, above all others i have met, were made for it and cannot be yourself without it." he saw that poppea was moved, was trembling, and for the moment he believed he had almost won. "perhaps i have not yet dreamed as you say," she answered gently, "but of this i am certain: love does not come by learning, love knows and is sure." winslow's face changed, his throat felt dry, his lips seemed riveted together, his whole being fell under the spell of a complete depression. "then you do know?" he said in a broken, husky voice. "yes, i know," she replied like a faint echo. he did not make any attempt either to reason with her or to go; he merely sat there in utter dejection, this man of the world and its affairs, whom women had these many years called callous. when at last he pulled himself from the chair, he held out both his hands, but did not go toward poppea. "then it is good-by?" he questioned. "i'm afraid it must be," she replied, touched by a profound sadness, "but oh, i do wish for my own sake it need not be, for in spite of everything i am so very lonely." then of her own accord she took his hands and looked into his face, but in her eyes there shone something that checked the parting kiss that he intended. if she were born for love, she was no less fashioned for fidelity even to an idea, and winslow saw that young as she was and whether she realized it or not, he had come into her life too late. * * * * * john angus, sitting alone on his piazza, had at first listened in irritation to the voice below in the garden, then the very quality of its tone brought back the past as a surging tide that he could not check. once more he was at the open-air fête of a foreign city and the singing of a lovely girl, little more than a child, had crept into his heart, as her exquisite form and coloring had pleased his critical eye, and he had let himself go. then to keep the time schedule he had arranged between himself and certain inexorable ambitions, he had suddenly pulled the chain brutally taut, and among those that it had cruelly bruised, must he not at last count himself? what if he had not--but what was the use. the singing ceased and with it his unusual revery. shivering at the touch of the dew on the arm of his chair, he went indoors, closing the long porch window after him, and after wandering listlessly through the lower rooms for a while, climbed slowly up to his own chamber in the same wing with philip's rooms, where he sat reading, and so seemed less lonely. for of late, without spoken words having passed between, philip was becoming more and more estranged from his father, and sought his room or went to the studio as soon as might be after meals, until john angus began to wonder, with a half-physical, half-emotional belief in the supernatural, if it were possible that philip knew the policy of the will that he had made, by a form of second sight. this thought was uppermost as he entered his private room, and after lighting the four lamps that it held, closed and locked the door. he would read the will over once more after he was comfortably fixed in bed. he could not understand why in july the air should be so cold, yet as fresh air was his chief necessity, he could not close the windows. turning to ring for his valet, that he might light the wood fire that was laid ready at all seasons, he changed his mind and put a match to it himself. drawing a chair before the blaze, that under ordinary conditions he would have deemed suffocating, he chafed and warmed his hands. this done, he slowly set about undressing. when quite ready for bed, he again changed his mind, and throwing on a dressing-gown, slid back the panel from the small square closet by the bed, and opening the safe, took from it the will, which, from its completion, had seemed to exercise a strange fascination over him. he would read it once more to be sure that all points were covered, and on the morrow, as he expected to go to town, he would place it once for all in the safety vault, for such a paper had no place in one's house, even if under lock and key. as he turned for the twentieth time the half dozen pages he knew almost by heart, a voice seemed to be making a running commentary in his ear, and the pith of it all was: "what have you gained by trying to control others absolutely all your life? what are you gaining now by trying to control others absolutely after you are dead?" the worst of it was that the critic seemed waiting for an answer, and he, having none ready, sat trying to frame one, but he could not, for there was none to give. suddenly the pain that was an agony ran through the arm and hand that grasped the will and then gripped his chest. it was one of his seizures, but more intense than usual. he felt himself realizing that it would pass off as others had before, but it did not. he could not reach the bell or little tablet vial on his dresser. he had known, of course, the end must come some day. was that time now? the will, stirred by the tremor of his hand, fairly flaunted in his face. why had he made it? why? "why not destroy it now," the voice whispered, "and for once will for good?" he tried to move, but the agony held him fast, he was suffocating and not even slowly. "try," whispered the voice; "the fire is almost at your feet, and it will help you." then inch by inch he worked himself forward, and unclasping his stiffening hand, dropped the paper on the hearth. would the blaze reach it? would he live to know? yes, the eager flame caught hold; he saw the red seals melt, his signature disappear, and then--john angus's greed for power was quenched by that last act. it was late the next morning that the man-servant, unable to open the door, climbed in the open window and found his master fallen back in the arm-chair, his bed untouched. when, panic-stricken, he opened the door, calling loudly for help, philip came quickly in, and saw his father, the open safe, and the fragments of burnt legal papers on the hearthstone, and reading the few words that remained, he understood. putting his arms about the lifeless form as he never before had dared, he thanked god in his heart for the single tender memory. * * * * * though due show of public respect was paid in the last rites, as due to a leading citizen whose name, known to them rather than his person, was always first on the subscription papers alike for foreign missions and civic improvements, john angus's death did not affect any one. the only person who really took it to heart was oliver gilbert. to him the one idea was paramount, the death of his neighbor before the possibility of mutual understanding had come, and with the puritan strain of self-reproach strong in him, gilbert, sitting in his little shop, mentally scourged himself and followed painfully on foot in company with the humbler members of the town as though the fault lay on his side. "what shall you do?" jeanne latimer had asked poppea during the next day when philip was closeted with her husband in whose hands he had placed all arrangements. "whatever philip wishes," poppea answered. "you know he is the family now, and he will never broach the one point i cannot yield." "shall you wear black?" jeanne continued with some hesitation. "i think so, for a time," poppea said with brows knitted, "or else philip will feel so entirely alone, so isolated." in a week's time the lawyer, whom poppea had met before, came to the rectory, where philip had been staying since the funeral, for the boy had told stephen latimer frankly that he should never again sleep in the house on windy hill, where the servants now remained alone, awaiting events and orders, or again go to the sombre city house that looked across washington square. the lawyer met philip and mr. latimer alone, as poppea had asked to be released from any part in this interview, and spoke of the will that he had drawn up within the month and produced the draft of it. philip laid on the table the scorched fragments found upon the hearth on which a visible word here and there was enough to prove identity. "then the course of the law lies straight," the lawyer said; "but as mr. philip angus is a minor until next year, a guardian must be appointed." "i shall petition that mr. latimer acts as such," philip replied. "what has miss angus--gilbert--or whatever she persists in calling herself, to say to that, pray?" "she bids me say as her spokesman," philip answered, "that she intends to make no personal claim in the matter. whatever may be hereafter decided will be out of the range of business or of law and will lie only between her brother and herself." "a close corporation, it seems," said the lawyer, puckering his mouth for a contemptuous whistle, but catching sight of a glance in latimer's eye, he checked it by remarking:-- "pray tell me, as between man and man, is this young woman quite sane? she can claim half of an ample though not princely property." "yes, quite sane," said latimer, in accents as steely and clear-cut as the man's own, "but the expression of her sanity does not chance to take a form familiar to members of your calling." after this the wheels of local probate law began to turn with their usual deliberation. at first miss emmy proposed to postpone their journey, but now it was poppea who urged her on, feeling the positive necessity of a change and a little time away from familiar places, in which to readjust herself. she not only now wished to look over the field for musical study at close range, but dreams flitted through her head of a winter either in florence or in rome in company with philip, though not, perhaps, at once; for winter was a perilous time for one of oliver gilbert's years, and this winter the post-office would cease to be, in itself no small bereavement to him. again satira, her snapping black eyes always fixed eagerly upon the bustling life of the village centre, came to the fore, and 'lisha, good, easy man, acquiesced, acknowledging that "twarn't no further to go up to the corn and potato fields of mornings than, living on the hill, to hev to drop down to the village o' nights for a dish of gossip and the news." finally the day before the one for sailing came, and with it the startling announcement from oliver gilbert that he was going to the city to see poppea off. "land alive! you'll get lost; you don't know how the city's changed these near twenty years since the time you would fetch poppy down to president lincoln's obsequies!" cried satira. "i've heard miss emmy say that what were cow pastures where she used to pick dandelions when a girl are built solid over with emporiums of fashion. besides, you've never been aboard anything bigger'n captain secors's onion schooner, and if that big thing they're going on began to get up steam and snort, _how_ it would quake your vitals. it did mine that trip i took." _that trip_ being the term applied to a wonderful excursion of the previous summer, from bridgeton to the new-found land of pleasure, coney island, whither 'lisha had taken her, and of which he was destined never to hear the last. but gilbert saying in a tone that barred discussion that he would take whatever risks there were, the matter was dropped as being decided. late in the scorching july afternoon he harnessed his old roman-nosed horse to the chaise and disappeared on the cross-road that ran eastward toward the moosatuck, without vouchsafing any explanation to his sister, who, having questioned him in vain, called his attention to the threatening array of 'thunder-heads' that were rolling over the hills, every few seconds being rent together by forks of lightning. he had been gone perhaps half an hour when the storm reached the village, and great splashes of rain, falling upon the shed roof, were turned into steam by the heat of the tin. poppea, having given the finishing touches to her simple packing, was setting her room in order, fingering each article lovingly as though she felt that even should she come back and find all as she left it, yet there must be a difference. as the rain increased to a steady downpour, she looked anxiously up the road and made a mental calculation as to what houses lay on the route daddy had taken, and where he would be by now, his probable destination having been as obscure to her as to satira. meanwhile, the horse and chaise were standing in the shelter of an abandoned lumber shack in the woods that overhung the west bank of moosatuck, while gilbert, utterly oblivious of the rain that gradually sifted to him through the heavy leafage, was following a narrow foot-path. glancing from side to side, he pulled a long string of ground-pine here, there a fine branch of strong laurel, and then again a handful of the dark green, white-veined leaves of the wax-flowered pipsissewa; when his arms would hold no more and he again reached the chaise, the thunder-heads were scurrying across the bay and the rain was over. poppea had sorted the evening mail and was sitting at the desk in gilbert's workshop when he came in, slowly yet without his cane, and crossing to where she was, laid his armful of dripping wood-treasure before her, saying, half-shamedfacedly, yet as to one who would understand:-- "will you tie me a nice wreath, poppy, like the one we always have to hang up there at christmas, lacking of course the berries? i guess i'll go in and change and get a bite to eat, if you'll spell me here for twenty minutes longer," and poppea, with a comprehending smile and nod, buried her face in the fresh, spicy greenery. what gilbert wanted with the wreath or did with it when he took it from her hands presently, she did not know, for later, as she walked up and down the flagged walk between the porch and gate, thinking of the details of to-morrow, the latch clicked and hugh oldys came through the wicket. it was not alone the colorless twilight that made the change in his face which struck her like a blow. without having become absolutely thin, the man of a year before, with height and breadth, good color, wholesome flesh, natural joy and interest in life and living, seemed to have passed through some phase that, while it spiritualized in a sense, had eliminated much that was characteristic. "your mother--is she worse?" was poppea's first question. "i do not think so, though in a case like hers it is worse to be no better. i should have been to see you many days ago but for a sudden change in nurses. no one stays more than a month," he added, breaking through his habitual reticence on this subject, as though at last he must have the support of sympathy. "no one but you, hugh. ah, how can you go on so when every one else falters?" "because she is my mother and not theirs; in that lies all." "all?" poppea echoed, leaning toward him with such unmistakable tenderness in her eyes that it must have broken through any self-raised barrier of the man's had he but seen and compassed it. yet he never looked at her directly nor let her read his face, though it was not until after he had gone that poppea realized this. for an hour the conversation drifted to casual things, and save for philip, his work and plans, in wholly impersonal channels, they two sitting on the top step of the porch. when at last hugh rose to go, and walking slowly side by side down the narrow path they halted at the end, one inside the gate, one without, he said, looking backward up the way they had come, as if into the past:-- "it will be good when you come back, but it isn't to be supposed or hoped that after you have made the break you will care for this sleepy little village as you have, poppea. i have always wondered why you cared so little for the new york life with the fine opening you made. in the few months i had there, the fulness and the vigor of it all gripped me so that leaving was a wrench." "for new york? yes, i cared for that and all the best it gives. but the life? yes, i cared for that too, in a way, until i stood off and looked back." then, clasping her hands about the post, she said, smiling shyly, with a little quizzical expression at the corners of her mouth:-- "do you remember once, long ago, how you and i stood by the railroad brook and watched a big, striped snake charm and swallow a little green frog? "we didn't mean to let the affair come to the swallowing, but though the beginning was slow, the frog sat still and waited too long, and the end came quicker than we expected. then, as the lump that was the frog began to be moved down the snake's length in being digested, you took your foot and little by little edged the frog backward out of the snake's mouth to the ground, slime covered and quite insensible. then we both took water in our hands, and dashing it washed the slime away, until presently the frog came to and hopped away like mad, without ever looking back. "well, once upon a time, hugh, as the fairy stories say, i was a little green frog and the life down there the snake; it drew me, and i didn't want to get away, until, when it was almost too late, one night a great splash of cold water, thrown by people who did not throw it in kindness, and that nearly strangled me, brought me to, and i hopped away without even wishing to look back. "so when you think to yourself again, 'poppea will yet love the life of the city,' remember the little green frog!" thus they parted in a sudden ripple of laughter, good friends. next day, in the hurry and bustle that always belong to an outgoing steamer in the season of summer travel, some of those in the crowd on the deck of the _normanic_ were attracted by the sight of a young and well-bred woman of unusual beauty, accompanied by a maid and some one who might either be her mother or aunt, clinging tearfully about the neck of an old man, whom she was wishing good-by. while there was nothing unusual about the parting at such a time, yet the dainty dress and bearing of the woman were in striking contrast to the homespun plainness of the man, who wore the long, flowing beard, stiff clothes, and wide-brimmed panama hat, his sunday best for years, that marks the countryman. moreover, he carried a home-made hickory cane and clutched to his breast a bulky newspaper parcel. when the final blast of "all ashore" was sounded, the air quivering with the vibrations, the girl loosed her hold, and crying, "good-by, dear daddy!" disappeared in the crowd that gathered by the stairway; while he, turning toward the gang-plank, marched down it with all the soldier-like precision his lameness would allow, never looking back, his bundle still clasped tightly to him. boarding a small blue car known as a "bob-tail," gilbert rode across the city, carefully scanning his course. when he emerged presently from the region of crooked ways to where the avenues run north and south and the streets east and west, and saw ahead an open square, he stopped the car, and standing at the street curb, shielding his eyes from the pitiless sun, tried to get his bearings. "fourteenth street," said one lamp-post, "university place" another. yes, the park opposite was union square, but where was the house on whose porch he had stood that april day in eighteen sixty-five when the procession swung around from broadway? a business building covered with signs replaced it; yet at the same moment, his eyes fell on what he sought. the statue of lincoln, rugged and majestic, standing above the cobbled plateau, calm and unmoved by all the frantic bustle of the street. making his way carefully through the traffic, gilbert approached the rail about the statue. he paused for a moment, and then, undoing his parcel, took from it the wreath, rested it on the railing, while he folded the paper and, winding the string about it, placed it in his pocket. then getting stiffly over the barrier, he laid the wreath at lincoln's feet, raised his old hat, looking up into lincoln's face as one in perfect, if humble, comradeship, while his lips murmured, "through you i have finished the course, with you i have kept the faith!" the people of the street, big and little, loafer and gamin, who spring up about an unusual object as swiftly as the circles surround a stone flung in the water, neither jostled nor jeered nor plucked the wreath away, for among the simple-minded, hero-worship will never die out save for lack of heroes. then making his way back to fifth avenue, gilbert, seeking the scanty bits of shade as best he might, walked up its length until he reached the third open space and turned eastward to the railway station. at the coming of the evening mail he pottered as usual with the letters as though that day had been like all the others, and ate his supper with little sauce of conversation, to the inexpressible disappointment of satira potts. chapter xx on the wings of the morning during the remainder of the summer the village of harley's mills went into a sort of chrysalis state as befitted its coming change of name. the fact that the felton house had ceased to exist as a social centre and that many of the quality hill folk had gone abroad added considerably to its somnolence. some of what are generally referred to by the local press as "leading citizens" had under construction a brick block on the westboro side of the blacksmith shop in which the chief trade interests of the place were to be sheltered, including the new post-office. philip angus continued with the latimers, for his new house overlooking the sea would not be ready before october, and if the rumor proved true that howell, the sculptor, was anxious to take philip with him to winter in rome, it was unlikely that it would be occupied before spring. of course there was much speculation concerning the amount and disposition of john angus's property, especially his holdings in real estate, for he owned some of the most sightly tracts in the township in addition to the house and home acres on windy hill. early in the autumn a definite statement was given out concerning the latter by no less an authority than stephen latimer. poppea and philip, agreeing that under no circumstances could they live there, proposed to devote it to a hospital and home for crippled children from the city, and the necessary alterations began soon after. it was almost thanksgiving time when miss emmy and poppea returned, miss emmy going directly to the house on quality hill which she now called home, miss felton and caleb having moved mr. esterbrook back to madison square at the beginning of cold weather. the village did not realize how much it had missed them both until poppea was again seen walking daily up the road to quality hill, and miss emmy resumed her morning marketing trips, where she sat in the barouche (the lining was now a durable russet leather) dressed in very suitable and becoming brown with a warming glint of color in the velvet rose on her bonnet, holding a sort of court, whereat the butcher extolled the quality of his sweetbreads, and the blacksmith's wife related the details of her rheumatism and her husband's father's last seizure, with equal freedom. immediately after her return, philip took poppea to see the new house, to which a music room with a place for an organ had been added to the original plan by throwing out a wing to correspond with his studio. with her arm about his shoulders they walked slowly through the rooms, stopping before the picture that each window offered, until they came to one on the second floor, a bay from which one might not only look out to sea, but up the moosatuck until it was lost in the hill-country. "this is your room," he said, laying a detaining hand upon her arm to make her hear him out, "whenever you wish to come to it for an hour or forever, but i never shall ask you by so much as a word to leave daddy, for i feel about it much as you do. what if he had not? oh, sister, what if he had not? you would have still been yourself, but i, what should i have been without you to love?" and the rapt expression stole across his face with which the devotee is pictured. presently, sitting side by side on the steps of the wide porch in the early winter sunshine, they talked over philip's plans, the tide creeping up the sand laden with pungent seaweed, and the gulls now flying across with shrill cries, now dropping to rest upon the water. at last philip, taking poppea's hand and laying it against his cheek, told her of what was closest to his heart,--his desire to go to rome with howell for the winter, to do there with the master a piece of work he could not hope yet to accomplish alone. unrolling a paper he showed her the design for the group, the outcome of months of thought and dreaming. two women, one taller than the other, with tender, radiant faces, standing side by side, hands outstretched to aid a crippled child, who, having dropped his crutch, was clinging to them. about the base this legend ran _amor consolatrix_. "these are our mothers," he said softly, "yours and mine. when they are done in marble, they shall stand by the gate up at the hospital to welcome the children who must go in alone." so philip sailed away, and from the christmas music at st. luke's his silver voice was missing. but if philip's tones were silver, poppea's now poured forth like rich, unalloyed gold. it seemed to her as though she had never fathomed the full joy of singing until, lacking necessity, it had ceased to be a possible commercial profession, and become, as now she held it, a freewill gift to all who asked for or needed it, singing alike in church, hospital ward, the poor-house, or in the low farm-houses of the back hill-country, where she carried hope and music to those for whom all other doors were closed. once even had she gone over the deeply drifted roads on a wood sled with 'lisha potts to a revival meeting at his lumber camp, and in the rough faces of the wood-choppers read a deeper, truer appreciation than she had ever felt respond to her among the music-lovers of the drawing-room. then, too, there were the sunday evenings, she and daddy sitting on either side the fire in the foreroom,--satira going invariably to the muscular type of prayer-meeting that would satisfy her soul's hunger for the next seven days.--then the heartstrings would quiver in vain for the magic thrill and the sound of the melody that only one may play for each one of us, until to break the oppressive silence, she would lift the piano lid and let her fingers feel their way a moment, until the old-time hymns and anthems made response. gradually daddy would join in, until at the end of half an hour he was singing with might and main, although often quite off the key and half a bar behind. as she paused, he would limp to and fro rubbing his hands together, and saying for the fortieth time:-- "pretty good music you and i can make, eh, poppy? forty years ago i was the loudest bass singer in this township, and 'twas when i was singing in first church choir that mary, a stranger to me, sang the second treble, and it was the kind way she had of keeping me in line when i'd shied from the tuning-fork that made me take to her. yes, it's true what the poet says, that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. it soothed mine, poppy, who always had dreaded women." so the winter wore away. march, the tug of war between seasons, blustered out roaring defiance, and april, the capricious, in its last week had kept to one mood long enough to green the grass, draw red blood to the maple tops, and gold sap to the willows. in two weeks more philip would return. poppea was entering the gate with a letter from him that had come in the last mail. she had walked slowly up from the new post-office in the brick block, reading it as she came. how different all concerning the new order was, to be sure: _entrance_ and _exit_ printed plainly on the doors; no little knots of men from the scattered back settlement exchanging news. rather did these, after getting their mail, continue to come to their old haunt and talk to gilbert as he sat in his shop, sometimes idle but never listless, while a large checkerboard put by poppea's suggestion in the place of the boxes of the old beehive, filled the gap when the powers of conversation needed rest. she stopped to look at a cluster of daffodils, whose jolly yellow flowers kept on beaming even through the dusk, and then went toward the house, when the wheels of a vehicle, coming rapidly up the road, stopped short, and hugh oldys's voice called:-- "poppea, wait a minute, please," and without pausing to fasten the horse, he pushed through the gate and strode toward her. "what is it, hugh?" she almost cried out, shocked by the ashiness of his face and its nervous working. "can i help you in any way?" "yes, you can help me and only you, though i do not know that i ought to let you undergo the strain even if you are willing. "listen and judge, poppea. last night my mother became physically ill; until then her bodily health has been better than for years. this afternoon within two hours her mind has suddenly cleared, the doctors explain it by the moving of a clot. she called me to her and spoke as naturally as before the blow fell; yet she remembers perfectly well that father is dead and that she has been very ill, though she has no sense of the length of time. then she begged me not to leave her for so long again, and asked for you, poppea." "why, hugh, i will go to her at once. could you think that i would not?" "that--that is not all," he faltered, his shoulders drooping and his whole attitude broken and dejected. "she thinks that everything is as she had believed it would be--two years--ago. she thinks that we are married--that you are in the house, but stay out of the room for fear of disturbing her. oh, poppea, could you--could you slip a loose shawl or a sack over your shoulders and go in for a moment and speak to her or answer her, so that she need not know? will you do it for the sake of all those years that we were comrades?" only for a moment had poppea drawn back, but it was so imperceptibly that hugh did not notice. "i will go," she said slowly, without looking at him, "and you need wait only a minute." going swiftly to her room, she made a wrapper and pair of slippers into a hasty bundle and threw a light shawl about her head and shoulders. saying a few words to satira, who was in the kitchen kneading bread and so could not follow her to the gate for details other than she chose to give, she took her place silently by hugh in the buggy. on the drive neither spoke, for it was one of the hours when the softest spoken word is too harsh and jarring. up from the marsh meadows the cry of the rejuvenated "peepers" rose in what to poppea's nerves, strained to snapping, seemed a clamor that surrounded her head closely and dulled even her powers of thought. at the threshold mrs. shandy was waiting, her eyes red from crying. with finger on her lips poppea signalled that she wished to go to mrs. shandy's room. there she slipped on the wrapper she had brought, and loosing the pins, let her hair fall in a careless braid, as though she had but just waked up. in the square upper hall dr. morewood sat in a deep easy-chair, reading by a shaded lamp. in answer to poppea's questioning look he said in the low tone, that yet is not a whisper, which the sensitive physician acquires:-- "yes, the brain is clear, but the physical vitality in its final flicker; at best it can hold its own but a few hours." when, steadying herself by an almost superhuman effort, poppea reached the door of mrs. oldys's chamber, so familiar in every detail even in the subdued light, hugh was already there crouched by the bedside, one of his mother's transparent hands clasping his, while with the other she was striving to push back the heavy hair from his forehead. at the sight of poppea the nurse drew back into the alcove shadows. seating herself in a vacant chair on the opposite side from hugh and waiting a few seconds, the girl made a very slight motion that revealed her presence. "my dear daughter!" mrs. oldys formed the words rather than spoke them, dropping her other hand upon poppea's so that she was held fast as it were between them. "why have you stayed away so long? i have thought that you were ill," the voice was clearer now. "did hugh break your sleep to call you?" "no,--mother,--i was quite awake when he said you wanted me." "and you will stay with me to-night?" "yes, surely i will stay." "now i am at peace, my two dear children--" the fluttering eyelids closed and for a while she seemed to sleep, except that the pressure of her hands did not relax. presently she looked up again. "i cannot seem to think by myself," she said, "i need something to lean upon--to carry me with it. do you remember, hugh, the music--the song that you and poppy used to sing sometimes without the organ? it brought me close to the gate--perhaps it would carry me through with it to-night." poppea, who was trembling like a leaf in the wind, looked toward hugh, but his face was buried in his arm. then a calm settled over her. loosening the robe at her throat, she straightened herself, and from her lips the notes fell soft yet clear:-- "hark! hark, my soul; angelic songs are swelling." an expression of ineffable peace crossed mrs. oldys's face. "yes, that is it," she whispered, smiling. unfalteringly poppea sang to the end, and it was not until the last note died away in complete silence that hugh raised his head. presently the doctor looked in, the nurse came forward with some nourishment, and so the night wore on, but it was not until the dawn began to scatter darkness that the frail hands gradually relaxed their loving clasp, and the nurse looking from the shadows beckoned the watchers away. through the passageway and down the stairs hugh and poppea passed together. then hugh left her for a moment, returning to say that dr. morewood would drive her home as she must have some rest as soon as possible. mrs. shandy, coming out, begged her to wait and take a cup of coffee, but poppea shook her head. out on the porch in the fresh, yet mysterious air of coming day, they waited for the doctor to bring his chaise. below lay moosatuck veiled in mist; beyond, the blue ridge of the hills; one bird called, then another, until half a hundred had picked up the anthem. each moment it grew lighter, the darkness huddled cornerwise down the west, while the morning star and the harbor beacon paled together. for a time neither spoke nor looked at each other, then hugh broke the silence. "in a few days, poppea,--when i am no longer needed,--i shall be going away for a rest, a long rest, and perhaps it may be that afterward my life will lie in other places." then suddenly breaking down, he grasped her hands, and pressing them to his lips, said, with a half-suppressed cry:-- "little comrade! little comrade! all that i can tell you, all that i must tell you, is that god himself could not have done more for me than you have this night." poppea, who had been looking off into the sunrise, turned her head quickly, and for the first time in months, found his eyes fixed full upon her face before he could shift them. at last she knew! leaving her hands in his, she leaned toward him, murmuring in a voice so full of joy that it quivered as though strung with tears:-- "where is more rest than here? _i_ need you, hugh!" then to the one behind the closed door and to the two facing the dawn a new life came on the wings of the morning. the end novels, etc., by "barbara" (mabel osgood wright) the garden of a commuter's wife illustrated "reading it is like having the entry into a home of the class that is the proudest product of our land, a home where love of books and love of nature go hand in hand with hearty, simple love of 'folks.' ... it is a charming book."--_the interior._ people of the whirlpool illustrated "the whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspective of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of people and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in general."--_philadelphia evening telegraph._ the woman errant "the book is worth reading. it will cause discussion. it is an interesting fictional presentation of an important modern question, treated with fascinating feminine adroitness."--miss jeannette gilder in the _chicago tribune_. at the sign of the fox "her little pictures of country life are fragrant with a genuine love of nature, and there is fun as genuine in her notes on rural character."--_new york tribune._ the garden, you and i "this volume is simply the best she has yet put forth, and quite too deliciously torturing to the reviewer, whose only garden is in spain.... the delightful humor which pervaded the earlier books, and without which barbara would not be barbara, has lost nothing of its poignancy."--_congregationalist._ the open window. tales of the months. "a little vacation from the sophistication of the commonplace."--_argonaut._ poppea of the post office * * * * * by eden phillpotts the three brothers "'the three brothers' seems to us the best yet of the long series of these remarkable dartmoor tales. if shakespeare had written novels we can think that some of his pages would have been like some of these. here certainly is language, turn of humor, philosophical play, vigor of incident such as might have come straight from elizabeth's day.... the story has its tragedy, but this is less dire, more reasonable than the tragedy is in too many of mr. phillpotts's other tales. the book is full of a very moving interest, and it is agreeable and beautiful."--_the new york sun._ by miss ellen glasgow the romance of a plain man "from the first she has had the power to tell a strong story, full of human interest, but as her work has continued it has shown an increasing mellowness and sympathy. the atmosphere of this book is fascinating indeed."--_chicago tribune._ by frank danby the heart of a child being passages from the early life of sally snape, lady kidderminster "'frank danby' has found herself. it is full of the old wit, the old humor, the old epigram, and the old knowledge of what i may call the bohemia of london; but it is also full of a new quality, the quality of imaginative tenderness and creative sympathy. it is delightful to watch the growth of human character either in life or in literature, and in 'the heart of a child' one can see the brilliancy of frank danby suddenly burgeoning into the wistfulness that makes cleverness soft and exquisite and delicate.... it is a mixture of naturalism and romance, and one detects in it the miraculous power ... of seeing things steadily and seeing them wholly, with relentless humor and pitiless pathos. the book is crowded with types, and they are all etched in with masterly fidelity of vision and sureness of touch, with feminine subtlety as well as virile audacity."--james douglas in _the star_, london. sebastian. a son of dreams. * * * * * mr. robert herrick's novels the gospel of freedom "a novel that may truly be called the greatest study of social life, in a broad and very much up-to-date sense, that has ever been contributed to american fiction."--_chicago inter-ocean._ the web of life "it is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of american life, and uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most artistically wrought out."--_buffalo express._ jock o' dreams, or the real world "the title of the book has a subtle intention. it indicates, and is true to the verities in doing so, the strange dreamlike quality of life to the man who has not yet fought his own battles, or come into conscious possession of his will--only such battles bite into the consciousness."--_chicago tribune._ the common lot "it grips the reader tremendously.... it is the drama of a human soul the reader watches ... the finest study of human motive that has appeared for many a day."--_the world to-day._ the memoirs of an american citizen. illustrated with about fifty drawings by f. b. masters. "mr. herrick's book is a book among many, and he comes nearer to reflecting a certain kind of recognizable, contemporaneous american spirit than anybody has yet done."--_new york times._ "intensely absorbing as a story, it is also a crisp, vigorous document of startling significance. more than any other writer to-day he is giving us the american novel."--_new york globe._ together "the thing is straight from life.... the spirit of the book is in the end bracing and quickening."--_chicago evening post._ "an able book, remarkably so, and one which should find a place in the library of any woman who is not a fool."--_new york american._ * * * * * mr. winston churchill's novels mr. crewe's career illustrated "another chapter in his broad, epical delineation of the american spirit.... it is an honest and fair story.... it is very interesting; and the heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any that has appeared in american novels for a long time past."--_the outlook_, new york. "shows mr. churchill at his best. the flavor of his humor is of that stimulating kind which asserts itself just the moment, as it were, after it has passed the palate.... as for victoria, she has that quality of vivid freshness, tenderness, and independence which makes so many modern american heroines delightful."--_the times_, london. the celebrity. an episode "no such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.... it is the purest, keenest fun."--_chicago inter-ocean._ richard carvel illustrated "... in breadth of canvas, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an american romance."--_chicago tribune._ the crossing illustrated "'the crossing' is a thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit."--_the dial._ the crisis illustrated "it is a charming love story, and never loses its interest.... the intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly."--_evening telegraph_, philadelphia. coniston illustrated "'coniston' has a lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than mr. churchill has ever achieved before.... it is one of the truest and finest transcripts of modern american life thus far achieved in our fiction."--_chicago record-herald._ transcribed from the methuen & co. ltd. edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org the importance of being earnest a trivial comedy for serious people the persons in the play john worthing, j.p. algernon moncrieff rev. canon chasuble, d.d. merriman, butler lane, manservant lady bracknell hon. gwendolen fairfax cecily cardew miss prism, governess the scenes of the play act i. algernon moncrieff's flat in half-moon street, w. act ii. the garden at the manor house, woolton. act iii. drawing-room at the manor house, woolton. time: the present. london: st. james's theatre lessee and manager: mr. george alexander february th, * * * * * john worthing, j.p.: mr. george alexander. algernon moncrieff: mr. allen aynesworth. rev. canon chasuble, d.d.: mr. h. h. vincent. merriman: mr. frank dyall. lane: mr. f. kinsey peile. lady bracknell: miss rose leclercq. hon. gwendolen fairfax: miss irene vanbrugh. cecily cardew: miss evelyn millard. miss prism: mrs. george canninge. first act scene morning-room in algernon's flat in half-moon street. the room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. the sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room. [lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased, algernon enters.] algernon. did you hear what i was playing, lane? lane. i didn't think it polite to listen, sir. algernon. i'm sorry for that, for your sake. i don't play accurately--any one can play accurately--but i play with wonderful expression. as far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. i keep science for life. lane. yes, sir. algernon. and, speaking of the science of life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cut for lady bracknell? lane. yes, sir. [hands them on a salver.] algernon. [inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] oh! . . . by the way, lane, i see from your book that on thursday night, when lord shoreman and mr. worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne are entered as having been consumed. lane. yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint. algernon. why is it that at a bachelor's establishment the servants invariably drink the champagne? i ask merely for information. lane. i attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. i have often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand. algernon. good heavens! is marriage so demoralising as that? lane. i believe it _is_ a very pleasant state, sir. i have had very little experience of it myself up to the present. i have only been married once. that was in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself and a young person. algernon. [languidly_._] i don't know that i am much interested in your family life, lane. lane. no, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. i never think of it myself. algernon. very natural, i am sure. that will do, lane, thank you. lane. thank you, sir. [lane goes out.] algernon. lane's views on marriage seem somewhat lax. really, if the lower orders don't set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? they seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility. [enter lane.] lane. mr. ernest worthing. [enter jack.] [lane goes out_._] algernon. how are you, my dear ernest? what brings you up to town? jack. oh, pleasure, pleasure! what else should bring one anywhere? eating as usual, i see, algy! algernon. [stiffly_._] i believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at five o'clock. where have you been since last thursday? jack. [sitting down on the sofa.] in the country. algernon. what on earth do you do there? jack. [pulling off his gloves_._] when one is in town one amuses oneself. when one is in the country one amuses other people. it is excessively boring. algernon. and who are the people you amuse? jack. [airily_._] oh, neighbours, neighbours. algernon. got nice neighbours in your part of shropshire? jack. perfectly horrid! never speak to one of them. algernon. how immensely you must amuse them! [goes over and takes sandwich.] by the way, shropshire is your county, is it not? jack. eh? shropshire? yes, of course. hallo! why all these cups? why cucumber sandwiches? why such reckless extravagance in one so young? who is coming to tea? algernon. oh! merely aunt augusta and gwendolen. jack. how perfectly delightful! algernon. yes, that is all very well; but i am afraid aunt augusta won't quite approve of your being here. jack. may i ask why? algernon. my dear fellow, the way you flirt with gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. it is almost as bad as the way gwendolen flirts with you. jack. i am in love with gwendolen. i have come up to town expressly to propose to her. algernon. i thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . i call that business. jack. how utterly unromantic you are! algernon. i really don't see anything romantic in proposing. it is very romantic to be in love. but there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. why, one may be accepted. one usually is, i believe. then the excitement is all over. the very essence of romance is uncertainty. if ever i get married, i'll certainly try to forget the fact. jack. i have no doubt about that, dear algy. the divorce court was specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted. algernon. oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. divorces are made in heaven--[jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. algernon at once interferes.] please don't touch the cucumber sandwiches. they are ordered specially for aunt augusta. [takes one and eats it.] jack. well, you have been eating them all the time. algernon. that is quite a different matter. she is my aunt. [takes plate from below.] have some bread and butter. the bread and butter is for gwendolen. gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter. jack. [advancing to table and helping himself.] and very good bread and butter it is too. algernon. well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. you behave as if you were married to her already. you are not married to her already, and i don't think you ever will be. jack. why on earth do you say that? algernon. well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. girls don't think it right. jack. oh, that is nonsense! algernon. it isn't. it is a great truth. it accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. in the second place, i don't give my consent. jack. your consent! algernon. my dear fellow, gwendolen is my first cousin. and before i allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of cecily. [rings bell.] jack. cecily! what on earth do you mean? what do you mean, algy, by cecily! i don't know any one of the name of cecily. [enter lane.] algernon. bring me that cigarette case mr. worthing left in the smoking- room the last time he dined here. lane. yes, sir. [lane goes out.] jack. do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? i wish to goodness you had let me know. i have been writing frantic letters to scotland yard about it. i was very nearly offering a large reward. algernon. well, i wish you would offer one. i happen to be more than usually hard up. jack. there is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found. [enter lane with the cigarette case on a salver. algernon takes it at once. lane goes out.] algernon. i think that is rather mean of you, ernest, i must say. [opens case and examines it.] however, it makes no matter, for, now that i look at the inscription inside, i find that the thing isn't yours after all. jack. of course it's mine. [moving to him.] you have seen me with it a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. it is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette case. algernon. oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. more than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read. jack. i am quite aware of the fact, and i don't propose to discuss modern culture. it isn't the sort of thing one should talk of in private. i simply want my cigarette case back. algernon. yes; but this isn't your cigarette case. this cigarette case is a present from some one of the name of cecily, and you said you didn't know any one of that name. jack. well, if you want to know, cecily happens to be my aunt. algernon. your aunt! jack. yes. charming old lady she is, too. lives at tunbridge wells. just give it back to me, algy. algernon. [retreating to back of sofa.] but why does she call herself little cecily if she is your aunt and lives at tunbridge wells? [reading.] 'from little cecily with her fondest love.' jack. [moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] my dear fellow, what on earth is there in that? some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. that is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. you seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! that is absurd! for heaven's sake give me back my cigarette case. [follows algernon round the room.] algernon. yes. but why does your aunt call you her uncle? 'from little cecily, with her fondest love to her dear uncle jack.' there is no objection, i admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, i can't quite make out. besides, your name isn't jack at all; it is ernest. jack. it isn't ernest; it's jack. algernon. you have always told me it was ernest. i have introduced you to every one as ernest. you answer to the name of ernest. you look as if your name was ernest. you are the most earnest-looking person i ever saw in my life. it is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn't ernest. it's on your cards. here is one of them. [taking it from case.] 'mr. ernest worthing, b. , the albany.' i'll keep this as a proof that your name is ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or to gwendolen, or to any one else. [puts the card in his pocket.] jack. well, my name is ernest in town and jack in the country, and the cigarette case was given to me in the country. algernon. yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small aunt cecily, who lives at tunbridge wells, calls you her dear uncle. come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once. jack. my dear algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. it is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist. it produces a false impression. algernon. well, that is exactly what dentists always do. now, go on! tell me the whole thing. i may mention that i have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret bunburyist; and i am quite sure of it now. jack. bunburyist? what on earth do you mean by a bunburyist? algernon. i'll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are ernest in town and jack in the country. jack. well, produce my cigarette case first. algernon. here it is. [hands cigarette case.] now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [sits on sofa.] jack. my dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. in fact it's perfectly ordinary. old mr. thomas cardew, who adopted me when i was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, miss cecily cardew. cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, miss prism. algernon. where is that place in the country, by the way? jack. that is nothing to you, dear boy. you are not going to be invited . . . i may tell you candidly that the place is not in shropshire. algernon. i suspected that, my dear fellow! i have bunburyed all over shropshire on two separate occasions. now, go on. why are you ernest in town and jack in the country? jack. my dear algy, i don't know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. you are hardly serious enough. when one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. it's one's duty to do so. and as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one's health or one's happiness, in order to get up to town i have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of ernest, who lives in the albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. that, my dear algy, is the whole truth pure and simple. algernon. the truth is rarely pure and never simple. modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility! jack. that wouldn't be at all a bad thing. algernon. literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. don't try it. you should leave that to people who haven't been at a university. they do it so well in the daily papers. what you really are is a bunburyist. i was quite right in saying you were a bunburyist. you are one of the most advanced bunburyists i know. jack. what on earth do you mean? algernon. you have invented a very useful younger brother called ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. i have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called bunbury, in order that i may be able to go down into the country whenever i choose. bunbury is perfectly invaluable. if it wasn't for bunbury's extraordinary bad health, for instance, i wouldn't be able to dine with you at willis's to- night, for i have been really engaged to aunt augusta for more than a week. jack. i haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night. algernon. i know. you are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. it is very foolish of you. nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations. jack. you had much better dine with your aunt augusta. algernon. i haven't the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. to begin with, i dined there on monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine with one's own relations. in the second place, whenever i do dine there i am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no woman at all, or two. in the third place, i know perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. she will place me next mary farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table. that is not very pleasant. indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. the amount of women in london who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. it looks so bad. it is simply washing one's clean linen in public. besides, now that i know you to be a confirmed bunburyist i naturally want to talk to you about bunburying. i want to tell you the rules. jack. i'm not a bunburyist at all. if gwendolen accepts me, i am going to kill my brother, indeed i think i'll kill him in any case. cecily is a little too much interested in him. it is rather a bore. so i am going to get rid of ernest. and i strongly advise you to do the same with mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name. algernon. nothing will induce me to part with bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know bunbury. a man who marries without knowing bunbury has a very tedious time of it. jack. that is nonsense. if i marry a charming girl like gwendolen, and she is the only girl i ever saw in my life that i would marry, i certainly won't want to know bunbury. algernon. then your wife will. you don't seem to realise, that in married life three is company and two is none. jack. [sententiously.] that, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt french drama has been propounding for the last fifty years. algernon. yes; and that the happy english home has proved in half the time. jack. for heaven's sake, don't try to be cynical. it's perfectly easy to be cynical. algernon. my dear fellow, it isn't easy to be anything nowadays. there's such a lot of beastly competition about. [the sound of an electric bell is heard.] ah! that must be aunt augusta. only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that wagnerian manner. now, if i get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to gwendolen, may i dine with you to-night at willis's? jack. i suppose so, if you want to. algernon. yes, but you must be serious about it. i hate people who are not serious about meals. it is so shallow of them. [enter lane.] lane. lady bracknell and miss fairfax. [algernon goes forward to meet them. enter lady bracknell and gwendolen.] lady bracknell. good afternoon, dear algernon, i hope you are behaving very well. algernon. i'm feeling very well, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. that's not quite the same thing. in fact the two things rarely go together. [sees jack and bows to him with icy coldness.] algernon. [to gwendolen.] dear me, you are smart! gwendolen. i am always smart! am i not, mr. worthing? jack. you're quite perfect, miss fairfax. gwendolen. oh! i hope i am not that. it would leave no room for developments, and i intend to develop in many directions. [gwendolen and jack sit down together in the corner.] lady bracknell. i'm sorry if we are a little late, algernon, but i was obliged to call on dear lady harbury. i hadn't been there since her poor husband's death. i never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger. and now i'll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me. algernon. certainly, aunt augusta. [goes over to tea-table.] lady bracknell. won't you come and sit here, gwendolen? gwendolen. thanks, mamma, i'm quite comfortable where i am. algernon. [picking up empty plate in horror.] good heavens! lane! why are there no cucumber sandwiches? i ordered them specially. lane. [gravely.] there were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. i went down twice. algernon. no cucumbers! lane. no, sir. not even for ready money. algernon. that will do, lane, thank you. lane. thank you, sir. [goes out.] algernon. i am greatly distressed, aunt augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money. lady bracknell. it really makes no matter, algernon. i had some crumpets with lady harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now. algernon. i hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief. lady bracknell. it certainly has changed its colour. from what cause i, of course, cannot say. [algernon crosses and hands tea.] thank you. i've quite a treat for you to-night, algernon. i am going to send you down with mary farquhar. she is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. it's delightful to watch them. algernon. i am afraid, aunt augusta, i shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you to-night after all. lady bracknell. [frowning.] i hope not, algernon. it would put my table completely out. your uncle would have to dine upstairs. fortunately he is accustomed to that. algernon. it is a great bore, and, i need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is i have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend bunbury is very ill again. [exchanges glances with jack.] they seem to think i should be with him. lady bracknell. it is very strange. this mr. bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health. algernon. yes; poor bunbury is a dreadful invalid. lady bracknell. well, i must say, algernon, that i think it is high time that mr. bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. this shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. nor do i in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. i consider it morbid. illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. health is the primary duty of life. i am always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailment goes. i should be much obliged if you would ask mr. bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on saturday, for i rely on you to arrange my music for me. it is my last reception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end of the season when every one has practically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much. algernon. i'll speak to bunbury, aunt augusta, if he is still conscious, and i think i can promise you he'll be all right by saturday. of course the music is a great difficulty. you see, if one plays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk. but i'll run over the programme i've drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment. lady bracknell. thank you, algernon. it is very thoughtful of you. [rising, and following algernon.] i'm sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. french songs i cannot possibly allow. people always seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. but german sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, i believe is so. gwendolen, you will accompany me. gwendolen. certainly, mamma. [lady bracknell and algernon go into the music-room, gwendolen remains behind.] jack. charming day it has been, miss fairfax. gwendolen. pray don't talk to me about the weather, mr. worthing. whenever people talk to me about the weather, i always feel quite certain that they mean something else. and that makes me so nervous. jack. i do mean something else. gwendolen. i thought so. in fact, i am never wrong. jack. and i would like to be allowed to take advantage of lady bracknell's temporary absence . . . gwendolen. i would certainly advise you to do so. mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that i have often had to speak to her about. jack. [nervously.] miss fairfax, ever since i met you i have admired you more than any girl . . . i have ever met since . . . i met you. gwendolen. yes, i am quite well aware of the fact. and i often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. for me you have always had an irresistible fascination. even before i met you i was far from indifferent to you. [jack looks at her in amazement.] we live, as i hope you know, mr. worthing, in an age of ideals. the fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, i am told; and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of ernest. there is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. the moment algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called ernest, i knew i was destined to love you. jack. you really love me, gwendolen? gwendolen. passionately! jack. darling! you don't know how happy you've made me. gwendolen. my own ernest! jack. but you don't really mean to say that you couldn't love me if my name wasn't ernest? gwendolen. but your name is ernest. jack. yes, i know it is. but supposing it was something else? do you mean to say you couldn't love me then? gwendolen. [glibly.] ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them. jack. personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, i don't much care about the name of ernest . . . i don't think the name suits me at all. gwendolen. it suits you perfectly. it is a divine name. it has a music of its own. it produces vibrations. jack. well, really, gwendolen, i must say that i think there are lots of other much nicer names. i think jack, for instance, a charming name. gwendolen. jack? . . . no, there is very little music in the name jack, if any at all, indeed. it does not thrill. it produces absolutely no vibrations . . . i have known several jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. besides, jack is a notorious domesticity for john! and i pity any woman who is married to a man called john. she would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment's solitude. the only really safe name is ernest. jack. gwendolen, i must get christened at once--i mean we must get married at once. there is no time to be lost. gwendolen. married, mr. worthing? jack. [astounded.] well . . . surely. you know that i love you, and you led me to believe, miss fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me. gwendolen. i adore you. but you haven't proposed to me yet. nothing has been said at all about marriage. the subject has not even been touched on. jack. well . . . may i propose to you now? gwendolen. i think it would be an admirable opportunity. and to spare you any possible disappointment, mr. worthing, i think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that i am fully determined to accept you. jack. gwendolen! gwendolen. yes, mr. worthing, what have you got to say to me? jack. you know what i have got to say to you. gwendolen. yes, but you don't say it. jack. gwendolen, will you marry me? [goes on his knees.] gwendolen. of course i will, darling. how long you have been about it! i am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose. jack. my own one, i have never loved any one in the world but you. gwendolen. yes, but men often propose for practice. i know my brother gerald does. all my girl-friends tell me so. what wonderfully blue eyes you have, ernest! they are quite, quite, blue. i hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present. [enter lady bracknell.] lady bracknell. mr. worthing! rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. it is most indecorous. gwendolen. mamma! [he tries to rise; she restrains him.] i must beg you to retire. this is no place for you. besides, mr. worthing has not quite finished yet. lady bracknell. finished what, may i ask? gwendolen. i am engaged to mr. worthing, mamma. [they rise together.] lady bracknell. pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. when you do become engaged to some one, i, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. an engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. it is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself . . . and now i have a few questions to put to you, mr. worthing. while i am making these inquiries, you, gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage. gwendolen. [reproachfully.] mamma! lady bracknell. in the carriage, gwendolen! [gwendolen goes to the door. she and jack blow kisses to each other behind lady bracknell's back. lady bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understand what the noise was. finally turns round.] gwendolen, the carriage! gwendolen. yes, mamma. [goes out, looking back at jack.] lady bracknell. [sitting down.] you can take a seat, mr. worthing. [looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.] jack. thank you, lady bracknell, i prefer standing. lady bracknell. [pencil and note-book in hand.] i feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although i have the same list as the dear duchess of bolton has. we work together, in fact. however, i am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. do you smoke? jack. well, yes, i must admit i smoke. lady bracknell. i am glad to hear it. a man should always have an occupation of some kind. there are far too many idle men in london as it is. how old are you? jack. twenty-nine. lady bracknell. a very good age to be married at. i have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. which do you know? jack. [after some hesitation.] i know nothing, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. i am pleased to hear it. i do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. the whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. fortunately in england, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. if it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in grosvenor square. what is your income? jack. between seven and eight thousand a year. lady bracknell. [makes a note in her book.] in land, or in investments? jack. in investments, chiefly. lady bracknell. that is satisfactory. what between the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. it gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. that's all that can be said about land. jack. i have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, i believe; but i don't depend on that for my real income. in fact, as far as i can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it. lady bracknell. a country house! how many bedrooms? well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. you have a town house, i hope? a girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country. jack. well, i own a house in belgrave square, but it is let by the year to lady bloxham. of course, i can get it back whenever i like, at six months' notice. lady bracknell. lady bloxham? i don't know her. jack. oh, she goes about very little. she is a lady considerably advanced in years. lady bracknell. ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. what number in belgrave square? jack. . lady bracknell. [shaking her head.] the unfashionable side. i thought there was something. however, that could easily be altered. jack. do you mean the fashion, or the side? lady bracknell. [sternly.] both, if necessary, i presume. what are your politics? jack. well, i am afraid i really have none. i am a liberal unionist. lady bracknell. oh, they count as tories. they dine with us. or come in the evening, at any rate. now to minor matters. are your parents living? jack. i have lost both my parents. lady bracknell. to lose one parent, mr. worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. who was your father? he was evidently a man of some wealth. was he born in what the radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy? jack. i am afraid i really don't know. the fact is, lady bracknell, i said i had lost my parents. it would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me . . . i don't actually know who i am by birth. i was . . . well, i was found. lady bracknell. found! jack. the late mr. thomas cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for worthing in his pocket at the time. worthing is a place in sussex. it is a seaside resort. lady bracknell. where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you? jack. [gravely.] in a hand-bag. lady bracknell. a hand-bag? jack. [very seriously.] yes, lady bracknell. i was in a hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it--an ordinary hand-bag in fact. lady bracknell. in what locality did this mr. james, or thomas, cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag? jack. in the cloak-room at victoria station. it was given to him in mistake for his own. lady bracknell. the cloak-room at victoria station? jack. yes. the brighton line. lady bracknell. the line is immaterial. mr. worthing, i confess i feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. to be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the french revolution. and i presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? as for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society. jack. may i ask you then what you would advise me to do? i need hardly say i would do anything in the world to ensure gwendolen's happiness. lady bracknell. i would strongly advise you, mr. worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over. jack. well, i don't see how i could possibly manage to do that. i can produce the hand-bag at any moment. it is in my dressing-room at home. i really think that should satisfy you, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. me, sir! what has it to do with me? you can hardly imagine that i and lord bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a cloak- room, and form an alliance with a parcel? good morning, mr. worthing! [lady bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.] jack. good morning! [algernon, from the other room, strikes up the wedding march. jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] for goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, algy. how idiotic you are! [the music stops and algernon enters cheerily.] algernon. didn't it go off all right, old boy? you don't mean to say gwendolen refused you? i know it is a way she has. she is always refusing people. i think it is most ill-natured of her. jack. oh, gwendolen is as right as a trivet. as far as she is concerned, we are engaged. her mother is perfectly unbearable. never met such a gorgon . . . i don't really know what a gorgon is like, but i am quite sure that lady bracknell is one. in any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . i beg your pardon, algy, i suppose i shouldn't talk about your own aunt in that way before you. algernon. my dear boy, i love hearing my relations abused. it is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all. relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven't got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die. jack. oh, that is nonsense! algernon. it isn't! jack. well, i won't argue about the matter. you always want to argue about things. algernon. that is exactly what things were originally made for. jack. upon my word, if i thought that, i'd shoot myself . . . [a pause.] you don't think there is any chance of gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, algy? algernon. all women become like their mothers. that is their tragedy. no man does. that's his. jack. is that clever? algernon. it is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilised life should be. jack. i am sick to death of cleverness. everybody is clever nowadays. you can't go anywhere without meeting clever people. the thing has become an absolute public nuisance. i wish to goodness we had a few fools left. algernon. we have. jack. i should extremely like to meet them. what do they talk about? algernon. the fools? oh! about the clever people, of course. jack. what fools! algernon. by the way, did you tell gwendolen the truth about your being ernest in town, and jack in the country? jack. [in a very patronising manner.] my dear fellow, the truth isn't quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. what extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman! algernon. the only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain. jack. oh, that is nonsense. algernon. what about your brother? what about the profligate ernest? jack. oh, before the end of the week i shall have got rid of him. i'll say he died in paris of apoplexy. lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don't they? algernon. yes, but it's hereditary, my dear fellow. it's a sort of thing that runs in families. you had much better say a severe chill. jack. you are sure a severe chill isn't hereditary, or anything of that kind? algernon. of course it isn't! jack. very well, then. my poor brother ernest to carried off suddenly, in paris, by a severe chill. that gets rid of him. algernon. but i thought you said that . . . miss cardew was a little too much interested in your poor brother ernest? won't she feel his loss a good deal? jack. oh, that is all right. cecily is not a silly romantic girl, i am glad to say. she has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons. algernon. i would rather like to see cecily. jack. i will take very good care you never do. she is excessively pretty, and she is only just eighteen. algernon. have you told gwendolen yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who is only just eighteen? jack. oh! one doesn't blurt these things out to people. cecily and gwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. i'll bet you anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other sister. algernon. women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first. now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at willis's, we really must go and dress. do you know it is nearly seven? jack. [irritably.] oh! it always is nearly seven. algernon. well, i'm hungry. jack. i never knew you when you weren't . . . algernon. what shall we do after dinner? go to a theatre? jack. oh no! i loathe listening. algernon. well, let us go to the club? jack. oh, no! i hate talking. algernon. well, we might trot round to the empire at ten? jack. oh, no! i can't bear looking at things. it is so silly. algernon. well, what shall we do? jack. nothing! algernon. it is awfully hard work doing nothing. however, i don't mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind. [enter lane.] lane. miss fairfax. [enter gwendolen. lane goes out.] algernon. gwendolen, upon my word! gwendolen. algy, kindly turn your back. i have something very particular to say to mr. worthing. algernon. really, gwendolen, i don't think i can allow this at all. gwendolen. algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. you are not quite old enough to do that. [algernon retires to the fireplace.] jack. my own darling! gwendolen. ernest, we may never be married. from the expression on mamma's face i fear we never shall. few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. the old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out. whatever influence i ever had over mamma, i lost at the age of three. but although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and i may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you. jack. dear gwendolen! gwendolen. the story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. your christian name has an irresistible fascination. the simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. your town address at the albany i have. what is your address in the country? jack. the manor house, woolton, hertfordshire. [algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. then picks up the railway guide.] gwendolen. there is a good postal service, i suppose? it may be necessary to do something desperate. that of course will require serious consideration. i will communicate with you daily. jack. my own one! gwendolen. how long do you remain in town? jack. till monday. gwendolen. good! algy, you may turn round now. algernon. thanks, i've turned round already. gwendolen. you may also ring the bell. jack. you will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling? gwendolen. certainly. jack. [to lane, who now enters.] i will see miss fairfax out. lane. yes, sir. [jack and gwendolen go off.] [lane presents several letters on a salver to algernon. it is to be surmised that they are bills, as algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.] algernon. a glass of sherry, lane. lane. yes, sir. algernon. to-morrow, lane, i'm going bunburying. lane. yes, sir. algernon. i shall probably not be back till monday. you can put up my dress clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the bunbury suits . . . lane. yes, sir. [handing sherry.] algernon. i hope to-morrow will be a fine day, lane. lane. it never is, sir. algernon. lane, you're a perfect pessimist. lane. i do my best to give satisfaction, sir. [enter jack. lane goes off.] jack. there's a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl i ever cared for in my life. [algernon is laughing immoderately.] what on earth are you so amused at? algernon. oh, i'm a little anxious about poor bunbury, that is all. jack. if you don't take care, your friend bunbury will get you into a serious scrape some day. algernon. i love scrapes. they are the only things that are never serious. jack. oh, that's nonsense, algy. you never talk anything but nonsense. algernon. nobody ever does. [jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. algernon lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.] act drop second act scene garden at the manor house. a flight of grey stone steps leads up to the house. the garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. time of year, july. basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large yew-tree. [miss prism discovered seated at the table. cecily is at the back watering flowers.] miss prism. [calling.] cecily, cecily! surely such a utilitarian occupation as the watering of flowers is rather moulton's duty than yours? especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. your german grammar is on the table. pray open it at page fifteen. we will repeat yesterday's lesson. cecily. [coming over very slowly.] but i don't like german. it isn't at all a becoming language. i know perfectly well that i look quite plain after my german lesson. miss prism. child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve yourself in every way. he laid particular stress on your german, as he was leaving for town yesterday. indeed, he always lays stress on your german when he is leaving for town. cecily. dear uncle jack is so very serious! sometimes he is so serious that i think he cannot be quite well. miss prism. [drawing herself up.] your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so comparatively young as he is. i know no one who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility. cecily. i suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are together. miss prism. cecily! i am surprised at you. mr. worthing has many troubles in his life. idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his conversation. you must remember his constant anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother. cecily. i wish uncle jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother, to come down here sometimes. we might have a good influence over him, miss prism. i am sure you certainly would. you know german, and geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [cecily begins to write in her diary.] miss prism. [shaking her head.] i do not think that even i could produce any effect on a character that according to his own brother's admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. indeed i am not sure that i would desire to reclaim him. i am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people at a moment's notice. as a man sows so let him reap. you must put away your diary, cecily. i really don't see why you should keep a diary at all. cecily. i keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. if i didn't write them down, i should probably forget all about them. miss prism. memory, my dear cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us. cecily. yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn't possibly have happened. i believe that memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that mudie sends us. miss prism. do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, cecily. i wrote one myself in earlier days. cecily. did you really, miss prism? how wonderfully clever you are! i hope it did not end happily? i don't like novels that end happily. they depress me so much. miss prism. the good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. that is what fiction means. cecily. i suppose so. but it seems very unfair. and was your novel ever published? miss prism. alas! no. the manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. [cecily starts.] i use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. to your work, child, these speculations are profitless. cecily. [smiling.] but i see dear dr. chasuble coming up through the garden. miss prism. [rising and advancing.] dr. chasuble! this is indeed a pleasure. [enter canon chasuble.] chasuble. and how are we this morning? miss prism, you are, i trust, well? cecily. miss prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. i think it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the park, dr. chasuble. miss prism. cecily, i have not mentioned anything about a headache. cecily. no, dear miss prism, i know that, but i felt instinctively that you had a headache. indeed i was thinking about that, and not about my german lesson, when the rector came in. chasuble. i hope, cecily, you are not inattentive. cecily. oh, i am afraid i am. chasuble. that is strange. were i fortunate enough to be miss prism's pupil, i would hang upon her lips. [miss prism glares.] i spoke metaphorically.--my metaphor was drawn from bees. ahem! mr. worthing, i suppose, has not returned from town yet? miss prism. we do not expect him till monday afternoon. chasuble. ah yes, he usually likes to spend his sunday in london. he is not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. but i must not disturb egeria and her pupil any longer. miss prism. egeria? my name is laetitia, doctor. chasuble. [bowing.] a classical allusion merely, drawn from the pagan authors. i shall see you both no doubt at evensong? miss prism. i think, dear doctor, i will have a stroll with you. i find i have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good. chasuble. with pleasure, miss prism, with pleasure. we might go as far as the schools and back. miss prism. that would be delightful. cecily, you will read your political economy in my absence. the chapter on the fall of the rupee you may omit. it is somewhat too sensational. even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side. [goes down the garden with dr. chasuble.] cecily. [picks up books and throws them back on table.] horrid political economy! horrid geography! horrid, horrid german! [enter merriman with a card on a salver.] merriman. mr. ernest worthing has just driven over from the station. he has brought his luggage with him. cecily. [takes the card and reads it.] 'mr. ernest worthing, b. , the albany, w.' uncle jack's brother! did you tell him mr. worthing was in town? merriman. yes, miss. he seemed very much disappointed. i mentioned that you and miss prism were in the garden. he said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment. cecily. ask mr. ernest worthing to come here. i suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him. merriman. yes, miss. [merriman goes off.] cecily. i have never met any really wicked person before. i feel rather frightened. i am so afraid he will look just like every one else. [enter algernon, very gay and debonnair.] he does! algernon. [raising his hat.] you are my little cousin cecily, i'm sure. cecily. you are under some strange mistake. i am not little. in fact, i believe i am more than usually tall for my age. [algernon is rather taken aback.] but i am your cousin cecily. you, i see from your card, are uncle jack's brother, my cousin ernest, my wicked cousin ernest. algernon. oh! i am not really wicked at all, cousin cecily. you mustn't think that i am wicked. cecily. if you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner. i hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. that would be hypocrisy. algernon. [looks at her in amazement.] oh! of course i have been rather reckless. cecily. i am glad to hear it. algernon. in fact, now you mention the subject, i have been very bad in my own small way. cecily. i don't think you should be so proud of that, though i am sure it must have been very pleasant. algernon. it is much pleasanter being here with you. cecily. i can't understand how you are here at all. uncle jack won't be back till monday afternoon. algernon. that is a great disappointment. i am obliged to go up by the first train on monday morning. i have a business appointment that i am anxious . . . to miss? cecily. couldn't you miss it anywhere but in london? algernon. no: the appointment is in london. cecily. well, i know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but still i think you had better wait till uncle jack arrives. i know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating. algernon. about my what? cecily. your emigrating. he has gone up to buy your outfit. algernon. i certainly wouldn't let jack buy my outfit. he has no taste in neckties at all. cecily. i don't think you will require neckties. uncle jack is sending you to australia. algernon. australia! i'd sooner die. cecily. well, he said at dinner on wednesday night, that you would have to choose between this world, the next world, and australia. algernon. oh, well! the accounts i have received of australia and the next world, are not particularly encouraging. this world is good enough for me, cousin cecily. cecily. yes, but are you good enough for it? algernon. i'm afraid i'm not that. that is why i want you to reform me. you might make that your mission, if you don't mind, cousin cecily. cecily. i'm afraid i've no time, this afternoon. algernon. well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon? cecily. it is rather quixotic of you. but i think you should try. algernon. i will. i feel better already. cecily. you are looking a little worse. algernon. that is because i am hungry. cecily. how thoughtless of me. i should have remembered that when one is going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals. won't you come in? algernon. thank you. might i have a buttonhole first? i never have any appetite unless i have a buttonhole first. cecily. a marechal niel? [picks up scissors.] algernon. no, i'd sooner have a pink rose. cecily. why? [cuts a flower.] algernon. because you are like a pink rose, cousin cecily. cecily. i don't think it can be right for you to talk to me like that. miss prism never says such things to me. algernon. then miss prism is a short-sighted old lady. [cecily puts the rose in his buttonhole.] you are the prettiest girl i ever saw. cecily. miss prism says that all good looks are a snare. algernon. they are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in. cecily. oh, i don't think i would care to catch a sensible man. i shouldn't know what to talk to him about. [they pass into the house. miss prism and dr. chasuble return.] miss prism. you are too much alone, dear dr. chasuble. you should get married. a misanthrope i can understand--a womanthrope, never! chasuble. [with a scholar's shudder.] believe me, i do not deserve so neologistic a phrase. the precept as well as the practice of the primitive church was distinctly against matrimony. miss prism. [sententiously.] that is obviously the reason why the primitive church has not lasted up to the present day. and you do not seem to realise, dear doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation. men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray. chasuble. but is a man not equally attractive when married? miss prism. no married man is ever attractive except to his wife. chasuble. and often, i've been told, not even to her. miss prism. that depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman. maturity can always be depended on. ripeness can be trusted. young women are green. [dr. chasuble starts.] i spoke horticulturally. my metaphor was drawn from fruits. but where is cecily? chasuble. perhaps she followed us to the schools. [enter jack slowly from the back of the garden. he is dressed in the deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.] miss prism. mr. worthing! chasuble. mr. worthing? miss prism. this is indeed a surprise. we did not look for you till monday afternoon. jack. [shakes miss prism's hand in a tragic manner.] i have returned sooner than i expected. dr. chasuble, i hope you are well? chasuble. dear mr. worthing, i trust this garb of woe does not betoken some terrible calamity? jack. my brother. miss prism. more shameful debts and extravagance? chasuble. still leading his life of pleasure? jack. [shaking his head.] dead! chasuble. your brother ernest dead? jack. quite dead. miss prism. what a lesson for him! i trust he will profit by it. chasuble. mr. worthing, i offer you my sincere condolence. you have at least the consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and forgiving of brothers. jack. poor ernest! he had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow. chasuble. very sad indeed. were you with him at the end? jack. no. he died abroad; in paris, in fact. i had a telegram last night from the manager of the grand hotel. chasuble. was the cause of death mentioned? jack. a severe chill, it seems. miss prism. as a man sows, so shall he reap. chasuble. [raising his hand.] charity, dear miss prism, charity! none of us are perfect. i myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. will the interment take place here? jack. no. he seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in paris. chasuble. in paris! [shakes his head.] i fear that hardly points to any very serious state of mind at the last. you would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next sunday. [jack presses his hand convulsively.] my sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. [all sigh.] i have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. the last time i delivered it was in the cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the society for the prevention of discontent among the upper orders. the bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies i drew. jack. ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings i think, dr. chasuble? i suppose you know how to christen all right? [dr. chasuble looks astounded.] i mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren't you? miss prism. it is, i regret to say, one of the rector's most constant duties in this parish. i have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject. but they don't seem to know what thrift is. chasuble. but is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, mr. worthing? your brother was, i believe, unmarried, was he not? jack. oh yes. miss prism. [bitterly.] people who live entirely for pleasure usually are. jack. but it is not for any child, dear doctor. i am very fond of children. no! the fact is, i would like to be christened myself, this afternoon, if you have nothing better to do. chasuble. but surely, mr. worthing, you have been christened already? jack. i don't remember anything about it. chasuble. but have you any grave doubts on the subject? jack. i certainly intend to have. of course i don't know if the thing would bother you in any way, or if you think i am a little too old now. chasuble. not at all. the sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a perfectly canonical practice. jack. immersion! chasuble. you need have no apprehensions. sprinkling is all that is necessary, or indeed i think advisable. our weather is so changeable. at what hour would you wish the ceremony performed? jack. oh, i might trot round about five if that would suit you. chasuble. perfectly, perfectly! in fact i have two similar ceremonies to perform at that time. a case of twins that occurred recently in one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. poor jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man. jack. oh! i don't see much fun in being christened along with other babies. it would be childish. would half-past five do? chasuble. admirably! admirably! [takes out watch.] and now, dear mr. worthing, i will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. i would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. what seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. miss prism. this seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind. [enter cecily from the house.] cecily. uncle jack! oh, i am pleased to see you back. but what horrid clothes you have got on! do go and change them. miss prism. cecily! chasuble. my child! my child! [cecily goes towards jack; he kisses her brow in a melancholy manner.] cecily. what is the matter, uncle jack? do look happy! you look as if you had toothache, and i have got such a surprise for you. who do you think is in the dining-room? your brother! jack. who? cecily. your brother ernest. he arrived about half an hour ago. jack. what nonsense! i haven't got a brother. cecily. oh, don't say that. however badly he may have behaved to you in the past he is still your brother. you couldn't be so heartless as to disown him. i'll tell him to come out. and you will shake hands with him, won't you, uncle jack? [runs back into the house.] chasuble. these are very joyful tidings. miss prism. after we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to me peculiarly distressing. jack. my brother is in the dining-room? i don't know what it all means. i think it is perfectly absurd. [enter algernon and cecily hand in hand. they come slowly up to jack.] jack. good heavens! [motions algernon away.] algernon. brother john, i have come down from town to tell you that i am very sorry for all the trouble i have given you, and that i intend to lead a better life in the future. [jack glares at him and does not take his hand.] cecily. uncle jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother's hand? jack. nothing will induce me to take his hand. i think his coming down here disgraceful. he knows perfectly well why. cecily. uncle jack, do be nice. there is some good in every one. ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend mr. bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. and surely there must be much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of london to sit by a bed of pain. jack. oh! he has been talking about bunbury, has he? cecily. yes, he has told me all about poor mr. bunbury, and his terrible state of health. jack. bunbury! well, i won't have him talk to you about bunbury or about anything else. it is enough to drive one perfectly frantic. algernon. of course i admit that the faults were all on my side. but i must say that i think that brother john's coldness to me is peculiarly painful. i expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is the first time i have come here. cecily. uncle jack, if you don't shake hands with ernest i will never forgive you. jack. never forgive me? cecily. never, never, never! jack. well, this is the last time i shall ever do it. [shakes with algernon and glares.] chasuble. it's pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? i think we might leave the two brothers together. miss prism. cecily, you will come with us. cecily. certainly, miss prism. my little task of reconciliation is over. chasuble. you have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child. miss prism. we must not be premature in our judgments. cecily. i feel very happy. [they all go off except jack and algernon.] jack. you young scoundrel, algy, you must get out of this place as soon as possible. i don't allow any bunburying here. [enter merriman.] merriman. i have put mr. ernest's things in the room next to yours, sir. i suppose that is all right? jack. what? merriman. mr. ernest's luggage, sir. i have unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own. jack. his luggage? merriman. yes, sir. three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a large luncheon-basket. algernon. i am afraid i can't stay more than a week this time. jack. merriman, order the dog-cart at once. mr. ernest has been suddenly called back to town. merriman. yes, sir. [goes back into the house.] algernon. what a fearful liar you are, jack. i have not been called back to town at all. jack. yes, you have. algernon. i haven't heard any one call me. jack. your duty as a gentleman calls you back. algernon. my duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the smallest degree. jack. i can quite understand that. algernon. well, cecily is a darling. jack. you are not to talk of miss cardew like that. i don't like it. algernon. well, i don't like your clothes. you look perfectly ridiculous in them. why on earth don't you go up and change? it is perfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a guest. i call it grotesque. jack. you are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or anything else. you have got to leave . . . by the four-five train. algernon. i certainly won't leave you so long as you are in mourning. it would be most unfriendly. if i were in mourning you would stay with me, i suppose. i should think it very unkind if you didn't. jack. well, will you go if i change my clothes? algernon. yes, if you are not too long. i never saw anybody take so long to dress, and with such little result. jack. well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you are. algernon. if i am occasionally a little over-dressed, i make up for it by being always immensely over-educated. jack. your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in my garden utterly absurd. however, you have got to catch the four-five, and i hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town. this bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you. [goes into the house.] algernon. i think it has been a great success. i'm in love with cecily, and that is everything. [enter cecily at the back of the garden. she picks up the can and begins to water the flowers.] but i must see her before i go, and make arrangements for another bunbury. ah, there she is. cecily. oh, i merely came back to water the roses. i thought you were with uncle jack. algernon. he's gone to order the dog-cart for me. cecily. oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive? algernon. he's going to send me away. cecily. then have we got to part? algernon. i am afraid so. it's a very painful parting. cecily. it is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. the absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. but even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable. algernon. thank you. [enter merriman.] merriman. the dog-cart is at the door, sir. [algernon looks appealingly at cecily.] cecily. it can wait, merriman for . . . five minutes. merriman. yes, miss. [exit merriman.] algernon. i hope, cecily, i shall not offend you if i state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection. cecily. i think your frankness does you great credit, ernest. if you will allow me, i will copy your remarks into my diary. [goes over to table and begins writing in diary.] algernon. do you really keep a diary? i'd give anything to look at it. may i? cecily. oh no. [puts her hand over it.] you see, it is simply a very young girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. when it appears in volume form i hope you will order a copy. but pray, ernest, don't stop. i delight in taking down from dictation. i have reached 'absolute perfection'. you can go on. i am quite ready for more. algernon. [somewhat taken aback.] ahem! ahem! cecily. oh, don't cough, ernest. when one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. besides, i don't know how to spell a cough. [writes as algernon speaks.] algernon. [speaking very rapidly.] cecily, ever since i first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, i have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. cecily. i don't think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. hopelessly doesn't seem to make much sense, does it? algernon. cecily! [enter merriman.] merriman. the dog-cart is waiting, sir. algernon. tell it to come round next week, at the same hour. merriman. [looks at cecily, who makes no sign.] yes, sir. [merriman retires.] cecily. uncle jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week, at the same hour. algernon. oh, i don't care about jack. i don't care for anybody in the whole world but you. i love you, cecily. you will marry me, won't you? cecily. you silly boy! of course. why, we have been engaged for the last three months. algernon. for the last three months? cecily. yes, it will be exactly three months on thursday. algernon. but how did we become engaged? cecily. well, ever since dear uncle jack first confessed to us that he had a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself and miss prism. and of course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. one feels there must be something in him, after all. i daresay it was foolish of me, but i fell in love with you, ernest. algernon. darling! and when was the engagement actually settled? cecily. on the th of february last. worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, i determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself i accepted you under this dear old tree here. the next day i bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover's knot i promised you always to wear. algernon. did i give you this? it's very pretty, isn't it? cecily. yes, you've wonderfully good taste, ernest. it's the excuse i've always given for your leading such a bad life. and this is the box in which i keep all your dear letters. [kneels at table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.] algernon. my letters! but, my own sweet cecily, i have never written you any letters. cecily. you need hardly remind me of that, ernest. i remember only too well that i was forced to write your letters for you. i wrote always three times a week, and sometimes oftener. algernon. oh, do let me read them, cecily? cecily. oh, i couldn't possibly. they would make you far too conceited. [replaces box.] the three you wrote me after i had broken off the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now i can hardly read them without crying a little. algernon. but was our engagement ever broken off? cecily. of course it was. on the nd of last march. you can see the entry if you like. [shows diary.] 'to-day i broke off my engagement with ernest. i feel it is better to do so. the weather still continues charming.' algernon. but why on earth did you break it off? what had i done? i had done nothing at all. cecily, i am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. particularly when the weather was so charming. cecily. it would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn't been broken off at least once. but i forgave you before the week was out. algernon. [crossing to her, and kneeling.] what a perfect angel you are, cecily. cecily. you dear romantic boy. [he kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.] i hope your hair curls naturally, does it? algernon. yes, darling, with a little help from others. cecily. i am so glad. algernon. you'll never break off our engagement again, cecily? cecily. i don't think i could break it off now that i have actually met you. besides, of course, there is the question of your name. algernon. yes, of course. [nervously.] cecily. you must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was ernest. [algernon rises, cecily also.] there is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. i pity any poor married woman whose husband is not called ernest. algernon. but, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if i had some other name? cecily. but what name? algernon. oh, any name you like--algernon--for instance . . . cecily. but i don't like the name of algernon. algernon. well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, i really can't see why you should object to the name of algernon. it is not at all a bad name. in fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. half of the chaps who get into the bankruptcy court are called algernon. but seriously, cecily . . . [moving to her] . . . if my name was algy, couldn't you love me? cecily. [rising.] i might respect you, ernest, i might admire your character, but i fear that i should not be able to give you my undivided attention. algernon. ahem! cecily! [picking up hat.] your rector here is, i suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials of the church? cecily. oh, yes. dr. chasuble is a most learned man. he has never written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows. algernon. i must see him at once on a most important christening--i mean on most important business. cecily. oh! algernon. i shan't be away more than half an hour. cecily. considering that we have been engaged since february the th, and that i only met you to-day for the first time, i think it is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour. couldn't you make it twenty minutes? algernon. i'll be back in no time. [kisses her and rushes down the garden.] cecily. what an impetuous boy he is! i like his hair so much. i must enter his proposal in my diary. [enter merriman.] merriman. a miss fairfax has just called to see mr. worthing. on very important business, miss fairfax states. cecily. isn't mr. worthing in his library? merriman. mr. worthing went over in the direction of the rectory some time ago. cecily. pray ask the lady to come out here; mr. worthing is sure to be back soon. and you can bring tea. merriman. yes, miss. [goes out.] cecily. miss fairfax! i suppose one of the many good elderly women who are associated with uncle jack in some of his philanthropic work in london. i don't quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. i think it is so forward of them. [enter merriman.] merriman. miss fairfax. [enter gwendolen.] [exit merriman.] cecily. [advancing to meet her.] pray let me introduce myself to you. my name is cecily cardew. gwendolen. cecily cardew? [moving to her and shaking hands.] what a very sweet name! something tells me that we are going to be great friends. i like you already more than i can say. my first impressions of people are never wrong. cecily. how nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such a comparatively short time. pray sit down. gwendolen. [still standing up.] i may call you cecily, may i not? cecily. with pleasure! gwendolen. and you will always call me gwendolen, won't you? cecily. if you wish. gwendolen. then that is all quite settled, is it not? cecily. i hope so. [a pause. they both sit down together.] gwendolen. perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who i am. my father is lord bracknell. you have never heard of papa, i suppose? cecily. i don't think so. gwendolen. outside the family circle, papa, i am glad to say, is entirely unknown. i think that is quite as it should be. the home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. and certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? and i don't like that. it makes men so very attractive. cecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses? cecily. oh! not at all, gwendolen. i am very fond of being looked at. gwendolen. [after examining cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] you are here on a short visit, i suppose. cecily. oh no! i live here. gwendolen. [severely.] really? your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of advanced years, resides here also? cecily. oh no! i have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations. gwendolen. indeed? cecily. my dear guardian, with the assistance of miss prism, has the arduous task of looking after me. gwendolen. your guardian? cecily. yes, i am mr. worthing's ward. gwendolen. oh! it is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. how secretive of him! he grows more interesting hourly. i am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight. [rising and going to her.] i am very fond of you, cecily; i have liked you ever since i met you! but i am bound to state that now that i know that you are mr. worthing's ward, i cannot help expressing a wish you were--well, just a little older than you seem to be--and not quite so very alluring in appearance. in fact, if i may speak candidly-- cecily. pray do! i think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one should always be quite candid. gwendolen. well, to speak with perfect candour, cecily, i wish that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. ernest has a strong upright nature. he is the very soul of truth and honour. disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. but even men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. modern, no less than ancient history, supplies us with many most painful examples of what i refer to. if it were not so, indeed, history would be quite unreadable. cecily. i beg your pardon, gwendolen, did you say ernest? gwendolen. yes. cecily. oh, but it is not mr. ernest worthing who is my guardian. it is his brother--his elder brother. gwendolen. [sitting down again.] ernest never mentioned to me that he had a brother. cecily. i am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time. gwendolen. ah! that accounts for it. and now that i think of it i have never heard any man mention his brother. the subject seems distasteful to most men. cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. i was growing almost anxious. it would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not mr. ernest worthing who is your guardian? cecily. quite sure. [a pause.] in fact, i am going to be his. gwendolen. [inquiringly.] i beg your pardon? cecily. [rather shy and confidingly.] dearest gwendolen, there is no reason why i should make a secret of it to you. our little county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. mr. ernest worthing and i are engaged to be married. gwendolen. [quite politely, rising.] my darling cecily, i think there must be some slight error. mr. ernest worthing is engaged to me. the announcement will appear in the _morning post_ on saturday at the latest. cecily. [very politely, rising.] i am afraid you must be under some misconception. ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [shows diary.] gwendolen. [examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] it is certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at . . if you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [produces diary of her own.] i never travel without my diary. one should always have something sensational to read in the train. i am so sorry, dear cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but i am afraid i have the prior claim. cecily. it would distress me more than i can tell you, dear gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but i feel bound to point out that since ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind. gwendolen. [meditatively.] if the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish promise i shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a firm hand. cecily. [thoughtfully and sadly.] whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy may have got into, i will never reproach him with it after we are married. gwendolen. do you allude to me, miss cardew, as an entanglement? you are presumptuous. on an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one's mind. it becomes a pleasure. cecily. do you suggest, miss fairfax, that i entrapped ernest into an engagement? how dare you? this is no time for wearing the shallow mask of manners. when i see a spade i call it a spade. gwendolen. [satirically.] i am glad to say that i have never seen a spade. it is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different. [enter merriman, followed by the footman. he carries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. cecily is about to retort. the presence of the servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.] merriman. shall i lay tea here as usual, miss? cecily. [sternly, in a calm voice.] yes, as usual. [merriman begins to clear table and lay cloth. a long pause. cecily and gwendolen glare at each other.] gwendolen. are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, miss cardew? cecily. oh! yes! a great many. from the top of one of the hills quite close one can see five counties. gwendolen. five counties! i don't think i should like that; i hate crowds. cecily. [sweetly.] i suppose that is why you live in town? [gwendolen bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.] gwendolen. [looking round.] quite a well-kept garden this is, miss cardew. cecily. so glad you like it, miss fairfax. gwendolen. i had no idea there were any flowers in the country. cecily. oh, flowers are as common here, miss fairfax, as people are in london. gwendolen. personally i cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. the country always bores me to death. cecily. ah! this is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? i believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. it is almost an epidemic amongst them, i have been told. may i offer you some tea, miss fairfax? gwendolen. [with elaborate politeness.] thank you. [aside.] detestable girl! but i require tea! cecily. [sweetly.] sugar? gwendolen. [superciliously.] no, thank you. sugar is not fashionable any more. [cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of sugar into the cup.] cecily. [severely.] cake or bread and butter? gwendolen. [in a bored manner.] bread and butter, please. cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays. cecily. [cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] hand that to miss fairfax. [merriman does so, and goes out with footman. gwendolen drinks the tea and makes a grimace. puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. rises in indignation.] gwendolen. you have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though i asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. i am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but i warn you, miss cardew, you may go too far. cecily. [rising.] to save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which i would not go. gwendolen. from the moment i saw you i distrusted you. i felt that you were false and deceitful. i am never deceived in such matters. my first impressions of people are invariably right. cecily. it seems to me, miss fairfax, that i am trespassing on your valuable time. no doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in the neighbourhood. [enter jack.] gwendolen. [catching sight of him.] ernest! my own ernest! jack. gwendolen! darling! [offers to kiss her.] gwendolen. [draws back.] a moment! may i ask if you are engaged to be married to this young lady? [points to cecily.] jack. [laughing.] to dear little cecily! of course not! what could have put such an idea into your pretty little head? gwendolen. thank you. you may! [offers her cheek.] cecily. [very sweetly.] i knew there must be some misunderstanding, miss fairfax. the gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my guardian, mr. john worthing. gwendolen. i beg your pardon? cecily. this is uncle jack. gwendolen. [receding.] jack! oh! [enter algernon.] cecily. here is ernest. algernon. [goes straight over to cecily without noticing any one else.] my own love! [offers to kiss her.] cecily. [drawing back.] a moment, ernest! may i ask you--are you engaged to be married to this young lady? algernon. [looking round.] to what young lady? good heavens! gwendolen! cecily. yes! to good heavens, gwendolen, i mean to gwendolen. algernon. [laughing.] of course not! what could have put such an idea into your pretty little head? cecily. thank you. [presenting her cheek to be kissed.] you may. [algernon kisses her.] gwendolen. i felt there was some slight error, miss cardew. the gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, mr. algernon moncrieff. cecily. [breaking away from algernon.] algernon moncrieff! oh! [the two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each other's waists as if for protection.] cecily. are you called algernon? algernon. i cannot deny it. cecily. oh! gwendolen. is your name really john? jack. [standing rather proudly.] i could deny it if i liked. i could deny anything if i liked. but my name certainly is john. it has been john for years. cecily. [to gwendolen.] a gross deception has been practised on both of us. gwendolen. my poor wounded cecily! cecily. my sweet wronged gwendolen! gwendolen. [slowly and seriously.] you will call me sister, will you not? [they embrace. jack and algernon groan and walk up and down.] cecily. [rather brightly.] there is just one question i would like to be allowed to ask my guardian. gwendolen. an admirable idea! mr. worthing, there is just one question i would like to be permitted to put to you. where is your brother ernest? we are both engaged to be married to your brother ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother ernest is at present. jack. [slowly and hesitatingly.] gwendolen--cecily--it is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. it is the first time in my life that i have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and i am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. however, i will tell you quite frankly that i have no brother ernest. i have no brother at all. i never had a brother in my life, and i certainly have not the smallest intention of ever having one in the future. cecily. [surprised.] no brother at all? jack. [cheerily.] none! gwendolen. [severely.] had you never a brother of any kind? jack. [pleasantly.] never. not even of any kind. gwendolen. i am afraid it is quite clear, cecily, that neither of us is engaged to be married to any one. cecily. it is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herself in. is it? gwendolen. let us go into the house. they will hardly venture to come after us there. cecily. no, men are so cowardly, aren't they? [they retire into the house with scornful looks.] jack. this ghastly state of things is what you call bunburying, i suppose? algernon. yes, and a perfectly wonderful bunbury it is. the most wonderful bunbury i have ever had in my life. jack. well, you've no right whatsoever to bunbury here. algernon. that is absurd. one has a right to bunbury anywhere one chooses. every serious bunburyist knows that. jack. serious bunburyist! good heavens! algernon. well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any amusement in life. i happen to be serious about bunburying. what on earth you are serious about i haven't got the remotest idea. about everything, i should fancy. you have such an absolutely trivial nature. jack. well, the only small satisfaction i have in the whole of this wretched business is that your friend bunbury is quite exploded. you won't be able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear algy. and a very good thing too. algernon. your brother is a little off colour, isn't he, dear jack? you won't be able to disappear to london quite so frequently as your wicked custom was. and not a bad thing either. jack. as for your conduct towards miss cardew, i must say that your taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable. to say nothing of the fact that she is my ward. algernon. i can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like miss fairfax. to say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin. jack. i wanted to be engaged to gwendolen, that is all. i love her. algernon. well, i simply wanted to be engaged to cecily. i adore her. jack. there is certainly no chance of your marrying miss cardew. algernon. i don't think there is much likelihood, jack, of you and miss fairfax being united. jack. well, that is no business of yours. algernon. if it was my business, i wouldn't talk about it. [begins to eat muffins.] it is very vulgar to talk about one's business. only people like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties. jack. how can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horrible trouble, i can't make out. you seem to me to be perfectly heartless. algernon. well, i can't eat muffins in an agitated manner. the butter would probably get on my cuffs. one should always eat muffins quite calmly. it is the only way to eat them. jack. i say it's perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under the circumstances. algernon. when i am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me. indeed, when i am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me intimately will tell you, i refuse everything except food and drink. at the present moment i am eating muffins because i am unhappy. besides, i am particularly fond of muffins. [rising.] jack. [rising.] well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in that greedy way. [takes muffins from algernon.] algernon. [offering tea-cake.] i wish you would have tea-cake instead. i don't like tea-cake. jack. good heavens! i suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own garden. algernon. but you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins. jack. i said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances. that is a very different thing. algernon. that may be. but the muffins are the same. [he seizes the muffin-dish from jack.] jack. algy, i wish to goodness you would go. algernon. you can't possibly ask me to go without having some dinner. it's absurd. i never go without my dinner. no one ever does, except vegetarians and people like that. besides i have just made arrangements with dr. chasuble to be christened at a quarter to six under the name of ernest. jack. my dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. i made arrangements this morning with dr. chasuble to be christened myself at . , and i naturally will take the name of ernest. gwendolen would wish it. we can't both be christened ernest. it's absurd. besides, i have a perfect right to be christened if i like. there is no evidence at all that i have ever been christened by anybody. i should think it extremely probable i never was, and so does dr. chasuble. it is entirely different in your case. you have been christened already. algernon. yes, but i have not been christened for years. jack. yes, but you have been christened. that is the important thing. algernon. quite so. so i know my constitution can stand it. if you are not quite sure about your ever having been christened, i must say i think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. it might make you very unwell. you can hardly have forgotten that some one very closely connected with you was very nearly carried off this week in paris by a severe chill. jack. yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary. algernon. it usen't to be, i know--but i daresay it is now. science is always making wonderful improvements in things. jack. [picking up the muffin-dish.] oh, that is nonsense; you are always talking nonsense. algernon. jack, you are at the muffins again! i wish you wouldn't. there are only two left. [takes them.] i told you i was particularly fond of muffins. jack. but i hate tea-cake. algernon. why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your guests? what ideas you have of hospitality! jack. algernon! i have already told you to go. i don't want you here. why don't you go! algernon. i haven't quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one muffin left. [jack groans, and sinks into a chair. algernon still continues eating.] act drop third act scene morning-room at the manor house. [gwendolen and cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.] gwendolen. the fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left. cecily. they have been eating muffins. that looks like repentance. gwendolen. [after a pause.] they don't seem to notice us at all. couldn't you cough? cecily. but i haven't got a cough. gwendolen. they're looking at us. what effrontery! cecily. they're approaching. that's very forward of them. gwendolen. let us preserve a dignified silence. cecily. certainly. it's the only thing to do now. [enter jack followed by algernon. they whistle some dreadful popular air from a british opera.] gwendolen. this dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect. cecily. a most distasteful one. gwendolen. but we will not be the first to speak. cecily. certainly not. gwendolen. mr. worthing, i have something very particular to ask you. much depends on your reply. cecily. gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. mr. moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question. why did you pretend to be my guardian's brother? algernon. in order that i might have an opportunity of meeting you. cecily. [to gwendolen.] that certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not? gwendolen. yes, dear, if you can believe him. cecily. i don't. but that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer. gwendolen. true. in matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing. mr. worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother? was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible? jack. can you doubt it, miss fairfax? gwendolen. i have the gravest doubts upon the subject. but i intend to crush them. this is not the moment for german scepticism. [moving to cecily.] their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially mr. worthing's. that seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it. cecily. i am more than content with what mr. moncrieff said. his voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity. gwendolen. then you think we should forgive them? cecily. yes. i mean no. gwendolen. true! i had forgotten. there are principles at stake that one cannot surrender. which of us should tell them? the task is not a pleasant one. cecily. could we not both speak at the same time? gwendolen. an excellent idea! i nearly always speak at the same time as other people. will you take the time from me? cecily. certainly. [gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.] gwendolen and cecily [speaking together.] your christian names are still an insuperable barrier. that is all! jack and algernon [speaking together.] our christian names! is that all? but we are going to be christened this afternoon. gwendolen. [to jack.] for my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing? jack. i am. cecily. [to algernon.] to please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal? algernon. i am! gwendolen. how absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us. jack. we are. [clasps hands with algernon.] cecily. they have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutely nothing. gwendolen. [to jack.] darling! algernon. [to cecily.] darling! [they fall into each other's arms.] [enter merriman. when he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.] merriman. ahem! ahem! lady bracknell! jack. good heavens! [enter lady bracknell. the couples separate in alarm. exit merriman.] lady bracknell. gwendolen! what does this mean? gwendolen. merely that i am engaged to be married to mr. worthing, mamma. lady bracknell. come here. sit down. sit down immediately. hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [turns to jack.] apprised, sir, of my daughter's sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence i purchased by means of a small coin, i followed her at once by a luggage train. her unhappy father is, i am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by the university extension scheme on the influence of a permanent income on thought. i do not propose to undeceive him. indeed i have never undeceived him on any question. i would consider it wrong. but of course, you will clearly understand that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately from this moment. on this point, as indeed on all points, i am firm. jack. i am engaged to be married to gwendolen, lady bracknell! lady bracknell. you are nothing of the kind, sir. and now, as regards algernon! . . . algernon! algernon. yes, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. may i ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend mr. bunbury resides? algernon. [stammering.] oh! no! bunbury doesn't live here. bunbury is somewhere else at present. in fact, bunbury is dead. lady bracknell. dead! when did mr. bunbury die? his death must have been extremely sudden. algernon. [airily.] oh! i killed bunbury this afternoon. i mean poor bunbury died this afternoon. lady bracknell. what did he die of? algernon. bunbury? oh, he was quite exploded. lady bracknell. exploded! was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? i was not aware that mr. bunbury was interested in social legislation. if so, he is well punished for his morbidity. algernon. my dear aunt augusta, i mean he was found out! the doctors found out that bunbury could not live, that is what i mean--so bunbury died. lady bracknell. he seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians. i am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. and now that we have finally got rid of this mr. bunbury, may i ask, mr. worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner? jack. that lady is miss cecily cardew, my ward. [lady bracknell bows coldly to cecily.] algernon. i am engaged to be married to cecily, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. i beg your pardon? cecily. mr. moncrieff and i are engaged to be married, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. [with a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] i do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part of hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. i think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of place. mr. worthing, is miss cardew at all connected with any of the larger railway stations in london? i merely desire information. until yesterday i had no idea that there were any families or persons whose origin was a terminus. [jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.] jack. [in a clear, cold voice.] miss cardew is the grand-daughter of the late mr. thomas cardew of belgrave square, s.w.; gervase park, dorking, surrey; and the sporran, fifeshire, n.b. lady bracknell. that sounds not unsatisfactory. three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen. but what proof have i of their authenticity? jack. i have carefully preserved the court guides of the period. they are open to your inspection, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. [grimly.] i have known strange errors in that publication. jack. miss cardew's family solicitors are messrs. markby, markby, and markby. lady bracknell. markby, markby, and markby? a firm of the very highest position in their profession. indeed i am told that one of the mr. markby's is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. so far i am satisfied. jack. [very irritably.] how extremely kind of you, lady bracknell! i have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of miss cardew's birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the german and the english variety. lady bracknell. ah! a life crowded with incident, i see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. i am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [rises, looks at her watch.] gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. we have not a moment to lose. as a matter of form, mr. worthing, i had better ask you if miss cardew has any little fortune? jack. oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the funds. that is all. goodbye, lady bracknell. so pleased to have seen you. lady bracknell. [sitting down again.] a moment, mr. worthing. a hundred and thirty thousand pounds! and in the funds! miss cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that i look at her. few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. we live, i regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [to cecily.] come over here, dear. [cecily goes across.] pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as nature might have left it. but we can soon alter all that. a thoroughly experienced french maid produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. i remember recommending one to young lady lancing, and after three months her own husband did not know her. jack. and after six months nobody knew her. lady bracknell. [glares at jack for a few moments. then bends, with a practised smile, to cecily.] kindly turn round, sweet child. [cecily turns completely round.] no, the side view is what i want. [cecily presents her profile.] yes, quite as i expected. there are distinct social possibilities in your profile. the two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile. the chin a little higher, dear. style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. they are worn very high, just at present. algernon! algernon. yes, aunt augusta! lady bracknell. there are distinct social possibilities in miss cardew's profile. algernon. cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. and i don't care twopence about social possibilities. lady bracknell. never speak disrespectfully of society, algernon. only people who can't get into it do that. [to cecily.] dear child, of course you know that algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon. but i do not approve of mercenary marriages. when i married lord bracknell i had no fortune of any kind. but i never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way. well, i suppose i must give my consent. algernon. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. cecily, you may kiss me! cecily. [kisses her.] thank you, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. you may also address me as aunt augusta for the future. cecily. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. the marriage, i think, had better take place quite soon. algernon. thank you, aunt augusta. cecily. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. to speak frankly, i am not in favour of long engagements. they give people the opportunity of finding out each other's character before marriage, which i think is never advisable. jack. i beg your pardon for interrupting you, lady bracknell, but this engagement is quite out of the question. i am miss cardew's guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. that consent i absolutely decline to give. lady bracknell. upon what grounds may i ask? algernon is an extremely, i may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. he has nothing, but he looks everything. what more can one desire? jack. it pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, lady bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that i do not approve at all of his moral character. i suspect him of being untruthful. [algernon and cecily look at him in indignant amazement.] lady bracknell. untruthful! my nephew algernon? impossible! he is an oxonian. jack. i fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. this afternoon during my temporary absence in london on an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. under an assumed name he drank, i've just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my perrier-jouet, brut, ' ; wine i was specially reserving for myself. continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward. he subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. and what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that i have no brother, that i never had a brother, and that i don't intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. i distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon. lady bracknell. ahem! mr. worthing, after careful consideration i have decided entirely to overlook my nephew's conduct to you. jack. that is very generous of you, lady bracknell. my own decision, however, is unalterable. i decline to give my consent. lady bracknell. [to cecily.] come here, sweet child. [cecily goes over.] how old are you, dear? cecily. well, i am really only eighteen, but i always admit to twenty when i go to evening parties. lady bracknell. you are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. it looks so calculating . . . [in a meditative manner.] eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties. well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. so i don't think your guardian's consent is, after all, a matter of any importance. jack. pray excuse me, lady bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather's will miss cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five. lady bracknell. that does not seem to me to be a grave objection. thirty- five is a very attractive age. london society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty- five for years. lady dumbleton is an instance in point. to my own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now. i see no reason why our dear cecily should not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present. there will be a large accumulation of property. cecily. algy, could you wait for me till i was thirty-five? algernon. of course i could, cecily. you know i could. cecily. yes, i felt it instinctively, but i couldn't wait all that time. i hate waiting even five minutes for anybody. it always makes me rather cross. i am not punctual myself, i know, but i do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question. algernon. then what is to be done, cecily? cecily. i don't know, mr. moncrieff. lady bracknell. my dear mr. worthing, as miss cardew states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five--a remark which i am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature--i would beg of you to reconsider your decision. jack. but my dear lady bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. the moment you consent to my marriage with gwendolen, i will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward. lady bracknell. [rising and drawing herself up.] you must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question. jack. then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to. lady bracknell. that is not the destiny i propose for gwendolen. algernon, of course, can choose for himself. [pulls out her watch.] come, dear, [gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. to miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform. [enter dr. chasuble.] chasuble. everything is quite ready for the christenings. lady bracknell. the christenings, sir! is not that somewhat premature? chasuble. [looking rather puzzled, and pointing to jack and algernon.] both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism. lady bracknell. at their age? the idea is grotesque and irreligious! algernon, i forbid you to be baptized. i will not hear of such excesses. lord bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money. chasuble. am i to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon? jack. i don't think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, dr. chasuble. chasuble. i am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, mr. worthing. they savour of the heretical views of the anabaptists, views that i have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. however, as your present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, i will return to the church at once. indeed, i have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half miss prism has been waiting for me in the vestry. lady bracknell. [starting.] miss prism! did i hear you mention a miss prism? chasuble. yes, lady bracknell. i am on my way to join her. lady bracknell. pray allow me to detain you for a moment. this matter may prove to be one of vital importance to lord bracknell and myself. is this miss prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education? chasuble. [somewhat indignantly.] she is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability. lady bracknell. it is obviously the same person. may i ask what position she holds in your household? chasuble. [severely.] i am a celibate, madam. jack. [interposing.] miss prism, lady bracknell, has been for the last three years miss cardew's esteemed governess and valued companion. lady bracknell. in spite of what i hear of her, i must see her at once. let her be sent for. chasuble. [looking off.] she approaches; she is nigh. [enter miss prism hurriedly.] miss prism. i was told you expected me in the vestry, dear canon. i have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters. [catches sight of lady bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. miss prism grows pale and quails. she looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.] lady bracknell. [in a severe, judicial voice.] prism! [miss prism bows her head in shame.] come here, prism! [miss prism approaches in a humble manner.] prism! where is that baby? [general consternation. the canon starts back in horror. algernon and jack pretend to be anxious to shield cecily and gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.] twenty-eight years ago, prism, you left lord bracknell's house, number , upper grosvenor street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex. you never returned. a few weeks later, through the elaborate investigations of the metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote corner of bayswater. it contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [miss prism starts in involuntary indignation.] but the baby was not there! [every one looks at miss prism.] prism! where is that baby? [a pause.] miss prism. lady bracknell, i admit with shame that i do not know. i only wish i did. the plain facts of the case are these. on the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, i prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. i had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which i had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that i had written during my few unoccupied hours. in a moment of mental abstraction, for which i never can forgive myself, i deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag. jack. [who has been listening attentively.] but where did you deposit the hand-bag? miss prism. do not ask me, mr. worthing. jack. miss prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. i insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant. miss prism. i left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in london. jack. what railway station? miss prism. [quite crushed.] victoria. the brighton line. [sinks into a chair.] jack. i must retire to my room for a moment. gwendolen, wait here for me. gwendolen. if you are not too long, i will wait here for you all my life. [exit jack in great excitement.] chasuble. what do you think this means, lady bracknell? lady bracknell. i dare not even suspect, dr. chasuble. i need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. they are hardly considered the thing. [noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. every one looks up.] cecily. uncle jack seems strangely agitated. chasuble. your guardian has a very emotional nature. lady bracknell. this noise is extremely unpleasant. it sounds as if he was having an argument. i dislike arguments of any kind. they are always vulgar, and often convincing. chasuble. [looking up.] it has stopped now. [the noise is redoubled.] lady bracknell. i wish he would arrive at some conclusion. gwendolen. this suspense is terrible. i hope it will last. [enter jack with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.] jack. [rushing over to miss prism.] is this the hand-bag, miss prism? examine it carefully before you speak. the happiness of more than one life depends on your answer. miss prism. [calmly.] it seems to be mine. yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a gower street omnibus in younger and happier days. here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at leamington. and here, on the lock, are my initials. i had forgotten that in an extravagant mood i had had them placed there. the bag is undoubtedly mine. i am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. it has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years. jack. [in a pathetic voice.] miss prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag. i was the baby you placed in it. miss prism. [amazed.] you? jack. [embracing her.] yes . . . mother! miss prism. [recoiling in indignant astonishment.] mr. worthing! i am unmarried! jack. unmarried! i do not deny that is a serious blow. but after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? why should there be one law for men, and another for women? mother, i forgive you. [tries to embrace her again.] miss prism. [still more indignant.] mr. worthing, there is some error. [pointing to lady bracknell.] there is the lady who can tell you who you really are. jack. [after a pause.] lady bracknell, i hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who i am? lady bracknell. i am afraid that the news i have to give you will not altogether please you. you are the son of my poor sister, mrs. moncrieff, and consequently algernon's elder brother. jack. algy's elder brother! then i have a brother after all. i knew i had a brother! i always said i had a brother! cecily,--how could you have ever doubted that i had a brother? [seizes hold of algernon.] dr. chasuble, my unfortunate brother. miss prism, my unfortunate brother. gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future. you have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life. algernon. well, not till to-day, old boy, i admit. i did my best, however, though i was out of practice. [shakes hands.] gwendolen. [to jack.] my own! but what own are you? what is your christian name, now that you have become some one else? jack. good heavens! . . . i had quite forgotten that point. your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, i suppose? gwendolen. i never change, except in my affections. cecily. what a noble nature you have, gwendolen! jack. then the question had better be cleared up at once. aunt augusta, a moment. at the time when miss prism left me in the hand-bag, had i been christened already? lady bracknell. every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents. jack. then i was christened! that is settled. now, what name was i given? let me know the worst. lady bracknell. being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father. jack. [irritably.] yes, but what was my father's christian name? lady bracknell. [meditatively.] i cannot at the present moment recall what the general's christian name was. but i have no doubt he had one. he was eccentric, i admit. but only in later years. and that was the result of the indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind. jack. algy! can't you recollect what our father's christian name was? algernon. my dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. he died before i was a year old. jack. his name would appear in the army lists of the period, i suppose, aunt augusta? lady bracknell. the general was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life. but i have no doubt his name would appear in any military directory. jack. the army lists of the last forty years are here. these delightful records should have been my constant study. [rushes to bookcase and tears the books out.] m. generals . . . mallam, maxbohm, magley, what ghastly names they have--markby, migsby, mobbs, moncrieff! lieutenant , captain, lieutenant-colonel, colonel, general , christian names, ernest john. [puts book very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] i always told you, gwendolen, my name was ernest, didn't i? well, it is ernest after all. i mean it naturally is ernest. lady bracknell. yes, i remember now that the general was called ernest, i knew i had some particular reason for disliking the name. gwendolen. ernest! my own ernest! i felt from the first that you could have no other name! jack. gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. can you forgive me? gwendolen. i can. for i feel that you are sure to change. jack. my own one! chasuble. [to miss prism.] laetitia! [embraces her] miss prism. [enthusiastically.] frederick! at last! algernon. cecily! [embraces her.] at last! jack. gwendolen! [embraces her.] at last! lady bracknell. my nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality. jack. on the contrary, aunt augusta, i've now realised for the first time in my life the vital importance of being earnest. tableau of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) new eagle series no. cents my pretty maid by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller [illustration] _street & smith publishers, new york._ my pretty maid; or liane lester by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller author of "sweet violet," "the pearl and the ruby," "the senator's bride," "the senator's favorite," "lillian, my lillian," and numerous other excellent romances published exclusively in the eagle and new eagle series. [illustration: s and s novels] new york street & smith, publishers - seventh avenue copyright, and by norman l. munro my pretty maid publisher's note notwithstanding the fact that the sales of magazines have increased tremendously during the past five or six years, the popularity of a good paper-covered novel, printed in attractive and convenient form, remains undiminished. there are thousands of readers who do not care for magazines because the stories in them, as a rule, are short and just about the time they become interested in it, it ends and they are obliged to readjust their thoughts to a set of entirely different characters. the s. & s. novel is long and complete and enables the reader to spend many hours of thorough enjoyment without doing any mental gymnastics. our paper-covered books stand pre-eminent among up-to-date fiction. every day sees a new copyrighted title added to the s. & s. lines, each one making them stronger, better and more invincible. street & smith, publishers - seventh avenue, new york city my pretty maid. contents chapter i. a desperate chance. chapter ii. fate is above us all. chapter iii. "my pretty maid." chapter iv. secret love. chapter v. roma's lovers. chapter vi. after the crime. chapter vii. granny's revenge. chapter viii. the broken engagement. chapter ix. love at first sight. chapter x. roma seeks a new maid. chapter xi. the beauty show. chapter xii. "the queen rose." chapter xiii. edmund clarke's suspicion. chapter xiv. roma finds an ally. chapter xv. "a dying mother." chapter xvi. a love letter. chapter xvii. a cruel forgery. chapter xviii. liane's fleeting love dream. chapter xix. what dolly told. chapter xx. "as one admires a statue." chapter xxi. a harvest of woe. chapter xxii. at a fiend's mercy. chapter xxiii. a murderous fury. chapter xxiv. a strand of ruddy hair. chapter xxv. a true friend. chapter xxvi. trembling hopes. chapter xxvii. when happiness seemed near! chapter xxviii. a sword thrust in his heart. chapter xxix. the bridal. chapter xxx. before the dawn. chapter xxxi. when the clouds rolled by. chapter i. a desperate chance. "how fast the river flows! how it roars in my ears and drowns the sound of your voice, my dearest! it is bearing me away! oh, save me! save me!" the river was the stream of death, and the lone voyager floating out on its rushing tide was a loved and loving young wife. the frail white hands clung fondly to her husband's as she rested with her head upon his breast, and the faint voice murmured deliriously on: "how it rushes on--the wild river! how it rocks me on its broad breast! it is not so noisy now; it is deeper and swifter, and its voice has a lulling tone that soothes me to sleep. hold me tight--keep me awake, dear, lest it sweep me away to the sea!" ah, he would have given the world to hold her back, his darling, the dearest of his heart, but the rushing torrent was too strong. it was sweeping her away. several days ago a beautiful daughter--her first-born after five years' wifehood--had been laid in her yearning arms. but, alas! the first night of its birth, during a temporary absence of the old nurse from the room, the little treasure had been stolen from its mother. panic seized the whole household, and rigorous search was at once begun and kept up for days, but all to no avail. the father was frantic, but, though he would have given his fortune for the return of the child, he was powerless; and now, as a sequel to this tragedy of loss and pain, his dear young wife lay dying in his arms--dying of heartbreak for the lost babe--poor bereaved young mother! tears rained from his eyes down on her pallid face as he strained her to his breast, his precious one, going away from him so fast to death, while outside, heedless of his despair, the golden sun was shining on the green grass, and the fragrant flowers, and the little birds singing in the trees as if there were nothing but joy in the world. the old family physician came in softly, with an anxious, sympathetic face, and whispered startling words in his ear. a look of aversion crossed the young husband's face, and he groaned: "doctor jay, i cannot bear the thought!" "i feared you would feel so, mr. clarke, but all my medical colleagues agree with me that nothing but the restoration of her child can save my patient's life. it is the desperate chance we take when we feel that all hope is lost." "then i must consent!" "you are wise," the old doctor answered, tiptoeing from the room, only to reappear a little later, followed by the nurse with a little white bundle in her arms. the low voice of the delirious woman went babbling on. "darling," murmured her husband, pressing his lips to her pale brow. "yes, yes, dear, i'm going away from you. hark!" the sudden wail of an infant had caught her hearing. her dull eyes brightened with returning intelligence, she moved restlessly, and the nurse laid a wailing infant against her breast. "dear mistress, can you hear me? here is your baby back again." they had taken a desperate chance when all hope seemed lost. by the advice of the consulting physicians, another child had been substituted for the stolen one, and, at its helpless cry, hope crept back to the mother's breaking heart; the rushing waves ceased to moan in her ears, silenced by that little piping voice, and the sinking life was rallied. she lived, and the babe grew and throve in its luxurious surroundings, and the mother worshiped it. no one ever dared tell her the truth--that it was not her own infant that had been restored to her arms, but a little foundling. no other child ever came to rival it in mrs. clarke's love, and it was this fact alone that sealed her husband's lips to the cruel secret that ached at his heart. he feared the effect of the truth on his delicate wife, taking every precaution to keep her in ignorance, even to moving away from his own home, and settling in a distant place. though he never relaxed his efforts to find his lost child, the years slipped away in a hopeless quest, and roma, the adopted girl, grew eighteen years old, and her beauty and her prospects brought her many suitors. in his heart mr. clarke hoped the girl would make an early marriage, for he was tired of living a lie, pretending to love her as a daughter to deceive his wife, while an aching void in his own heart was always yearning for his own lost darling. chapter ii. fate is above us all. it was six o'clock by all the watches and clocks at stonecliff, and the girls at miss bray's dressmaking establishment hastily put up their work and were starting for home, chattering like a flock of magpies, when their employer called after them testily: "say, girls, one of you will have to take this bundle up to cliffdene. miss clarke wanted it very particularly to wear to-night. liane lester, she lives nearer to you than any of the others. you take it." liane lester would have liked to protest, but she did not dare. with a decided pout of her rosy lips, she took the box with miss clarke's new silk cape and hurried to overtake dolly dorr, the only girl who was going her way. "what a shame to have to carry boxes along the village street late in the afternoon when every one is out walking! i think miss bray ought to keep a servant to fetch and carry!" cried dolly indignantly. "oh, look, liane! there's that handsome jesse devereaux standing on the post-office steps! shouldn't you like to flirt with him? let's saunter slowly past so that he may notice us!" "i don't want him to notice me! granny says that harm always comes of rich men noticing poor girls. come, dolly, let us avoid him by crossing the street." suiting the action to the word, liane lester turned quickly from her friend and sped toward the crossing. but, alas, fate is above us all! her haste precipitated what she strove to avoid. drawing the veil down quickly over her rosy face, the frolicsome wind caught the bit of blue gossamer and whirled it back toward the sidewalk. jesse devereaux gave chase, captured the veil, and flew after the girl. she had gained the pavement, and was hurrying on, when she heard him at her side, panting, as he said: "i beg pardon--your veil!" a white hand was thrust in front of her, holding the bit of blue gauze, and she had to stop. "i thank you," she murmured, taking it from his hand and raising her eyes shyly to his face--the brilliant, handsome face that had haunted many a young girl's dreams. the dazzling dark eyes were fixed eagerly on her lovely face, and his red lips parted in a smile that showed pearly-white teeth as he exclaimed gayly: "old boreas was jealous of your hiding such a face, and whisked your veil away, but out of mercy to mankind i concluded to return it." "thank you, very much!" she answered again, and was turning away when dolly dorr rushed across the street, breathless with eagerness. "how do you do, mr. devereaux?" she cried gayly, having been introduced to him at a church festival the evening before. "ah, miss----" he hesitated, as he lifted his hat, and she twittered: "miss dorr; we met at the festival last night, you know. and this is my chum, liane lester." "charmed," he exclaimed, while his radiant black eyes beamed on liane's face, and he stepped along by dolly's side as she placed herself between them, intent on a flirtation. "may i share your walk?" he asked, and dolly gave an eager assent, secretly wishing her girl friend a mile away. but as she could not manage this, she proceeded to monopolize the conversation--an easy task, for liane walked along silent and ill at ease, "for all the world," thought the lively dolly to herself, "like a tongue-tied little schoolgirl." no wonder liane was demure and frightened, dreading to get a scolding from granny if jesse devereaux walked with them as far as her home. liane lived alone, in pinching poverty, with a feeble old grandmother, who was too old to work for herself, and needed liane's wages to keep life in her old bones; so she was always dreading that the girl's beauty would win her a husband who would pack the old woman off to the poorhouse as an incumbrance. she kept liane illy dressed and hard worked, and never permitted her to have a beau. marriage was a failure, she said. "what was the use of marrying a poor man, to work your fingers to the bone for him?" she exclaimed scornfully. "but one might marry rich," suggested innocent liane. "rich men marry rich girls, and if they ever notice a poor girl, she mostly comes to grief by it. don't never let me catch you flirting with any young man, or i'll make you sorry!" granny answered viciously. she had not made her sorry yet, for the girl had obeyed her orders, although her beauty would have brought her a score of lovers had she smiled on their advances, but liane had not seen any man yet for whom she would have risked one of granny's beatings. how would it be now, when her young heart was beating violently at the glances of a pair of thrilling dark eyes, and the tones of a rich, musical voice, when her face burned and her hands trembled with exquisite ecstasy? old boreas, why did you whisk her veil away and show jesse devereaux that enchanting young face, so rosy and dimpled, with large, shy eyes like purple pansies, golden-hearted, with rims of jet, so dark the arched brows and fringed lashes, while the little head was covered with silky waves of thick, shining chestnut hair? what would be the outcome of this fateful meeting? sure enough, as they came in sight of liane's humble home, there was granny's grizzled head peeping from the window, and, with an incoherent good evening to her companions, liane darted inside the gate, hurrying into the house. but at the very threshold the old woman met her with a snarl of rage, slapping her in the face with a skinny, clawlike hand as she vociferated: "take that for disobeying me, girl! walking out with that handsome dude, after all my warnings!" "oh, granny, please don't be so cruel, striking me for nothing! i'm too big a girl to be beaten now!" pleaded liane, sinking into a chair, the crimson lines standing out vividly on her white cheeks, while indignant tears started into her large, pathetic eyes. but her humility did not placate the cruel old hag, who continued to glare at her victim, snarling irascibly. "too big, eh?" she cried; "well, i'll show you, miss, the next time i see you galivanting along the street with a young man! now, who is he, anyhow?" "just a friend of dolly dorr's, granny. i--i--never saw him till just now, when he asked dolly if he might share her walk." "um-hum! a frisky little piece, that dolly dorr, with her yellow head and doll-baby face! i don't want you to walk with her no more when he goes along, do you hear me, liane? two's company, and three a crowd." "yes, ma'am"--wearily. "now, what have you got in that pasteboard box, i say? if you've been buying finery, take it back this minute. i won't pay a cent for it!" "it's finery, granny, but not mine. miss bray sent me to carry it to the rich young lady up at cliffdene, and i just stopped in to see if you will make your own tea while i do my errand, for i shouldn't like to come back alone after dark." "better come alone than walking with a man, liane lester!" grunted the old woman, adding more amicably: "go along, then, and hurry back, and i'll keep some tea warm for you." "thank you, granny," the poor girl answered dejectedly, going out with her bundle again, her face shrouded in the blue veil, lest she should meet some one who would notice the marks of the cruel blow on her fair cheek. her way led along the seashore, and the brisk breeze of september blew across the waves and cooled her burning face, and dried the bitter tears in her beautiful eyes, though her heart beat heavily and slow in her breast as she thought: "what a cruel life for a young girl to lead--beaten and abused by an old hag whom one must try to respect because she is old, and poor, and is one's grandmother, though i am ashamed of the relationship! i fear her, instead of loving her, and it is more than likely she will kill me some day in one of her brutal rages. sometimes i almost resolve to run away and find work in the great city; but, then, she has such a horror of the poorhouse, i have not the heart to desert her to her fate. but i could not help being ashamed of her when mr. devereaux saw her uncombed head and angry face leering at us out of the window. never did i feel the misery of my condition, the poverty of my dress and my home, so keenly as in his presence. i do not suppose he would stoop to marry a poor girl like me, especially with such a dreadful relation as granny," she ended, with a bursting sigh of pain from the bottom of her sore heart. the tide swept in almost to her feet, and the sea's voice had a hollow tone of sympathy with her sorrow. "oh, i wish that i were dead," she cried with a sudden passionate despair, almost wishing that the great waves would rush in and sweep her off her feet and away out upon the billows, away, from her weary, toilsome life into oblivion. but here she was at the gates of beautiful cliffdene, the home of the clarkes, a handsome stone mansion set in spacious ground on a high bluff, washed at its base by the murmuring sea. she opened the gate, and went through the beautiful grounds, gay with flowers, thinking, what a paradise cliffdene was and what a contrast to the tumble-down, three-roomed shanty she called home. "how happy miss clarke must be; so beautiful and rich, with fine dresses, and jewels, and scores of handsome lovers! i wonder if mr. devereaux knows her, and if he admires her like all the rest? he would not mind marrying her, i suppose. she does not live in a shanty, and have a spiteful old grandmother to make her weary of her life," thought poor, pretty liane, as she paused in the setting sunlight before the broad, open door. at that moment a superb figure swept down the grand staircase toward the trembling girl--a stately figure, gowned in rustling silk, whose rich golden tints, softened by trimmings of creamy lace, suited well with the handsome face, lighted by spirited eyes of reddish brown, while the thick waves of shining, copper-colored hair shone in the sunset rays like a glory. liane knew it was miss clarke, the beauty and heiress; she had seen her often riding through the streets of stonecliff. "what do you want, girl?" cried a proud, haughty voice to liane as they stood face to face on the threshold, the heiress and the little working girl. "miss bray has sent home your silk cape, miss clarke." "ah? then bring it upstairs, and let me see if it is all right. i have very little confidence in these village dressmakers, though miss bray has very high recommendations from the judge's wife," cried haughty roma clarke, motioning the girl to follow her upstairs, adding cruelly: "you should have gone round to the servants' entrance, girl. no one brings bundles to the front door." liane's cheeks flamed and her throat swelled with resentful words that she strove to keep back, for she knew she must not anger miss bray's rich customer. but she hated her toilsome life more than ever as she followed roma along the richly carpeted halls to a splendid dressing room, where the beauty sank into a cushioned chair, haughtily ordering the box to be opened. liane's trembling white fingers could scarcely undo the strings, but at last she held up the exquisite evening cape of brocaded cream silk, lined with peach blossom and cascaded with billows of rare lace. it was daintily chic, and had been the admiration of the workroom. all the girls had coveted it, and dolly dorr had draped it over liane's shoulders, crying: "it just suits you, you dainty princess." the princess stood trembling now, for roma flew into a rage the instant her wonderful red-brown eyes fell on the cape. "just as i feared! it is ruined in the arrangement of the cascades of lace. who did it--you?" she demanded sharply. "oh, no, miss bray arranged it herself, i assure you," faltered liane. "it must be altered at once, for i need it walking out in the grounds with my guests to-night. you're one of the dressmaker's girls, aren't you? yes? well, you shall change it for me at once, under my directions. hurry and rip the lace off carefully." liane's heart fluttered into her throat, but she protested. "i--i cannot stay. i should be afraid to go home after dark. i am sure miss bray will alter it to-morrow." "to-morrow! when i want it to-night? you must be crazy, girl! do as i bid you, or i'll report you to your employer to-morrow and have you discharged." liane's throat choked with a frightened sob, and she dared not disobey and risk dismissal from miss bray and a beating from granny. "i will do it, but i am terribly afraid to go home alone," she faltered, taking up the scissors and the garment. "nonsense! nothing will hurt you. here, this is the way i want it, and be sure you do not botch it, or you will have to do it all over again! now, i am going down to dinner. i'll be back in an hour and a half, and you ought to have it done by that time!" cried the imperious beauty, sweeping from the room, though liane heard her tell the maid in the hall to keep an eye on that girl from the dressmaker's, that she did not slip anything in her pocket. the clever maid sidled curiously into the lighted dressing room, and, as soon as she saw the tears in the eyes of liane and the crimson print on her fair cheek, she jumped to her own conclusions. "you poor, pretty little thing, did miss roma fly in a rage and slap your face, too?" she exclaimed compassionately. "certainly not!" the girl answered, cresting her graceful chestnut-brown head with sudden pride. "do you think i would allow your mistress to insult me so?" "she would insult you whether you liked it or not," the maid replied tartly. "she has slapped my face several times in her tantrums since i came here, and i would have quit right off, but her mother is an angel, and when i complained to her, the sweet lady gave me some handsome presents and begged me to overlook it, because her daughter was somewhat spoiled by being an only child and an heiress. so i stayed for the kind mother's sake, and if miss roma really did strike you in her rage over the cape, let me tell mrs. clarke, and she will reward you handsomely to keep silence!" "but i assure you miss clarke did not strike me!" liane protested. "there's the print of her fingers on your face to speak for itself, poor child!" "that mark was on my face when i came," liane answered, almost inaudibly, out of her keen humiliation. "oh, i see. what is your name?" "miss lester--liane lester." "a pretty-sounding name! i've heard of you before, miss lester--the lovely sewing girl whose grandmother beats her. all the village knows it and pities you. why do you stand it? why don't you run away and get married? you are so lovely that any man might be glad to get you for his bride." the color flamed hotly into liane's cheek. she was proud, in spite of her poverty, and it chafed her to have her private affairs so freely discussed by miss clarke's servant. "please do not talk to me while i'm sewing," she said firmly, but so gently that the pert maid did not take offense, but slipped away, returning when the cape was nearly done, with a dainty repast on a silver waiter. "mrs. clarke sent this with her compliments. she heard about your being up here sewing, and felt so sorry for you." liane had not tasted food since her meager midday luncheon, but she was too proud to own that she was faint from fasting. "she was very kind, but i--i really am not hungry," she faltered. "but you have not had your tea yet, and one is apt to have a headache without it," urged the tactful maid, and she presently persuaded liane to eat, although not before the cape was done, so great was her dread of miss clarke's coarse anger. the maid had adroitly let mrs. clarke know all about liane, and now she slipped a crisp banknote into her hand, whispering: "mrs. clarke sent you this for altering the cape for her daughter." liane was almost frightened at the new rustling five-dollar bill in her hand. she had never seen more than three dollars at a time before--the amount of her weekly wages from miss bray. "oh, dear, i can't take this. it's too much! miss bray only gets five dollars for the making of the whole cape," she exclaimed. "never mind about that, if mrs. clarke chooses to pay you that for altering it, my dear miss. she is rich and can afford to be liberal to one who needs it. so just take what she gives you, and say nothing--not even to her daughter, who has a miserly heart and might scold her for her kindness," cautioned the maid, who pitied liane with all her heart. liane cried eagerly: "oh, please thank the generous lady a hundred times for me! i love her for her kindness to a poor orphan girl. now, do you think miss roma would come and look at the cape? for i must be going. granny will be angry at my coming back so late." "here she comes now, the vixen!" and, sure enough, a silken gown rustled over the threshold, and roma caught the cape up eagerly, crying: "ten to one you have botched it worse than before! well, really, you have followed my directions exactly, for a wonder! that will do very well. you may go now, and if you think you ought to be paid anything for these few minutes' extra work, you can collect it off miss bray, as she was responsible for the alterations. sophie, you can show the girl out," and, throwing the cape over her arm, the proud beauty trailed her rustling silk over the threshold and downstairs again. "the heartless thing! i'd like to shake her!" muttered sophie angrily, as she led the way out of the beautiful house down upon the moonlight lawn, adding: "i'll go to the gates with you, so you won't get frightened at mr. clarke's big st. bernard." "what a beautiful night, and how sweet the flowers smell!" murmured liane, lifting her heated brow to the cool night breeze, and the pitying stars that seemed to beam on her like tender eyes. "would you like some to take home with you? you will be welcome, i know, for the frosts will be getting them soon, anyhow," cried sophie, loading her up with a huge bunch of late autumn roses, "and now good night, my dear young lady," opening the gate "you have a long walk before you, but i hope you will get home safely." liane opened her lips to tell the woman how frightened she was of the lonely walk home, but she was ashamed of her cowardice, and the words remained unsaid. with a faltering "i thank you for your kindness; good night," she clasped the roses to her bosom and sped away like a frightened fawn in the moonlight, down the road along the beach, a silent prayer in her heart that granny would not be angry again over her long stay, and accuse her of "galivanting around with beaus." sophie leaned over the gate, watching her a minute, with pity and admiration in her clear eyes. "what a beautiful creature!--a thousand times lovelier than miss roma!" she thought. "but what a cruel lot in life. it is enough to make the very angels weep." chapter iii. "my pretty maid." there was not a more nervous, startled maiden in all new england that night than liane as she flew along the beach, haunted by a fear of drunken men, of whom stonecliff had its full quota. and, indeed, she had not gone so very far before her fears took shape. she heard distinctly, above her frightened heartbeats and her own light steps, the sound of a man's tread gaining on her, while his voice called out entreatingly: "elinor, elinor! wait for me!" the sea's voice, with the wind, seemed to echo the call. "elinor, elinor! wait for me!" but liane did not wait. she only redoubled her speed, and she might have escaped her pursuer but that her little foot tripped on a stone and threw her prone upon the sands. before she could rise a man's arms closed about her tenderly, lifting her up, while he panted: "elinor, what girlish freak is this? why wouldn't you wait for me, dear?" liane gasped and looked up at him in terror, but that instant she recognized him, and her fears all fled. "oh, mr. clarke, you have made a mistake, sir. you don't know me, although i know what your name is. i am liane lester!" she cried breathlessly. he dropped her hand and recoiled in surprise, answering: "i beg a hundred pardons for my apparent rudeness. i saw you flying along as i smoked my cigar above the hill, and your figure looked so exactly like my wife's that i flew after you. i hope you will find it easy to forgive me, for you do resemble my wife very much, and, although you are young and fair, you may take that as a compliment, for my wife is very beautiful." "i thank you, sir, and forgive you freely. i have never seen mrs. clarke, but i have just come from your house, and was running home every step of the way because i had to stay till after dark, and i feared my grandmother would be uneasy over me!" faltered liane, blushing at his intent gaze, for the wind had blown her veil aside, and her lovely features, pure as carven pearl, shone clearly in the moonlight. "and i am detaining you yet longer! excuse me, and--good night," he said abruptly, smiling kindly at her, lifting his hat and turning back toward cliffdene, while he thought with pleasure: "what a lovely girl! she reminded me of elinor when she was young." liane thought kindly of him, too, as she hurried along. "what a noble face and gracious voice! miss roma clarke is blessed in having such a splendid father." she had only granny, poor child; coarse, ugly, repulsive, cruel granny. she could not even remember her parents or any other relation. a lonely childhood, whose only bright memories were of its few school days, a toilsome girlhood, robbed of every spark of youthful pleasure; coarse scoldings and brutal beatings. it was all a piteous life--enough, as sophie, the maid had said, to make the very angels weep in pity. strange, as she hastened on, how jesse devereaux's eyes and smile haunted her thoughts with little thrills of pleasure; how she wondered if she should ever see him again. "perhaps dolly dorr will make him fall in love with her, she is so pretty, with her fluffy yellow hair and big torquoise-blue eyes," she thought, with a curious sensation of deadly pain, jealous already, though she guessed it not. the night was still and calm, and suddenly the dip of oars in the water came to her ears. she looked, and saw a little boat headed for the beach, with a single occupant. the keel grated on the shore, the man sprang out, and came directly toward her, pausing with hat in hand--a tall fellow, dark and bewhiskered, with somber, dark eyes. "ah, good evening, my pretty maid. taking a stroll all alone, eh? won't you have a moonlight row with me?" "no, thank you, sir; i am in a hurry to get home. please stand aside," for he had placed himself in her way. "not so fast, pretty maid. it is good manners, i trow, to answer a stranger's courteous questions, is it not?" still barring her way. "well, show me the way to cliffdene." the trembling girl pointed mutely back the way she had come. "thank you--and again: do you know miss roma clarke?" "i have just seen her at cliffdene," she answered. "so she is not married yet?" "oh, no," liane answered, trying to pass, but he caught her hand, exclaiming mockingly: "not married yet? well, that is very good news to me. i will give you a kiss, pretty one, for that information." "you shall not! release me at once, you hound!" cried the girl, struggling to free herself. but the insolent stranger only clasped her closer and drew her to him, the fumes of his liquor-laden breath floating over her pure brow as he struggled to kiss her shrieking lips. and, absorbed in the conflict, neither one noticed a third person coming toward them from the town--an exceedingly handsome young man, who hurried his steps in time to comprehend the meaning of the scene before him, and then shot out an athletic arm, and promptly bowled the wretch over upon the wet sands. "lie there, you cur, till i give you leave to rise!" he thundered, planting his foot on the fellow's chest while he turned toward the young lady. "why, good heavens! is it you, miss lester?" he cried, in wonder. "yes, mr. devereaux. i was hurrying home from an errand to cliffdene when this man jumped out of his boat, and threatened to kiss me." "apologize to the lady on your knees, cur!" cried jesse devereaux, helping him with a hand on his coat collar. the wretch obeyed in craven fear. "now tell me where you came from in the boat." "from the nearest town," sullenly. "then get into that boat and go back to it as fast as you can row, and if you are ever caught in stonecliff again, i promise to thrash you within an inch of your life." the defeated bully obeyed in craven silence, but the gleam of his somber eyes boded no good to the man who had so coolly mastered him. devereaux and liane stood side by side, watching the little boat shoot away over the dancing billows, leaving ripples of phosphorescent light in the wake of the oars. then he turned and took her hand. "you had quite an adventure," he said. "why, you are trembling like a leaf, poor child!" he felt like drawing her to his breast, and soothing her fears; but that would not be conventional. so he could only regard her with the tenderest pity and admiration, while clasping the trembling little hand as tight as he dared. liane was so nervous she could not speak at first, and he continued gently: "it was rather imprudent for a young girl like you to be walking out alone after nightfall. did you not know it, miss lester?" she faltered nervously: "oh, yes, i knew it! i was frightened almost to death, but i--i could not help it!" "why?" "my employer sent me on an errand to cliffdene, and i was detained there until after dark." "they should have sent some one to see you safely home." "yes," liane answered, shivering, but not making any explanation. she hated in her simple, girlish pride to have him know how she had been treated by roma clarke. "i--i must be going now. thank you ever so much for coming to my rescue," she added, stooping to gather her roses, that lay scattered on the sands. jesse devereaux helped her, and kept them, saying as he drew her little hand closely within his arm: "i will carry them and see you safe home." arm in arm they paced along under the brilliant moonlight, with the solemn voice of the ocean in their ears. but they were heedless. they heard only the beating of their own excited hearts. the mere presence of this man, whom she had never met till to-day, filled liane's innocent heart with ecstasy. to be near him like this, with her arm linked in his so close that she felt the quick throbbing of his disturbed heart; to meet the glances of his passionate, dark eyes, to hear the murmuring tones of his musical voice as he talked to her so kindly--oh, it was bliss such as she had never enjoyed before, but that she could have wished might go on now forever! he made her tell him all that the stranger had said to her, and liane felt him give a quick start when roma's name was mentioned, although he said lightly: "he must be some discarded lover of miss clarke." "yes," she answered, and, raising her eyes, she saw near at hand the wretched shanty she called her home. how short their walk had been--barely a minute it seemed to the girl! but now they must part. she essayed to draw her hand from his clasping arm, murmuring: "i--i cannot let you go any farther with me, please! granny does not allow me to walk out with--with gentlemen! she told me to come home alone!" jesse devereaux protested laughingly, but he soon saw that liane was in terrible earnest, her face pale, her great eyes dilated with fear, her slender form shaking as with a chill. "do you mean to say that you cannot have the privilege of receiving me sometimes as a visitor under your own roof?" he asked, more seriously then; but the girl suddenly uttered a low moan of alarm, and shrank from him, turning her eyes wildly upon an approaching grotesque form. granny had worked herself into a fury over liane's long stay, and at last hobbled forth to meet her, armed with a very stout cane, that would serve the double purpose of a walking stick and an instrument of punishment. and, in spite of her age, she was strong and agile, and liane would have cause to rue the hour she was born when next they met. she strained her malevolent gaze all around for a sight of the truant, and when they lighted on liane and devereaux, arm in arm, a growl of fury issued from her lips. before liane could escape, she darted forward with surprising agility, and lifted her stout cane over the girl's shrinking head. a start, a shriek, and devereaux saw, as suddenly as if the old hag had arisen from the earth by his side, the peril that menaced liane. that descending blow was enough to kill the frail, lovely girl, the object of granny's brutal spite! another instant and the stick would descend on the beautiful head! but devereaux's upraised arm received the force of the blow, and that arm fell shattered and helpless by his side, but the other hand violently wrenched the old woman away from her victim, as he demanded: "you vile beast! what is the meaning of this murderous assault?" they glared at each other, and the old woman snarled: "i have a right to beat her! she disobeyed my orders, and she belongs to me. she's my granddaughter." "heaven help me, it is true!" moaned liane, as he looked at her for confirmation. "let me get at her! let me get at her!" shrieked granny, intent on punishing the girl, and writhing in devereaux's clutch. but devereaux, with one arm hanging helpless at his side, held her firmly with the other. "you shall not touch her!" he said sternly. "you shall go to prison for this outrage." at that both the old woman and the girl uttered a cry of remonstrance. devereaux looked at liane inquiringly, and she faltered: "the disgrace would fall on me!" "yes, yes, she is my granddaughter," howled granny eagerly, seeing her advantage. devereaux comprehended, too. he groaned: "but what can you do? you must not be exposed again to her fury!" granny glared malevolently, while liane bent her eyes to the ground, meditating a moment ere she looked up, and said timidly: "i think you are right. i cannot live with granny any more, for she would surely kill me some day. let her go home, and i will go and spend the night with dolly dorr, who lives not far from here." "you hear what miss lester says? will you go home peaceably, while she goes to her friend for safety?" demanded devereaux, eager to close the scene, for he was faint from the pain of his broken arm. granny saw that she was cornered, and cunningly began to feign repentance, whimpering that she was sorry, and would never do so any more if liane would only come home with her now, for she was afraid to spend the night alone. "she shall not go with you, you treacherous cat," he answered sternly, releasing her and bidding her angrily to return home at once. cowed by his authority, she could not but choose to obey, but as she started, she flung back one shaft: "better come with me, liane, than stay with him, my dear. remember my warnings about rich young men and pretty, poor girls! a beating is safer than his love!" liane's cheeks flamed at the coarse thrust, but devereaux said earnestly: "do not mind her taunt, miss lester. i will always be a true friend to you, believe me!" "you are a true friend already. from what horrors have you saved me to-night?" liane cried, bursting into tears. "your poor arm, how helpless it hangs! oh, i fear it has been broken in my defense," and suddenly sinking on her knees, in an excess of tenderest gratitude, she pressed her warm, rosy lips to the hand that had so bravely defended her from insult and injury. "oh, you are a hero, you have saved my life, and i can never forget you!" she sobbed hysterically. "yes, my arm is broken; i must hurry back to town and have it set," he answered faintly. "i must let you go on to miss dorr's alone, but it is not far, and you are safe now. good night," he murmured, leaving her abruptly in his pain. chapter iv. secret love. liane gazed after devereaux's retreating form in bewilderment, her cheeks burning with the thought: "he was angry because i kissed his hand! oh, why was i so bold? i did not mean to be, but it made my heart ache to see him suffering so cruelly from his defense of my life! how pale he looked--almost as if he were going to faint. oh, i love him!" and she wept despairingly, as she hurried to dolly dorr's, careless now of the beautiful roses that lay crushed upon the ground where they had fallen. dolly was sitting on her little vine-wreathed porch, singing a pretty love song, and she started in surprise as liane came up the steps. "why, liane, my dear, what is the matter? you are crying; your cheeks are all wet!" she cried, putting her arms about the forlorn girl, who sobbed: "may i stay with you all night, dolly? granny has beaten me again, and i have run away!" "i don't blame you! you should have done it long ago. of course you may stay with me as long as you wish!" replied pretty little dolly, with ready sympathy, that might not have been so warm if she had known all that had transpired between liane and devereaux, on whom she had set her vain little heart. but liane was too shy and nervous to tell her friend the whole story. she simply explained, when pressed, that granny had beaten her for walking with devereaux that afternoon, and attempted it again because she was late getting home, after altering miss clarke's cape. "so i ran away to you," she added wearily. "that was right. we will all make you welcome," said dolly cordially, sure that her father and mother, and her two little brothers, would all make good her promise. "you should have seen them all peeping out of the window in amazement this afternoon when i came walking up with the grand devereaux at my side," she continued consciously. "i asked him in, and he sat on the porch nearly half an hour talking to me. when he was leaving, i asked him to call again, and pinned some pansies in his buttonhole, and what do you think he said, liane?" "i could never guess," the girl answered, with a secret pang of the keenest jealousy. "he said: 'what exquisite pansies! they remind me of miss lester's eyes--such a rare, purplish blue, with dark shadings." liane caught her breath with stifled rapture, that he had remembered her, but dolly added wistfully: "he must have read in my face that i was disappointed at not having a compliment, too, for he went on to say that my eyes were just like bluebells. liane, which are the prettier flowers, pansies or bluebells?" "i should say that it is all a matter of taste," liane replied gently. so presently they went upstairs to bed, but dolly was so excited she talked half the night. "liane, have you heard of the beauty show that is to be held in the town hall next week?" she asked, as she rolled her yellow locks in kid curlers to make them fluffy. liane shook her head. "no? why, that is strange. every one is talking about it, and they say that you and i are pretty enough to compete for the prize, although miss roma clarke intends to exhibit her handsomest portrait." "is it a portrait show?" "it is this way, liane: a boston artist has a commission to design the outside cover of a magazine for december, and he wants to get a lovely young girl for the central figure--a young girl taken from life. so he has advertised for five hundred pictures of beauties, to be delivered by next week, when they will be exhibited on the walls of the town hall, and judges appointed to decide on the fairest. of course, the artist himself is to be one of the judges, and they say that mr. clarke and mr. devereaux will be two of the others, but i don't know the rest. don't you think it's unfair, liane, to have roma clarke's father and lover for judges? of course, they will show her some partiality in their votes." liane murmured with dry lips in a choking voice: "is mr. devereaux miss clarke's lover?" "so they say, but i hope it's not true. i'm trying to catch him myself," confessed dolly quite frankly. "i don't really think it's fair for miss clarke to compete for the prize, anyway. she ought to leave the chance to some beautiful, poor girl that needs that hundred dollars so much worse than she does!" "a hundred dollars!" exclaimed liane. "yes; just think of it! you must try for the prize, liane." "i don't know; i must think over it first. wouldn't it seem conceited in me? as if i were sure that i was a raging beauty?" doubtfully. "why, so you are! every one says so, and you can see it for yourself in the glass there! prettier than i am, really!" dolly owned magnanimously. "small good my pretty face has brought me!" sighed liane. "well, it may get you that hundred dollars, if you try for it! and it might have gotten you a nice husband long ago, but for your cantankerous old granny! the idea of her slapping you for walking with that splendid devereaux! but i'll give him a hint, when i see him again, never to go near you any more!" exclaimed dolly, quite eager to give the warning, for she thought: "i didn't like the way he talked about her eyes; for she had certainly made an impression on him, and i'm afraid i shouldn't stand much chance if she went in to win against me. so i'm glad of granny's opposition for once! if i'm lucky enough to marry him, i'll have liane at my house for a long visit, and introduce her to some good catches." liane little dreamed of these shrewd thoughts in the pretty, little, yellow noddle, while dolly prattled on: "you have not seen the artist, either, have you? his name is malcolm dean, and he's quite a handsome fellow. i wish one of us could catch him, liane! why, i've heard he gets a fortune for everything he designs, and that magazine has promised him a fortune for their december cover." "we had better go to sleep, dolly, or we will be too tired to go to work in the morning," suggested liane, and dolly obediently shut her eyes and drifted off into dreamland. chapter v. roma's lovers. haughty roma clarke did not give another thought to the poor sewing girl who had pleased her fastidious taste so entirely in the alteration of her cape. she threw the dainty wrap over her graceful shoulders, for the september evenings already grew chill, and wandered out into the grounds to watch for jesse devereaux, whom she expected to call. her restless, impatient nature would not permit her to wait patiently in the drawing room to receive him. she thought it would be so gloriously romantic to stroll about the grounds, clinging to his arm, the splendid moonlight etherealizing her beauty, the murmur of the sea in their ears, the fragrance of flowers all around them. she would not be bothered here with papa or mamma coming into the room to talk to jesse, and breaking up their delightful tête-à-tête. she went into a rose arbor near the gate, thinking that she would go out to meet him as soon as she heard the click of the latch. she had been there but a few moments when liane passed by with the maid, but she kept very still, though she thought: "that girl is actually beautiful, and would look superb in good clothes instead of that simple, dark-blue print gown. how foolish it seems for poor girls to be pretty, when they can have nothing nice to set off their beauty. i suppose they must always be pining for riches. how that poor serving girl must have envied me while sewing on this cape! well, i suppose miss bray will give her perhaps twenty-five cents for the extra work, and that will buy her a new ribbon. she ought to be glad that i made her alter it, giving her a little extra pay from her employer. of course, she could not expect me to pay her myself. my allowance from papa is much too small to permit me the luxury of charity!" she heard sophie's light tread, as she returned to the house and muttered: "i hate that maid. i know she tells tales of me to mamma, and that mamma believes everything, instead of scolding her for tattling! never mind, miss sophie; see if i don't pay you off some time for your meddling! and as for giving you those old gowns you've been hinting for so long, i'd stick them into the fire first!" she gathered a rose, pulled it to pieces viciously, as if it had been the pert maid she was demolishing, then sighed impatiently: "heigh-ho, how slow he is coming!" the gate latch clicked, and she sprang up with a start, her eyes flashing, her heart throbbing with joy. she looked out, and saw the figure of a man coming along the graveled walk. as he came opposite she started forward, crying sweetly: "oh, jesse, dear, is that you?" the man stopped and faced her. it was her father, and he laughed merrily: "not jesse, dear; but papa, dear!" roma recoiled in bitter disappointment, and said petulantly: "jesse promised to come. have you seen him?" "no, i only walked outside the gates a little way. i saw no one except a very lovely young girl coming from here. do you know anything about her, roma?" "if she was dressed like a kitchen maid in a print gown, she was a girl from the dressmaker's who brought home some work," roma answered carelessly. "i did not notice her dress in the moonlight. i could not keep my eyes from her face, she was so very beautiful," mr. clarke replied, somewhat dreamily. roma shrugged her shoulders scornfully: "a poor girl has no business to be pretty," she exclaimed. mr. clarke frowned at the sentiment. "roma, i do not like to hear you express yourself so heartlessly. you would like to be pretty even if you were poor." "i cannot even imagine myself poor like the common herd!" she retorted, tossing her beautiful head with queenly pride. if she had been looking at the man before her, she must have seen that a strange look came upon his face as his secret thoughts ran sarcastically: "ignorance indeed is bliss, in this case." but he knew he could never tell her the truth, much as he sometimes longed to do it, in a sudden anger at her ignoble nature. he could not love the girl who had been taken from a foundling asylum, and placed in the stead of his own lost darling. ah, no, it was impossible! it seemed to him that there was nothing lovable about roma, although his wife clung to her with devotion. he looked at her as she faced him in the moonlight, so proud and confident of her position; her jewels gleaming, her silks rustling as she moved, and thought that, but for the chance that had brought her into his home, she, too, might now be dressed like a servant as she had so contemptuously said of poor liane lester. he felt as if he should like to cast it into her face, the willful, insolent beauty, but he clinched his teeth over the bitter words. "heaven help me to bear my cross for elinor's sake!" he thought. roma suddenly came closer to him, and placed her hand on his arm, saying coaxingly: "please don't be angry, papa, dear! i didn't mean to seem heartless!" "i'm glad of that, roma, for your heart should be full of sympathy, instead of contempt, for that poor, pretty, little sewing girl." "yes, papa," gently answered roma, for she intended to ask him for some new jewels to-morrow, and did not wish to vex him. "tell me," he continued eagerly, "all that you know about this pretty miss lester." "i know nothing, papa. i never saw her before this evening, when she brought home my work, and said she was one of miss bray's sewing girls. why, what an interest you take in her, papa! did you stop and speak to the poor girl?" "she was running to get home in a hurry, and tripped and fell down; i assisted her to rise. we introduced ourselves, and then she went on; that was all," he explained. "well, i will leave you to watch for jesse, while i go and talk to your mamma." beautiful roma looked after mr. clarke with angry eyes, muttering: "the idea of scolding me, his daughter and heiress, about that insignificant little sewing girl! and he thought her very beautiful. i wonder if mamma would be jealous if she heard of his open admiration! i think i will give her a hint, and see!" and she laughed wickedly, while she again turned her eyes toward the gate, watching for her laggard lover. "why doesn't he come?" she murmured impatiently, for roma was so spoiled by overindulgence of a willful nature that she could not bear to wait for anything. she was imperious as a queen. as the minutes slipped past without bringing the lover, for whom she waited so eagerly, her angry temper began to flame in her great, red-brown eyes like sparks of fire, and she paced back and forth between the arbor and the gate like a caged lioness, her bosom heaving with emotion. jesse devereaux, who had known her only as a bright, vivacious girl, would not have known his sweetheart now, in her fury of rage at his nonappearance. angry tears sparkled in her eyes, as she cried: "if he could not keep his word, he should have sent an excuse. he must know i shall be bitterly disappointed!" all the beauty of the night mattered nothing to her now. the moonlight, the flowers, the murmur of the sea, were maddening to the girl waiting there alone for her recreant lover. love and hate struggled for mastery in her capricious breast. jesse devereaux had been hard to win, but she prized him all the more for that, and she could not bear the least apparent slight from him. "he did not care to come; he has let some trivial excuse keep him away! i will have to teach him that he cannot trifle with my love!" she vowed darkly, flying into the house in a passion. seating herself angrily at her desk, she wrote: mr. devereaux: your failure to keep your engagement with me this evening, without any apparent excuse, seems to me a sufficient excuse for breaking our engagement. roma. she tore a sparkling diamond from her finger, wrapped it in a bit of tissue paper, and inclosed it in the letter, hurrying downstairs again and sending it off to stonecliff by a messenger, with special directions to deliver it personally to jesse devereaux at his hotel. her feelings somewhat relieved by this explosion of resentment, roma laughed harshly, murmuring to herself: "he will be here the first thing in the morning to beg me to take him back, promising never to slight me so cruelly again. of course, i will forgive him, after pouting a while, and making him very uneasy, but from this day forward he will have learned a lesson that i must be first with him in everything. i will never tolerate neglect, and he must learn that fact at once." she was so agitated she could not go into the house just yet. she wandered about the grounds, trying to overcome her angry excitement before she went in, for she knew that her mother was sure to come to her room for a little chat before retiring, and she could not bear her questioning. "dear mamma, i know she idolizes me, but at times i find her very tiresome," she soliloquized. "how tired i get of her lecturing on the beauty of goodness, as if i were the wickedest girl in the world! i know i am not goody-goody, as she is, and i don't want to be! good people don't have much fun in this world; they let the wicked ones get the advantage and run over them always. however, i shall be as sweet as sugar to her to-night, for i want her to help me tease papa to-morrow for that set of rubies i want!" she leaned upon the gate, letting the cool wind caress her heated brow, waiting for her cheeks to cool, and her heart to thump less fiercely with anger before she went in to encounter her mother's searching gaze; but it would have been a thousand times better for her if she had gone to sob her grief out on that mother's gentle breast, than waited here for the fate that was swiftly approaching. the dark, sinister-looking stranger who had insulted liane lester on the beach had rowed back to shore as soon as devereaux was out of sight. he was interested in roma clarke, as his questions to liane had plainly shown. he came slowly, cautiously, up to the gate, his heart leaping with hope as he saw a beautiful head leaning over it that he hoped and believed must be roma's herself. "what luck for me, and what a shock for her!" he muttered grimly, as he advanced. at the same moment mrs. clarke was sending roma's maid out with a message that it was so chilly she ought to come in, or she might take cold. she would not listen to her husband's remonstrance that roma was with her lover, and might not wish to be interrupted. "jesse can come in, too; i am sure he would not wish roma to get sick out in the night air with nothing on her head!" cried the anxious mother. "how you love that girl!" he cried testily, and she laughed sweetly. "are you getting jealous of my love for our daughter, dear? you need not, for the first place in my heart is yours, but remember how devoted i have always been to roma, ever since she was born." "i know, but has she ever seemed to show the right appreciation of your devotion?" he exclaimed abruptly. a deep and bitter sigh quivered over the wife's lips, but she parried the question with a complaint: "you are always insinuating some fault against my darling. your heart is cold to her, edmund." he put his arms around her, and kissed the still lovely face with the passion of a lover. "at least it is not cold to you, my darling!" he cried; and pleased at his love-making, she momentarily forgot roma, and nestled confidingly against his breast. he was glad that she could not know his secret thoughts, for they ran stubbornly: "she is right. my heart is indeed cold to roma. i shall be glad when devereaux marries her and takes her away, and i do not believe it will break my wife's heart, either; for she seemed to bear it well enough when her daughter was away at boarding school those three years." meanwhile sophie went away most reluctantly with her message, thinking: "i am sure miss roma will not thank me for breaking up her tête-à-tête with her lover, for, of course, she is staying out just to keep him all to herself. but i cannot disobey mrs. clarke's commands, though i'll saunter along as slowly as i can, so as to give miss roma a little more time." sophie was an intelligent and good-hearted girl, and might have been invaluable to roma, if she could have appreciated such a treasure; but by her selfishness and arrogance she had completely antagonized the young woman, who only stayed, as she had frankly told liane, for mrs. clarke's sake. as she strolled along, picking a flower here and there, and giving roma all the time she could, she thought of liane with pity and admiration. "there's a lovely girl for you! if she had been rich instead of miss roma, i fancy she'd make a better mistress," she murmured, and then the sound of subdued voices came to her ears. "there she is at the gate with mr. devereaux, sure!" she thought, as she saw two heads together, the man's outside, while the murmur of excited voices came to her ears. "i hope they aren't quarreling already! she had trouble enough hooking him, to be sure!" she thought as she went forward noiselessly, perhaps hoping to catch a word. she was rewarded by hearing roma say: "i will come outside and talk with you. we must not run the risk of being overheard by any one from the house." the gate latch clicked as she stepped outside and joined her companion, a tall, dark man, whom sophie did not doubt must be jesse devereaux. she led her companion out toward the high cliff, washed at its base by the surging sea, and sophie stole after them, thinking curiously: "now, what secret have they got, these two, that no one from the house must overhear, i wonder? it is very strange, indeed, and i'll bet they have a mind to elope, just to make a sensation! these rich folks will do any foolish thing to get their names and pictures in the papers! they think it's fame, but any jailbird can get published in the papers. well, i'll follow you, my lady, and there's one from the house who will hear your secret in spite of your precautions." she crept along after them, so near that if they had turned their heads they must have seen the skulking figure; but neither roma nor the man looked back, but kept along the edge of the cliff on the narrow path, talking angrily, it seemed to sophie, though their words were drowned by the roar of the sea, to the great chagrin of the curious maid. "but they are certainly quarreling! ah, now they are stopping! i don't want to interrupt them yet; so i'll hide!" she thought, darting behind a convenient ledge. in the clear and brilliant moonlight the two figures faced each other, perilously near to the edge of the cliff, and sophie, peering at them from her concealment, suddenly saw a terrible thing happen. the man had his back to the sea, facing roma, and both were talking vehemently, it seemed, from their gestures; when all at once the girl thrust out her foot and struck her companion's knee, causing him to lose his balance. the result was inevitable. the tall figure lurched backward, swayed an instant, trying to recover itself, toppled over with a shriek of rage, and went over the cliff a hundred feet down into the foaming waters. chapter vi. after the crime. sophie nutter could hardly believe the evidence of her own startled eyes when she saw the terrible crime of her young mistress. she knew that roma was selfish and cruel, but she had never realized that such depths of wickedness were concealed beneath her beautiful exterior. when she saw roma push the supposed jesse devereaux over the face of the cliff to a dreadful death, the hair seemed to rise on her head with horror, and from her lips burst an uncontrollable shriek of dismay and remonstrance, while she tried to spring forward with outstretched arms in a futile impulse to avert the man's awful fate. too late! the writhing, struggling body went hurtling down over the high cliff, and struck the water with a loud thud that dashed the spray high in air. then sophie's limbs relaxed beneath her, and she fell in a heap like one paralyzed, behind the ledge of stones, while her terrified shriek went wandering forth on the air of night like a wailing banshee. but roma had shrieked, wildly, too--perhaps in nature's recoil from her own sin--so sophie's protesting cry lost itself in dismal echoes. then all grew still save for the voice of the sea and the dash of water churning itself to fury at the foot of the bluff. the maid, crouching low in her concealment, heard roma flying with terror-haunted footsteps from the scene of her awful crime, and muttered distractedly: "she has murdered her handsome lover, the beautiful fiend! god in heaven alone knows why! i thought she loved the very ground he trod on!" the maid was suffering from severe nervous shock. she sobbed hysterically as she thought of handsome jesse devereaux lying drowned at the foot of the cliff, and beaten by the cruel waves that would wash him out to sea when the tide turned, so that roma's sin would be forever hidden from the sight of men. "i will go and inform on her at once! she shall suffer the penalty!" she vowed at first; but when she thought of gentle, loving mrs. clarke her resolution wavered. "it will kill her to learn of her child's wickedness, the good, gentle lady who has been so kind and generous to me! i do not know what to do! i would like to punish the daughter, and spare the mother, but i cannot do both," she groaned, in a state of miserable indecision. it was some time before her trembling limbs permitted her to drag herself from the spot; and when she gained the house and her bed she could not rest. she tossed and groaned, and at length was seized with hysterical spasms, obliging the housemaid to call for assistance. in the meantime roma, far less excited than sophie, had also retired to her room and flung herself down by the open window to await impatiently the inevitable good-night chat with her mother. "i wish she would not come. her affection grows really tiresome at times," she muttered rebelliously, as she heard the light footsteps outside her door. mrs. clarke entered and sat down close to her daughter, putting her white hand tenderly on the girl's shoulder. "good girl, to come in when mamma sent for you," she said caressingly, as to a child. "you--sent--for--me!" roma faltered, in surprise. "yes, by sophie. i feared you would take cold, bareheaded out in the night air." "i have not seen sophie," roma muttered sullenly, with a downcast face. "why did jesse leave so soon?" continued the mother curiously. "he did not come. i have been walking in the grounds alone." "but your papa said, dear----" "yes, i know; papa told you i was waiting for jesse at the gate, but he never came. he disappointed me!" "why, that is very strange, dear. and you are grieved over it, i see. your face is pale, and your whole frame trembles under my touch. do not take it so hard, darling. of course jesse was detained. he will come to-morrow." "he should have sent me an excuse, mamma!" "he must have been prevented. i am sure he would not neglect you purposely. he will explain to-morrow." roma tossed her proud head, with a bitter laugh. "i tell you, mamma, i will not brook such negligence. i have broken our engagement." "roma!" the girl gave a reckless laugh of wounded pride. "yes; i sent him a note, with his ring, just now, setting him free." "you were precipitate, roma; you should have waited for an explanation." "i did not choose to wait!" "i fear you will regret it." "i do not think it likely." mrs. clarke gazed at her in sorrowful silence, whose reproach goaded roma into adding haughtily: "i wished to teach jesse, early, a lesson that i am not to be neglected for anything; that i must be foremost always in his thoughts." "but have you not gone too far in giving him this lesson? his thoughts will not belong to you now." "he will bring back his ring, and beg me to take it back to-morrow." "are you certain, roma?" "as sure as i am of my life!" with a confident laugh. "well, perhaps you know him better than i do, roma, but i fancied jesse devereaux very high-spirited--too high-spirited to bear dictation." "he will have to bend to my will!" roma cried arrogantly, and the gentle lady sighed, for she knew that her daughter made this her own motto in life. power and dominion were hers by the force of "might makes right." mrs. clarke rose with a sigh and touched roma's cheeks with her lips, saying kindly: "well, i hope it will all come right, dear. good night." she returned to her own room, thinking: "poor girl, she is the miserable victim of her own caprice. i could see that she is too terribly agitated to sleep an hour to-night." chapter vii. granny's revenge. the half dozen pretty young girls who served for miss bray were light-hearted, hopeful young creatures in spite of their poverty, and at their daily work they sociably discussed their personal affairs with the freedom and intimacy of friends. beaus and dress were the choice topics just as in higher circles of society. liane lester was the only quiet one among them, granny's edicts barring her both from lovers and finery. dolly dorr was turning them all green with envy the next morning by boasting of the attentions she had received from the grand mr. devereaux, when one of the girls, lottie day, interposed: "he is not likely to call on you again very soon, for i heard brother tom saying at breakfast this morning that mr. devereaux had broken his arm by a fall last night." a chorus of compassionate remarks followed this announcement, and dolly exclaimed vivaciously: "i wish i might be allowed to nurse the poor fellow!" nan brooks replied chaffingly: "miss roma clarke might have some objection to that scheme. they say she is engaged to him." "that's why i want a good chance to cut her out. the proud, stuck-up thing!" cried dolly indignantly, and from the remarks that followed it was plainly to be seen that miss clarke was not a favorite among the pretty sewing girls. roma had never lost an opportunity to impress them with the difference in their stations and her own, as if she were made of quite a superior sort of clay, and the high-spirited young creatures bitterly resented her false pride. not one of them but would have been glad to see dolly "cut her out," as they phrased it, with the handsome devereaux, but they frankly believed that there could be no such luck. in their gay chatter, liane alone remained silent, her beautiful head bent low over her sewing to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes while they talked of jesse devereaux's accident. "it was for my sake!" she thought gratefully, with rising blushes, though her heart sank like lead when she heard them saying he was engaged to miss clarke. "he belongs to that proud, cruel girl! how i pity him!" she thought. "yet, no doubt, he admires her very much. she does not show him the mean, selfish side of her character, as she does to us poor sewing girls." she would have given anything if only she had not yielded to her passionate gratitude, and kissed his hand. "he was disgusted at my boldness. he believed i had given him my love unasked, and he turned away in scorn. yet how could i help it, he was so kind to me; first saving me from that ruffian, then from granny's blows? oh, how could i help but love him? and i wish, like dolly, that i might be permitted to nurse him as some reparation for his goodness," she thought, her cheeks burning and her heart throbbing wildly with the tenderness she could not stifle. every way she looked it seemed to her she could see his dark face, with its dazzling black eyes, looking at her with an admiration and tenderness they should not have shown, if he were indeed betrothed to another. those glances and smiles had lured liane's heart from her own keeping and doomed her to passionate unrest. she listened to everything in silence, nursing her sweet, painful secret in her heart, afraid lest a breath should betray her, until suddenly ethel barry, the girl next her, exclaimed: "how quiet liane is this morning, not taking the least interest in anything we say!" "no interest! oh, heaven!" thought liane, but dolly dorr interposed: "you would be quiet, too, if you had been beaten as liane was by granny last night, and forced to seek refuge with a friend." liane crimsoned painfully at having her own troubles discussed, but granny's faults were public property, and she could not deny the truth. "she is old and cross," she said, generously trying to offer some excuse. "you need not take up for her, liane. she doesn't deserve it!" cried one and all, while mary lang, the oldest and most staid of the six girls, quickly offered to share her own room with liane if she would never return to the old woman. she was an orphan, and rented a room with a widow, living cozily at what she called "room-keeping," and the girls had many jolly visits taking tea with mary. liane thanked her warmly for her offer. "but will you come?" asked mary. "i cannot." "but why?" the girl sighed heavily as she explained: "granny came to mrs. dorr's this morning, all penitence for her fault, and begged me to come home, promising never to beat me again." "do not trust her; do not go!" cried they all; but it was useless. "she is old and poor. how could she get along without me? she would have to go to the poorhouse, and think how cruelly that would disgrace me!" cried liane, who had no love for the old wretch, but supported her through mingled pride and pity. and she actually returned to the shanty that day when her work was done, much to the relief of the old woman, who feared she had driven her meek slave off forever. "so you are back? that's a good girl!" she said approvingly, and added: "they may tell you, those foolish girls, that i am too strict with you, liane, but i'm an old woman, and i know what's best for you, girl. it was through letting your mother have her own way that she went to her ruin; that's why i'm so strict on you." "my mother went to her--ruin!" faltered liane, flushing crimson, but very curious, for she had never been able to extract a word from granny about her parents, except that they were both dead and had been no credit to her while living. "yes, her ruin," granny replied, with a malicious side glance at the startled girl. "she ran away from me to be an actress when she wasn't but seventeen, and a year later she came back to me with a baby in her arms--you! she had been deceived and deserted, and you, poor thing, had no lawful name but the one she had picked out of a book--liane lester." "oh, heaven!" sobbed the girl, burying her white face in her hands, thinking that this blow was more cruel even than one of the old woman's beatings. at heart liane had a strange pride, and she was bitterly ashamed of her low origin and her cruel grandmother, whom no one respected because of her vile temper. to be told now that she had no lawful name, that her mother had been deceived and deserted, was like a sword thrust in the poor girl's heart. she sobbed bitterly, as granny added: "i didn't never mean to tell you the truth, but now that you are getting wild and willful, like your mother was, it's best for you to know it, and take her fate as a warning." liane knew the accusation was not true, but she did not contradict it; she only sobbed: "did my mother die of a broken heart?" "no, indeed, the minx; she got well and ran away again, and left you on my hands." "is she living now?" "she is, for all i know to the contrary. but she takes good care never to come near me, nor to send me a dollar for your support." "i take care of myself, and you, too, granny." "yes, the best you can; but she ought to help--the ungrateful creature!" granny exclaimed so earnestly that she could scarcely doubt the truth of her story. it was a cruel blow to liane's pride, and up in her bare little chamber under the eaves that night she lay awake many hours sobbing hopelessly over her fate. "i would rather be dead than the daughter of a woman who was deceived and deserted! mr. devereaux would never give me a second thought if he knew," she sighed, with burning cheeks, as she sank into a restless sleep, troubled with dreams in which her hero's magnetic, dark eyes played the principal part--dreams so sweet that she grieved when the cold gray light of dawn glimmered upon her face and roused her to reality and another day of toil. very eagerly the girls questioned her when she reached miss bray's as to granny's mood, and she answered quietly: "no, she did not scold me or strike me this time; she was kind in her way." but she did not tell them granny's way of kindness, for her heart sank with shame as she looked around the group of her light-hearted friends, thinking how different their lot was from hers; all of them having honorable parentage, and dreading lest they would not wish to associate with her if they knew she had no right to her pretty name, liane lester, that her wronged mother had simply picked it out of a story book. miss bray had a hurry order this morning--a white gown ruffled to the waist--so she set all the girls to work, and as they worked their tongues flew--they knew pretty nearly everything that had happened in the village since yesterday. the choice bit of gossip was that miss clarke's maid, sophie nutter, had left her, and gone to boston. "they say she had a sick spell night before last, and went out of her head, talking awful things, so that the servants were quite frightened, and called up their mistress herself. sophie had hysterical spasms, and accused miss roma of dreadful crimes right before her mother's face," said mary lang. "miss roma must have been very angry--she has such a temper," cried dolly, as she threaded her needle. "oh, miss roma wasn't present, and her mother took steps never to let her find it out, you may be sure." "it must have been something awful," said lottie day. "i should say so! she declared to mrs. clarke she had seen miss roma push mr. devereaux over the bluff and drown him! just think--when mr. devereaux had not been near the place, but was lying at his hotel with a broken arm!" "it was all a dream," said miss bray from her cutting board. "yes, but she could hardly be convinced yesterday morning that she had not really seen miss roma commit a murder. they had to send for the doctor to tell her that mr. devereaux was really alive at his hotel, having broken his arm by a fall on the sands. they say she went off into more hysterics when she heard that, and muttered: 'a fall over the cliff was more likely, but how he escaped death and got to shore again puzzles me. and why did she do it, anyway? it must have been a lovers' quarrel. i must get away from here. she will be pushing me over the bluff next.' and she had her trunk packed and went off to boston, though she looked too ill to leave her bed," added mary lang, who had had the whole story straight from the housekeeper at cliffdene. chapter viii. the broken engagement. "oh, how rash and foolish i have been!" thought roma, the next day, when she heard of jesse devereaux's accident. "his arm broken by a fall on the sands last night--most probably on his way to see me, poor fellow! and in my angry resentment at my disappointment i have broken our engagement! how rash and foolish i am, and how much i regret it! i must make it up with him at once, my darling!" she cried repentantly, and hurried to her mother. "mamma, you were right last night. i regret my hasty action in dismissing jesse without a hearing. how can i make it up with him?" "you can send another note of explanation, asking his forgiveness," suggested mrs. clarke. "oh, mamma, if i could only go to him myself!" she cried, impatient for the reconciliation. "it would not be exactly proper, my dear." "but we are engaged." "you have broken the engagement." roma uttered a cry of grief and chagrin that touched her mother's heart. "poor dear, you are suffering, as i foreboded, for last night's folly," she sighed. "please don't lecture me, mamma. i'm wretched enough without that!" "i only meant to sympathize with you, dear." "then help me--that is the best sort of sympathy. i suppose it wouldn't be improper for you to call on jesse, at his hotel, would it?" "no, i suppose not." "then i will write my note to him, and you can take it--will you?" mrs. clarke assented, and was on the point of starting when a messenger arrived with a note for roma, replying to hers of the night before. in spite of his broken right arm, jesse devereaux had managed a scrawl with his left hand, and roma tore it open with a burning face and wildly beating heart, quickly mastering its contents, which read: mr. devereaux accepts his dismissal with equanimity, feeling sure from this display of miss clarke's hasty temper that he has had a lucky escape. it was cool, curt, airy, almost to insolence; a fitting match for her own; and roma gasped and almost fainted. where was all her boasting, now, that she would teach him a lesson; that he would be back in a day begging her to take back his ring? she had met her match; she realized it now; remembering, all too late, how hard he had been to win; a lukewarm lover, after all, and perhaps glad now of his release. oh, if she could but have recalled that silly note, she would have given anything she possessed, for all the heart she had had been lavished on him. with a genuine sob of choking regret, she flung the humiliating note to her mother, and sank into a chair, her face hidden in her hands. mrs. clarke read, and exclaimed: "really, he need not comment on your temper while displaying an equally hasty one so plainly. he must certainly be very angry, but i suppose his suffering adds to his impatience." "he--he--will forgive me when he reads my second note!" sobbed roma. "but you do not intend to send it now, roma!" exclaimed mrs. clarke, with a certain resentment of her own at jesse's brusqueness. but roma could be very inconsistent--overbearing when it was permitted to her; humble when cowed. she lifted up a miserable face, replying eagerly: "oh, yes, mamma, for i was plainly in the wrong, and deserve that he should be angry with me. but he will be only too glad to forgive me when he reads my note of repentance. please go at once, dear mamma, and make my peace with jesse! you will know how to plead with him in my behalf! oh, don't look so cold and disapproving, mamma, for i love him so it would break my heart to lose him now. and--and--if he made love to any other girl, i should like to--to--see her lying dead at my feet! oh, go; go quickly, and hasten back to me with my ring again and jesse's forgiveness!" she was half mad with anxiety and impatience, and she almost thrust mrs. clarke from the room in her eagerness for her return. it mattered not that she could see plainly how distasteful it was to the gentle lady to go on such a mission; she insisted on obedience, and waited with passionate impatience for her mother's return, saying to herself: "he is certainly very angry, but she will coax him to make up, and hereafter i will be very careful not to let him slip me again. i can be humble until we are married, and rule afterward. mamma will not dare leave him without getting his forgiveness for me. she knows my temper, and that i would blame her always if she failed of success." but there are some things that even a loving, slavish mother cannot accomplish, even at the risk of a child's anger. jesse devereaux's reconciliation to roma was one of them. the mother returned after a time, pale and trembling, to roma, saying nervously: "call your pride to your aid, dear roma, for jesse was obdurate, and would not consent to renew the engagement. i am indeed sorry that i humbled myself to ask it." chapter ix. love at first sight. jesse devereaux had never spent a more unpleasant half hour in his life than during mrs. clarke's visit. he admired and esteemed the gentle lady very much, and it pained him to tell her that he no longer loved her daughter, and was glad of his release. yet he did so kindly and courteously, though he was well aware that no gentleness could really soften the blow to her love and pride. "i have been betrothed to your daughter only two weeks, dear madam, but in that short time i have discovered traits in her character that could never harmonize with mine. we have both been spoiled by indulgent parents; both are willful and headstrong. such natures do best wedded to gentle, yielding ones. it is best for our future happiness that we should separate, although i should have kept faith with roma, had she not yielded to her hasty temper and broken the engagement," he said. she looked at his pale, handsome face as he rested on the sofa, and decided that he was only holding out for pride's sake. surely he must love beautiful roma still--he could not hate her so soon. "roma is not headstrong, as you think; only hasty and impulsive," she faltered. "see how she has humbled herself to you in the depths of her love. why, i left her weeping most bitterly over her fault, and praying for your forgiveness. how can i go back and tell her you refuse it; that you scorn her love?" she was frightened, indeed, to return from an unsuccessful mission to roma. there were tears in her imploring eyes as she gazed at him. "i do not refuse her my forgiveness; i accord it to her freely," he replied. "neither do i scorn her love, but i do not believe it can be very deep, else she could not have been so angry with me last night. and i am free to confess that my love was not of the strongest, either, for i realize now that i am glad of my freedom, if you will pardon me for my frankness, dear lady." how could she pardon aught that must wound her daughter vitally? an angry flush rose into her cheek, her blue eyes flashed. "you are cruelly frank!" she cried; and he answered: "i lament the painful necessity, but circumstances leave me no alternative, mrs. clarke. i feel that i entered into an engagement too hastily, and that its sudden rupture is a relief. i tender my friendship to your daughter with profound gratitude for her kindness, but i can never again be her lover." in the face of such frankness she sat dumb. what was there to say that could move him? her heart sank at the thought of roma's disappointment. she rose unsteadily to her feet, blinded by angry tears. "i may still retain your friendship?" he pleaded, but her lip curled in scorn. "no, you are cruel and unjust to roma. i despise you!" she answered, in wrath, as she stumbled from the room, wondering at his heartlessness. she would not have wondered so much if she could have known that roma had never really filled his heart, but that the glamour of her fascinations and her open preference had somehow drawn him into a proposal that had brought him no happiness, save a sort of pride in winning the beautiful belle and heiress from many competitors. all the while he did not really love her; it was just his pride and vanity that were flattered. there had come a sudden, painful awakening that fateful day, when rescuing liane lester's veil. he had looked deep into those shy, lovely eyes of hers, and felt his heart leap wildly, quickened by a glance into new life. roma's eyes had never thrilled him that way; he had never wondered at her great beauty; he had never longed to take her in his arms and clasp her to his heart at first sight. this was love--real love, such as he had never felt for the proud beauty he had rashly promised to marry. in that first hour of his meeting with liane, he cursed himself for his madness in proposing to roma. yet, he was the soul of honor. he did not even contemplate retreating from his position as roma's affianced husband. he only felt that he must avoid the fatal beauty of liane, lest he go mad with despair at his cruel fate. then had followed the meeting with her again, that night when he had so fortunately saved her from the insults of a stranger and the brutality of her old grandmother. how proud and glad he had been to defend her, even at the pain of a broken arm; how he had loved her in that moment, longed to shelter her on his breast from the assaults of the cruel world. he could never forget that moment when, overcome by gratitude, the girl had bent and kissed his hand, sending mad thrills of love through his trembling frame. had he been free, he would have poured out his full heart to her that moment, and the tender stars would have looked down on a scene of the purest love, where two hearts acknowledged each other's sway in ecstasy. but he was bound in the cruel fetters of another's love, from which he could not in honor get free. his heart must break in silence. he had to hurry away from her abruptly to hide the love he must not confess. in his sorrow and suffering that night, judge what happiness came to him with roma's angry letter, sent by special messenger, restoring his ring and his freedom! his heart sang pæans of joy as he let his thoughts cling lovingly to liane, realizing that now he might woo and win the shy, sweet maiden for his own. very early in the morning he penned his note to roma, making it purposely curt and cold, that she might not attempt a reconciliation. he felt so grateful to her that he was not at all angry, and thanked her in his heart for her summary rejection. the unpleasant interview with mrs. clarke over, he dismissed the whole matter from his mind, and gave all his thoughts to liane, chafing at the delay that must ensue from his forced confinement to his room. "you must let me get out of here as soon as possible, doctor. i have something very important to do!" he cried eagerly. "love-making, eh?" bantered the doctor, thinking of roma. "all right, my dear fellow. i shall have you walking about in a few days, i trust; but i warn you it will be a long while before you can do any but left-handed hugging!" "pshaw!" exclaimed his patient; but he colored up to his brows. he was indeed thinking of how impassionedly he would make love to liane when he saw her again. "i shall ask her to marry me on the spot!" he decided joyfully, "and--i hope i'm not vain--but i don't believe she will say no. we must be married very soon, so i can take her away from her wretched surroundings. that old grandmother can be pensioned off. she shall never see liane again after she is my wife. of course, the world will say i've made a mésalliance, but i'm rich enough to please myself, and my darling is beautiful enough to wear a crown." the doctor found him the most impatient patient in the world. he never complained of the pain in his arm, though it was excruciating. he only chafed at his confinement. "i want to get out," he said. "doctor, you know i'm one of the judges at the beauty show to-morrow night." "i'm going to let you go with your arm in a sling. hang it all, i wouldn't miss it myself for anything! say, there's more than one beauty in stonecliff, but it goes without saying that you judges will award the prize to miss clarke, eh?" cried the jocose physician. chapter x. roma seeks a new maid. roma's rage and grief at her mother's failure to set matters straight between her and devereaux were beyond all expression. but, for very pride's sake, she concealed the deepest bitterness of her heart. she could not accuse her gentle mother of wanton carelessness, for the tears stood in her deep-blue eyes as she told the story of her interview, concluding sadly: "do not think, my darling, that i did not do my best to bring him to reason, putting pride away, and telling him how devotedly you loved him, and that it would break your heart to lose him now. he was cold and unresponsive to all my pleadings, and as good as said he was glad to be free of you. i confess i lost my temper at the last, and told him i despised him, before i came away." roma did not speak, she only tapped the rich carpet with a restless foot, indicative of a white heat of repressed anger; but mrs. clarke did not read her mood aright; she thought she was bearing the blow with fortitude. in her keen sympathy she exclaimed: "it is a cruel blow to your pride and love, my daughter, and i only wish i knew how to comfort you." roma lifted her white face and glittering eyes to mrs. clarke's anxious scrutiny, and actually laughed--a strange, mirthless laugh, that chilled her mother's blood. then she said, with seeming coolness: "you can comfort me right off, mamma, by begging papa to give me those rubies i've wanted so long! as for jesse, he is only holding off from pride! i shall win him back, never fear!" "you shall have your rubies, dear," her mother answered kindly, though she thought: "what a strange girl? how can she think of rubies at such a moment?" "thank you, mamma, you are very good to me!" roma answered prettily, in her gratitude for the rubies; then, as mrs. clarke was going out, she added: "i wonder if sophie is well enough to get up and wait on me. i am in need of her services." mrs. clarke paused in some embarrassment, and answered: "i shall have to lend you my own maid till i can get you another. sophie nutter left quite abruptly this morning." "i'm glad of it. i disliked the girl, and i suspected her of telling tales of me to you!" cried roma. mrs. clarke neither affirmed nor denied the charge. she simply said: "we should be kind to our servants, roma, if we expect them to bear good witness for us." "kindness is wasted on the ungrateful things!" roma answered impatiently. "i must have another maid immediately." "but where shall we find her? not in this little town, i fear. so we must send to boston." "wait! i have an idea, mamma!" "well?" "i should like to have that neat little sewing girl that altered my cape that night. she is so clever with her needle, she would be a real treasure to me, and save you many dressmaking bills." "would she be willing to come?" "we can find out by asking the old woman she lives with--you know, mamma, that old tumble-down shanty at the end of town, coming out of cliffdene? it is a little more than a mile from here. liane lester lives there with an old grandmother that beats her every day, i've heard, and i've no doubt she would jump at the chance of a situation here!" mrs. clarke forbore to remind her daughter that she, too, had been accused of beating her maid; she only said warningly: "you would have to be kinder to her than you were to sophie, or she would not be likely to stay, my dear." "how could you believe sophie's fibs on me?" cried roma petulantly; but mrs. clarke turned the exclamation aside by saying: "perhaps you had better go and see about the new maid at once." "oh, mamma, i think you might do it yourself! i--i am too nervous and unhappy to attend to it just now. won't you just drive down into town again and see about the girl?" answered roma. mrs. clarke did not relish the task, but she was so used to bearing roma's burdens that she assented without a murmur, and went out again to see about the new maid, sadly troubled in her mind about what had happened last night, when the delirious maid had told such shocking stories on her daughter. "it could not be true; of course not, but it is shocking that sophie should even have imagined such awful things! it all came of roma being cross and impatient with her, and making a bad impression on her mind. now, if this young sewing girl should consent to serve roma, i shall make it a point to see that she is not ill-used," she thought, as her handsome carriage stopped at liane's humble home, and the footman opened the door and helped her out. she swept up the narrow walk to the door, an imposing figure, thinking compassionately: "what a wretched abode! it will be a pleasing change to liane lester if the girl will consent to come to cliffdene." she tapped on the open door, but no one replied, though she saw the old woman's figure moving about in the room beyond. "she is deaf and cannot hear me. i will just step in," she thought, suiting the action to the word. granny was sweeping up the floor, but she turned with a start, dropping her broom as a soft hand touched her shoulder, and, confronting the beautiful intruder, asked: "who are you? what do you want?" mrs. clarke smiled, as she replied: "i am mrs. clarke, of cliffdene. i wish to see liane lester." "liane's down to her work at miss bray's, ma'am, but you can tell me your business with her. i'm her grandmother," snarled granny crossly. "my daughter roma has lost her maid; she wishes to offer liane the vacant place, with your approval. she will have a pleasant home, and much better wages than are paid to her by miss bray for sewing." mrs. clarke had never seen liane lester, but she felt a deep sympathy for her from what she had heard, and was strangely eager to have her come to cliffdene. so she waited impatiently for granny's reply, and as she studied the homely figure before her, a sudden light beamed in her eyes, and she exclaimed: "how strange! i recognize you all at once as the woman who nursed me when my daughter roma was born. you have changed, but yet your features are quite familiar. oh, how you bring back that awful time to me! do you remember how my child was stolen, and that i would have died of a broken heart, only that she was restored to me almost at the last moment, when my life was so quickly ebbing away?" the quick tears of memory started to the lady's eyes, but granny's fairly glared at her as she muttered: "you are mistaken!" "oh, no, i cannot be! i recall you perfectly," declared mrs. clarke, who had an astonishing memory for faces. "i never saw you before in my whole life! i never was a sick nurse!" declared the old woman, so positively and angrily that mrs. clarke thought that, after all, she might be mistaken. "really, it does not matter. i was misled by a resemblance, and i thought you would be glad to hear of your nurse child again," she said. a strange eagerness appeared on the old woman's face as she muttered: "it's my misfortune that i haven't such a claim on your kindness, ma'am. god knows i'd be glad to meet with rich friends that would pity my poverty-stricken old age!" mrs. clarke's white hand slipped readily into her pocket, taking the hint, and granny was made richer by a dollar, which she acknowledged with profuse gratitude. "and as for liane going as maid to your daughter, ma'am, i'd like to see this miss roma first, before i give my consent. i want to see if she looks like a kind young lady, that would not scold and slap my granddaughter," she declared cunningly. mrs. clarke colored, wondering if sophie's tales had reached the old woman's ears, but she said quickly: "i would insure kind treatment to your grandchild if she came to serve my daughter." "thank you kindly, ma'am. i believe you, but will you humor an old woman's whim and persuade miss roma to come to me herself?" persisted granny, with veiled eagerness. "i will do so if i can, but i cannot promise certainly," mrs. clarke replied, rather coldly, as she rustled through the door. she was vexed and disappointed. everything seemed to go against her that day. how angry roma would be at the old woman's obstinacy, and how insolently she would talk to her, looking down on her from her height of pride and position. it was as well to give up the thought of having liane come at all. and how strangely like the old woman was to mrs. jenks, the nurse she had had with her when roma was born. she was mistaken, of course, since the old creature said so; but she had such a good memory for faces, and she had never thought of two such faces alike in the world. but if mrs. clarke went away perturbed from this rencontre, she left granny sadly flustrated also. the old creature sat down in the doorway, her chin in her hands, and gazed with starting eyes at the grand carriage from cliffdene rolling away. "who would have dreamed such a thing?" she muttered. "here i have lived two years neighbor to the clarkes, and never suspected their identity, and never heard their girl's name spoken before! well, well, well! and they want liane to wait on roma. ha, ha, ha!" she seemed to find the idea amusing, for she kept laughing at intervals in a grim, mocking fashion, while she watched the road to cliffdene as if she had seen a ghost from the past. "will the girl come, as i wish? will she condescend to cross old granny's humble threshold? i should like to see her in her pride and beauty. perhaps she, too, might have a dollar to fling to a poor old wretch like me!" she muttered darkly. chapter xi. the beauty show. roma was indeed surprised and angry at granny's summons. she flatly refused to go, declaring: "the insolence of the lower classes is indeed insufferable. why, i offered that girl a situation much more profitable than the one she holds now, and here that crazy old witch, her grandmother, wishes to annoy me with all sorts of conditions! call on her, indeed, in her old rookery of a house! i shall do nothing of the kind, but i will write a note to the girl, at miss bray's, and i have no doubt she will fairly jump at the chance, without saying 'by your leave' to that old hag!" delighted at the idea of outwitting the insolent old woman, as she deemed her, roma quickly dispatched a patronizing, supercilious note to liane, and waited impatiently for the reply. she hardly gave another thought to poor sophie nutter, now that she was gone. least of all did it enter her beautiful head that the maid had quit in fear and horror at the crime she had seen her commit that night. mrs. clarke, in her tenderness over roma's feelings, had bound all the servants never to betray sophie's wild ravings to her daughter. so, secure in her consciousness that her terrible deed had had no witness, roma tried to dismiss the whole affair from her mind, believing that her victim lay at the bottom of the sea and could never rise again to menace her with threats of exposure, as he had done that night, bringing down on himself an awful fate. the man she had remorselessly hurled from the cliff to a watery grave belonged to an episode of roma's boarding-school days, that she hoped was forever hidden from the knowledge of the world. the thought of exposure and betrayal was intolerable. it was a moment when she dare not hesitate. desperation made her reckless, branded her soul with crime. the strongest love of her life had been given to jesse devereaux. woe be to any one who came between her and that selfish love! woe be to devereaux himself when he scorned that love! turbulent passion, that brooked no obstacle, burned fiercely in roma's breast. proud, vain, self-indulgent, she would brook no opposition in anything. out of all the five hundred girls whose portraits had been accepted for the beauty show, there was not one more eager than roma to win the prize--not for the money, but for the additional prestige it would add to her belleship. her handsomest portrait had been offered, and roma had scrutinized it most anxiously, hour by hour, searching for the slightest flaw. she had a wealth of rich coloring in eyes, hair, and complexion, but her features were not quite regular; her nose was a trifle too large, her mouth too wide. aware of these defects, she would have been a little uneasy, only that she counted on the votes of her father and devereaux as most certain. besides, she considered that her brilliant social position must prove a trump card. "the palm will surely be mine, both by reason of beauty and belleship," she thought triumphantly, sneering, as she added: "the town will surely choose one of its own maidens for the honor, and who would think of awarding the prize to any one here except myself? true, they say that all of miss bray's pretty sewing girls have had their pictures accepted, and it's true that some of them are rather pretty, especially that liane lester, but who would think of giving a vote to a common sewing girl? i don't fear any of them, i'm sure! but, how i should hate any girl that took the prize from me!" she concluded, with a gleam of deadly jealousy in her great, flashing eyes, that could burn like live coals in their peculiar, reddish-brown shade. but an element of uncertainty was added to the situation, now, in the defection of jesse devereaux. "what if, in his passionate resentment against me, he should cast his vote for another?" she thought, in dismay so great that she determined to humble herself to the dust if she could but win him back. she sent him flowers every day, and, accompanying them, love letters, in which she poured out her grief and repentance; but, alas, all her efforts fell on stony ground. the recreant knight, busy with his new love dream, scarcely wasted a thought on roma. he replied to her letters, thanking her for the flowers and her kindly sentiments, assuring her that he bore no malice, and forgave her for her folly; but he added unequivocally that his fancy for her was dead, and could never be resurrected. "his fancy! he can call it a fancy now!" the girl moaned bitterly, and in that moment she tasted, for the first time, the bitterness of a cruel defeat, where she had been so confident of success. she could not realize that he loved her no more, that the fancy she had so carefully cultivated was dead so soon! the pain and humiliation were most bitter. she rued in dust and ashes her hasty severance of her engagement. added to the bitterness of losing his love was the pain of having him vote against her at the beauty show. "he will be sure to do so out of pure spite, even if he thought me the most beautiful of all!" she thought bitterly. "oh, i wonder for whom he will cast his vote! how i should hate her if i knew! i--i could trample her pretty face beneath my feet!" in desperation she resolved to cultivate the acquaintance of the artist, malcolm dean. he was to be one of the judges, she knew. perhaps she could win him over to her side. gradually she took heart of hope again. it could not be possible jesse's heart had turned against her so suddenly. no, no! when they met again she would be able to draw him back again. she had heard that he was going to be present at the beauty show. she would wear her new rubies and her most becoming gown for his eyes. there were other girls than roma planning to look their prettiest that night, and one was liane lester. her girl friends had persuaded her to send in her picture with theirs, and all six had been photographed in a large group by the stonecliff artist. no one could gainsay the fact that it was a beautiful group, from the petite, flaxen-haired dolly, to the tall, stately brunette, mary lang. miss bray was quite proud of them, and wished she had not been too old and homely to compete for the prize. "how sweet they look in their plain white gowns--as pretty as any millionaire's daughters!" she said proudly. "indeed, i don't see why one of them can't take the prize? what if they are just poor sewing girls? almost any of them is as pretty as miss clarke, with her fame as a beauty! but her pa's money helped her to that! look at liane lester, now; that girl's pretty enough for a princess, and if she had fine fixings, like roma clarke, she could outshine her as the sun outshines the stars! but, of course, i wouldn't have liane know i said it, because a poor girl must never cultivate vanity," she concluded to her crony, widow smith, who agreed to everything she said. liane had been almost frightened at first when the girls insisted on her going to the beauty show to see the exhibition of photographs, and hear the prize awarded. "for if you should be chosen, you must be there to receive the prize," cried dolly. "i could never dream of being chosen," the girl cried, with a blush that made her lovelier than ever. "you must come! tell granny you have thrown off her yoke now, and intend to have a little fun, like other young girls. if she rebels, tell her you will leave her and live with me!" encouraged mary lang. "you mustn't miss it for all the world!" cried lottie day vivaciously. "did you know that the ladies of the methodist church intend to have a supper in the town hall, also, that night?" little by little they tempted liane to rebel against granny's arbitrary will and accompany them. "but i have nothing to wear!" she sighed. "oh, a cheap, white muslin will do! it will look real sweet by gaslight, with a ribbon round your waist," suggested miss bray herself, and then liane's heart gave a thump of joy. she told them about the five dollars mrs. clarke had given her for the work on roma's cape, and how she had kept all knowledge of it from granny, longing to enjoy the money herself. "you were quite right, since she takes every penny of your wages!" they all agreed, while miss bray added kindly: "you can get a sweet pattern of white muslin and a ribbon for your waist and neck, with five dollars. i will cut and fit your gown for nothing." "and we girls will take parts of it home at night and help you make it!" cried her young friends. "oh, how good you all are to me! i hope i may be able to return your favors some day," cried the girl, grateful tears crowding into her beautiful eyes. and just then came the note from roma clarke, offering liane a situation as her maid. the girl shared the note with her friends, and they were unanimously indignant. "the idea of thinking that any of us would stoop to be a maid!" they cried, while liane, with flushing cheeks, quickly indited a brief, courteous, but very decided refusal of the young lady's offer. chapter xii. "the queen rose." "what impudence! she thanks me for my offer, but finds it quite impossible to accept. and her note is worded as if written to an equal!" cried roma angrily, as she tossed liane's answer to her mother. mrs. clarke examined it somewhat curiously, commenting on the neatness and correctness of the writing. "she has made good use of her limited opportunities for education," she said. "but, mamma, the idea of her refusing my offer, to remain with miss bray at three dollars a week." "perhaps there is a little pride mixed up with her position. she may consider her present place more genteel, my dear." "i really do not see any difference to speak of. poor people are all alike to me," roma cried scornfully. "as for liane lester, i should like to shake her! i suppose her pretty face has quite turned her head with vanity! why, mamma, she and those other sewing girls at miss bray's have even sent their pictures to the beauty show." "the competition was free to all, my dear, and poverty is no bar to beauty. i have seen some of the prettiest faces in the world among working girls. but still, i do not suppose any of miss bray's employees can compete with you in looks," returned mrs. clarke, with a complacent glance at her handsome daughter. "thank you, mamma, but you haven't seen this lester girl, have you? she is really quite out of the ordinary, with the most classic features, while i--well, i confess my features are the weak point in my beauty. i don't see why i didn't inherit your regular features!" complained roma. "you do not resemble me, but you are not lacking in beauty, dear. i suppose you must be more like your father's family, though i never saw any of them. but don't begin to worry, darling, lest you should lose the prize. i feel sure of your success," soothed the gentle lady. "but, mamma, there is jesse, who will be sure to vote against me for spite, and i'm afraid that papa is the only one of the judges i can count upon." "you cannot count upon him, roma, because he has declined to serve, fearing to be accused of partiality if he votes for you." "then i shall have to go entirely on my own merits," roma returned, with pretended carelessness, but at heart she was furious at her father's defection, only she knew it was useless to protest against his decision. she had learned long ago that she could not "wind him around her little finger," as she could her adoring mother. again her hopes recurred to jesse devereaux. she must make every effort to lure him back. her mother's patient maid grew very tired dressing miss roma for the show when the night came. "she was as fussy and particular as some old maid! i did up her hair three times in succession before it suited! my! but she was cross as a wet hen! i believe she would have slapped me in the face if she had dared! i hope to goodness she may fail to get the prize, though i wouldn't have dear mrs. clarke hear me say so for anything in the world! but i'm just hoping and praying that some poor girl that needs the money may get that hundred dollars!" exclaimed the maid to her confidante, the housekeeper. there was not one among the servants but disliked the arrogant heiress, who treated them as if they were no more than the dust beneath her dainty feet. they whispered among themselves that it was strange that such a sweet, kind lady as mrs. clarke should have such a proud, hateful daughter. while roma was arraying herself in the finest of silk and lace, set off by the coveted new rubies, liane lester was making her simple toilet at the home of mary lang, with whom she had promised to attend the show. granny had most grudgingly given her consent to liane's spending the night with mary, since she dared not offer any violent opposition. since liane had threatened open rebellion to her tyranny, the old woman was somewhat cowed. liane put up her beautiful, curling tresses into the simplest of knots, but she did not need an elaborate coiffure for the chestnut glory of rippling, sun-flecked locks. it was a crown of beauty in itself. she put on the crisp, white gown she had bought with mrs. clarke's gift, and mary helped to tie the soft ribbons at her waist and neck. "oh, you lovely thing! you look sweet enough to eat!" she cried. "now, then, put on the roses your mysterious admirer sent you to wear, and we will be off." liane blushed divinely as she fastened at her waist a great bunch of heavy-headed pink roses, that had been sent to miss bray's late that afternoon, with an anonymous card that simply read: fair queen rose: please wear these sister flowers at the beauty show to-night. no name was signed, but the merry girls all declared that liane had caught a beau at last, and that he would be sure to declare himself to-night. they persuaded her to wear the roses, though she was frightened at the very idea. "suppose some great, ugly ogre comes up to claim me!" she exclaimed apprehensively, as she pinned them on and set off, all in a flutter of excitement, for the town hall, clinging to mary's arm, for she was quite nervous over the prospect of the evening's pleasure. now, as she passed along the lighted streets to the festive scene, and saw others, also gayly bedecked, hurrying to the same destination, she felt a thrill of pleasant participation quite new and exhilarating. "just see what i have missed all my life, through granny's hardness!" she murmured plaintively to mary, who squeezed her arm lovingly, and answered: "poor dear!" the hall was already crowded with people, and the supper of the methodist ladies was busily in progress when they entered the place that was gayly decorated with flowers and bunting, framing the pictures that lined the walls. "let us walk around and look at the beauties," mary said, and, following the example of the other visitors, they mingled with the crowd and feasted their eyes on the five hundred pretty faces that were deemed worthy to compete for the prize. they soon found out that miss clarke's portrait and the group of six sewing girls claimed more attention than any others. but there were many eyes that turned from the pictured to the living beauty, and whispers went round that drew many eyes to liane, wondering at her marvelous grace. liane had never appeared at a public function in the town before, and many of the people thought she was a stranger. curious whispers ran from lip to lip: "who is the lovely girl with the pink roses?" roma, in her rich gown and sparkling rubies, heard the question, and bit her lips till the blood almost started. "it is only one of the dressmaker's sewing girls!" she said haughtily, and started across the room to her mother, who had paused to speak to jesse devereaux. he had just entered, looking pale and superbly handsome; but with his right arm in a sling, and the lady, for roma's sake, resolved to forget her resentment and try to propitiate him. "i am afraid i was too hasty that morning," she said gently. "will you forgive me and be friends again, jesse?" "gladly," he replied, for he valued her good opinion, little as he cared for her proud, overbearing daughter. the next moment roma, coming up to them, heard her mother exclaim, to her infinite chagrin: "tell me, jesse, who is that perfectly lovely girl in the white gown with the pink roses at her waist?" jesse looked quickly, and saw liane again for the first time since that eventful evening on the beach, when he had saved her from insult and injury. his heart gave a strangling throb of joy and love, mingled with pride in her peerless loveliness. "you are right. she is peerless," he answered, in a deep voice, freighted with emotion. "her name is liane lester." "impossible!" almost shrieked the lady in her surprise; but at that moment roma confronted them, her proud face pale, her eyes gleaming, murmuring: "oh, jesse, how glad i am to see you out again! no wonder you were cross with me, suffering as you were with your poor arm. but i forgive you all." "i thank you," he replied courteously, and roma took her station at his side quite as if she had the old right. he was vexed, for he was anxious to cross over to liane and ask her to have an ice with him. then he would keep at her side all the rest of the evening. he would see her home, too, and before they parted he would tell her all his love, and ask for her hand. with these ecstatic anticipations in his mind, it was cruel torture to be kept away from her against his will by the two ladies, and, worst of all, with an air as if they had a right to monopolize him all the evening. in desperation he asked them to take an ice with him, vowing to himself he would escape directly afterward. but roma was thirsty that evening, it seemed. she took two ices, and trifled over them, her mother waiting patiently, while jesse, outwardly cool and courteous, inwardly cursed his untoward fate, for he saw other men seeking introductions to liane, and loading her with attentions, carried away by the charm of her beauty. still he could not shake off roma without absolute rudeness, for she clung to his arm persistently, though it was near the hour for the announcement of the award of the evening, and yet he had not spoken one word to fair liane, the queen of his heart. suddenly malcolm dean ascended the rostrum, and the gay, laughing groups about the hall became intensely still, waiting for his verdict. "i am no orator," he smiled. "so i will briefly announce, as a member of the committee of the beauty contest, that we examined the pictures in detail to-day, and unanimously award the prize for most perfect beauty to miss liane lester!" a breathless hush had fallen on the crowd as malcolm dean's voice was heard speaking, and every ear was strained, not to lose a word--for many a fair young girl was listening in feverish excitement, hoping to hear her own name. roma's heart gave a wild leap, her eyes flashed, her cheeks paled, and she half rose from her seat in uncontrollable excitement. but the suspense of the aspirants for the prize lasted but a moment, for malcolm dean purposely made his announcement audible to every one in the hall: "miss liane lester!" the name ran from lip to lip in excited tones, while many a young heart sank with disappointment, so many had hoped to be chosen queen of beauty, caring more for the honor even than the money. then the voices swelled into plaudits, and liane, shrinking with bashful joy, heard her name shouted from eager lips: "miss lester! miss lester!" roma had uttered a stifling gasp of disappointment, and sank heavily back into her seat. "she is the most beautiful girl i ever saw!" cried jesse impulsively. it was cruel to tell roma this, and he realized it, but his heart was on his lips. he could not check it, though he saw the deadly fire of hate leap into her flashing eyes. mrs. clarke touched her daughter's arm caressingly, saying: "do not feel so badly over it, roma, darling. no doubt the committee were governed somewhat by partiality, thinking that the prize ought to be given some poor girl who needed the money." jesse felt the delicate thrust, and answered quickly: "you were struck with her beauty yourself, mrs. clarke!" "yes, she is a very pretty girl," she replied, rather carelessly, then paused, as malcolm dean lifted his hand for silence, and said in the hush that followed: "will miss lester please come forward and receive the prize?" a wild impulse came to devereaux to escort liane forward. how proud he would be to take that little fluttering hand and lead her to the rostrum to receive the award! he knew that every eye would be on them, that it would be a virtual declaration of his sentiments toward her, but he gloried in the thought. he rose quickly, exclaiming: "excuse me, please!" but mrs. clarke's voice, cold and grating, fell on his ear: "please escort roma to the open air--to the carriage! do you not see that she is almost fainting?" roma was indeed drooping heavily against her mother, in pretended weakness. her ruse had its effect. jesse had to offer his arm and lead her from the room, followed by her mother. after some little delay their carriage was found, and, while placing them in it, mrs. clarke said coolly: "now if you will find my husband and send him to us, you will add greatly to the obligation you have placed us under." he bowed silently and hurried away, meeting mr. clarke, fortunately, coming out. a hasty explanation, and they parted, devereaux returning to the room, wild to speak to liane after all this baffling delay. but the prize had been presented, and liane was surrounded by an obsequious crowd, offering eager congratulations. by her side stood the handsome young artist, malcolm dean, gazing with rapt admiration on her shy, blushing face, and then devereaux remembered that the artist had said, while they were deciding on the pictures that afternoon, that this was surely the fairest face in the whole world, and he should not rest until he knew the original. "if the counterfeit presentiment can be so charming, how much more lovely, the original!" he exclaimed. and now by his looks devereaux saw that his anticipations were more than realized. the ethereal charm of liane's beauty held him as by a spell. it seemed to liane as if she had fallen asleep and waked in a brighter world. but an hour ago she had been poor little liane lester, the humble sewing girl, who had spent her little fortune, five dollars, the largest sum she had ever possessed at once in her life, on this simple white gown for the festal occasion. now she stood there, the centre of admiring congratulations, receiving introductions and alternately bowing and smiling like some great beauty and heiress. she felt like an heiress, indeed, with that crisp new hundred-dollar bill tucked into her belt, and her cheeks glowed with shy pride and joy, for she had dared to indulge some trembling daydreams over gaining the prize, and now she hoped they might be realized. there were sad hearts there, too, for many a vain little maiden was disappointed, among them dolly dorr, who stifled her chagrin, however, and kissed liane very sweetly, saying: "don't forget that i persuaded you to compete for the prize, although i was afraid all the time you would carry it off from us all." every one laughed at dolly's naïve speech. she was such a frank, pretty little thing, and, next to liane, the prettiest girl in miss bray's employ. but among all the disappointed ones, no one had been so vexed as to leave the scene like roma, and it was soon whispered through the room that she had scolded her lover for giving his vote to liane instead of herself. "i heard them quarreling; i was just behind mrs. clarke," said the lady who had started the report, and she added that roma had been taken almost fainting to her carriage, unwilling to remain and witness her rival's triumph. there were many who rejoiced over roma's defeat, and others who wondered at devereaux's disloyalty. he should have paid her the compliment of his vote, since it could have made no difference in the result, they said. but devereaux, returning to the hall, eager to speak to liane, and indifferent to comments on his actions, was forced to stand on the verge of the crowd waiting his turn, till dolly dorr, espying him, hastened to his side. she said to herself that here was one prize, at least, that liane had not won yet, and she would lose no time trying to make good a claim. "if he has quarreled with miss clarke, so much the better. hearts are often caught in the rebound," she thought eagerly, as she engaged his attention with some bantering words. devereaux smiled kindly on the sunny-haired little maiden, but she found it impossible to engross his attention. she soon saw that his whole mind was fixed on liane, and he could not keep from watching her face, until dolly said quite crossly: "you are like all the rest! you cannot keep your eyes from off liane lester, now that she has taken the beauty prize!" devereaux answered dreamily: "i could look at her forever!" his brilliant, dark eyes glowed and softened with tenderness, and a passionate flush reddened his smooth olive cheek. dolly stared, and said sharply: "perhaps miss clarke wouldn't like that so well!" "what has she to do with my looking at miss lester?" he cried impatiently. "but aren't you engaged to miss clarke?" "no, i am not!" "but everybody says so!" "everybody is mistaken." dolly's eyes beamed with joy as she cried gayly: "then you are free, mr. devereaux?" he answered with a happy laugh: "free as the wind--free to look at miss lester as much as i choose--or as long as she will allow me." this did not please dolly at all, so she said spitefully: "i dare say she doesn't care whether you look at her or not! she has no eager eyes for any one but that handsome mr. dean, and he has been standing beside her ever since he gave her the prize, and walked back to her seat with her, just as if they were lovers." "you are trying to make me jealous, miss dolly!" he laughed, unwilling for her to perceive the pain she gave him. and he added, as some of the crowd around liane moved aside: "please excuse me while i speak to miss lester." dolly made an angry little pout at him as he moved away. she had forgiven liane for winning the prize of beauty, but if she carried off devereaux's heart, too, why, that would be quite different. liane knew how dolly had set her heart on him. it would be mean if she came between them, she thought. she managed to get near them when they met, and marked liane's blush and smile of pleasure. "and she always pretended not to care for flirting! but i suppose she will turn over a new leaf from to-night," she muttered jealously, as she edged nearer, trying to overhear everything that passed between the pair. she had one triumph, at least, when she heard devereaux prefer a low request to walk home with liane that evening. "i am very sorry, but--i have already promised mr. dean," the girl murmured back, in regretful tones. chapter xiii. edmund clarke's suspicion. roma clarke gave her parents a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour riding home that evening. she threw pride to the winds, and raved in grief and anger at her defeat in the contest for the beauty prize, charging it most bitterly at the door of jesse devereaux. mr. clarke learned for the first time now of the broken engagement, and, on finding that it was roma's fault, he could not help censuring her severely for the folly by which she had lost her lover. he thought bitterly in his heart: "ah, how different my own sweet daughter must have been from this ill-tempered, coarse-grained girl who betrays her low origin in spite of the good bringing up and fine education she has received! my poor wife! how disappointed she must feel at heart, in spite of her brave show of affection and sympathy! and, as for jesse devereaux, he is a splendid young fellow, and has had a lucky escape from roma's toils. i cannot feel that she will make any man a lovable wife, though i shall be glad enough to have her married off my hands!" when roma had gone, sobbing, to her room, he talked very earnestly to her mother, somewhat blaming her for encouraging the girl's willful temper. "she is spoiled and selfish," he declared. "i for one am willing to own that the prize was well given to miss lester. she is very lovely--far lovelier than roma!" "how can you say so of our dear girl?" mrs. clarke cried reproachfully. "because, my dear wife, my eyes are not blinded, like yours, by love and partiality, and thus i can do justice to others," he answered firmly. "you have never loved our daughter as you should. therefore, i have felt it my duty to love and cherish her the more!" she sobbed. he took her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the beautiful, quivering lips, exclaiming: "oh, my love, if our daughter were more like you, i could love her a hundredfold better! but, alas, she is so different, both in beauty and disposition, from my angel wife!" "i have fancied she must be like your own relations, edmund." "perhaps so," he replied evasively, continuing: "this girl who took the prize this evening won my admiration, darling, because she has a wonderful likeness to you in your young days, elinor; when we were first married." "oh, edmund, i was never so exquisitely beautiful!" she cried, blushing like a girl. "oh, yes, indeed; quite as beautiful as liane lester--and very lovely still," he answered, gazing into her eyes with the admiration of a lover, giving her all the tenderness he withheld from roma, his unloved daughter. she nestled close to his breast, delighted at his praises, and presently she said: "it is rather a coincidence, your fancying that miss lester looks like me, while i imagine that her grandmother--a dreadful old creature, by the way--resembles mrs. jenks, the old woman who nursed me when roma was born." some startled questioning from her husband brought out the whole story of her visit to granny. "of course i was mistaken in taking her for mrs. jenks, but the old crone needn't have been so vexed over it," she said. edmund clarke was startled, agitated, by what she had told him, but he did not permit her to perceive it. he thought: "what if i have stumbled on the solution of a terrible mystery? the likeness of liane lester to my wife is most startling, and, coupled with other circumstances surrounding her, might almost point to her being my lost daughter!" he trembled like a leaf with sudden excitement. "i must see this old woman--and to-night! i cannot bear the suspense until to-morrow!" he thought, and said to his wife artfully: "perhaps i am selfish, keeping you from poor roma in her distress." "i will go to her at once, poor child," she said, lifting her fair head from his breast. "and i will take a walk while i smoke," he replied, leaving her with a tender kiss. he lighted a cigar, and started eagerly for the cottage of granny, hoping to find her alone ere liane returned from the hall. his whole soul was shaken with eager emotion from what his wife had told him about the old woman's identity. in the cool, clean september moonlight he strode along the beach, eager-hearted as a boy, in the trembling hope of finding his lost child again. what joy it would be to find her in the person of lovely liane, who had already touched his heart with a subtle tenderness by the wonderful likeness that brought back so vividly his wife's lost youth in the days when they had first loved with that holy love that crowned their lives with lasting joy. not one cloud had marred their happiness save the loss of their infant daughter. he had restored what happiness he could to elinor by the substitution of a spurious child, but for himself there must ever be an aching void in his heart till the lost was found again. he stepped along briskly in the moonlight, and to his surprise and joy he found the old woman leaning over the front gate in a dejected attitude, as if loneliness had driven her outdoors to seek companionship with nature. "ah, mrs. jenks, good evening!" he exclaimed abruptly, pausing in front of her and lifting his hat. granny started wildly, and snapped: "i don't know you!" "you have a poor memory," laughed mr. clarke. "now, i knew you at once as mrs. jenks, who nursed my wife when our daughter roma was born. my name is edmund clarke. we used to live in brookline. i sold my property there and moved away when roma was an infant." "i never heard of brookline before, nor you, either!" snapped granny. "your memory is bad, as i said before, but you won't deny that your name is jenks?" mr. clarke returned. as the whole town knew her by that name, she felt that denial was useless, but she preserved a stubborn silence, and he continued: "i came to ask you, granny, how you came by such a beautiful granddaughter." "humph! the same way as other people come by grandchildren, i s'pose. my daughter ran away to be an actress, and came back in a year without a wedding ring, and left her baby on my hands, while she disappeared again forever," returned granny, with an air of such apparent truthfulness that he was staggered. he was silent a moment, then returned to the charge. "how old is liane?" "only seventeen her next birthday." "i should have taken her for quite eighteen." "then you would have made a mistake." "is her mother dead?" "i don't know. i never heard of her after she ran away and left her baby on my hands." "eighteen years ago?" "no; not quite seventeen, i told you, sir." "and you do not really remember mrs. clarke, whom you nursed at brookline eighteen years ago? come, it ought to be fresh in your memory. do you not recall the distressing facts in the case? the infant was stolen from my wife's breast, and she was dying of the shock when a spurious daughter was imposed on her, and she recovered. you, mrs. jenks, were sent to the foundling asylum for the child, and laid it on mrs. clarke's breast, restoring her to hope again. you cannot have forgotten!" granny jenks looked at him angrily in the moonlight. "you must be crazy! i don't know you, and i don't care anything about your family history! go away!" she exclaimed fiercely. mr. clarke was baffled, but not convinced. he stood his ground, saying firmly: "you may bluster all you please, granny jenks, but you cannot shake my conviction that you are the wretch that stole my daughter, and placed a foundling in her place to deceive and make wretched my poor wife. this girl, liane lester, is the image of my wife, and i am almost persuaded she is my own daughter. if i have guessed the truth it will be wiser for you to confess the fraud at once, for denial now will be useless. i believe i am on the right track at last, and i will never stop till i uncover the truth. and--the more trouble you give me, the greater will be your punishment." his dark eyes flashed menacingly, and the hardened old woman actually shivered with fear for an instant. then she shook off the feeling, and turned from him angrily, reëntering her house, and snarling from the doorway: "i know nothing about your child, you crazy fool! go away!" chapter xiv. roma finds an ally. dolly dorr was right. handsome malcolm dean had never quitted liane's side since the moment he had clasped her hand in congratulating her on her triumph as queen of beauty. he remained by her side, enraptured with her beauty and her bashful grace, and he lost no time in preferring a request to walk home with her that night, thinking to himself how sweet it would be to walk with her beneath the brilliant moonlight, the little hand resting on his arm, while the low, musical voice answered his remarks with the timidity that showed how unconscious she was of her own enchanting beauty. he could scarcely credit what they had told him this afternoon when examining the portraits: that liane lester was only a poor sewing girl, with a cruel grandmother, who beat her upon the slightest pretext, and never permitted her to have a lover. "she looks like a young princess. it is a wonder that some brave young man has not eloped with her before now," he declared. "every one is afraid of granny jenks," they replied; but jesse devereaux only remained gravely silent. he had decided to win sweet liane for his own, in spite of a hundred vixenish grannies. he had sent her the fragrant roses to wear, determining to disclose his identity that night, and to win her sweet promise to be his bride. now his plans were all spoiled by the artist's sudden infatuation, and he could have cursed roma for the spiteful manoeuvring that had kept him an unwilling captive, while liane was drifting beyond his reach. all his pleasure was over for to-night, yet he did not give up hope for the future. his dark eyes had not failed to detect the joy in her glance, and the blush on her cheek at their meeting, and his ears had caught the little regretful ring in her voice, as she whispered that she had already promised mr. dean. presently the people all began to go away, and with keen pain he saw liane leaving with her new admirer, her little hand resting like a snowflake on his black coat sleeve. "but it shall be my turn to-morrow," he vowed to himself, turning away with a jealous pang, and pretending not to see dolly dorr, who had lingered purposely in his way, hoping he would see her home. disappointed in her little scheme, she rather crossly accepted the offer of a dapper dry-goods clerk, and went off on his arm, laughing with forced gayety as she passed devereaux, to let him see that she did not care. devereaux did not even hear the laughter of the piqued little flirt. he could think of nothing but his keen disappointment over liane. he returned to his hotel in the sulks. after all his pleasant anticipations, his disappointment was keen and bitter. "how can i wait until to-morrow?" he muttered, throwing himself down disconsolately into a chair. suddenly a messenger entered with a telegram, and, tearing it hastily open, he read: come at once. father has had a stroke of apoplexy. lyde. lyde was his only sister, married a year before, and a leader in society. he could fancy how helpless she would be at this juncture--the pretty, petted girl. filial grief and affection drove even the thought of liane temporarily from his mind. calling in a man to pack his effects, he left on the earliest train for his home in boston. but as the train rushed on through the night and darkness, liane blended with his troubled thoughts, and he resolved that he would write to her at the earliest opportunity. he would not leave the field clear for his enamored rival. he realized, too, that the clever and handsome artist would be a dangerous rival; still, he felt sure that liane had some preference for himself. on this he based his hopes for malcolm dean's failure. "she will not forget that night upon the beach, and the opportune service i did her. her grateful little heart will not turn from me," he thought hopefully. malcolm dean was the only one he could think of as likely to come between him and liane. he had not an apprehension as to roma clarke's baleful jealousy. and yet he should have remembered the hate that had flashed from her eyes and hissed in her voice when she taxed him with voting for liane. again, she had nearly fainted when he was excusing himself to speak to her successful rival. and even now, while the fast-flying train bore him swiftly from stonecliff, roma paced her chamber floor like one distraught, wringing her hands and alternately bewailing her fate and vowing vengeance. before roma's angry eyes seemed to move constantly the vision of her rival in her exquisite beauty. liane, in her girlish white gown, with the fragrant pink roses at her slender waist--liane, the humble sewing girl she had despised, but who had now become her hated rival. jesse devereaux admired her; thought her the loveliest girl in the world. perhaps, even, he was in love with her. that was why he had taken so gladly the dismissal she had so rashly given. a fever of unavailing regret burned in roma's veins, the fires of jealous hate gleamed in her flashing eyes. "i would gladly see her dead at my feet," she cried furiously. before she sought her pillow, she had resolved on a plan to forestall devereaux's courtship. she would go to-morrow morning to see the wicked old grandmother of liane; she would have a good excuse, because the old woman had desired the visit, and she would tell her that devereaux was engaged to herself, and warn her not to permit her granddaughter to accept attentions that could mean nothing but evil. she would even bribe the old woman, if necessary. she was ready to make any sacrifice to punish jesse for what she called to herself his perfidy, ignoring the fact that she had set him free to woo whom he would. granny was tidying up her floor next morning, when a footstep on the threshold made her start and look around at a vision of elegance and beauty framed in sunshine that made the coppery waves of her hair shine lurid red as the girl bowed courteously, saying: "i am miss clarke. mamma said you wished to see me." granny dropped her broom and sank into a chair, staring with dazed eyes at the radiant beauty in her silken gown. as no invitation to enter was forthcoming, roma stepped in and seated herself, with a supercilious glance at the shabby surroundings. she thought to herself disdainfully: "to think of being rivaled in both beauty and love by a low-born girl raised in a hovel!" yet she saw that everything was scrupulously clean and neat, as though liane made the best of what she had. the old woman, without speaking a word, stared at roma with eager eyes, as if feasting on her beauty, a tribute to her vanity that pleased roma well, so she smiled graciously and waited with unwonted patience until granny heaved a long sigh, and exclaimed: "it is a pleasure to behold you at last, miss roma, as a beauty and an heiress! ah, you must be very happy!" the young girl sighed mournfully: "wealth and beauty cannot give happiness when one's lover is fickle, flirting with poor girls at the expense of their reputations." "what do you mean?" gasped the old woman, and somehow roma felt that she was making a favorable impression, and did not hesitate to add: "i am speaking of your granddaughter, liane lester. the girl is rather pretty, and i suppose that her vanity makes her ambitious to marry rich. she flirts with every young man she sees, and lately she has been making eyes at my betrothed husband, jesse devereaux, a handsome young millionaire. he loves me as he does his life, but he is a born flirt, and he is amusing himself with liane in spite of my objections. so i thought i would come and ask you to scold the girl for her boldness." "scold her! that i will, and whip her, too, if you say so! i will do anything to please you, beautiful lady," whimpered granny, moving closer to roma, and furtively stroking her rich dress with a skinny, clawlike hand, while she looked at the girl with eager eyes. roma frowned a little at this demonstration of tenderness, but she was glad the old woman took it so calmly about liane, and answered coolly: "so that you keep them apart, i do not care how much you whip her, for her boldness deserves a check, and i suppose that you cannot restrain her, except by beating." she was surprised and almost shocked as granny whispered hoarsely: "i would beat her--yes; i would kill her before she should steal your grand lover, darling!" chapter xv. "a dying mother." even roma's cruel heart was somewhat shocked at granny's malevolence toward her beautiful young granddaughter, but she did not rebuke the old hag; she only resolved to make capital of it. so she said: "i don't want you to kill her, but i wish you could take her away from here, where jesse devereaux can never find her again. she is in my way, and i want her removed!" "it would be worth money to you to get her out of your way," leered granny cunningly: roma hesitated a moment, then answered frankly: "yes, but i could not promise to pay you much. papa makes me a very small allowance." the old woman crept nearer to the beautiful, cruel creature, and gazed up into her face with an expression of humble adoration, while she murmured wheedlingly: "i would take her away from here--far away--where she could never trouble you again, pretty lady, for a reward that even you could afford to bestow." "what is that?" cried roma eagerly, and she was startled when granny answered nervously: "a kiss!" "a kiss!" the girl echoed wonderingly. granny was actually trembling with excitement, and she added pleadingly: "you are so pretty, miss roma, that i have fallen in love with you, and for my love's sake i would like to kiss you once. if you grant my wish, i will be your slave for only one kind look and kiss!" she was softened and agitated in a strange fashion, but she could not help seeing that roma recoiled in surprise and disgust. "really, this is very strange! i--i am not fond of kissing old women. i scarcely ever kiss even my own mother. i would much rather pay you a little money!" she exclaimed. granny's face saddened with disappointment, and she muttered: "so proud; so very proud! she could not bear a downfall!" roma flushed with annoyance, and added: "you seem so very poor that even a small sum of money ought to be acceptable to you!" "i am miserably poor, but i love you--i would rather have the kiss." if roma had known the old woman's miserly character she would have been even more surprised at her fancy. as it was, she hardly knew what to say. she gazed in disgust at the ugly, yellow-skinned and wrinkled old hag, and wondered if she could bring herself to touch that face with her own fresh, rosy lips. "i--i would rather give you a hundred dollars than to kiss you!" she blurted out, in passionate disgust. instantly she saw she had made a grave mistake. granny drew back angrily from the haughty girl, muttering: "hoity-toity, what pride! but pride always goes before a fall!" "what do you mean?" flashed roma. a moment's silence, and granny answered cringingly: "i only meant that you would be humiliated if that pretty liane stole devereaux's heart from you and married him. the other night i beat liane for walking with him on the beach by moonlight!" "heavens! it is worse even than i thought!" cried roma, springing to her feet, pale with passion. she advanced toward granny, adding: "will you take her away by to-morrow, and never let him see her face again if i grant your wish?" "i swear it, honey!" "there, then!" and roma held up her fresh, rosy lips, shuddering with disgust as the old crone gave her an affectionate kiss that smacked very strongly of an old pipe. "be sure that you keep your promise!" she cried, hastening from the house. granny watched her until she was out of sight, clasping her skinny arms across her breast, after the fashion of one fondling a beloved child. "how proud, how beautiful!" she kept saying over to herself in delight. then she went in and closed the door, while she sat down to make her plans for gratifying roma's wish. not a breath of last night's happenings had reached her, for she seldom held communication with any one, being feared and hated by the whole community, as much as liane was loved and pitied. she knew nothing of the popular beauty contest, and that liane had won the prize of a hundred dollars. if she had known, she would have managed to get possession of the money ere now. liane, having spent the night with mary lang, had gone to her work from there, and was having an ovation from her girl friends, who put self aside and rejoiced with her over her triumph. the proud and happy girl answered gratefully: "but for your persuasions i should never have ventured to send in my picture for the contest. i want to testify my gratitude by giving each of you five dollars to buy a pretty keepsake." they protested they would not take a penny of her little fortune, but the generous girl would not be denied. "i have seventy-five dollars left! i am rich yet!" she cried gayly, for liane was the happiest girl in the world to-day. but it was neither her signal triumph nor the money that made her happy, it was because she had seen jesse devereaux again, and his radiant, dark eyes had told her the story of his love as plain as words. though she was grateful to the handsome artist for his attentions, she was disappointed because he had kept jesse from walking home with her last night. but she looked eagerly for some demonstration from him to-day. perhaps he would send her some more flowers, for he had whispered gladly as they parted: "thank you for wearing the roses i sent you!" liane's heart leaped with joy at hearing the flowers had come from jesse, and she placed them carefully away that night, determined to keep them always, for his dear sake. how her heart sank when dolly dorr, who had been rather quiet and sulky that morning, suddenly remarked: "mr. devereaux went off, bag and baggage, they say, to boston last night, so i suppose that is the last we shall see of him!" liane could not keep from exclaiming regretfully: "oh, dear!" "you seem to be sorry!" dolly cried significantly. all eyes turned on liane, and she blushed rosy red as she bent lower over the work she was sewing. dolly added curtly: "i did not think you would be so ready to take away another girl's chance, liane." "but he has broken with miss clarke. they quarreled last night," said lottie day. "i did not mean miss clarke. i meant myself. liane knows he has paid me some attention, and that i have set my cap at him! i thought she was my true friend, but i caught her making eyes at him last night!" dolly exclaimed ruefully. the gay girls all laughed at dolly's jealousy, but liane could not say a word for embarrassment, knowing in her heart how baseless were dolly's hopes. the angry little maiden continued: "he told me last night that he was free from miss clarke; and i believe i could win him if no one tried to spoil the sport. i would never have introduced him to liane if i had thought she would try to cut me out." "oh, dolly, you know i have not tried. could i help his coming to speak to me last night?" cried liane. "no, but you needn't have encouraged him by flirting when he spoke to you, blushing and rolling up your eyes." a derisive groan went around among the merry band at dolly's charge, and mary lang spoke up spiritedly: "dolly dorr, you are simply making yourself ridiculous, putting in a claim to mr. devereaux because he happened to speak to you once or twice! any one with half an eye can see he's in love with liane, and i'll state for your benefit that he told her last night he sent her that bouquet of roses, and he wanted to walk home with her, only mr. dean was ahead of him!" "oh! oh! oh!" ran the chorus of voices, liane drooping her head in blushing confusion, and dolly pouting with disappointment, while she cried spitefully: "he's nothing but a wretched flirt! he flirted with miss clarke, and then with me, and next with liane! i'm glad he got ashamed of himself, and sneaked off; and i hope he will never come back!" her little fit of temper spoiled the rest of the day for the girls, and liane lester was glad to get away at six o'clock, where, after a while, she could be alone with her own thoughts. but granny was sniveling, with her apron to her eyes, when she entered the poverty-stricken room. "what is it, granny? are you ill?" she asked. "no, i have bad news!" "bad news?" "yes; i've heard from my daughter, your mother, at last. she's dying down to boston, and wants you and me to come," with an artful sob. "but, of course, we cannot go!" liane said, with strange reluctance. "but, of course, we can. i've got a little money; enough for the trip. i've just been waiting for you to come and help me to pack our clothes." "that will not take long. our wardrobes are not extensive. but, i--i don't want to go!" declared liane. "you unnatural child, not to want to see your poor dying mother!" snapped the old woman. "she has been an unnatural mother!" answered the girl warmly. "no matter about that! she is my child, and i want to see her before she dies, and you've got to go, willy-nilly! so go along with you and get the tea ready; then we will get packed to go on the first train!" declared granny, with grim resolution. chapter xvi. a love letter. liane's little sewing chair was vacant the next day, and there was grief and surprise among the five girls present when miss bray explained the reason. liane had sent her a little note the night before, she said, telling her that her grandmother was taking her to boston to see a dying relative, and she did not know when she should be back, but hoped miss bray would have work for her on her return. she left her dear love for all the girls, and hoped she should see them soon again. every one expressed sorrow but dolly dorr, who from spite and envy had suddenly changed from a friend to an enemy of liane. dolly tossed her pretty, flaxen head scornfully and insinuated ugly things about liane following jesse devereaux to boston. a dying relative was a good excuse, but it could not fool dolly dorr, she said significantly. the other girls took the part of the absent one, and even miss bray gently reproved dolly for her slanderous words. the upshot of the matter was that she grew red and angry, and developed the rage of a little termagant. taking offense at miss bray's rebuke, she angrily resigned her position, tossed her jaunty cap on her fluffy, yellow head, and flew home. the ambition to captivate jesse devereaux had quite turned the silly little noddle, and she was passionately angry at liane for what she denominated "her unfair rivalry." but on reaching home and finding that her father had just been thrown out of work, dolly was a little flustrated at her own precipitancy in leaving her place, especially as mrs. dorr, a weak, hard-worked woman, bewailed their misfortunes in copious tears. "don't cry like that, mamma, i know of a better place than miss bray's, where i can find work. miss clarke wants a maid," cried dolly eagerly. mrs. dorr's pride rebelled at first from her pretty daughter going into service like that, but the notion had quite taken hold of dolly, and in the end the worried mother yielded to her persuasions, especially as the wages were liberal, and would help them so much in their present strait. dolly hurried off to cliffdene, and asked for miss clarke, offering her services for the vacant place, as liane lester had gone away. roma's red-brown eyes flashed with joyful fire as she cried: "where has she gone?" "her grandmother took her to boston to see a dying relative, miss." "ah!" exclaimed roma, and her heart leaped with joy as she realized that granny had kept her promise to take liane far away. "now i may have some chance of winning jesse back again," she thought. but dolly's next words threw a damper on her springing hopes. "liane can't fool me with a tale of a dying relative! i believe she had an understanding with jesse devereaux to follow him down to boston," she exclaimed spitefully. roma started violently, her rich color paling to ashen gray. "jesse devereaux gone!" she cried, in uncontrollable agitation that betrayed her jealous heart to dolly's keen eyes. the girl thought shrewdly: "she loves him even if he did tell me he was not engaged. whew! won't she hate liane when she knows all!" and, taking advantage of roma's mood, she added: "liane has been flirting for some time with mr. devereaux, and the night she got the beauty prize he sent her roses to wear, and voted for her, and offered to walk home with her that night, only he was disappointed, because mr. malcolm dean had asked her first." roma, inwardly furious with jealous rage, tossed her proud head carelessly, and answered: "mr. devereaux cares nothing for the girl! he is engaged to me, but we had a little tiff, and he was just flirting with her to pique me because i would not make up with him just yet!" although she regarded dolly as greatly her inferior, she was placing herself on a level with her by these confidences, encouraging dolly to reply: "of course, i know he wouldn't marry liane, but she was foolish enough to think so, and i feel certain she's down to boston with him now." roma knew better, but she only smiled significantly, giving dolly the impression that she agreed with her entirely, and then she said: "i will agree to give you a week's trial, and mamma's maid can instruct you as to your duties. when can you come?" "to-morrow, if you wish." "very well. i shall expect you," returned roma, abruptly ending the interview. when dolly was going back the next day, she stopped in at the post office for her mail, and the smiling little clerk in the window, as he handed it out, exclaimed: "don't miss liane lester work with you at miss bray's, miss dolly? there's a letter for her this morning, the first letter, i believe, that ever came for her, and now that i come to think about it, she never calls here for mail, anyhow!" dolly's cheeks flushed guiltily, and her heart gave a strangling thump of surprise, but she said, quite coolly: "yes, liane works at miss bray's with me, and i'm going down there now, so i'll take her letter, if you please, and save her the trouble of calling for it." the unsuspecting clerk readily handed it out, and dolly clutched it with a trembling hand, hurrying out so as to read the superscription and gratify her curiosity. "what a beautiful handwriting! a man's, too, and postmarked boston. now, it must be devereaux or dean writing to her!" she muttered, longing to open it, yet not quite daring to commit the crime. she placed it at last in her pocket, thinking curiously: "as i don't know where liane is, of course i cannot forward this letter to her, and--i would give anything in the world to know what is in it, and who wrote it! perhaps miss clarke would know the writing." that evening, when she was brushing out the long tresses of roma's hair, she ventured on the subject: "to-day the postmaster gave me a letter from boston to liane lester, but i don't know where to send it, and i am wondering who wrote it!" she felt roma give a quick start as she cried: "let me see it!" dolly giggled, and brought it out of her pocket. "oh! it is mr. devereaux's writing," cried roma excitedly. "so i thought, miss. now i wonder what he wrote to her about? i must be mistaken thinking he knew she had gone to boston," cried dolly. roma turned the letter over and over in her hand, her eyes blazing, her cheeks crimson, her heart throbbing with jealous rage. how dared he write to liane? how dared he forget her, roma, so insolently, and so soon? she would have liked to see them both stretched dead at her feet! they looked guiltily at each other, the mistress and maid, one thought in either mind. dare they open the letter? dolly twittered: "i shouldn't think you would allow him to write to her! he belongs to you!" she felt like making common cause with roma against liane, in her bitter envy forgetting how often she had inveighed against roma's pride and cruelty. she continued artfully: "the letter can never do her any good, because we don't know where to send it. and--and would it be any harm for us to take a peep at it?" "i think i have a right," roma answered, her bosom heaving stormily, then she clutched dolly's arm: "girl, girl, if we do this thing--you and i--will you swear never to betray me?" she breathed hoarsely. "i swear!" dolly muttered fiercely, in her anger at liane, and then roma's impatience burst all bounds. she quickly broke the seal of the letter, her angry eyes running over the scented sheets, while dolly coolly read it over her shoulder. and if ever two cruel hearts were punished for their curiosity, they were roma's, the mistress, and dolly's, the maid. it was an impassioned love letter that devereaux had written to liane, and it ended with the offer of his hand, as she already possessed his heart. the young lover had chosen the sweetest words and phrases to declare his passion, and he explained everything that she might have misunderstood. he had fallen in love with her at first sight, but he was bound by a promise to one he no longer even admired. in honor he could not speak to liane, but his betrothed had herself broken the fetters that bound him, and he was free now to woo his darling. he had intended to tell her so that night of the beauty contest, but malcolm dean had rivaled him. then had come the summons to his sick father, tearing him away from stonecliff. he must remain some time in boston with his sinking father, and his impatience prompted this letter. would liane correspond with him? would she be his beloved wife, the treasure of his heart and home? he should wait with burning impatience for her reply. roma threw the letter on the floor and stamped on it with her angry foot. not in such tender, passionate phrases had he wooed her when she promised him her hand, but in light, airy words, born of the flirtation through which she had successfully steered him to a proposal so quickly regretted, so gladly taken back. oh, how she loved and hated him in a breath! as for the girl, thank heaven, granny had promised to keep her out of the way. ay, even to kill her, if she commanded it. it was strange how the old woman had fallen so slavishly under her sway, but she was thankful for it, though she shuddered still with disgust at remembrance of granny's fond caress. she said to herself that it were better for liane lester that she never had been born than to cross her path again, and to take from her the love of the man she had worked so hard to win, and then so rashly lost. chapter xvii. a cruel forgery. at the elegant family mansion on boston's most aristocratic avenue, jesse devereaux, watching by the bedside of his sick father, waited with burning impatience for the answer to the letter in which he had poured out the overwhelming tenderness of his soul. no shadow of doubt clouded his love, he felt so sure of liane's love in return. had it not trembled in her voice, gleamed in her eyes, and blushed on her cheeks? oh, they would be so happy together, he and his young bride, liane! he would make up to her for all the poverty and sorrow of her past life. life should be flower-strewn and love-sweet for her now. of course he expected some opposition from lyde, his proud, fashionable sister, when she learned that he was off with his engagement to the heiress, miss clarke, and meant to wed a poor girl, who worked for her living. but he meant to stand firm, and when she saw how sweet and beautiful liane was, she would be ready to excuse him and accept his darling for a sister. in these rosy daydreams the hours flew, and on the second day after posting his letter he received a reply. it gave him something of an unpleasant shock when he held the square blue envelope in his hand and read the ill-written address: mister jess deverow, no. -- comonwelt avnoo, bostin, mass. his cheek flushed, and he sighed. "poor girl, of course she has had no opportunities of education, but she can have private teachers, and soon remedy all that." and he opened the letter with the eagerness of a lover, despite the slight damper on his spirits, caused by his love's bad chirography, united to even worse orthography. his eager eyes traveled quickly over the small sheet with the awkward sentences of one little used to epistolary work. stonecliff, the sept. deer mister devrow: deer me, what a s'hpise your letter wuz! i thought you wuz jest flirtin' with me! i had heerd what a flirt you wuz, so i jest tryed my hand on you! they told me you wuz ingage to the beautiful miss clarke, and i thought what fun to cut her out! but i didn't think i could do it. i didn' know as i was so pretty till i tuk the beauty prize that nite. deer me, how glad i wuz of that money! i'm a grate heiress now, like miss clarke, ain't i? i'm much obleedge fur your offer to marry, but i can't see my way clear to accept, being as i don't love you well enuff. i never did admire these dark men with sassy, black eyes and dark hair. i've heern tell they are as jealous as a turk. i make bold to say, i think mr. deen is the style i most admire--deep blue eyes and brown curls. he seems to have took a fancy to me, too, and if he should ast me the question you did, i know i could say yes. forgive if this pains, but it's best to be frank, so you won't go on loving me in vane. i'm grateful to you for your vote that helped to git me that hundred dollars! i'm goin' down to bostin to see the sites, and buy me a red silk gown, i always wuz crazy for one! truly yours, liane lester. devereaux sat like one dazed, going over and over the letter of rejection. he could hardly realize that liane's little hand had penned those words. no more cruel blow at a strong man's love and pride had ever been dealt than that letter, showing the writer to be possessed of so shallow a nature as to be incapable of appreciating the treasure of a true heart's love, so ungratefully thrown away. jesse devereaux thrust it away from him at last, and sat staring blankly before him with heavy eyes, like one contemplating the ruins of his dearest hope. it seemed to him as if he had just laid some dearly loved one in the grave. hours and days of sorrow seemed to pass over him as he sat there brooding darkly over his fate. was it indeed but an hour ago he had felt so hopeful and glad, telling himself he had just found the sweetest joy of life in the dawn of love? what foolish thoughts, what a misplaced love, what rash confidence in an innocent face and demure, pansy-blue eyes! she had just been flirting with him because she heard he was a great flirt, and was engaged to miss clarke, and she wanted to see if she could "cut her out." it was all heartless vanity that he had taken for shy, bashful love. the ignorant little working girl had proved herself an adept in the art of flirtation. it was a crushing blow, and his heart was very sore. he had loved her so, ever since the night they had first met, loved her with the passion of his life! even now the memory of her sweetness would not down. he would be haunted forever by her voice, her glance, her smile, so alluring in their beauty, so false in true womanly worth and grace, will-o'-the-wisp lights, shining but to betray. and malcolm dean was his rival in the heart of the lovely, coquettish working girl! she admired his "deep-blue eyes and brown curls" as much as she disliked "sassy black eyes and dark hair." she would marry him if he asked her, she said. jesse wondered cynically if dean had been merely flirting, too, or would his love prompt him to elevate pretty liane to the proud position of his bride. meanwhile, liane, innocent as an angel, of course, of the letter that roma had sent in her name, had duly arrived in the city. her grandmother had taken her to cheap lodgings that night, and, after they had been shown to a room, the old woman said abruptly: "now i'll go and inquire about my daughter." liane went to the window and looked out in awe at the lights of the great city, wondering how far away from this spot jesse devereaux could be to-night. her young heart throbbed with joy at the thought of his nearness, for she had no realization of the extent of boston. while she was musing and wondering granny returned, saying crossly: "it seems i made a mistake in the address. she ain't here at all, but i'm tired, and not a step shall i stir from this to-night, so we'll go to bed, liane, and i'll hunt her in the morning." "but if she should die before morning, granny?" "let her die, then; i can't help it! go to bed!" snarled the old woman, creeping into bed; so liane, seeing the uselessness of remonstrance, followed her example. the next morning, after breakfast, granny announced that she would leave liane in care of the landlady, while she went out in search of the dying daughter. "let me go with you," pleaded the girl, with a vague hope of meeting devereaux somewhere on the street, all her thought clinging to him with tender persistence. "no, i won't have you along with me, but i'll come back for you as soon as i find her," snapped granny, so sharply that liane gave in and watched her depart with keen regret. "i should have liked to go with her to see some of the sights of the great city," she sighed, so forlornly that the landlady said cheerily: "well, come in here and sit a while with my sick sister, and i'll hurry up my morning's work and go out with you myself this afternoon." lizzie white was a pretty shop girl, just recovering from a spell of fever, and she took an instant interest in the pretty new boarder. "sister annie can show you all over the city," she said. "but," hesitatingly, "haven't you any other clothes to wear?" her glance falling deprecatingly on liane's simple dark-blue print gown and summer straw hat. "it's time for fall things, you know," she added. liane blushed at the poverty of her attire, but answered gently: "these are the best clothes i have, but i have a little money of my own, and if i knew where to go, i would buy a blue serge suit." "sister annie can take you to a place this afternoon--the very store where i work when i am well," replied lizzie encouragingly. afternoon came, but no granny yet, and mrs. brinkley offered to take liane out, saying it was such a pity to stay indoors all day when the sun shone so bright and warm. liane accepted eagerly, and then her new friend, lizzie, shyly proffered her a new fall suit of her own to wear. "do wear it to please me, and because people will make remarks on your print gown," she said eagerly, and the girl, fearful that mrs. brinkley might be ashamed of her shabby attire, accepted gratefully. her appearance was indeed quite different when clothed in lizzie's brown cloth skirt, scarlet silk waist, and jaunty brown jacket, with a brown walking skirt to match. chapter xviii. liane's fleeting love dream. liane was enchanted with the beautiful city, and mrs. brinkley, who felt a proud proprietorship in it, was delighted with her praises. they went from one grand building to another, but the good woman soon noticed that liane seemed best pleased walking along the crowded streets, and that instead of observing all that she pointed out, the girl's eyes wandered wistfully from one face to another, as if in search of some one. "are you looking for your grandmother?" she asked. "oh, no, ma'am," and liane blushed like a rose. "then it must be your beau, you look so bashful. have you got a beau in boston?" liane shook her pretty head, but she looked so conscious that the woman plied her with curious questions, until the young girl owned that she knew one person in boston, a young man, who had spent several weeks at stonecliff. then the curious matron did not rest until she had learned his name. "jesse devereaux! was he handsome as a picture, with big, rolling, black eyes? yes? why, my pretty dear, you must not set your heart on him. he is one of the young millionaires up on commonwealth avenue, the swellest young man in boston. he would never stoop to a poor working girl." she saw the beautiful color fade from the girl's rosy cheek, and her bosom heaved with emotion as she faltered: "he was very kind to me at stonecliff!" mrs. brinkley knew the world so well that she took instant alarm, exclaiming warningly: "don't you set any store by his kindness, child. no good comes of rich young men showing attentions to pretty working girls. if you have followed him here through a fancy for his handsome face, then you had better go home to-night." eagerly, blushingly, liane disclaimed such a purpose, saying granny had brought her to see a relative. "i--i only thought i might see his face in some of the crowded streets," she faltered. "it is better for you never to see his face again, for it's plain to be seen he has stolen your heart," chided the widow. "come, i'll show you his grand home, and then you may understand better how much he is above you, and how useless it is to hope to catch him." liane's cheeks burned at the chidings of the good woman, and tears leaped to her eyes, but she did not refuse the proffer of seeing devereaux's home. she thought eagerly: "i might see him at the window, or perhaps coming down the steps into the street. then, if he should come and speak to me joyfully, as he did that night at the beauty contest, i believe even this good, anxious woman could see that he loves me." she walked along happily by mrs. brinkley's side, carrying the jaunty brown jacket on her arm, as lizzie had advised, for the sun's rays were warm, and she was weary from her sightseeing. the scarlet silk waist looked very gay, but if she had dreamed of the dreadful letter that had told devereaux she was coming to boston to buy a red silk gown, she would have torn it off and trampled it beneath her feet. her beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure at sight of the splendid homes of boston's wealthy class, and she could not help exclaiming: "i am not envious, but i would like to be rich and live in one of these palaces." "that you can never do, child, so don't think about it any more, as i tell lizzie, when she gets to sighing for riches," rejoined the prudent matron. "look, now, at that grand house we're coming to; mr. devereaux lives there with his old father and his young married sister, the proudest beauty in boston. you see, i read all about them in the society columns, and--oh!" she paused with a stifled shriek, for the great front door of the grand mansion had indeed opened, as liane secretly prayed it would, and a man came down the steps--jesse devereaux himself! leaving lyde beside his father's bed, he was going out for a walk to try to shake off the benumbing influences of the letter that had shattered his air castles into hopeless ruins. it seemed to him as if his thoughts had taken bodily shape, as he beheld liane there in reach of his hand, her timid, eager glance lifted almost appealingly to his face. he hesitated, he almost stopped to speak to her, so thrilled was he by the sight of her lovely face again, but his eyes fell on the gay red silk waist, and the words of her letter recurred to his mind: "i'm coming down to bostin to see the sites, and buy a red silk gown. i've always been crazy for one." she was here, she had the red silk gown she craved, and idle curiosity had led her to pass his house, perhaps boasting to her companion, meanwhile, that she had flirted with the owner and refused his hand. a deep crimson rose to his brow, and his heart almost stopped its beating with wounded love and pride. just glancing at liane with cold, indifferent eyes, he lifted his hat, bowed stiffly, and passed her by in scorn. the girl, who had almost stopped to speak to him, gave a sigh that was almost a sob, and dropped her eyes, moving on by mrs. brinkley's side with a sinking heart. "that was he, jesse devereaux himself," whispered the latter excitedly. "my, what a cold, haughty stare and bow; enough to freeze you. you see how 'tis, my dear? when city folks visit the country they're mighty gracious, but when country folks come to the city, they don't hardly recognize 'em." liane's pale smile at mrs. brinkley's observation was sadder than the wildest outburst of tears. "i see that you are right," she answered, with gentle humility that touched her new friend's heart, and made her exclaim: "don't never give him another thought, honey. he ain't worth it. you're sweet enough and pretty enough to marry the proudest in the land, but nothing don't count now but money." they hurried home to the poor lodgings, so different from the splendid locality they had just left, and found granny just returned from her search and in rather a good humor from the day's outing. she did not scold liane for going out, as the girl expected, but said calmly: "i was too late. i found cora dead and the funeral just starting, so i went with it, and saw her laid away in her last home. then i thought i had just as well finish the day looking over the things she left, but i wasn't any better off by it, for the people where she boarded took it all for debt." she was lying straight along, but, of course, liane did not know it, and she tried to feel a little sorrow for the unknown mother laid in her lonely grave to-day, but the emotion was very faint. she could not grieve much for one she had never seen, and of whom granny had given such a frankly bad report. her first thought was that now she could go back to stonecliff, away from the city that had held jesse devereaux, whose proud glance and chilling bow had stabbed her heart with such cruel pain. but on making this request, the old woman scowled in disapproval. "back to stonecliff? no, indeed!" she cried. "i hate the place, and i left it for good when we came away. you can get a place to work in boston, and we will stay here." "yes, it will be easy to get in as a salesgirl at the store where i work. i'll recommend you," said the sick girl kindly. liane knew there was no appeal from granny's decision, and, after thanking lizzie for the loan of her gown and hat, she returned to the shabby little room, longing to seek solitude in her grief. but granny soon entered, carrying a bundle, and exclaiming: "mrs. brinkley says you bought this dress to-day, and paid for it, too! now, where'd the money come from, i'd like to know?" liane had to confess the truth about the beauty contest, and, as soon as the old woman took it in, she cried furiously: "and you dared to spend that money for finery, you vain hussy?" "it was my own, granny," liane answered. "where is the rest of it? give me every penny that is left, before i beat you black and blue!" raged the old termagant. "granny, you promised never to beat me again if i would stay and work for you in your old age," reminded liane. "i don't care what i promised! give me the rest of the money before i kill you!" hissed the savage creature, clutching liane's arm so tight that she sobbed with pain. "let go, or i'll call for help!" "dare to do it, and i'll choke you before any one comes!" winding her skinny claws about the fair white throat. liane felt as if her last hour had come, and she was so unhappy she did not greatly care, but she struggled with the old harpy, and succeeded in throwing her off, while she said rebelliously: "i will never give you the money while i live, and if you kill me to get it, it will do you no good. you will be hanged for my murder." perhaps granny saw the force of this reasoning, for she desisted from her brutality, whining: "i'm so poor, so miserably poor, that you ought to give me every penny you get." "and dress in rags!" cried the girl indignantly. "no, granny, i will never do it again, and if you illtreat me any more, i will run away from you, and then you will starve." she knew she would never have the heart to carry out her threat, but she had found out that she could intimidate the old woman by the threat of leaving, so she put on a bold air, and continued: "here is five dollars for a present, and it is all you will get of that money. i gave away twenty-five dollars in keepsakes to my girl friends before i left stonecliff, and i have spent thirty dollars for some decent clothes to wear. now, i have given you five dollars, and i have but forty left, and i shall keep that for myself, in case i have to run away from you and hide myself from your brutality." granny snatched eagerly at the money, muttering maledictions on the girl for her extravagance, but liane, sitting with downcast eyes, pretended not to take any notice of her, until the old woman, glaring at her in wonder at the beauty that could win such a prize, demanded harshly: "was miss clarke's picture in that contest?" when liane answered in the affirmative, she was startled at the woman's anger. "you dared to take that prize over beautiful roma's head--you?" she cried furiously. "i did not take it. the judges gave it to me. the contest was open to any pretty girl, rich or poor," liane answered gently. granny looked as if she could spring upon the girl and rend her limb from limb, so bitter was her rage. she moved about the room, clinching her hands in fury, whispering maledictions to herself, but again liane forgot to notice her, she was so absorbed in her own troubles. she had dreamed a fleeting dream of love and bliss, and the awakening was cruel! "i have been vain, foolish, to dream he loved me because he sent me a few roses and offered to walk home with me that night. he was only amusing himself," she thought, shrinking in pain from the cruel truth. chapter xix. what dolly told. seven weeks slipped uneventfully away. the bright, cool days of october gave place to dreary, drizzly, bleak november. liane had become absorbed into boston's great army of busy working girls. lizzie white had secured her a position at a glove counter in the same store with herself, and granny had rented two cheap rooms in mrs. brinkley's house, and gone to housekeeping. her resentment against liane continued unabated, and she never gave the girl a kind word, but she refrained from acts of violence, lest her meek slave should rebel and leave her alone, in her old age and poverty, to fight the battle of a useless existence. meanwhile judge devereaux had died and been buried with the pomp and ceremony befitting his wealth and position, and his son and daughter had inherited his millions. roma clarke did not fail to send a letter of the sweetest sympathy to her former lover--a letter that in writing and expression was so far different from liane's letter that he could not fail to note the difference. "poor liane! what a pity her mind is not as cultured as her lovely face!" he thought, with a bitter pang. since the day of their meeting on the avenue, he had not seen liane, and he supposed she had seen the sights of the city, bought some garish finery, and returned to the wretched hovel she called her home. he despised her for her shallow coquetry, but he could not help pitying her poverty, and the wretched life with the old hag, from whose brutal violence he had once rescued her at the cost of a broken arm. "how gladly i would have taken her from her wretched lot to a life of love and luxury, but she preferred dean. i wonder if he has justified her hopes?" he thought bitterly. he grew more and more curious on the subject after his father's burial, in the quiet that comes to a house of mourning, and he suddenly resolved to return to stonecliff and find out for himself. the little seaside town looked very gloomy in the downpour of a cold november rain, and the boom of the sea, lashed to fury in a storm, was disquieting to his nerves, but he sallied forth to the post office, and stood on the steps, watching to see liane passing by on her way from work, as on the first day he had seen her lovely face. how freshly it all came back to him, that day but two months ago, when he had followed her to restore her truant veil, and first looked into the luring blue eyes that had thrilled his heart with passion. what a mighty passion for the shallow coquette had been born in his heart at that meeting--passion followed by pain! ah, how he wished now that he had never met her, that he had let the blue veil blow away on the heedless wind! the little acts of kindness had brought him a harvest of pain. even now, despite all, he was waiting and watching with painful yearning for another sight of her face. but the moments waned, and she came not. he saw the other work people of the town going home through the falling dusk. four of miss bray's girls dropped in at the post office, flashing surprised glances at his handsome, familiar face, wondering at his return; then they went out again, and he thought that presently liane and dolly would be passing also. but he was disappointed, and presently he realized that it was useless waiting longer. "dean must have married her and taken her off already, but it must have been a very quiet affair. i have seen nothing of his marriage in the papers," he thought with strange disquiet, as he came down the steps. a handsome carriage, with prancing gray horses, in a silver-mounted harness, with liveried footman, suddenly drew up at the curbstone, and a brilliant face flushed on him from the window. "oh, jesse, what a surprise! how do you do? won't you look in our box and bring me out my mail?" cried roma clarke gushingly. there was nothing for it but obedience. jesse came out to her with two letters and a paper, and as she took them, she threw open the carriage door, urging sweetly: "come home with me, do, and see papa and mamma. they will be so glad to see you. poor papa has been ill of a fever, and is just convalescing." he was in a reckless mood. he accepted the invitation and went home with her, but she did not find him a very congenial companion. he ignored her coquettish attempts to return to their old footing. "you hate me yet," she pouted. "not at all. i am glad to be your friend, if you will permit me," he replied courteously. "friend!" roma cried, in an indescribable tone. he ignored the reproach, and said calmly: "tell me all that has happened since i went back to boston. who are married and who are dead?" "no one that you know," replied roma, and she never guessed what a thrill of joy the words sent to his heart. he was glad. he could not help it, that malcolm dean had not married liane yet. he was yearning for news of her, yet he knew better than to ask roma for it. he knew it would only make her angry and jealous. while he was alone in the drawing room, roma having gone to apprise her parents of his arrival, he was startled to see dolly dorr sidle in, dressed in a dark-gray gown, with a maid's white cap and apron. he arose in surprise. "miss dorr! is it possible?" dolly colored and hung her head, muttering: "you're surprised to see me here as miss clarke's maid." "yes," he replied frankly; then a sudden thought came to him, and he added: "and your pretty friend, miss lester? is she at cliffdene also?" dolly tossed her head scornfully. "no, indeed, she is not here!" "where, then?" he asked eagerly, with a painful curiosity. "don't you know?" cried dolly pertly, with her flaxen head on one side, like a bird, and he answered quickly: "of course not!" dolly smoothed down her white apron with her little hands, and, glancing at him sidewise with her bright blue eyes, returned indignantly: "then, if you don't know, i can tell you. i used to like liane, but i despise her now. that beauty prize made a fool of the girl, and turned her so silly no one liked her any more. she spent all that money for gaudy clothes and cheap jewelry, trying to entrap that artist, mr. dean. she was crazy about him, and didn't mind everybody knowing it, either. so at last she went chasing off to some city after him, and i don't know what became of her then, and i don't care, for every one says she must have gone straight to the bad." she studied his paling cheek with keen eyes for a moment, then added: "but i almost forgot. mr. clarke sent me to show you up to his room." devereaux rose silently, and followed the pert maid upstairs. it never occurred to devereaux to doubt dolly's story in the least. he believed her a simple, truthful, shallow little maiden devoid of guile. the little actress had played her part well, and roma, listening behind a curtain, was delighted with the skill of her pupil, so hastily schooled a moment before in her artful story. with a heavy heart devereaux followed the scheming maid upstairs to mr. clarke's apartment, where he met a joyful welcome. "ah, my boy, i have been ill for many weeks. it seems an age since we parted that night at the beauty show," he exclaimed, as he wrung devereaux's hand, adding sadly: "the strangest thing of all is the disappearance of the successful contestant for the prize. she went away a day or two afterward, and no one has the least knowledge of her whereabouts." this was confirmation of dolly's artful story, and devereaux felt a strange choking in his throat that kept him silent, while mr. clarke continued eagerly: "to tell the truth, i was deeply interested in the beautiful miss lester, and felt a hearty sympathy for her troubles. she led a sad existence with that wicked old grandmother, and i was on the point of asking her to come and stay at cliffdene as my typewriter, just to give her a better home, you know, poor girl, when she disappeared so strangely, going away, some people insinuate, to lead a gayer life," sighing. devereaux knew quite well, from the letter he had received from her, that liane could scarcely have filled the position of mr. clarke's typewriter, but he was too generous to say so. he swallowed the lump in his throat as best he could, and answered: "i hope the insinuations are not true, but i cannot tell. i saw miss lester once in boston. it was a few days after the contest, and she was walking past my home with a respectable-looking, middle-aged woman. i have never seen her since." "so it was to boston she went? i wish i could find the poor girl! i would try to interest my wife in her fate," exclaimed mr. clarke, but that lady, entering at the moment, overheard the words, and frowned angrily. "i will have nothing to do with the girl, and the interest you take in her is very displeasing to me," she said curtly. roma had worked busily, fostering jealousy in her mind until she almost hated the name of liane lester. she shook hands with devereaux, welcomed him cordially, and returned to the subject. "speaking of that girl," she said, "i feel that sympathy is wasted on such as liane lester. at one time roma and i were both so moved with pity for her poverty that we offered her the position of roma's maid, with a good salary and a comfortable home, but the old woman and the girl both refused, as if they had actually been insulted, though dolly dorr, who worked with liane, was glad enough to apply for the position liane refused, and fills it very acceptably to roma. after that we took no further interest in the girl, and rumor says that her head was quite turned by vanity after getting the beauty prize, so that she and the old granny moved away from stonecliff." mrs. clarke had pitied and admired liane until her rivalry with roma, and the latter's specious tales had turned the scales against her, and made her jealous of her husband's interest in the lovely girl, so she said again, with flashing eyes and heightened color: "i do not approve of mr. clarke's strong interest in the girl, and would certainly never consent to receive her beneath the roof of cliffdene." she did not understand the strange glance of blended reproach and pity her husband bent upon her as he thought: "my poor, deceived love, i cannot be angry with her, for she does not understand the painful interest i take in this liane lester, foreboding that she may possibly be our own child, doomed to poverty and woe, while her place in our homes and hearts is usurped by an upstart and an ingrate, without one lovable trait, but whom my poor wife feels compelled to blindly worship, believing her her own child! ah, how unfortunate this illness that has prevented my tracing nurse jenks' history!" chapter xx. "as one admires a statue." happily unconscious of her father's unfavorable opinion, roma entered and seated herself close to his chair, displaying an unwonted tenderness for him that deceived no one but devereaux, for whose benefit it was designed. both her parents knew that roma was never affectionate, except to gain some end of her own. on this occasion she was unwontedly sweet and gentle, with a new pensiveness in her manner more attractive to devereaux than her usual brilliancy. she made no bids for his attention; she seemed sadly resigned to her fate, as her downcast eyes and stifled sighs attested. it touched him, but he felt too sad at heart to console others, and he soon tore himself away, returning that night to boston, wondering if it could be possible, that the same city had held liane all this time that he had supposed her safe at stonecliff. he knew that malcolm dean was in philadelphia, and had been there for some time, and he wondered if the artist's love for liane had failed to realize her confident hopes. "poor little thing! i pity her, with her sweet love dream blighted!" he thought generously, as he awakened early the next morning, pursuing the same sad train of thought. a startling surprise awaited him after breakfast, where lyde was sitting going over the new magazines. her dark eyes brightened suddenly, as she exclaimed: "upon my word, jesse, the beautiful face on the outside cover of this magazine resembles perfectly the pretty girl from whom i buy my gloves!" "really!" he exclaimed, taking the magazine, and flushing and paling alternately, as he saw before him the cover that dean had designed, with liane's face for the central figure. how beautiful it was? how beautiful! his heart leaped madly, then sank again in his breast. "do you think it can be accidental, or is it really her portrait? she is lovely, jesse, with a natural, high-bred air, the darkest eyes, like purple pansies rimmed in jet, and the most beautiful chestnut hair, all touched with gleams of gold. i have woven quite a romance round her, fancying her some rich girl reduced to poverty." his heart was beating with muffled throbs, his eyes flashed with eagerness, but he asked with seeming carelessness: "what is her name?" he was not in the least surprised when she answered: "miss lester, and the other girls call her liane. it is a pretty name, and, oddly enough, i read it once in a novel. she must have been named from it; don't you think, jesse?" "perhaps so." he could hardly speak, he was so excited, and lyde rambled on: "we have fallen in love with each other, pretty liane and i. she always hurries to meet me and show me her gloves. her eyes smile at me so tenderly, as if she were really fond of me, and i almost believe she is, for when i allow her to try on my gloves for me, she has such a caressing way, i almost long to kiss her. but then, perhaps, she has the same manner with all, just to get trade," disappointedly. devereaux recalled the caressing touch of her lips on his hand that night by the sea; her pretty, bashful gratitude, and groaned within himself. "oh, my lost love, my false love!" aloud he said cynically: "i thought you were too proud, lyde, to notice a pretty salesgirl." "oh, jesse, i like to be kind to them all, poor things! and they appreciate a kind word and smile more than you might think. and many of these girls are so very pretty, too, that really, if i were looking for beauty, i believe i should seek it among the working girls in our stores. this liane lester, too, is lovelier than all the rest, and her voice so soft and sweet that, really, i am sure she must be a reduced aristocrat." he wondered if he dare tell her the truth about liane, the story of his love. smilingly he said: "you will have me falling in love with your pretty glove girl." "oh, not for the world!" she cried, in dismay. "my dear jesse, never think of loving and marrying out of your own set. one can admire beauty in a poor girl as one admires beauty in a statue, but, lifted above her station, my pretty liane would not be half so admirable." "of course not," he replied cynically, and decided not to make her his confidante. all the same, he determined to see for himself again the lovely face that had won lyde's admiration. he knew where she bought her gloves, and that afternoon he was close by when the little army of salesgirls came pouring out into the street. by and by came two arm in arm, lizzie white and liane, and his eyes feasted again on the lovely face beneath the little blue hat, noting with gladness its purity of expression. "they lied. she is pure and innocent still, in spite of pardonable vanity and girlish coquetry," he thought, with a subtle thrill of joy. then he saw granny jenks dart forward with a skinny, outstretched claw, whining: "i came for your wages, liane. i was afraid you might fool away the money before you got home." "the old harpy!" he muttered, with irrepressible indignation, as he saw her clutch the money liane had earned by her week's toil. then he drew back quickly, lest she should see him, a sudden resolve forming in his mind. he would follow them, and find out where her home was, and if she deserved the cruel things they said of her at stonecliff. he felt sure that she had been slandered, poor, pretty liane, leading her simple, blameless life of toil and poverty. he thought with pleasure of mr. clarke's interest in liane, and promised himself to write to that gentleman all he could find out about her, little dreaming of the cruel consequences that would follow on the writing of the letter. "poor little girl, it is a shame that evil hearts should malign and traduce her, living her humble life of toil, poverty, and innocence!" jesse devereaux said to himself pityingly, on returning from following liane to her humble abode. he satisfied himself that her surroundings, though poor, were strictly respectable, and that she earned a meager living for herself and granny by patient, daily toil, and he had turned back to his own life of ease and luxury with a sore heart. keen sympathy and pity drove resentment from his mind, effacing all but divine tenderness. he longed for an intensity that was almost pain to brighten her daily life, so weary, toilsome, and devoid of pleasure. "had she but loved me, beautiful, hapless liane, how different her lot in life would have been!" he thought, picturing her as the queen of his splendid home, her graceful form clothed in rich attire, her white throat and her tiny little hands glittering with costly gems, while she leaned on his breast, happy as a queen, his loving bride. he wondered what had become of malcolm dean, and why his ardent admiration of liane had waned so soon. almost simultaneously with the thought the doorbell rang, and malcolm dean's card was presented to him. "show the gentleman in." they stood facing each other, the handsome blond artist and the dark-haired millionaire, and the latter recalled with a silent pang that liane preferred men with fair hair and blue eyes. they shook hands cordially; then, as dean sank into a chair, he noted that he had grown pale and thin. "you have been ill?" "yes, for weeks, of a low fever that kept me in bed in philadelphia, while my heart was far away. can you guess where, devereaux?" "perhaps at stonecliff?" "then you have guessed at my passion for the beautiful prize winner." "it was patent to all observers that night," devereaux answered, in a strangled voice, with a fierce thumping of the heart. oh, god, how cruel it was to discuss her with his fortunate rival, who had only to ask and have. dean noticed nothing unusual. he continued earnestly: "i don't mind owning to the truth, devereaux. yes, i lost my heart irretrievably that night to lovely liane lester, and i made up my mind to overlook the difference in our position and woo her for my own. but i had to go to philadelphia the next day, and i was detained there some time getting my design ready for the magazine, and this was followed by a spell of illness. at length, all impatience, i returned to stonecliff two days ago to seek the fair girl who had charmed me so. fancy my dismay when i found her gone, and no clue to her whereabouts!" again devereaux's heart thumped furiously. "you loved her very much?" he asked hoarsely. "i adored her. she was to me the incarnation of simple beauty and purity." "and had you any token of her preference in return?" "none. she was too shy and bashful to give me the sign the coquette might have deemed befitting. she hid her heart beneath the drooping fringe of her dark, curling lashes. yet i dared to hope, and there was one thing in my favor: i did not have a rival." "you are mistaken!" "how?" "i was your rival!" "you, devereaux!" they almost glared at each other, and devereaux said hoarsely: "i was in love with miss lester before you ever saw her face!" "after all, that is not strange. who could see her and not love her? but was your suit successful?" "no." "rejected?" devereaux flushed, then answered frankly: "yes." malcolm dean could not conceal his joyful surprise. "i cannot comprehend her rejection of your suit. i should have thought you irresistible." devereaux struggled a moment with natural pride and selfishness, then answered: "she preferred you." "me? how should you know?" "by her own confession to me." malcolm dean was frankly staggered by his friend's statement. his blue eyes gleamed with joy and his bosom heaved with pride. "you have made me very happy, but how very, very strange that she should have made such a confession to you," he cried, in wonder. again devereaux had a short, sharp struggle with his better self and his natural jealousy of the more fortunate lover of liane, then his pity for the girl triumphed over every selfish instinct, and he said: "she was very frank with me--the frankness of innocence that saw no harm in the confidence. on the same principle i see no harm in confiding in you, dean;" and he impulsively drew from his breast liane's letter. had he dreamed of the fatal consequences, he would have withheld his eager hand. there is love and love--love that has shallow roots and love that cannot be dragged up from its firm foundations. "read!" said devereaux, generously placing in his rival's hand liane's letter. for himself he could have forgiven all her faults of innocence and ignorance could she but have returned his love. it did not occur to his mind that the artist could be in any way different; that the ill spelling and the puerile mind evinced by the letter would inspire him with keen disgust. it only seemed to him that all these faults could be remedied by liane by the influence of a true love. the glamour of a strong passion was upon him, blinding him to the truth that instantly became patent to dean's mind. the artist, reading the shallow effusion, flung it down in keen disgust. "heavens, what a disappointment! such beauty and apparent sweetness united to shallowness and vanity!" he exclaimed. "it calls forth your pity?" devereaux said. "it excites my scorn!" the artist replied hotly. "remember her misfortunes--her bringing up by that wretched old relative in want and ignorance. surely the influence of love will work every desirable change in the fair girl who loves you so fondly," argued devereaux. malcolm dean was pacing the floor excitedly. "you could not change the shallow nature indicated by that letter, if you loved her to distraction," he exclaimed. "mark how she confesses to deliberate coquetry to win you from your betrothed; how cold-bloodedly she gloats over her triumph. why, my love is dead in an instant, devereaux, slain by this glimpse at liane lester's real nature. thank fortune, i did not find her at stonecliff yesterday. i shall never seek her now, for my eyes are opened by that heartless letter. why are you staring at me so reproachfully, devereaux? you have even more cause to despise than i have." "and yet i cannot do it; heaven help me, i love her still!" groaned the other, bowing his pale face upon his hands. "but, devereaux; this is madness! she is not worth your love. fling the poison from your heart as i do. forget the light coquette. return to your first love." "never!" he cried; but in all his pain he could not help an unconscious joy that liane could yet be won. he had not meant to turn dean's heart against her, but the mischief was done now. poor little girl! would she hate him if she knew? the old pitying tenderness surged over him again, and he longed to take her in his arms and shield her from all the assaults of the cruel world. vain and shallow she might be; coquette she might be, yet she had stormed the citadel of his heart and held it still against all intruders. "i am going now," the artist cried; turning on him restlessly. "this is good-by for months, devereaux. i think i shall join some friends of mine who are going to winter in italy, to study art, you know. wish you would come with us." "i should like to, but my father is lately dead, you know, and lieutenant carrington, my sister's husband, is ordered to sea with his ship. i cannot leave lyde alone, poor girl." "then good-by, and thank you for showing me that letter. what if i had married her in ignorance?" with a shudder. "for heaven's sake, devereaux, be careful of getting into her toils again. better go back to miss clarke, and make up your quarrel. adieu," and with a hearty handclasp, he was gone, leaving his friend almost paralyzed with the remorseful thought: "would she ever forgive me if she guessed the harm i have done?" chapter xxi. a harvest of woe. devereaux's thoughts clung persistently to liane. he could not shut away from his mind her haunting image. pity blended with tenderness, as putting himself and his own disappointment aside, he gave himself up to thoughts of bettering her poverty-stricken life, so toilsome and lonely. he took up his pen and wrote feelingly to edmund clarke, telling him how and where he had found liane again, and of his full belief in her purity and innocence, despite the cruel slanders circulating in stonecliff, the work, no doubt, he said, of some jealous, unscrupulous enemy. he assured mr. clarke that he was ready to assist in any way he might suggest in bettering the fair young girl's hard lot in life. the letter was immediately posted, and went on its fateful way to fall into jealous roma's hands and work a harvest of woe. affairs at cliffdene were already in a critical stage, and it wanted but this letter to fan the smoldering flames into devastating fury. mr. clarke, impatient of his lingering convalescence, had taken a decisive step toward recovering his lost daughter. he had written a letter summoning old doctor jay, of brookline, on a visit, and he had explained it to his wife by pretending he wished to avail himself of the old man's medical skill. doctor jay was the physician who had attended mrs. clarke when her daughter was born, and he received a warm welcome at cliffdene, a guest whom all delighted to honor; all, at least, but roma, who immediately conceived an unaccountable aversion to the old man, perhaps because his little hazel-gray eyes peered at her so curiously through his glasses beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. there was something strange in his intent scrutiny, so coldly curious, instead of kindly, as she had a right to expect, and she said pettishly to her mother: "i detest doctor jay. i hope he is not going to stay long." "oh, no, i suppose not, but i am very fond of doctor jay. he was very kind and sympathetic to me at a time of great suffering and trouble," mrs. clarke replied so warmly that she aroused roma's curiosity. "tell me all about it," she exclaimed. mrs. clarke had never been able to recall that time without suffering, but she impulsively told roma the whole story, never dreamed of until now, of the loss of her infant and its mysterious restoration at the last moment, when her life was sinking away hopelessly into eternity. roma listened with startled attention, and she began to ask questions that her mother found impossible to answer. "who had stolen away the babe, and by what agency had it been restored?" demanded roma. mrs. clarke could not satisfy her curiosity. the subject was so painful her husband would never discuss it with her, she declared, adding that roma must not think of it any more, either. but, being in a reminiscent mood, she presently told roma how she had been deceived in old granny jenks' identity, and how indignantly the old woman had denied the imputation of having been her nurse. "i was so sure of her identity that her anger was quite embarrassing," she said. roma's thoughts returned to granny's affection for herself, and she felt sure the old woman had lied to her mother, though from what object she could not conceive. her abject affection for herself seemed fully explained by the fact of her having been her nurse child. but she was, somehow, ill at ease after hearing her mother's story, and longed eagerly to know more than she had already heard. "i wonder if i dare question papa or the old doctor?" she thought when her mother had left her alone, resting easily in her furred dressing gown and slippers before a bright coal fire, while in the room beyond dolly dorr was getting her bath ready. roma was devoured by curiosity. she sat racking her brain for a pretext to intrude on her father and the old doctor, who were still in the library together, chatting over old times when the clarkes had lived in brookline. a lucky thought came to her, and she murmured: "i will pretend to have a headache, and ask doctor jay for something to ease it. then i will stay a while chatting with them and making myself very agreeable until i can bring the subject around, and get the interesting fact of my abduction out of them." stealing noiselessly from the room, she glided downstairs like a shadow, pausing abruptly at the hall table, for there lay the evening's mail, just brought in by a servant from the village post office. roma turned over the letters and papers, finding none for any one but her father, but the superscription on one made her start with a stifled cry. she recognized the elegant chirography of jesse devereaux on the back of one letter. "now, why is he writing to papa?" she wondered, eagerly turning the letter over and over in her burning hand, wild with curiosity that tempted her at last to slip the letter into her bosom. then, taking the rest of the mail in her hand, roma went to the library, thinking that the delivery of the mail would furnish another plausible pretext for her intrusion. there was a little anteroom just adjoining the library, and this she entered first to wait a moment till the fierce beating of her heart over devereaux's letter should quiet down. her slippered feet made no sound on the thick velvet carpet, and, as she rested for a moment in a large armchair, she could hear the murmur of animated voices through the heavy portières that hung between her and the library. believing that the whole family had retired, and that they were safe from interruption, doctor jay and his host had returned to the tragedy of eighteen years before--the loss of the infant that had nearly cost the mother's life. roma caught her breath with a stifled gasp of self-congratulation, hoping now to hear the whole interesting story without moving from her chair. in her hope she was not disappointed. "i have never ceased to regret the substitution of that spurious infant in place of my own lovely child," sighed mr. clarke. roma gave a start of consternation, and almost betrayed herself by screaming out aloud, but she bit her lips in time, while her wildly throbbing heart seemed to sink like a stone in her breast. doctor jay said questioningly: "you have never been able to love your adopted daughter as your own?" "never, never!" groaned edmund clarke despairingly. "and her mother?" "she knows nothing, suspects nothing; for the one object of my life has been to keep her in ignorance of the truth that roma is not her own child. she has an almost slavish devotion to the girl, but i think in her inmost heart she realizes roma's lack of lovable qualities, though she is too loyal to her child to admit the truth even to me." "it is strange, most strange, that no clue has ever been found that would lead to the discovery of your lost little one," mused the old doctor, and after a moment's silence the other answered: "one thing i would like to know, and that is the family from which roma sprang. it must have been low, judging frankly from the girl herself." the listener clinched her hands till the blood oozed from the tender palms on hearing these words, and she would have liked to clutch the speaker's throat instead. but she sat still, like one paralyzed, a deadly hatred tugging at her heartstrings, listening as one listens to the sentence of death, while doctor jay cleared his throat, and answered: "i am sorry, most sorry, that your surmises are correct, but naturally one would not expect to find good blood in a foundling asylum, though when i sent nurse jenks for the child, i told her to get an infant of honest parentage, if she could." "then you know roma's antecedents?" mr. clarke questioned anxiously. "my dear friend, i wish that you would not press the subject." "answer me; i must know! the bitterest truth could not exceed my suspicions!" almost raved mr. clarke in his eagerness, and again the clinched hands of the listener tightened as if they were about his throat. hate, swift, terrible, murderous, had sprung to life, full grown in the angry girl's heart. she heard the old doctor cough and sigh again, and a futile wish rose in her that he had dropped down dead before he ever came to cliffdene. doctor jay, all unconscious of her proximity and her charitable wishes, proceeded hesitatingly: "since you insist, i must own the truth. nurse jenks deceived me." "how?" hoarsely. "she never went near the foundling asylum. she had at her own home an infant, the child of a worthless daughter, who had run away previously to go on the stage. leaving this child on her mother's hands, the actress again ran away, and the old grandmother palmed it off on you as a foundling." "my god! i see it all," groaned edmund clarke. "the old fiend exchanged infants, putting her grandchild in the place of my daughter, and raising her in poverty and wretchedness. i have seen my child with her, my beautiful daughter. listen to my story," he cried, pouring out to the astonished old physician the whole moving story of liane lester. chapter xxii. at a fiend's mercy. doctor jay listened with breathless attention, and so did roma. pale as a breathing statue, her great eyes dilated with dismay and horror, her heart beating heavily and slow, roma crouched in her chair and listened to the awful words that told her who and what she was, the base-born child of cora jenks, and granddaughter of old granny, whose very name was a synonym for contempt in stonecliff. she, roma, who despised poor people, who treated them no better than the dust beneath her well-shod feet, belonged to the common herd, and was usurping the place of beautiful liane, whom she had despised for her lowly estate and hated for her beauty, but who had become first her rival in love and now in fortune. to the day of her death beautiful, wicked roma never forgot that bleak november night, that blasted all her pride and flung her down into the dust of humiliation and despair, her towering pride crushed, all the worst passions of her evil nature aroused into pernicious activity. stiller than chiseled marble, the stricken girl crouched there, listening, fearing to lose even a single word, though each one quivered like a dagger in her heart. her greatest enemy could not have wished her a keener punishment than this knowledge of her position in the clarke household--an adopted daughter, secretly despised and only tolerated for the mother's sake, holding her place only until the real heiress should be discovered. no words could paint her rage, her humiliation, her terrors of the future, that held a sword that might at any moment fall. oh, how she hated the world, and every one in it, and most of all liane lester, her guiltless rival. while she listened, she wished the girl dead a hundred times, and all at once a throbbing memory came to her of the fierce words granny jenks had spoken in her rage against liane. "i would beat her; yes, i would kill her, before she should steal your grand lover from you darling!" roma could understand now the old hag's devotion to herself. it was the tie of their kinship asserting itself. she shuddered with disgust as she recalled the old woman's fulsome admiration and adoration, and how she had been willing to sell her very soul for one kiss from those fresh, rosy lips. how eagerly she had said: "i will scold liane, and whip her, too. i will do anything to please you, beautiful lady!" no wonder! roma was bitterly sorry now that she had not let granny kill liane when she had been so anxious to do it. she felt that she had made a great mistake, for her position at cliffdene would never be assured until liane was dead. edmund clarke was certain now that liane was his own child, and he swore to doctor jay that he would find her soon, if it took the last dollar of his fortune. the old doctor replied: "i do not blame you, my friend, for it does, indeed, appear plausible that this liane lester must be your own lost child, and i can conceive how galling it must be to your pride to call nurse jenks' grandchild your daughter, while, as for your noble wife, it is cruel to think of the imposition practiced on her motherly love all these years. but it is certain that she must have died but for the terrible deception we had to practice." edmund clarke knew that it was true. he remembered how she had been drifting from him out on the waves of the shoreless sea, and how the piping cry of the little infant had called her back to life and hope. "yes, it was a terrible necessity," he groaned, adding: "and only think, dear doctor, how sad it is that roma, with a devilish cunning, that must be a keen instinct, has always hated sweet liane, and has succeeded in poisoning my wife's mind against her, arousing a mean jealousy in my uncomprehended interest in the girl! think of such a sweet mother being set against her own sweet daughter!" "it is horrible," assented doctor jay, and he continued: "but this excitement is telling on your nerves, dear friend, weakened by your recent severe illness. let me persuade you to retire to bed, with a sedative now, and to-morrow we will further discuss your plan of employing a detective to trace liane and the fiendish nurse jenks." "i believe i will take your advice," roma heard edmund clarke respond wearily, and doctor jay insisted on preparing a sedative, which he said should be mixed in a glass of water, half the dose to be taken on retiring, and the remainder in two hours, if the patient proved wakeful. "i wish it was a dose of poison," roma thought vindictively, as she hurried from the room and gained her own unperceived, where she found her maid waiting most impatiently to assist her in her bath. "never mind, dolly, you can go to bed now. i went to mamma's room for a little chat, and we talked longer than i expected, so i will wait on myself this once," she said, with unwonted kindness in her eagerness to be alone; so dolly curtsied and retired, though she said to herself: "she is lying. she was not in her mother's room at all, for i went there to see, and mrs. clarke had retired. she must have been up to some mischief and don't want to be found out. she had a guilty look." meanwhile roma flung herself into the easy-chair before the glowing fire, stretched out her slippered feet on the thick fur rug, and gave herself up to the bitterest reflections. "there are four people who are terribly in my way, and whom i would like to see dead! they are liane lester, granny jenks, old doctor jay, and edmund clarke, the man i have heretofore regarded as my father," she muttered vindictively. she knew that the two last named would know neither rest nor peace till they found liane and reinstated her in her place at cliffdene as daughter and heiress, ousting without remorse the usurper. "ah, if i only knew where to find her, granny would soon put her out of my way forever!" she thought, regretting bitterly now that she had not made the old hag keep her informed of her whereabouts. the spirit of murder was rife in roma's heart, and she longed to end the lives of all those who stood in her way. "i wish that edmund clarke would die to-night! how easy it would be if some arsenic were dropped into his sedative--some of that solution i was taking a while ago to improve my complexion," she thought darkly, resolving to wait until all was quiet and herself attempt the hellish deed. one death already lay on her conscience, and the form of the man she had remorselessly thrust over the bluff stalked grimly through her dreams. to her soul, already black with crime, what did the commission of other deeds of darkness matter? the death of edmund clarke so quickly decreed, she began to plan that of the old doctor. this was not so easy. he did not have a convenient glass of sedative ready by his bedside. but she had noticed at supper that he was fond of a glass of wine. "i must poison a draught for him before he leaves cliffdene," she thought, regretting that she could not accomplish it to-night. but edmund clarke's speedy death would delay the search for liane a while, even if it did not postpone it forever. for the old physician was not likely to prosecute it after the death of his patron. he could have no interest in doing so, though she would make sure he did not by putting him out of the way if she could. her mind a chaos of evil thoughts, roma rested in her chair, waiting till she thought every one must be asleep before she stole from the room to poison the draught for the man she had regarded until this hour as her own father, and to whose wealth she owed her luxurious life of eighteen years. neither pity nor gratitude warmed her cold heart. she had never loved him in her life, and she hated him now. in her rage and despair she had forgotten jesse devereaux's letter to her father until, in a restless movement, she heard the rustle of paper in her corsage. an evil gleam lightened in her eyes, and she drew the letter forth, muttering: "ah, this will beguile my weary waiting!" in five minutes she was mistress of the contents. it was the letter devereaux had written to acquaint edmund clarke with liane's address--the fateful letter that was to betray the girl into the hands of her bitterest foe. ah, the hellish gleam of wicked joy in the cruel red-brown eyes; the stormy heaving of roma's breast as she realized her great good fortune; all her enemies in her power, at her mercy! the mercy the ravenous wolf shows to the helpless lamb! she laughed low and long in her glee, and that laughter was an awful thing to hear. "oh, how can i wait till to-morrow?" she muttered. "yet i cannot go to boston to-night, nor to-morrow, if edmund clarke dies to-night. shall i spare his life till i go to boston, and have his daughter put out of the way?" chapter xxiii. a murderous fury. hours slipped away while the beautiful fiend, so young in years, so old in the conception of crime, crouched in her seat, waiting, musing, pondering on the best schemes for ridding herself of those who stood in her way. she was eager as a wild beast to strike quickly and finish the awful work she had set herself to do. it seemed to her that she might never have another such opportunity for ending edmund clarke's life as was offered to her by the conditions of the present moment. it was most important to get rid of him, she knew, and the sooner the better for the safety of her position as heiress of the clarke millions. let him die first, and she could attend to the others afterward. at the dark, gloomy hour of midnight, while the icy winds wailed around the house like a banshee, roma went groping through the pitch-black corridors toward the room where mr. clarke lay sleeping with his gentle, loving wife by his side. like a sleek, beautiful panther the girl crept into the unlocked door, knowing the room so well that she could find her way to the bedside in the darkness, and put out her stealthy, murderous hand, with the bottle of poison in it, seeking for the glass that held the sleeping potion doctor jay had prescribed. her heart beat with evil exultation, for it seemed to her that her errand could scarcely fail of success. edmund clarke was sound asleep, she knew by his deep breathing, and she decided that, after pouring the poison into the glass, she would make enough noise in escaping from the room to arouse him fully, so that he would be sure to swallow the second dose ere sleeping again. it was a clever plan, cleverly conceived, and in another moment it would be executed, and no earthly power could save the victim from untimely death. but in her haste roma made one fatal mistake. in groping for the glass, she held the vial with the arsenic clasped in her hand. and she was very nervous, her white hands trembling as they fluttered over the little medicine stand by the head of the bed. that was why, the next moment, there came the sharp clink of glass against glass as her hands came in contact with what she sought, overturning and breaking both, with such a sharp, keen, crystalline tinkle that both the sleepers were aroused suddenly and quickly, and mr. clarke flung out his arms, clutching roma ere she could escape, and demanding bewilderedly: "what is the matter? who is this?" "edmund! edmund!" cried his equally startled wife, hastily lighting a night lamp close to her arm, in time to see roma writhing and struggling in her father's arms. "roma!" he panted. "roma!" echoed his wife. it was a situation to strike terror to the girl's guilty heart. but in her scheming she had not failed to take into account any possible contretemps. failing in her efforts to escape before her identity was detected, roma laughed aloud, hysterically: "dear papa, do not squeeze me so hard, please; you take away my breath! why, you must take me for a burglar!" edmund clarke, releasing her and not yet fully awake, stammered drowsily: "yes--i--took--you--for--a--burglar. what do you want, roma?" "yes, what is the matter, my dear?" added mrs. clarke wonderingly, while roma, mistress of the situation still, pressed her hand to her cheek, groaning hysterically: "oh, papa, mamma, forgive me for arousing you, but i am suffering so much with a wretched toothache, and i came to ask you for some medicine to ease it!" "poor dear!" exclaimed mrs. clarke, with immediate maternal sympathy, as she rose quickly from her bed and motioned roma into her dressing room, searching for remedies within a little medicine case while she plied her with questions. "when did it begin to ache, dear? why didn't you send dolly for the medicine? it will make you worse, coming along the cold corridors!" "for goodness' sake, don't tease! give me the medicine quick as you can!" roma answered crossly, dropping into a chair and hiding her face in her hands, her whole form shaking with fury at the failure of her scheme to kill edmund clarke. a blind, terrible rage possessed her, and she would have liked to spring upon him and clutch his throat with murderous hands. but she dare not give way to her murderous impulse; she must wait and try her luck again, for die he must, and that very soon. she could only wreak her pent-up rage by cross answers to the gentle lady she called mother, and mrs. clarke, with a patient sigh of wounded feeling, turned to her, replying: "i did not mean to tease you, roma, but here is some medicine. put five drops of it upon this bit of cotton and press it into the cavity of your tooth, and it will give you speedy relief. in the morning you must visit a dentist." roma lifted her pale face, and answered: "yes, i will visit a dentist, but not one at stonecliff. i will go to boston by the early train." "i will go with you and do some shopping," said her mother, who had a very feminine love of finery. "very well," the girl answered, scowling behind her hand, for she preferred to go alone on her mission to granny jenks. but she realized that it would not do to offend the only person who seemed to have any real fondness for her, so, making a wry face behind her hand, she went up to mrs. clarke, saying gently: "i did not mean to be cross to you, dear mamma, but i am in such agony with this pain that i could not help my impatience. i want you to forgive me and try not to love me any less for my faults, please." mrs. clarke could not help wondering what favor roma was planning to ask for now, but she answered sweetly: "i forgive you, dear, and, of course, i shall always love my daughter." "but papa does not love me much. i often meet his glance fixed on me in cold disapproval, and at times he is very stern to me!" complained roma. "that must be your fancy, dear. he could not help loving you, his own daughter, dearly and fondly," soothed the lady, though she knew that she had herself noticed and complained of the same thing in her husband. "you do not love roma as i do," she had said to him, reproachfully, many times, getting always an evasive, unsatisfactory reply. so she could not offer her much comfort on this score; she could only put her arm about the form of the arch traitress, murmuring kind, tender words, actually getting in return a loving caress that surprised her very much, it was so unusual. but roma for the first time in her life comprehended the necessity of fortifying her position by a staunch ally like her mother. "i will go back to my room now. i must not keep you up any longer in the cold, dear, patient mamma," she cried gushingly, as she kissed her and left the room. mrs. clarke was grateful for the caress, but she retired to bed with the firm conviction that it would take a very large check indeed to gratify roma's desires in boston to-morrow. her affectionate spells were always very costly to her parents. "do you think i had better take the second dose of that sedative? i am very nervous from my sudden awakening, and wish we had locked the door on retiring," her husband said petulantly. "it would be very unkind to lock the door on our own daughter. roma was just now lamenting your sternness and lack of love and sympathy," returned the lady. edmund clarke stifled an imprecation between his teeth, then demanded earnestly: "have i ever failed in love and sympathy to you, dear elinor?" "never, my darling husband," she answered, fondly clasping his hand. "and never will my love fail you, dearest; but i cannot say as much for roma, whose nature is so unlike yours that i confess she repels instead of attracts me," he exclaimed, reaching out for the medicine and exclaiming impatiently on finding the glass broken and the draught lost. ah, how nearly it had been a fatal draught, had not heaven interposed to save his life! as he set it back on the table, he added: "why, here is a broken vial on the table beside the glass. i wonder how it came there!" "i do not know; but it really does not matter, dear. there, now, shut your eyes, and try to sleep," advised his wife, knowing the importance of sound, healthful sleep to the convalescent. but to her dismay he arose and turned the key in the lock, saying as he lay down again: "i'll try to sleep now; but i'll make sure first of not being disturbed again." chapter xxiv. a strand of ruddy hair. at early daylight the next morning a servant tapped at edmund clarke's door with a message from doctor jay. he found himself quite ill this morning, and must go home at once. would mr. clarke grant him a few parting words? mr. clarke was up and dressed. he had just said good-by to his wife and roma, who had taken an early train to boston. he went at once to doctor jay's room, finding him seated by the window, looking ill and aged from a bad night. "good morning, my dear old friend. you look ill, and i fear you have not rested well." "no; my night was troubled by ghastly dreams. i could scarcely wait till morning to bid you good-by." "i am very sorry for this, for i had counted on a pleasant day with you. my wife and roma are gone to boston for the day, leaving their regrets for you, and kindly wishes to find you here on their return." the doctor started with surprise, exclaiming: "it must have been an unexpected trip." edmund clarke then explained about roma's midnight sufferings from toothache, necessitating a visit to her dentist. "my wife would not have left me, but she felt sure i should not be lonely, having you for company," he added regretfully. "my dear friend, i should like to remain with you, and, rather than disappoint you, i will wait until the late afternoon train; but--all my friendship for you could not tempt me to spend another night at cliffdene!" "you amaze me, doctor! this is very strange! why do you look so pale and strange? why did you spend so uncomfortable a night, when i tried to surround you with every comfort?" "you did, my dear friend, and every luxury besides--even a key to my door, which i forgot to use," returned doctor jay, so significantly that edmund clarke reddened, exclaiming: "it is not possible you have been robbed! i believe that all my servants are honest!" he thought that the old physician must be losing his senses when he answered, with terrible gravity: "nevertheless, i was nearly robbed of my life last night!" "great heavens!" doctor jay's brow was beaded with damp as he loosened his cravat and collar, and pointed to his bared neck. edmund clarke leaned forward, and saw on the old man's throat some dark purple discolorations, like finger prints. "have you in your household any persons subject to vicious aberrations of mind?" demanded doctor jay. "no one!" answered his startled host, and he was astounded when his guest replied: "nevertheless, a fiend in human form entered this room last night under cover of the darkness and attempted to murder me by vicious strangling!" "heavens! is this so?" "you have the evidence!" exclaimed the physician, pointing to his bared throat with the print of the strangler's fingers. "this is most mysterious!" ejaculated edmund clarke, in wonder and distress, while the physician continued: "last night i retired and slept soundly until after midnight, when i was aroused by the horrible sensation of steely fingers gripping my throat with deadly force. vainly gasping for my failing breath, i struggled with the intruder, who held on with a maniacal strength, panting with fury as i clutched in my arms a form that i immediately knew to be that of a woman, soft, warm, palpitating, though her strength was certainly equal to that of a man. we grappled in a terrible struggle, and i clutched my fingers in her long hair, causing her such pain that, with a stifled moan, she released my throat, struck me in the face, and fled before i could regain my senses, that deserted me at the critical moment." "this is most mysterious, most shocking! no wonder you are anxious to leave cliffdene, where you so nearly met your death. but this must be sifted to the bottom at once, and the lunatic identified, for it could be no other than a lunatic. i will have the whole household summoned. we will question every servant closely!" cried clarke eagerly, turning to ring the bell. but doctor jay stopped him, saying: "wait till i question you on the subject. have you in your employ a woman with red hair?" "what a question! but, no. my women servants are all gray-haired or black-haired, with one exception. that is roma's maid, a pretty little blonde, with the palest flaxen curls." he looked inquiringly at the doctor, who replied: "after my struggle was over and i was able to light a lamp, i found entangled in my fingers some threads of hair--beautiful long strands of ruddy hair, copperish red in the full light." he took an envelope from his breast, and drew from it a ruddy strand of long hair, holding it up to the light of the window, where it shone with a rich copper tint. "my god!" groaned edmund clarke. "you recognize the hair?" cried doctor jay. "it is roma's hair!" was the anguished answer. "i thought so!" "you thought so! is the girl, then, a lunatic, or a fiend? and what motive could she have to take your life--an old man, who has never harmed her in his blameless life?" cried the host, in consternation. edmund clarke had never been confronted with such a terrible problem of crime in his life. his face paled to an ashen hue, and his eyes almost glared as he stared helplessly at his friend. "i have a theory!" cried doctor jay. "what is it?" "the girl must have overheard our conversation last night." "impossible!" "why?" mr. clarke revolved the matter silently in his mind for a moment, then answered: "well, of course, not impossible, but quite improbable." "is there not a curtained alcove or anteroom next the library?" "yes; but why should the girl have suspected us--why concealed herself there to listen?" "heaven only knows, but it is possible that some accident brought her there--perhaps an errand of some kind--maybe to get medicine from me for her aching tooth. she caught a few words that aroused her curiosity, kept silence, and listened, overhearing the truth about herself." "it must indeed have happened that way!" "and the shock drove her mad," continued doctor jay. "her resentment flamed against me for knowing so much of her low origin. in her first senseless fury she sought my life." "it is a terrible situation!" cried his friend, and both were silent for a moment, gazing at the lock of hair as if it had been a writhing serpent; then clarke continued: "it is a wonder the fiend incarnate did not seek my life also, thus removing from her path the two who were plotting to oust her from her position and reinstate the real heiress!" but even as he spoke he remembered last night's accident when he had been aroused by the clink of breaking glass and found roma in hysterics by his bedside. he told doctor jay the whole story, adding: "i could not imagine how the bottle came there. it was certainly not on the stand when i retired to bed, and when i read the label this morning, it ran: 'poison--arsenic.'" "i should like to see the bottle." "come with me," returned mr. clarke, leading the way to his room. fortunately the chambermaid had not disturbed anything yet, so the fragments of the bottle and glass were found upon the table. "it is a fearfully strong solution of arsenic, and i fancy she intended to pour it into your sedative, so that in case you drank it you would be silenced forever," affirmed the doctor. they could only stare aghast at each other, feeling that providence had surely preserved their lives last night. "she was nervous in the dark, jostling the bottle against the glass, breaking both, and thus defeating her murderous game! the toothache was probably a clever feint to explain her presence in your room," continued the old doctor, who had a wonderful insight into men and motives, and seemed to read roma like an open book. a sudden terror seized on mr. clarke. "she has taken my darling wife away with her! what if she means to murder her, too? i must follow them on the next train and separate them forever!" he cried frantically. "i believe you are right, my friend." after further thought and consultation, they decided that, although roma and mrs. clarke must be immediately separated, it would not be prudent to reveal the truth to her yet, for the shock would be sufficient to dethrone her reason. therefore it would not be prudent to arrest roma yet for her attempted crimes. "we have just time enough for a hasty breakfast before catching the next train. come!" cried edmund clarke, leading the way from the room. in the corridor they encountered dolly dorr mincing along, with her yellow head on one side like a pert canary; and her master, stopping her, exclaimed: "your mistress had a bad time with the toothache, i fear, last night, dolly!" dolly, dropping a curtsy, answered slyly: "indeed she did, sir, and the medicine she got when she went after doctor jay didn't help her one bit, for she walked the floor groaning and sobbing all night." they glared at her in amazement, while she continued, with pretended sympathy: "she would not let me sit up with her, poor thing, but i was stealing back to her room to see if i could help her any when i met her flying out of doctor jay's room, and she said she had gone for a remedy for the toothache, and he burned her gums with iodine and almost set her crazy with the pain. then she scolded me for being up so late, and sent me back to my room to stay." she gave doctor jay a quizzical glance from her saucy blue eyes, but his face was entirely noncommittal as he replied: "i am very sorry i burned her so badly with the iodine, but i thought it would give the quickest relief." "well, she has gone to a dentist in boston now, and he may soon help the pain," said edmund clarke, passing on, while dolly dorr muttered suspiciously: "there were mysterious carryings on in this house last night, for sure!" chapter xxv. a true friend. liane lester, late that afternoon, when coming home from her work with her friend, lizzie white, saw again the handsome face and dark, flashing eyes of jesse devereaux. he had believed himself unseen, but he was mistaken. some subtle instinct had turned liane's timid glance straight to the spot where he was watching, unseen, as he believed. the quick, passionate throb of her heart sent the blood bounding to her cheeks and made her hands tremble as they clasped the envelope with her slender weekly earnings. but at the same instant liane dropped the thick, curling fringe of her lashes quickly over her eyes, for in his alert glance she met no sign of recognition, and her heart sank heavily again as she remembered his cold, careless greeting the day she had passed his house with mrs. brinkley. the good woman was right. he might have amused himself with her in the country, but he was indifferent to her in town. he would not even take the trouble to bow when they met by chance, as now. but liane had the most loyal heart in the world, and she could never forget that night by the sea when devereaux had saved her from the insulting caresses of the dark-browed stranger, and afterward from granny's blow, breaking his arm in her defense. "how brave and noble he was that night! he was so handsome and adorable that my heart went out to him, never to be recalled, in spite of all that has happened since," she thought sadly. with lowered lashes and a heart sinking heavily with its hopeless love and pain, liane passed on with her friend, little dreaming that she was followed to her home by devereaux, nor what dire consequences would follow on his learning her address. she was restless that night, and he haunted her dreams persistently, and on the morrow she rose tired, and pale, and sad, almost wishing she had not met him again, to have all the old pain and regret revived within her breast. the long day dragged away, and when she went home that evening she found awaiting her the philadelphia magazine that had her beautiful face on the outside cover. accompanying this was a batch of novels, together with a basket of fruit and a bunch of roses. "hothouse roses and tropical fruit--you must have caught a rich beau, liane!" cried mrs. brinkley, as she delivered the gifts. "oh, no; there must be some mistake," she answered quickly, but her heart throbbed as she remembered the meeting with devereaux yesterday, and she wondered if he could possibly be the donor. "impossible!" she sighed to herself, as the woman continued: "there cannot be any mistake, for there is the card, tied to the basket, with 'miss liane lester, with kind wishes of a true friend,' written on it. they came by a neat messenger boy, who would not answer a single question i asked him." "a charming mystery! oh, what magnificent roses for the last of november!" cried lizzie, inhaling their fragrance with delight, while liane handed around the basket, generously sharing the luscious fruit with her friends. she was thinking all the while of the words jesse devereaux had said to her on the beach that never-to-be-forgotten night: "i will be a true friend to you." the card on the basket read the same: "a true friend." it was enough to send the tremulous color flying to liane's cheek, while a new, faint hope throbbed at her heart. granny was out somewhere, or she would have got a scolding on suspicion of knowing the donor of the presents. she wisely kept the truth to herself, dividing the fruit with her friends, placing the books in her trunk, and the roses in a vase in lizzie's room, though she longed very much to have them in her own. that night her dreams were sweet and rose-colored. she went to work with a blithe heart next morning, and, although it was the first day of december, and a light covering of snow lay on the roofs and pavements, she did not feel the biting wind pierce through her thin jacket; her pulse was bounding and her being in a glow because of the great scarlet rose pinned on her breast, seeming to shed a summer warmth and sweetness on the icy air--the warmth of hope and love. all day her visions were rose-colored, and her thoughts hovered about devereaux until she almost forgot where she was, and was recalled unpleasantly to reality by a proud, impatient voice exclaiming: "i have spoken to you twice, and you have not heard me! your thoughts must be very far away. show me your best kid gloves--five and a half size!" at the same moment a small hand had gently pressed her arm, sending an odd thrill through her whole frame, causing her to start and look up at a handsome, richly dressed woman, whose dark-blue eyes were fixed on her in surprise and dislike. she knew the proud, cold face instantly. it belonged to a woman she had seen on edmund clarke's arm the night of the beauty contest. it was his wife, the mother of haughty roma, and liane comprehended instantly her glance of anger--it was because she had taken the prize over roma's head. wounded and abashed by the lady's scorn, liane attended to her wants in timid silence, only speaking when necessary, her cheeks flushed, her soft eyes downcast, her white hands fluttering nervously over the gloves. mrs. clarke selected a box of gloves, paid for them, and said in a supercilious tone, quite different from her usual gentle manner: "i will take the gloves with me. you may bring them out to my carriage on the opposite side of the street." she was purposely humbling liane, and the girl felt it intuitively. her bosom heaved, and her blue eyes brimmed with dew, but she did not resent the proud command, only took up the box of gloves and followed her customer out of the store to the thickly crowded pavement and over the crossing, where a carriage waited in a throng of vehicles on the other side. all at once something terrible happened. mrs. clarke, keeping proudly in front of liane, and not noticing closely enough her environment of vehicles and street cars, suddenly found herself right in the path of an electric car that in another moment would have crushed out her life had not two small hands reached out and hurled her swiftly aside. hundreds of eyes had seen the lady's imminent peril, and marked with kindling admiration the girl's heroic deed. without a selfish thought, though she was exposing herself to deadly danger, liane bounded wildly upon the track and seized the dazed and immovable woman with frantic hands, dragging her by main force off the track of the car that, in the succeeding moment, whizzed by at its highest speed, just as the two, liane and the rescued woman, fell to the ground outside the wheels. eager, sympathetic men bore them to the pavement, where it was found that mrs. clarke was in a swoon, so deathlike that it frightened liane, who sobbed and wrung her hands. "oh, she is dead! the terrible shock has killed her! can no one do anything to bring back her life? she must not die! she has a loving husband and a beautiful daughter, who would break their hearts over their terrible loss!" "who is she?" they asked the sobbing girl, and she answered: "she is mrs. clarke, a wealthy lady of stonecliff, and must be visiting in the city." at that moment the lady's eyes fluttered open, she gazed with a dazed air on the curious faces that surrounded her, and murmured: "where am i? what has happened?" there were not lacking a dozen voices to tell her everything, loud in praise of the lovely girl who had saved her life at the imminent risk of her own. "i--i did no more than my duty!" she sobbed, blushing crimson while they all gazed on her with the warmest admiration. there are so few who do their duty even in this cold, hard world, and one man exclaimed: "it was not your duty to risk your life so nearly. why, the car fender brushed your skirt as you fell. it was an act of the purest heroism!" mrs. clarke pressed her hand to her brow bewilderingly, murmuring: "i remember it all now! i stepped thoughtlessly on the track, and when i saw the car rushing down on me, i was so dazed with fear and horror i could not move or speak! no, though my very life depended on it, i could not move or speak! i could only stand like a statue, a breathing statue of horror, facing death! my feet were glued to the rail, my eyes stared before me in mute despair! horrible anticipations thronged my mind! suddenly i was caught by frantic hands and dragged aside! i realized i was saved, and consciousness fled." at that moment the carriage driver, who had got down from his box and was waiting on the curb, advanced, and said anxiously: "shall i take you back to the hotel, madam?" "yes, yes." she glanced around at liane, and put out a yearning hand. "come with me, dear girl. i--i am too ill to go alone. let me lean on your strength." somehow liane could not refuse the request. she felt a strange, sweet tenderness flooding her heart for the proud lady who, up to the present time, had used her so cruelly in unfair resentment. she sent a message explaining her absence across to the store, and led mrs. clarke's faltering steps to the carriage. "oh, i dropped the box of gloves in my rush to drag you from the track! i must go back for them!" she cried, in dismay. "no, miss, here they are. an honest man picked them up and handed them up on the box this instant," said the driver, producing the gloves. "oh, my dear girl, no need to think of gloves at a moment like this! how can i ever thank you and bless you enough for your noble heroism that saved my life!" cried mrs. clarke fervently. she gazed in gratitude and admiration at the exquisite face that owed none of its charm to extraneous adornment. the wealth of sun-flecked, chestnut locks rippled back in rich waves from the pure white brow, the great purplish-blue eyes, the exquisite features, the dainty coloring of the skin; above all, the expression of innocence and sweetness pervading all, thrilled mrs. clarke's heart with such keen pleasure that she quite forgot it was this radiant beauty that had rivaled roma in the contest for the prize. she said to herself that here was the loveliest and the bravest girl in the whole world. the carriage rattled along the busy streets, and liane timidly disclaimed any need of praise; she had but tried to do her duty. "duty!" cried mrs. clarke, and somehow her cold, nervous hand stole into liane's, and nestled there like a trembling bird, while she continued with keen self-reproach: "you have returned good for evil in the most generous fashion. i was treating you in the most haughty and resentful manner, trying to sting your girlish pride and make you conscious of your inferiority. did you understand my motive?" "you were naturally a little vexed with me because i had carried off the prize for which your lovely daughter competed," liane murmured bashfully. "yes, and i was wickedly unjust. you deserved the prize. roma, with all her gifts of birth and fortune, is not one-half so beautiful as you, liane lester, the poor girl," cried mrs. clarke warmly. "do you know i am quite proud that my husband says you resemble me in my girlhood; but, to be frank, i am sure i was never half so pretty." liane blushed with delight at her kindness, and bashfully told her of her meeting on the beach with mr. clarke, when he had impulsively called her elinor. "he told me then that i greatly resembled his wife!" she added, gazing admiringly at the still handsome woman, and feeling proud in her heart to look like her, so strangely was her heart interested. mrs. clarke could not help saying, so greatly were her feelings changed toward liane: "my husband admires you greatly; did you know it? he wishes to befriend you, making you an honored member of our household. i believe he would permit me to adopt you as a daughter, so strong will be his gratitude for your act of to-day." "oh, madam!" faltered liane, in grateful bewilderment, feeling that she could be very happy with these kind people, only for proud, willful roma, and she added: "your handsome daughter would not want me as a sister!" mrs. clarke hesitated, then answered reassuringly: "oh, yes, yes, when she learns how you saved my life to-day, roma cannot help but love you dearly!" the carriage stopped in front of a grand hotel, and she added: "i want you to come in and stay all day with me, liane, dear. i am too nervous to be left alone, and roma has gone to a dentist and will not be back until late afternoon." liane went with her new friend into the grand hotel, and they spent a happy day together, the tie of blood, undreamed of by either, strongly asserting itself. mrs. clarke found liane a charming and congenial companion, as different from selfish, hateful roma as daylight from darkness. in spite of her loyalty, she could not help contrasting them in her mind, so greatly to roma's disadvantage that she murmured to herself: "i would give half my fortune if roma were like this charming girl!" she lay on the sofa and talked, while liane stroked her aching temples with cool, magnetic fingers, so enchanting mrs. clarke that she caught them once and pressed them to her lips. "i love you, dear, you are so sweet and noble. bend down your head, let me kiss you for saving my life!" and liane's dewy lips gave the longed-for caress so fervently that it thrilled the lady's heart with keen pleasure. how cold and reluctant roma's lips were, even in her warmest, most deceitful moods. but ere the day was far advanced edmund clarke suddenly burst in upon them, pale with anxiety lest wicked roma had already harmed his gentle wife. he was astonished when he found her in company with liane lester. explanations followed, and surprise was succeeded by delight. he was so sure that liane was his own daughter that he longed to clasp her in his arms, kiss her sweet, rosy lips, and claim her for his own. but he did not dare risk the shock to his delicate, nervous wife. "i must wait a little, till i can get proof to back up my assertion," he decided, so his greeting to liane, though grateful and friendly, was repressed in its ardor, while he thought gladly: "thank heaven! she has won her way, unaided, to her mother's heart, and that makes everything easier. i shall not have to encounter her opposition in ousting roma from the place so long wrongfully occupied." "do you know what i am thinking of, edmund, dear?" said his wife. "i wish to adopt liane for a daughter." he started with surprise and pleasure, his fine eyes beaming: "a happy idea!" he exclaimed; "but do you think roma would care for a sister?" she hesitated a moment, then answered: "frankly, i do not, but i have fallen so deeply in love with this dear girl, and she seems already so necessary to my happiness, that roma must yield to my will in the matter." at this moment liane arose, saying sweetly: "i am your debtor for a charming day, mrs. clarke, but it is time for me to go now, or my grandmother will be uneasy about me." "then you must promise me to come here again to-morrow morning; for i shall never let you work for a living again. edmund, you must send her home in the carriage," cried mrs. clarke, kissing her charming guest farewell. chapter xxvi. trembling hopes. mrs. brinkley was amazed to see liane coming home in an elegant carriage, and when she entered she could not help exclaiming: "really, my dear, i shall believe presently that you and mistress jenks must be rich folks in disguise! here was your granny receiving a visit from a grand young lady in a carriage this morning, and now you coming home in another one, just when i was expecting you and lizzie to come trudging home, afoot, from work. it's rather strange, i think, and, coupled with your gifts yesterday, it looks like you were fooling with some rich young man that means nothing but trifling, though i hope for your own sake it ain't so!" there was a sharp note of suspicion in her voice, but liane, inured to harshness, dared not resent it, only shrank sensitively, as from a blow, and meekly explained the happenings of the day, giving the bare facts only, but withholding the promises mrs. clarke had made, too incredulous of good fortune coming to her to make any boast. mrs. brinkley flushed, and exclaimed: "that was a brave thing you did, my dear, and i want you to excuse me if i hurt your feelings just now. i spoke for your own good, wishing to be as careful over your welfare as i am over my own sister lizzie's!" "i understand, and i thank you!" the young girl answered sweetly, emboldening mrs. brinkley to ask curiously: "did the rich lady whose life you saved give you any reward?" "she asked me very particularly to return to the hotel to-morrow, and intimated that i should not have to work for my living any more!" "then your fortune's made, my dear girl. let me congratulate you," cried mrs. brinkley. "i've news for you, too. i was lucky enough to secure two new boarders for my two empty rooms this morning." liane feigned a polite interest, and she added: "one was a man, a language teacher in a boarding school. i didn't like his looks much. he is dark and spanish looking, but he paid my price in advance, so that reconciled me to his scowling brow and black whiskers. the other is a seamstress, very neat and ladylike, and i believe i shall find her real pleasant. her name is sophie nutter, and his is carlos cisneros." liane's eyes brightened as she exclaimed: "there used to be a lady's maid at cliffdene named sophie nutter. i wonder if it can be the same?" "you might make a little call on her and see. her room is next yours, and your granny has gone out to buy some baked beans for her supper." liane was glad that granny had not seen her come home in the carriage, she hated having to explain everything to the ill-natured old crone, and she started to go upstairs, but looked back to ask: "who was granny's caller?" "i don't know. she was in such a bad temper when she went away, i didn't dare ask. the young lady was all in silk and fur, with a thick veil over her face, but some locks of hair peeped out at the back of her neck, and they were thick and red as copper. she stayed upstairs with granny as much as an hour, and when she left the old woman seemed to be perfectly devilish in her temper. seems to me i'd be afraid to live with her if i was you, liane!" "so i am, mrs. brinkley, but she is old and poor, and it would be wicked for me to desert her, you know!" "i wonder what god leaves such as her in the world for to torment good people, while he takes away good, useful ones, that can ill be spared!" soliloquized the landlady; but liane sighed without replying, and, running upstairs, tapped lightly on the new boarder's door. it opened quickly, and there were mutual exclamations of surprise and pleasure. it was, indeed, the sophie nutter of cliffdene. "do come in my room and sit down, miss lester. i'm so proud to see you again!" cried the former maid. liane accepted the invitation, and they spent half an hour exchanging confidences. "i saw in a stonecliff paper that you got the prize for beauty, and no wonder! you are fairer than a flower, my dear young lady! but, my goodness, how mad miss roma must have been! by the way, i saw her getting out of a carriage here to-day, and she was closeted with your granny an hour in close conversation. does she visit you often?" "she has never been here before. i cannot imagine why she came, but i dare not ask granny unless she volunteers some information," confessed liane, as she started up, exclaiming: "i hear her coming in now, so i will go and help her make the tea!" "bless you, my sweet young lady, you deserve a better fate than living with that cross old hag!" exclaimed sophie nutter impulsively. she was surprised when liane turned back to her and said with a sudden ripple of girlish laughter: "sophie, suppose my lot should change? suppose mrs. clarke should do something grand for me in return for saving her life to-day? suppose i were rich and grand, which it isn't likely i shall ever be! could i employ you for my maid?" "yes, indeed, my dear miss lester, and i should be proud, and grateful for the chance to serve such a sweet, kind mistress!" cried sophie earnestly. "thank you, and please consider yourself engaged, if the improbable happens!" laughed liane, in girlish mockery, as she hurried out, meeting in the hall a dark-browed stranger, from whom she started back in dismay as he passed scowlingly to his room. it was no wonder liane recoiled in fear and dislike from carlos cisneros, the new boarder. the sight of his somber, scowling face, with its dark beard, recalled to her that night upon the beach when devereaux had saved her from a ruffian's insults. for it was the selfsame face that had scowled upon her in the moonlight that night. it had terrified her too much ever to be forgotten. he had evidently recognized her, too, from his start of surprise, and the angry bow with which he passed her by. trembling with the surprise of the unpleasant rencounter, liane hastened to seclude herself within her own rooms. granny jenks had just entered, and she was still in the vilest of humors, glaring murderously at liane, without uttering a word, and giving vent to her temper by banging and slamming everything within her reach. liane, gentle, sorrowful, patient, her young heart full of the happenings of the day, and tremulous hopes for the morrow, moved softly about, laying the cloth for tea on the small table, and helping as much as the snapping, snarling old woman would permit. the sight of her humility and patience ought to have melted the hardest heart, but granny jenks was implacable. she only saw in the lovely creature a rival to roma, and an impediment that must be swept from her path. most exciting had been the interview that day between granny and her real granddaughter, and they had mutually agreed that liane's continued life was a menace not to be borne longer. the beautiful, injured girl must die to insure roma's continuance in her position. when roma left the house a devilish plot had been laid, whose barest details almost had been worked out, and the beautiful schemer's heart throbbed with triumph as she swept out to her carriage. she had not noticed, on entering the house, a dark, scowling face at the parlor window, neither did she guess that, while she was with granny, the new boarder went out and slipped into the carriage, unobserved by the driver, calmly remaining there and awaiting her return. when she entered the carriage and seated herself, looking up the next moment to find herself opposite carlos cisneros, she opened her lips to shriek aloud, but his hand closed firmly over her lips, and his hoarse voice muttered in her ear: "scream, and your wicked life shall end with a bullet in your heart, adventuress, false wife, murderess!" the driver, unaware of his double fare, whipped up his horses and drove on, while the strange pair glared fiercely at each other, the man hissing savagely: "i don't know how i keep my hands from your fair white throat, murderess, unless i am lenient because i remember burning kisses you once gave me before your false nature turned from me, and you fled from the school, where you had wedded the poor language teacher secretly while i lay ill of a fever. cruel heart, to desert me while i was supposed to be dying!" "a pity you had not died!" she muttered viciously between her red lips, and he snarled: "it is not your fault that i am living! when i found you, after long, weary search, at cliffdene, that night, and you toppled me so madly over the cliff, i am sure you meant to kill me!" "yes, i cannot see how i failed!" she muttered. "if you wish to know, the explanation is easy. i was picked up more dead than alive by a passing yacht, and carried to the nearest town, where i spent weary months in a hospital from the blow i had received on my head in falling over the bluff. i have but lately recovered, and came here and found a position to teach in a school." "you had wisely concluded to give up your pursuit of me?" she sneered. "yes, discouraged by the warm reception i got from you at cliffdene; but, fate having thrown you across my path again, i believe i ought to make capital of it. you are my wife secretly, and you tried to murder me. both are dangerous secrets. perhaps you would pay me well to keep them?" "i suppose that i must do so?" roma answered, after a moment's hesitancy, with bitter chagrin. "very well. i will take what money you have about you now, and i must know what terms you will make for my silence. a liberal allowance monthly would suit me best." roma emptied her purse into his hands, saying: "if we agree upon terms of silence, will you promise never to molest me again? not even if i marry another man!" "i promise! and i pity the fellow who gets you, if you treat him as you did me!" "the less you say on that subject the better! do not forget that you persuaded an innocent schoolgirl into a secret marriage, that she was bound to repent when she came to her sober senses," she cried bitterly. "but there, it is too late now for recriminations. i hoped you were dead, but, since you are not, i wish only to be rid of you!" "you can buy my silence!" replied carlos cisneros, so calmly that she congratulated herself, thinking: "he is not going to be dangerous, after all." aloud, she said: "i will arrange to send you a monthly allowance of fifty dollars, the best i can do for you! will that satisfy your greed?" "it is very little, but i will accept it," he replied sullenly. "very well; now leave me, if you can do so without attracting the driver's attention. i shall be leaving the carriage at the next corner," she said, and he obeyed her, springing lightly to the ground, and disappearing. "he was not very violent, thank goodness!" sighed roma, believing that as long as she paid him he would not betray her dangerous secrets; but bitterly chagrined that he was not dead, as she had believed so long. "perhaps i can compass that later!" she thought darkly, as she gave the order to the driver for commonwealth avenue. she had determined to call on lyde carrington, with whom she had a society acquaintance, in the hope of seeing jesse devereaux again. mrs. carrington received her with graceful cordiality, and roma proceeded to make herself irresistible, in the hope of getting an invitation to remain a few days. "i shall have to remain in boston several days to have my teeth treated by a dentist, but mamma is compelled to return to cliffdene to-night. i think of sending for my maid to cheer my loneliness," she said. "come and stay with me," cried lyde, falling into the trap. she knew that jesse had been engaged to the dashing heiress, and amiably thought that their near proximity to each other might effect a reconciliation. she had a shrewd suspicion of roma's object in coming; but she did not disapprove of it; she was so anxious to see him married to the proper person, a rich girl in their own set. she knew he was romantic at heart, and secretly feared he might make a mésalliance. but even while she was thinking these thoughts she remembered liane, and said to herself: "if my pretty glove girl were rich and well-born, i should choose her above all others as a bride for my handsome brother!" chapter xxvii. when happiness seemed near! granny jenks, after great bustling about and clattering of dishes, sat down at last to copious draughts of strong tea, flavored with whisky. "oh, granny, aren't you taking a drop too much?" ventured liane apprehensively. "mind your own business, girl. i'll take as much as i choose! ay, and pour some down your throat, too, if you don't look out!" liane drank her tea in silence, while the old woman went on angrily: "i want that forty dollars you kept back from me, girl, and i mean to have it, too, or give you a beating!" this was a frequent threat, so liane did not pay much heed, she only gazed fixedly at the old hag, and said: "granny, suppose i were to go away and leave you forever, do you think you could be happy without me?" "humph! and why not, pray?" liane sighed, and answered: "i was just thinking how i have been your slave, beaten and cuffed like a dog for eighteen years, and i was wondering if in all that time, when i have been so patient and you so cruel, if you had in your heart one spark of love for your miserable grandchild!" "eh?" cried granny, staring at her fixedly, while liane continued: "ever since i could toddle i have labored at your bidding, fetching and carrying, with nothing, but scoldings and beatings in return, and not a gleam of sunshine in my poor life. you have not shown me either mercy or pity; you have made my whole life as wretched as possible, and i have sometimes wondered why heaven has permitted my sufferings to continue so long. now, i have a strange feeling, as if somehow it was all coming to an end, and i wonder if you will miss me, and regret your unnatural conduct, when i am gone out of your life forever?" she spoke with such sweet, grave seriousness that the old woman regarded her earnestly, noting, as she had never closely done before, the beauty and sweetness of the young eyes turned upon her with such pathetic solemnity. "maybe you mean to run away with some rascal, like your mother!" she sneered at length. "i was not thinking of any man, or of running away, granny; only, it seems to me, there's a change coming into my life, and i am going out of yours forever!" "do you mean you're going to die?" "no, granny, i mean that i shall be happy, after all these wretched years; that my starved heart will be fed on love and kindness, and i want to tell you now that if heaven grants me the blessings i look for, i shall leave you that forty dollars as a gift, for then i shall not need it," returned liane solemnly. "better give it here, now; you might forget when your luck comes to you. and--and, you ain't never going to need it after to-night, anyway!" returned granny, with a ghastly grin. "no, i prefer to wait till to-morrow!" the young girl answered, with a sudden start of fear, for the glare the old woman fixed on her was positively murderous. she got up, thinking she would go down and see if lizzie had returned from her work yet; but granny sprang from her chair and adroitly turned the key in the lock, standing with her back against the door. liane's eyes flashed with impatience. "let me out, granny!" she cried. "this is not fair!" "give me that money!" grumbled the hag, with the tone and look of a wild beast. "i--i--mrs. brinkley put it in a savings bank for me!" faltered liane, bracing herself for defense, for her startled eyes suddenly saw murder in the old woman's face. she felt all at once as if she would have given worlds to be outside that locked door, away from the deadly peril that menaced her in the beastly eyes of half-drunken granny. she was not a coward. yesterday she had faced death bravely for mrs. clarke's sake, and would have given her life freely for another's; but this was different. to be murdered by the old hag who had blasted all her young life, just as her hopes of happiness seemed about to be realized, oh, it was horrible! unrelenting fate seemed to pursue her to the last. she drew back with a gasping cry, for the old woman was upon her with the growl of a wild beast and the well-remembered spring of many a former combat, when the weak went down before the strong. liane, who had always been too gentle to strike back before, now realized that she must fight for her life. granny intended to kill her this time, she felt instinctively, and silently prayed heaven's aid. she opened her lips to shriek and alarm the household, but granny's skinny claw closed over her mouth before she could utter a sound, and then a most unequal struggle ensued. liane was no match for the old tigress, who scratched, and bit, and tore with fury, finally snatching up a club that she had provided for the occasion, and striking the girl on her head, so that she went down like a log to the floor. granny jenks snarled like a hyena, and stooped down over her mutilated victim. she lay white and breathless on the floor, her pallid face marked with blood stains, not a breath stirring her young bosom, and the fiend growled viciously: "dead as a doornail, and out of my pretty roma's way forever!" suddenly there came the loud shuffling of feet in the hall, and the pounding of eager fists on the locked door. granny jenks started in wild alarm. she realized that the sounds of her struggle had been heard, and regretted her precipitate onslaught on liane. "i should have waited till they were all asleep; but that whisky fired my blood too soon!" she muttered, as, paying no heed to the outside clamor, she dragged the limp body of her lovely victim to the inner room, throwing it on the bed and drawing the covers over it, leaving a part of her face exposed in a natural way, as if she were asleep. she was running a terrible risk of detection but nothing but bravado could save her now. she dimmed the light, and returned to the other room, demanding: "who is there? what do you want?" several angry voices vociferated: "let us in! you are beating liane!" at that she snarled in rage and threw wide the door, confronting mrs. brinkley and her sister, with the two new boarders. "you must be crazy!" she exclaimed. "i was pounding a nail into the wall to hang my petticoat on, and liane is asleep in the bedroom. if you don't believe me, go and look!" they did not believe her, so they tiptoed to the door and peeped inside, and there, indeed, lay the girl, seeming in the dim half light to be sleeping sweetly and naturally. "you can wake her if you choose, but she said she was very tired, and hoped i would not disturb her to-night," said artful granny coolly, though in a terrible fright lest she be taken at her word. they retreated in something like shamefaced confusion, leaving granny mistress of the situation. "what made you so sure she was beating the girl?" asked carlos cisneros of sophie nutter, who had raised the alarm. "i used to know them at stonecliff, where they lived, and she beat her there, poor thing, so when i heard the noise i thought she was at her old tricks again!" replied sophie, going back downstairs to the parlor, where she had been looking at mrs. brinkley's photographs. the language teacher followed her, and as he was rather handsome, and knew how to be fascinating with women, he soon gained her confidence, and found out everything she knew about stonecliff, even to the cause of her leaving roma clarke's service. his eyes gleamed with interest as she added earnestly: "although i have seen mr. devereaux alive since, and they tell me i was raving crazy that night, still i can never be persuaded that i did not see miss clarke push a man over the bluff to his death." she was astounded when he answered coolly: "you were not mistaken, but the man was not devereaux. it was another, who held a dangerous secret of hers, so that she wanted him dead." sophie looked at him suspiciously. "did you see her push him over the bluff as i did? ugh! that horrible scene! it comes before me now, as plain as if it was that night!" she shuddered. she was amazed when he answered: "i was the man she tried to drown!" he was secretly delighted that there had been a witness to roma's crime. it made his hold upon her that much firmer. he added, in reply to sophie's gasp of wonder: "i was saved by a passing yacht, and put in a hospital, where i nearly died from a wound on my head." sophie gasped out: "and--and aren't you going to punish the hussy?" his eyes flashed, but he answered carelessly: "well, not just yet!" "shall you ever?" "wait and see," he replied. "can you imagine what brought her into this house to-day?" "i cannot. i suppose she knew granny jenks at stonecliff; but i am sure she hated sweet liane, because she carried off the beauty prize over her head." carlos cisneros gleaned all he could from sophie, but he gave her no further information about himself, content with making a very good impression, indeed, on sophie's rather susceptible heart. meanwhile, upstairs, granny, having locked the door with a stifled oath, dropped down on the rug, and lay for long hours in a drunken stupor, while the dreary night wore on. suddenly, as the bells hoarsely clanged four in the morning, granny started broad awake, shivering with cold in the fireless room, and sat up and looked about her, whimpering like a startled child: "liane! liane!" a sudden comprehension seemed to dawn upon her, and, getting up heavily, she stalked into the inner room. the dim lamp was burning low, casting eerie shadows about the room, and she walked over to the bed, where she had thrown something the evening before. the ghastly thing lay there still, just as she had placed it with the coverlid drawn up to the chin, the silent lips fallen apart, the eyes a little open and staring dully, as granny placed her skinny claw over the heart, feeling for a pulsation. there was none. she had done her work well. her victim--the victim of eighteen years of most barbarous cruelty--lay pale and motionless before her, the mute lips uttering no reproach for her crime. the old woman gazed and gazed, as if she could never get done looking, and then her face changed, her lips twitched, she blinked her eyelids nervously, and sank down by the bed, overcome by a sudden and terrible remorse. "my god! what have i done?" she groaned self-reproachfully. far back in granny's life was a time when she had been a better woman. it seemed to return upon her now. she groped beneath the coverlid for liane's cold, stiff hand. "liane, little angel, i am sorry," she muttered. "i would bring you back if i could! oh, why did the foul fiend send her here to tempt me to the damnation of this deed? but she is safe now! roma is safe now! and she has promised that i shall not miss liane's labor." a new thought struck her. it would soon be day, and she must hasten to hide the evidence of her crime. she started up nervously, and busied herself searching liane for the coveted money, but not finding it, she began other necessary preparations. it was that dismal hour that comes before the dawn, when she stole through mrs. brinkley's dark halls and passed like a shadow through the side door, escaping safely into the street with a shawled and hooded burden that must be safely hidden from the sight of men. lightly and softly fell the cold december snow, covering up the footprints of the skulking woman; but they could not blot the dark stain of crime from her black soul. dawn came slowly, and broadened into perfect day, and in the brinkley house the household stirred and went about accustomed tasks. soon granny's voice went snarling through the open door, calling shrilly downstairs: "liane! liane!" lizzie white answered back from the kitchen: "she is not here!" then granny tapped on miss nutter's door. "is that lazy baggage in here?" "i have not seen her since last night," answered sophie, and presently the house rang with granny's cries of anger and distress. all went in haste to her rooms, and she reported that liane had certainly run away, as she had many times threatened to do. all her clothes and little trinkets, together with her little hand bag, were missing. granny's blended anger and grief were so superbly acted that her simple listeners did not doubt her truth. mrs. brinkley, thinking of the fine presents liane had received from some unknown admirer, secretly doubted the story the girl had told her, and confided to lizzie her belief that she had indeed eloped, and would most likely come to a bad end. chapter xxviii. a sword thrust in his heart. a hopeless love must always evoke pity in a generous mind. devereaux could not help being touched when he found roma installed as his sister's guest, and comprehended that it was love for himself that had brought her there. men, even the bravest and strongest, are pitiably susceptible to woman's flattery. roma's persistent love, faithful through all the repulses it had received, was a subtle flattery that touched devereaux's heart, cruelly wounded by liane's rejection, and made him think better of himself again. roma brought all the batteries of her fascination to bear on her recreant lover that first evening, and he submitted to be amused with charming grace, that thrilled her with renewed hope. mrs. carrington, too, lent her womanly aid to further the little byplay she saw going on between the estranged lovers. she knew that propinquity is a great thing in such a case, and believed that a reconciliation was certain. of course, she did not know that devereaux's heart belonged to liane, or she would not have been so confident. roma telegraphed for her maid the next morning, fully resolved to make the most of her visit, and after breakfast, when she saw devereaux preparing to go out, in spite of her blandishments, she asked him to call on her mother at the hotel, and tell her that she would be mrs. carrington's guest during her short stay. she was more than ever determined to marry the young millionaire now, and thus make her position in life secure, even if by any untoward accident she should be ousted from her place as the clarkes' daughter and heiress. devereaux promised to do as she asked, and sallied forth, in reality tired of roma's company, though too polite to show it. about the middle of the day he called at mrs. clarke's hotel to convey roma's message, and was surprised to find her father there also. they greeted him most cordially, and mrs. clarke exclaimed: "is it not tedious, waiting by the hour for a caller who never comes?" "do you mean your daughter?" he asked, hastening to deliver roma's message. "then she has not heard of my accident yet?" exclaimed the lady. "no!" he replied, and with unwonted animation she hastened to pour out the whole story of yesterday. she did not spare herself in the least, frankly describing her pride and hauteur. "i will not deny that i was vexed and jealous, and hated her because she had rivaled roma for the beauty prize," she confessed. "i am ashamed of it now, and bitterly repented after learning her angelic sweetness and nobility of heart." devereaux's heart thrilled with joy at these generous praises of lovely liane, and he listened in eager silence to all mrs. clarke had to say, glad, indeed, that she proposed to adopt the girl, but wondering much if roma would agree to the plan. "so, then, it is miss lester you are awaiting?" he said, with a quickened heart throb. "yes; and i think it most strange that she has not kept her promise to come here early this morning. if i knew her address, i should have gone long ago to her house, but, unfortunately i forgot to ask it," sighed mrs. clarke, while her husband listened to everything with a glad, eager face. "i wrote you, mr. clarke, two days ago, sending you her address, which i had myself just discovered," said devereaux, looking at him. "that is very strange. i did not receive it." "perhaps it had not been delivered when you left home." "perhaps so." "and," pursued devereaux, with a crimson flush mounting up to his brow at thought of seeing the dearest of his heart again, "if i can serve you in doing so, i will go and bring miss lester here to see you. it may be her excessive modesty that keeps her away." they fairly jumped at his offer, and he hurried away, most eager, indeed, to do them this favor, glad in his heart of this grand opportunity for poor liane. mrs. clarke looked at her husband, with a half sigh tempering her soft smile. she exclaimed: "he is in love with that charming girl! could you not see it? alas, for my poor roma!" "roma scarcely deserves our sympathy in the matter. she lost him by her own folly," mr. clarke replied impatiently, and the subject was dropped. he did not care to discuss roma with his heart full of his own dear child. meanwhile devereaux took a carriage to liane's humble abode, full of a joy he could not repress at thought of seeing liane again. but he sighed to himself: "i shall feel guilty in her presence, because i was indirectly the means of her losing malcolm dean! ah, had she but loved me instead, what happiness would be mine instead of this aching loneliness of heart." when he alighted at mrs. brinkley's door and rang the bell, the small family, excepting a servant, was out, and a neat maid answered the ring. "miss lester?" with a comprehensive grin. "oh, sir, she beant here! she runned away last night with her beau!" she exclaimed. it was like a sword thrust quivering in his heart, those sudden words. he grew pale, and stared at her, muttering: "impossible!" "but, sir, it's true as gospel! and her poor granny is in a fine taking over it, too. she says as how liane was cruel to go off so, and leave her in poverty to end her days in the poorhouse!" "where is the old woman? i should like to see her," he said dismally, hoping for some light. "she's out, sir, looking for the girl, swearing to kill the man as persuaded her off." "and the family?" "all out, sir. mrs. brinkley went to market, and her sister lizzie to the store, where she and liane worked." devereaux pressed a dollar into the good-natured servant's hand, and stumbled back to the carriage, almost blind with pain from this sudden stroke of fate. the servant looked after him with mingled wonder, admiration, and gratitude, and describing him afterward to the family, exclaimed: "the prettiest man i ever saw in my life--coal-black eyes and hair, straight nose, dimple in his chin, slim, white hands, diamond ring, good clothes, fit to kill! he must 'ave been another of liane's beaus, for, when i told him she had eloped, he turned white as a corpse, and kind of staggered, like i had hit him in the face. but he didn't forget his company manners, for he bowed like a prince and put a whole silver dollar in my hand as he went back to his carriage." "that sounds like jesse devereaux, miss clarke's lover!" cried sophie nutter, and mrs. brinkley said quickly: "well, liane knew that man, and was in love with him, but he snubbed her with the proudest bow i ever saw, one day when we passed by his grand home on commonwealth avenue." "so he lives on commonwealth avenue!" remarked carlos cisneros, with a flash of his somber, black eyes. he was thinking of the house he had followed roma's carriage to yesterday--the palatial mansion on commonwealth avenue. "so she is there at my rival's house, and she dares to think i will let her marry him! and i have two scores to settle with the handsome devereaux!" he thought. devereaux could scarcely believe the terrible news. he hoped there might be some mistake, and he determined to go to the store and see if she might not be there. but there were no pansy-blue eyes smiling over the glove counter, but a pair of sparkling black ones, whose owner smiled. "miss lester? no; she is not here to-day. i cannot tell you anything about her; but there's her friend, miss white, you can ask her--lizzie!" lizzie white hurried forward, but she could tell him no more than he had already heard. she wondered whom the handsome stranger could be, but she was too timid to ask his name, only she thought within herself that he must surely be in love with liane, he was so pale and disturbed looking. it seemed to her that he was most loath to accept the theory that the girl had gone away with a lover. "is there no possibility she has run away alone to escape her grandmother's cruelty?" he insisted. lizzie said she could not tell, she had never heard liane mention any man's name, but she had been more confidential with her mother. "could you--would you--tell me her lover's name?" he pleaded; but lizzie answered that it would not be right to betray her friend's confidence. "he was a rich young man, and not likely to marry my poor friend," she added sorrowfully, and after that admission he could extract no more from lizzie. with a sad heart he returned to the clarkes' with his ill news. mr. clarke was terribly excited: "i will not believe she has gone with any man! i should sooner believe that that old hag has made way with the girl! give me the address, devereaux, and i will go and wring the truth from her black heart, if you will stay and cheer my wife while i am gone!" he exclaimed, springing up in passionate excitement. chapter xxix. the bridal. dolly dorr arrived duly that afternoon at the devereaux mansion, her little head full of fancies as vain as roma's--both dreaming of winning the same man. but when dolly saw her hero's magnificent home her hopes began to fall a little. she began to comprehend that there were heights she could not reach. miss roma would be sure to get him back now--of course, she had come there for that purpose. dolly felt as angry and disappointed as was possible to one of her limited brain capacity, but she hid her feelings and tried to attend to her various duties as roma's maid. she saw that her mistress was subtly changed since she had left cliffdene. a harrowing anxiety gleamed in her eyes, and when they were alone roma was more irritable than she had ever seen her before. the reason was not far to seek. jesse devereaux had returned a while ago with news that nearly drove her mad. it was the story of her mother's rescue yesterday by liane lester, and the consequent resolve to adopt liane as a daughter. roma listened to him with the most fixed attention; she did not move or speak, but sat dumbly with her great, shining eyes fixed on his face, drinking in every word with the most eager attention. inwardly she was furious, outwardly calm and interested, and at the last she said, with marvelous sweetness: "you have almost taken my breath away with surprise. so i am to have a sister to dispute my reign over papa's and mamma's hearts! how shall i bear it?" he was astonished at the equanimity she displayed. she had a better heart than he had thought. "so you do not care?" he exclaimed curiously. "what does it matter whether i care or not? no one loves poor roma now!" she sighed, with a glance of sad reproach. the conversation had taken a reproachful turn, and he adroitly changed it. "but i had not told you all. your parents' good intentions must come to naught, for the reason that miss lester went away mysteriously last night, and the cause of her disappearance is supposed to be an elopement." "oh! with whom?" roma's attempt at surprise was not very successful. "no one knows," he replied, and she exclaimed: "how sorry poor mamma will be!" "and you?" he asked curiously. roma had drawn so close to him that she could speak in an undertone. she locked her jeweled fingers nervously together now in her lap, and lifted her great eyes to his, full of piercing reproach, murmuring sadly: "it does not matter to me either way, jesse. i have lost interest in everything, now that you have turned against me!" it was most embarrassing, her pathetic grief, and it touched his manly heart with deepest pity. "my dear girl, i am sorry you take our estrangement so hardly! believe me, i have not turned against you, as you think. i am still sincerely your friend," he answered, most kindly. but the great red-brown eyes searched his face with passion. "oh, jesse, i do not want your friendship! i want your love--the love i threw away in the madness of a moment! give it back to me!" she cried, with outstretched hands pleading to him. impulsively he took one of the jeweled hands in his, holding it nervously yet kindly while he said: "it is cruel kindness to undeceive you, roma, but i cannot let you go on hoping for what can never be! you never had my heart's love, roma. it was only an ephemeral fancy that is long since dead. i thought you wished to flirt with me, and i entered into it with languid amusement. somehow--i never can quite understand how--i drifted into a proposal. i regretted it directly afterward, and realized that my heart was not really interested. you broke our engagement, and i was glad of it. forgive my frankness and let us be friends!" but her face dropped into her hands with a choking sob, her whole frame shaking with emotion, and he could only gaze upon her in silent sympathy, feeling himself a brute that he could not give the love she craved. roma remained several moments in this attitude of hopeless grief, then, rising with her handkerchief to her eyes, glided slowly past him--so slowly that he might have clasped her in outstretched arms had he chosen. but he remained mute and motionless, sorrow and sympathy in his heart, but nothing more. sobbing forlornly, roma passed him by, and went to her own room. there dolly had an exhibition of her imperious temper, culminating in a threat to slap her face. dolly's quick temper flamed up, and she retorted fiercely: "slap me if you dare, and i'll leave your service on the spot! yes, and i'll go and tell mr. devereaux the fate of his letter to liane lester, too! i--i--wish i hadn't never had anything to do with you, either. i'm sorry i treated sweet liane so mean! she was a heap nicer than you!" roma turned around quickly, holding out a pretty ring with a little diamond in it. "don't leave me, dolly; at least, not yet," she sighed mournfully. "i'm sorry i was cross to you. forgive me, and let's be friends again. take this little ring to remember me, for i shall never need it after to-night!" "what do you mean, miss roma?" cried the girl, slipping the ring coquettishly over her finger, but roma threw herself face downward on a sofa without replying. dolly went into another room to arrange the clothes she had brought her mistress, and to admire herself occasionally in a long pier glass, and so the time slipped past, and in the gloaming roma's voice called faintly: "dolly!" "yes, miss." roma was standing up, very pale, very tragic-looking, by the couch, in her hands a letter and a tiny vial of colored liquid. "dolly, you are to take this letter to mr. devereaux and ask his sister to come with him to my room. tell them both i have swallowed poison, and shall be dead in a few minutes!" dolly snatched the letter and ran shrieking from the room, while roma sank back on the couch, her eyes half closed, her face death-white, the vial of poison, half drained, clasped in her fingers. devereaux tore open the letter, and read the single line it contained: "i cannot live without your love! i have taken poison!" he and mrs. carrington almost flew upstairs after hurriedly telephoning for a physician. they knelt by her couch, reproaching her for her rashness, declaring that they had sent for a physician to save her life. "it is useless. i will not take an antidote. i am determined to die!" she replied stubbornly, and looked at devereaux reproachfully, while lyde caught her hands, exclaiming: "oh, jesse, why couldn't you love her and make up with her, so that she needn't have been driven to this?" encouraged by this outburst of sympathy, roma whispered audibly in her ear: "if he would only make me his wife, i could die happy!" "do you hear?" nodded lyde to her brother. "yes." "i have dreamed of it so long. i have loved him so well, i cannot be happy even beyond the grave unless i can call him my husband once before i die!" sobbed roma piteously, and by her labored breathing and spasms of pain it seemed as if each moment must be her last. "give her her dying wish lest she haunt you!" whispered the nervous, frightened lyde. roma's sufferings grew so extreme that his reluctance yielded to pity. he bowed assent, and hurried from the room to summon a minister. the physician entered in haste, but roma repulsed him. "stand back! i will not take an antidote! i am already dying!" she screamed. he caught the vial from her fingers. "how much have you taken?" "the bottle was full--and you see what is left!" "then god have mercy on your soul. i am powerless to save you from your own rash act, poor girl, even if you permitted me to try. why have you done this dreadful thing?" "a quarrel with my lover!" "yes, it is true," sobbed lyde. "she and jesse quarreled, and she rashly swallowed the poison." she added chokingly: "they--they--are going to be married presently. please stay to the ceremony." jesse devereaux entered at that moment with a minister. roma was moaning in pain, her eyes half closed. "can you do nothing, doctor?" "alas, no! she must be dead in a few minutes!" he bent down and took her hand. "are you ready, roma?" "oh, yes, yes! heaven bless you, dear!" the ceremony began in its simplest form, the minister standing close by the couch to catch the faint responses of the dying girl. they were uttered clearly and audibly, with a faint ring of joy in the accents, very different from devereaux's low, reluctant tones: then the minister said solemnly: "i pronounce you man and wife!" chapter xxx. before the dawn. none could envy edmund clarke's feelings as he hastened on his way to find out the fate of the fair girl he believed to be his daughter! he could not credit the story of her elopement. harrowing suspicion pointed to the probability that roma, having found out the truth about herself, had hurried to boston to have the real heiress put out of the way. what more likely than that the wicked girl had intercepted jesse's letter containing liane's address and made capital of it to further her own evil ends? the man shuddered as he realized what a fiend he had cherished as his daughter. he realized that it was the old fable of warming a viper in the bosom that stings and wounds the succoring hand. roma could never come under his roof again. her vile attempt on his life and doctor jay's precluded such a possibility. but he groaned aloud as he thought of having to break all the truth to his frail, delicate wife--unless he should be able to first find liane and get the proofs of her real parentage. with a trembling hand he rang mrs. brinkley's bell, starting back in surprise when it was answered by no less a person than sophie nutter. "mr. clarke!" she faltered, in blended surprise and pleasure. "sophie!" he exclaimed, following her into the little parlor, as she said: "come in, sir. all the folks are out but me, and i must say i am as much surprised to see you here to-day as i was to see miss roma yesterday." artful sophie, she distrusted roma, and took this method to find out if he knew of his proud daughter's goings-on. "roma here yesterday!" he exclaimed, in a voice of agony, feeling all his suspicions confirmed. "yes, sir, she was here to see old mistress jenks yesterday, and spent an hour with her!" returned sophie quickly, scenting some sort of a sensation in the air. she saw him grow pale as death, and he almost groaned: "liane? where was she?" "at her work, sir, at the store." "where is she now?" "it is thought she has run away with some rich young man, sir. she is missing this morning, and all her clothes gone!" "the old woman--where is she? i must see her at once!" "lordy, sir, the poor old creature ain't here this afternoon. she went out to look for liane, vowing to kill the fellow that persuaded her away!" mr. clarke had always liked sophie when she was a member of his household. her kind, intelligent face invited confidence. "do you think that her distress was genuine, or was she playing a part?" he asked, adding: "to be frank with you, sophie, i have a deep and friendly interest in liane lester, and i suspect foul play on the old woman's part." it needed but this to make sophie pour out all that she knew of the old hag's cruelties to liane up to last night, when the sounds of a supposed scuffle had penetrated to her ears, causing the family to intrude on the old woman en masse, to find that granny had only been driving a nail, and that liane was asleep in bed. "you saw her asleep?" he asked. "yes; we all tiptoed to the door, and she lay peacefully in bed, with the covers drawn up to her chin." "you are sure that she was breathing?" he asked hoarsely. "why, no, sir--but--my god, do you think there could have been anything wrong?" cried sophie, alarmed by his looks. he answered in a voice of anguish: "i suspect that you were looking at the corpse of sweet liane; i suspect that the noise you heard was old granny beating her to death, and that she has hidden the dead away, and put out a hideous lie to account for her disappearance!" sophie was so terrified that she burst into violent weeping. but edmund clarke's face wore the calmness of a terrible despair. he felt now that liane had been foully murdered, and that nothing remained to him but to take the most complete vengeance on her murderers. he exclaimed hoarsely: "do not weep so bitterly, my good girl; tears will not bring back the dead. all that remains to us now is to take vengeance on her enemies. to do this we must find proofs of their crime. come with me, and let us search granny jenks' room." it was not hard to break open the locked door, and they went into the gloomy apartments, sophie opening the window and letting in a flood of light. then she saw what had escaped their eyes last night--stains of blood on the bare, uncarpeted floor. in the bedroom, the pillow where liane's head had rested last night was also marked by red stains that told in their own mute language the story of a terrible crime. their horrified eyes met, and he groaned: "it is as i told you! she was murdered, sweet liane! oh, i will take a terrible vengeance for the crime!" sophie replied with heartbroken sobbing, and they remained thus several moments, shuddering with horror in the bare, fireless room. but not a tear dimmed the man's eyes. he was stricken with despair that lay too deep for tears. his heavy eyes wandered about the room, lighting on a small black trunk in a corner. "if i could only find the proofs!" he muttered, and unhesitatingly broke the lock, scattering the contents out upon the floor. it was filled with yellowing relics of a bygone day, and he turned them over rapidly, saying to sophie: "i am searching for something to prove a suspicion of mine--a suspicion of a deadly wrong!" she dried her eyes and looked on with womanly curiosity, while he picked up and shook a little red box in the bottom of the trunk. a dozen or two trinkets and letters fell out on the floor, and he searched them eagerly over, lighting at last on a slender golden necklace belonging to an infant. he held it with a shaking hand, saying to sophie: "see this little clasp forming in small diamonds the word 'baby'? it belonged to my wife in infancy, and when our little roma was born she clasped it on her neck." "and granny jenks has stolen it!" she cried indignantly. "worse than that! she stole also the child that wore it!" he answered, with a burst of the bitterest despair. his heart was breaking with its burden of concealed misery, and sophie's eager, respectful sympathy drew him on till he could not resist the temptation to tell her all, sure of her sympathy. it was like reading a novel to sophie--the story of the lost babe, the spurious one substituted, and all that had happened since to the present moment. "oh, my dear sir, i believe you are quite right! sweet, beautiful liane was surely your daughter, while as for the other, she never had the ways of a lady, for all her grand bringing up, and she had the same cruel spirit like granny, always wanting to beat any one who displeased her. she slapped my face several times when i was her maid, and maybe you know, sir, that i left her service because i saw her push a man over the cliff one night." "i have heard it whispered that you fancied something of the kind. my wife said you were crazy," returned mr. clarke. "crazy--not a bit of it, sir! it was god's holy truth! i can show you the man! he escaped the death she doomed him to, and lives in this very house!" cried sophie, glad that she could defend herself. "i should like to see the man!" cried clarke, who was eager to get all the evidence possible against roma. "he will be coming in directly from his school," cried sophie; and, indeed, at that moment a step was heard in the hall, and the dark, bearded face of the new boarder appeared passing the door. "come in!" called sophie imperatively, and as he obeyed: "mr. clarke, this is carlos cisneros, the man miss roma pushed over the bluff." cisneros bowed to the stranger and scowled at the informer. "why did you betray my confidence?" he cried threateningly. "because i knew you wanted to get your revenge on her, and this man will help you to it." the two men glared at each other, and mr. clarke asked: "why did she thirst for your life?" "i held a dangerous secret of hers, and she believed me dead. when i hunted her down and threatened to betray her, she tried to kill me. she pushed me over the bluff, but i was picked up by a passing yacht, and my life was saved." "what was that secret?" "she has promised to pay me richly for keeping it," sullenly answered the man. "she cannot keep her promise, because she is not my daughter at all, but an adopted one, and, finding out that she has attempted many crimes, i shall cast her off penniless." "that alters the case. if she cannot pay me for holding my tongue, i'll take my revenge instead," answered carlos cisneros, with flashing eyes. "sir, roma is my wife. we were married secretly at boarding school. then she tired of me and went home, while i was ill. when i hunted her down she attempted to murder me!" suddenly they were startled by a tigerish snarl of rage. granny, creeping catlike along the hall, came suddenly upon the open door, and the group within her room. she staggered over the threshold, and glared like a tiger in the act of springing. mr. clarke, still holding the shining necklace in his hand, cried bitterly: "miserable murderess, you are detected in your crimes! here is the proof in my hand that you are the fiend that stole my infant daughter from her mother's breast, and made her young life one long torture! here upon the floor and the bed are the blood stains that prove you murdered my child last night. my god, i only keep my hands off your throat so that you may tell me what you have done with my precious dead!" his voice ending in a hollow groan. the detected wretch crept closer to cisneros, whining: "don't let him kill me! i know i deserve it, but don't let him kill me!" "tell him the truth, then!" cried cisneros, who, although not a very good man himself, was astonished at the story he had heard, and felt a keen disgust for the repulsive, whining old creature. "what is it you want to know?" she muttered, gazing fearfully at clarke. "was not liane lester my own child?" "yes, i s'pose it's useless to deny it, now that you've found your baby's necklace in my trunk." "and the girl i adopted as my daughter is your grandchild?" "yes--but you'll have to keep her now, and give her all your gold. you won't never find liane no more!" she muttered, with a cunning leer, as of one demented. "tell me why you stole my child!" "it won't do you any good to find out now. she won't never come back any more!" she muttered stubbornly. he groaned in anguish, but reiterated: "i insist on having the truth. answer my question." "tell him the truth, you she devil!" growled cisneros, pinching her arm as she huddled closer to his side. she whined with pain, but she was mastered; she did not dare persist in her obstinacy. so she whimpered: "my daughter cora stole the baby from your wife's breast, and she loved it so that i daren't take it away, lest she should die. so i let her keep it, and when her own child came she wouldn't never have naught to do with it, but clung to the other one, poor, crazy thing! so i thought i would raise them as twins, but when doctor jay sent me to get one from the foundling asylum in its place, the devil tempted me to keep your baby because cora loved it so, and i put my own grandchild in your wife's arms, hoping you wouldn't find out the truth, and that cora's child would be a great rich lady. my poor girl went stark mad, and they put her in the crazy asylum for life, but i was ashamed of the disgrace. i told every one she had run away again to be an actress. and i kept the baby to work for me till it grew a great girl, with a face like an angel, and a heart like an angel, too, but somehow i always hated her, because i had a bad heart!" "and then your grandchild found out the truth, and came and told you to kill liane?" cried her accuser. "how did you know that?" she demanded, shrinking in deadly fear. "no matter how. you know it is true." the light of mingled madness and defiance glared out of the woman's eyes. she growled: "well, i had to do it when she told me. roma always would have her way, just like cora, her mother! i said i hated to do it, the girl was such a lamb; so sweet, so gentle; but you cannot take roma's place from her now, since liane's dead: though i hated to do it, she was such a little angel." sophie nutter burst into violent sobbing, mr. clarke's lips twitched nervously so that he could not speak, but cisneros, with flashing eyes, exclaimed: "so you killed the sweet angel, you fiend from hades! well, i hope you will swing for your diabolical crimes! a dozen lives like yours would not pay for one like hers! come, now, we want to know where you hid her body." she glanced at him resentfully, answering, to his surprise: "they may hang me if they want to! i don't love my life since i killed liane! i miss her so, sweet lamb, i miss her so! i thought i hated her, and i used her cruelly, but when she was dead, when i saw the blood on her white face, i loved her! i kissed her little cold hand. i told her i was sorry i had done it, and wished i could bring her back to life! she was good to me, little angel, and i hate roma because she made me kill her! i told her it was not right to kill her, but she hounded me to it! now she can keep liane's place at cliffdene, but i don't want to see her any more. cruel, wicked roma, that made me a murderess!" she rocked her body miserably to and fro, maundering hoarsely on, while sophie's vehement sobbing filled the room as she recalled last night, when she had looked her last on liane's still, white face, cruelly fooled by the old woman's lies. mr. clarke cried, with fierce, despairing anger: "no more of this paltering, woman! tell us where to find liane's body!" to his joy and amazement, the half-crazed woman answered: "roma told me to throw her in the river or the sewer, but she was so sweet i could not do it! i hid her in an old cellar, very dark and cold, and when i begged her to speak to me, she opened her sweet eyes again! come with me, and i will show you!" almost afraid to hope that she spoke the truth, they followed the half-crazed woman to an old unoccupied house several blocks away, and there, indeed, they found liane, faintly breathing and half frozen, lying on the floor of a cold, dark cellar, half covered with some scraps of carpet that granny had laid over her in her late repentance. again sophie's passionate sobs broke out, echoed dismally by granny, who muttered pleadingly: "don't take her from me if she lives; don't give me roma to live with! i hate her now, the wicked wretch, and i'd rather have my little angel, liane! i'll never beat her again; no, never! do you hear me promise, liane?" but there was no recognition in the half-open eyes of the poor girl, as they searched their faces, and, pushing granny sharply aside, edmund clarke took up his daughter in his arms and bore her back to mrs. brinkley's, while carlos cisneros was sent in haste for a physician. granny, seeming to have no fear of arrest for her dreadful crimes, hovered anxiously about, eager as any to aid in undoing her evil work. liane was laid in sophie's soft white bed, and the girl said tenderly: "i will nurse her myself, and no one knows better than i how to care for her, for i used to be a nurse in a hospital." "keep the old woman out," said mr. clarke sternly, and she went back to her own rooms, sobbing like a beaten child. the doctor was soon on the scene, and he looked very grave, indeed, when he had made his examination. "it is a serious case," he said. "there has been a severe blow on the head that stunned her, and all her faculties are benumbed. how long this state will last i cannot tell, but i hope i shall bring her around all right." mr. clarke rejoiced exceedingly at even this small ray of hope, and, engaging the doctor to remain until his return, set out impatiently to devereaux's house to tax roma with her crimes. he was burning with impatience. he could not wait, he was so eager to tell wicked roma the truth that all her schemes had failed, and that, by heaven's good mercy, liane would be restored to her parents' hearts, while she, the wicked usurper, would be driven out to live with the old hag who had helped her in her nefarious plot against his daughter's life. he took with him carlos cisneros, and, unknown to them both, granny jenks followed in their wake, cunningly curious to see how roma took her downfall. at nightfall they reached the devereaux mansion, just a few moments after the ceremony that had made roma the wife of the young millionaire. indeed, lyde and the other two witnesses had just withdrawn from the apartment, on roma's request to be left alone with her husband. she looked up at him with shining, love-filled eyes, murmuring: "please kneel down by me, jesse, so that i may put my arms around your neck and die with my head upon your breast." he pitied the rash girl so much that he could not refuse her anything in her dying hour. he obeyed her wish, and held his arm around her with her bright head on his bosom, expecting every moment to be her last. but the minutes flew, and roma showed not a sign of dying. instead, her breathing was very strong and regular, and she tightened her arms about him, exclaiming: "oh, my husband, would you be glad if life could be granted to me now, that i might live, your happy bride?" "do not let us dwell on the impossible, roma," he answered kindly. "but why impossible, jesse, dearest? i am not really certain of dying. i do not feel like it now, at all, and perhaps the dose i took was not really sufficient to kill me! now that i am your wife, it seems as if a new elixir of life is coursing through my veins, and i long to live for your precious sake! oh, surely you do not wish me to die!" here was a dilemma, certainly. jesse devereaux, holding the warm, palpitating figure in his arms, did not know how to answer her piteous appeal, and he was saved the necessity, for at the moment the door opened, admitting lyde, followed by edmund clarke, with granny, who had forced herself in, bringing up the rear. lyde had told him hurriedly what had happened, and he had asked to see roma; hence the intrusion. the bride still clung fondly to her husband, and when they entered, she exclaimed, in strong, natural accents: "papa, dear, congratulate us. we are married." "so i have heard," he replied, with keen sarcasm, adding: "i was told that you were dying, but you do not look much like it. your cheeks are red, your eyes bright and clear, and your voice does not falter." roma actually laughed out softly and triumphantly, saying: "i have just told my dear husband that i do not feel like dying at all, and that love and happiness have given me a new elixir of life." edmund clarke would have spared exposing her if it had been really her dying hour, but he saw that she had grossly deceived devereaux, so he returned, with bitter sarcasm: "as you feel so strong and happy, i have some exciting news to break to you." "news, papa?" sweetly. "do not call me papa," he answered bitterly. "you know well that i am not related to you, and that your discovery of the truth has caused you to attempt the most heinous crimes to keep my real daughter from coming into her birthright. i am here to tell you that your plot to kill doctor jay and myself has been discovered. your attempted murder of liane lester came near success, but, happily, she has revived, and granny jenks, your wicked grandmother, has confessed that you were substituted in her place, and that liane is my own child!" "heavens!" cried devereaux, his arms falling from around roma; but she clung to him, exclaiming passionately: "i am your wife! no matter what he charges, i am your wife; do not forget that, jesse!" "and no doubt you pretended that you had swallowed poison, just to entrap him in your toils!" cried edmund clarke scornfully, while devereaux, looking at her as she clung to him, exclaimed: "is this true, roma?" her eyes flashed with defiance as she answered, rising, quickly: "yes, it is true. i only swallowed some colored water to frighten you all, and to make you marry me, because i loved you so dearly! you must forgive me, my darling husband, for you cannot alter anything now!" he recoiled from her touch with loathing, and mr. clarke broke in: "do not trouble yourself over her words, jesse, for she has no claim upon you. she has already a living husband--one whom she tried to murder, to put him out of her way, but he is here to testify to the truth of my words." through the open door stepped the wronged husband with a manly air, saying to startled roma: "every man's hand is against you but mine, roma, and even my heart recoils at your wickedness; but i love you still, and if you will repent of your sins and promise to lead a better life, i will take you back, and our old dream of a dramatic life shall be fulfilled." it was a noble touch in the life of a man who had not been very good, but who was at least roma's superior in everything, and she could not help but recognize it. beaten, foiled, in everything, she turned to the man she had wronged, saying: "it is worth all the rest to find such a constant heart." she laughed mirthlessly, mockingly, and left the room, scowling as she passed at granny jenks, huddled against the door, holding back her skirts from contact with her granddaughter, while she muttered: "i don't love you any more, and i wish never to see you again. i am going back to liane." chapter xxxi. when the clouds rolled by. it was christmas morning at cliffdene, and snow lay deep upon the ground, while the boom of the sea, lashed into fury by howling winter winds, filled the air, but within all was light, and warmth, and joy. a few days ago the clarkes had come home, with their daughter liane restored to health after weary weeks of illness and nervous prostration from her terrible beating at granny jenks' hands and the subsequent exposure in the cold cellar. they called her liane still, because the name of roma was associated with so many unpleasant things that they had no wish for her to bear it. mr. clarke had spent a thrilling hour making clear to his wife all the happenings of the past eighteen years, but she had borne the shock better than he expected. her love for roma, never as strong as the maternal love, though carefully fostered, died an instant death when she heard the story of the girl's terrible crimes. bitter tears she shed, indeed, but they were for her own daughter's sufferings in those cruel years while she had been kept back from her own. "we will make it up to her, my darling, by devotion now," cried her husband, kissing away her tears; then they hastened to the bedside of liane, for she could not be moved yet from her humble abode. after several days of unconsciousness she began to improve, and in a week was able to have the truth carefully broken to her by her own mother, who with sophie nutter shared the task of nursing her back to health. doctor jay was sent for to assist with his medical skill, and great was his joy to find her restored to her own, and so beautiful and worthy, in spite of the rearing she had had from brutal granny, the miserable old hag, who was so crushed by the contempt and scorn of every one that she sought consolation in the bottle and drank herself to death in a week, expiring miserably in a hospital. as soon as liane was well enough to see a visitor mrs. carrington called. "do you remember me, my dear?" she asked, and liane murmured: "i sold you gloves." "yes, and fascinated me at the same time. i have been in love with you ever since." lyde wondered at the sudden blush on the girl's cheek as liane thought within herself that she would be glad if lyde's brother only loved her also. as for him, of course, she did not see him till she left her room, but flowers came for her every day--great red roses, breathing the language of love--and on the day before they went to cliffdene, her devoted mamma said: "dear, if you feel well enough, i should like you to send a kind little note to jesse devereaux, thanking him for the flowers he has been sending every day." "i will write," liane replied, with a blush and a quickened heartbeat, and her fond mother added: "jesse is a fine young man, and admires you very much." when he received the note, so neatly and gracefully written, without a mistake in wording or spelling, devereaux was puzzled. it was certainly not like the writing of the letter in which she had rejected him. he concluded that her mother or her maid sophie had written it. "poor girl, she will have to have private instructors to repair the defects in her education," he thought. a few days before christmas the clarkes bade a kind farewell to the good-natured mrs. brinkley and lizzie white, and returned to stonecliff, whither the news had preceded them in letters to friends. devereaux was at the station to bid them farewell, and by the most open hinting he managed to secure from mrs. clarke an invitation to spend christmas with them at cliffdene. he arrived on christmas morning, and was presently shown into the holly-wreathed library, where liane was sitting alone, exquisitely gowned in dark-blue silk, from which her fair face arose like a beautiful lily. devereaux's greeting was joyous, but liane was cold and constrained. she could not forget how he had snubbed her in boston when she was only a poor working girl. but they had not exchanged a dozen words before they were interrupted by the unexpected entrance of dolly dorr. dolly had been staying at her own home ever since roma's flight with her husband, and she had been having a hard battle with her conscience, which culminated in the triumph of the right; hence her presence here to-day. dolly made her little curtsy, and began bashfully: "miss clarke, and mr. devereaux, i have wronged you both, and i have come now to try to make amends." they gazed at her in silent surprise, and she hurried on, eager to tell her story and escape their reproachful eyes: "miss liane, when you went away to boston, i got a letter addressed to you from the post office, and miss roma opened it, and we read it together. then she bribed me to answer it, and i guess mr. devereaux has the ugly letter she made me write. here's yours, and--please forgive me. i am sorry i behaved so badly," tossing a letter into liane's lap and flying precipitately from the apartment. liane opened the letter bewilderedly, and read, with devereaux's eager eyes upon her face, and her cheeks scarlet, his passionate love letter and proposal of marriage. as she finished, he said eagerly: "i received a rejection in answer to that letter, but, liane, dearest, may i ask you to reconsider it?" her lovely eyes met his in a happy, eloquent glance, and, springing to her side, he wound his arms about her, drawing her close to his breast, while their yearning lips met in a long, clinging kiss. the end. _the famous "nick carter"_ that is how folks speak of the detective whose adventures have interested and entertained two generations of readers. nick carter is truly famous. stories about him have been translated into every modern language and his name has become a watchword throughout the entire civilized world. _the new magnet library_ contains his adventures exclusively in book form and it also contains a wealth of other detective literature. more worthier, moral, wholesome and refreshing stories were never offered to the reading public at any price. if you have never read the =new magnet library= there is a big treat in store for you. ask your dealer for a catalogue of these books, or send to us for one, and you will be surprised at the amount of good reading matter published in this line that fifteen cents will buy. price, fifteen cents per copy "_the right books at the right price_" notice--if these books are sent by mail, four cents must be added to the price of each copy to cover postage. street & smith, _publishers_, new york _big books_ _big value_ the select library we want to call the attention of every novel reader to the fact that the select library contains a splendid assortment of first-class stories by authors whose names are famous everywhere. among those represented are rudyard kipling, a. conan doyle, h. rider haggard, alexandre dumas, the duchess, r. l. stevenson, augusta j. evans and others too numerous to mention. why waste a lot of time looking over your newsdealer's whole stock of paper-covered books, when by ordering the titles in the select library you are sure to get novels that cannot fail to interest and please you? they represent a careful selection from over five hundred standard titles. every book in the line is in great demand. send for a complete catalogue. street & smith - seventh avenue, new york city transcriber's notes: added table of contents. italics are represented with _underscores_, bold with =equal signs=. page , changed "ben" to "been" in "had been substituted." page , retained possible typo (or uncommon spelling) "torquoise." page , corrected "cirrcumstances" to "circumstances" ("circumstances leave me"). page , added missing quote after "bear good witness for us." page , corrected "slipppd" to "slipped" ("slipped readily into her pocket"). page , removed unnecessary quote after "no difference in the result." page , changed ligature to "oe" in "manoeuvring" (ligature retained in html version). page , removed unnecessary quote after "pretty, petted girl." page , "dying down to boston" seems like an error but is reproduced as printed. page , added missing comma in "it was my own, granny." page , corrected "presenty" to "presently" ("presently he realized"). page , corrected "aristrocrat" to "aristocrat." page , removed unnecessary quote after "pale and thin." page , added missing quote after "her whereabouts!" page , added missing quote after "confiding in you, dean!" page , removed unnecessary comma from "and whip her." page , added missing quote after "fiendish nurse jenks." page , changed ? to , after "door on retiring." page , changed ? to . after "wait till i question you on the subject." page , added missing quote after "and sobbing all night." page , corrected "clatttering" to "clattering" ("clattering of dishes"). page , corrected "leslie" to "lester" in "miss lester you are awaiting." tom pinder, foundling, by d. f. e. sykes, ll.b. part . tom. ...... pinder,... foundling. (a story of the holmfirth flood.) by d.f.e. sykes, ll.b. price one penny ______________ slaithwaite: f. walker, commercial and artistic printer, britannia works. , - - later published under the title "dorothy's choice" about the author d f e sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and newspaper proprietor. he listed his own patrimony as 'fred o' ned's o' ben o' billy's o' the knowle' a reference to holme village above slaithwaite in the colne valley. as the grandson of a clothier, his association with the woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but also the cause of his downfall when, in , he became involved in a bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners. when he was declared bankrupt in and no longer able to practise as a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to ireland and canada. on his return to england he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted by the nspcc for child neglect. eventually he was drawn back to huddersfield and became an active member of the temperance movement. he took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local newspaper, then books such as 'the history of huddersfield and its vicinity'. he also wrote four novels. it was not until the census, after some years as a writer, that he finally states his profession as 'author'. in later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a lincolnshire vicar, at ainsley house, marsden. he died of a heart attack following an operation at huddersfield royal infirmary on th june and was buried in the graveyard of st bartholomew's in marsden. introduction tom pinder, foundling is a romance and moral tale, set in the early part of the th century, to the backdrop of the greenfield and holme valleys when both were a part of west yorkshire. it deals with the life of a foundling, victorian values, the burgeoning of the cooperative movement and the holmfirth flood. the book was first published c. and subsequently published under the title dorothy's choice (a rushing of the waters). sykes is one of few novelists who chose to portray the lives of common people in this period and for this reason alone it is a valuable resource as a social history. his use of the local dialect, ability to sketch interesting characters and their relationships adds greatly to its readability. chapter i. the _hanging gate_ is a public-house of venerable aspect. it stands at the corner of one of four cross ways, where the road from the summit of harrop edge cuts the turnpike from leeds to manchester. it pays rates in the township of diggle, and to diggle it properly belongs; but the small cluster of tumble-down cottages that constitutes a very small hamlet rejoices in the name of wakey, a name whose origin has hitherto baffled the researches of local antiquarians. the inn itself is a low, two-storied, rambling building. its rooms are so low that a moderately tall man must dodge the oaken rafters. there is much stabling, now largely abandoned to the rats, for the pristine glory of the _hanging gate_ departed with the stage coach. a long horse-trough by the side of the inn front still stands to remind the wayfarer of the days when the highway was quick with traffic, but the sign itself bears eloquent testimony of decay and fallen fortunes though it still flaunts its ancient legend on a miniature crate that rocks and creaks over the narrow doorway: "this gate hangs well and hinders none; refresh and pay and travel on." but on a certain winter's night of --, when this story opens, the guest more bent upon refreshing than travelling on might have pleaded good excuse. outside, the snow lay upon field and road knee-deep, the thatches, gables, and very faces of the scattered houses of wakey were splashed and bespattered with snow, which for days had fallen in big flakes, silent and sad as the grey leaves of latest autumn, making thick the air as with the lighting of grasshoppers. the moon in the low-hanging sky was veiled by heavy masses of dark cloud that stole across the heavens like mutes oppressed by the sombre garb of woe. signs of life about the wakey there seemed none, save the mellowed light that shone across the bisecting roads from the curtained lattices of the _hanging gate_. it was eight o'clock and the hand-loom weavers or mill-hands habiting the small stone-build houses that straggled from the valley up the bleak sides of harrop edge had gone to bed, not so much because they were weary as to save fire and light. the village smithy flanking the stables of the _hanging gate_ was closed and the smith himself, big burly jim o' little hannah's had forged his last shoe and blown the last blast from his bellows, poured his last pint down his throat in the neighbouring taproom and trudged home to his little wife and large family. the few frequenters of the tap-room had tarried till tarry they might no longer, for times were bad, money was scarce and the credit given by the best of innkeepers has its limits. mrs. betty schofield, the buxom hostess of the _hanging gate_ was no wise dismayed by the slackness of her custom. rumour had it that betty was a very warm woman. she had been some years a widow, and her husband had left her, as the gossips said, well worth picking up. look at her as she sits in the long kitchen before a roaring fire of mingled coal, peat and logs. below the medium height, with wavy brown hair, a soft brown eye, a dimpled chin, now inclined to the double, a full and swelling bust, a mouth not too small and smiling lips that parted only to display a perfect set of teeth--it does one good to look upon her rosy cheek.--happy the man, you say, who shall own those ample charms and for whom shall beam the ready smile or soften the warm brown eyes. there are another two seated in the brick-tiled kitchen. mary o' stuart's commonly called moll o' stute's, and mr. william black. moll shall have precedence in honour of her sex and calling, a noble calling, of a verity, for mary was the midwife of the valley. she is scantily clad for the time of the year, yet you judge that it is not from cold that she huddles by the fireside, but rather for convenience of lighting the black clay pipe she so intently sucks, one long skinny brown arm resting on her knee, her eyes fixed upon the glowing fire that casts its flickering light upon the sharp hard-featured face. her black hair is long and though streaked with grey is still abundant, and rebellious locks, escaped from the coil, stray over the scraggy shoulders, round which a shabby, faded, flannel shawl hangs loosely. no one knows where moll lives, if it be not at the _hanging gate_, which, if not her home, is for moll a sort of _poste restante_, and if not there to be always seen there she can always be heard of. moll has less need of fixed abode than ordinary mortals. she has reached the age of fifty or more, and still bears her virgin name and owns to neither chick nor child, though there were that breathed mysterious hints of wild passages of thirty years gone bye, when moll's cheek was soft and rosy and her form, though tall, lacked nought of grace and suppleness. "a saucy queen," the village grannies said, "and one that always thought herself too good for common folk; but pride had had its fall,"--a reflection that seemed to bring comfort to the toothless, hollow-cheeked beldames as they wheezed asthmatically of the scandals of a youth long fled, when mary's foot light upon the village green and her laugh was readiest at feast or wakes. on the opposite side of the hearth sat mr. black, the village schoolmaster, a little lean man well past his meridian, his hair sparse and thin, and sparse and thin all his form and frame. he is clean shaven, but his lips are firm and his eye bright and keen. though he has the lean and hungry look of the born conspirator, never did such a look so belie a man; for a gentler being never breathed than william black, nor one more secure in the affection and esteem of high and low for many miles around. he was not a that country man and how or by what fate, driven by what adversity or sore mischance, he had drifted to that wild neighbourhood none presumed to know. he kept a day school for boys and girls, whose parents paid fourpence a child per week when they could afford it, and less when they couldn't--generally less. then on alternate week-nights he kept a night-school where strapping and ambitious youths from loom or farm or bench, whose education had been neglected in their tender youth sought painfully to learn to read and write and sum. these were known to pay as much as twopence a lesson. mr. black--even in those irreverent days and parts, where few even of the better sort escape a nick-name, he was always called _mr_. black,--was a bachelor, and his modest household and mr. black himself were ruled by a spinster sister, shrill of voice, caustic of speech, with profound contempt for her brother's softness, but unceasing and untiring in the care of the household gods, and happiest in those "spring cleanings" that were not confined to spring. but to-night mr. black has fled before his sister's voice and twirling mop, and a look of seraphic content rests upon his face as he meditatively puffs his long churchwarden and sniffs the fragrant odour of the mulled ale that simmers in the copper vessel, shaped like a candle-snuffer, or, as mr. black reflected, like a highly burnished dunce's cap, and which the plump hand of mrs. schofield had thrust nigh to its rim in the very heart of the ruddy fire. the schoolmaster's thin legs, clad in stout stockings of native wool, knit by miss black's deft fingers, were crossed before the blaze and the grateful warmth falls upon them, the while the clogging snow slowly melts from his stout boots. "redfearn o' fairbanks is late to-night," he said at length, after a silence broken only by the click of mrs. schofield's steel knitting needles. "aye, it's market day in huddersfilt, yo' know, mr. black, an' th' roads 'll be bad to-neet. but fairbanks 'll win through if th' mare dunnot fall an' break his neck." "th' mare's nooan foaled 'at 'll break tom o' fairbank's neck," said moll o' stuart's, grimly. "it's spun hemp that bides for him, if there's a god i' heaven." "whisht yo' now, moll, an' quit speakin' o' your betters, leastwise if you canna speak respectful." "betters! respectful! quo' she," retorted molly with a defiant snort, pulling hard at her filthy cuddy. "aye betters!" snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. "it's me as says it, an' me as 'll stand to it. wheer i' all th' parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor tom o' fairbanks? tell me that, yo' besom." "aye free enew," said molly curtly. mrs. schofield bridled indignantly. "oh! it's weel for yo' to sit by mi own fireside an' eat o' mi bread an' nivver so happy as when yo're castin' up bye-gones 'at should be dead an' buried long sin." "aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead," put in the schoolmaster soothingly. "an' what if redfearn o' fairbanks ware a bit leet gi'en i' his young days," went on the irate hostess. "he's nooan th' first an' he'll nooan be th' last. he's nobbut human like most folk 'at ivver i heard tell on. he's honest enough now, if he's had to wear honest. an' it's weel known...." but what was so well known that the voluble tongue of mrs. schofield was about to repeat it at large shall not be here set down, nor was destined that night to enlighten the company; for the outer door was opened, and a gust of keen wind laden with feathery flakes of snow whirled up the narrow passage, well nigh extinguishing the slender light of the oil lamp on the wall, and causing the great burnished metal dishes and the very warming-pan itself to sway gently on their hooks. "it's fairbanks, hissen," said mrs. schofield "talk o' the de'il," muttered the irrepressible moll but no one heeded. then was heard much stamping of feet in the outer passage and kicking of boot toes on the lintel of the door and not a little coughing and clearing of the throat. "ugh! shut the door to, man," cried a hearty voice; "do yo' want me to be blown into th' back-yard?" the heavy bolt-studded door was pressed back and there strode into the room a tall well-built man. top-booted, spurred, with riding-whip in hand, and wearing the long heavy-lapetted riding-coat of the period--a hale, hearty man fresh-complexioned, with close cropped crisping hair, the face clean shaven after the fashion of the times, a masterful man, you saw at a glance, and one who knew it. though he was over the borderland of his fifth decade, time had neither wrinkled his ruddy face nor streaked his crisp brown hair. behind him as he strolled into the kitchen, shambled a thick-set, saturnine, grim-visaged churl, who knew more of his master's business and far more of his master's secrets than the mistress of fairbanks herself. it was aleck, the shepherd and general factotum of fairbanks farm, aleck the silent, aleck the cynic, aleck the misogynist, against whose steeled heart successive milk-maids and servant wenches had cast in vain the darts and arrows of amorous eyes and who was spitefully averred to care only for home-brewed ale, and the sheep-dog, pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire. "sakes alive! it's a rough 'un, good folk," said the master of fairbanks, "good night to yo' betty, an' to yo', mr. black. i was feart aw should miss yo'. give me a stiff 'un o' rum hot wi' sugar an' a splash o' lemon; an' yo' aleck, will't ha' a pint o' mulled?" which redolent compound mrs. schofield was now pouring into a capacious pitcher. "tha knows better, mester," was aleck's blunt reply. "a quart o' ale, missis, an' nooan too much yead on it--no fal-lals for me, mi stummack's too wake." this was an unusually long speech for aleck, and he sank exhausted on a settle that ran beneath a long narrow window, whilst the dog prone upon the hearth, his jaws resting on his fore paws, feigned sleep, but blinked at times from beneath twitching eyebrows at the rugged visage of the tanned, weather-beaten herdsman. "an' yo' stabled th' mare aw nivver heerd th' stable door oppen?" queried mrs schofield. "nay, i left bess at th' _floating lights_. she cast a shoe coming over th' top. so we'n walked daan an welly up to mi chin aw've bin more nor once--it's th' heaviest fall aw mind on." "but you're late fairbanks," said mr black. "i looked for you this hour and more. have you had a good market?" "aye nowt to grumble at, an' we aleck? sold forty head o' beast an' bought thirty as fine cattle as ever yo' clapped e'en on, eh, aleck? an' we're nooan strapped yet," he laughed, as he drew a leather pouch from an inner pocket and cast it jingling on to the table. "here betty, put that i'th cupboard." "have yo' counted it?" asked mrs. schofield, handling the greasy bag gingerly. "count be danged," said mr. redfearn, "saving your presence, schoolmaster. gi' me another jorum. sup up, aleck." aleck supped up and silently handed his pewter to mrs schofield. "but it wasn't the market that kept me so late," went on mr redfearn. "there were a meeting o' th' free holders o' th' district to consider the new reform bill. we met i' th' big room at th' _george_, but it all came to nowt; though harry brougham talked and talked fit to talk a hen an' chickens to death. gosh! our mary's a good 'un, but she couldn't hold a can'le to brougham." "aye, did you hear mr. brougham?" asked mr black, with interest. "what manner of man is he?" "why nowt much to look at--aw could blow him away like thistle down; more like a monkey up a stick nor owt 'at i can think on. but talk! you should hear him! but he didn't talk my vote out o' me for all that. king and church for me, say i. th' owd ways were good enough for my father an' my father's father an' aw reckon they'll do for me." "but he's a marvellous man," said mr. black. "who but he could leave the assizes at york, travel, there and back, over two hundred miles after the rising of the court, address half-a-dozen meetings and be back next day taking his briefs--i think they call them--as fresh as new paint." "aye, but that wern't brougham," said redfearn. "it wer' owdham browies." "eh?" queried the schoolmaster. "aye, owdham browies. i had it from a sure source. th' other day i' th' court harry wer' fair done an' it wer' getting late. 'won't your ludship adjourn, now?' he says, as mild as milk." "'no, sir,' says th' judge,'i shall finish this case if i sit till midnight.' yo' see he knew harry only wanted to be off spoutin' an' th' owd judge wer' a tory." "'very well, my lord,' says harry an' turns to his clerk, an' in a jiffy there war a basin o' haver-bread wi' hot beef drippin' poured on it an pepper an salt an' a pint o' old port wine stirred in, an' harry spooinnin' it into him like one o'clock, slap under th' owd judge's nose. th'owd felly wer' a bit hungry hissen, an' th' smell set his mouth a watterin' an' he jumped up an' adjourned th' court, an' if he didn't say 'curse yo',' they say he looked it. but what ails pinder?" the sheep-dog had pricked its ears, then listened intently, then gone into the passage whining and growling. "pinder thinks it's time to be goin' whom'," said aleck, as he followed the cur into the passage. the dog laid its nose to the bottom of the thick door; whined and began frantically to scratch at the door beneath which the snow had drifted in thin sprays. when aleck neared the dog it leaped on him and then with looks more eloquent than speech compelled him to the door. "ther's summat up," said aleck, as he opened the door. "bring th' lantern, missus." the dog bounded out, set its head to the ground and howled dismally. aleck stooped, his big hands swept away a big mound of snow and he lifted something in his arms. "mak' way theer," he cried, as nearly excited as ever aleck had been known to be; "mak' way; it's a woman an' oo's dead, aw'm thinkin'." he bore his burthen, almost covered with its cold winding sheet of snow, into the warm kitchen, and laid it before the fire. mrs. schofield had snatched a cushion from the settle and placed it under the head of the lifeless figure. the men had risen to their feet and gazed helplessly at the rigid form. they saw the fair young face, marble white and set, fair tresses, sodden through. upon the feet were shoes of flimsy make, the heel gone from one of them. a slight cape covered a thin dress of good make and material, but far too tenuous for winter wear, and all was travel-stained and soaked through. moll o' stute's thrust the men aside. "go whom," she said, "yo're nooan wanted here." she put her hand into the woman's bosom. "gi' me some brandy," she said. it was there already, held in mrs. schofield's trembling hand. a little passed the lips and gurgled down the throat. a little more and the potent spirit did its saving work. the white thin hand twitched, the eyes partly opened, then closed again as a faint sigh breathed from the pallid lips. "put th' warming pan i' th' best bed, an' leet a fire upstairs," commanded moll. "i'st be wanted afore mornin' or aw'st be capped." "shall aleck fetch dr. garstang?" ventured mr. redfearn. "garstang fiddlesticks," snapped moll. "this is wark for me, aw tell yo'. there'll be one more i' this house bi morn, and happen one less, god save us. but get you gone an' moither me no more." chapter ii. mr. black did not sleep well that night. he had fevered visions of alpine crevasses, of st. bernard dogs and of fair blanched faces set in long dank tresses of clinging hair. he had had, too, before seeking his narrow pallet, a rather bad and disquieting quarter of an hour with his sister, who had demanded in acrid tones to be told what made him so late home. he was losing his character, the irate priscilla had declared, spending every spare moment at the _hanging gate_, whose landlady everyone knew to be a designing women and openly and unblushingly "widowing." a nice howdyedo it must be for him, a scholar, to have his name bandied about in every tap-room between diggle and greenfield. but she would see mr whitelock the vicar of st chad's, and perhaps her abandoned brother would take more notice of his spiritual adviser than he did of those that were his own flesh and blood so to speak. but if he meant to go on that gate, drinking and roistering and maybe even worse, she, for one, wouldn't stand it, and nevermore would she set scrubbing brush to desk and floor or duster to chair, no not if dirt lay so thick, you could write your name in it with your finger--and so forth. mr. black had smiled when mr whitelock was mentioned, for well he knew the worthy vicar's cob stopped without hint from rein as it reached the _hanging gate_, and no one knew better than the reverend gentleman the virtues of those comforting liquids mrs. schofield reserved for favoured guests. priscilla, however, had been somewhat mollified and allowed the cauldron of her righteous wrath to simmer down, when her brother told her he had been detained by mr. redfearn of fairbanks, and that she might expect a basket of butter and eggs, with maybe a collop, as a mark of friendship and esteem from mrs. redfearn herself. mr. black struggled hard with his early breakfast of porridge and milk, but it was no use. he pushed away bowl and platter and murmuring something about being back in time to open school he seized his beaver, donned frieze coat and made off to the _hanging gate_. his heart sank within him when he found the door closed though not bolted, and every window shrouded by curtain or blind. mrs. schofield was rocking herself in the chair and looked, as was indeed the case as if she had known no bed that night. there were marks of tears upon her, cheeks, and her glossy hair, was all awry and unkempt. "eh, but mr. black," she half sobbed, "but it's good for sair e'en to see yo' or any other christian soul after such a time as aw've passed through this very neet that's passed and gone. glory be to god. and oh! mi poor head, if it doesna crack it's a lucky woman betty schofield will be. if it hadn't been for a cup o' tay goodness only knows but what aw'd ha' sunk entirely, and moll o stute's wi' no more feelin' nor a stone. but sit yo' down, sir, an' drink a dish o' tea." now black tea in those days was s. a pound and a tea-drinking was almost as solemn a function as a church sacrament. tea was not to be lightly drunk, and indeed was reserved chiefly for funerals and christenings. the women folk of the middle classes drank it at times to mark their social status, as people now-a-days emblazon emblems of spurious heraldry on the panels of their broughams. the men held it in derision as a milksop's beverage and swore by the virtues of hops and malt. but mr. black was fain to forget his manhood nor resisted over much when a certain cordial, darkly alluded to as "brown cream" and commonly supposed to mellow in the plantations of jamaica, was added to the fragrant cup. "and the poor woman?" he asked timidly at last. "ah! poor woman well may yo' call her, though mebbe now she's richer nor any on us, for if ever misguided wench looked like a saint i' heaven she does--an' passed away as quiet as a lamb, at two o'clock this mornin' just as th' clock theer wer strikin' th' hour. eh! but she's a bonnie corpse as ever aw seed but she looks so like an angel fro' heaven aw'm awmost feart to look at her. yo'll like to see her, but fairbanks 'll be comin' down aw doubt na an' yo'll go up together." "did she speak, is there anything to show who or what she is?" "not a word, not a sign, not a mark on linen or paper; but oo's no common trollop that aw'st warrant, tho' she _had_ no ring on her finger." "maybe her straits compelled her to part with it," suggested mr. black. "weel, weel, mebbe, mebbe, tho' it's th' last thing a decent woman parts wi', that an' her marriage-lines. but, as i said, th' poor thing med no sign. 'oo just oppened her sweet e'en as moll theer laid th' babby to her breast, an' her poor hand tried to touch its face, an' just th' quiver o' a smile fluttered on her lips, an' then all wer' ovver, but so quiet like, so quiet, 'twere more a flutterin' away nor deein'. eh! but awm thankful 'oo deed i' my bed an' not o'th moor buried i' a drift"--and the tears once more trickled down mrs. schofield's rounded cheek. mr. black took the plump left hand that rested on the widow's lap and gently pressed it in token of the sympathy his lips could not express. could mortal man do less? "it's times like these a poor widow feels her lonesome state," murmured mrs. schofield. mr. black withdrew his hand, and the grim visage of priscilla flashed across his vision. the twain had been so absorbed that moll o' stute's had glided into the kitchen, and now was seated on her accustomed stool by the fireside. she had a soft bundle of flannel in her arms and as she sat she swayed gently to and fro murmuring, not unmusically, some crooning lullaby of the country side. "the babe?" whispered mr. black, and mrs. schofield nodded silently, and then, sinking her voice, "moll's got another maggot i' her head. she thinks th' poor lass 'ats dead an' gone wer' seeking tom o' fairbanks. yo' know how daft she is when 'oo sets that way." "aye, give a dog a bad name and hang him. an old saying and true. we all know fairbanks was a sad fellow in his young days, but bar a quip and maybe a stolen kiss from ready and tempting lips, he's steady enough now". "aye, aye, worn honest, as they say," acquiesced the hostess. "but here he comes. aw med sure he'd be anxious to know the end o' last neet's doin's--an' wheer fairbanks is aleck's nooan far off, nor pinder far off aleck." nor was mrs. schofield wrong in her surmise, mr redfearn came almost on tip-toe through the passage into the kitchen. the presence of death needs neither the whispered word nor the silent signal. its hush is upon the house of mourning as the sabbath stillness rests upon the fields. even the phlegmatic aleck had composed his rugged features to a more impressive rigidity than was their use, and the very dog stole to the hearth with downcast head and humid eyes. "it came to th' worst then?" asked mr. redfearn, after a solemn silence. he needed no reply. "well, well, we all mun go someday; but she wer' o'er young an' o'er bonnie to be so cruel o'erta'en." "aye it's weel to hear you talk, fairbanks," broke in the irrepressible molly, as she strained the child closer to her shrunken breast. "but there's someb'dy 'll ha' to answer for this neet's wark an' who it is mebbe yersen can tell." redfearn checked a hasty retort. there were, perhaps, reasons why he must bear the lash of molly's tongue. "is she i' th' chamber?" he asked. "yo'd like to see her," said mrs schofield. softly, the farmer and the schoolmaster followed their guide up the narrow creaking steps that led from the passage to the best bedroom, the room of state of the _hanging gate_. upon a large four-poster lay the lifeless form fairer and more beautiful than in life. mrs. schofield drew the curtain of the window and the morning light streamed upon the couch and cast a halo on the pure child-like face. the long silken hair, deftly tended, had been drawn across each shoulder and in rippling streams fell about the bosom. it was hard to think that death was there--'t was more as though a maiden slept. the men stood by the couch side gazing reverently on the fragile form. redfearn drew a short and gasping breath and passed his hand furtively across his eyes. "a good woman, schoolmaster, a good woman. i'd stake my life on that." the dominie moved his head in silent assent, then with broken voice breathed low, "let us pray," and mrs. schofield flung her apron over her head as she sank upon her knees, and redfearn and mr. black knelt by the bedside. 'twas but a simple prayer that god's mercy might have been vouchsafed to the sister who had passed away, far from her friends and home, a nameless wanderer, with none to help but the father who had called his wandering child to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,--his own sweet home; a prayer, too, that god would raise up friends for the orphaned bairn that would never know a mother's love nor perchance a father's care. and as he prayed redfearn's hand pressed heavy on his arm and in hoarse tones the farmer muttered. "god forgive me all my sins--i'll find the wee lad's father, if he's in the three ridings, an' if aw dunnot th' lad shall nivver want for bite nor sup." then as though ashamed, he groped his way down the dingy stair-case and flung himself into the big oaken arm-chair that none ventured to dispute with him. but it was not in the nature of the man to be long oppressed by brooding thought or to abandon himself to the bitter-sweet reflections of sombre-visaged melancholy. his active, restless temperament was impatient of reflection and his practical mind turned to the present need. "aleck, yo'll go to sam sykes's an' order th' coffin, an' tell him to see about th' grave i' saddleworth churchyard. gi' my respects to th' vicar an' ask him to fix all about th' buryin', an sykes 'll see about th' undertaker. yo'll see th' poor lass put away, betty, an' yo' too, moll, an' yo'll want a black gown, aw dessay. well, thank god ther's a shot i' th' locker yet. give us th' bag out o'th cupboard, betty. it's weel aw left it last neet, aw med ha' known. an' now what wi one thing an' another awm fair done an' yo mun bring me summat to put a bit o' heart i' me." "it's weel talkin' o' puttin' folk away," broke in moll, in no way softened by the prospect of a new gown. "th' dead's soon away wi'; but what abart th' child here?" and molly turned aside the flannel covering the infant face. "dooms! aw'd fair forgetten th' bairn," said fairbank, "let's ha' a look at it bi th' winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be." molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer's outstretched arms and he bore it to the light. "a fine child as ivver yo' seen," said mrs. schofield. "it's gotten my benny's things on, leastwise them at 'aw made for him wi' my own fingers, but it warn't to be, for th' poor lad nivver breathed but once. eh! it's a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an' thank the lord for 'em cannot ha' 'em, an' them as sudna ha' 'em,--they come a troopin'. it passes me altogether." mr. black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads. "i must be going," he said. "nay, rest you," urged the widow. "gi th' childer a holiday--. yer' none yersen tha morn, an' to be sure which on us is? i'll ha' some ham in th' pan i' a jiffy, an' it's fairbanks fed, an yo know what that means." "nay, nay, tempt me not, tempt me not. those lads o' mine e'en now are up to their eyes in mischief. there'll be a crooked pin in the cushion of my chair, a chalk drawing of priscilla, none too flattering, on the map of europe, and those of them that are not playing cots and tyes for buttons will be playing 'follow mi leader' over the forms and desks. it's much if the windows arn't broken and there wont be a button left on some of their clothes--inveterate gamblers as though they shook a box at brighton spa." mr. black's tone was harsh, but there was a gleam in his eye that took away the sting of his speech. "yo're a good churchman, aw know," said redfearn, "for yo' do as th' owd book tells us--yo' spare the rod an' spoil the child. but we mun settle summat about th' bairn here, an' aw'll be down to-neet as soon as i can get." mr. black bent over the sleeping babe nestling in its nurse's arms. "come early," whispered molly, "aw've summat to say to yo' partic'ler." it was but a distracted mind the teacher gave that day to the budding genius of his school. he was lost in conjecture as to what moll might have to say to him, and not less in surprise that she should have aught at all, for though that hard-featured damsel of the rasping tongue treated him with a deference shown to no other he could think of no subject demanding the secrecy molly's manner had seemed to ask. he did not fail to be early at the _hanging gate_, indeed mrs. schofield, her wonted serenity restored by an afternoon's nap on the settle, had but just sided the tea-things, after that meal which is locally called a "baggin'"--(another term whose origin is shrouded in mystery) and was still in the sacred retreat upstairs, where she was accustomed to array herself as beseemeth the landlady of a thriving hostelry, with money in the bank, and that could change her condition by holding up her little finger. molly no longer held the child in her arms. it had been transferred into the highly polished mahogany cradle, which molly worked gently with her foot, and which also had doubtless been purchased for the use of that disappointing benny. "eh! aw'm glad yo'n come," she said eagerly, as mr. black removed his wraps. "speak low, th' missis is upstairs, an' these rafters is like sounding boards." she thrust her hand deep into one of those long linen pockets beneath the upper gown and that only a woman can find. "here tak' it," she said, "tak' it. it's welly burned a hoil i' mi pocket. dunnot let me han'le it again or aw'll nooan answer for missen. it's gowd, man, gowd, aw tell yo' an' there's figgerin on it i' some mak o' stones at glitter an' dazzle till yo'd think the varry devil wer' winkin' at yo', an whisperin' i' yo'r lug to keep it quiet an' say nowt to nobody." she placed a trinket in the schoolmaster's hand and heaved a sigh of relief. it was a locket of gold, heart-shaped. on the one side was worked, in small diamonds, a true-lovers' knot, on the reverse, in pearls, a monogram. a.j. the like neither dominie nor nurse had ever gazed upon before, save, perhaps, through the tantalizing barrier of a jeweller's window in huddersfield or manchester, and, it is safe to say, never before had either held in hand article of so much value. "yo' know aw helped to put her to bed," whispered molly, with a motion of head towards the best bedroom, "an' aw undressed her, an' when th' missis wer' airin' a neet-gown for th' poor thing aw' spied that teed round her neck wi' a bit o' velvet. so aw' snipped it off, for aw seed weel enough oo'd nivver want it again. aw'd meant to keep it till aw could mak it i' my way to go daan to huddersfilt; but aw stood at th' bottom o' th' stairs when yo' wer prayin' yesterday, an' oh, mr. black, it wor' a tussle, but aw couldna keep it, aw couldna keep it after that." mr. black was much moved. he took molly's hand in his and bowed over it. "you are a good woman molly, and one who seeth in secret will reward you openly." "dunnot tell th' misses," urged molly, flushing even through the tan of her hard face at a tribute seldom paid to her. "oo'll mebbe think aw sud ha' gien it to her; an' though aw've no patience wi' her airs an' her greetin' (crying) an' settin her cap at's aboon her, thof poor they may be, but still oo's reet at t'core, an awd be sorry to fa' out wi' her." mr. black nodded, and carefully placed the locket in the pocket of his vest. "i must think over this. i don't like secrets; but you shall go harmless. this trinket, valuable as it doubtless is of itself, may be more precious still as a clue to that poor child's parentage and i must take counsel with mr redfearn." molly shook her head in emphatic dissent. "you wrong fairbanks, indeed you do, molly." "ah, yo' ken, yo' ken," said molly, brokenly, "who but fairbanks ruined my young life?" "and hath he not repented and would have made amends? as you stand in need of forgiveness, molly, learn to forgive. 'tis a lesson we all must learn." the entrance of redfearn himself precluded the further discussion of a delicate and painful subject. molly assumed with some difficulty the control of her features, but there was lacking, for a time at least, that resentful defiance and general contrariness his presence seemed generally to arouse. drawing back into the shade of her favourite corner she devoted herself to the assiduous care of the cradle, whilst mrs. schofield, now resplendent in her evening finery of black silk, with massive gold brooch and long gold watch chain that reached in double folds from neck to waist, with her own fair hand decocted the soothing compound demanded by the master of fairbanks, nor disdained to pump the humming ale that was the nectar of the attendant herdsman. "well, aleck, tha wer' tellin' me," said redfearn, "tha's seen mr. whitelock an' th' sexton an' th' undertaker, an' all's arranged?" aleck made no reply till he had lowered the pewter two-handled quart measure, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand--a good pint had disappeared, and you might have heard it gurgling down his throat like water down a bent and choked drain. he nodded his reply: then gruffly: "to-morrow, three o'clock. th' hearse an' coaches here at two." "an' now what's to be done about th' little 'un?" queried the farmer. "i've thowt an' thowt, an' better thowt. an' aw'm nooan a bit nearer. aw thowt mebbe yo' could tak' care on it, till its own folk wer' found. what ses ta, betty?" but mrs. schofield shook her head. "it wouldn't do fairbanks, it 'ud nivver do. aw met manage if moll wor allus here to look after it an 'oo could give a hand i' th' taproom o' saturday neets and sundays. but wi' her, nivver to be depended on five minutes together, knocked up i' th' middle o' th' neet when least yo' look for it, an' nivver knowin' when oo'll be back or wheer oo'll be next more like a gipsy or willy-wisp nor a regular lodger, an' me a sound sleeper--yo' can see for yorsen it 'ud nivver act." "why dunno yo' offer to tak' him to fairbanks?" molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. "one more or less 'll mak' no differ to yo', an' th' lad 'ud sooin be o' use on th' farm." "not for a thousand golden guineas," exclaimed redfearn. "our mary's th' best o' women; but if 'oo has a fault it's jalousin' about every bye-blow that's born i'th' village. there's her an' your priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin' o'er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an mary looked sour enough to turn a field o' red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro' fairbanks to-neet. didn't 'oo, aleck?" concluded redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman. "oo did that," said aleck, starting out of a deep reverie. "yo' might lay it to me," at last aleck said, "awst nooan mind, an' aw say pinder 'd get used to it in a bit." "what could yo' do wi' a child i' th' hut, you numskull?" laughed the farmer. "well, settle it yo'r own gate--it's all a price to me. best chuck it i' th' cut an' ha' done wi' it." if a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge diggle valley and its rippling brook. "out on yo', aleck no-name," cried molly, springing hotly to her feet. "eh! but if aw could nobbut see mi way, yo' bonnie bairn, none sud ha' yo' but mysen. these hands received yo', an' these hands sud tew for yo', if aw worked 'em to skin an' bone. but it canna be, my bonnie pet,"--she apostrophised the unconscious babe--"an' moll o' stute's nooan fit to ha' th' rearin' o' such as thee, quality-born if ivver ther' wor one." "that reminds me," interposed the schoolmaster, as he drew forth the locket and told its tale. "well, aw nivver did," gasped mrs. schofield, eyeing the keepsake and with some difficulty prizing it open with the point of her scissors. "black hair an' leet, crossed an' knotted. th' leet coloured 'll be th' poor lass's, silk isn't in it for fine, an' th' black 'll be th' father's, aw'll be bun'." even aleck could not refrain from admiration. "it'll come in handy some day," he predicted, "aw sudn't wonder if it fot enough to breech th' lad, when th' time comes." "breech th' lad, in sooth; hear him. why, yo' stupid, it 'ud buy twenty o't best sheep ivver tha seed i' pen. our mary's nowt to marrow it, wi her mother's an gret-aunt keziah's thrown in." "twenty ship!" repeated aleck. "weel, weel, fooils an' ther brass is soon parted." "but we get further off i'stead o' nearer th' point," pursued the farmer. "yo'n said nowt, mr. black; what's to be done wi' th' child?" "well, first and foremost we must advertise i' th' _leeds mercury_ an' th' _manchester courier_, for you see we've nothing to guide us which way she came. it may well be sorrowing parents, perhaps a conscience-stricken lover, or indeed, perchance, a distracted husband, at this very moment is seeking far and near for the poor wanderer. what tale of wrong those sealed lips could tell we may not even surmise. but the locket and these initials may put us on the right track. anyway it won't cost much, and it's our clear and bounden duty to both the living and the dead." "it's reet weel thowt on, schoolmaster. see what it is to be educated. thof aw will say aw hannot much hope. aw onest lost a cow for three week--yo' moind on it, aleck?" "three week an' three days," muttered the shepherd. "an' aw 'vertised an 'vertised but nowt cam' on it. but pinder fan her didn't ta, lad?" pinder winked his dexter eye and lazily stirred his tail. "an' if th' advertisin' comes to nowt, what then?" said molly. aye, what then! there was indeed the rub. "mr. black's nooan finished yet," said mrs schofield. the schoolmaster thoughtfully stirred his rum toddy with the metal crusher. "i should dearly like to take the child as my own and rear him up to follow me when i've closed the school door for the last time and the long vacation begins for the old dominie. i could bring the lad on in arithmetic, grammar, the use of the globes, mensuration, algebra up to quadratic equations, latin as far as caesar _de bello_ and the greek testament as far as matthew," and mr. black's eyes glistened at the alluring prospect. "to be sure yo' could, no man better," assented mr. redfearn, none the less stoutly that he did not know what mr. black meant. "aw'd a dog once called caesar, but bello's beyond me." "it's to 'prentice him to th' blacksmith, can't ta see?" said aleck. "aw see, an' a very gooid notion too." "but i cannot take the child on, though fain i'd be to do it. you know priscilla's never wed. she says it's for my sake, and doubtless she knows best. but she isn't as young as she was, and those plaguy boys have tried her temper. i wouldn't say it to anyone, but priscilla is a little, just a little, mind you, tetchy, so to speak, and certain sure i am she'd neither be willing nor able to do for a helpless bairn." "aw see how it'll end," cried molly. "sakes alive! farmer, missus, an' schoolmaster all backin aat, like those folk i' th' bible 'at wer' bid to th' weddin', an' nooan on 'em could come. there's nobbut one end for yo' an' that's th' work'us, th' big hoil o'th' hill yonder, as weel say it as think it," and the incensed virago bounced out of the kitchen and joined the company in the taproom in a game of "checkers" and sparing neither partner nor opponent the rasp of her biting tongue. "yo' could make it, easy for th' bairn?" went on mr. black. "an' th' matron's a motherly body wi' childer o' her own," put in the hostess. "an' we needn't lose sight o' th' lad," added mr. redfearn. "and i could spare an hour or two a day, when he's big enough. i'll make a course of study this very day. it's the very thing. good molly, _rem acu tetigisti_, as we say in the classics." "exactly," assented the farmer. "by the way, aleck, did yo' say owt to mr. whitelock about th' chrisenin'? aw'd welly (well-nigh) forgetten it." "after th' buryin', t' same day," said aleck the terse. "yo'll be god-mother, betty, na' who'll stand godfather?" "i've always understood in case of a foundling it takes the finder's name," said mr. black. "that's aleck," said the landlady. "nay it wer' pinder theer," protested aleck. "the very thing," exclaimed mr. redfearn, smiting the table so the glasses danced. "tom pinder, fit him like a glove. we'll weet his yed i' glasses round an' then whom (home) and bed, say i." mr. redfearn glanced at the schoolmaster, the schoolmaster at mr. redfearn. "you're the chairman of the guardians," said the teacher mildly. "an' th' biggest ratepayer, worse luck," said his crony. chapter iii. the workhouse for the saddleworth union is a low stone building of no great dimensions, standing on about as bleak and cold a site as could well i have been selected. it stands on the hill-side on your left hand as you walk from diggle to saddleworth, part of that dorsal pennine range we call "the back bone of old england." its exterior is grim and forbidding, nor is the external promise redeemed by any extravagance of luxury inside. it is in unenviable contrast to the palatial structures modern architects design for the option of the sick and destitute. but it is healthily situated, and that counts for much. all in front as you look down the valley, are the green fields; at its rear stretch the moors on which sheep graze and lambs bleat and gamble conies sport and burrow and where the warning "go-back, go-back" of the grouse salutes the ear as summer softens into autumn, and the purple heather hides the luscious bilberry. at the time of which i write no mill chimney belched their smoke into the air and the breezes that swept the workhouse on every side though blowing at times with unwelcome force, were pure and sweet. the workhouse kine yielded milk so abundantly that adulteration was never thought of; the kitchen-garden, tended by the pauper hands, was rich in its herbs and vegetables, and a small flower garden gave forth the fragrance of the hardier roses, of musk and mignonette, whilst sweet williams, forget-me-nots and stocks gave colour and variety, dear to the eye of the female paupers. it is true the wards were low, the benches hard, the light and ventilation far removed from modern notions; but in this respect they differed in no wise, or if they differed, differed for the better, from the houses of the well-to-do farmers and tradesmen of the district. anyway there the young foundling of my story was in babyhood and boyhood tended, petted, and made much of. consigned to the charge of an elderly pauper he had a not unkindly foster-mother. rare, thank god, the women whose hearts do not soften to the helpless child. tom sucked his bottle like a hero, waxing chubby and rosy, "poiting" with his legs on which the flesh lay in creases, and crowing lustily as he grew. mr. redfearn, it has been said, was the chairman of the guardians and did not conceal the interest he felt in the lad; mr. black, a privileged visitor everywhere for miles around, had to be restrained by the nurse from gorging his protege with lollipops. the story of his birth had spread in all those parts and lost nothing in the telling. for anything the master and matron knew the workhouse might be entertaining, if not an angel, unawares, at least a baronet. the lad, when able to run about, was transferred to the particular care of "workhouse jack," a pauper of some thirty years of age, supposed to be "not altogether there," or as it is sometimes put, to have at least a half slate off. jack was the messenger or mercury of the workhouse. he fetched the masters newspaper from the village post-office, he was entrusted with commissions to the grocer and draper by the matron, and smuggled snuff and twist and forbidden luxuries to the inmates. he knew every farm-house and every shop for miles around, and never wanted for a meal or a copper when he went his rounds. but, best of all, he knew the habits and the haunts of every bird that nested in the tree or hedge, on the greensward or, like the stone-chat, in the crevices of the long, grey dry-walling of the pastures. he knew, too, to an inch, the curvature of the field drains, their exits and their entrances. he kept surreptitiously in the old, two-stalled stable of the house a sharp-toothed ferret, which he oft-times carried in his pocket and that allowed him to handle and fondle it with quite appalling familiarity. it took tom a long time to overcome his shrinking awe of that lithe and stealthy ferret, but he did it, and once nearly sent mrs. schofield into convulsions by insinuating it from his own into the capacious pocket of this steadfast friend. for i regret to say that jack was a daily visitor at the _hanging gate_, and was doubly welcome when the little tommy toddled, _haud aquis passibus_, by his side. but jack had a seasoned head and though he called, on one pretext or another, at many an hostelry, was never overcome and had the rare good sense to inculcate sobriety on his admiring charge by many a precept if not by example. to tom, jack was the very incarnation of wisdom, and his very first battle was fought at the back of the workhouse stable with another foundling who had called his guide, philosopher, and friend by no less derogatory a title than "silly billy." from that encounter tom emerged with streaming eyes and nose, but in the proud consciousness of victory. nor was jack's lore confined to the creatures of the air and land. down the mountain sides trills many a gushing stream to join the diggle brook, pellucid waters murmuring over the worn pebbles and larger fragments of volcanic rock that still, to this day, resist the action of the fretting air and pelting storm. who so deft a hand as jack at tickling the shy trout that darted among the sedges and rushes of the banks or lurked beneath leaf and boulder motionless as the stones themselves. and if the matron, when the dainty fish graced her table was not scrupulous to ask whence came this toothsome addition to the dietary approved by my lords in london town, whose business was it to interfere? ah! it is grand upon the billowing hills to wander idly in the sweet spring-time; to mark the lark rising above its nest high in the azure sky, trilling joyous melody, to hear the lambs calling to their dams, to see the kine cropping pensive, in the meadows the sweet new blades of the greening grass; sweet is it to bask at mid-day nodding on the heather and lulled to sleep by the hum that, like distant muffled music, just falls upon the ear, and sweet too, is it as the western sun drops to its rosy curtained couch, to call the cows with their swelling udders from pasture to their byre; sweet to stand by rustic maid of rosy cheek and buxom form as, piggin betwixt her knees and head pressed on the flanks of patient and grateful beast, she strains the warm and frothy fluid to the can. glorious, too, to hearken to the whetstone drawn by practised hand across the scythe, to bear its swish as the swathe lengthens out before the steady strokes of the mower; glorious to strew the damp, green grass upon the ground to catch the morning sun, and grander still to mount upon the load of fragrant hay and be borne triumphant with the gathered harvest of the fields. who that has passed his early youth on the hill sides of marsden and diggle can ever forget the changing raptures of those early days or weary in recalling them when the brain is distraught by the turmoil of the town, and the heart turns sickening from the searing sorrows of thwarted schemes and fallen hopes. it may seem to the reader that tom pinder's workhouse life was not the life depicted by the immortal genius who told the piteous tale of a pinched and bruised oliver asking for more. but be it remembered that all masters were not and still less are not bumbles. the saddleworth workhouse in the thirties of last century had few inmates. the people on the sparsely populated hill-sides were mostly hand-loom weavers; not a few of them had a patch of land, a cow, a pig, and poultry. they were as clannish as the scotch and when age, infirmity, or affliction overtook the declining years it was counted shame even of distant kin to suffer one of their name and blood to go to the big house. the poor then were mindful of the poor, and though the pinch of want was felt in the long winter days it went hard with folk if a neighbour's cupboard was left bare or his grate without the mountain peat. add to this that the master and matron were good, easy-going folk; that the guardians knew well every inmate of the house; had perchance played truant with them in their youth and been birched by the same cane, or employed them in their prime, and, to cap all, forget not that saddleworth was an obscure union, scarce worth the expenditure of red-tape or the visit of an inspector. mr. black did not forget his promise to see to tom's education. almost before the child could lisp he was at him with the alphabet, and with his own hands designed alluring capital letters and emblematic animals so that to his dying day tom never saw the letter d without thinking of a weaver's donkey going "a-bunting," or in other words, taking in his master's warp. at six tom could read big print, and at seven was set to read chapters of the bible to the old grannies of the women's side of the house; at eight he could do sums in practice and was not afraid of tare and tret. but beyond this he stubbornly refused to budge. in vain mr. black wooed him to decline _rosa_, a rose, or to conjugate _amo_. tom feigned indeed an interest he did not feel, but promptly forgot on one day all the latin he had learned the day before. mr. black was fain to confess with a sigh that tom was not bent by nature to a clerkly calling. "well, he's none the worse for that," said mr. redfearn, consolingly. "look at me, schoolmaster. i can read a newspaper, make out a bill though it's seldom called for i' my trade, thank the lord, write a letter, and what more do i want? how could i tell the points of horse or beast if mi head wer' allus running on th' olden times an' chokefull o' a lot o' gibberish, saving your presence, an' no offence, mr. black, as well yo' know. we can't all be schoolmasters, nor yet parsons an' as for lawyers and doctors aw've very little opinion o' awther on 'em, an' th' less yo' have to do wi' 'em th' better. not but what a cow doctor's a handy man to ha' wi'in call; but th' lawyers! aw've had three trials at th' assizes abaat one watter-course on another. an' lost one case an' won two, an' th' two aw won cost me no more nor th' one aw lost. no! th' lad's fit for better things nor a black gown. he's getten th' spirit o' a man choose wheer it comes fro'. aw put him on bess's back t'other day, wi'out a saddle an' his little legs could hardly straddle fro' flank to flank, an' he catched her bi th' mane an' med her go round th' field like a good 'un. he rolled off into th' hedge at th' bottom intack, an' 'steead o' sqwawkin' and pipin' he swore at bess like a trooper an' wanted puttin' up again. oh! he's a rare 'un, that he is. larnin's thrown away on him. it 'ud nobbut over-weight an' handicap him, so to speak." "i'm sorry to hear of the lad swearing," interposed mr. black. "that's work'us jack's teachin'," commented mrs. schofield. "it's surprisin' how easy th' young 'uns 'll pick up owt they shouldn't know, when ther's no brayin' what they should know into their little heads." "well, well," went on mr. redfearn, to get out of a sore subject, for he had recognised some of his favourite expletives in tom's scholeric words; "th' point is, th' lad's handier wi' his hands nor his head piece. yo' can tak' a horse to th' watter but yo' cannot mak' him drink. an' talkin' o' watter, th' young scoundrel gave me a turn t' other day an' no mistake. yo' know th' dam aboon hall's papper-mill? weel it's th' deepest dam bi a seet for miles round here. aw'd gone up wi mi gun to see if aw could pick up a rabbit or two for th' pot an' theer wor tom reight i' th' middle o th' dam, throwin' up his arms an' goin' dahn like a stun, and then he cam up blowin' like a porpus. aw' sent th' retriever in after 'im an' th' young devil, 'at aw should say so, cocked his leg over th' dog's back an' med him, carry 'im to th' bank, an' 'im laughin' all th' time fit to crack his young ribs. he'd nobbud pretended to drown to fley me." "jack's doing again," said mr. schofield. "well, but, what's to be done with him?" persisted mr black. "can't you take him on to th' farm, fairbanks?" "'tisn't good enough," said fairbanks. "he's fit for better things. at best he could never be much more nor a sort of bailiff an' _they're_ noan wanted about here. if we could send him out to canada now, or australey, theer's no tellin' what he med come to be. at least so they sen. but i' th' owd country farmin's nowt wi'out brass, an then it's nowt much but a carryin' on. nah, i've thowt o' a plan. we could 'prentice th' lad out to a manufacturer. th' lad's sharp an' 'ud sooin sam up owt there is to larn. th' guardians 'ud pay th' premium for him' an' nobbut a fi' pun note or so an' aw think aw know th' varry man to tak' him an' sud do well by 'im if ther's owt i' religion?" "who is it?" asked mr. black. "it's jabez tinker, o' th' wilberlee mill, i' holmfirth. he's the main man at aenon chapel,--a pillar they call 'im an' preaches hissen o' sundays, so he suld be fit to be trusted wi' a lad." "i'd rather he'd ha' bin church," commented mrs. schofield. "aw've often noticed 'at those 'at put it on so mich o' sundays tak' it aat o' th' mondays. devil dodgers, aw call 'em." "there are good men among the dissenters." mr black's spirit of fairness compelled him to testify, "though i wish they could find their way to heaven without making so much pother on earth." the days of the salvation army were not as yet, and sound and salvation were not convertible terms. "there's one gooid thing abaat it," was the landlady's opinion. "holmfirth's nobbut over th' hill, so to speak, an' th' lad could come to see his old friends at whissunday and th' feast, when th' mills are lakin'." "aye, aye, a lot better nor them furrin' parts," agreed the farmer. "owd england for me, say i." "and i have not lost hopes of clearing up the mystery of the boy's birth," concluded mr. black. "he must stay near us." to this time nothing had been said to tom about his parents. he knew he had no father and no mother--that was all. he knew other lads had fathers and mothers, and how he came to be without did not concern him very much. once, indeed, one of the village lads had jeered at him as a love-child. he did not understand what this might mean, but he had sense to perceive something offensive was meant. "what is a love-child?" he asked mrs. schofield one day, suddenly. "all childer's love childer," fenced mrs. schofield, but tom was not satisfied. "what's a love child, jack?" he asked his bosom friend. jack ruminated. definition was not his forte. "it means a lad's mother's nooan as good as she should be." tom flushed hotly, and said nothing: but that night a village lad with lips much swollen slept with a raw beefsteak over his eye. the germ of thought had been sown in the youthful mind. _why_ was he different from other lads? time had been when in some confused sort of fashion he had looked on mrs. schofield as his mother and mr. black as his father. "mr. black," he asked one day, "where is my mother?" it was a question that the schoolmaster had looked for at every recent visit that he courted and yet dreaded. it was on a sunday noon as the congregation left the porch of st. chad's some lingering by the gateway to exchange neighbourly greeting, others sauntering with an air of unconcern to the door of the church inn across the way, whilst yet others still made with leaden foot to a recent grave to pay the tribute of the mourner's tears. tom had been with other pauper lads in the gallery, a spot of vantage screened from the verger's eye, and where it mattered to nobody what heed you took of the service or sermon so long as you did not make too much noise. he had made haste to get outside the churchyard so that he might not miss his ever gentle friend, the schoolmaster, and now stood by the village stocks outside the graveyard wall and watched the stream of worshippers pass slowly by. presently his hand was in the schoolmaster's, who turned his face to the road which led past the workhouse boundaries down to his own home at diggle. "mr. black, where is my mother?" the schoolmaster paused, hesitated. they had left the rough and narrow road and crossed a stile into the fields. they were on the higher ground and could plainly see the churchyard. the loiterers had gone their homeward way or drifted into the inn to seek a solace that is supposed to be appropriate alike in the glad hours of rejoicing and the heavy time of affliction. "your mother lies yonder," said mr. black, solemnly and sadly. "show me," said the boy, simply. they retraced their steps and sought the ancient burial ground with it's sunken crosses and mouldering mossy stones, and those little mounds without a name that cover the humble dead. in a distant corner mr. black stood with uncovered head by a small marble cross and stone slab. sacred to the memory of a. j. an unknown wanderer who died in childbed at the hanging gate, diggle. jan. th, --. tom gazed upon the simple monument till he could gaze no more, for blinding, scalding tears welled into his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "let us go home," he said, "let me stop with you to-day." in the evening of that peaceful sunday the school-master told the foundling all he knew: he placed in his hand the precious locket taken from the mother's neck and promised that it should be transferred to tom's, keeping when he should be old enough to keep it safely. "you will treasure it as the immediate jewel of your soul," he said; "for thereby you may clear your mother's name." then, falling on his knees he read the evening prayer, and with his blessing dismissed the lad. chapter iv the ancient village of holmfirth on the river holme was, in former days, of considerably more pretension than it is to-day, when the neighbouring town of huddersfield dwarfs the surrounding communities. holmfirth stands near the head of the valley of the holme, and at one time was looked up to as a petty capital by the straggling hamlets that intervened between the river's head and the spot where, some nine miles below, its tortuous course joins the river colne at king's mill in huddersfield, whence the united currents sweep in broader stream to blend with the calder at cooper bridge, and so onwards to the capacious bosom of the humber. best known and best accustomed of all the shops in holmfirth was that of ephraim thorpe, sometimes; known as eph o' natt's o' th' thong, but more as "split," from a tradition current in the village that he would split a pea rather than be guilty of giving over-weight or measure. the shop was low and dark, it's floor of blackened stone seldom scrubbed. the two counters were not cleanly, their surface much worn by the friction of heavy vessels and the testing of doubtful coins. but what article of household provision you failed to get at "split's" you might despair of purchasing anywhere nearer than huddersfield itself. a candle rack ran round three sides of the shop, just above the counters, and the sickly odour of tallow pervaded all the spot, dominating even the smell of treacle and "shilling-oil" as the oil used for lamps was called. flitches of bacon hung from the rafters; bags of flour and of oatmeal with open necks were propped up in corners. bars of soap, piles of soft-stone and white stone, tins of tea and coffee, pats of butter, skins of lard, papers of blacking and black-lead, pots and pans, and brushes hard and soft, eggs and herrings, peas and beans and indian corn for poultry, gridirons and porringers, thimbles and shoelaces, clogs and pocket-handkerchiefs--all these and sundry others were the articles of commerce retailed at fifty per cent, profit to a grateful public by mr. ephraim thorpe. that public consisted for the most part of those employed in the neighbouring mills, and few were the families of the humbler sort entirely out of ephraim's debt. he was always willing to trust a man that he knew to be fairly sober and in fair work, and to his regular customers at the crisis of a funeral or a wedding, lend a guinea or so at the easy interest of sixpence in the pound per week; so long as the interest was paid regularly he never pressed for the principal. but woe betide any housewife who took her ready money to a rival tradesman, or ventured to go shopping at the flaunting stores of huddersfield. the court of requests and the "bum" were words of terrible portent, and ephraim knew every trick of the law. he knew, too, the wages of every working family in the district how much they ought to spend when they bought in for the week, and how far it was safe to trust when work was slack or sickness rife and ready-money not forthcoming. truly no lord of the manor in the good old days of dungeon-keep, thumb-screw and rack, was held more in awe than the red-headed, freckled, yellow-fanged, parchment-skinned, ferret-eyed "split," general dealer and deacon of the baptist flock that gathered at aenon chapel, holmfirth, "the altar by the rushing waters." for ephraim was as zealous in his chapel-going as in his shop-keeping. sunday morning and afternoon saw him in his pew, dressed in sable doeskin, but with a subtle flavour of soap and chandlery exhaling from his pores. he rented a high, uncompromising pew, in which he could coop himself up and barricade himself from the non-elect. it was a capital sentinel-box, whence he could espy the gaps in the ranks of the faithful. he could note when ned o' ben's, or bill o' sue's absented himself from service, and speculate at his leisure whether a bull-baiting or a cock-fight had lured to sinful delight, and recall to a nicety the amount that stood to the delinquent's debit in the long narrow, greasy, skin-bound ledger of hieroglyphics that only ephraim understood, and at whose sight the stoutest good dame's heart would sink and the shrillest-tongued virago's voice be hushed. mr. thorpe was a widower, and though it is possible--such is the amiable of a women for the bereaved and afflicted--that more than one might have been willing and lend attentive ear had he wooed again, a widower, ephraim announced, he meant to live and die. his daughter, and only child, martha, was old enough to keep the house above the shop, in which the father and daughter dwelt. the spiteful gossips of the village said she was not only old enough, but ugly enough. but said gossips suffered their critical judgment of the daughter to be warped by their unfavourable opinion of the father. it cannot be denied that martha's hair was not only of somewhat harsh and coarse texture, but of hue from her sire. it is true also that her face was angular and pinched, and freckled to boot, and that her form displayed none of the graceful curves so suggestive of clinging warmth and seductive softness; nor was her voice the soft and dulcet fluting that disarms not less than melting eye or witching smile. poor martha had been crushed and stifled and starved all her life. she had never loved nor been loved but the timid, wistful, yearning look that stole unbidden from her grey eyes told of a heart that hungered for the love that makes a woman's life. though she lived, and had lived for years under the same roof with her father, she could not remember to have heard from his lips one caressing word, to have received from his hand one gentle touch, or; seen from his eye one glance of affection. he was not unkind to her, save in the negative way which is the withholding of kindness; nay, if in any way. ephraim could be said to be extravagant it was in the lavish adornment of his daughter's person. the vicar's wife had not a richer silk or costlier shawl; no manufacturer's daughter finer feathers or more elegant bracelet. but martha would have preferred a much homelier garb and a necklace of beads or jet; she asked only to slink unnoticed through her chill life, and had an half-formulated idea that her father dressed her as he did his shop windows, in the way of trade and to abash his neighbours. martha had practically no friends. the daughters of the manufacturers could, of course, not be expected to have more than a go-to-meeting, bowing acquaintance with a shop-keeper's daughter, though that shop-keeper was popularly supposed to be able to buy up any two mill-owners put together. to be sure the rev. david jones, the pastor at aenon chapel, and mrs. david jones and miss lydia jones called at times and dutifully partook of tea and muffins in the sitting-room above the shop from which no ingenuity had been efficient to bar the insidious blend of many odours from the store beneath, and true also martha was a constant attender at dorcas meetings, class meetings, prayer meetings, and chapel and sunday school tea-parties, called by the scoffing and ungodly herd, "muffin-worrys." but martha was constrained, awkward, _gauche_, and though her heart, was ready to go half-way to meet an overture, she could not make an advance. little children were not allured to her, girls of her own age ridiculed whilst they envied her dress jewellery, staider matrons thought it shame that grasping miser's scarecrow daughter should "peark" herself out in dainty raiment whilst their own well favoured ones went in cheap cottons or plain home-spun. of all the worshippers at aenon chapel, none was more considered than jabez tinker. there were many reasons for this. one undoubtedly was that jabez tinker was one of the leading manufacturers in the valley. no one, not old daft tommy, who was reputed to be over a hundred years old, could remember a time when the tinkers were not a great name in holmfirth and when wilberlee mill was not run by them. the very name of tinker is, curiously enough, significant the family connection with the staple industry of the valleys of the colne and the holme. it is said to be derived from the latin, _tinctor_, a dyer, and to have come down from those far off times when the roman conquerors introduced the arts of civilisation to the aboriginal celts of these northern wilds. certainly jabez tinker's father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him made cloth and doubtless dyed it. and they had made good cloth, buckskin and doeskin of the best. they were not a pretentious nor an ambitious race. they worked hard made shrewd bargains, paid their way expected to be paid, and put by money slowly but steadily. they had mostly married money too, not, perhaps marrying for money, but taking care to marry where money was. they were just to their work people and were slow either to put a man on or to take a man off. once get a job at wilberlee mill and you were there for good, if you behaved yourself--or, as the heads said, if tinker didn't know when he had a good man, the man knew when he had a good master. it was not that the tinkers paid more than ruling prices for their labour. they made no pretence at being industrial philanthropists--that would not have been business; but they contrived to keep the mill running, shine or shower. times must be parlous bad indeed if the great water-wheel did not turn at proper times in the race at wilberlee; and constant employment is more to a man than high wages, with slack times in between, if men had only the sense to see it. it is not necessary to go far back into the ancestry of the tinkers, though, in a quiet way, they were not a little proud of it. old william tinker had left two sons, both of whom had been brought up to the business, and to both, as partners, the business had been left. jabez, the elder, i shall have much to say. richard, the younger, might not have been a tinker at all. he did not "favour" the tinkers, who were traditionally tall lean, wiry, big-boned men, somewhat sallow of complexion, with dark straight hair, scant of speech, inflexible of will, their word their law, neither grasping nor prodigal, and as strict at chapel as the counting-house. but dick tinker, dick o' will's o'th wilberlee, had been a "non-such." he had blue eyes that always sparkled with mirth; curling chestnut hair, that affronted puritanic sense; and he was a sad spendthrift. he had a hearty word for everyone. he liked to go of a night to the _rose and crown_, and led the revels there. he never missed a meet of the harriers, and he kept his own game-cock. he had a very appreciative eye for a pretty face, even though it was half-hid under a weaver's shawl, and for a neat ankle, though cased in clogs. during his widowed father's life he had gone dutifully to chapel, when he couldn't make any plausible excuse for shirking attendance, for it was no small matter to stand up against the old man's will. but when the father died, dick stoutly declared, with not a few oaths, that he was sick to death of the hard-bedders--such was his irreverent term for the particular, very particular, baptists--and contented himself by going to the parish church, on those rare occasions when he felt need of spiritual solace. then he capped all his follies by marrying the pretty, penniless, governess at the vicarage, a girl said to be from down lincolnshire way, who spoke with refined accent, had gentle, graceful ways, and was so clearly a lady that every woman in the district, save the vicar's wife and the working folk, resented it. but the moors were too bleak for her and she had the grace to die after two years--which had been like paradise to dick--leaving him an infant daughter, dorothy. jabez had not liked his brother's marriage. he had nothing to say against his sister-in-law, except that it would have been better if she had been a "that country's" woman. why couldn't dick have done as the tinker's had done from time immemorial, and married in the valley. "there were lasses anew, and to spare," he said, "well favoured, and only waiting to be asked." then dick's bride had brought him nothing but the clothes she stood up in, and that was another grievance. but dick had laughed, in his careless way, and said it was time to mend the tinker breed, by bringing some grace and beauty into the family, and "my louie has that, you can't deny." and jabez could not deny it. "why don't you marry yourself, jabez? you, all alone i' th' old homestead, with nobody but old betty to look after you! dreadful lonesome you must be. th' house is none too cheerful at th' best o' times. but a woman's pretty face, an' a soft voice, an' th' patter o' little feet 'll lighten it up if now't else will. and tak' advice, jabez, look further afield, not among th' wrigleys, an' wimpennys, an' th' brookes. their lasses are weel enough, an' there's money with all on 'em. but they run too much to bone, an' they've been chapelled, an' missionarized, an' dragooned till religion 's soured on 'em, an' when they love they love by rule o' three." but jabez had winced, and changed the subject. after his wife's death dick had gradually fallen back into his old courses. he loved his little wench, as he called his daughter, passionately; but a full-blooded, hearty man, still in the very pink and flower of his manhood, one used all his life to the bustle of the market, the free and easy ways of an inn and the sports of the field is not very much at home in a nursery. so dick, who had felt, when the cruel blow fell, that life had nothing left for him was once more to be seen o' nights at the _rose and crown_, roaring out a hunting song, or arranging the details of a coursing match, a pigeon shooting, or a cock fight--and the maidens of the valley of the holme took heart once more, and began to feel a lively concern for the poor orphaned babe in the lonely house. they forgave dick--handsome, rollicking dick--his passing aberration, his one overt act of treason to their charms, and reflected, with satisfaction, that his married life had been so brief, it might be considered as not counting at all--an episode, not a history. but the rising hopes of these speculative spinsters were rudely dashed. one bright winter's morning, when a sudden thaw had softened the iron fields and promised the scent would lie, dick rode forth cheerily on his hunter to the meet at thongsbridge. there was a substantial breakfast at mr. hinchliffe's a brother manufacturer and a county magistrate. dick did ample justice to the cold beef and ham but declined coffee for old october. then he must needs drain a stiff glass of brandy and water "to warm the old ale," he said; and in very merry mood was dick when the hounds broke covert. now save the stone walls of galway there are no worse fences than those of the valley of the holme. you must clear them at the peril of your neck. there is no crashing through a dry-walling,--a "topping" _may_ give once in a way; but it is odds that it wont. dick--dare-devil dick they called him in the hunting-field,--rode straight. the ground in the higher reaches had not yielded to the thaw or the morning sun. his horse baulked at an awkward fence, slipped, and failed to recover itself, and before dick could disengage boot from stirrup, fell upon its side, with dick crushed beneath. the broken ribs were pressed into the lungs, and though he lingered a few days at mr. hinchliffe's house, he was borne from it a corpse. "you will be good to dorothy?" he said to jabez and jabez had pressed the clammy hand in silent promise. "you'll take her to live with you. she's a bright little lass, like a ray of sunshine in the house. you wont let her forget her mother or her worthless dad, will you, jabez? you'll be taking a wife someday yourself, lad, an' have childer o' your own. but you won't be hard on th' little lass, will yo', jabez?" and jabez said she should be as his own. "she won't be bout brass, yo know, jabez," gasped the dying man, the sweat standing in heads upon his pale brow. "there's my share i'th' business, and odds and ends. yo' know all about 'em. i'd never no secrets fro' yo, jabez, though yo' wer' always a bit close, weren't tha, lad? i've left everything to dorothy an' made yo' her guardian an' th' executor. i know yo'll do right bi th' little 'un. i'm none feared for that. th' tinkers aren't that sort; but don't be hard wi' her. she's nooan as tough as some, her mother's bairn, god bless her." and so poor dick was gathered to his fathers and lay in the old churchyard at holmfirth by the fair, fragile wife's side in the grim vault of the tinkers. not a mill worked in the district as they carried him to his grave. men and women "jacked work" with one accord and lined the route from the dead man's house to the very side of the grave. for dick with all his faults, perhaps, because of them, was dear to the simple folk of the valley, and many, a tale was told in the village inns, of cheery word and ready jest, and helping hand in time of need; and many a buxom housewife, as she stirred porridge for good man and bairns, smiled sadly and gave a gentle sigh as she saw herself again a sprightly wench chased at whitsuntide round the ring at "kiss in the ring" or "choose the lad that you love best," and found herself a willing captive, but panting and struggling still, whilst dick saluted the rosy cheek. for at the sunday school treats at "whis-sunday," all classes were on a level, and even the parson himself must run as fast as legs could carry him if tap of maiden greatly daring fell upon his shoulder, or her kerchief dropped at his feet. whether it was the necessity of having some other companionship than old betty for the young niece so solemnly committed to his charge, or whether he was weary of his bachelor solitude and felt the need of a woman's presence in the old homestead in which he had been born and which he had inherited on his father's death, certain it is that jabez tinker began seriously to think about a wife. he was now nearing his fiftieth year, and the romance of youth--love's young dream--he sadly told himself was not for him. perhaps he had never been young; but be that as it may he was now a staid, prosaic man, who looked all his years and more, his whole soul in his business, in parish affairs and in other spheres in which the gentler emotions have no concern. business was with him as the breath of his nostrils. had he liked, he could have retired on a fair competence; had he been asked he could have given no solid reason why he should continue to toil and moil and put by money. dorothy was his nearest relative, though of remoter ones--cousins and half-cousins, agnates and cognates as the roman lawyers said, he had them by the score. but it certainly was neither for dorothy nor other relative, near or distant, he spent more and more time in mill and counting-house, planning fresh outlets for the produce of his looms, building additions to the old mill, and watching eagerly every improvement in the machinery of his trade. he did it simply because he must, as a successful lawyer takes briefs upon briefs, or a popular doctor case upon case. and he resolved that in his choice of a bride he would look for money that would buy out dick's share in the business, and leave him sole master of wilberlee mill. and in this mood his thoughts turned to martha thorpe; he scarce knew why, except, perhaps, that he was used to the sight of her sunday after sunday, and at the weekly services and social functions of the chapel and sunday school. all the world knew that martha would have money, but none the less did all the world--of holmfirth--gape and exclaim with its "did yo' evver?" and its "aw nivver did," when the reserved master of wilberlee was seen, not once or twice, but, in time, sunday after sunday, pacing slowly by martha and old split's side from the chapel gates to the modest home above the shop in victoria street. but when it become known that jabez tinker actually took his roast beef, and yorkshire pudding, and apple pie (with cheese) at splits, the spinsterdom of the village was divided between wrath and scorn. "such a letting down to th' tinkers," declared one. "i'll never believe it till i see it," affirmed another. "it's money he's after," a third alleged. "he's enough o' his own." "there's no telling. happen he's speculated. besides, much will have more, an' tinkers wer' allus rare 'uns for th' main chance," was the general conclusion. "all but poor dick," said his old cronies of the _rose and crown_. "by gosh! but ginger o' split's 'ud be a pill as 'ud bide some gilding for my taste," vowed the jolly landlord. "jabez mun ha' a good stomach." and what thought martha? it was inconceivable to her at first that the visits of mr. tinker, of wilberlee, could be anything but visits of business to her father; doubtless some matter connected with the chapel or the sunday school. but ephraim dropped hints. "how would ta like to be wed, lass? "father!" "aye, it's father now. it 'll be happen gran'father afore long," and the old man chuckled a greasy chuckle. it could not be true, murmured martha to her heart. that anyone should come a wooing to her, unless, perchance it were some needy parson after her money, seemed preposterous. and yet everyone said mr. tinker was more than well-to-do. and, after all, was she so very plain? is there in this wide, wide world a woman's glass that does not tell a flattering tale to one, at least? and, as she looked, a warm glow tinged the pale cheeks, and a light shone in her eyes they had never known before. to be loved! to be loved for her own sake! to get away from that horrid shop; to be jabez tinkers lady; to queen it over those who had sneered at her behind her back! there was rapture in the thought. and oh! she would love him so; she would be his very slave; no house should be like theirs. never did the heart of andromeda leap to meet the coming perseus, as martha's heart went out to this prince, come, if come indeed he were, to break the chains that bound her to the cruel rock of barren life. her heart overflowed with gratitude, and humbly she thanked her god that his handmaiden had found favour in this great lord's sight. she did not ask for the fervent worship of an ardent wooer's love. she only asked to be allowed to love, and to be loved a little--oh! just a little, in return--as the parched ground thirsts for the grateful shower, so thirsted the heart of the patient martha for a good man's love. chapter v. happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing, and jabez tinker, his mind resolved, was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. martha was not the one to insist on all the formularies of a protracted siege; she surrendered the citadel of her heart at the first blast of trumpet. she only insisted that the wedding should be a quiet one. as this jumped entirely with her lover's notions she had her own way, though ephraim protested. "we don't kill a pig every day, and blow th' expense. if aw pay th' piper surely i ought to chuse th' tune." but he was not suffered to choose the tune, though none questioned that he paid the piper, and paid him handsomely. exactly how many thousands of pounds made over his humble counter went to swell mr. tinker's balance at the bank no one but he and his son-in-law and the bankers knew, and is no concern of ours. jabez took his bride to london for the honeymoon. the wool-sales were on at the time, so that the manufacturer was able to combine business with pleasure, and to avoid that exclusive devotion to his wife which even more ardent husbands are said to have found somewhat irksome. but he took care that martha should see some of the sights of london--the houses of parliament, the abbey, st. paul's, and the tower. theatres were, of course, not to be thought of, but on one never-to-be-forgotten saturday, the two went up the river to hampton court. then for the first time martha realized that the world is very beautiful and often amid the bleak hills and stone walls and hideous mills of her mountain home, her thoughts would dwell upon the green fields and rich hedges and rustling, swaying, leafy branches and deep flowing waters of the fair valley of the thames. the portraits at hampton court shocked her, and she hurried through the rooms with crimson face. but her heart was very light and glad as she entered her own home at wilberlee. the ancient homestead of the tinkers was hard by the mill. it was a long two-storied building of rude ashlar, now dark with age. there was a sitting room or company room, low and gloomy even on a bright day, for the windows were overhung by the ivy that covered the house front. the furniture was massive, dark mahogany. there were but few pictures or ornaments in the room, the pictures mostly oil-paintings of dead and gone tinkers in stiff stocks, precise coats, with thick watch-chains and seals hanging from the fob; the women with smooth plaited hair, long stomachers, and severe looks. by the looking-glass over the mantel-piece were deep-edged mourning cards, in ornate frames, recording the deaths of defunct ancestors, with pious texts and verses expressive of a touching confidence in the departed's eternal welfare. the bedrooms of the upper story were furnished in the same enduring fashion, were even gloomier than the dismal sitting room, the vast four-posted mahogany bedsteads with their voluminous drapery casting heavy shadows, and as the narrow windows were never opened, the chamber air, in summer time, was heavy laden with the blended smell of feathers, flocks, and lavender. it is marvellous what a dread our forefathers, who lived so much in the open, had of fresh air and thorough ventilation in the sleeping rooms of their homes. but, after all, the kitchen or living room was the main thing. a roaring fire in winter time, walls yellow-washed, floor ochred and sanded, dark rafters overhead, flitches, hams, ropes of onions, dried bushes of sage and parsley, burnished tins that caught and reflected rays of fire and gleam of sun, a long table, its top white as soap and scrubbing brush can make the close-grained sycamore, long shelves laden with delf and ancient crockery--ah! it was a paradise for a good housewife. and a good housewife martha proved to be. there was not a cleaner house in all that country side. she had kept on betty for dorothy's sake, and there was besides, peggy, scullery maid and general help. betty and peggy would very much have preferred that their mistress had been neither so keen of eye nor sharp of tongue--for the mistress who, as callers said, could not say boh to a goose, could talk thirteen to the dozen, so betty averred, anent a grease spot or an iron-mould. martha's lot, it may be said, if not an ideal, was now a serene one. had she but had child of her own, she thought no happier woman could have been found in the wide west riding. but in this fate was unkind, and the withholding of the crowning blessing of a woman's life, to hold her own babe to her breast, was all the harsher measure, that martha knew her husband in his secret heart brooded over their long disappointment and nursed it as a grievance. poor martha! how many prayers, how many vows, were thine for this boon so freely granted to your husband's poorest workman! it was in vain that martha tried to stay her heart's longings by filling a mother's place to the little niece left by that graceless richard. all that duty dictated martha did; did ungrudgingly conscientiously. but there is one thing in this world that is absolutely beyond the human will: it is the human heart. love knows no reason, and is uninfluenced by the sternest logic. it is like the wind that bloweth where it listeth. school herself as martha would she came, in time, to have a smouldering jealousy of little dorothy, and the child's quick perception taught it to shun the eye, and soon the company, of her aunt, and turn for comfort to buxom, homely betty. it is a sunday afternoon in the summer of the year ' --a glorious summer's afternoon. the garden at wilberlee, stretching below the parlour window right down to the river-side--no great stretch, indeed--is ablaze with colour. the sky overhead is of rich deep blue, flecked with trailing wisps of feathery cloudlets. the lark sings high in mid ether. from the meadows round about comes the scent of the hay, and the garden gives forth its fragrance of musk and rose. in a low basket-chair, placed beneath the shades of an umbrageous chestnut tree, mrs. tinker sits, stiff, erect, unyielding. she is dressed in rich dark silk, and the lace of collar and cuffs have come from the skilled fingers of the nuns of belgian convents. a religious periodical, the "baptist magazine," lies unheeded on her lap, for martha is watching, with wistful eyes, the graceful movements of a young girl, who flits from flower to flower, and bends occasionally to snip a bloom or leaf. "why are you getting flowers of a sunday: dorothy? you know your uncle would not like it. i'm sure we don't want any more in the house--the parlour smells almost sickly with them--besides, it's sunday." "i don't want them for the parlour, aunt martha. they are for poor lucy garside." "who's lucy garside?" "why, aunt, how can you forget? she worked in uncle's mill till she had to leave. it is something the matter with her legs and spine. don't you mind that pretty, rosy lucy garside, that used to be in your class at the sunday school? but she isn't rosy now--oh! so pale and thin, and has to lie all day on the settle." "you mean the sofa, child." "no, aunt, the kitchen settle i mean, they have no sofa; but they try to make it comfortable for her with shawls and things; and her mother is making a list hearth-rug for her to lie on, and then, may-be, she'll be easier--and she loves flowers. you will let me take them, aunt martha, won't you?" "well, they're gathered now, and it's no use wasting them. but, in future, you must ask my leave before you cut more. and i don't quite know how your uncle would like you going trashing about among those low mill-girls." "but, aunt"--and here dorothy lowered her voice and glanced timorously at the opened window of the parlour--"but, aunt martha, they say--in the village, i mean, not lucy's mother--that lucy's hurt her spine and crooked her legs working too long in the mill--hours and hours, and hours, they say, all the day and nearly all the night, and sleeping under the machines because she was too tired to go home to bed; and that, and not enough to eat, the doctor says, has made poor lucy a cripple for life." "then dr. wimpenny ought to be whipped for saying such things, and i won't have you listening to these tittle-tattling stories. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to let folks tell you lies about your uncle's mill. folk ought to be glad they can send their children to work, to earn their own living. how would they live if they couldn't? but there's no gratitude left in the world--that's a fact. but there's your uncle finished his nap, and you'd best be off; and don't let me hear any more of your silly tales about things you don't understand." it was a very prim and demure maiden that walked sedately from the side-gate of the house at wilberlee, a large bunch or posy of flowers grasped in one little hand, a basket in the other. dorothy had coaxed sundry delicacies from the not reluctant betty--a loaf of bread, some slices of meat, a pot of jam, a glass of calves'-foot jelly, and a small packet of tea. "bless her bonny face," remarked betty to peggy, the underling, "it isn't i' my heart to refuse her owt. but it's to be hoped th' missus 'll never find it out." "saints preserve us," devoutly ejaculated peggy, who was shrewdly suspected to have milesian blood in her veins. "isn't she a pictur'?" said betty, as her eyes followed her little mistress until the gate shut her from admiring gaze. "'deed, then, she is--an' as good as she's purty," assented peggy. "it's mr. richard's own child, she is," went on betty, reminiscently--"th' same dancin' e'en, an' gladsome look, an' merry smile; and yet, sometimes, when she's thoughtful-like, an' dreamy, you'd think she wer' her own mother, as i could fancy her as a lass,"--and betty heaved a very deep sigh, from a very capacious bosom. and, indeed, dorothy was a picture to gladden the eyes of man. the small coal-scuttle bonnet of leghorn straw, with its drab strings, could not hide the pure oval of the face, nor its shade conceal its rich, warm complexion. the auburn ringlets, not corkscrewed to mechanic stiffness, but loosely curling, fell in clusters about her shoulders; and the child moved with an instinctive grace. once out of the view of the garden and the house windows her pace quickened, she began to skip along joyously, her bonnet thrown back from the head, and her little feet, peeping and twinkling from beneath her shortened skirts, beat measure to the snatches of songs, that were not hymnal in their wording or their melody. as she passed the cottage doors, the good folk--standing by their thresholds to breath the air, or bask in the grateful sun, or while away the sleepy hours of unwonted rest in friendly gossip with "my nabs"--would turn to look upon the sweet and glad young face, and not one but had a hearty word and a friendly greeting for miss dorothy. "eh! but oo's a bonny wench. a seet ov her 's fair gooid for sore e'en. oo'll be a bright spot i' some lucky chap's whom some fine day, please the pigs." and dorothy had a nod, and a smile, too, for everyone; for she knew them all by name, and most of them worked for her uncle, either in the mill, or at their own loom in the long upper chamber of their little cottages. "oo's bahn to see poor lucy garsed, ben's lass, aw'll be bun; an' oo's noan empty-handed noather. see th' posy oo's getten; an' mi mouth fair watters when aw think o' what there'll be i'th basket--noan o' th' missus' sendin', aw'll go bail." "aye, there'll be summat beside tracks, if miss dorothy's had a finger i' th' pie,"--and so the old wives' tongues ran on. the cottage of ben garside was barely furnished, but all was spick and span. ben was a hand-loom weaver, and, of a week-day, by earliest day, til sunset in the spring and summer-tide, you could have heard the clack of his loom overhead as the nimble shuttle with its trail of weft sped across the warp. but to-day ben has gone to stretch his legs on the moors, and it is lucy's mother who bids dorothy welcome and relieves her of her parcels. a long oaken settle runs under the deep window of the "house" or living room. the window ledge is full of pots of geranium, fuchsia, musk and rose that turn their petals to bathe in the glorious sunshine that streams with tempered warmth through the thick glazing of the long low window. poor lucy lies upon the couch, her cheeks so hollow, her skin so transparent, her brown soft eyes so unnaturally large and her look of patient suffering, and of the resignation of abandoned hope so heart-rending when it is stamped on the face of youth. but the large eyes brighten as dorothy comes to the couch, and her thin hand, so white and bloodless, rests in loving, lingering caress upon dorothy's glossy tresses as she stoops over the invalid and leaves a kiss upon the pallid lips. "better to-day, i hope, lucy." and lucy, with a suspicious catch in her voice, says: "oh! yes, better to-day, miss dorothy, almost well." alas! there will be no well for lucy till that best of all days shall dawn for her, where sickness and suffering enter not, and tears forget to flow. "see what aunt martha has sent you," said dorothy presently,--may heaven forgive the fib,--"no, not the flowers. i gathered them all myself because i know just what you like best, and now all the afternoon, when i'm gone, you know, you must just do nothing but arrange them in that big glass on the drawers there. and this jam is for you, too, and the calves'-foot jelly to make you strong, you know, and the tea is for you, mrs. garside, when you've been washing and feel just like sinking through the ground, as i've heard you say you do." "and thank the missus kindly, miss dorothy, my respects; but whativver's this?" and mrs. garside extracted the bread and meat. "oh! i'd forgotten them. these are for ben." "eh! but aw'm feart they'll nivver keep till next sunday i' this welterin' weather. to be sure aw might rub 'em wi' salt, but ben do want such a power o' ale a'ter salt meat. but we'll see, we'll see. eh! miss dorothy, but it's yo' that thinks o' ivverybody an' thof yo' say it's yor aunt, it's well aw know--but least said, sooinest mended. but sit yo dahn an' aw'll dust that cheer i' hauf a tick-tack--it's fair cappin wheer all th' muck comes fro' this warm weather, fit to fry yo' like a' rasher o' bacon; sit yo' dahn, do, an' throw yo'r hat off an' yo'll read ith book a bit; not 'at aw held so much religion but lucy theer likes it an' it's cheap, that's one gooid thing or th' poor folk 'ud get little enew on it." mrs. garside, who, it will be observed, did not allow her power of speech to rust for want of use, paused to draw breath for another effort. "what shall i read, lucy?" "oh! just that story about jesus at the pool of bethesda. how i wish i could have been there." mrs. garside composed herself to listen, putting on that look of impenetrable stolidity and unreceptiveness that a good many people seem to think most appropriate for a scripture-reading. "in these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the waters.... 'sir, i have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool; but while i am coming, another steppeth down before me.'" "nah! if that isn't holmfirth all ovver, my name's not hannah garsed" broke in that lady. "holmfirth all ovver. aw can see just how it wer'. th' poor man wer' ligged theer all bi hissen, an' nobbudy to help 'im. then fust one an' then another comes up an' thruts 'im o' one side. an' if them watters wer' owt like th' booik says, yo may mak' sure 'at there'd be th' rich folk theer wi' their sarvants, an' lackeys, an' nusses an' lady's maids, to put 'em i'th' watter an' they'd ha' th' pick o' ivverything. an' yar ben sez 'at if th' heealin' o' th' man wi a infirmary wer' a miracle, it's a bigger miracle 'at someb'dy hadn't bowt that pool up an' med a fortin' out o' it. not 'at aw hold wi' all yar ben says, for there's gooid folk amang th' quality, as we'd no need to look further nor wilberlee," she concluded, with a penitent glance at the table. "but i've some news for you, mrs. garside," interrupted dorothy, "and i hope it will be good news." "it'll be summat fresh if it is," murmured the irrepressible dame, "weel, out wi' it." "you know uncle has been very busy lately, putting in new machinery?" mrs. garside nodded. _that_ did not concern her, except perhaps that it might mean either more or less country-work to the hand-loom weavers. but that would be to try for. "and he is going to take another apprentice," continued dorothy. "i heard him tell aunt martha so and ask her where she should lodge him. aunt martha said she hadn't an idea, anywhere would do for an apprentice. so i managed to catch uncle all by himself, and i said perhaps you would be glad to do for a boy." "and that's what yo' ca' gooid news, is it, dorothy? as if aw hadn't enough to do wi' th' house-work and th' cookin', though that's easy enough, god knows, an' me bobbin-windin' to keep ben agate at th' loom, an' th' little lass theer at might ha' been a help an' a comfort laid o' her back fro' morn to neet an' neet to morn an' all to do for, not but what it's a pleasure to do for yo', my pet, an' it's more aw wish your owd mother could do, an' aw wodn't swap her agen ony lass i' all th' valley; but a noisy lad a rampagin' all abaat th' haase an' whistlin' an' happen stoppin' out o' neets till all hours, an nivver' wipin' his feet except upo' th' fender rails, an' makkin' enough noise to wakken th' deead, an' eitin' enough for two! not but what th' bit o' brass 'ud be welcome, an' thank yo' kindly. we'll see when th' time comes; its no use meetin' trouble hauf way nor lawpin' afore yo get to th' stee, an' doubtless yo'r aunt 'll be speikin' to me or yar ben, an' that 'll be time enough, which awm obliged to yo' all th' same, miss, for givin' a thowt o' us an speikin' a gooid word for us, though yo'r aunt knows weel as if aw _did_ ha' a boy aw'd do for 'im as well as here an' theer a one, though aw say it, mebbe, as suldn't." who can unravel the tangled skein of life and say, as the foolish say, "this is fate," or as the wise, "this the foreordaining of god, the will and fashioning of the great designer, from the foundation of the world?" but call it fate or what you will, certain enough it is that the very day after dorothy's visit to dame garside's cottage, jabez tinker mounted his stout cob and rode up the road that leads past the bilberry reservoir, past the isle of skye and far-famed bill's o' jack's, past the grey pile of st. chad's, and so to the workhouse on the hill. his horse was taken at the gate by workhouse jack and tom pinder, and led to the stabling in the rear to have a draught of meal-and-water and a feed of oats. jack and tom lingered in the stable admiring the gloss of the horse's coat, running fingers through its mane, smacking its warm flanks with many a "whooa hup" and "stan' ovver, lass," examining its hocks and its teeth, and generally doing those knowing things affected by the veriest tyro who would be thought wise in the deep and subtle matter of horseflesh. but presently came the workhouse porter: "tom pinder, th' master wants you in th' office. no, not you, jack; you can go into th' potato patch and don't let me catch you here again or you'll know about it." the porter was a much more dignified man and more important in his own esteem than the master himself, so it is just as well he had not eyes at the back of his head to see that sign made by a certain application of thumb and outspanned fingers which in all times and countries has been deemed significant of contempt unutterable. tom followed the porter wondering to the office. the master was closeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, sparer, man, with clean shaven face, keen grey eyes, and hair tinged with grey at tee tell-tale temples. he sat by the table, a tankard of ale at his side, and his hand swinging his riding whip idly to and fro. "this is the lad, then, mr. redfearn wrote to me about? he seems a likely lad enough, but somewhat overgrown. how old are you boy?" "rising fifteen, sir." mr. tinker eyed the youth from head to foot and turned him round and round, feeling the muscles of his arm and the thews of his thigh and calf as though he was appraising a horse at the cattle fair. "sound in wind and limb, i should judge," he concluded, "but his age is against him. a lad should go into a mill young, master, before his bones are set and his fingers stiff, if he's to be any good. i'm not in your union or i would have seen to this. the guardians have no business to keep a big lumbering lout of a lad lazying about the house and eating his head off. it's demoralising to the lad and is enough to pauperize a whole neighbourhood. what's his name?" "pinder sir, tom pinder," answered the master, and, whilst tom stared with all his eyes on the stranger, wondering vastly who he might be and what this interview might portend and wondering too if workhouse jack would remember to feed his rabbit and find a fresh sod of grass for his lark, the master made apology for tom's height and girth. "you see, mr. tinker, pinder's been kept longer than usual. there's a sort of mystery about him, and both the chairman and mr. black have taken uncommon interest in him. indeed the schoolmaster's so wrapt up in him he couldn't have been more if th' lad had been his own son, which i'd almost think he was myself if it wasn't so ridiculous. but there's never no telling, is there, mr. tinker? these quiet uns is often as deep an' dark as a pit, bu' we're all human, eh?" and master winked a wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race. but mr. tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man's--and woman's--depravity--with a workhouse master, the sole audience a workhouse foundling. "pinder,"--he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the master's hospitable offer to have in another jug of october ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.--"pinder--tom pinder? it isn't a this country name. there was a pinder at marsden, a clothier in a small way--took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn't have a marsden brat in this union." "but he wasn't called after his father," said the master, somewhat curtly, for if jabez tinker could be curt, curt too could the master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on guardian days. "damme, i can crow on my own dunghill," he thought, "or i'm th' poorest cock ever crowed this side of stanedge." "oh! i forgot, mr. redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child--a rambling tale. i didn't mind it, i was thinking about something else. 'twill be his mother's name?" "no, nor his mother's," said the master. "i don't rightly know who he was called after. it had something to do with mr. redfearn's shepherd. but it's a long time since, and i forget. but what's the odds? there th' lad is. you can either take him or leave him, it's all a price to me, and i reckon to th' guardians too." "when can he come?" "next week. there'll be th' papers to make out. th' overseers will sign th' indentire. five pounds they've to pay, i think t'was settled." "yes, five pounds; but if i'd known his age and size i'd have stood out for more. but it's too late for haggling you'd send him over this day week. i'll arrange about him. tell him to bring the cob round, tom, and so good day to you, master. time's money these days, and i've wasted a whole forenoon over this job. pinder, pinder, it's a strange name and yet there seems a look i' the lad's eye i've seen before somewhere. my respects to mr. redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they're almost too far gone for the market." the master smiled the official smile at a guardian's jest; but it was no very friendly glance that followed the erect form of the holmfirth manufacturer as he turned his good mare's head over the hills. "tom's in for a bad time of it, i'm thinking," said the master. it was mr. black who conveyed the lad with a father's love from the workhouse to holmfirth. and the lad went with a heart light enough, though on his cheek the tears were wet he had shed at parting from the faithful jack. he had solemnly made over to the lamenting workhouse drudge his boyish treasures,--the lark, that obstinately refused to sing, the lop-eared rabbit, and the hedgehog he had rescued from the clogs and sticks of a posse of village urchins--captive not of bow and spear, but of fist and toe. moll o' stuarts, too, had been to bid him farewell, and, as a parting gift, had bestowed on him a child's caul. "keep that all th' days o' your life; nivver part wi' it, wet or fine. yo'll allus know th' weather by it, as guid as a glass an' better nor bi a mony on 'em. an' as long as that caul's thine, drowneded bi watter yo' canna be. there's mony a fine spark at sails the seas 'ud be main glad o' that same. hanged yo' may be, tho' god forbid, but drownded nivver." and in after years, of which the reader shall read in good time, moll o' stuarts was able to invoke her prophetic soul, and to attribute to her own prescience the wonderful deliverance this story shall narrate. moll, too, brought a pair of stout stockings knit by the widow schofield's own plump hands, and a crown-piece, that the night before had jingled in tom o' fairbank's well-filled leathern purse. over the hills trudged the schoolmaster and his ward; the dominie thoughtful, and not a little sorrowful. "pray god we've done for the best," was his pious hope, as they reached the low wall of the church of st. chad's, and one at least thought of the fair unknown, whose son was setting forth into the untried paths of life, with all the glad, unquestioning undoubting confidence of eager youth. hard by the church inn they turned to the face of the steep ascent of almost unbroken moorland, threaded by a rude and rutty path, strewn with rubble and boulders, torn and wrenched from the crags above by the driving storms and angry raging winds of the rolling years. on the lower face of the hill they passed, here and there, the rude shelter of a moorland cottier, whose cow and pig and poultry gained precarious living in the lean enclosures won from the sweeping stretch of heather and coarse grass or the lowly cottage whence the familiar clack of the hand-loom told of swaying beam and scudding shuttle. anon they reached the summit; mr. black, notwithstanding the help from tom's sturdy arm, fain to rest upon one of the vast rocks belched forth from the bowels of the earth in some angry vomiting of the prisoned airs, and now, rounded and smooth-worn and dark with the gloom of ages, resting massive on the commanding summit called pots and pans. "yes, that indeed, is bill's o' jack s," panted mr. black, in answer to tom's eager questioning. "that is where the murder was done, murder most foul. poor hapless bill and tom, i knew them well, a hale and hearty farmer, and his son a strapping gamekeeper. done to death, whether for gain or revenge, none knew for certain, though it was shrewdly guessed, but nothing was ever proved and for ought is known, the murderers may dwell in our very midst. see yon little window left of the door, 'twas the old man's bedroom. there, in a pool of blood, his lifeless body was found; his son,--his head cleaved by a heavy bill-lay lifeless in the kitchen. it was a little wench, who went betimes for milk, gave the alarm." "was it long gone sir?" asked tom, gazing spellbound at the farmhouse in the valley's dip. "in ' --the year of the great reform bill. you were a bouncing baby then, tom. but see how thick the bilberries lie snugly in the heather, and how a film settles on the ripened fruit as though the mist of the hills had kissed them with a lingering kiss. better fill your kerchief, for well i guess they'll be right welcome at mrs. garside's, where you must make your home. "and now, lad, turn your eyes once more upon the old church and towards the fields you know so well. remember in that valley you were born and bred, and in that valley are those that love you well and who have knit you to their hearts. yonderwards, in the other valley, is your future home; what trials, what labours there await you, who shall say? but as david said to his _son_, say i to you: "'be thou strong and shew thyself a man, and keep the charge of the lord thy god, to walk in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments and his testimonies that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself.' and now, come, lad, 'tis a brave step from here to holmfirth and the way will be long for me when i come back without thee." chapter vi. tom pinder was "apprenticed"--so the phrase ran--to jabez tinker with all the form and circumstance and not a little of the verbal exuberance of the law. the manufacturer bound himself to the overseers of saddleworth who stood to the foundling in _loco parentis_, to teach his apprentice the art and calling of a clothier--so manufacturers were then styled, when men were less fond of high-sounding terms and preferred plain english to foreign-fangled names. he also undertook, under his hand and seal, to feed the said tom and provide him one new suit of clothing each year until he should attain the age of twenty-one years. the overseers, on their part, engaged that the "said tom should faithfully serve the said jabez tinker and his wife and family, his and their lawful orders should do, his secrets should keep, and his goods protect," likewise that the said tom, so long as his indenture should endure, taverns should not frequent, bowls nor dice should play, fornication should not commit, and marriage should not contract. as the delicate subject of wages was not so much as hinted at in this formidable document, it seemed pretty certain that the ingenuous apprentice would not be exposed to much temptation either from tavern or dice-box; and mr. black, after reading, no less than three times, the articles of this solemn covenant could not withhold his admiration of the zealous care the law manifested for the morals of the young. he should think better, he averred, of lawyers ever after, and was inclined to believe they must be a much maligned body of men. if there had only been some mention of the catechism, he said, the deed might have been framed by a bishop. mr. redfearn to whom he thus unbosomed himself said nothing, but there were volumes in the wink he conveyed to the stolid aleck. "i could ha' thoiled th' absence o' ony mention o' th' catechism if there'd been some mention o' wage," was his only spoken comment. "but think of the immense advantage of learning the whole art and commerce of a clothier under such a teacher as mr. tinker," urged mr. black. mr. redfearn apparently did think, and what he thought was again conveyed to aleck by a surreptitious wink. tom was not long in proving for himself the advantages of being an apprentice. they consisted, so far as he could make out, of being harder worked and more harshly treated than a paid hand, and as for instruction or initiation into the mysteries of the clothier's craft, he was left to learn so much as his own eyes could teach him and his gumption acquire. it was fortunate for him that ben garside, with whom he lodged, lived at no great distance from the mill, for he had to be at his work by daybreak in the summer months, and long before the first uplifting of night's black curtain in the cold winter morns. many who worked in the same mill, young boys and girls not yet in their teens, had to trudge in all weathers from distant homes on the raw hill sides, often by lanes and footpaths deep in mud or slush, often by the light of the many stars, sometimes by the pale glimmer of the lanthorn, sometimes in egyptian darkness, feeling their way by the touch of walls or hedges or trees, drenched by rain or sleet, pelted by hail, sinking into deep ruts or forging through the drifted snow, lightly clad, the warmest garment of the girls the shawl about their head and ears, their faces pinched and blue with cold, their fingers aching with the shrewd wintry pinch, starting from home without breakfast and hurrying with empty stomachs to their dreary work, ill-clad, ill-shod, worse-fed, and still worse paid. the hours of labour were long. wilberlee mill was, though not exclusively, mainly a water-mill, the motive power being led from the mill-dam by a head-goit to the great waterwheel, and from the wheel-race restored by the tail-goit, little diminished, to the river's course, to serve the turn of mill owners lower down the stream. often in dry seasons the supply of water was scant enough and hence it came that when the dam was flush of water the manufacturer reversed the process of making hay while the sun shone by making pieces while the rain fell. there was little or no restriction in the age at which a child might be sent to work, or the hours for which it might be kept there. it was of so common occurrence as to be almost regarded as a matter of course, not calling for comment, that a child nine or ten years of age should stand to its work sixteen or seventeen hours at a stretch, cramming its meal of water-porridge down its throat in the fluff-laden air of the weaving shed or spinning room, afraid to break off work even to eat a hurried and unsavoury meal. sometimes the children were locked in the mill all night, and many would fall asleep as they stood, or drop exhausted by their machines only to be roused by a kick from the slubber's clogs, a blow from a roller, or a resounding smack from the slubber's strap. tom had been set to billy-piecing, but it was found that his fingers were too big and his joints too set for such work, so, to his great delight, he ceased to rub the skin off his knuckles till they bled again, and was transferred to the "scouring-hoil" and in time had charge of a willey, or as it was sometimes called a "devil," or "fearnowt," an iron monster into whose maw he threw the scoured wool just fresh from the "drying-hoil," to be torn and "teased" by the hundred fangs of the insatiable mouth, digest as it were, in its mechanic stomach, and thence cast out in a light and airy fluff ready to be scribbled, slubbed and in time spun into warp and weft. but though, for a time, tom escaped the most arduous and confining and debilitating part of an operative's daily lot, his lines were hard enough. he looked back upon his workhouse life with a sickening yearning, and when he remembered the regular and abundant meals of the house, his gorge rose at the ever-recurring surfeit of water-porridge to breakfast, water-porridge to dinner, water-porridge to supper, and water-porridge between meals. but for all that tom grew apace, and his was not the willowy, weedy growth of the towns. if the advocates of vegetarianism want to press their proofs, let them recur to the country-bred, porridge-fed youngsters of a by-gone generation, when they were not cooped up in mills and worked beyond the endurance of nature. as tom was often sent out with the lant-barrel to collect from the cottages for miles around the scouring liquid for which ammonia is the modern substitute, he had ample opportunity to stretch his legs and broaden his chest and brace his sinews; so that when, as time went on; he attained to the dignity of a loom, he was as well-set-up a youth as one would meet in a day's march, straight, old hannah garside vowed, as any "picking rod," with strong limbs and corded muscles, and, best of all, with a sound head and a warm heart,--a happy contrast to the many of his comrades whose shoulders were rounded, and backs bent and legs curved by weary hours of standing and stooping at tasks and under burdens beyond the immature powers of ill-nurtured bodies. it was a common saying in those days that nine out of every ten of the mill-hands of holmfirth could not stop a pig with their legs. but the happiest chance that befell the young apprentice was that which made him a lodger with ben and hannah garside. it was long enough before he had much more than a nodding acquaintance either with them or their invalid daughter; for, of weekdays, he took his meals at the mill, and at night he was so dead-beat that he was fain to wash himself and steal to bed; and on sundays, for many a week of his early apprenticeship it was his glad custom to bolt his morning meal and make off as fast as his legs could carry him over the moors to saddleworth, generally arriving at st. chad's church in time to be late for the morning service, but ample time to accompany mr. black or mr. redfearn home to a better dinner than hannah garside had ever seen, or even dreamed of. but as the summer mellowed into autumn and the autumn drooped to winter, there came sundays when wind and rain made the tramp over the storm-beaten moors a matter not to be undertaken merely for a jaunt's sake, and tom had, perforce to put up with the somewhat meagre fare furnished by hannah garside. sunday was the one day in the week when there was meat hot and fresh to dinner-roast beef and yorkshire pudding with pickled cabbage, and sometimes rice pudding. one can imagine what a welcome day that weekly day of rest and feasting was, the day when the village "knocker-up" forbore to rattle at the door or tap the chamber window with long stick, calling out belike: "ger up, tom, an' howd th' dog while aw wakken thee." daily use would break the morning sleep of the wearied toiler, but, oh! how sweet to remember with your first yawn that it was sunday, and that if you liked you could spend the livelong day in bed, or at least, forego your morning meal and stretch between the blankets till the steaming fragrance from the revolving spit saluted your nostrils and sent you with yearning stomach down the rickety steps to cozen a sop from hannah, stooping with reddened face over the spit, basting the revolving joint as it shed its dripping over the yorkshire pudding, whilst lucy, propped up with many pillows, peeled potatoes, or, on rare and great occasions, pared the apples for pie or pudding, chatting pleasantly, and soothing the ruffled temper of her mother. and it was of sunday afternoons that began those long talks with ben garside that had no less influence on tom's destiny than the earlier monitions of mr. black, or the shrewd worldly axioms of tom o' fairbanks. it had been a matter of less surprise than delight for ben to find that tom could not only read, but read without having to spell out or slur over long words. the joy of hannah was great thereat, for so was ben deprived of any pretext for sneaking out of a sunday morning to the nearest public to hear the paper read. now, she managed to produce each week a penny, by virtue of which ben became one in a partnership of six, whose united contributions purchased a weekly paper. it mattered not at all that when it reached ben's house it was much thumbed and soiled and beer-stained, for in virtue of receiving it when truly it was a week old and much the worse for wear, ben was allowed to retain it in perpetual proprietorship, and, had made a cover of "rolling boards" in which the copies were tenderly hoarded up and treasured. now ben was a great politician, and if pressed upon so close and home a matter would profess and express himself an owenite. add to this that he very rarely troubled either chapel or church except on christmas day, and that he made a point of slinking out of the house if he chanced to be in when the vicar of the parish or the shepherd of a dissenting fold called at the cottage. "aw cannot abide parsons," he confided to tom one day. "though aw wodn't let yar lucy yer me say so for worlds." now tom, as we know, had been taught to respect the church, and he was absolutely against when ben garside, a little wiry, keen faced, middle-aged man, eager of speech and not a little fond of the sound of his own voice, went on: "weel, tom, aw'm nowise minded to hurt yo'r feelin's, an' if th' parsons wer owt like that mister black 'at yo set such store by, an' well yo've a reet to by all accaants, if they tuk after him, aw'd happen ha' cause to alter mi mind. but "ifs" an' "buts" ma' all th' differ i' this world, an' they simply isn't." "well, they couldn't be better," said tom, pleased with this tribute to his benefactor. "noah, but they set up to be. nah aw'll nooan go as fur as some folk 'at aw know, 'at say as parson's bun' to be oather a rogue or a fooil." "that's strong, ben, isn't it?" "aye, lad, it's nooan exactly what yo'd call meeat for babes; but aw reckon it meeans summat like this--'at if a parson believes all he preeaches he's a fooil, an' if he dunnot he's t'other thing." "but surely," began tom. "aye, aye, aw know what yo'd say--'at they _do_ believe. weel then aw'll tell yo' i'm too mich respeck for their intellec's to think at them, wi' all their college larnin', can believe one hawf o' what ther paid to teach. nooah, nooah, religion as them mak' o' preachers mis-ca' their teachin' is nobbut fit for women an' childer, an' to keep th' ignorant i' awe. nah! _aw'm_ a _reely_ religious man missen, an' that's why aw dunnot hold wi parsons." this seemed a somewhat novel reason for discrediting ministers, and tom could but look his surprise, which was exactly what ben wanted. "nah! aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance," he said, sitting on a low wall--they were out for a walk--and bidding tom follow his example. "aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance. yo'n bin to th' baptis' chapel, wheer jabez tinker goes?" tom nodded. "nah, then, if yo'll swallow all th' parson says at aenon yo' mun believe that afore aw wer' born aw wer' predestined awther to heaven or hell--yo' follow me?" "weel, tak' it 'at aw wer' predestined for hell, just for argyment's sake." tom thought it more than probable that this dreadfully free-spoken man was at least in danger of the fire, so he conceded the postulate. "nah! do yo' think it fair o' god almighty to send a poor weak sprawlin' infant into th' world, knowin' full weel 'at after mebbe sixty or seventy yer o' moilin' an' toilin' an' scrattin', he'd end up wi' weepin' an' wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth for all eternity. aw put it to yo' tom, wod yo' ha' done it yersen?" "but if you were to go to church, ben, or even to chapel," began tom. "that doesn't touch th' point. th' point is at one they sen is love, suld suffer a bairn to be born i'to this world, weel knowin' its awful end." "and don't _you_ believe in god?" asked tom, sinking his voice almost to a whisper and edging a little further off his companion. "aw do that, lad, but nooan i' siccan a god as that'n. but aw'n nooan done wi' th' parsons yet--one thing at a time. yo' know aw can read th' bible, though nooan so glib-like as yo' can, but aw think on what aw read. nah chew this tex' ovver th' next time yo' go to th' church. yo'll find it i'th' general epistle o' james:-- "'for if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment, an' yo' hav' respec' to him 'at weareth the gay clothin', an' say unto him, sit yo' here in a guid place; an' say to th' poor, stan' yo' theer, or sit under my fooitstooil.' well, lad, tha's bin a workhus lad thissen, an' yo' know weel enough wheer they towd yo' to sit." tom did know, and reflected that on the whole he had very much preferred the dark corners of the gallery to the chief places in the synagogue; but he had the sense to know his reasons were not of grace. "aye, an' it's th' same all through," went on the little hand-loom weaver, growing excited and warming to his topic. "it's th' same all through. they're all tarred wi' th' same brush, or welly (well-nigh) all on 'em. they uphowd th' rich, an' they patronize th' poor, aw' most to a man. why, see yo', we'n been feightin' for th' factory act i' this district ivver sin sir oastler tuk his coit off an' put his neck to th' collar i' , afore yo' were born. how many o'th' parsons i' this district, dun yo' think, has sided wi' th hand agen th' maisters? ther' wer th' reverend madden, o' woodhouse, _he_ com' aat like a man, but he had to dare to be a daniel an' dare to stand alone, as th' hymn says. yo'st take all th' progress 'at's bin made i'th' world sin th' days o' adam, an' tak' it broadly speikin' yo'll find 'at th' parsons ha' bin agen it. there's stephen's th' wesleyan minister an' chartist he cam' to huddersfield wheer had he to talk do'st think? i'th' parish church? not he, faith. i'th' wesleyan chapel? not he. i'th hall ' science, man, i' bath buildings, a infidel shop, th' bigots ca'ad it." "but surely, ben, you believe in something. you say you believe in god. you believe in christ too, don't you?" "aye i' th' _natural_ christ, but nooan i'th' travesty o' jesus o' nazareth 'at th' owd monks twisted an' fashioned out o' th' natural man till his own mother wouldn't ha' known him. _aw_ believe in him, but th' parsons don't." "nay, nay, ben," expostulated tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested. "they dooan't. they sen they do, an' they happen think they do, for it's wonderful, just fair cappin', how folk can cheeat their own sen. nah! aw'll just ax yo' if yo' wer to steal th' vicar's cooat, or poise his shins for 'im, wheer do'st think tha'd sleep to-neet? i' th' towzer,[ ] wouldn't ta." [ ] a lock-up or a police-cell. tom thought this highly likely. "but that's nooan what jesus towd folk. an' what abaat heeapin' up stores o' riches i' this world wheer moth an' rust doth corrupt an' thieves break through an' steal? weel, if there's a chap i' all this valley at's keener after brass nor some o'th' parsons _aw_ know an' some o'th' deacons _yo_' kno, aw dooant want to have ony truck wi' 'em for one." tom thought of ephraim thorpe, and was mute. "but that's nooan th' warst aw han agen th' parsons. they're nobbud men, though they set thersen up for saints, an' there's good an' bad amang 'em same as there is amang other folk, aye, an' allus will be as long as th' world goes round, but ther's just one doctrine 'at sticks i' my gizzard waur nor all th' others." tom thought it must be a particularly lumpy doctrine, if this were so, for ben seemed to have a narrow and constricted throat. "yo' heard th' parson tell folk to be content wi' that station i' life to which it has pleased providence to call 'em." "well, it's no use being anything else that i can see," said tom, getting tired of being talked down and jumped on, in a manner of speaking. "a'm ashamed on yo', tom. aw thowt better things on yo', after all my talkin' to yo'. nah, my motto is, be content just as long as yo' can't better yo'sen; but it's yo'r bounden duty to yo'r sen an' yo'r fam'ly, when yo' get one, an' yo'r fellow-men, to be as discontented as ever yo'n reason to be, an' to try all yo' know to better yo'sen an' them. discontent, lad, 's th' basis o' all progress, an' yo'll nooan be a reformer till yo'r chock full on it. look at moses, nah!" but mrs. garside might be seen at the cottage door beckoning them to tea, for there was ever a cup of tea on sunday afternoon with wheat bread and fresh butter, and lettuce or watercress and radishes and spring onions, when the season served, and these fresh pulled from ben's little garden patch, or gathered from the brim of the purling brook. tea over, ben seated himself by the hearth on which was spread the large warm list rug, like joseph's coat of many colours, lists which lucy had herself cut and her own mother stitched into the stout canvas backing. ben justly regarded this rug as a work of art, and when he ventured to plant his feet upon it of a sunday night, did so, as it were, apologetically. "but we hannot finished our talk yet, tom," he began, puffing vigorously at his clay pipe to assure that well-gripped glow that permits of soliloquy or monologue. "aw wer' sayin' when hannah ca'ed us in." "now, father," interrupted lucy, "remember what day it is, don't let us have any o' those horrid politics, they only put yo' in a fash an' a tantrum." "tom 'll ha' to bide it," said hannah, who was pleased to see her husband settle down by his own fireside and cross his legs upon his own hearth, as what wife is not. "tom 'll ha' to bide it. yo'r father's like a eight-day clock. if tom's wun' 'im up, tom mun let 'im run daan." "well, aw wer' sayin'--at what wer' aw sayin'?--guise-'ang-me if aw hannot forgotten wheer aw left off--oh! abaat moses. nah, tak' th' book theer. reick it daan, hannah, reick it daan, tom 'll happen mash a ornament or crumple a fal-de-lal" and ben winked at tom in token that this must be taken as a subtle innuendo at hannah's over-tidiness. but hannah was impervious to innuendo, and carefully lifted down the ponderous family bible, bound in stout leather covers with brass corners, and containing on the front leaf in faint ink and sprawling characters the brief records of marriages, births and deaths. the book had been given to hannah by her grandmother on her death-bed, and never did priest of levi touch the ark of the covenant with more reverent hand than hers as it held the sacred volume. "nah, lad, read that abaat th' ovverseer an th' hebrew." tom looked at lucy for further explication. "father allus picks th' fightin' bits i' th' scriptures," she said.--"i like th' stories o' jesus best, myssen--but as long as it's i' th' bible it must be good, so best humour him. it's wheer moses felled th' taskmaster." and tom read: "'and it came to pass in those days, when moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren and looked on their burdens: and he spied an egyptian smiting an hebrew, one of his brethren. 'and he looked this way and that way and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the egyptian and hid him in the sand.'" "aye, aye, blood's thicker nor watter, all th' warld ovver," commented hannah, who sat rocking herself softly before the dying embers of the fire, her nervous fingers playing with the corners of her apron, lacking the knitting needles that are to a woman what a pipe is to a man. "eh! that moses wer' a man after mi own heart," burst in ben. "just think on it; theer he wer', browt up o' th' fat o' th' land, wi' th' best o' ivverything to eit an' drink, an' brass for owt; an' nowt to do but scrape his leg to th' powers 'at be an' he wer' a made man for life. there isn't one man in a thaasand, pampered an' fed an' thrussen up as he wer', but thrussen up as he thrussen up as he 'ud a left th' poor bondslaves to shift for theirsens, yo' needn't go aat o' holmfirth to see that e'ry day o' yo'r life. gi' a workin' man a bit o' power an' a bit more wage an' set 'im ovver t' others an' he'll what-do-you-ca' it?--'out-herod herod,'" and ben paused in evident gratification at this rounding of his period, but added on reflection, "or mebbe, aw sud say, out-pharaoh pharaoh. but moses nah"... "yes but, father," said the gentle voice of lucy, as she laid her thin white hand caressingly on her father's knee--"yar lucy can leead th' father wi' a threed o' silk," thought the mother.--"yes but, father, moses had a direct order from god; 'i will send _thee_ unto pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people out of egypt.'" "true enough, lass, true enough: but yo'll obsarve 'at th' angel o' the lord didn't appear to moses till he'd shown th' stuff he wer' made on. aw tak' it god likes to know summat abaat folk afore he sets 'em on to gaffer a job. us workin' folk didn't go to oastler i' that gret haase o' his at fixby, aboon huddersfilt yonder, till he'd written to th' pappers an' spokken aat like a man abaat th' ill-usage o'th' little childer. it's a long day sin' but we'st win yet, as sure as god's i' heaven, for he has surely heard the cry of the little uns, an' he has seen the oppression wherewith the egyptians oppress them." "but, ben," said tom, "we aren't living in egypt, an' queen victoria isn't pharaoh, and we aren't bond slaves." "oh! th' warst kind o' slave's him," retorted ben, "as doesn't know he is a slave. look at lucy theer, her 'at sud ha' bin, aye an' wod ha' bin', as strong as a young colt, on' what is 'oo nah, a lily brokken on its stalk--mi poor lass, mi poor lass"--and the father's voice broke and the mother's face was turned aside. "dunno greet, father i'm very happy, for aw nivver knew till aw wer bed-ridden how sweet life can be wheer love is." "wheer's yo'r een, tom?" went on ben very fiercely, to hide his softer feelings, "wheer's thi e'en? aw say. isn't sam buckley th' spinner at wilberlee yet?" tom nodded. "weel, aw know sam. 'as to ivver seen him peilin' an' cuffin' th' young 'uns abaat th' yed, wi' them big fists o' his'n, little, wee, puny, ramshackle things o' scorn an' eight yer owd, all skin an' bone, so to speak, an' precious little bone at that. hasn't ta seen 'im strappin' 'em an' layin' abaat 'im reet an' left wi' a roller as thick ay yo'r shackle, an' crack'd 'em abaat t' poll till th' blood's come, when he's getten 'is skin full o' four-ale? things ha' altered strangely if tha hasn't, or else tha'rt stone-blind and past prayin' for." now tom had seen this and felt it too; but he had supposed it was all part of the day's work. he saw others put up with it, and he had put up with it--it might, for aught he knew, be involved in that all-controlling indenture of apprenticeship. "aye, it's true enough," he said, "i've wondered about it, ben. isn't ther' a law against it? mr. black says there's one and the same law for the rich and the poor." "then mr. black's nooan as knowin' as aw tak' 'im to be. law! law fiddlesticks! tak' an' overseer afore th' magistrates--most on 'em manufacturers theirsen--for beeatin' a child, nivver name a 'prentice--why, yo' might as weel fall out wi' owd harry an' go to hell for justice.--but it's time yo wor i' bed, lad, if tha meeans to gooa to-neet, an' nivver tha forget abaat moses. gooid neet to yo'." now it so befell that on the afternoon of the very next day it was tom's ill-fortune to become embroiled with that same sam buckley. the foreman spinner was a big, burly fellow, broad-shouldered and vast of paunch. he had the fishy eye and mottled face of the heavy drinker and a short and uncertain temper; not, perhaps an ill-meaning man, but quick and heavy with his shoulder-of-mutton hands. it chanced that mr. tinker had been obliged to go to huddersfield that day and was not expected at the mill till late in the afternoon. as the day lengthened, the sky had become overcast, the air sultry with the unseasonable warmth and closeness that tells of a brooding storm or the artillery of the heavens. the upper room of the mill, where the billy-pieceners were mostly engaged, was a long, low chamber. its walls had once been whitewashed but were now a dull, dirty colour from mingled grease and fluff and dust. the floors were cased with grease. there was little ventilation, except the air that entered when the door opened or through an odd broken window; pane or so. the inner air was hot to sultriness, laden with the breath of a score or so of workers and with the rancid smell of machine oil. the spinner had gone to his dinner, and it was seldom he missed "calling" on his way back to the mill. it was a toss-up whether he would return in a good or a bad temper. if in a good one he would probably spend a half-hour or so in the weaving-shed among the grown-up girls who worked there, making jests and taking the coarse liberties they dared not resent if they would keep their looms. if in a bad temper he would make for the "billy-hoil," where it would be safe to vent it. now this afternoon he was in a particularly bad temper.--monday is often given up to bad temper. the overeating of sunday conduces to it, the fact that monday is, in the parts of which i write, as sacred to the wash-tub as sunday is to the chapel, does not soothe it. the moment sam shoved open the door, with thunder on his brow and lightning in his eye, the quick-witted hands, sharp beyond their tender years, sniffed the threatening storm, and bent with intent looks and nimble fingers over their work. but little "billy-come-a-lakin" had succumbed to the drowsy influences of the time and place. sat upon the floor, his little legs outstretched, his back against the greasy wall, his dinner can by his side, billy slept. he had just time to start from his slumber and his dreams when sam pounced upon him and dragged him to the central gangway of the long chamber, the lad shrinking within himself, cowering and whimpering, and but half awake. "so aw've caught o', have aw, yo' young gallows bird? this is th' way yo' rob yo'r mester, as soon as a man's back's turned." "please sir aw couldn't help it; summat cam' ovver me, an' mi legs seemed to ha' nooa feel in 'em, an' oh! aw wer so tired. don' beeat me, sam, it'll mak mi mother greet so, if 'oo sees th' marks on me when aw doff missen to-neet." "aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt. now it was at just this moment that tom took the door. he had come from the dyehouse to match a cop. "hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, sam, wi' that strap. drop it, i say." "an' who'll stop me?" roared sam. "i will." "then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and sam brought the stinging leather right across tom's flashing cheek. then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. there was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before. "eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered billy-come-a-lakin. "aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week. "yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil." tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. he had to cross the mill-yard. mr. tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale sam was pouring into his ear. tom saw his master's brow contract. "send him to me," tom heard, "i'll deal with him. it's rank mutiny." tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side. "i'm here, sir," he said quickly, tho' he could hear the beating of his own heart. the riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. but the blow fell not. "_where_ do you say you come from?" "diggle, sir," and tom's quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. "you hired me yourself at the workhouse." jabez tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad's pale set face and scanned it searchingly. "how came that weal across your cheek?" "sam can tell you best," was the quiet reply. "you said nothing of this buckley," said the master. "mind when you come to me again, you don't come with half a tale. go your ways, pinder, but let me have no more of this broiling or you'll soon regret it." and jabez tinker dismounted, threw the reins to buckley, who stood surlily by, waiting the upshot of his complaint, and walked without another word to the office. but he had sighed as he watched tom's upright, sinewy figure cross the mill yard, and a lingering, longing look followed the unwitting 'prentice. chapter vii. time passed, as it will pass even in holmfirth. tom is still an apprentice, but in no fear of stick or strap from sam buckley, or any other sam. the first factory act has become law, ben garside had a grievance the less, though when the night drew long it was still delight fighting his battles o'er again, to tell the oft-told tale of that famous march to york, when from huddersfield, and all the parts contiguous, men, women, and little children made their weary way to york, to cry aloud that the iron-heel of capital might not crush out the infant life of the nation's self. ben's limbs are stiffer by many a year since that historic tramp, but he straightens them and erect with flashing eye, as he dwells upon the heroic patience, the grim resolve of those who trod the long, long miles, and tells how weary men stayed with their arms the feeble, halting steps of bent and grey-headed sires, and worn and foot-sore women carried in their arms drooping children, not their own; how the rain fell in torrents, and the wind beat the cold showers in upon their drenched garments and many stole behind the hawthorn hedges, and the gray low stone walls, and slept the sleep of an exhaustion that was well nigh unto death; of how, as they came by some kindly waggoner, carting sacks of corn, or bales of wool, or barrels of good ale, the women and the children were taken up and given a sore-needed lift; how, as they passed through village and hamlet, hard-featured men and homely women came running into the road, and pressed upon them meat and drink, and wished them god-speed, and a safe return; of how when they reached the castle yard in york itself, the clogs of many were clotted with the blood of their bruised and lacerated feet, and last, of how when their hearts were sick with hope deferred, the glad hour of triumph came, and the groans of the workers pierced the ears of parliament, and the joy-bells rang to herald in the great charter of the toiler's freedom. but tom had that to protect him which was better fashioned than any statute ever made, incomprehensible by amplitude of words. now, in his nineteenth year, he is nearing the six feet of manhood, and his frame is well knit and strong. simple fare has agreed with him, anyway, simple, fare and simple, cleanly ways. he is the delight of hannah garside's eyes, and of eyes, too, younger and brighter than hers, though the winsome mill-hands of the valley declare that tom pinder is as dateless as a stone. "it's time wasted on him," they say, "he thinks o' nowt but his books an' his wark, an' maybe o' that poor ill-shaped lucy garsed." it is saturday afternoon, and hannah's cottage is all "red up," and hannah herself is washed and dressed and ready to don herself, and sally forth a-shopping, when the clacking of ben's loom shall cease in the upper chamber. lucy still tenants the settle under the window, but it is a stronger, bonnier lucy than the wan frail lucy of former days. deformed she will always be, but some measure of bodily strength has been vouchsafed to her, and the bobbin-wheel by her side, presently to be put by, and a basket of bulky cops, and another of plenished bobbins tell that lucy is no longer an unwilling divine in that busy hive, but can, with nimble fingers and pliant wrist, do the winding once her mother's care. "now stand you there, beauty, and stir a foot if you dare," a voice is heard outside, a pleasant girlish voice; and without knock or ceremony the latch is lifted and a merry face, all smiles and sunshine, roses and dimples, peers in at the half-opened door. "may i come in, and _do_ you mind my fastening beauty to the door-hasp, he is so restive, and always in a hurry to rush off home," and without waiting for permission the speaker trips into the room and kisses lucy on both cheeks, and gives mrs. garside a hearty hug. "why, if it isn't miss dorothy!" exclaimed the good old dame. "my word, how yo' dun grow, miss, to be sure. deary me, an' it only seems t' other day aw held yo' i' mi arms an' nussed yo' o' mi lap, an' yo' a wee-bit babbie kickin' an' croonin' an' little dreeamin' o' what yo'd lost upstairs, an' yo'r father awmost off his head wi' grief--deary, deary, how time dun fly, to be sure. but sit yo' daan, nah do." how beautiful, how utterly bewitching and distracting a picture was dorothy tinker my art would utterly fail to tell. image to yourself a lissom maiden of sweet seventeen, just of that happy medium height that reaches to a tall man's heart, and of that rounded proportioning of form, with outline of graceful curve that company with health and exercise; dream of an oval face in which the blush rose dwells, a rounded dimpled chin, violet eyes dancing with mirth, carnation lips and ivory teeth, and the small head crowned with wealth of auburn hair, rippling in waves like a dimpling streamlet;--dream of all this, and still 'tis but a dream, and only eye and ear could tell you how sweet and dainty a maid was dorothy. men drew their breath sharp when first they looked on her, and young men ravished and betook themselves to poetry and woeful sighs, and wandering far and lone by moonlit ways. "we don't see much of you now-a-days, miss dorothy," said lucy, smiling fondly at her visitor. "an what mak' o' a gown do yo' ca' that?" said the mother. "oh! this, mistress hannah garside, wife of benjamin of that ilk, is my riding-habit and to be respected accordingly. it is, i believe, the only one in holmfirth. neat, isn't it?" "yo' look like a lad i' petticoits. is it quite decent for a wench?" asked mrs. garside, somewhat anxiously. "decent! why, it's the very pink of the latest fashion: the only wear, in fact, though i _think_ i would rather be without the skirt on a windy day. _then_ there'd be an uplifting of hands and a searching of hearts, if you like." mrs. garside only looked half-satisfied. "yo'r th' same, an' yet not th' same," she said. "not the same! hannah, why i should hope not indeed, or my good uncle's money would be sadly wasted, and you know that wilful waste makes woeful want. i know or should know, for aunt tinker dins it in my ear every time i buy a new ribbon or a pair of gloves. the same, indeed! why do you know, hannah, i'm being _finished_," and dorothy dropped her voice as though she spoke a word of doom. "finished?" queried lucy, "finished?" "aye finished, in very sooth. fashioned, moulded, formed taught carriage and deportment, and several other extras at miss holmes's highly fashionable, strictly select academy for young ladies in huddersfield, and thither and thence i ride on beauty every day of the blessed week bar sundays and missin's--but that's an improper word and not to be spoken in genteel society." "a 'cademy! lor, think o' that now," said hannah much impressed "an' what do they larn yo' now, furrin languages i'll be bun." "oh dear, yes! i can already relieve my feelings to my aunt in french that she cannot understand, and which i dare say, would puzzle mons. feugley, our french master, and i know some german words that sound so like swearing that aunt tinker gasps and grows pale when i use them, and i can tinkle on the piano and sing indifferently well for a screechy voice." "that's nooan gospel, my word," put in hannah, stoutly, and lucy held up a reproving finger. "and oh! tell it not in gath, publish it not in the streets of ascalon." "more furrin' parts" groaned hannah. "i can, sh! speak low my voice, bend your heads and lend your ears.--i can dance!" "dance!" gasped hannah. "yes, _vraiment_, which is french or german, i forget which, for of a verity and in good sooth--but they don't know at home. it's an extra extra, dancing is and aunt martha wouldn't hear of it, and uncle declared it was a vanity. but i learn all the same." "how do you manage it?" asked lucy, with an admiring, caressing but wistful look at the beaming face. "why the other girls teach me, silly, in the bedroom. we dance in our nightdresses, when _fraulein_ has put out the gas. but it isn't as nice, they say, as dancing with professor blanc, _de paris, vous savez_." "oh, dorothy, how can you say such things!" and lucy looked really shocked. "but you, lucy, you are altered too. ah! how my tongue runs on. but there, it is such a relief to let it run just once in a way, for at school, it's 'miss tinker, give silence, if you please,' and 'miss tinker, less noise.' and 'miss tinker, cease laughing,' till i'm miss tinkered to death, and you know what it is at home. i vow if it weren't for old betty and irish peggy, i'd soon be competent to conduct a school for the deaf and dumb. yes, lucy, you are altered too; you're stouter and rosier, altogether happier looking, what's come over the child, hannah!" "ah! that's all tom's doing," said hannah, "and god's, mother dear," softly added lucy. "tom?" queried dorothy, "who in the name of goodness is tom?" "why, tom,--oh, tom is just tom," said lucy, "you can't have forgotten him, miss dorothy, you must remember to have seen him." "not a remembrance!" exclaimed dorothy emphatically; "but it's an ugly name enough. tom what? or maybe it's the cat." "ah! now aw see you're only playing, miss," said hannah. "noah, sen yo'? why, wheerivver han' yo'r e'en bin not to see yar tom, tom pinder, yo' know--he's warked for yo'r uncle these how mony years is't, lucy, lemme see, aye these five year an' more, an' if yo' hannot seen him i'se warrant yo're th' only wench i' holmfirth 'at ha not. "but what's this admirable crichton to do with lucy's better looks?" "why, ivverything, if truth be spokken, as ever it shall be i' this haase whiles hannah garsed has a tongue to speik. yo' mind what a pale peaky helpless critter 'oo wor five yer back, none fit to do a hand-stir for hersen. that wer' after 'oo'd worked 'at yor' uncle's for a spell--but that's nother here nor theer. an' then, who but yo'r own sen up an' spak' to yo'r uncle 'at aw could, mebbe do wi' a lodger, an' didn't he come--yo'r uncle, aw meean--an' 'gree wi' me to tak' tom an' do for 'im, an' he--yo'r uncle aw meean--wer' to pay me hauf-a-craan a week for him, at first, an' rise to four shillin' afore tom wer' out o' his writin's, which awm sure it's little enough when th' weshin's considered, an' 'im that hearty yo'd think sometimes he'd eit a man off his horse, not but what he's welcome to all he can howd an' more till it, for aw couldn't think more on 'im nor do more for 'im, if he wer' my own lad, which aw sometimes awmost think he is, an' yar ben that set up wi' 'im, an' 'im so clivver at his books 'at it's as gooid as a sermon an' better nor some to yer th' father an' 'im a argeyfyin' an' a argeyfyin' till yo'd think they'd nivver ha' done." "but what about lucy?" "weel, weren't aw tellin' yo'? weel, at first when he come he wer' a bit shy, like, o' lucy, an' her o' 'im; bud one day, a sunday afternooin it wer, an' th' sun shinin', an' th' sky as blue as weshin'-powder, tom says it wer' a shame o' lucy to be cooped up i' th' haase an' ne'er taste th' taste o' fresh air; an' he just up wi' her in his arms, same as yo'd lift a babby, an' carried her aat into garden, an' th' hedge wer' all thick wi' may-blossom, both white and red, an' he gate a lot, an' made a posy for her; an' after that it wer' a regular outin' for her as long as th' weather held, an' after he'd come fro' th' mill, fit to drop, so to speik, he wer' nivver too tired to gi' lucy her outin'. and then it wer' tom 'at put into yar ben's yed to ha' a cheer on wheels, an' he poo'd it hissen up an' daan th' loin, though lads and lasses, shameless hussies some on 'em, made nowt bud fun on 'im an' ca'd him dree-nurse. bud he sooin garr'd th' lasses howd their tongues an' keep aat o' th' loin--trust tom for that--an' when th' lads went th' lasses followed, trust _them_ for that." "and how did he make them?" asked dorothy, laughing. "oh! weel, he ca's it moral suasion; but it looked uncommon like feightin th' time aw' see'd it. ben says it wer' effectual callin'." "h'm, i don't think i shall like this same master tom of yours. he's a paragon, and i don't think paragons and i quite hit it." "aw dooan't know what yo' meean bi a paragon, miss, but there's a paragon what's a public-haase i' westgate i' huddersfielt, an' yo' nivver wer' further off yo'r horse, miss dorothy, though aw mak' bold to say so. why, yar tom nivver touches a drop stronger nor teea, an's awmost 'verted yar ben, leastwise he tak's nowt no stronger nor whom-brew'd an' _aw_ see that'll nooan hurt 'im." "aye, aye, i see, a paragon, a saint. oh! i can picture him. tall, you say? yes, tall and thin and hollow-chested, stooping, pale, with long black hair as straight as a yard of pump-water; and he turns his eyes up and his toes in, and groans dismally, and his clothes don't fit him, and he wears black cotton gloves on sundays, an inch too long in the fingers, and he goes to temperance meetings and prayer meetings, and regularly to chapel twice on sundays, and attends experience meetings and turns his soul inside out for the world--of aenon chapel--to gaze at. oh! i think i see him now, that quite too precious tom!" "weel, so yo' may, miss dorothy," said hannah with a quiet smile. "he's had his bath upstairs--nivver such a one there wer' sin adam for weshin' hissen all ovver once a week whether he wants it or not--an' nah, aw'll be bun he's mankin' i' th' garden." and hannah went into the back kitchen or scullery at the back of the "house" and, still smiling, beckoned to dorothy. "aye, he's theer, sure enough." and this is what dorothy saw: a young hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs--"it's a windmill," whispered dorothy--"oh! but he's a proper man." "as ever yo'd see in a day's walk," chuckled hannah,--"more o' a samson nor a saint, accordin' to my readin' o' th' scriptur's,--but ther's neer a dalilah o' 'em all 'll ha' to cut tom's hair for 'im, trust owd hannah for that." "h'm, that's as may be," said dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of lucy. "i must run away now, dear lucy; 't will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. i'll come again some day when you're likely to be by yourself. and, lucy, dear, i daresay he isn't at all a paragon. there, now, and don't blush any more, or you'll be struck so." now although from this time forth dorothy tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as mrs. garside said, "promis'us-like" it was not till nigh up upon christmas time, that she ever had speech with tom. and this is how that came to pass. one day, a week or so before yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than workhouse jack presented himself in wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of father christmas. he was met in the yard by sam buckley. "we don't want no hands: we're puttin' no fresh 'uns on this side easter, so off yo' pack abaat yo'r business." "be yo' mr. tinker, sir?" said jack. "nooah," answered sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; "nooah, what do you want?" "isn't this th' spot at tom pinder works at?" asked jack. "aye, if yo' ca' it workin'; some folk 'ud ca' it lakin'. what does ta want to kno' for? no good awm sure." "well, aw'n getten a letter for him." "a letter! who's it fro'?" "aw reckon th' letter tell that for itsen." "well, hand it here, aw'll see he gets it." "it's varry partickler, yo' see," demurred jack. "it's fro' a woman, an' oo' telled me at aw wor to 'liver it to nob'dy but tom hissen, an' 'oo's a woman 'at generally has her own way i' our parts." "well, yo' can oather gi' it to me or wait outside th' gate till he comes aat. yo'll nooan see pinder afore th' mills lose." "tha'rt a liar; aw see 'im nah. hey tom lad, aw want thee!" and jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to tom. buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off. "sithee, tom," almost gasped jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, "sithee, there's a letter for thee. it's fro betty schofield at th' wakey, an' tha's to go back wi me. 'oo'd ha' put that i't' letter, aw wer to tell thee, but 'oo'd no more ink, an' th' pen gate cross-legged." and tom read as follows: "deer tom, this is to let yew 'no at mr. black's bin took vary bad, an's frettin' becos yo' dont com' to see 'im. he's i' bed; wi' a stroke i'th reight side, hopin' you're well which it leaves me, so no more at present from yours trewly, betty schofield." tom's heart smote him. he was conscious that latterly he had been remiss in his visits to his friends beyond the hill. his new life was growing on him, and new interests filling his mind. "is it serious, do you know, jack?" he asked. "moll 'o stute's says another do 'll finish him. he's had two doctors till 'im, an' moll says his constitooshun' whativver 'oo meeans bi that, couldn't ha' stooid one, ne'er name two. but yo'll come, tom, an' betty says yo'll do him more gooid nor physic." it would have been nothing out of the common for a hand to "jack" his work without saying "by your leave," or "with your leave," but that was not tom's way. he sought mr. tinker in the dingy little office, but he was not there,--he might be in the house, someone suggested; and tom made for the house, a mere stride, not a stone-throw from the mill-gate. jack trotted by his side like a faithful dog. "weel, i declare, if there beeant big tom pinder comin' up th' walk, miss," exclaimed betty, the cook, wiping her hands on her coarse apron, "an' as shallockin' a lookin' felley wi 'im as ivver yo' clapped een on," and a knock at the kitchen door coincided with her wondering "what's to do naah!" now dorothy was in the very thick of that daintiest of all household doings the making of pastry for the christmas fare. she was garbed in a pretty print dress, and a white bib and apron, spotlessly clean, became her vastly. her small and shapely hands were cunningly turning the well-greased tins, and shaping the dough within and above a noble array of large and portly tins crammed with the makings of pork-pies and jimping the edges of lesser tins designed for the mince-meat that, not innocent of the flavour of brandy, scented the warm kitchen air. the sleeves of her dress were rolled up and gave play to as white and rounded an arm, with a dainty dimple at the elbow, as ever delighted the eyes of man. her cheek was flushed either with the heat of the roaring fire or confusion at being so discovered by eyes whose sudden glance, quick withdrawn, betrayed a startled admiration more speakingly than speech. "i beg your pardon, miss, but is mr. tinker at home? he isn't in the office, nor about the mill," said tom, whilst jack alternate gaped and sniffed. "can't yo' shut th' door after yo', tom pinder," exclaimed betty, "or do yo' think yo're big enough to do for a door yersen?" "uncle's not at home; he's gone to huddersfield, i think," said dorothy, hastily unrolling her sleeves, and hiding the glistening ivory of her arms. "mrs. tinker, perhaps?" hazarded tom. "and aunt's in bed, as bad as can be with a sick head-ache. a pretty christmas _we_ are likely to have; but is it any message you can leave?" for tom had turned to go, "you look in trouble." "jack here has brought me a message, miss. it's from an old friend, perhaps from the oldest, and it concerns the best friend i have in the world. my more than guardian mr. black, the schoolmaster at diggle, is sick, it is feared unto death, and jack here has won over th' top through th' snow to fetch me to him." "an' dun yo' meean to say, tom pinder," broke in betty, "'at this yer drowned rat of a man 'at stann's theer gaupin' as if he wer mooin-struck an' drippin' all ovver my cleean floor like a leeakin' piggin' 's come all th' way fro' diggle i' this weather 'at's nooan fit for a dog to be aat in." "aye, betty," said tom,--he was a prime favourite with betty of old, and he knew it,--"not so warm as your kitchen, but it was urgent you see, and jack's an old friend too, aren't you, jack?" but jack's eye and jack's thoughts were fixed upon something more to a hungry man's purpose than mere matters of friendship--he had caught the whiff from the oven door--it was the scent of pork pie piping hot. dorothy caught the glance that waywards. "why how thoughtless i am. now, jack, i'm sure, as it's christmas time"--needless qualification--"you can eat some christmas fare. and they're the very first pies i've ever made, and i _do_ hope they'll be nice. peggy, why don't you set some plates?" "and mind yo' hot 'em afore th' fire. its simply beyond all belief how aw've to tell that girl to put hot plates wi' hot meeat, an' cowd wi' cowd, i'steead o' cowd wi' hot an' hot wi' cowd." "and you tom,"--and then with a hesitation as though in doubt, "i mean, mr. pinder, you will take something before you cross those terrible hills?" if dorothy had there and then asked tom to sit down and make a comforting meal of dynamite washed down with prussic acid it is odds that he would have set to bowl and platter with a cheerful heart; but to put knife and fork into a rich brown crust that crunched beneath the blade and to see the hot jelly gush out over the plate and to catch the fragrance of the red and brown pork with judicious blending of lean and fat cut into squares like dice, and to see all this flanked by a crested jug of foaming beer.--oh! don't talk to me of nectar and ambrosia. "yo'r health, miss," said jack, politely and as distinctly as he could with his mouth full, "and yo'rs, too, aw'm sure"--this to betty, whose ample form he surveyed with lingering approval "and a merry chersmas when it comes." but tom, even as he plied his knife and fork heard ringing in his ears the words that some instinct or some dim apprehension or prompting of native delicacy had compelled from dorothy's lips.--"mister pinder". tom had never been called mister pinder before in all his life "gentleman tom" and "dandy tom" he heard occasionally from the lasses of the mill, smarting from that worst of feminine ailments--_injuria formal spietal_,--the quiet unconsciousness of or indifference to advances none too coy. but "mr. tom"--'t was the baptism into a new life, the stirring of a new manhood, his accolade; it fell on his senses as falls the sovereign's sword on shoulder of kneeling knight. it was a new and nobler tom that turned his face that afternoon over the hills to diggle. "go to see your sick friend?" dorothy had cried. "why, of course you'll go. i'm sure uncle would say so, and anyway if he faults anyone, why he must fault me." "an' aw hope his first mince-pie may choke him if he does," wished betty, but kept her wishes to herself. tom was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in the old schoolmaster mr. black had, truly, been failing ever since the sudden and unexpected death of the shrill priscilla some twelve months before. his devoted if exacting sister had gone to that land where there is neither dusting nor teaching, and where she must have received a shaking of cherished convictions if she found any schoolboys. since then her brother had lived alone, cooking and generally doing for himself, save that one of the boys scrubbed the schoolroom floor and scrubbed the desks, in consideration of being put on the school free-list. more and more as the days wore on the schoolmaster had seemed to shrink within himself, and find a placid joy in the not wholly unpleasing melancholy of reflection and regret. perhaps priscilla's faithful girding had been to him like a tonic and an irritant, and saved him from a natural tendency to the introspective absorption of a lonely life. gradually the nightly symposia at the _hanging gate_ were abandoned, much to the wrath of good mistress schofield, who roundly declared that "if th' schooilmaster had nobbut gone theer o' neets, takin' th' best chair, an' sittin' i'th' warmest corner, just to be out o' reick o' his sister's tongue, she for one fun' his room as gooid as his company." perhaps one reason for mr. black's inconstancy might be found in the fact that so long as priscilla lived, he knew there was a shield and buckler between him and the engines and weapons of attack the buxom widow knew so well how to employ. priscilla gone, he felt himself as a city girt round and besieged, but helpless and defenceless, its strong tower razed to the ground. reason be what it might the angle nook of the sanded kitchen knew him no more and the friendly circle had a very sensible gap. and ere long the news, the all but incredible news, spread through t' village, and up the valley, and about the steep hill-sides, that "owd black wer' givin' up teeachin', and what to do wi' th' lads and lasses 'at wer' allus under yo'r feet, or up to some mak' o' devilment till they we' owd enough to go to th' mill, 'ud pass a weary woman's wits to tell." tom felt as he neared the school a strangely depressing air of solitude and desertion. the playground no more resounded to the eager cries of boys revelling in a brief freedom, nor from the open windows came the murmuring buzz of unwilling voices droning in unison the tables of multiplication. the schoolmaster he found in his little bedroom, not in bed, indeed, but looking far fitter for bed than up. to tom's surprise, he found moll o' stuarts in attendance on the sick man. she had, it transpired, carried the citadel of the sick-room by assault and taken possession with characteristic coolness and determination, and there she had announced her resolve to abide till the schoolmaster should be either better or worse. as for her more legitimate profession she declared: "they mun get someb'dy else. onyb'dy wer' gooid enough to bring a fooil into th' world, but it wer' worth while tryin' to keep a wise man in it. th' best of men's poor feckless things when i'th' best o' health, but if they nobbut cut their little finger, they're as useless as babes unborn, an' it were well there wer somebody to look after him, sin' those 'at had most reight to kept away for weeks at a time, an' ne'er cam' near till they wer' sent for." and with this parthian shaft, molly at a sign from the invalid, withdrew, to give jack, who had stayed below, gazing open-mouthed at the maps and globes, the benefit of her pent storm of wrath. "i'm glad you've come, tom. i knew you would, but hesitated to send for you. i know you have little time away from work, and youth companies best with youth when work is laid aside." "indeed, mr. black, i had no notion you were so ill or nothing could or should have kept me away. i would have come to help and nurse you if i had had to break my indentures and go before the magistrates for it." "i know it, lad, i know it; and it was pleasant to think there was one not so many miles away who had a warm place in his heart for the old man. you have been to me, tom, as a son since first i held you in my arms, and i have even thanked god that to my childless life he sent the blessing of one i could cherish and foster as my own." tom could find no words. he pressed the thin and shrunken hand that rested, oh! so feebly, on the arm of the pillowed chair. "and now, lad, that you are here, you must let me say my say, for my strength is waning fast and a voice within tells me my days remain but few. nay, lad, never greet my course is run, my work is done, and the vespers ring for eventide. i do not dread its shadows, lad, for a hand will hold mine when i tread the unknown way. take this key, unlock that topmost drawer and bring me the case you will find there." tom silently, treading softly did the master's bidding. mr. black raised the lid of the little casket and thence a small bundle of letters, their ink now faded to a pale yellow. they were tied together with a thin blue ribbon. mr. black touched them lovingly and sunk into a reverie from which tom made no stir to rouse him. the vacant eyes of the invalid seemed to be looking through and beyond the stalwart youth or to be intent on the unforgotten scenes of a buried past. then with a wan smile and a gentle sigh the faint voice said: "if i die, tom, i trust you to place these with me." then, like a maiden confessing her heart's secret: "ah! tom, even your old dominie was young once--but there was priscilla, you know." and what tragedy of a sacrificed life those letters revealed was never betrayed to the eyes of tom or other man, for unopened and unread they laid upon the faithful, uncomplaining heart that treasured them. "and, now, tom, to business. this you see is my will. a man doesn't die any sooner you know for making his will. when i lost priscilla, a rare woman, tom, but over tender for this world, a matchless woman,--i made a new will. i haven't much to leave, but what there is will be yours. i should like you to keep the books--don't part with them. they have been very precious to me. perhaps some day you will know how precious books can be. i had hoped, fondly hoped, that you would turn to scholarship and take my seat by the old desk--but it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be," and the schoolmaster shook his head sadly. again tom could find no words--what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid's eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian's pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow. "there remains but this," continued mr. black. "you have seen this locket before. it was your mother's. the time has come when i may place it where it belongs. you know its story. wear it ever, and may god in his own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture." tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. "lucy shall twine it about my neck," he said, "and i will wear it ever." "send for moll now. i must lie down. you won't forget moll, when i am gone. she is a good soul, and has tended me well." the old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. there was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man. "read me the twenty-first psalm," he said, presently. but tom's voice failed him, and broke as he read: "'yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'" and tom kneeled by the bedside, and hid his face in the coverlet, nor restrained his tears. and the light trembling hand of him who had so loved him rested on the bowed head, and the feeble voice was raised in prayer and benediction. and the night fell and the "peace that passeth all understanding" entered therein and there abode. chapter viii. the legacy left him by mr. black amounted to no less than a hundred pounds, which seemed to tom a vast sum. mr. redfearn was sole executor of the will. tom took possession of the books,--a few choice latin authors, the greek testament, and many educational works. he selected, besides, a few articles of furniture, of which he made a present to mrs. garside; he did not forget moll o' stuarts. out of the proceeds of the portion of the furniture which he sold, there was just enough to pay for a mourning suit of good broadcloth for himself, and strangely ill at ease he felt when first he beheld himself arrayed in the glossy doeskin. but after the funeral, he had only to wear it on sundays, when most people who could manage it by hook or crook contrived to wear decent suits, mainly of black,--black was the general, if not "the only wear." the reason is not far to seek. among the working-classes the better suit is a very distinct garment from what are called emphatically "wartday clo'es," and is seldom worn except on sunday, and at funerals. there remained the hundred pounds, and the question was not easy of answer, what should he do with it? under the will, mr. redfearn had power to apply the money for tom's advancement in life, even before his majority when it was to pass into his uncontrolled disposition. tom cudgelled his brain so much and so vainly as to the ultimate application of this immense sum that he came to be thankful he could not, as yet, touch the bulk, or he would have been tempted to throw it into the river. he did not get much help from mr. redfearn. "yo' see, tom," said his guardian, "a hundred pounds is a very awk'ard sum o' money. it's summat like a gooise, which is too much o' a meal for one, an' not enuff for two. nah this legacy o' yo'rs is summat i'th' same fashion. it's too much to go on th' spree wi', an' ha' done wi' it, an' off yo'r mind, so to speeak, and it's too little to set up i' business on yo'r own account,--at leastwise i' ony business 'at's likely to suit thee. yo' might start i'th' grocery line, to be sure, but i doubt th' little childer 'ud be feart to come into th' shop if they seed six feet of brawn and muscle behind th' counter. besides they say it tak's a very light hand to weigh grocer's stuff aat to ony profit. i can think o' nowt else. you might go into th' public line on yo'r furtin in a smallish way, an' there's one thing 'at's i' yo'r favour, yo'd nooan want a chuckor aat." tom shook his head emphatically: "nay," he said, "i will never make my living by giving my brother strong drink to his hurt." redfearn laughed, "they'll call yo' 'parson tom' in a bit, lad. but happen yo'r i'th' reight on it. for one gooid word yo' can find to say for drink yo' can find a hundred to say agen it, an' then start afresh an' tack another hundred to it. folk will have it, but them as get's th' leeast has th' best share, an' i'll nivver be one to set a young lad i' th' way o' temptation. but has ta thowt o' onything thi sen?" tom shook his head. "i've thought till i'm almost stalled of the thought of the money." "well, there's no hurry, that's one comfort. th' brass 'll nooan get less so long as it's ith' bank, that's a sure thing. an' yo're not be out o' your indentures yet. tak' yo'r time i' makin' up your mind, an' remember 'at it's th' easiest thing i' th' world to put good money into business, but it's quite another thing getting it back after yo'n once let go yo'r how'd." on one point tom was quite resolved. so soon as his apprenticeship should be at an end, and sooner if might be, he would be his own master. he would not live and die a weaver, nor yet be content even to live and die a slubber. other men had conquered fate and he was resolved that by god's help, he, too could and would. why, the whole valley in which he did his daily task abounded with men who could tell of early privations, of years of patient unremitting toil, of spartan endurance, of privations self-imposed and cheerfully borne, and of a notable success crowning and rewarding in middle life, the efforts of their youth and manhood's prime. and tom felt that he had him the makings of a man and though he had, as yet, unbosomed the inner workings of his soul to man nor woman, being, indeed more given to seek commune with himself rather than another, yet was his mind firmly fixed either to make a spoon or spoil a horn, as the saying goes. but how? he had said nothing at home, as he now considered ben garside's, about his little fortune, and as for the furniture which he had placed in the little cottage, hannah declared, and meant it, that though it was "gooid on 'im to think o' old fr'en's, an' like 'im, 'oo wer' nooan so greedy as to do owt but store th' thin's for 'im, till such times as he wer' wed, and warst wish 'at 'oo could wish 'im wer' 'at he'd wed a lass 'at 'ud put as gooid a shine on th' owd table, an' cheers, an' th' oak-chest an' linen-press and charney-cupboard as 'oo'd done, but that wer' past prayin' for now-a-days." there is no question that in this time of electricity and daily papers, news travels faster than in the times of our grandfathers but it travelled fast enough even then. and somehow it began to be whispered about the village that gentlemen tom "had come in for a fortin'." with that delicacy of reserve which is nowhere more to be found than among the better end of the working classes, neither ben, nor hannah, nor lucy spoke to him on the matter. it was his concern, and if he choose to have secrets from his best well-wishers they were not going to force his confidence; though it cannot be denied that when neighbours questioned hannah on the subject, as she stood with her flour-poke and basket waiting her turn at split's counter of a saturday afternoon she could give to her sibs no more satisfactory reply, than to tell them "to mell (meddle) o' their own business, an' 'ood try, god helping her, to mell o' hers,"--a reply which was no more satisfactory to herself than to her gossips, for it not only brought a discussion of a highly interesting domestic topic to an untimely end, but it deprived hannah of that assumption of exclusive intelligence which is as dear to a woman of conversational gifts as to a newspaper editor. but when tom became aware by many subtle signs that not only had people heard something of his windfall, but that hannah was piqued by his silence he resolved to take counsel with ben. even should he get no better advice than to seek advice. "ah, it's a seet o' brass lad, is a hunderd paands, an' a gret responsibility. aw dunnot think aw ivver seed more nor ten all at onc't, an' that fair med me gip." it was thus ben delivered himself one sunday afternoon as he smoked his pipe before the kitchen fire. "aw knew tha'd do nowt wi'out speikin' to me or yar hannah abaat th' job, an' we thowt no waur o' thi' for howdin' thi tongue abaat it i'steead o' makkin a spreead abaat it waur nor a peeacock wi' it's tail as some 'ud ha' done. an' as for wearin' th' brass o' drink an' wenchin', as some 'ud ha' done; why it wer better for thi' 'at tha' sud ha' had a millstone then raand thi neck an' bin plumped fair i' th' middle o' th' mill-dam." "yes, but ben, i can discover for myself what i should _not_ do with the money; what i want to settle is what i _should_ do with it." "it's safe enew wheer it is, isn't it?" asked hannah, anxiously. "well, it' as safe as the bank, any way," tom assured her. hannah seemed dubious. "aw dunnot ma' mich accaant o' them banks. ther' wer' ingram's, tha'll mind oo', ben, i' hundersfild. it went dahn th' slot an' lots o' folk lost ther brass through it. aw'd just as sooin put my bit i' th' teea-caddy--but we're nivver safe, as th' lad said when he fun' a sov'rin'." ben had puffed his pipe in silence, but now waved the long churchwarden to bespeak attention. "there's yo'r writin's to think on," he said. "yo' munnot forget as yo'r bun' to jabez tinker till y'or twenty-one, an' thof mebbe nob'dy could blame yo' if yo' just went yo'r own gate as if th' writin's weren't ther; still aw misdoubt me th' law 'ud ha' summat to say: an' if yo' once get into th' lawyers' han's aw reely dunnot think yo' need bother yo'rsen abaat what yo' mun do wi' yo'r fortin'." "but, ben, whatever comes i mean to do the square thing by mr. tinker. i've served him faithfully up to now, and i don't mean to end up by doing otherwise. but don't you think he would release me, if it were fairly put to him, and he received some equivalent." "he mote," said ben, "an' then agen he moten't. but ther's no harm i' axin'." "aye, that's just like yo' men," said hannah, "nowt'll do but goin' at a thing like a bull at a red rag. tom mun step i' to th' caantin'-haase, an' say: 'if yo' please mr. tinker, aw'd like yo' to breik mi writin's, aw'n had some brass left me.' nah, that's nooan my way." "well, what is it, hannah?" "sayin's tellin', an' if aw tell'd yo', yo'd be as wise as me. th' question is, what mun tom do when he's free?" "aye, that's it," said tom. "well aw 've my plan, tom, if th' missus, theer 'll let a man get a word in edgeways. nah! hannah, if th'rt fair run daan aw 'll go on." hannah disdained to make reply. "nah! my advice is," said ben, "just go on, as it were, quiet, for the next few months; but i'stead o' bein' satisfied i' th' mill wi' just doin' what tha'rt set to, keep thi een oppen an' tak' th' cotton wool aat o' yo'r ears, if yo' happen to have ony in, an' larn all ther' is to larn at tinker's. he 'greed to teeach thee th' trade o' a clothier, an' aw'll be bun' he has'nt swopped ten words wi' yo' sin a 'prentice yo'n bin an' as for that druffen swill-tub, th' slubber, he might teich yo' th' differ atween th' feel o' a strap an' th' feel o' a pickin'-rod abaat yo'r back, an' that's abaat all. but till th' time comes for thee to oppen aat to tinker, aw'd recommend yo in a quiet way, to larn all tha can. get to know th' feel an' th' qualities o' wool, an' th' prices, an' th' natur' o'th' dyes an' acids, an' aboon all mak frien's wi' th' tuner, an' larn to gear a machine, an' tune it when it's aat o' gear." tom nodded. "weel," went on ben, "as aw'n said. a hunderd paand 's a seet o' brass, an' if yo' know yo'r way abaat yo' can get a set o' machines wi' it--what 'll do for a start ony road i' a sma'ish way, which is th' best rooad an' choose hah! yo'll ha nooa difficulty i' gettin' room an' power, an' what's more, if yo' winnot think awm sayin' one word for thee an' two for mysen, if yo' like to start i' manifactorin' o' thi own accaant, owd ben garsed's mony a yer o' gooid wark in him yet an' he'll be yo'r man, an' that's more nor he'd say for ony other being 'at walks o' two legs atween here an' th' next spot." tom's eyes sparkled with a sudden light, and he leaped to his feet to the imminent peril of his head against the rafters. "the very thing," he cried, "the very, very thing. 'oh! wise king, oh! prudent king'--stupid that i was never to think of it before, couldn't see wood for trees.--lucy, you shall be our book-keeper. let me see--garside and pinder, woollen manufacturers holmfirth. carried unanimously. put it. lucy, put it and hold up both your hands. my word, ben, but you've a headpiece if you like. we'st nivver mend o' that idea if we talk fro' now till doomsday. but will th' money run to it?" "ben 'll ha' considered that," said hannah. "he's a deep un, is ben, an' if he wadn't talk so much wod mak' heead way yet; but it's 'im for goin' round an' round a thing an' under it an' ovver it afore he's made his mind up. yo'n awmost to shak' him to get an opinion aat on him sometimes." "aw waren't long i' makkin' up mi mind abaat one thing ony road th' time aw clapt mi e'en o' thee, lass," said ben, with a wink that comprehended both tom and lucy. "aye, an' aw didn't gi' time to unmak' it, noather," chuckled hannah, and cast a glance at ben that made her look thirty years younger and set him thinking of the days when an apparently chance shaft from hannah's eyes set his heart a pit-a-pat. "aye, lad," said ben, "there's folk started i' this valley wi' less nor a hundred pun', 'at fairly stinks o' brass naah. it's noan th' brass altogether 'at does th' trick; there's more i' knowin' haa to use it, an' more still in knowin' haa to keep what yo' mak' an' turn it ovver an' ovver like a rolling snowball. there's mony a man can mak' brass but it's stickin' to it bothers 'em." and so it was settled that tom should bide his time, making haste slowly, as the roman sage advises, and that, meanwhile, ben should keep his weather-eye open for room and power. and tom was not content with such knowledge as could be acquired in the mill. although his hours at the loom were long enough in all conscience, and he certainly led laborious days, he resolved also to shun luxurious nights, if idling through the evenings with a novel of sir walter scott or doing odd jobs about the house for hannah garside or, in the summer, strolling about the lanes and over the moors could be said to constitute a luxury. he joined the classes at the mechanics' institute and nightly wrestled with the mysteries of euclid, chevied the elusive _x_ through algebraic equations, acquired enough of statics and dynamics to be appalled by the height, depth, and breadth of his own ignorance, and enough of chemistry to bring him to the same conclusion that the highway to ruin would be to trust to his own knowledge of that weird and fascinating science. but if of learning to be likely to be really useful in the career he had marked out for himself, tom attained to little enough, his mind was all the better for the mental gymnastics his studies compelled. the books he conned demanded close application and sustained thought, and so, had he learned nothing from them at all, were an intellectual discipline that would tell in the battle of life, and rescued him from that flabby habit of mind that comes from desultory and random reading. it was noticed too, that about this time tom forsook in some measure his first love, the services of the established church, and became a very frequent worshipper at aenon chapel. ben declared that he couldn't make head or tail of this change from country walks turned to profitable account, as ben conceived, by ben's discursive utterances _de omnibus rebus et aliis praterca_, but more particularly and recurringly concerning the high metaphysics of calvinistic theology. "there's a screw loose, somewhere," he remarked solemnly to hannah one sunday afternoon when tom, after brushing his suit of woe very sedulously and looking more than once in the little cracked glass to see if his tie were rightly bunched and his "toppin" duly "lashed" and parted had sidled rather shamefacedly out of the house with a hymn-book in one hand, whilst with the fore-finger of the other he assured himself that the coin destined for the collection box nestled securely in the corner of his waistcoat pocket. hannah stayed her rocking and smoothed the sheen of her silken apron, but was mute. "aye," continued ben, "aw cannot tell whativver's come ovver th' lad. aw say nowt agen his buryin' his nose i' books e'ery neet, an' hardly goin' to bed till aw'm thinkin o' gettin' up. that's improvin' his mind, that is, at least aw hope so--it's only to be hoped he won't addle it i'th process. but this chapel-goin's beyond me. mind yo', aw nivver said so mich abaat his gooin' to th' church o' a mornin'. he wer' browt up so, and mr. black set a deal o' store on it, so it wer' like honourin' yo'r father an yo'r mother, in a fashion o' speikin'. but, dal me, chapel-goin's like turnin' his back on th' church altogether. what does _ta_ mak on it, hannah?" "nowt," said hannah, and ben knew from experience that the wife of his bosom thought more than she was minded to tell. "if it hadn't been tom," continued ben in a meditative and perhaps something of a tentative strain, "tom 'at's as steady as a booat-hoss aw sud be enclined to speckilate ther' wer' a wench at th' bottom on it. what do'st think, lucy, has he said owt to yo' abaat it?" "no, father. tom has said nothing but that the new minister at aenon 's a very good preacher. one o' th' new school, he says." "aye, aye, aw'n yerd abaat him. 'a wind-bag,' some o'th owd hands ca' 'im. bi all aw can mak' aat he's a trimmer 'at sets his sails to catch the wind o' approval fro' th' upper seats o' th' 'orthodox, orthodox sons o' auld john knox,' an' the gale o' applause fro' th' young 'uns 'at 'ud like to kick ovver th' traces. he's noather fish, nor flesh, nor fowl, nor gooid red herrin'--so folk sen, an' goes on refinin' an' refinin' and explainin' till deacon whiteley says he's refined and explained th' owd trust deed away, an' ther's lots o'th owder end dunnot know whether they're stood o' their heads or their heels. an' they dunnot hauf like th' band o' hope 'at he's started i' connection wi' th' sunday schooil, though aw'll say nowt agen that missen." "it 'ud be a gooid thing if they'd ha' a band o' hope for th' grown-up childer," said hannah. "i fancy from what tom said to me t'other neet--i mean night," began lucy. "neet's gooid enew," interrupted her mother in a sharper tone than lucy often heard. "though awm awmost forced to be dumb, when yo'r father's got owt to say, awm noather deaf nor blind, thank god; an' aw'n noticed lately 'at tom's getten into a fine way o' speikin',--miss nancyfied aw ca' it,--an' yo'r followin' suit. there'll be no livin' wi' oather on yo' sooin if it goes on." "well, what is it yo' wouldn't be capped at?" asked ben, by way of diversion. "if tom joined the band of hope," said lucy quietly, and, one would have judged, sadly. "th' lad's clean off," said ben. "that brass has bin too mich for his yed. wi' most folk it runs to drink, but aw reckon it depends o' th' constitooshun. but, dal me, if aw dunnot don missen up very next sunday 'at ever is, an' gooa wi' 'im to th' chapel an' hear for missen; so, dooant forget, hannah, to ha' me a clean shirt, for aw munnot shame th' lad." "aye," assented hannah, "gooa, bi all meeans, an' if a fooil's advice worth's takkin', please thissen abaat keepin' thi ears on th' pulpit, but keep thi e'en on th' pews." and with this delphic utterance mrs. garside began to lay the little round table for tea, with a clatter that threatened the longevity of the "chaney" cups and saucers that had descended with the family bible, and were almost as venerated. and lucy looked troubled with that trouble that seeks disguise in constrained cheerfulness. "it's a woman, then," said ben to himself. "who'd ha' thowt it, but whooa i' th' name o' wonder can it be?" pursuant to his resolve, ben, the next sunday, volunteered to accompany tom to chapel, to tom's undisguised surprise. "well, yo' see, lad," explained the senior, inwardly congratulating himself on the astuteness of his reply, "what's gooid enough for thee 'll daatless be gooid enough for thi partner 'at is to be." the rev. david jones was a man of middle stature, quick and nervous in his movements, and quick and nervous in his delivery. he had all the fire and not a little of the poetic feeling and imagination of his welsh ancestry. he had the great gift of being able to see and understand the very crux of an abstruse problem and to state it lucidly. then, when you held your breath for the solution, he would break into a rhapsody, and, in a torrent of words, metaphor piled upon metaphor in dazzling extravagance of phrase, he would scale the gamut of the emotions, and close the exordium as in the wild frenzy of an ancient seer. "ther's a gooid deeal o'clout, tom," whispered ben, "but aw'n nooan come to th' puddin'." but ben spoke to ears that heard not. the rhapsodies of the eloquent gael were thrown away on tom. his eyes were fixed on the ample pew in which mr. and mrs. tinker sat erect and listening apparently with much attention to the sermon. mr. tinker's regard indeed, appeared to be more critical than appreciative. "jabez is too owd a bird to be ta'en wi' chaff," thought ben. "th' parson's main clever, reight enough, but there's one yonder's gotten his measure, or awm mista'en." but neither on his employer nor on the severe face of mrs. tinker was tom's wrapt look so intently fixed. by her uncle's side sat dorothy, looking, said ben, in his afternoon account to hannah, "just as if butter wouldn't melt in her maath. she nivver took her e'en fro' off her bible or her hymn book or th' parson, barrin' once, an' if 'oo didn't look plainly at tom then 'oo looked at me, that's all aw can say. but it weren't a look straight out o' her e'en, yo' mun understand, nor wi' her eyes starin' out o' her yead, like some wenches 'll look at a young felly; but just a sort o' a squint aat o'th tail o' her e'en, an' then th' lashes fell part way ovver 'em, an' theer 'oo wer' gazin' at th' parson as if 'ood nivver blinked. it's a mercy 'oo didn't look at me th' same way again, or i'd ha' made a fooil o' missen some road or other, an' chance it. an' tom, why he went as red as a peony, an' his hand trem'led so he dropped a book an' had to scrat it up wi' his feet by reason o'th pew bein' too narrow for him to get his yed dahn to reick it up wi' his hand i' th' ordinary way. aw poised his shin for 'im under th' seeat to make him mind his manners for when aw _do_ go to a chapel aw like to behave some-bit-like, an' after that he listened to th' sarmon as good as gowd." "and do you remember the text, father?" "to be sure aw do, trust me for that. aw gate tom to nick it with his thumb in his book, an aw wer' settlin' dahn comfortable to th' exposition when aw gate th' full blast o' miss dorothy's look, choose 'oo it wer' meant for. it had liked to ha' bowled me ovver, but aw poo'd missen together, an' aw'n getten th' heads o'th discoorse. reick us th' bible, missus. it wer' eighth romans, thirtieth. read it up, lucy." "moreover whom he did predestinate, them he also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified." "nah! i thowt to missen, we're in for it. aw liked th' chap's courage. it's holus-bolus, nah, says i, an' th' owder end they looked up at th' parson wi' a grim sort o' look as much as to say, 'get ovver that if yo' can' an' then they glowered at th' younger end wi' a look 'at said as plain as a pikestaff, 'he's bahn to throw yo' ovver' nah, wi' yo'r new criticism an' yo'r refinin's.'" "an' did he?" asked lucy and her mother in a breath. and it may be just as well to say here and once for all, for the benefit of those who through no fault of their own, to be sure, but to their great loss notwithstanding, have not the privilege of being yorkshire bred and born, that half-a-century ago theological discussion was, among the mill-hands of the west riding, as common as ratting or dog-fighting or as disputing over the form of a foot-ball player in these degenerate days. any fine sunday of the year, if you walked in the country, you would come across a group of men, gravely excited, discussing with acumen, and all the artillery of text and commentary, original sin, predestination, effectual calling and the inefficiency of works. "and did he?" ben shook his head. "he's a deep 'un is yon'. they ca' folk 'at go to church o' a mornin' an' chapel i' th' afternooin, devil-dodgers; but yon's waur, he's a deacon-dodger. he knew as weel as he knew his dinner 'd be spoilin' bi hauf-past twelve 'at ther' wer' owd split an' tommy shaw, not to say jabez tinker, at's happen more charity, just simply waitin' to lay howd on a word here an' a sentence theer to condemn; but he slipped past 'em a'. it wer' clivver aw'll nooan gainsay, but it wer' nooan honest. yo've happen no reight to expect brains i' a parson, but th' leeast he can do is to be honest." "but yo' dunnot tell us ha he han'led th' text," said his wife impatiently. "why th' cream on it wer' this: 'at th' almighty fro' th' beginnin' had foreordained th' law o' righteousness, just th' same as he foreordained th' law o' gravitation an' he elected to salvation them as walked therein, an' them as didn't were rejected. same as th' law o' combustion," he said, "if yo' put yo'r finger i'th' fire god had pre-arranged 'at yo' sud be burned, an' sarve yo' reight." "why that's common sense enough to please you, father, you couldn't find fault with that." "aye' that wer' reight enough; but yo' should ha' heeard th' way he wrapped it up an' dressed it i'th catch words o' th' hard-an'-fast baptists, so as to mak' them o' th' owder end think it wer' all th' owd dish sarved up a bit different. but it wern't; it wer' common sense an' nat'ral religion dressed up to mak' 'em sound like calvinism. he caught th' deacons sleepin', as he thowt, an' stole their clo'es; but jabez tinker saw through him, aw tell yo', an' so did ben garsed, if he _is_ an' owd foo." "and what did tom say to it all?" asked lucy. "tom! aw've no patience wi' tom. he walked all th' way whom as if he wer' dreamin', an' all 'at aw could get out on him wer' 'at pale blue went varry well wi some shades o' yoller. he wer' thinkin o' his dyein', yo' see." "was he for sure?" asked mrs. garside, "which dun yo' think's th' blindest, lucy, a bat or a mole?" but lucy was looking out of the window and answer made none. chapter ix. nehemiah wimpenny, of holmfirth, "gentleman, one of her majesty's &c.," in other words a solicitor, was the only legal practitioner in the village or neighbourhood, and though not more than thirty years of age, enjoyed a considerable practice. his father, ebenezer, had been a successful manufacturer and a zealous methodist. presumably he believed that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven. certainly he shared the common belief that lawyers are very scarce in the celestial regions. but these convictions did not deter him from storing up riches in this world, nor from bringing up his son to the legal profession. perhaps he had confidence in the axiom that exceptions prove the rule. nehemiah was well cut-out for a country lawyer: he had the native shrewdness and common sense, and if he did not know much law he found common-sense a very good substitute for it. his local knowledge was like that of a historic character extensive and peculiar, and his father's acquaintances and business connections who, at first from friendship, gave their business to young nehemiah, had no reason to complain of lack of his attention to their interests or ability to protect them. in person he was of medium height, of sandy hair and pale complexion, with a cold and fishy eye and a cold and clammy hand. he dressed loudly and flashily, but as the extravagance of his raiment was attributed to a twelve months' stay in london in the office of a town agent its fashion or propriety few questioned. he was fond of jewellery, and displayed a good deal of it on his person, and was supposed by envious young manufacturers and merchants to be a "devil among the women,"--a reputation of which he was not a little vain, and which he sustained by the amorous glances and _doubles entendres_ of refreshment rooms and bars. he had spent a week in paris, and hinted that he could an' he would tell a thing or two about the iniquities of the gay city. this did not prevent nehemiah from attending with laudable regularity at the methodist chapel, and anxious mammas with marriageable daughters, secure in the assurance that a reformed rake makes a very passable saint, viewed with complacency the attentions which it pleased this very common-place lothario to pay to the virgins of their flock and fold; and the pastor of zion chapel himself, doubtless reflecting that he was sent to the lost sheep of the house of israel, and to heal those that were sick and not those that were whole, was very tender indeed to a church-member who gave weekly signs of grace in the form of substantial contributions to the collection box, and whose quarterly pew-rent could always be depended on. it is only fair to nehemiah to say that he never permitted his dissipations which were possibly much exaggerated, to interfere with business, and that, however deep his potations of the previous night, he was always to be found at his desk with a clear head and a steady hand, a circumstance, of itself, that secured nehemiah more appreciation in a hard-drinking community, than would have been inspired by an intimate acquaintance with the whole _corpus juris_. among his clients nehemiah numbered mr. jabez tinker, and he was therefore not surprised when the master of wilberlee presented himself in the small, dingy, stuffy office which nehemiah found sufficient for his needs. mr. tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did not go to nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance. "well, mr. tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm, isn't it." "very," said mr. tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the year. but any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, i guess, wimpenny." "rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. it's as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--mr. wimpenny's expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client's countenance was not responsive. "h'm," said mr. tinker. "well, wimpenny, let's get to business. i want to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. i can always alter it?" "yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, mr. tinker, we're all human." "it shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on mr. tinker. "unfortunately, except the house i live in." "snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser. "except that, practically all i have is tied up in my business." "and a very good business too, mr. tinker, by all accounts." "i've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that i did not arrange differently. you see, i've no son to carry on the concern after my death." the lawyer nodded assent. "i must provide for my widow, of course. she must have the house and furniture for her life, and i thought of, say, three hundred a year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel." again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of foolscap. "that's plain speaking," went on mr. tinker, "but where's the £ to come from? that's the difficulty. mills aren't easy to let, and the bigger they are the fewer people want them. i suppose there's nothing for it but the hammer. it's enough to make us tinkers all turn in our graves. but there it is.--even if dick--you won't remember my brother, richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different." "but we all know he left a very charming daughter," said wimpenny with a bow and a smirk. "dorothy's right enough," said her uncle, curtly. "but you can't turn her into a manufacturer. though she's a sort of partner all the same. you know her father died suddenly." of course wimpenny knew. "and her father was part owner of the mill and business. well, the girl's money is in the business still." "phew! that's bad, mr. tinker." "i know it is, and the worst of it, i've kept no separate accounts. i've treated richard's share just as my own. but my will must put all that right. subject to my wife's provision dorothy must have all. there'll be nob'dy else for it." wimpenny did not speak for some time. he chewed the end of his quill instead, a way he had when absorbed in thought. "it's a bad business mr. tinker;" he said at length; "it was scarcely like you to confound accounts in that loose fashion and to put trust money into what was practically your own business. people might call it by an ugly name." jabez flushed angrily. "what do you mean, sir? i treated my niece as my daughter, brought her up in my house as my own child, and now i propose to leave her my sole heiress. nothing very ugly about that, i should think." "not as things have turned out," was the reply, "but you know as well as i do they _might_ have turned out differently, and where would your ward's money have been? however, it's to-day and tomorrow we're concerned with, not yesterday. has it occurred to you that miss dorothy may marry?" "of course she may. one doesn't need to pay six-and-eight to learn that." "exactly," said the unruffled lawyer. "now an adopted daughter and an adopted daughter's husband are often quite two different beings, and should miss tinker marry it's the husband we should have to reckon with." "well, i could pay him out, i suppose?" "of course you could--by selling wilberlee at a sacrifice, a great sacrifice, or by putting a heavy mortgage on the property if it would carry it. we must remember that there are eighteen years of profits to set-off against miss dorothy's up-bringing, and the court of chancery does not weigh trustees' profits in a hair-balance, i can tell you." mr. tinker rose impatiently. "i didn't come here to have you raise difficulties but to meet them, nor yet to be frightened by bug-bears." "now you are unreasonable, mr. tinker. i shouldn't be worth my salt if i didn't put the situation plainly before you. you don't go to a doctor for smooth sayings nor yet for sweetmeats instead of pills. no use getting huffed, you know." but mr. tinker was huffed. he was a tinker and a magistrate, and had been a man of mark these thirty years, and was not pleasant to be told these things by a young lawyer who might have been his son. but he had the good sense to know that what nehemiah said was truth. "ah, well," he said, "i dare say we are meeting trouble half-way. you know what i want doing. i did everything for the best, and i don't know that i care very much what the world says or your infernal court of chancery either, if it comes to that. when will you have the will ready, wimpenny?" "let me see. to-day's monday. say thursday of next week. we close for whitsuntide, you know." "very good, so be it. i'll call in on that day. i'll be glad to have the thing off my mind before the holidays. mrs. tinker's at harrogate, and i was thinking of running over for a few days. till thursday, then," and mr. tinker went his way feeling less comfortable in his mind than he had done for many a long day. "confound the fellow," he said to himself, wiping his brow, "and confound his stuffy little office, too. it's worse than the sweating-room at the bank." left to himself nehemiah wimpenny sunk into a deep reverie; and, to judge from the faint smile that occasionally played upon his face, a not unpleasing one. "so miss dorothy's to be old tinker's heiress," thus ran his thoughts, "and that means probably old eph. thorpe's into the bargain. guess i rather frightened the immaculate jabez with that hint of a probable chancery suit. talk about men starting at their own shadows, as if any possible suitor for the fair dorothy would dream of muddling away not only her fortune, but her expectations by going to law with a man who could leave him or not leave him thousands of pounds just as the fancy took him. should have thought tinker was more level headed. it isn't the money he's frightened of, it's the scandal. these cold, reserved, proud men are always so devilish thin-skinned. wonder who the happy man 'll be.--haven't heard of anyone nosing around." "by jove! why shouldn't i cut in myself? she's a pretty little filly and a high-stepper too. i've had my fling, and it's about time i looked around for mrs. nehemiah. wonder i never meet her out anywhere. tinker keeps her up pretty close apparently, perhaps she doesn't care for high-teas, small talk, and cribbage. shows her sense." "wonder how i can get to know her. no use fishing for an invitation to tinker's. jove! i have it. didn't he say he was off to harrogate to cheer up the old woman. let's see, jabez is an aenonite. h'm, i must sweeten the reverend david--well that's easy enough. pity i don't go to aenon; but that's soon got over. one chapel's as good as another to a broad-minded man. all retail the same blooming rot. i mean they all lead to the same place. different roads to the same city--that's the phrase." "whitsuntide is it, next week? shouldn't mind a run over to scarborough. better than sulphur-water at harrogate, friend tinker. why! there'll be the sunday school treats, band, flags, processions stale buns and coffee grounds. the sportive dorothy's pretty sure to be doing the cheap philanthropic with the kids--and nehemiah 'll be there or thereabouts, you bet." "but i'll make sure how richard left his money. hearsay's all very well, but matrimony on hearsay might turn out a sell. i'll get a copy of his will. but that'll be all right, i fancy. gad, it's dry work thinking. i'll step across and have a tiddley at the crown, and i might as well take little polly that pair of gloves i promised her. heigho, i guess i'll have to swear off lovely pollys, at any rate till the honeymoon 's over." but before the sagacious wimpenny abandoned himself to the delights of gin-and-bitters and the lively sallies of the lovely polly, he dropped a confidential note to his london agent to procure a copy of richard tinker's will and such information as the archives of somerset house could furnish to the interested or the curious as to the residuary and legacy accounts filed by the deceased's executor, mr. jabez tinker, to wit. this missive despatched with his own hand nehemiah turned his steps towards the crown, feeling very much at peace with himself and fully entitled to bask in the sunshine of polly's ready smile. on the way he chanced across the pastor of aenon chapel, who was devoting his morning to calling upon sundry of his flock and getting up an appetite for his mid-day dinner. "good morning, mr. jones the very man i wanted to see. i've a crow to pull with you. won't there be the usual school treat this whitsuntide?" "certainly, mr. wimpenny we'd a special prayer last meeting for a fine day." "well, now, i go to zion. but we nonconformists are not so narrow as our church friends, eh? so long as the good work goes on, that's the main thing isn't it?" "most assuredly, mr. wimpenny, most assuredly. we're only tools in the great worker's hands." "quite so, mr. jones, quite so; my sentiments to a t, only better expressed. now i know these efforts of the sunday school cost money. i'm not good enough to be a teacher; but you must let me help in my own way. i hoped you would have called, as your predecessor did, and asked for a subscription, then we could have had a comfortable chat," and nehemiah slipped a sovereign into the parson's palm. now mr. jones had gone very recently over the list of subscribers to the various efforts and celebrations of aenon chapel, and flattered himself that he knew to a nicety the amount for which every inhabitant of holmfirth "was good;" but he certainly could not remember to have seen nehemiah wimpenny's name for so much as a widow's mite. but perhaps the lawyer was one of those worthy men who do good by stealth and blush to find it known. so he had no qualms about pocketing the coin. "they say open confession 's good for the soul," went on nehemiah. "i was just on my way to have a nip and a snack at the crown--just a glass of bitter, you know"--oh! nehemiah, nehemiah!--"no use asking you, i know. the old vicar, now, always had a glass of sherry with me when we met. but they say you are just ruining the trade, with your temperance sermons and your temperance missions. you mustn't do that mr. jones; for if you shut up public-houses _i_ might as well shut up shop too. well, good day, good day." mr. jones's face was beaming. "do they really say so?" he asked. "of course they do, and mean it. there isn't a publican in the town but would rejoice to have you popped off like an irish rack-renter. oh! by the bye, whose field do you have on monday for your gala? i might manage to have an hour's romp with your youngsters--any road i could squander a few nuts and have them racing for oranges." "mr. tinker has kindly let us have the loan of his paddock at the rear of wilberlee. we've had it for years, till the school almost expect it as a right." "i see, i see--a prescriptive right. a better sort of prescription than a doctor's, eh?" mr. jones accorded the tribute of a smile. "you don't allow your drier studies to dull your sense of humour, i perceive. by the way, the dear children of zion are joining us this year both in the procession and the after proceedings, so you will not be hampered by any sense of a divided duty. i must not omit to thank you for your generous donation, but i assure you we shall value your presence among us more highly than any gift." "don't mention it--a bagatelle. wish it were more. make it yearly. but now i really must be off or i shall miss my snack." "and your glass of--bitter? i think you said," "ah, well, i'll make it mild to-day. that's next to teetotal, you know. again, good day. hope to have the pleasure of an introduction to mrs. jones on monday." "what a very excellent young man," mused the reverend divine, as he scurried through his calls. "i wish brother brown of zion put more fervour into temperance work.--he might win that young man to the cause"--a conclusion mr. jones might have modified had he seen the wink with which the very excellent young man favoured himself as he took the steps of the crown hotel and called for his "usual, and a smile with it, please, polly." "miah's in extra spirits this morning. wonder who's feathers he's been plucking so early," was the mental comment of the slim-waisted damsel as she handed the "usual" with a coquettish air and neatly evaded the proffered salute. "there's someone coming!" she whispered, as she skipped away. "there always is, damn 'em," said that very excellent young man. whit-monday in yorkshire is the saturnalia of the sunday schools, a festival to which both teachers and taught look forward with delighted anticipation. a committee of the teachers and those members of the congregation who are supposed to be musically gifted, select the hymns to be sung at the services and at the halts of the procession on its route, and the discussion and final settling of the hymn-sheets are not always attended by the harmony appropriate to the occasion. the lives of the organist and the choirmaster are made a burden to them, and before the sheet reaches the printer there is often a coolness between ladies who had vowed eternal friendship. the scholars are very zealously drilled by the choirmaster, the girls singing with zest at the "practices," the boys stimulating their attention by pulling their hair, but lifting up their own voices under protest. the young ladies of the sunday school wear a subdued modification of their sunday best at the week-night practices and as they have neither father nor mother to escort them home at the somewhat late hour to which the practices are prolonged, have to make shift with the arm of a blushing and embarrassed teacher from the boys' school, and, to do them justice, the young ladies cheerfully submit to be thus accompanied. if it should be discovered during the homeward walk of this sober minded phyllis and stephen of the mills that their voices go well together, the practising at the school not unfrequently conduces to domestic duets, never, let us hope, to matrimonial discords. an ingenuous bride, not long ago, assured the writer that she simply doted on the sunday school. when asked for the reason, she naively confessed that it was there she first met her billy. as this frank young lady has since sent in her resignation as a teacher, it is to be assumed that she now dotes on billy to the detriment of the sunday school; but she has not thought it necessary to return the time-piece presented to her by her fellow-teachers on the eve of her wedding-day. he must be a very callous individual indeed who does not delight in the sight of the scholars as they marshal under the folds of the school flag, blazoned with the name of the chapel and borne in a somewhat staggering fashion by sturdy teachers who find consolation for their tribulations in the honour of being standard-bearers. even a slattern mother and a drunken father will make a shift at sacrifice to turn the "childer" out decent for the "whissun treat." it is indeed the time of year when the yearly sunday suit is chosen. poverty must indeed have made its home in the house of a yorkshire mill-hand if a white muslin frock and brilliant sash and a new straw hat with bright ribbons cannot be found for the girls, and a new suit, be the material never so rough, for the lads. it is a feast to the eyes to see the young coquettes--a maid of five is often a promising if not a quite accomplished coquette--arrayed in all their glory, conscious of their charms and severely critical of the gowns of their comrades. there is the exhilaration of the strains of the brass band--which in all probability will be comfortably drunk before the day is out; there is the fluttering of the silken banners in the summer breeze, and, above all, there is the consciousness of being the beheld of all beholders. the boys look either bored or ashamed of themselves and wish they were nearer the buns and nuts, for which they are gloomily conscious they will have to pay by submitting to the humiliating exactions of kiss-in-the-ring. every door of the village is open as the long procession winds through the narrow streets, and anxious matrons and elder sisters watch for their own to see the sash has retained its bunch and the flounces have not given: also to receive the soothing assurance that annie or lizzie is dressed as smart as the best of them. then there is the singing of a hymn at the minister's house and before the deacons' and--pleasantest feature of all the day's proceedings--the lifting of the sweet young voices under the window of a sick companion who listens from a tear-stained pillow to the air she may never sing again. the distinction almost compensates for pain. among those watched the procession was ben garside, hannah, and lucy. she had been wheeled to the open door. her father and mother stood on the other side. tom was in his bedroom, "fettling hissen," as hannah put it. ben had put on his better suit, and shaved himself in honour of the holiday,--the last holiday of the year for working-folk till christmas should come again. there were no bank holidays in those days. hannah had put on her somewhat rusty silk dress, and would have scorned to acknowledge that it pinched round the waist more than it did a year before. as the rear rank of the scholars and the last banner disappeared up the street, tom's feet were heard descending the stairs. "tom 'll be for off, nah," said hannah, "pity he couldn't ha' his baggin' so's things wouldn't be lyin' abaat all hours." "now ben," said tom, cheerily, "i'm ready, are you?" "by gosh! aw sud think yo' are ready: stan' ther an' let's ha' a looik at yo'." tom laughed, and stood to attention. "do the creases show very much?" he asked, "i feel like a draper's parcel wrapped in brown paper." it was a great event. tom had got a suit of navy blue serge for the summer, and it fitted him like a glove. "aw mun gi' yo' a pinch for new," said hannah, nipping the upper arm. "an' put a penny in his pocket," added lucy, "for luck." "it should be a shilling if it's to match the pinch," laughed tom, rubbing his arm. "but where's your bonnet, hannah, and your hat, lucy?" "what's ta thinkin' on, tom?" asked ben. "why that we're all going to the field together. i'm going to wheel lucy and stand by her, and you and hannah are to enjoy yourselves with the other young folk." ben protested he wouldn't budge an inch. "not but what he liked to see th' childer enjoy theirsen, but whissunday wer' a heathenish festival an' a relic o' superstition." "but you've knocked off work and donned--i mean dressed yourself," remonstrated tom. "aye at nooinin'. who could wark wi' that blethrin' brass band brayin' up an' down th' street?" mrs. garside looked at lucy. "it 'ud be a treeat for th' lass," she said. "i should like it, but i should only be a hindrance. fancy tom standing by me for hours at a stretch and all the other young men in the field enjoying themselves. take mother, father, and i'll stop at home. no one will run away with _me_." she added bravely, but there was a tear in her voice. "if you stop at home, i stop," said tom emphatically. "besides, as for being tied to your side all the time, when you get tired of me, and mother there's tired of mooning about with ben, we can take turn and turn about. i couldn't enjoy myself a bit if you were stuck here all by yourself, and what's more, i won't try." "well, then, that sattles it," said hannah. "we'll all go, an' th' haase mun tak' care on itsen. awst put mi silver spooins i' mi pocket, an' there's nowt else 'at means owt. nah! ben, stir thee, mon, an' dunnot stan' theer like a stuck sheep." "_aw'm_ ready," said ben, "aw'n nowt to do but don mi cap an' that won't tak me as long as it'll tak' thee to don thi bonnet. tom an' me could go to the field an' be back afore yo' an' lucy 'll be ready." "aw said stir thee. put th' kettle on. what's th' use o' goin' to th' field an hour afore there'll be ony theer. tha doesn't want a whole field to thissen, does ta? we'll ha' us baggin afore we start, an' then we'st ha' th' day i' front on us." "but aw could put mi finger dahn mi throit an' feel mi dinner yet," demurred ben. "it's nooan three o'clock bi th' church." "that's noah odds. aw'm nooan baan to ha' thee worritin' me all th' afternooin becos yo'n nooan had thi baggin, an happen sneakin' off into th' village to get a pint becos tha's a sinkin' i' thi' stomach, an' me lookin' for thi all ovver th' field, wanderin' abaat gawpin' as if aw'd just bin let loise aat o'th 'sylum, an' thee stuck at th' _cropper's arms_ as large as life, makkin' a beeast on thisen becos it's whissunday. nooah! if yo' dunnot want yo'r baggin nah, yo' mun ha' it agen yo' do want it." hannah's feet and hands had been as busy as her tongue. she had turned up the skirt of her gown and put an apron over all, spread the cloth, fetched up the bread and the butter, cut and spread thick slices for herself and the men, and thin ones for lucy, washed the lettuce, radishes, and shallots, smoothed the top of the salt-cellar, set tom to toasting a couple of currant teacakes, produced a jar of raspberry jam and mashed the tea before you could say jack robinson. "aw've getten a caa-heel for thi supper, an' tha can bring thisen a pint o' timmy (best ale) for supper as it's holiday time," she conceded to ben, evidently in great good humour with herself at the prospect of their outing. and so as the large field near mr. tinker's house--there was but a privet hedge separating it from the house garden--began to fill, as the boys and girls gathered from their respective school-rooms, flushed from their hasty tea-drinking, the lads not without a guilty consciousness of a filched bun bulging their trousers pocket, as the brass band played their final tune before withdrawing to the nearest inn to partake of something better than "spotted dick an' washin'-up watter," as a member irreverently styled the scholars' repast, ben garside sauntered into the field trying to look as if sunday school treats were an every-day occurrence of his life, hannah sailed behind, whilst tom with lucy brought up the rear. there grew a large beech tree on the slope of the ground, and under its full-leaved branches tom drew the chair in which lucy sat, her cheeks faintly tinged with a delicate bloom and her eyes sparkling with the unwonted excitement. her mother raised her to a sitting posture and settled the cushions and wraps as only she could, and "theer yo' are, lass," she concluded, with a fond look at her darling child, "theer yo' are as right as ninepence." but the mother's heart was full as she remembered the day, but as yesterday, when lucy's little feet would have skimmed the greensward light as a fairy's dance. but hannah was not long suffered to indulge in reflections sad or otherwise she was a popular character in the village, and everyone knew that hannah's bark was worse than her bite. soon the good wives of the village began to stroll about the field, scanning each others' dresses, and exchanging kindly greetings, whilst their good men sought secluded corners where they might enjoy a furtive pipe, and talk over the topics of the day; the serious minded discussing the last sermon, the pugnacious revelling in the shortcomings of parliament and the misdeeds of ministers. a small group gathered round lucy's chair, some of them rosy-cheeked young lasses, who had worked with lucy in the mill, and who now brought up their young men to be exhibited with all the pride of conquest. and lucy had a smile and pleasant word for all, and many a strapping swain, as he lounged past the nook where lucy held her little court and let his glance dwell upon the delicate face with its refined and chastened beauty, knew rebellious thoughts against the fate that had put the crippled girl beyond the sighs and vows of man; and grey-headed grandsires, bent with age and toil, recalled the former days when they had suffered and striven for the easier lot their children owned. "eh! but it's gran' to see yo', hannah," one would say, "why aw declare aw hannot seen yo' donned up an' aat sin' we put owd susan o' 'lijah's under th' graand. an' yo' do looik weel to be sure, an' aw will say 'at if theer's a woman i' th' village 'at does her clo'es credit it's yo', hannah. and your lucy, too, aw declare oo's quite a colour. yo're lookin' mony a pund better nor th' last time aw seed thi, lucy, an' tha mun keep thi heart up, lass, theer's no tellin' yet. see yo' hannah, theer's yar jud (george) an' yo'r ben t'other side o'th' field, an' jud's shakkin' his fist i' ben's face, an' ben's dancin' like peeas on a bake-ston'. it's them plaguing politics, but they're enjoyin' theirsen. an' theer's yar 'tilda yonder i'th' kiss-i'th-ring an jim sykes after her. run, lass, run--eh! he's caught her. th' clumsy felly, he'll rive all th' clo'es off her back. gi' 'im one an' get it ovver. eh! it fair ma'es one young agin to see th' young folk enjoy theirsen." lucy had insisted on tom joining the revels of the field, the gay and innocent sports of the youths and maidens, and her eyes followed him as he joined in the games at "tirzy," hand ball, and what not. but tom's thoughts seemed elsewhere, and lucy knew that his eyes wandered from the laughter-ringing throngs to the rustic gate that led from wilberlee to the pasture land. "he's watching for dorothy," she thought, and there passed, maybe, a shadow over lucy's gentle face, "and there comes dorothy herself. ah! well, i knew it long ago. god send it may not spoil our tom's young life." there was a rush of twinkling little feet to meet the young mistress of wilberlee as she passed slowly through the gateway, and moved into the field, clad in a loose gown of sprayed muslin of palest blue. she swung her hat in one hand that the soft cool air might play about her face, and the rays of the declining sun gleamed upon the auburn tresses, and gave them a golden sheen. a dozen youngsters danced up to her, shouting their childish welcome, and more than one little toddlekin did dorothy catch up in her arms and kiss. they danced round her as she walked up the field, or clasped her hand to claim her for some favourite game. and dorothy smiled down upon the uplifted faces, and made feint to run away from them, but was captured and prisoned in their midst. and so, surrounded by bright and happy faces, dorothy moved about the field, speaking to many, and giving a pleased recognition to all she knew,--and there was not a man or woman of aenon chapel she did not know, not a worker at her uncle's mill she could not address by name. "as free as th' air, miss dorothy is," said one, "but she never demeans herself nor forgets she's th' young mistress." and the hands respected her, the more for it. the working people of the mills knew their place, and were not ashamed of it, nor servile to those above them. they did not care that anyone should assume a familiarity they knew must be feigned and which they were bound to suspect. the rev. david jones was in his glory. he had shaken hands with everyone there above the age of thirteen, had inquired about everyone's health as though he loved them, and their pains were his, had narrowly escaped being decoyed into a game at romps, and had looked as though he liked it when a hand-ball knocked off his hat. this did not prevent him confiding to mrs. jones, a placid little woman who took life serenely, that he should be glad when it was all over. as the afternoon wore to evening and the pastor, wearied of parading the field and repeating stale vacuities, he saw, with the pleasure we experience when we realize what we had hoped for rather than expected, that young wimpenny had not forgotten his half-promise of a day or two ago. wimpenny was speaking to the minister of his own chapel, a meek, timid man, but hard-working, sincere and self-sacrificing, beloved of little children and their mothers, and for whom even the hard-hearted operatives had a good word. the lawyer was not long in making his way towards mr. jones. "you see i have been able to come, though i'm afraid i'm a late scholar. won't you introduce me to mrs. jones?" and the introduction was duly made. the three paced together through the changing throng, parted occasionally when some eager urchin, in full cry after the flying ball, darted under the parson's arms or a breathless daphne, with ringlets streaming in the breeze, fled in simulated fright from a pursuing swain. "miss tinker seems to be enjoying herself," said nehemiah to mrs. jones, after he had duly admired her own numerous offspring whom she had indicated in various quarters of the field. "is she as nice as she is pretty?" "yes, she is very nice, and seems fond of the people. she spoils the children though,--my husband is sometimes a little put out. she does not take life seriously enough, she says, and he is vexed she won't be baptised, though she is quite old enough to become a full church member. i asked her if she had religious scruples that mr. jones could assist her to banish; but she only laughed and said the immersion costume of the girls was hideous enough to account for a bushel of scruples without searching further. but then you know she is mr. tinker's niece, and i daresay she is indulged too much at home." nehemiah did not think this very likely, but, all the same, he replied that it was a great pity. "do you now," he said, "i have never had the pleasure of meeting miss tinker in society. she doesn't go out much. i fancy. would you mind----?" "certainly, mr. wimpenny, if you wish it. see, she is resting now and fanning herself with that outlandish hat of hers. shall we join her?" and presently the diplomatic wimpenny was making a somewhat exaggerated bow before the heiress of wilberlee. and tom's eyes followed the graceful girl as she walked by the side of nehemiah, chatting gaily and seeming well content with his companionship; and tom plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stalked moodily with clouded brow about the field, deaf to every entreaty from tempting lips to "choose the girl that he loved best," and feeling that for him life had lost its zest. the blue of the sky was dulled, the music of the lark soaring in the azure might have been the cawing of the rooks, and the gentle summer breeze that scarce stirred the leaves an icy blast from eastern shores. "what a fool i am, crying for the moon. i, tom pinder, apprentice to jabez tinker, esquire and justice of the peace. go to yonder rosy faced weaver with sparkling eyes and towzled hair. _she_ will lend a ready ear, you can send her home to-night, her heart in a tumult of delight; in her dreams heaven will open to her, and she will wake with your name upon her lips. or go down yonder to the _clothiers' arms_. there are some jolly fellows there, and you will be all the more welcome because you have been set down as a strait-laced, sour-faced curmudgeon with lead in your veins for blood. go drink with them and join in their drunken chorus; better that than eat your heart out after fruit that is not for you." and so with head down-bent he makes for where he had left hannah and lucy; and in his abstraction nearly walks into wimpenny and dorothy. mrs. jones had remembered the wise saying that two are company and three are none. "mind where you're walking, will you?" exclaimed wimpenny, cut short in a very flowery compliment which dorothy was perhaps not sorry to have curtailed. "i beg your pardon, miss tinker, i'm afraid i was very careless. i did not see. i was thinking." "now that is not a very gallant speech, tom--i mean mr. pinder. mr. wimpenny would have assured me that he never thought at all except of me, and that he would have divined my presence by instinct a mile off." but wimpenny was not to be rallied into good humour. he had put on a very tight-fitting pair of patent-leather shoes, and he suffered from the usual infliction of those who wear tight boots,--and tom had grazed his foot. "mr. pinder! indeed," he thought, "why, damme, it's one of old tinker's mill hands." now tom, having made his apologies to dorothy, was for pursuing the tenor of his way, being by no means disposed to offer any to mr. wimpenny. "oh, you mustn't go, mr. pinder, you must take me to lucy; but first you must help me to gather some flowers. you know paris so well, mr. wimpenny, and must excuse my accent. shall i say _au revoir_ or _a bientot_, and without waiting for a reply she turned in the direction of the garden at the house, leaving nehemiah dumbfounded. "curse the jade," he muttered to himself, "chucked over for a dirty weaver, by jove. but i'll be even with her yet. it doesn't do to play tricks with miss dorothy, and so you'll find some day. but i can bide my time. i'll go and have a drink at the _crown_, polly 'll be glad to see me anyhow." and tom walked as in a dream. the sky was blue again, and the lark trilled a clearer note, and all the earth was glad in its summer joyousness. chapter x it is one thing for a maiden to invite a young man to a garden, and quite another to know what to do with him when she gets him there. it would have puzzled dorothy to say exactly why she had asked tom pinder to help her cull flowers. the ostensible pretext given had been the gathering of a bouquet for lucy; but we all know that a woman's ostensible pretexts are--well, ostensible pretexts. for one thing dorothy had had enough of nehemiah wimpenny, and wanted to be decently free of him for the rest of the day. she had wearied of the mild pleasure of poking fun at his french. but in truth dorothy had acted from impulse and regretted her words all the more when she saw the sudden light of glad surprise that sprung to tom's dark eyes. but there is safety in numbers, reflected dorothy. the back door of the house was not locked. dorothy looked into the kitchen, into the parlour,--neither betty nor peggy was there. she called their names at the bottom of the staircase, whilst tom bided in the garden, but there was no answering cry from betty or from peggy, those handmaidens having very properly conceived that whitsuntide comes alike for bond and free, and betaken themselves, in gay attire, to the delights of the field. peggy, at this moment, indeed, was flying, with fleet foot, from the outstretched arms of an amorous young butcher, who 'livered the daily joint at wilberlee, and the staider betty was listening with all too ready ears to the somewhat halting wooing of the village constable, who, even in plain clothes, was still a proper man and had, perhaps, a prophetic vision of a village-inn with himself as keeper of order and the purse-strings, and betty as buxom but bustling hostess. "it is very tiresome," said dorothy, as she returned to the garden where tom was pretending to be wrapt in the contemplation of the beauties of a _gloire de dijon_, "i did so want a cup of tea, but betty and peggy have played me truant. don't you think, mr. pinder, you had better go find them, and say i want one of them, no matter which, very particularly." but tom had taken possession of the handbasket and the scissors, and was oblivious to hints. "some of these blooms want cutting very badly," was his only answer, "they will fall in another day." then there was silence save for the clicking of the scissors, the humming of the bees, the good-night song of the birds, and the laughter and cries from the field. unconsciously, as the basket filled, the steps of dorothy had turned the gable of the house. the merry crowd was hid from view. the garden here sloped to the river side, and by its brim was a rustic seat. dorothy sank upon it weariedly. "i confess i'm tired," she exclaimed "i seem to have been on my feet for a week," and she put out the tiniest point of a shoe-toe and contemplated it ruefully. "now, what do you mean, mr. pinder, standing there swinging that basket like one of those boats in a fair that make you dizzy to look at them? can't you find a seat somewhere?" tom looked all around. he might have found a seat by climbing on the branch of an adjacent tree. some such thought may have crossed his mind, for by that magic of association that passes the wit of man came to him the couplet that he had read long ago: "fain would i climb, but that i fear to fall," with its answering "if thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all." tom did not climb. he sat instead on the edge of the garden seat, as far from dorothy as space permitted. "i wish you wouldn't call me 'mr. pinder'," he said. "i never feel quite sure you are not making mock of me." dorothy had taken a rose from the basket and was looking for leaves to bind it with. "well you see, you are getting rather too big for me to call you tom. and besides, you are a man now, and besides, oh!--lots of things." this did not seem very lucid. tom went on: "i was never called 'mr. pinder' in my life till you called me so. then i was very glad and very proud. it put new thoughts into my mind. it was like a 'new birth,' as the chapel-folk might say. but it has done its work now, and i should like once more to be plain 'tom' to you." "well, plain tom then be it, if that will please you; but we really must be going, or we shall miss lucy. hark! many of the people must have left the ground already. i can hear them talking as they go past the mill. bring along the basket, tom, and don't spill more than you can help." "i don't think i should take the flowers to lucy in the field. people would say you favoured lucy more than other folk's children." "and what do i care what people say; i do like lucy more than any other girl in the village." "i was not exactly thinking of what you might care about miss. i was thinking more of what lucy would feel." "oh! of course," said dorothy, not without a suspicion of pettishness in her tone. really, this young man was too frank. to say exactly what one thinks is no doubt commendable in the abstract. but then we should be careful to think only what will fall pleasingly on the ear, if we wish to please. "oh! of course," said dorothy. tom felt he had blundered. "the air comes very sweet and fresh from the hills" he said, to change the subject. "how clear the stream looks to-night and how softly it warbles over the stones." "yes," assented dorothy, "i love the river when its waters are crystal as now; but you know it is so seldom we see it so bright and sparkling. the dye-water from the mill makes it all the colours of the rainbow, but you take care the colours are dirty enough." "there's something i wanted to tell you, miss dorothy," said tom, after a lull in the conversation which both felt to be embarrassing. "well?" "you see, miss dorothy, i shall be of age soon." "really! well that seems to me a thing you need not look so solemn about. it happens to everyone, more or less, if they live long enough. i shall be of age myself someday, i dare say, but i will try to bear it submissively, if not cheerfully. you'll get over it, tom. you may even in time get used to it." "yes, but it will make a great difference to me. for one thing my apprenticeship to your uncle will be at an end." "oh!" said dorothy, "well, i should think you'll be glad of that. uncle is sure to want you to stop on at the mill--i know he thinks well of you." "it is very good of him" said tom and smiled as he thought of the day when his master had lifted his riding whip in quick, passionate anger. but that was long gone bye. "but i don't think i shall stop on, in fact i'm sure i shan't." "you won't leave holmfirth, will you, tom?" and she was surprised at the interest with which she awaited his reply. "you see," said tom, slowly, and colouring as if he were confessing to a crime "i've had a bit of money left and ben and me, that is ben and i." "oh! bother the grammar" cried dorothy. "ben and me's going into partnership, and there's a little mill at hinchliffe mill where we can get room and power. higher up the river, you know. we will try not to send you more dye-water down stream than we can help. i shall always think when i draw the plugs that the water will pass your window, miss dorothy." tom was distinctly improving. "it's a great venture," said dorothy gravely. "a very great venture. i don't mean so much for you, you have all life before you, but for ben, and what hurts ben will hurt lucy. you see other people besides you can think of lucy." now there was a piece of malice here, but dorothy thought she could now cry quits. "yes, it's a venture, miss dorothy, a great venture. it is one that perhaps would never have been made if you had never called me 'mr. pinder,' so don't throw cold water on our scheme. but it isn't just that i wanted to talk about. there's something more." "'pon my word, tom, you're worse than the brook. the teachers have come and the teachers have gone, but you go on for ever. but in for a penny, in for a pound. what more is there?" "well, ben and i have talked it over and over. don't think me a pharisee, miss dorothy, but we're going to try to run the mill on new lines." "h'm; that sounds like adding venture to venture, doesn't it?" "perhaps: you see, ben and i both belong to the working class." dorothy bent her head in a somewhat hesitating assent. "i suppose so," she said. "and we know something of what working folk have to put up with, how hard they have to work, and how little they often get in return." "come to that," said dorothy, "i dare say a masters' lot isn't quite a bed of roses. you'll find that out soon enough for yourselves i'm afraid." "granted," said tom, "but fat sorrow's better than lean; but i don't mean to be a master." dorothy rose. "it is later than i thought. betty must have come in by this, or peggy. and the field's well-nigh deserted. whit-monday's come and gone, tom, and i must e'en go too. you must take the flowers home to lucy, and give her my love. say i will call for the basket some fine day." but tom ventured to touch her arm as she made as though to go. "nay, miss dorothy, i would i might say my say--but, perhaps, you don't care to know our plans?"--this wistfully. "oh! but indeed i do. just five minutes then. and indeed it is vastly pleasanter here than indoors. no more romping for me this day," and dorothy sat down again. "i said just now i did not mean to be a master, ben and i are indeed going to add venture to venture. you know something about co-operation?" "why, what a question! of course i do. doesn't mr. thorpe tell us every time he comes to see my aunt that the co-op's ruining him--and serve him right, betty says. aunt says that things at the co-op are nasty without being cheap, for what they give you in 'divvy'--isn't that the word?--they take out in quality. i hope you're not going to start a co-op, tom. i really cannot fancy you in a white apron, simpering over a counter and asking me 'what's the next article, miss?'" "then you would give us your custom?" he asked with a smile. "oh! perhaps i might sneak in occasionally for a trifle--for lucy's sake, you know." "but you forget, i told you we had taken part of a mill at hinchliffe mill. it's there we're going to have _our_ co-op." "isn't it rather out of the way? fancy, having to send all that way for a pound of candles. oh! i beg ben's pardon; there'll be no need of candles with such a luminary as he in the shops. you'll be selling philosophy by the yard and theology by the stone. but seriously, tom, i don't see what a co-op has to do with a mill." "and that's just what i want to speak to you about. you see ben's a socialist, and all his life he has been crying out against capitalists and capital. now he declares i want to turn him into a capitalist for we are to be partners in this venture upon a venture." dorothy shook her head. "i'm just as much in the fog now as ever," she said, "i see if i want to know anything about this wonderful new departure i must ask lucy. do get on; you and your co-op that isn't a co-op after all. but you will not be a very bloated capitalist, will you, tom?" she concluded mischievously. "we aren't going to be capitalists at all. i'm just going to start the concern with my bit of a fortune--it doesn't look so much of a fortune as it did, now i know what a little way it will go. but any way ben and i are going to work in it, side by side with the hands. we are all going to be hands together. of course, in a sense, there'll be a master; but he will be a master in a different sense from what we're all used to. every one of us that can do a full man's work is to have an equal share in the profit, always provided he does the work he is capable of. there will be shorter hours and less work for the youngsters. but the share of all will depend on the profits we make, and no one is to have a greater share than another." "but that seems ridiculous, tom. if you are to turn manufacturer like my uncle, why, you must be a manufacturer. you will have to go to market as he does, and meet and bargain with your customers, to dress like them, to mix with them as an equal. how can you do that on the lines you are laying down? i am only a silly girl, may be, and certainly i don't know much about business, but go on,--this grows interesting." "i know the difficulties, miss dorothy, but the difficulty will not be in ben, and i hope not in me. the difficulty will be in getting a sufficient number of men, capable, reliable, sober, industrious men who can be brought to see that in our scheme there will not only be an escape from the thraldom of the capital they denounce so hotly, but a realization of that equality and fraternity for which men and women have gone to their graves like bed. the difficulty will be to persuade men not merely that they will be better off themselves, but that they must be content to take part of their wage in seeing a worse workman than themselves better off too. labour is just as selfish as capital. but in our mill no matter what a man's allotted task, so long as he does his work faithfully, he shall share and share alike." "but that seems just a little absurd, don't you think?" asked dorothy, now genuinely interested. "you must make all this clear to me. you don't mean to say that if you, say, are the designer or the traveller, you are to draw no more profit out of the concern than a teamer?" "that's it, exactly--not a stiver. we're all to be partners together. we'll know neither master nor man at our mill. we're going to try an experiment in grim earnest, and oh! miss dorothy, for heaven's sake, don't shake your head and look so glum about it. i feel sure we can succeed. we _will_ succeed. i am young and there is no hardship, no sacrifice, no work for which i am not prepared. perhaps i might get a situation under another; perhaps in time i might start on the usual lines and perhaps in time i might make a fortune for myself. but will it not be a grander thing and in itself a better, a more heart-satisfying future should we be able to gather round ourselves a band of workers, all knit together not merely by the selfish bonds of personal interest, but each rejoicing that he is advancing, too, his brother's welfare, and that in his well-being and in his well-doing each and everyone of us is concerned." tom had risen in the earnestness of his soul's unburthening, and now paced the narrow strip of gravelled garden path which skirted the river-bank. his eyes were lit with unwonted fire, a flush was on his cheek, his voice gained strength and cadence as the long-pondered thoughts forced themselves to utterance, and the natural unstudied motions of his hands kept harmony with the spoken word. "oh! miss dorothy, it may all be a dream, but if a dream it be, surely it is such a one as was dreamed by the lake of galilee or the slopes of olive's mount. is it not meet that old men in the time to come should dream dreams, and the young men see visions. had ben garside, good, staunch, true man that i know him to be, had not he dreamed dreams and seen visions could he have had it in his heart to strive and suffer as i know he did, not for himself but for the oppressed ones of his class. and shall not we of a newer time have _our_ visions, and mine is of a glad day when the band of man shall be against his neighbour, when this unresting, cruel strife of brother seeking to outvie his brother, building ever the fabric of his success upon the undoing of another shall cease from the land, and the kingdom of which seers have dreamed and prophets foretold shall be indeed at hand." dorothy gazed in wrapt regard at the young enthusiast. she drank in the music of his words with greedy ears, and they sank into her soul. never had man so spoken to her before. words like these, if spoken at all, were not, in her experience, words for every day life. they should be reserved to be voiced on sunday from the pulpit and devoutly ignored and disregarded on the monday. but as the unpent stream of cherished conviction flowed its impetuous course dorothy felt that she too was being swept with it, and forgot that she was the daughter of a proud and exclusive race, and he who paced before her with rapid, agitated stride, the humblest of her guardian's henchmen. but withal dorothy was a practical common-sense young woman, and as little likely as any of her very practical sex to forget the stern necessities of work-a-day life, in a momentary abandon to the transcendental schemes of an enthusiast. "don't you think we had better know more about your co-op?" she said. "these grand ideas may be all very well as abstract theories. i want to know how you propose to put them into practice and live. i seem to remember that st. john not only permits dreams and visions to you men; he also allows us daughters to prophesy." "well?" "now i venture to prophesy that if you and ben set about your new venture in the manner you seem to have contemplated, it is not only good-bye to your small fortune, which, perhaps wouldn't matter very much--but it would be to handicap you at the very threshold of your life with the deadening sense of failure, and perhaps fill your whole future with the bitterness of blighted hopes and unrealized aspirations. now i think i can suggest to you an attainable utopia. it would not, perhaps, be such a neck-or-nothing affair as yours, but it should have enough of other-worldliness in it for a sane man." tom sat down again by dorothy's side, but this time he did not take the edge of the seat. his nervous shyness had vanished in the abandonment of his speech. "ben says women can neither see nor feel an inch outside their own doorsteps," he said with a smile. "and a good thing for men, whose wives at all events are centred in their homes and families. but i am not ben's wife, nor--nor anyone else's," concluded dorothy lamely, flushing slightly at some unspoken thought. "and what is your attainable utopia, miss dorothy?" asked tom, very quietly. "well, you must let me think, and, as it were, feel my way to a conclusion; for to tell the truth i have not read or thought much on such difficult problems as the subject seems to bristle with. tell me, at our village co-op doesn't a member's dividend depend on the amount of his purchases?" "i believe so." "and, roughly speaking, doesn't a man's spending power bear a sort of proportion to his earning power?" "practically, no doubt." "then you see that practical co-operation benefits a man according to his ability and application." "clearly." "well, i think that is right. now if i understand _your_ principle of socialism it makes no distinction between the skilled and incapable. granting only equality of industry you reward all alike. now that is not common justice." "i think it is," said tom, stoutly, "a man can but do his best." "all the same, it isn't. take the case of a man, a designer, say, in a mill, or a lawyer, or a doctor. he devotes money, time, and the hard sweating of his brains to becoming master of his calling. whilst he is studying he is earning just nothing at all, in fact less than nothing. when he is qualified for it he rightly expects to be better paid than a man who knows how to handle a spade or pickaxe when his life of toil begins, and knows just as much and no more when his life ends in the workhouse or the grave." "you say 'rightly expects,' why rightly?" asked tom. "because when the skilled and educated labourer in whatever sphere you like _does_ begin to be paid it is common justice that he should be paid, not merely for the present years of harvest, but also for the years of seeding, cultivation, and growth. it is merely the analogy of the farmer. it simply means that the toil of preparation is paid for at a later day. it is payment deferred, but none the less payment of what is justly due. now your navvy or artisan gets his payment from the first day he touches the mattock or throws a shuttle." "there seems some justice in what say, miss dorothy; but i thought you were going to show me the way to your attainable utopia." "so i am. i should imagine that the current rate of wages is very much the measure of a man's comparative worth in this life-absorbing soul-cramping pursuit of wealth you call business. when these are paid and other outlays deducted, there remains, or doesn't remain sometimes, what the capitalist calls his profit?" tom nodded. "and it is against this profit your sensitive soul rebels, your dainty fingers will not touch?" "if it pleases you to put it so, miss dorothy." "then quell your soul's rebellion, let not your fingers touch. distribute your profit among all the workers in the concern, yourself and ben included, for i suppose your stomach will insist on its elemental right to be filled; but distribute to each a share of the profits proportioned to his wage. for taking it that a man's wage is a rough and ready measure of a man's share in building up the wealth, so, too, would it be a rough and ready method of determine your share in the profits. and now most potent, grave, and reverend seigneur, thy hand-maiden hath spoken, and lud-ha'-mercy, 'tis sick to death i am of long faces and your miserable economics. did ever before a young man lure a maiden to flowery bower and discourse to her sweet--political economy! i warrant you have smoother sayings for lucy's ear. and, now, good-night. i heard betty shouting for me down the paddock this quarter gone. don't forget my love to lucy." and dorothy tripped away, and tom made homewards, carrying the basket very tenderly; but the rose that dorothy had toyed with and cast aside he picked up, pressed to his lips and hid in his pocket-book. someone found its yellow leaves years afterwards, and made-believe to be jealous because of them. "law! betty," said dorothy that night, as she uncoiled the tresses of her gleaming locks. "i declare your tom pinder is as mad as a hatter; and faith, i think it's catching." "smittling, yo' meean, miss. well, some ailments be if yo' bide _very_ near them as has 'em." and ben and tom sat long that night talking over their plans for the near future. ben conceded there was something in what miss dorothy had said. "by gow, who'd ha' thowt yon' wench had it in her, to pounce reet daan on th' weak spot, what yo' may ca' th' flaw o'th system, all in a jeffy like. but she's a head piece in a hundred. it'll be her uncle 'oo favvers, for her father had more heart nor yead." "an' what for should'nt dorothy see what yo' two men blinked yo'r een at?" asked hannah indignantly, "haven't aw towd yo' scores o' times 'at a woman 'll lawp ovver a wall whilst a man's gooin' raand gropin' for th' gate. aw'm fain someb'dy can ding sense into oather on yo'--it doesn't matter which, for what one on yo' says t'other 'll swear to. if 'oo's persuaded tom theer 'at ther's sich a thing as lookin' after other folks consarns till yo'r own's gone to rack an' ruin, it's more nor e'er aw could do bi thee, ben. happen aw'd ha' had more chance if aw'd tried afore we were wed i'stead o' after, but ther's no tellin'. some folk are born so; an' ther ne'er wer' a fooil brought into th' world but there wer' a bigger born to match him. but aw see hah it is, we'st burn more can'les talkin' abaat th' new venture, as yo ca' it, nor th' takkin's 'll run to i' a gooid season. get thee to bed, tom, an' dunnot yo' forget yo're jabez tinker's 'prentice lad yet, whativver yo' may be some day when me an' ben's both under th' sod." the end of tom's apprenticeship drew near. stories of his project had already been whispered about the village, and some of the quidnuncs of the barber's shop, which was the central exchange of local news tapped their foreheads significantly. "talk abaat a slate off," the slubber at wilberlee had been heard to say, "yon' ben garside's got a whole roof off, and that d--d young bastard fro' saddleworth's worse nor ben." but in time the real nature of the new enterprise was bruited abroad and was much discussed. the novel theme was felt to be a perfect godsend in a community which, like others of its size, becomes more agitated over a runaway horse in its main street than over a european convulsion. the landlord of the croppers' arms began to feel quite a glow of gratitude towards the sober, drink-shunning pinder, so many pints of ale did his nightly customers feel necessary for the ample criticism of tom's scheme. "aw know for certain room an' power's ta'en at hinchliff mill," said jim thewlis, the landlord. "th' agent for lettin' denham's mill, as was, called in on his way fro' huddersfilt' other day. we wer' speerin' abaat this young pinder. weel, aw wanted to do fair like so aw said at th' country talk wor' he'd had a fortin' left; th' worst there wer' agen him, so far as ivver aw'd heer'd, wer' 'at he wer' a teetotaller. aw thowt that wer' enuff, but th' agent seemed no ways taken a-back. said it were common as measles nah a days," concluded jim, heaving a sigh over the degeneracy of the times. "but what's all this talk abaat a newfangled road o' payin' th' hands?" asked the village bellman, whose pimply face and swollen nose seemed to indicate that "oyez! oyez!" were thirsty words. "they're all to have a 'divvy,' same as they han at th' co-op," explained one. "there'll be a new job for thi, bellman," said another. "tha'll ha to go round th' village cryin' th' divvy at co-op mill" "aye, aye," said another, "oh! yes, oh! yes, lost, lost and can't be found, a han'some divvy thowt safe an' sound.'" thus josh o' jonah's, the village wit and poet. but the light esteem in which their design was held by the topers of the croppers' arms did not disturb the equanimity of either ben or tom. "th' more th' job's talked abaat, th' better for it," was ben's expressed opinion. "an' if it's nobbut fooil's talk, talk's talk, an' that's why we want to start a co-op. when folk get to know th' lines we're bahn to work on, there'll be plenty ready to throw in wi' us, _yo_' see if ther' isna, tom lad. we'll ha' th' pick o'th mill hands i' this village if th' consarn goes--an' it _mun_ go, tom; it mun go. aw'st break mi heart if it doesn't. we'll mak it gee if we'n to sell ivvery stick we'n got to buy coil to fire up wi'. but we'st nooan need to do that. aw've nooan bin idle, an' what does ta think aw've getten to tell thee?" ben had not indeed been idle. it has been said that he was a popular character in the district. men knew him for a shrewd, hard-working man, "wi' his yead screwed on th' reight road, if he _is_ a bit loose i' th' tongue." of more moment still their wives knew him for a sober man, and the daughters of a good many of them evinced a very sympathetic interest in the scheme in which tom's name was so prominently associated. moreover, co-ops were appreciated by the housewives. co-operative distribution they understood; co-operative production they had not before heard of but were quite prepared to take it on trust, as a sort of twin-brother of the system of trading they were already familiar with. "aw know one thing," many a good dame declared, "it wer' a gooid thing for yar haase 'at aw put into th' co-op. aw allus know th' rent 'll be theer at th' quarter end, an' there'll be summat to buy cloes wi' at whissunday, an' a bit o' summat extra at kersmas, an' it's all mi eye an' peggy martin abaat th' stuff bein' dear an' nasty. that's eph. thorpe's tale, that is. ther's nob'dy nah'll go to eph's bud them as cannot pay ready brass for their stuff." more than one good workman, old friends and cronies of ben's, had already had long talks with him about the matter. they were men who had a bit laid by and were ready to join the enterprise. "we will have no one with us," said tom emphatically, "but those who work in the mill. we will have no one's money unless he gives his labour too. every worker on the job must have his flesh and blood in it as well as his money. if we take money at all it must be as a loan at low interest. the thing is to have every hand a co-operator in production and a sharer in the profits." "tak' as few in as possible till yo' see how th' job frames," was hannah's prudent counsel. "if it goes all reet yo'll ha' plenty o' backers, an' plenty as'll want to ha' a finger i' th' paw (pie). aw nobbut hope it winnot be like the gradely 'holmfirth paw.'" "what's that?" asked tom. "brokken eggs," said hannah, shortly, "cow-pie,--custard, for fine." of course jabez tinker heard of the thing. a few days before the expiration of tom's apprenticeship he sent for him into the office. the indenture was spread on the desk before him. "sit down, tom," his master said in a not unkindly voice. "so i suppose you are going to shake the dust of wilberlee mill off your feet." "something like it, sir, i suppose, if you've no objections." "nay, it's with my leave or without my leave now. well, i've had no fault to find with you. are your plans settled once for all?" "i've put my hand to the plough, sir." "well, of course it's no concern of mine. but don't you think you might have consulted me?" "i should have been glad of your advice, sir," said tom. then added firmly, "but you have never given me any reason to suppose you would have been willing to give it me." mr. tinker glanced sharply at the youth. he saw nothing of impertinent suggestion in tom's face. tom had spoken, simply and plain, what was to him a plain and simple matter of fact. "what do you mean, pinder? have you any complaint to make. haven't i always done my duty by you?" "i don't know, sir. if your duty was to let me severely alone, you have done your duty. you know better than i whether that is a master's duty to an apprentice. i'm no lawyer. but mr. black always told me i was to be taught your trade." "well, it seems you fancy you know enough about it to start for yourself." "little thanks to you," thought tom, but what use to say? "but i didn't send for you to-day, pinder, to discuss my duty or yours. i think you're foolish to begin on your own account. i have had it in my mind for some time back to put you forward in the mill. i'm weary of sam buckley and his drunken ways. he gets beyond bearing. i had thought of putting you in his place--at a lower wage, of course. 'twould have been a big lift for you, but i've had my eye on you, and i think you'd have done." tom's feelings at these unexpected words were of mingled pride, gratitude, and self-reproach. he had never suspected that his conduct in the mill was observed by the reserved, self-contained master. he had done his duty as he conceived it, simply because it was his duty. he knew, of course, that many of the apprentices shirked their work and gave as much trouble as possible. in acting otherwise tom had neither sought nor expected notice and approbation. he was conscious-stricken both in that he had attributed mr. tinker's reserve to callous indifference, and in that the first use he contemplated making of his freedom was to start in what might seem to be a competition with one whom he knew now to have had his advancement in view. "i am getting older," continued mr. tinker, "as you know i have no son. i must look for a younger man to take some of the work from my shoulders. of late i have felt the constant strain more than i used to. but, there, it's no use talking, i suppose. i think you're a young idiot all the same to start as they say you're going to. take an old man's word for it, tom pinder, business and philanthropy don't mix. make your money in trade and give what you don't want yourself in charity, if you like; but business must be run on business lines. it's some of ben garside's hatching, i expect; but then ben was always crackbrained." "i am sure i don' know how to thank you, sir," began tom. "oh! i don't want your thanks. i was looking out for myself as much as you. nothing for nothing--that's business you'll find. the question is, are you content to stop on at wilberlee or 'gang your ain gate,' as the scotch say. yea or nay, or would you like to think it over?" now tom knew if he consulted ben, just the advice that ben would give--stop on at wilberlee. he knew also that though ben would say this promptly, and to all seeming cheerfully, it would be the shattering of the brightest dream his friend had ever dreamed. besides, to fill sam buckley's place would bring him very little nearer--he knew what. no! he could wait and work, and tom believed in the future foretold for him who knows _how_ to wait. mr. tinker took up the indenture, and seemed to read it. "h'm," he said, more to himself than tom, "i've signed so many of these things that i forget what they bind a man to. but it's a mere form." "i'll burn this now, anyway," he said aloud. "put it into the stove, pinder." tom did as he was bid, and as the stiff paper caught the flames, and the smell from the wax seals invaded the stuffy office he felt as though chains fell from his limbs and incense burned on the altar of freedom. "well?" said mr. tinker at length. "i think i must go, sir. but i go thanking you from my heart," was tom's reply. "so be it," said mr. tinker, curtly. "when you're done up dish and spoon don't come here for work, that's all." "i won't," said tom, and went. and as he walked slowly homewards he resolved to keep his own counsel and say nothing to ben or hannah about the offer that had been made to him. it would disquiet ben and lead to no good. best say nothing about the matter; let it lie between him and mr. tinker. besides if it got talked of in the village those who believed his statement would call him a fool, those who didn't a liar. it was all the easier to dismiss the subject from his mind when he found the following letter awaiting him: "dear tom, seein it will be your berthday nex sunday, an you will be twenty-one, me an mister redfearn have fixed it up to have a bit of a do here seein as it wer here you was borne. an fairbanks has sent a goos an a turkey, an moll has maid a puddin an you are to bring mester an missus garsed wi my respecks to em an welcome, likewise their dowter too. also to say as fairbanks will send his trap bi workus jack for missus an dowter an yo an ben mun cum o shanks mare. dinner at nooin an no waitin. so no more at present hopeing this finds yo well as it leaves me. yure affeckshinit, betty schofield" go! of course they would go; all of them. where else could the auspicious day be better spent than in the very house he first saw the light, and among the friends of his infancy. go! yes though the snow lay three feet deep on moor and fell, and the wintry wind howled round pots and pans and whirled the stinging atoms in a very blast hurricane and tornado of blinding blizzard. "goa!" exclaimed hannah, "aw'st goa if aw've to crawl o' mi han's an' knees. yo' mun write a letter back, tom, an' say we'st be theer at eleven i' th' forenooin if it's convenient to mrs. schofield, an' aw'll gi' a hand wi' th' bastin' an' sarvin' up, so's 'oo can cooil dahn afore 'oo sits dahn to th' table. aw reckon aw'st want no cooilin' dahn long afore we're ovver th' top." and then hannah and lucy fell to at such a preparation, adjusting, re-adjusting, snipping, snipeing, cutting, hemming, tuckering of shawls and dresses, to such a trimming of hat and bonnet, and such a littering of the house with female finery, that if a wedding or a coronation had been afoot, matters could not have been worse. "aw'st nivver howd aat till sunday, tom," ben confided to him. "aw haven't set tooith into a turkey sin' aw can't remember when an' ivvry time aw think on it mi maath watters soa aw can hardly speik. do'st think there'll be sossidge wi' it? tha mieet ha' just nudged her abaat th' sossidge when yo' wrote if yo'd gi'en it a thowt, but aw'm feart it's too lat' nah. an' gooise an' apple sauce, an stuffin', an' plum puddin' wi' brandy sauce--eh, lad, it's a pity tha cannot come o' age onst a week. but aw munnot show greedy. aw onst knew a felly at a club supper 'at e't a whull leg o' mutton to his own cheek, wi' capers and onion sauce an' breead, an' supped two gallon o' ale. they'd to gie him kester oil for aboon a week at after afore he fair gate shut on it. nah! aw ca' that a fair abuse o'th' kindly fruits o'th' earth. nah! tha'll ha' studied ettiket nah tha's ta'en to talkin' townified. how mony helpin's dun yo reely think aw mieet ha' wi' out bein thowt greedy? aw'm nooan a glutton, like that chap at gowcar 'at went to a club dinner--bill o' natt's, aw think they ca'ed him--an' when he gate whom he rolled o'th' floor, an' all he could say wer' 'howd, belly, howd, for if tha brusts awm done.' and ben looked anxiously at tom for a reply. but tom only smiled, for he knew that ben was merely talking to let off steam. so the excited little man went on: "tha'll nooan be teetotal that day, tom. it 'ud be a sort o' slur o' missus schofield. aw tak' it at goin' to a feeast at a public wi' a publican an' ca'in' for cowd watter 'ud be just as bad manners as feedin' wi' a teetotaller an' axin for a pint o' drink. nah! doesn't it strike yo' i' that leet, tom?" but tom explained that he had had that point over with his good friend betty many a time before and that he wasn't going to begin his manhood by breaking the pledge he had taken with himself. "you'll have to drink my share too, ben." "an' lucy's, for 'oo's tarred wi' th' same brush as thee, tom. aw do believe 'at if yo' took to runnin' abaat th' village wi' a caa's tail atween yo'r teeth like them niggers yo'n read on o'th' banks o'th river ganges, yar lucy 'ud do th' same as well as her legs 'ud let her. an' thank god!--an' yo', tom, 'oo can walk wi'out sticks nah." and ben pressed tom's arm as caressingly as ever maiden conveyed message to favoured swain. "you'll have to be careful, ben, if you're going to drink for three." "aye, aye, if all's weel aw'st be poorly th' day after, sha'not aw? but wi' one thing an' another aw just feel as if aw cud turn cart wheels slap daan th' sides o' pots an' pans till aw poo'd up at th' _hanging gate_. it is na th' eitin', lad, nor th' drinkin', though them's nooan things to be sneezed at, let me tell yo'. it's thowts at' mi tom's so well thowt on bi all at's knowd him sin' he wer' a suckin' babe. aw tell thee, lad, mi heart's so full aw could blubber like a cawf, if aw didn't howd missen in." and then tom knew it was time for him to look intently in any direction but that of honest ben's face. sunday came, and with sunday came workh'us jack, such a beaming radiant jack as never village saw before: jack, with a great white rosette on his breast and a white ribbon on the end of the whip with which he flicked the mare with many a soothing "so-ho, so-ho," and hortatory "come up;" an older jack by many a biting winter's lapse since first we met him; a stouter, plumper, rosier jack, but with the same smiling face and unfailing cheerfulness. how, with infinite tenderness, lucy was lifted into the trap, how tom smothered her with wraps and shawls, how hannah declared she would rather walk through the village because everybody was, she knew, stopping from chapel on purpose to gaup at her, and how she was hoisted bodily in under protest; how, as a matter of fact the neighbours and the neighbour's children turned out into the street braving the whipping of the gusty snow or peered from chamber window; how it was all over holmfirth in no time that gentleman tom and lucy garside were "off over th' isle of skye to be wed at st. chad's," how every gossip in the village insisted that she had expected nothing else these months back, and called upon her neighbour to testify that she had often been heard to say so; how the demure young maidens declared that lucy for all her quiet ways was a deep one and a sly one, and that it was a shame a fine strapping young fellow should be trapped into wedding a pale faced useless thing, little better than a cripple; how ben and tom walked far ahead of the trap all the way up the ascent of road to the isle of skye, but were overtaken just as they reached the inn there: how ben insisted on jack taking "summat short" to keep the cold out, and tom would have hannah drink some hot port-wine negus to keep jack company, and how jack had another drink for the good of the house; how the exhilarating influence of the liquor passed by some mysterious process from the driver to the driven so that the old mare rattled down from bill's o' jack's to greenfield, and from greenfield to the _church inn_, at saddleworth; how it stopped there of its own accord and positively refused to budge till jack descended from his seat and had another drink; how hannah made sure that ben and tom would be foolish enough to try a short cut over the moors and untimely perish like tom's mother before them; and how finally the chaise drew up in fine style before the _hanging gate_, and lucy almost fell into betty schofield's welcoming arms--all this the reader must imagine. and there, sure enough in the big room upstairs, with its mysterious cupboard labelled r.a.o.b., the sacred room in which the royal antedeluvian order of buffaloes declared every lodge night that they would "hunt the buff, would hunt the buff, would hunt the buffalo," though where to find it thereabouts would have puzzled them to tell. in this great room a glorious fire roared and cast its welcome warmth and the walls were hung with the christmas decorations of the lodge, and the christmas holly and mistletoe looked yet fresh and green, and the long narrow table down the centre was white with betty's best napery, and moll, feigning mighty indignation because tom had caught her round the waist and kissed her smackingly under the mistletoe, busied about making a great clattering of plates and spoons and knives and forks, whilst a distracting odour of roast goose came up the narrow staircase. mr. redfearn was there betimes, and aleck, all in his sunday best. then came the down-sitting, mr. redfearn at the table-head, tom at the foot. aleck facing ben, and hannah, and lucy supporting the chair and vice-chair. moll o' stute's and jack had their dinner later on. how many helps of turkey _with_ sausage and of goose _with_ stuffing and apple sauce, and of plum-pudding _with_ brandy-sauce ben had i entirely refuse to tell, but only say with all his talk he came in a very lame second to aleck. "it only wanted mr. black to make it just perfect," said mr. redfearn, "but we'll drink in silence to the memory of as good a man as ever walked i' shoe-leather." i refuse to tell, too, in what glowing terms mr. redfearn proposed the health of tom pinder, and many a happy return of the day, and of how tom completely broke down in acknowledging the toast, and of how ben proposed mr. redfearn's health, and mr. redfearn ben's, and tom the ladies, and then how they drank mrs. schofield's and the ladies with a three times three and god bless 'em, and then started the toast list all over again, till lucy was more than glad when moll brought in the tea-pot and cups, and they all drew round the fire, and the men lighted their pipes and sobered down to rational talk. be sure tom had to tell of what he was going to do now he was his own master, and of how ben had "weighed in" to help him, and he had to explain till he was nearly hoarse before betty could understand what a co-op mill was to be like. and then nothing would satisfy betty but she must offer to put £ "into th' consarn, sink or swim, it were all one to her if it 'ud do 'em any good;" and then tom had to begin all over again and make it clear that only the actual workers were to have any interest in the mill. "an' wheer are yo' buyin' yo'r wool?" asked tom o' fairbanks. and tom and ben looked grave, for they would have precious little left for wool-buying when the machinery was bought and set up. "at hirst's, the wool stapler, in huddersfield, i suppose," said tom. "now i don't take it friendly of you, or either of you," commented mr. redfearn. "i've bales and bales left over from th' last shearing, haven't we, aleck?" and aleck said "to be sure we have, an' fair gettin' maggoty for want o' usin'." "you must take it off my hands, tom and co.," said redfearn. "i'll let you have it cheap, and you can pay me for it when you've had time to turn yourselves round." it is very sad that such things should be in a christian land; but it is none the less true that the wool which later on aleck carted to co-op mill had never coated the back of any sheep that grazed on fairbank's field or moors, and why, about the same time, farmer redfearn should be buying wool in huddersfield, charles hirst, the huddersfield wool stapler, spent many an hour in vain attempt to divine. it was a glorious feast and a happy gathering, and happy folk those whose faces shone in the dancing rays of the glowing fire; but happiest of all the happy there was workh'us jack when ben and tom offered him the post of teamer and handy man at co-op mill, for co-op mill, the low grey mill at hinchliffe mill, had been christened without informal ceremony. "aw'd ha' come mysen an' helped i'th mill," confided aleck to tom, as he walked a part of the homeward way with him and ben. "but yo' see aw'm th' only one 'at stan's atween th' mester an' ower mich liquor. it's his only failin'. nivver thee tak' to sperrits tom. be teetotal off _them_. stick to ale an' nivver sup more nor five quarts at a sittin'. tha'll nooan get fur wrang on that if th' ale's saand. gooid neet, lad." chapter xi that was a grand moment for ben and tom when the shuttle of the goit at co-op mill was drawn, and the water from the dam began to stream into the wheel-race and catch the buckets of the great wheel, transmitting its revolutions to the main shafting and machines. little enough stock of wool and dye wares had they, and few indeed the engines for transforming by multiple processes the greasy, clotted fleeces into warp and weft and good broad pieces. but both knew every branch of the manufacturer's art, and each was more than willing to take his part, and more than his part, at scouring, dyeing, scribbling, or weaving. they employed very few hands, and each of these thoroughly understood that he was to be paid not only a fair day's wage for a fair day's work, but also a share of the profits; and it did not take long for yorkshire shrewdness to discover that the better, the more thoroughly, each one worked, the better for one and all. there was no scamping the work, no idling. and there was no breaking time for sprees, no "laiking" because a chap felt mondayish, and wanted an off-day or two to get over the effects of saturday's and sunday's debauch. every hand at co-op mill began in a very brief time to shake off the enervating consciousness of the subservience of a hired labourer. he would not only not idle himself, he would tolerate no idling in a fellow labourer. there are tricks in every trade, or every trade is solely maligned. there are ways of shirking work, of making time pass in merely _seeming_ labour that one would think one as irksome in the long run to the operative as they are undoubtedly unjust to the employer. there was none of that at co-op mill. set a thief to catch a thief, and a man who shirks and dawdles at his work steals the time that is indeed money. but let the man who works by your side be personally interested in the work you do, and the way you do it; there is no room there for shirking and dawdling. the lever of labour is, after all, self-interest, and so ingrained is self-interest that the only thing that can be asked of average human nature is that self-interest should not impinge on the self-interests of another. now matters were so arranged at co-op mill that self interest was necessarily and unavoidably altruistic, and when this great truth was once fairly grasped and assimilated by the hands a spirit prevailed from scouring house to pressing-room that secured ready, willing abundant and thorough work, and the quality and the quantity of the work soon made themselves manifest in the final output. the finished pieces were a delight to the eye and to the touch. there was no occasion to employ a traveller to push their goods. the goods sold themselves. it had been resolved that suit-lengths might be bought at the mill at a little below ordinary retail prices. this was to contravene the commercial code; but tom did not see why a man should be compelled to go to a tailor and the tailor to a merchant and pay the profits to two middlemen because of a commercial code that chiefly benefited the middlemen and never the consumer. no, the difficulty did not consist in finding purchasers; the difficulty was in putting out goods enough to supply the demand. but as ben had predicted, so soon as the system began to be understood, and especially after the first "divvy" had been declared and actually taken home by the men and handed to their wives, there was no lack of proffers of service from men who were able, ready, and willing to put their "bit" into co-op mill. at present there was some demur to terms--bare interest on invested capital, no participation in profits over that limit. on this point ben and tom were inexorable, adamantine. "it shall _not_ be a capitalists' concern, it _shall_ be a workers'." and it was wonderful too, and heartening to note the harmony, the goodwill, the general sense of brotherhood that prevailed from counting-house downwards. there was no cringing, no toadying, no tale-hearing. there was the very presence, spirit, and revelation of a moral resolution. nothing so ennobles a man as to feel that, so far as man can ever be in this network of human organism in which no thread is self-sufficient and self-dependent, he is his own man, with need to go cap in hand to no other. it is a feeling that, in yorkshire is perhaps apt to run to truculence and the very savagery of self-assertion; but even so it is better than the cringing, fawning self-abasement of the rural districts of the midland villages where squire and priest are gods of earth and heaven. a man who threw in at the co-op was a marked and envied man. the pick of the operatives were willing to take the looms as fast as they could be put up. it was lucy who suggested that the new concern should go into the making of shawls. everyone who knows the manufacturing districts of yorkshire and lancashire knows the shawl of the mill girl. it is to her what the cloak is to the irish butter-woman, the plaid to the scotch shepherd, or the mantilla to the spanish donna. it was dorothy who designed the pattern for the first shawl and, as time went on, the warm, bright-coloured covering might be seen over the head and shoulders of the women and girls in every mill in the valley of the holme. there was no need to be concerned about the texture or the fastness of the colours. it was a co-op shawl. that was guarantee enough. tom and ben worked early and late. tom indeed had had a bed fixed up in a small room of the lower story of the mill. many a night, indeed often for weeks together every night except saturday and sunday, he slept in the mill. he was the one to open the mill-gate in the morning and greet the hands as they streamed into the yard and hand them their time checks. his was the hand that, when the long day, yet all too short for his endless round of duties, lagged to its weary close, fastened the gate upon the last of the toilers; and oft and oft, far into the silent hours, he would bend over stock-book and ledger or, when the moon shone high above the mill, would walk round the mill dam and up the rugged hank of the babbling stream that fed it. his constant companion was jack, no longer workh'us jack, but jack, plain jack, or jack o' th' co-op, or tom pinder's jack, anything but workh'us jack; a new, transformed jack, wearing his corduroys and smock as proudly as if they had been a field marshal's uniform. sometimes a wag, further learned than others, would dub him "man friday;" but it was all one to jack. he was tom's body servant, his dog, if need be, to fetch and carry. and who so popular all through that beautiful valley and who so welcome at the hill-side farms and cottages as cheery, smiling, cherry-faced jack with his kindly jest and merry quip and crank? why, he was worth a dozen commercial travellers rolled into one. when he led the cart from the mill to the coal-shoots and back, or went his round with the great red-coloured barrel on wheels in quest of the ammonia laden refuse of the house-hold it was a sorry day for jack when he did not bring back two or three orders for the pretty, taking shawls, and what insight into the delightful vanities of lovely maiden jack did not acquire on his rounds was really not worth noticing. but it was on a shawl for lucy that jack spent his first week's earnings at co-op mill, a dainty, modest shawl of softest fleece, a shawl, jack declared, you could draw through a finger ring, and perhaps one might if the finger were one of jack's. the rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed lasses of the little farms and homesteads, and the more forward wenches of the valley mills wasted their becks and nods and wreathed smiles on jack. he took them all as a matter of course; but a look from lucy's soft warm eyes, from which the pathetic wistfulness of long suffering had not yet worn away, would set jack "all of a dither." it was for lucy, when the season came, that he ransacked the hill sides for the peeping snowdrop, and the hedge-bottoms for the shy primrose; for lucy that he bore home the nodding blue-bells and the blushing fox-glove, or the rare wild rose; for lucy that he searched the brambles for the luscious blackberry, and bent his back o'er the purple heather for the nestling bilberry; for lucy that he brought the thrilling thrush; for lucy that he nearly broke his neck down the steps of the church belfry the day he secured the wild young jackdaw; and for lucy that he weaned the perverse bird of its natural addition to choleric speech and general bad language. in jack's eyes lucy was fair and beautiful as any angel--and indeed her pale face was very sweet to look upon--and for him lucy's lightest word--nay, such is the divination of affection--lucy's unspoken thought was as law. and who so surely as jack could rouse lucy from the sad reveries into which her thoughts would sometimes stray, and bring back to her lips the pleasant smile and the gentle repartee that had neither sting nor lash? who was it but jack that nearly killed the barman at the _rose and crown_ because he soiled his lips with an unseemly jest involving both tom and lucy; who but jack that, however urgent his business errands might be, never passed ben's cottage without solicitous enquiry as to lucy's health, and what sort of a night she had had, and how she had felt that day; and for whom but lucy did jack forswear cakes and ale? but now the last wild rose of the summer has blushed in the hedgerows, and the bracken of the moors is greying to sickly death; the brooks and rivulets fall from the heights in fuller stream and muttering a gloomier song and the long nights are at hand when men-folk of a social mind seek the creature comforts and the good-fellowship of taproom and bar. and this was the season which ben and tom deemed fitting for the launching of still another experiment. they had resolved of a saturday night--that most dangerous of nights, when the wages in the breeches' pockets seem as if they would stand any inroad for the quenching pint throughout the winter months to have night classes at the mills for their own hands, and for as many of their friends as liked to come. there were to be first of all lessons in english history, and with history was to be taught in the only way it can be effectively taught, the geography of the wide, wide world. and the lessons in history were to be enlivened and made the more seductive by the reading of books of fiction and romance, of fable and poem dealing with the period under study, so that by the light of such heroes as _hereward the wake_, and _the last of the saxon kings_, and _the last of the barons_, by the deathless pages of avon's swan, by the muse of chaucer, of spenser, and of milton, the ages of the past lived before the eyes of these eager sons of toil, and they dwelt in the stately company of kings and warriors, cloistered saints and beautiful sinners, and saw, as in a waking dream, the stately drama of their country's making. there were lessons, too, in chemistry: and in the explosions of gases, the evolving of composite stenches and the pyrotechnics of phosphorescent combustion the younger hands found a joy that knew no satiety or abatement. but tom confined his teaching to the veriest elements of inorganic chemistry, those whose interest in the subject clamoured for more must seek their further advancement in the fascinating subject elsewhere. it was to teach, to drive home, the great truth of fixed, unchanging, ruthless law that had been, from the first, the dominating idea. and when his pupils had once grasped thoroughly the idea of the all-pervading law in the material world, what was easier than to lead them, without their realising his drift and purpose, to the conception of the fixed, the immutable in the moral law, and what more easy to expel from minds so prepared the baneful influence of the extra-natural creeds that led so many to repose their confidence in the adventitious, the possible interposition of a _deus ex machina_ to rescue them from the disasters they had courted for themselves. that twice two make four, neither more nor less, is a great fact; that h and cl make hydrochloric acid and not devonshire cream is also a fact; that happiness ensues upon well-doing and suffering upon sin, this also is a fact; but one the churches attenuate to men's minds by insisting upon a rote punishment that may be averted by timely repentance. tom taught that punishment, mediate or immediate, direct or indirect, is here, and in this present time. now tom was not such a fool as to dub his discourses lectures on religion. he knew well enough that to do so would be to talk to empty benches. the orthodox are suspicious of religious instruction unless they receive it wearing a sunday dress, and a sunday face, and in a conventional conventicle established by the state, or by that force which is more powerful than the state, the approval of madam grundy. the unorthodox, for quite different reasons, would have shunned his class-room, though it was the weaving shed at co-op mill they would have suspected a snare to trap them into saintliness. so the astute tom called his theses "lectures on the science of living," and succeeded insidiously in making his hearers perceive that the science of living and religion are one and the same thing; by religion, of course, not being understood that _olla podrida_, or hotch-potch of legend, fable, history, surmise poetry, rhapsody, and morals which so many confound with religion. the expositions of this quite unheard of science of living were delivered on the sunday afternoons and in the weaving shed at the mill. another novelty was that there was no collection. and the lectures began to be talked about and be popular. "what are ta' fidgettin' abaat, luke?" a constant caller at the _croppers' arms_ would ask as the minute-hand of the clock plodded towards the third hour of the sunday afternoon. "a'm nooan fidgettin'; but aw mun be stirring." "sit thee still, mon. there's time enough afore turnin'-aat time. th' churchwardens wi'not be raand afore three an' after. sup up an' let's fly for another quart. it'll be a long while till th' oppenin' time to-neet." "nay aw'll ha' no more. i'm thinkin' aw'll just ha' a bit o' a stretch to sattle mi dinner." "aye, weel, aw dunnot mind if aw've a bit o' a walk missen to stretch mi legs. which way did ta think o' takkin'?" "weel there's a nice stretch o' country up by hinchliffe mill way, an' we'st get a mouthfu' o' fresh air." "tha's no bahn to th' co-op gospel-shop, are ta?" "weel, aw winnot say but what aw meet look in, just to wind missen. its' a bit o' a poo' fro' here to th' top. an' there's no wheer aw can ca' to-day, worse luck." "tha'll get nowt at th' co-op, chuse ha. it's nobbut dry drinkin' they han on tap theer, folk say. but aw dunnot set thi on th' road a bit, an' if tha can stand tom pinder's preichin' aw reckon aw can. it's nooan like a regular chapel tha sees." and thus the lecture room filled. now there were two men of all others who received the doings at co-op mill with disfavour. one was the rev. david jones. that very energetic preacher did not like to hear anyone's praises sung but his own. his welsh fluency, his striking, daring flights of rhetoric, his excursions into tempting but dangerous speculations on the fundamental truths of the creed embodied, consecrated, and enshrined in the trust deed of aenon chapel, had secured for him the admiring following of considerable numbers of men who, whilst still clinging as for dear life to the shattered remnants of the old dogmas, turned longing eyes to the rationalism of a new criticism and a faith grounded upon human experience. they were like the frail ones of the softer sex, who concede all favours but the last, their heart or their passions consenting, their timidity restraining. aenon chapel was now packed with a new set of worshippers whose presence was not too welcome to the "old end," as the conservative adherents of calvinistic theology and tradition were styled. "owd fire an' brimstone" the irreverent styled their leader and spokesman. but the objections of those chiefly responsible for the maintenance and carrying on of the chapel and school, whose father's money had built and furnished the edifice in which mr. jones declaimed his mild heresies, were stripped of their accustomed force by one all-persuasive consideration--the collection box. never before in all the history of aenon chapel had the anniversaries of church and schools yielded so profitable a harvest to the anxious treasurer. the debt, without which it is commonly supposed no religious work can prosper, was reduced. mr. jones's stipend was increased. the deacons of former days were consumed with envy, and dolefully acknowledging that mr. jones had gone up like a rocket, expressed their hope that he might not come down like a stick, but expressed it in a tone that indicated their hope and expectation were not as one. but the new officers of the chapel exulted in their swelling money-bags, in the well-filled pews, and idolized the preacher of the new inspiration. and not only in his own chapel, but far and near spread the fame of the rev. david jones, and to chapel openings and consecrations, to missions and special efforts, invitations came in showers. he became the rage, and though he protested at any term that savoured of episcopacy and the scarlet woman, he, in his heart of hearts, acknowledged the discernment of an ardent admirer who had publicly referred to him as the bishop of the holme valley. at nights he dreamed of the presidency of the union. and now, when all things seemed to go well, people began to talk of the sunday meetings at co-op mill, and of tom pinder, who, folk said, spoke out what jones only hinted at. "aw'll tell yo' what it is," said one shrewd level-headed critic, "aw've heard that pea-i'-a-bladder preich at aenon chapel, and aw've heard co-op tom fro' th' same text, but pinder doesn't ca' it preichin', he ca's it explainin'." "an' what wer' text?" "why t' eleventh commandment, and mi own opinion is 'at pinder sees as far as th' purson, an' spits it aat like a man, upright and dahnwright, and a babby could tell what he meeans: but th' other chap, he goes as far as pinder, but he beats abaat th' bush, an' he 'perhaps this' and 'may it not be that?' an' he watches th' deacons an' th' chief pew-howders to see ha' it gooas dahn, an' he lets hissen aat an' he poo's hissen in like th' cap'n of a sailin' booat wi' one eye on the clouds an' t'other on th' shoals an' reefers." "nah, pinder just says what's in him, an' if yo' dunnot like it yo can lump it. an' what's more, at th' end o' ivvery lectur', yo' can get up an' just ha' a few minnit's enjoyment o' yo'r own accaant an' pitch into th' discourse like owd billy, an' th' harder yo' hit th' more pinder seems to like it." "an' why canno' jones speik it aat plain same as pinder?" "well, there's some folk so constitooted, yo' see, 'at they like to swim wi' th' tide an' 'll tak' uncommon gooid care nevver to waste their puff swimmin' up-stream. an' then yo' see, jones has a large fam'ly, an' my misses says 'at mrs. jones wi' her rings an' mantles, an' feathers, an' faldelals can do wi' all 'at jones can addle an' more at th' top on it." now, of course talk of this kind in a village like holmfirth not only circulates, it percolates and in time the gist and substance of it reached mr. jones. he had had hopes of tom at one time. he had observed with satisfaction that this very intelligent-looking, well-behaved, well-spoken, neatly dressed young man had been an attentive listener and frequent worshipper at his own chapel, and that, on occasions, he had brought with him that quite-past-praying-for ben garside, a notorious mocker and a scoffer. mr. jones had accepted their presence as one of many just tributes to his zeal and eloquence. one had been rescued from the tepid waters of the church, the other was a brand plucked from the burning depths of infidelity, and mr. jones had duly rejoiced. and lo! now the neophytes had backslided and people "of a sunday" would pass the inviting doors of aenon chapel and walk some two miles of a sultry or wintry afternoon to listen to one who was not only not one of the covenant, but who was ordained neither by bishop, presbytery, nor congress. he resolved to speak seriously to this erring sheep; and chancing to meet tom one day descending the hill from hinchliffe mill to the village, stopped him, smiling affably and holding out a condescending hand: "good morning, pinder, i'm glad to see you. how are we this morning?" "very well, thank you, jones. how are you?" "ahem! mr. jones, if _you_ please." "certainly; mr. pinder, if you please." "oh! certainly; you see in my position--" "exactly--and in mine." now this was not a very promising beginning. "well?" said tom. "i'll turn with you, _mr_. pinder. you are doubtless more pressed for time than i. parson's monday, you know, is parson's sunday." "parsons seem to have a fair share of sundays to the week," said tom, but without any malice in the remark. "i remember good old mr. whitelock of st. chad's couldn't bear to see a visitor on saturday--preparing for sunday, i suppose. then of course there was sunday itself, and on monday every parson i've ever met declares that he feels like a wet rag or a squeezed orange." "well it takes it out of a man to have to preach two sermons a day. but you should know something about it. i understand you have a sort of service at your mill on sunday afternoons?" "you can scarcely call our meetings services," tom replied. "we have no hymns, no sermon, and no collection. we have no preacher and no deacons." "but i thought you were the preacher." "then you have been misinformed. it is true that i select some reading, generally not always, from the scriptures. then i try to make its meaning, or the meaning of some particular verse or verses, clear as i understand them. that's all; it's really more of a chat than a set discourse." "i see." "then again the discoursing or preaching or chatting is not all done by one man. my experience is that the combined experience and wisdom of an audience are greater than those of any ordinary individual. we are so fashioned that most of what we read in the bible is read by the light of the reader's own experience of life, his observations and his reflection." "well?" "and so when i get around me twenty or thirty men of divers habits of thought and each with his own views of life, i have the chance of getting at twenty or thirty different commentaries on a text. that is a gain: another is that no single one of _my_ commentators is concerned to square his construction of a passage with a hide-bound creed or with the convictions of any one of his hearers. the only thing we are concerned about is to get at the truth." "and cannot you get at it in the recognised places of worship. doesn't it savour of conceit to set yourselves apart as people better and wiser than their neighbours?" "oh! well, come to that, mr. jones, you are a dissenter yourself, you know. you dissented from established orthodoxy. we aren't afraid of dissenting from orthodox dissent." "but there must be limits, young man; there must be limits." "yes," assented tom. "there must be limits. there are the limitations of the human mind. we don't seek to go beyond them." mr. jones was now thoroughly roused. he was a man of no mean intelligence and of a wide range of reading. if also he was a man of insatiable vanity and inordinate ambition, perhaps the atmosphere of adulation in which he lived, the incense of incompetent judges, were the chief causes. he felt now that he was talking to a man of sense and fearlessness. now it is a treat to talk with a man who has the sense and the patience and the disposition to think for himself, and the courage to speak his thoughts. mr. jones walked in silence for a time, tom moderating his longer stride to keep time with the cleric's shorter pace. "i hope," said mr. jones, at length, "i hope your teaching is based on the cardinal principles of christianity?" "and those?" "the immaculate conception and the resurrection of our lord." "those are not principles mr. jones. they are either facts or inventions." "and you declare them as facts?" "i don't myself touch on them at all. i confine myself to the cardinal principles about which you have enquired." "and those?" enquired mr. jones, in his turn. "the fatherhood of god, the majesty, the wisdom, the sanctity of his laws, and--the brotherhood of man." mr. jones shook his hand sadly. "that is merely natural religion," he commented. "men will find it but a broken reed in the hour of temptation and the time of sorrow." "it suffices," said tom "for some of the wisest, the best-living, the most benevolent of men." "aye?" questioned mr. jones. "the jews," said tom quietly. "contrast the life of the average jew with that of the average christian. will you find the difference always in favour of the christian?" "surely, yes," said mr. jones. "an unbeliever can never have the impregnable assurance that we find in the crucified christ." "not in the loving-kindness of the father," said tom. "you exalt the son at the expense of the father?" "dear me, dear me," said mr. jones. "this is worse than i thought. i am afraid you are all astray, my young friend. i beseech you consider your ways, reflect on the danger you are in, the perils that compass you round about. above all pray without ceasing, pray for light and guidance." "i do pray, mr. jones. i pray every day; i pray at my bed-side, i pray at my work, in my daily walks." "ah! but prayer without faith is but a beating of the air. you must have an intercessor with your offended god, a sacrifice for his outraged laws." "mr. jones, i respect your zeal and think you mean well. i do sacrifice. i offer myself as a living sacrifice. it is all i have to offer. when the great account is made up my life must plead for me. if that will not avail, i have little confidence in any other plea. but i did not seek this interview, mr. jones nor choose this topic, or is this, main street of holmfirth, the best place for such discussion as we have drafted into. my main business to-day is to determine how much a bale i can afford to give for the best spanish wool that is the part of my master's business that i am intent on just now. if i remember that it _is_ my master's business, i shan't be so far wrong, shall i? and i'm going to try to make a bargain with a jew wool-stapler, and i'm no more afraid of being overreached than if he were a christian. but come up to co-op mill, and have a fling at my class you'll be made heartily welcome. fix your own time, but come." "god forbid," said mr. jones, as tom darted into the railway station, just in time to catch the huddersfield train. jabez tinker was as little pleased as his spiritual guide with the rumours to which he could not well be deaf, concerning the success of the novel enterprise of his former apprentice. from the first he had predicted disaster for the venture. it was the crack-brained scheme of an addle-pated enthusiast and a misguided, self-opinionated youth. that was his opinion, and he did not keep his opinion to himself. but as time went on and the bankruptcy he had foretold did not overwhelm the co-op mill; as old and tried hands who had been with him for years, one after the other, left wilberlee for the small concern higher up the stream, jabez began to feel the irritation of the prophet whose vaticinations have come to nought. it would not be fair to say that jabez begrudged tom and ben their success. that success could scarcely be considered to have injured him in his business. the operations, the rise or fall of co-op mill, were in his eyes beneath anything but contemptuous notice. but he could not conceal from himself that he would have better pleased to have seen tom coming to him, cap in hand, to sue for reinstatement at wilberlee. he had a sort of rankling resentment against tom for refusing his own proffer of protection and advancement. when he had made that offer he had plumbed himself on his magnanimity--and, indeed, it was a generous offer. jabez tinker's pride was wounded, and jabez tinker was a proud man. one day he chanced to meet nehemiah wimpenny, the lawyer. it was near the time for the elections to the local board, of which mr. tinker had been so long the chairman and autocrat that the other members of the board might just as well have stopped at home as attended the monthly meetings. wimpenny was the clerk. "well, we shall soon have the elections upon us, mr. tinker, and i suppose you have heard the news. rum start, isn't it? what next, i wonder." "i've heard no particular news that i'm aware of, wimpenny. i'm no gad-about, as you know." "ah, well! it's an old saying that we've to go from home to hear news, especially if it happens to concern ourselves. not that this is likely to give you much uneasiness." "well what is it?" asked tinker, uneasily. "oh! it's hardly worth retailing. sorry i mentioned it; but they are saying in the village you are to be opposed at the next election." "me! opposed! well, i'm ready, and pray, who is to be my 'honourable opponent,'--that's the expression, isn't it? 'pon my word, i'll relish a good stand-up fight. i've been returned unopposed so often that a good, vigorous opposition will do me good." "well," said wimpenny slowly, "i'm not sure you'll think your honourable opponent a foeman worthy of your steel. you'll never guess who they're talking about." mr. tinker rapidly reviewed, mentally, all men of the neighbourhood likely to enter the lists against him. "i'm a bad hand at conundrums," he said, "i give it up." "what would you say to that insolent young upstart at co-op mill?" "what! tom pinder! confound the puppy. why, there'd be little honour in defeating him. d----n his impudence. but you're joking, wimpenny, and i tell you i like joking as little as conundrums. but there,--the fellow isn't worth a thought. a nameless workhouse bastard oppose me! well, you've had your joke, wimpenny; next time we meet try and think of a better one." and tinker strode angrily away, without much ceremony. as a matter of fact there had been talk of nominating tom for a seat on the board, and the matter had been even broached to tom himself. but tom had from the first scouted the idea. he had enough on his hands looking after his own concerns, and he had sense enough to know that if a man won't stick to his business his business won't long stick to him. but when it transpired that, had he consented, he would have had to fight his old master, tom was indignant. what did people take him for, he wondered. he felt that for him to pit himself against mr. tinker would have been a gratuitous insult to the man who had been his master for so many years. he knew that it would be to wound that master in his most sensitive spot, and he had a respect for family pride all the greater, perhaps, because he himself had no family ties or traditions to be proud of. and he shuddered to think what dorothy might say to his presumption and ingratitude should the mere suggestion of his possible candidature reach her ears. but of tom's way of meeting the proposal mr. tinker was, of course, as yet, quite unaware. he had taken it for granted that wimpenny was well informed, that he would not have repeated to him a vulgar _canard_. and mr. tinker was therefore in high dudgeon when he spoke to dorothy on the subject. "does that tom pinder live at garside's yet?" he asked. dorothy opened her eyes in wonderment. it was the first time she remembered her uncle to have so much as mentioned tom's name to her. "i believe so, off and on. but i think lucy garside, ben's daughter, told me they see very little of him except on sunday night. he seems to spend both day and night at his mill. lucy says he does the work of three men." "you seem to be very intimate with these garsides. 'lucy' comes very pat to your lips. do you see much of them? do you ever meet this pinder there?" "oh, yes, sometimes." "i think you might remember you are my niece. such people as we are not fit associates for the garsides; still less for their lodger." "law! uncle, what have they done now? i've known lucy ever since i could toddle almost." "that may be. it's your aunt's fault, i suppose. i can't attend to everything. and now your aunt's illness keeps her at harrogate you do pretty much as you like, i suppose." "when the cat's away the mice will play," thought dorothy; but only thought it. "well," continued jabez, "you mustn't visit the house any more. i won't have it. if you don't respect yourself, you must respect me. you must drop these garsides and pinder too. by the bye, come to think of it, wimpenny told me something about you seeming to be very familiar with pinder at the whitsuntide gathering. i didn't take much notice of it at the time. but be good enough to ignore him next time you chance to meet him." "i'm sure i'm much obliged to mr. wimpenny for his interest in my movements," said dorothy. "are you acting on his advice, uncle? did he charge you 'six--an'-eight' for it? he must be very smart, for i'm sure it isn't worth half the money." "this is no laughing matter miss, i'd have you know, i tell you, you must drop these garsides, and that young puppy too." "who? mr. wimpenny?" "d----n mr. wimpenny," roared jabez. "you know my meaning very well. see to it that you heed it. people will be saying next that you are running after the jackanapes." dorothy blushed scarlet. there was an angry gleam in her eye. she drew herself up proudly. "i am a tinker, sir, no less than you. i was left to choose my friends when i was young and needed, perhaps, a guide. i call lucy garside my friend, and so long as lucy garside deems me hers, be sure i shall not do as you command. as for mr. pinder----" "your precious pinder," snarled jabez. "you had better go to him and learn from him how your brother's daughter and your niece should be addressed." dorothy swept out of the room. oh! jabez! jabez! how little you know the heart of woman. it is safe to say that from that hour dorothy never thought of the unconscious tom without resentment against her uncle, and a feeling that certainly was not resentment for tom. mr. tinker felt in anything but a christian spirit when his niece so defiantly left the room, and he knit his brow in angry meditation. "am i never to be done with that tom pinder?" ran his thoughts. "i pick him up out of the workhouse; he knocks my overseer head over heels; he refuses the handsomest offer i ever made to anyone in my life; starts in business on his own account, and now, forsooth, has the audacity to try conclusions with me at the polling-booth. i've a good mind to let him have a walk-over. there'll be no credit in beating him--that i'm sure to do but if by any chance he should head the poll--but that's not to be thought of. i'll give the cub something else to think of besides canvassing, or my name's not jabez tinker. if a man will play at bowls he must expect rubbers." and as a result of his deliberations the manufacturer once more found himself in the office of mr. nehemiah wimpenny. "come to sign your will, mr. tinker? it's been ready for you this--i don't know how long. i thought you'd forgotten all about it, and yet you seemed in a precious hurry about it when you gave me the instructions." "no, it's not about my will i've come. that can wait, i think. in fact i may have to vary my instructions. i'm not quite satisfied with my niece's conduct lately. but we won't go into that at present. it's another, a more important one." nehemiah settled himself in his chair and gave all his mind to his client; but jabez seemed for the nonce to have lost his usual promptitude and decision. he had to pick his words. "it's a question of water-right," he said at last. "h'm, ticklish things, very," said nehemiah. "nothing more so." "so i've always understood," said jabez--"and costly." "yes, costly. you might almost pave holmfirth with the gold that's been spent on law over disputes about water. but let me have the facts. perhaps it may not be a complicated case at all." but his client seemed in no hurry to state the facts. he seemed to be more interested in the question of cost. "suppose i have a complaint to make against a firm higher up the stream, what are the proceedings to be taken?" "what do you complain about, fouling or improperly tapping your supply?" mr. tinker took time to reply. "i don't quite follow you," he said. "why," said nehemiah, "water-right cases are usually complaints that a man has fouled the stream with dye-water or chemicals or by diverting ochre-water from above his own head-goit so that it may enter the river below his own mill but above his neighbour's. that's one class of case, and a comparatively easy one. the other is when a mill-owner fancies that the water that has passed over his neighbour's water-wheel is not returned to the stream for his own use lower down the stream. now that's always a very delicate question, and one for experts. and it's well known that for one surveyor you get to swear on your side, another can be got to swear on the other. they're as bad as vets, in a horse-warranty case. now which class of infringement do you complain of?" again mr. tinker had to pause for a reply. "o both," he said. "yes, certainly, both." "why," exclaimed wimpenny, "whose mill is it?" "the co-op mill," said his client, somewhat shamefacedly, as the lawyer thought. "what! that fellow, pinder! by jove, i'm glad of this. gad! i'm as pleased as if you'd told me i was own brother to the prince of wales. but"--and his face fell. "but what?" asked jabez, sharply. "it'll be lean picking, even if we win. i don't suppose the whole concern's worth powder and shot." "and why are you anxious powder and shot should be spent on pinder?" asked tinker, suspiciously. "oh, well i don't mind telling you, mr. tinker. the fact is, i was rather hard hit by your beautiful niece, if you'll excuse my saying so." "well?" said mr. tinker, stiffly. "but she seemed to prefer that low fellow pinder's company to mine, and if she's no better taste than that, well, i'm not the one to enter the running against a screw." mr. tinker winced. "you seem to lose heart very easily, mr. wimpenny. young men weren't so easily discouraged in my young days." "much you know about it," thought the lawyer. "a spirited young woman like dorothy tinker's rather a different sort of an undertaking from old split's scarecrow of a daughter." by mutual consent to the men reverted the less embarrassing question of water rights. "just explain to me, wimpenny, what must be done to vindicate my rights." "well, you must file a bill in the court of chancery, and you must file affidavits by the oldest inhabitants as to the customary service of the water, and by analysts as to pollution, and you must go for damages, and you'll have to get other manufacturers to assess the damages, and, oh!--yes, you might try for an _interim_ injunction." "and pinder'll have to set another lawyer on?" "of course he will." "and that'll cost _him_ money, win or lose?" "rather." "then go at him hammer and tongs, and the sooner you begin and the hotter you go at him, the better you'll please me." "but the evidence?" "you must find the evidence, sir. i don't care whether i win or lose. but co-op mill must stop. for want of water if we win: for want of funds if we lose." "do you understand me?" "you bet i do, and i'll tell you this, i never went into a case with better heart. you may rest easy, mr. tinker. co-op mill's as good as broke." it was but a week or so after this interview that workhouse jack, loitering about the mill yard, espied a seedy looking fellow peering in at the mill-gates. it was a saturday afternoon. the engine was stopped, the hands had trooped home, tom and ben had gone for a walk, and jack was in sole charge. he was dressed in his sunday best, and meditating a visit to the village, and, of course, lucy. he knew the visitor at once for wimpenny's process server. the process server did not know jack. "can i see mr. pinder?" the man asked. "aye, if yo're none blind," answered jack. "what's your will?" "oh, beg your pardon, sir. didn't know it was you. this is for you, sir, and he slipped a paper into jacks hand." "it's a petition in chancery filed by our client, mr. jabez tinker, against you, sir." "a 'tition, is it," said jack "an' what mun aw do wi' it nah aw've getten it?" "better see your lawyer about it." "oh! an' what 'ud ha' happened, now, just for argyment's sake, if yo'd dropped this ere precious dockyment i'stead o' 'liverin' it to me?" the clerk was not prepared to say. "i don't know indeed. perhaps the action couldn't go on." "oh! it couldn't, eh?" "i'm not sure. but any way, i _have_ served it: so it's no use going into that." "aye, yo'n sarved it," assented jack. "just step this way, will yo', while aw run mi e'en ovver it," and so saying, jack led the way into the boiler-house. then jack deliberately locked the door. "what does this mean?" asked the clerk. "it just meeans this. yo' look as if a square meeal 'ud do yo' all th' gooid i'th' warld, an' aw reckon yo've got to eit this bit o' papper afore yo' cum aat." jack flung it at him and sat quietly down. "yo' may ta' yo'r time, aw'm no ways pressed mi sen. if yo' feel it a bit dry aw'll find yo' a can o' watter to wesh it dahn wi'; but eit it yo' do afore yo' see dayleet agen." "but, mr. pinder!" "mr. pinder, indeed yo' gorm fooil. a'm nooan mr. pinder. mr. pinder's a gentleman. aw'm nobbut his man. nah, ger agate: sooiner yo'r' at it, an' sooiner yo'll ha' done." and in the boiler-house tom found the custodian of co-op mill and his prisoner. to jack's indignation tom quietly pocketed the petition and released the clerk with an apology and a solatium. chapter xii to say that the service of the bill in chancery on tom was like a bolt from the blue would be but feebly to describe the consternation with which he perused the portentous document, and in time realized its meaning and effect. tom was absolutely unconscious that either in thought, word, or deed he had wronged any of his neighbours below stream. he had not, to his knowledge, turned more dye-water into the river, or taken more pure water from it than the reasonable working of his mill demanded, and had been afore-time accustomed by his predecessor. he had received no complaint from mr. tinker, no request for abatement of any nuisance he might unwittingly have committed, or infringement he might innocently have caused, nehemiah wimpenny in his zeal to do his client's behests, and in the animus he himself cherished against tom, had even pretermitted the usual letter of courtesy preceding the firing of the first shot, the letter which in litigation is like the pourparlers of ambassadors preparatory to the formal declaration of war--an omission by the way, which nehemiah had subsequent occasion to repent in sack-cloth and ashes. but for the present nehemiah was jubilant and elate. affidavits simply rained upon tom. photographers and surveyors swarmed about the banks of the holme above and below co-op mill, and its waters were analysed and tested qualitatively and quantitatively as though the fate of empires depended on the issue. it was plain that wimpenny meant to press the motion for an interim injunction, the effect of which would be to stop, if but temporarily, the work at co-op mill, and would of itself be as disastrous to its tenant as a final decree after full trial. tom and ben discussed the situation in all its bearings. "aw'll tell yo' what it is," said ben, "it's nowt but spite. aw've known this stream, man and boy, for ovver fifty year, an' th' co-op mill as mony. an' a hangel fro' heaven couldn't mak' me believe as we'n done owt 'at jabez tinker's a reight to complain on. it's nowt but spite, tom, it's th' owd tale ovver agen o' th' wolf an' th' lamb. he meeans to eit us up flesh an' bone, that's th' long an' th' short on it. an' what for? that lays ovver me entirely. tha's nivver crossed him i' owt, has ta, tom?" and then, for the first time tom told his friend of the offer tinker had made to him at the close of his apprenticeship. "an' what didn't ta tak' th' shop for, tom? it 'ud ha' been a seet easier for thee nor startin' at th' co-op?" "well, you see ben, we'd made all our arrangements and--" "aye, aye, aw see, lad, tha wer' feeart aw sud think tha'd thrown me ovver. eh, lad, me and yar hannah an' lucy too, for that matter, 'ud ha' gone to th' big house afore yo' sud ha' gone agen yo'r best interests for us." "oh, nonsense, ben. i preferred the co-op scheme. i never enjoyed my life so much as i have done since we went into it, and i shall never cast a regretful thought over either the labour or the wee bit money it has cost me. what worries me, ben, so i can't sleep o'nights, is the thought of the men who have joined us and put their life-savings into the concern. i shall never hold up my head again if they are to lose their money through their confidence in me." "and i' me, tom, i' me, too. yo' see, lad, yo' wer' i' a manner o' speikin' a stranger; but they'd known me all my life. but aw'm nooan feeart they'll blame oather on us, after th' first shock's ovver. but if they dunnot ma' jabez tinker sweeat for this job, they're nooan th' lad's aw tak' 'em for. if yo' know onybody 'at's interested i' insurance companies just yo' tell 'em to fight shy o' wilberlee mill," answered ben savagely. "that's nonsense, ben, and yo know it. now what's to be done?" "let's go see mister re'fearn," suggested ben. "i'm afraid he may think we want to ask him to help us out. we must take no money, ben, from anybody. we'll keep our good names if we lose every stick we have." "oh! tha needn't be so tetchy, tom, redfearn's nooan fooil enough to lend us money to throw away. but yo' know he's had more deealin's wi' th' law nor us, an' though it gooas agen th' grain, aw expec' we'st ha' to put a lawyer on to this job. we mun set a thief to catch a thief, aw ma' no daat." so tom and ben set off for fairbank's and were fortunate enough to find mr. redfearn at home. he would hear no talk of business till all had sat down to a good dinner in his own well-furnished sitting room. "folk always look on th' gloomy side of things when their belly's empty," he observed, "an' taking too doleful a way o' lookin' at things is just as foolish as takin' too cheerful a one," from which profound truism it will be seen that the farmer had learned something in the school of life that is not taught in academies or college. he listened at first to the story that tom unfolded with the utmost attention and gravity. he even insisted on tom reading to him the chancery bill and the pile of affidavits, but the prolixity and tautology of the legal phrasing soothed him like a soporific. "it's like bein' i' church," he muttered drowsily; and presently to complete the analogy, fell into a slumber from which he was only aroused by the entrance of mrs. redfearn with decanters, lemon, sugar and hot water, and a bottle of home-made rhubarb wine for the special cheer of tom, whose habits she knew. "yo' munnot think aw've been asleep" said fairbanks. "aw wer' thinkin', an' aw can allus think best wi' mi e'en shut. th' missus theer 'll tell yo' aw speik th' truth, for 'oo often thinks awm asleep when 'oo's givin' me a leckter upstairs; but aw know ivvery word oo's said th' next mornin' better than 'oo does hersen." "an' much good my talkin' does you, and much notice you take of it," said mrs. redfearn, "but if yo' _have_ been thinkin' let's hear what you've thowt on." "tell aleck to put bob i' th' shafts. we'r' bahn to huddersfilt. this is a lawyer's job, tom, an' aw think aw know th' varry man for yo'. yo' know sykes ' wrigley mill. he's a lad i' huddersfilt 'at used to be a sort o' teacher wi' mr. black, an' then wer' 'prenticed to a 'torney in th' taan. he's started for hissen now. he's as full o' law as an egg's full o' meit, so folk sayn. but he'll neer ma' much aat awm feeart, for when he gets on his hind legs to speik, d-- me if he can say boh! to a gooise. his wits all go a wool gatherin' but he knows th' law, none better, aw'm towd. an' believe me or believe me not aw do think he's honest so that wi' his narvousness an' his honesty, he'll not mak' much aat as a 'torney. aw'm feart oather on 'em's a drawback i' his job; but _both_ together's enough to sink a clivverer man nor edwin sykes 'll ever be." it cannot be said that the anxious trio got much comfort from mr. sykes. he told them frankly that at the very best the litigation must be costly and prolonged, and that in the long run the court would probably be guided by the weight and authority of the expert evidence. "now that means purse against purse. and i'm afraid, mr. pinder, that our guns are neither so many nor so heavy as our opponent's. and wimpenny won't give us much rest." one grain of consolation they did bear away with them, however. mr. sykes was able to assure them that there was small likelihood of the court granting an _interim_ injunction. "the judge will know that to stop the work at the mill, even temporarily, would mean a probably irreparable loss. he won't prejudge the case on an interlocutary proceeding. that will give you time to turn yourself round, mr. pinder, and i should say your best plan would be to look out for a mill lower down the stream, _below_ mr. tinker's. then perhaps you can have a fling at him some fine day." "eh! he's a deep 'un is ned for all his quiet ways. talks like a judge doesn't he? what's that word--inter summat?" "interlocutory," said tom. "an' just think 'at aw've cuffed that lad mony a time when aw've found him moonin abaat fairbanks wi' a book i' his hand. it's just wonderful what education 'll do." it did not remain a secret in holmfirth that the new co-op was in chancery--name of dread import. _omne ignotum pro magnifico_. the utmost that even the fairly well-informed could tell about chancery was that it was a bottomless pit from which there was no escape, or a kind of legal den where the lawyers fed on the oysters called estates, flinging out the shells for the suitors to quarrel or get reconciled over. that was the utmost; but it was enough. tom called a private meeting of all the hands and told them the facts. their first feeling was one of blank dismay, their next and abiding feeling one of dogged resistance. "it's the devil's plot, and hatched in hell," said the spokesman of the men who had money in the concern. "but we'll fight to the finish, an' bi what we'n heard abaat this here chancery, th' finish 'll be abaat th' same time as th' day o' judgment." the news reached dorothy through the faithful betty. "well, the law can't hurt mr. pinder if he's done nothing wrong," said her young mistress "the law is for evil-doers, and i suppose mr. pinder is not an evil-doer. he's a very innocent looking one if he is." "ah! it's little yo' know about th' law, or me oather, come to that. but aw keep mi ears oppen an' they _do_ say,--" "which, being interpreted, means 'serjeant ramsden of the county constabulary,'" interrupted dorothy, with an arch smile. "well, what do they, _alias_ serjeant ramsden, say." "why," answered betty in no wise abashed. "he, aw meean they, say 'at it doesn't matter a brass farden i' chancery whether a man's i' th' reight or th' wrang. it's th' longest purse at wins i' th' long run. th' serjeant says, miss, 'at if tom wins i' one court yo'r uncle can peeal to a higher court, an' on an' on till it reaches th' lord hissen." "the lords, you mean, perhaps, betty." "weil, it's all as one, for ought aw can see. it's naked we come into th' world, and naked we go aat on it, an aw reckon tom 'll be stripped pretty stark afore th' case gets up to th' lords." "but what's it all about, betty? dear me, if being in love makes a woman so tiresome as you are, i hope such a calamity will never befall me. what _has_ mr. pinder done?" "oh!" said betty, "there's no hope o' yo'r escapin' it unless so be as yo'r minded to play a very one-sided game. but if yo' ax me what th' law stir's abaat, as far as aw can mak' aat th' _mester_ says it's abaat th' watter-reets to th' mill, but _folk_ sen it's nowt but spite, so nah yo' han it plump an' fair." "meaning that my uncle has gone to law with his former apprentice from some petty feeling of jealousy, or just to cripple him or even ruin him?" "that's th' talk o'th village, choose ha." "well, i don't believe it, betty. my uncle is incapable of such conduct. but i'll soon find out for myself. get me my hat and cape this moment. i'm going out." and dorothy walked with quick, resolute steps to ben garside's house. she was fortunate enough to find lucy alone, and of this she was glad, for she was in no humour to enjoy hannah's garrulous speech. "what's this i hear, lucy, about my uncle going to law with mr. pinder. i can make neither head nor tail of betty at home, so i've come to you. it seems to me there's something about law that forbids people to be intelligible when they're talking of it?" "your uncle," said lucy very gravely, "has served a bill in chancery, i think they call it, on tom." "what in the name of common sense is a bill in chancery? i know what a dressmaker's bill is, but the other variety is beyond me." "i don't quite know all the ins and outs of it," replied lucy, still very seriously. "but so far as i can make out your uncle complains that tom fouls the stream and takes more water out than he's any right to, and of course as wilberlee is lower down the stream it must injure your uncle if it's true." "and is it true?" asked dorothy. "both tom and father say there isn't a word of truth in it." "and you believe them?" "of course i do," said lucy simply. "then what is there to look so gloomy about? 'pon my word, lucy, if you go on in the dumps like that i'll shake you. i only wish somebody would bring a false charge against me. there's nothing i should enjoy more than making them prove their words at no end of trouble and expense, and then laughing at the faces they'd pull when they failed to do it. if that's chancery i call chancery a very good joke." "aye, but tom says it will take all they have in the world to prove that they're in the right, and that month after month, for goodness knows how long, the money that should go for wages and in carrying on the mill must go to their lawyer. so it means ruin, win or lose." "and that's what they call law, is it?" exclaimed dorothy. "anybody could see a set of men noodles made it. but what are they going to do?" "just carry on as long as they can, and then i don't know what. it doesn't matter so much for father. he can take to his hand-loom again, and now i'm so much stronger i hope to be a help to him. i can spin wonderful. but it will be a sad blow for tom. his whole heart and soul were in the mill. not for the money. i never knew anyone care less for money than tom. but the hands were so contented and father says it was to prove a social and economic revolution, whatever that may mean." "it means apparently," said dorothy "ruining yourself for the general good. does tom,--mr. pinder, take it much to heart?" "he pretends not to, always tries to put a cheerful face on when he talks to mother. but i know it's just crushing the youth out of him. but it's because those that went in with him may have to lose their money. and father says there'll be no room for tom in these parts if th' co-op's stopped. the other manufacturers are sure to side with your uncle, and they'll none of them give tom a job if he asked for it." "oh! they wouldn't, eh?" then suddenly. "is tom _very_ dear to you, lucy?" lucy flushed, and her eyes fell before dorothy's questioning look. but her voice, though low, was very steady as she spoke. "i love him very much, dorothy. next to the love i have for mother and father there is no one in the world to me like tom. he is my big brother, you know," she added, with a faint smile. "oh! those big brothers have a way of turning into big lovers," said dorothy. "that's just their artful way. they get a poor innocent confiding girl to feel like a sister, and then when she begins to feel she cannot very well do without him, nothing will do but a ring and a parson. i know them," said dorothy viciously. "tom will never be _my_ lover, dorothy," said lucy, quietly. "and why pray, miss pale-face?" "because he loves someone else. he has loved her for years." "what parson tom engaged! tragedy upon tragedy. there are two blighted beings then; the course of their true love, ruffled by this dreadful chancery. and who's the luckless she? this is a world of surprises. tom was not such a bat as to look outside this house for a prettier face and a sweeter heart than he'll find inside it." "i didn't say tom was engaged," said lucy. "i know you didn't. well, if it isn't i'll not venture another guess. still, i'm a daughter of eve after all, and i confess i hope mr. pinder is not going to throw himself away on some good-looking empty-head of a girl--a calf-love. you said it was a malady of standing, contracted young, if i remember." "yes, she's good-looking," said lucy. "_and_ empty-headed?" "you wouldn't like me to say so." "i! what have my likes to do with it? it's no concern of mine. really, you stimulate my curiosity. is it anyone i know? does she go to our chapel?" "yes, she goes to aenon," said lucy. "but there, i'll tell you no more." "oh! i can guess, and thank you for nothing. it's that apprentice of miss baxter's, the milliner. now don't deny it. i saw mr. pinder looking at her very much the last sunday he honoured aenon. the girl with the green gloves. the taste of some men--in dress i mean." "have it your own way," said lucy, "you'll find out someday, perhaps." "oh! bother tom pinder and his lady-loves green gloves as well. however did we get talking of such a trifle! now, seriously, lucy, do your father and the other want to fight this case, and can they win if they can fight." "they say so. but what's the use of talking. if ifs and buts were apples and ducks!" "and who knows but they are," said dorothy, springing to her feet. she kissed lucy with a bright face. "don't lose heart, little pale-face. they aren't beaten yet. tell them not to give in. i say so. now, good-bye,--you're sure it's green gloves?" "you know i never said so. but good-bye." it is never safe to be certain about anything connected with the law; but the opinion may be hazarded that never in the long years of his tenancy did the office of mr. edwin sykes receive a fairer client than the young lady who was closeted with that sedate professor of the gloomy science not long after the interview just recorded. the young lady did not seem in the least impressed by the sombre volumes of statutes and reports that lined the walls of the room, nor yet by the tape-bound bundles of foolscap, draft, and brief, neatly docketed, that were spread on a table by the lawyer's side, so many pot-eggs, the ribald alleged, to tempt the unwary to lay. dorothy had accepted the chair mr. sykes had handed her, but flicked its horse-hair cushion with a delicate cambric handkerchief before complying with his invitation to be seated. "how very musty everything is," she remarked in explanation. "if i'd walked the length of new street after sitting on your chair without first dusting it, everyone would have said either that i'd been knocked down by a tramp and robbed on my way from holmfirth, or been to visit an attorney. there mayn't be much difference in the consequences," she added reflectively, "but i don't want all the world to know my business. you can keep a secret, i suppose, mr. sykes?" "it is part of my business," the lawyer answered. "even from mrs. sykes--there is a mrs. sykes, i suppose." "well, yes, as you are good enough to ask, there _is_ a mrs. sykes,--and till to-day i thought her the most daring of her sex" he would have liked to add. "ah! that's a comfort. now i can tell you everything. you wouldn't think now i'm in great trouble, and i want you to help me out of it, and not a living soul but you must know about it." as dorothy looked radiantly happy as she made this doleful plaint it may be assumed that mr. sykes argued her case was not so desperate as her words. "if you will tell me, miss tinker, the nature of your trouble i may be able to prescribe for you. we poor lawyers are not so clever as the doctors. we can't diagnose by the looks, or, i confess, i should not advise you to abandon hope." "and this is the lawyer ben said couldn't say boh! to a goose," thought dorothy. "now, how shall i begin?" she said. "suppose you try the beginning," he suggested. "you know mr. pinder, of holmfirth?" asked dorothy, glancing at a formidable pile of papers on the desk labelled "pinder at the suit of tinker." "if you mean mr. tom pinder, of co-op mill, hinchliff mill, i think i may go so far as to say i do." "come, that's something," said dorothy. "you are so very cautious you might have added 'without prejudice.' now is it a very bad case?" she concluded. "really! miss tinker." "now i don't want any humming and ha-ing, you know, mr. sykes. i take a very great interest in mr. pinder--well, not in him you know. that's ridiculous: but in lucy, you know" and dorothy nodded with great significance, whilst the lawyer felt that he was getting deeper and deeper into a bog. "i confess i don't know," he said, "and i must ask you to be a little more explicit." "well,--dear me! how tiresome you are--it's about this quarrel between uncle jabez and mr. pinder." "are you mr. tinker's niece? then really, miss tinker, i think if your uncle wants to open up any negotiations towards a settlement he'd better send his lawyer." "what! nehemiah wimpenny! how could he? didn't i tell you no one was to know anything of my visit but you and me, and mr. wimpenny's the very last man in the world i'd chose for any errand of mine." "but in what can i help you, miss tinker? you will understand, of course, that i cannot discuss my client's affairs with anyone without his knowledge and privilege,--no, not though an angel drop from the clouds." "i suppose that's a _rechauffé_ from one of your pretty sayings to lizzie hudson. oh! yes! i know all about it mr. sykes. lizzie and i were at school together, and i thought it just odious of her not to ask me to her wedding." "and only a minute ago she asked me if there were a mrs. sykes," reflected the harassed young man. "will she ever get to her story?" "and that's what gave me confidence to come to you, mr. sykes. not the not being asked to the wedding, but because you were lizzie's husband, and i did think of calling on her and bringing her with me, but she'd have guessed,"--and here dorothy stopped abruptly. "yes, she'd have guessed?" said mr. sykes, encouragingly. "never you mind what lizzie would have guessed. it's about this lawsuit i've come. i suppose i'd better come to the point." "wish to heaven you would," thought the lawyer. "now which do you think will win, uncle or mr. pinder?" "if law and justice were one, miss tinker, there could only be one answer--mr. pinder." "but they aren't,--so that means tom, that's mr. pinder, will lose." "you really must excuse me, miss tinker, i've said, even now, more than i'd any right to say." "but don't you see, i want to help mr. pinder to win. that's what i came for. didn't i tell you? dear me, i wish i'd gone to lizzie first. _she_ isn't slow, at any rate." mr. sykes smiled. "no, my wife is not slow-witted, and i'm afraid i am. perhaps that's why she took pity on me." "shouldn't wonder. now the question is, how can we help mr. pinder, i mean lucy, of course." mr. sykes felt his brain beginning to give way in the vain striving after his visitor's drift. "lucy," he murmured hopelessly. "yes, lucy. she's my dearest friend. and she's to marry tom,--mr. pinder i mean. that is to say she would if he would; but she says he wont, and perhaps she's right. anyway, she wanted him to win this case, and i want him to win this case, and what's more, i mean him to win this case,--for lucy's sake, of course, because she says it's all spite, and neither law nor justice, and you say so too, don't you?" "yes, i do." "now lucy says it's all a matter o' money, i don't mean matrimony; for goodness sake _don't_ repeat that stupid jest. but i've had a long talk with lucy, and she says it will cost tom and ben, that's lucy's father, you know, heaps and heaps of money to fight the case to the end, and that's just what they haven't got. you're the blood-sucker, i suppose?" "yes, miss tinker, i'm afraid i'm one of them--for lizzie's sake, of course." dorothy looked sharply at mr. sykes, and there was a slight flush of colour on her cheek as she repeated "oh, yes, for lizzie's sake, of course." was it possible that this very sedate young man could guess beyond his brief? "now _i've_ got some money; at least i suppose so; though i've never seen it. but i've always understood my poor father that i don't remember, made a will, and i was the only child. now you must get to know all about that, and mr. pinder and ben are not to go to the wall for want of money. do you understand that?" "but am i really to understand, miss tinker, that you propose to spend your money in helping my clients in fighting your own uncle?" "i don't care if he's twenty times my uncle, though once time once is enough, thank you. but if he's mean enough to try to ruin ben garside--" "and mr. pinder?" put in the lawyer, quite casually. "and i thought this lawyer stupid," thought dorothy, but ignored the interruption. "then i'm mean enough to fight him with his own weapons, uncle or no uncle." "it sounds parlously like champerty and maintenance," said mr. sykes, more to himself than to dorothy. "there's no sham about it, sir. i mean every word of it. i'll let my uncle see he can't treat me as he does poor aunt, like dirt under his feet." "god grant i'm spared the aunt," groaned edwin sykes inwardly "what with her lucy and her own quite bewildering self there are quite women enough in the case, without introducing an aunt." "if i follow you, miss tinker, you are desirous, for your friend lucy's sake, to help my client with money to carry on this unfortunate litigation. have you any idea what the costs may amount to?" "not the slightest. but that doesn't matter. the money shall be found." "i've another question to ask, miss tinker, and a very delicate one. may i ask how old you are?" "and this is the man that can't say boh! to a goose," again thought dorothy. "i suppose if i'd assurance enough for a lawyer i should tell you i'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth," replied dorothy merrily. "that's exactly what i'm driving at," was the reply very seriously uttered. "i'm not at all sure that i should be justified in taking your money without my client's knowledge and consent even if you were of full age, but from a minor!" "pshaw, i sha'n't be a minor all my life. i shall be twenty one next birthday, and that's on may st." "there's many things may happen between now and your birthday.'' "exactly, your client may be ruined and lucy may be broken-hearted, and all because of a silly punctilio." "have you a copy of your father's will." "ah! now you're talking. i haven't; but i suppose one can be procured. i should like to see one any way, for even a woman may be allowed a little curiosity as to her own fortune. after all, i may be as poor as a church mouse. but you can find out that for me and have no qualms, i hope." "oh, yes, i shall be pleased to get you a copy of the will. i apprehend that you come to your inheritance in the general way." "and that is?" "if and when you attain the age of twenty-one years, or marry under that age. by the way, that suggests one simple solution of the difficulty, you might marry." "oh! that's out of the question." "not for, ahem!"--the young lawyer raised his long white hand to his mouth and coughed very slightly "not for lucy's sake?" dorothy rose with some dignity to close the interview. "let me know please when have got the copy of the will. meanwhile, i suppose i can rely on your discretion," and dorothy made to go. "nay, miss tinker, you have not permitted me to say my say. i am well aware that mr. pinder is a poor man. i am also a poor man. i had not intended to trouble my client in the event of defeat for more than the actual costs out of pocket. those i couldn't afford to advance. if you give me your simple word that these shall be paid sooner or later by someone, no matter who," and here there was the barest suspicion of a twinkle in the young man's eyes as he added, "or for whose sake, rest assured i shall not allow mr. pinder's cause to fail for want of professional assistance. more i cannot promise." dorothy extended her hand. "and you have my word that if i live you shall not suffer. i do so want tom, i mean mr. pinder, to win if he's in the right. i'll do almost anything rather than he should be borne down simply by his poverty. i say _almost_ anything. i draw the line at marrying, you know; besides," and a look of sudden remembrance sprung to dorothy's eyes. "yes, besides?" "oh, it's something you wouldn't understand, about a horrid girl with green gloves," and dorothy tripped away with a smile and a nod. "this case fairly bristles with women," mused edwin sykes. quintilian was right: _nulla causa sine femina_. and the months went by and the trial of the great cause of "pinder at the suit of tinker" seemed as far off as ever. first blood had been drawn by the defendant: the motion for an _interim_ injunction and an account of profits had been refused by the court, and the judge had made certain observation as to the precipitancy with which the action had been commenced that made that respectable practitioner, mr. nehemiah wimpenny, who was present at the hearing of the motion, long that the floor of the court would gape and swallow him to the bowels of the earth,--anywhere out of hearing of that calm, gentle voice dropping vitriol in honeyed accents. in proportion as tom and ben and the friends of co-op mill rejoiced, so did mr. tinker rage and storm. from the very filing of the bill he had regretted that in his anger he had instituted proceedings that none knew better than himself were purely vexatious and vindictive. the monitor of the night watches had left him little peace. in vain he had tried to silence the still small voice by arguing to himself that to stop co-op mill would be to stop the irreligious services which more and more abundantly attracted men from the orthodox ministrations of mr. jones and the other chapels of the district. mr. tinker was no jesuit. again and again he more than half-resolved to bid mr. wimpenny stay his hand he would have been glad to be quit of the lawsuit, even if he had to pay the defendant's costs as well as his own. but now that he was smarting under a rebuff, and his enemy was exulting in a momentary triumph,--give way now! no! that was not the stuff jabez tinker was made of. to be bested by a boy, a nobody that owed all he was and all he had to him, a serpent whom he had warmed in his breast,--it could not, it should not be. and nehemiah wimpenny artfully fanned the flames of mr. tinker's wrath. he pooh-poohed the temporary check. "it wasn't an engagement, my dear sir; an interlocutory motion is a mere skirmish, a sort of reconnoitering expedition, a simple device to draw the enemy's fire. now we know where they are. they have had to show their hand, sir. we know where their weak spots are." "that's all very fine," grumbled tinker, gloomily. "we may have found _their_ weak spot; but it seems to me they've found one or two of ours--and one sore one, too, judging by the way you squirmed when my lord rubbed it into you." "oh! that's nothing," laughed wimpenny. "i took his salt _cum grano_, and i don't doubt you'll attach the same importance to this little _contretemps_. the trial's the thing.'' "you must win this case, wimpenny, if money can win it.'' "money can do anything in this world," said wimpenny, "at least that's my professional experience." mr. tinker left the lawyer's office in anything but a tranquil frame of mind. he felt like a conspirator in a sordid crime. the very paltriness of the issues and the insignificance of his opponent galled and fretted him. but how retreat now that all the world was saying that tom pinder was more than a match for jabez tinker? chapter xiii. from this time onward for some months there is little to record. the parties to the great law suit awaited with what patience they might the final trial of the all-important issue. the failure of the attempt to stay the work at co-op mill pending the final decision secured for tom pinder and his colleagues a welcome breathing space. if it were possible all hands bent themselves to their respective tasks with increased energy. the check to the plaintiff gave them heart for the present and hope for the future. every precaution was taken to guard against any fouling or minishing of the stream. the people of the holme valley are even to this day a litigious, disputatious race. they are law-loving in an inverted sense. an average native does not feel that he has lived his life unless he has at least once been prosecutor or plaintiff in a "law do." with the poet he may be supposed to sing-- "'tis better to have sued and lost than never sued at all." and the pros and cons of any _cause celebre_ are discussed wherever men foregather long before the fierce light of the courts beat upon the matter. the "company" of the village public constitute themselves into an informal jury. generally each side has its adherents. the witnesses, or such of them as frequent the houses of entertainment, tell and tell again the story they are to repeat in court. the strong and the weak points of the evidence are discussed, criticized, cross-examined, as it were, with all the acumen of the native mind, and all the freedom of irresponsibility, and of the license that ignores the trammelling confines of the laws of evidence. the peculiar qualifications of the local lawyers engaged are discussed with a particularity that would very much surprise, and not always gratify the gentlemen whose merits and demerits are so freely appraised. illustrations drawn from previous forensic contests are liberally drawn upon. there is generally in the company some man who has purchased by bitter experience the right to speak with authority, who airs his knowledge of the intricate mazes of legal proceedings. his conversation bristles with technical terms. he speaks glibly of writs, summonses, subpoenas, judgments, appeals, bills of costs and the taxation thereof. if by good fortune he possesses a copy of an ancient text-book and can produce text and verse in support of his assertions he is an opponent to be admired, but shunned. in public-house controversy the man who is most dogmatic, who can shout loudest and longest is usually adjudged the victor, especially if he is prepared to back his opinion and table the money; but even he must yield to the visible _dicta_ of the printed word. by the time the cause is ripe for hearing, bets have been made and taken; the adherents of the adversaries have ranged themselves; there are the village montagues and capulets, and the local attorney goes into court the champion of a score of clients whose very existence he is unaware of. now in holmfirth jabez tinker's defeat had been celebrated at the _cropper's arms_ by a beast-heart supper. the landlord had provided the beast-heart in the due recognition of the policy of throwing a sprat to catch a mackerel. there had been some talk of inviting edwin sykes to preside at the supper, but even holmfirth hardihood has its bounds. tom pinder, the landlord had shrewdly surmised, would prove a kill-joy, and as for ben garside, though every feeling of his heart said "yes" to the invitation, he was kept away partly by his own sense of propriety, but still more by the emphatic injunctions of his better half. "tha'rt nooan bahn to shaat, ben, afore tha'rt aat o' th' wood, an' when tha does shaat, tha mun do thi shaatin' i' decent company, an' not amang yon' beer-swillin' hogs at th' _cropper's arms_. what do they care whether yo' win or looise? there isn't one on 'em but 'ud sell yo' for a quart o' ale. yo'r nooan bahn to lower yo'rsen bi mixin' amang that lot, it says i'th book theer 'at i' vain the net is spread i' th' seet o' ony bird; but th' kind o' bird at th' net o' th' _cropper's_ is set for mun be bats darkened wi' brewer's grain, an' that's all t' grain some on 'em feed on." it did not lessen jabez tinker's irritation and general sense of all things being awry that he was in many ways made conscious that the only public opinion that he really cared about--that of his own neighbourhood--was dead against him. mr. tinker affected to despise the sentiments of his neighbours, and he certainly could not be accused of stooping to court popularity. but no man is really indifferent to the good or ill-word of his own little world. and jabez was aware that even his own household was not on his side. to be sure in the rare visits he paid to his ailing wife at harrogate he was sure of one sympathetic listener as he unfolded in brief, terse sentences the story of his wrongs, in which he had almost persuaded himself to believe, and of the indignities which he concluded must be patent to everyone. but dorothy he knew to be openly and avowedly in the camp of the enemy, and this was an ever rankling sore. jabez had declared to himself that his niece was the illest of all birds fouling its own nest. she was a tinker, his brother's daughter, and it was her bounden duty to take his side and fight his battle whether he were right or wrong. the mere stranger and passer-by, they might scan and scrutinize; but for the girl who slept under his roof and sat at his table to condemn her heart, was the blackest treason and gross ingratitude jabez had never heard of walpole's reply to the county member who promised his vote whenever he should think the member in the right. "i want men who'll back me right or wrong: through thick and thin." but jabez had the same views as to the countenance he was entitled to expect from his niece. and dorothy was made to feel that her uncle's feelings were very bitter towards her. the subject of the lawsuit was never referred to, but jabez, never a demonstrative or genial relative, now became cold, repellent, caustic. if there was a death in the house, betty declared, it could not be gloomier, and if it wasn't for leaving miss dorothy she wouldn't care how soon she changed her name and state. all this was, one may be sure, not conducive to dorothy's serenity. she had, too, at times, a sense of treachery to her uncle. was she justified in secretly aiding and abetting his enemy, even if that enemy were an enemy _malgré lui_? how was she to be certain that what most people said was true, that her uncle was merely persecuting a rival in trade to crush him? could she, indeed, believe that of that stern, austere man, the pillar of aenon chapel, quoted and esteemed throughout the whole baptist denomination who of all other men, she had thought, however unlovable was at least a just man. these considerations were of themselves sufficient to disquiet a young and sensitive mind. there was another. was dorothy honest with herself? it was dorothy who asked the question. and when man or maid has come to the pass of asking so searching a question it is odds that conscience has a ready "no." was it _par exemple_, quite the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, that it was only for her friend's sake, and for the triumph of abstract justice against an unholy conspiracy that dorothy had so overleaped the bounds of maidenly reserve and perilled her fortune in the quicksands of the law. and when dorothy, in the still watches of the night, thus put dorothy's self into the witness box, and her fluttering heart gave its blunt reply, dorothy was fain to draw the coverlet over a winsome face and hide the crimson blushes e'en from the sightless eyes of night, and toss and turn upon her uneasy couch courting and yet dreading the sleep that brought dreams that should not be for maids uncourted and unwon. and to nights thus harassed followed days embittered by her uncle's harsh, forbidding aloofness, and, to fill her cup to the brim, by the now unmistakable attentions of nehemiah wimpenny. that young ornament of the law had fully satisfied himself that dorothy was worth the winning. he had even gone so far as to transfer his valued custom from the _rose and crown_, and polly was left lamenting but sustaining her desertion with more philosophy than ariadne or dido. "good riddance of bad rubbish," was all she said, and forthwith reserved her sweetest smiles and most languishing glances for the village surgeon, who had long sighed in vain, eclipsed by the greater attractions or,--may it be suggested?--by the deeper purse of the village attorney. nehemiah was now a constant visitor at wilberlee, and by jabez tinker was always welcomed with a warmth that increased when the manufacturer perceived that the attorney's visits were not purely professional. jabez saw in his niece's marriage relief from a daily source of irritation. true, the day drew nigh when he must be prepared to produce and vouch his accounts as executor and trustee of his late brother. but jabez flattered himself that if anyone could be counted on to keep wilberlee out of chancery it would be nehemiah wimpenny, if nehemiah wimpenny were also dorothy's husband. "lawyers are fond of law, but it must be at somebody else's expense," he argued. "wimpenny won't be such a fool as to share my cake with others, when sooner or later he can have it all himself." but nehemiah found the wooing of dorothy up-hill work. the holmfirth "don juan" was accustomed to the easy conquests of the bar-room and the side-wings of the huddersfield theatre. he found it difficult to teach his tongue the language to which it was a stranger, and after a painful hour or so spent in the parlour of wilberlee in the attempt to interest or amuse the young heiress, his whole being cried out for the unrestrained freedom of polly's conversation, and for the ready appreciation polly had always vouchsafed to his jests and innuendos which even nehemiah knew would ensure his prompt expulsion from wilberlee, probably at the point of the owner's toe. but as yet, at all events, he felt himself securely in mr. tinker's goodwill. he had even gone so far as to drop a not obscure hint as to the aspirations he cherished in what he was pleased to call his heart. "win this accursed law-suit for me," jabez had said, "and we will talk about matters less important. meanwhile, you had better make as sure of my niece's consent as you may of mine. not that dorothy would stay for that. i wish you joy of her, that's all. women are kittle-cattle to shoe. i don't think you'll find my niece an exception to her sex." but nehemiah, despite the guardian's favour, confessed to himself that if he progressed at all in dorothy's good graces, his progress was crab-wise--backwards. what _could_ he talk about? he feigned an interest in the sermons of the rev. david jones. but dorothy yawned at the very mention of the minister's name. then he affected an interest in her sunday school class, but dorothy said sunday school classes were generally a combination of scholars who didn't want to learn and teachers who didn't know how to teach, and as she felt herself to be one of the latter class, she was determined to give her class up. then the desperate lover essayed his powers at the retailing of local gossip, telling with unction how young d-- was supposed to be casting sheep's eyes at nancy n--; how the plain daughter of the vicar's warden was shamelessly setting her cap at the new curate, and how the hue of mrs. j--'s nose-end was erroneously attributed to poverty of blood. in one topic only could he prevail on dorothy to take an interest at all, and that was a topic on which nehemiah was eloquent enough at first, but of which in time he became uncommonly shy,--the vexed question of water rights, with especial reference to the great case of "pinder at the suit of tinker." "so you've lost your application for an _interim_ injunction?" dorothy said demurely one night after tea, when her uncle had hurried off to a deacon's meeting, promising speedy return, and hospitably pressing his guest to stay for the substantial supper of cold meats and pastry with which our hardier fathers braved the terrors of nightmare and dyspepsia. "oh, that's nothing, miss dorothy," said nehemiah jauntily, glad of a subject of conversation in which he flattered himself he could shine, "nothing at all, i can assure you." "then you expected to lose?" "well, not say expect, but fortune of war you know, fortune of war, glorious uncertainty, and all that, don'tcherknow." "but you are certain to win in the end, or is there a glorious uncertainty about that?" "oh! yes, sure to win in the long run. pinder can't stand the racket. expected he'd have caved in long since. can't understand it. sykes must be risking more than i'd like to. sticks like a leech at all points." "there's an old saying, mr. wimpenny, that tear'em's a good dog, but holdfast's a better. perhaps mr. sykes is one of your holdfast breed." "ah! ah! very good, indeed, miss tinker. must remember that. but we shall shake him off yet, you bet." "thank you, i don't bet." "beg pardon, miss tinker, only a way of speaking, don'tcherknow. no offence," and nehemiah told himself that dorothy was a very difficult girl indeed. "so you think you'll wear mr. pinder out. do you mean his patience or his means?" "oh! patience is cheap enough. i dare say pinder has plenty of that. it's the poor man's assets, don'tcherknow." "i'm afraid that's often too true, mr. wimpenny." "well, i could have sworn it was about all the stock-in-trade pinder had to break him in. but somebody's finding the money, or else sykes is a bigger fool than i take him to be." "money, money, money, you men seem to talk and think of nothing but money." "and they say, miss tinker, that women have a very pretty notion of spending what the men think and talk about." "well, i for one would rather talk of something else. you're sure, now, uncle is going to win this case?" "well, of course i _think_ so, or i shouldn't have advised the proceedings." "but i suppose you advised the application for a what-do-you call it injunction. but you failed in that? now i want you to tell me all about uncle's grievances against mr. pinder. it is so delightful to find a lawyer who can make things so beautifully simple to a poor ignoramus of a girl like me. i can see now why you have so many cases in the courts." "oh! dorothy, dorothy." and forthwith the willing victim of woman's guile talked at large of water encroachment, of unlawful ochre-water diverted from its natural course so that it passed by the head-goit of co-op mill, and only entered the river as it sped on to wilberlee, to mr. tinker's great damage and detriment. never was nehemiah more eloquent, never had he so wrapt and intent a listener. "she's just the woman for a lawyer's wife," thought nehemiah, as he talked. "i'll practise my speeches on her." "but, after all, it's no use wearying you with all these details, miss tinker. we shall never reach a final trial. your uncle isn't the man to take a beating, and if we're trounced in one court we shall go to another. pinder can't stand the racket. i call it downright dishonest of him taking the savings of those deluded co-opers, as they call them, and spending it on sykes. of course it's all the better for me. but the whole thing'll fizzle out in the bankruptcy court, and i take it there'll be no necessity to wait for the court of chancery's decision. want of shekels will decide the question before we're much older, mark my words." "how very charming!" quoth dorothy. "really, mr. wimpenny, i don't know how to thank you for making everything so clear to me. now these water-foulings by mr. pinder, i suppose anyone can see them? you've interested me so much i've a good notion to turn myself into an amateur expert; if that isn't a contradiction in terms." "not more anomalous than a woman with sense," reflected nehemiah. but he said with something of an effort. "well, the fact is miss tinker, there isn't very much to see. it's the eye of science, don'tcherknow, that we go by in these cases. the eye of science," he repeated, evidently pleased with that phrase. "well, anyway, i'll try what the eye of a woman can see some fine day. perhaps i may find out something that has escaped all you clever men, and then you'll have to take me up to london as a witness, i hope." it was, perhaps, in pursuance of this quite commendable resolve, that dorothy one bright, cloudless day in august, clad in a close-fitting costume that permitted the graceful movement of her limbs without concealing the charming lines of her form came suddenly upon tom pinder in the neighbourhood of the isle of skye. dorothy, who had, as far as the nature of the ground permitted, followed the course of the stream as it flowed from its source down the valley, was warm and flushed from the toilsome ascent, but the glow of health was on her cheek and its sparkle in her eye. tom, on the contrary, was pale and careworn. too sedulous devotion to his necessary work, too little rest of mind and body, but above all the constant anxiety and uncertainty for the future were telling their tale upon his robust, vigorous, elastic frame. but a glad light sprang to his eyes, and a happy smile to his lips as he met dorothy's outstretched hand. "you are quite a stranger, mr. pinder; it is ages since i caught more than a glimpse of you. betty is quite fretting that you never go to see her now. vows she is wearing to skin and bone; but it must be by the eye of faith she attests the process." "no. i do not often get to betty's kitchen now," said tom, with something very like a sigh. "more's the pity; you see, i can't very well go openly, and you wouldn't have me go like a thief in the night." "no, i would not. it's all this wretched law business, of course. but which way were you going, uphill, or down?" "bilberry! well, there'll be a breeze from the water's face. but i think i ought to be turning homewards." "may i accompany you, miss tinker? you pass near my own mill, you know." "la! _my_ mill! how grand it sounds. i think i should like to say _my_ mill, and to feel that the hands were _my_ people. 'tis a relic of feudalism, i suppose." tom raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. he had not credited dorothy with much historical knowledge. "oh, you needn't look so superior, mr. wiseacre. i've read a book or two, though i don't teach classes on sunday, like a naughty, defiant unbeliever, as some folk are. but there, you shan't accompany me homewards. that will perhaps teach you to veil your superiority." "i assure you, miss tinker," began tom, but boggled at his disclaimer, for he was a poor liar, and dorothy had; divined his thoughts shrewdly. "instead," said dorothy, enjoying his confusion, "instead i will go on with you to bilberry reservoir: i've as much right to the cool breeze from its surface as you have, and if you've no very great objection, mr. pinder, you may give me your arm up the hill." tom flushed to the brow and, feeling weak as water, hoped that dorothy's ears were not as quick, as her eyes, for sure she would have heard the beating of his heart. "do you know, miss dorothy, i think it's the very first time i've been asked to give a lady my arm." "been asked?" said dorothy, and part withdrew her little hand. "or given it, of course. i should never dream of giving it unasked." "oh!" said dorothy, and her hand stole back again. "what, not to lucy?" "oh, well, you know. well, perhaps lucy may have taken it sometimes when she felt overdone can't say for sure. one doesn't think of these things." "oh! don't they?" queried dorothy, and her hand again made for retreat. "not with lucy, i mean," added tom. "oh!" and the hand now was restful. they walked slowly towards the reservoir, leaving the highway, and treading on the soft close-cropped grass that fringed the moor. a grouse, occasionally, whirring low near the heather, cried its alarmed "go-back, go-back," and the faint sound of the sportsman's gun was borne upon the wind. silence fell upon the two, a silence that tom knew not, nor cared to break. "and what about miss baxter's apprentice?" at last spoke dorothy, very softly. tom did not seem to hear. in truth he walked in a blissful trance. the question fell upon his ear, but the words, as words will when the mind is dreaming, tarried ere they reached his senses. it seemed to dorothy as if there had been a long gap in their conversation when he spoke. "i beg your pardon, what did you say, miss dorothy?" "i said, what about miss baxter's apprentice?" and there was no mistaking the withdraw of the hand now. "miss baxter's apprentice!" said tom, blankly. "miss baxter, the milliner, you mean." "of course i mean her _and_ her apprentice." "well, what about them?" asked tom, "and how came we to be talking about them?" "what's her name? i hope it's a pretty one." "why, miss baxter, to be sure." "stupid! i mean her apprentice. the one that wears green gloves. she's one of the teachers in our sunday school. oh! you know very well, sir." "i suppose you mean miss pounder." "what a horrid name: but what could you expect from a girl that wears green gloves. you really must buy her a pair of another colour. but there's no great change from pounder to pinder. that will be one comfort for her. but i meant her christian name." "upon my word," said tom, "i haven't an idea. it may be jezebel for aught i know or care." "but i thought...." "yes, you thought?" "oh! nothing," said dorothy, "and here, thank goodness, we're at the reservoir at last. oh! isn't the view down the valley just lovely?" "it is," said tom, but his eyes were on dorothy's beaming face. they lingered for some moments on the embankment of the vast sheet of water, each wrapt in thought. it was dorothy who spoke. "wherever does all the water come from and how could they manage to trap it like this?" "oh, this reservoir is almost made by nature. yonder is hoobrook hill and there is lum bank. it needed but to throw a bank across the intervening space, and behold, the reservoir was made. the water comes from holme moss and the hills running up to saddleworth. you would scarce think that this huge dam contains nigh a hundred million gallons of water, and that there is a pressure of several hundred thousand ton weight on the bank on which we stand." "oh! tom! if it were to burst!" pinder looked very grave. "i have often thought of that. it would be a calamity such as daunts the heart but to think of. i come here often of a moonlight night when i have made up my books for the day. it is sweet to be alone with god, and thoughts that come from god and turn to him. but there seems some weird fascination that draws my steps hitherwards. had i ever contemplated suicide...." dorothy's hand sought his involuntarily "never that tom, never that." "i should have thought there was an unseen hand beckoning, me hither. this great expanse of water, so still, when the clouds brood over it, so sullen, so seeming peaceful confined, so terrible for infinite woe if it should i o'erleap its barrier, has cast its spell over me." "how gloomily you talk, mr. pinder!" "it was 'tom' but a moment gone." "well, tom, then--as we are such old friends." "yes, miss dorothy, my heart misgives me about this slumbering giant. i doubt the strength of his chains. see here"--and he led toward the centre of the embankment. "where we stand the surface is nearly a yard lower than the mouth of the culvert." "what's the culvert for?" asked dorothy. "it is the safety valve of the reservoir." "i'm afraid i'm rather stupid." "you see, when the reservoir gets over full the excess should go down the culvert. as things are it would begin to overflow just where we stand. indeed, more than once when the wind has set this way, i've seen the water trickle over here. let that trickle be but continuous and a rill would become a gap, the gap a yawning aperture and this huge burthen of nature's most innocent fluid would hurl itself down the valley, and what or who could withstand it!" "but, tom, whose duty is it to see to these things?" "the commissioners. your uncle is one of them." "oh! i will speak to him, i promise you, and that right urgently. would you, could you speak instead of me? uncle is very wroth with me these days, and, oh! tom, life is so dree at wilberlee, i could find it in my heart at times to cry my very eyes out. and it's all your fault." "_my_ fault!" he repeated. "yes, yours, tom why couldn't you let uncle alone with your horrid law. you know he will have his own way, and, i think, your having been his apprentice makes it more galling." "and a workhouse brat at that," said tom, bitterly. "oh! never think of that, tom. no one does. i don't, and i don't care if i do. it isn't that: but uncle cannot bear to be thwarted. can't you let it drop?" "faith, i'd only be too glad. but it is mr. tinker that attacked me, and there is only one way to stop the law that i know of. your uncle must give the word. but he wont, and i can't." "couldn't you just let him have his own way; it will please him, and it won't hurt you, nor your precious co-op either." "i don't know what you call hurting me: it will just ruin me, and what's worse it will ruin a dozen others or so, poor ben garside among them." "but couldn't you go lower down the stream? mr. sy---, i mean somebody,... i mean" and here dorothy lost herself altogether, and stood dumb-founded. but tom's mind had seized upon the first suggestion of her words and he was unconscious of her embarrassment. "yes, if some good fairy would transport co-op mill below wilberlee, we might manage very well. say we had that carpet we read of in the _arabian nights_. but what's the use of talking? i cannot stop the litigation, and your uncle wont." "couldn't you allow him the name of a victory if he promised to let things go on just as they were, and you had nothing to pay those greedy lawyers? i'm sure he is not an unreasonable man, only you've crossed him, somehow, tom." "i couldn't send him more water or power if i tried, i know that." "and do you think he doesn't know it? will you just go to him and humble yourself to him. i'll engage he shall meet you half-way." "i'm shot if i do," said tom stoutly, "he began it and he must end it." "i thought you preached the gospel, tom." "aye, aye, that's all very well; but there's nothing in the bible about eating dirt, or letting a man make a door mat of you for him to wipe his feet on. besides, there's others to think of, miss dorothy. there's ben, for one, and all those whose money is in the concern. they'd never be willing." "you shan't hide behind ben, nor yet the others. you know very well they'll say aye to anything you said. i know i should, tom." is there ought so subtle in this world as a woman's cozening tongue. "do promise, tom," and here dorothy seemed parlously near letting flow the tears she had threatened a while back; "for ben's sake, for lucy's sake." "i cannot, miss dorothy, do not ask me. you do not know how hard it is for me to say you nay." "for _my_ sake, tom; because _i_ ask you. oh! i am so unhappy amid it all. i know not what i say, nor ask." "for your sake? miss dorothy, for your sake!" "for mine, tom," whispered dorothy, with down cast eyes and burning cheek. how tom at that moment constrained himself, and withheld the words that leapt to his lips, he could never tell. "for your sake then, dorothy," was all he said. she placed her hand within his arm, and in a silence that neither cared to break, they turned by mutual impulse to descend the hill homewards. chapter xiv. tom pinder lost no time in waiting upon his solicitor and acquainting him with his desire that the proceedings should be stayed even if to stay them meant an ignominious surrender. mr. sykes did not conceal his surprise. "what about the plaintiff's costs?" he asked. tom said he had reason to hope these would not be insisted on. "it is yours i'm much concerned about." "as to them, make your mind easy. i shall make out an account of my actual disbursements, and you must pay me off by such instalments as you find convenient." "but your labour?" protested tom, "the days of manna are over long ago, and i suppose that if popular opinion were ought to go by lawyers would be the last body of men in the world for whom a special dispensation from the general rule would be made." "ah well! popular opinion is sometimes wrong, let us hope, despite the saying, _vox populi vox dei_." "i thought you were a radical, mr. sykes." "yes, yes, but i am not so ardent a lover as to be blind to the faults of my mistress. but about this stay of proceedings. i must sound wimpenny. i'm afraid he'll be for his pound of flesh and all the other blood he can squeeze out of you. he's very sore about that interim injunction and the judge's remarks at the time would scarcely be as balm of gilead to him." "i suppose mr. wimpenny will take his orders from his client." "oh! of course. well, we shall see what we shall see. that's oracular, if it doesn't convey much information. what about your scheme of co-operative production on advanced lines? is that to die an untimely death? it seemed to me a most promising essay in social economics. so long as you were content to work like a slave and be a poor man, with no prospect of being anything but a poor man, the system seemed flawless." "systems for the regulation of human affairs will never be flawless, mr. sykes, till the men and women who are the flesh and blood of all systems are also flawless. now i am far from being that." "i presume not," said the lawyer, with something like a sigh. "i suppose you've got tired of this sacrificial altar and have secured a lucrative berth, and, like all the others, are going to worship the golden calf. _sic transit gloria mundi_. i shed a tear to the memory of co-op mill and all the high resolves it enshrines. who shall write its cold '_hic jacet_.'" "nay, mr. sykes, i am not a latin scholar; but if you will change your goose quill for the graver's chisel, you shall inscribe on the corner stone of co-op mill a proud, a defiant _resurgam_." "what! you intend to try again?" "certainly, i am already looking for premises _below_ mr. tinker's mill. unless the holme takes to flowing uphill, i shall be safe from my present adversary, at all events." mr. sykes rose and grasped his client's hand warmly. "that is good hearing, mr. pinder; you are a man. ah! i don't wonder at miss --"; but here the man of law checked himself. "confound it. the murther was nearly out," he muttered. "i'll write to wimpenny at once," he said, "but i mustn't seem too hot for a settlement or he'll hold out for all he knows. i shall begrudge him every penny that goes from your pocket to his. well, good day. i wish i were a manufacturer, i'd turn world-mender too." "oh! if you shew the world the example of one lawyer who has an idea beyond his bill of costs, you'll have done your share," laughed tom. "convert nine others and huddersfield need not fear the fate of sodom and gomorrah." pinder had more trouble with ben garside and his colleagues than he had encountered from his solicitor. ben was for a fight to the finish. "tinker's shewing th' blue feather," he opined. "what's come ovver thee, tom? tha'rt nooan bahn to duff when things are lookin' up a bit? besides, th' best terms we can mak 'll be to pay us own 'torney an' gi' up co-op mill. we med as weel be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and if we're to be ruined we med as well be ruined gradely as hauf ruined. aw reckon th' bailies 'll be bun to leeave us a bed to lig on, an we'st scrat along some rooad till they put th' coffin lid ovver us. aw say feight to th' deeath. talk abaat bowin' th' knee to baal?" "baal!" quoth hannah curtly. "baal wer' a respectable sort compared wi jabez tinker; an' as for that wimpenny, oh! if aw wer' a man, wouldn't aw just. that's all." what "just" the irate dame would have done, words failed her to express, but judging from hannah's gestures it was something that would not have improved nehemiah's personal appearance. but the negotiations with that gentleman which mr. sykes opened up did not promise to bear immediate fruit. it is possible that mr. wimpenny saw everything to be gained and nothing to be lost--by himself--in the sweetness long drawn out of proceedings in chancery. the defendant's overtures were not met in a conciliatory spirit, and sykes advised that nothing further should be attempted in that direction. tom felt that he could do no more, and when he told dorothy the steps he had taken to fulfil the promise she had wrung from him, dorothy expressed herself content. "you can hold out till may st?" she only asked. "oh, dear me, yes. from what i can judge when a lawyer in a chancery suit contemplates a move in the proceedings, he takes a month to think it over, then he takes counsel's opinion, then he takes another month to think over counsel's opinion, then he rests for a month to recuperate his energies after their unwonted strain, then he writes to his london agent indicating the step he wishes to be taken, the agent takes a month to think over his principal's letter, and another month to reply to it, and at the end of all the country solicitor changes his mind, and the process circumbendibus begins _de novo_." "you ought to have been a lawyer, tom," commented lucy. "you have been thinking over a certain step to my knowledge for more than twelve months, and you haven't taken it yet." "and what's that, lucy?" asked dorothy. "oh! you'll know soon enough when he takes it," was the most explicit answer that dorothy could obtain, and with that she had to be content. "i wonder why dorothy mentioned the twenty-first of may next?" asked tom of lucy, when they were alone together. "why she comes of age then, stupid," said lucy, as shortly as ever she was known to speak. but some months must elapse before that eventful day was due in the ordinary progress of the leaden-footed months. the christmas of was for all in whose fortunes we are concerned, but a cheerless and anxious season. work continued fairly good, and on that score there was nothing much to complain of. the winter months were open and depressing. the old adage that a green yule makes a fat churchyard was amply verified. low fevers were rife. the strains of the waits on christmas eve failed to arouse the sense of christmas in the heart. plum pudding and roast beef failed to stimulate to cheerfulness when all around was a damp, drizzly, clinging blanket of rain-charged atmosphere. for days together a pall of moisture settled over the valley. the moors were soaked, and oozed like surcharged sponges. every rill became a rivulet, every rivulet a river. the lower lands contiguous to the holme were flooded. the dams were charged to the brinks, and in the mill-races the pressing waters strained the stoutest shuttles. from the hillsides the swollen streams brought rocky fragments rolling, tumbling, splashing. it was a man's work to watch the river immediately below the tail-goits of every mill, to prevent the goit being blocked by the flotsam of the stream, and the water-wheel thrown into back-water. it was an anxious time for tom and ben on more than one account. the apprehensions that had long possessed tom as to the safety of bilberry reservoir did not leave him. rather he saw daily reasons for the more concern. the new year of saw little improvement in the weather, almost daily tom made his way to the banks of the great dam, surveying it with anxious eye. when he spoke his fears to old residents, they were pooh-poohed. it was the old cry of "wolf." the people in most immediate danger had been told so often that something was wrong with bilberry embankment, and for so long had the gloomy predictions of the local cassandras come to nought, that tom spoke to deaf ears. none heeded him. even ben accorded him only the attention of politeness. the people lower down the valley based their indifference to his suggestions of possible peril upon the indifference of those nearer the reservoir. if the people who lived cheek by jowl as it were with the big dam could afford to laugh at tom's dismal forebodings, why should they put themselves about. they recommended tom to permit the commissioners to know something about their business, and more than hinted that he had enough to do to look after his own particular concerns without worrying himself about what was after all a matter for the public authorities. it did not occur to them to reflect that if a man is drowned it does not matter much to him whether he has met his death through public or private defeasance. on tuesday, the th of february tom had been as usual to market. he had done his business early in the afternoon, but had been detained in town by the necessity of seeing mr. sykes in connection with the eternal lawsuit. then he had to wait for a train so that it was long past the hour for the evening meal when he reached ben garside's house in holmfirth. the tea-things had long been cleared away, but hannah was soon bustling about preparing an appetising meal of broiled rashers, poached eggs, and tea and toasted teacake. the meal was grateful after the long wearying day. it had been a depressing day. the market had been slackly attended: the weather had something to do with that. it had rained pitilessly all day, a steady, persistent, dogged downpour, ceasing at times for the fragment of an hour, only to commence again, and so on, as if it never meant to stop. and as it was on the tuesday, so it had been for three or four days before. at the "ordinary" at the queen hotel, kept by mrs. beevers, in the market street, the manufacturers from the valleys of the colne and the holme were full of talk of choked tail-goits water piled back into the wheel-race so that the wheel refused to turn upon its axis. the merchants shook their heads gloomily over the mild, open weather. they declared, as their grandchildren declare to-day, that when they were boys winter was winter; but now there was no depending on the weather, and the almanac was a snare and a delusion. tom lingered over his meal, luxuriating in the warmth of the room, and the pleasing rest of mind and body. but about nine o'clock the rain abated. the moon glided high in the heavens, sailing in and out among the masses of the drifting clouds. it looked as if the weather might take up after all. it was time it did. but wet or fine tom had work to do he had fixed to do that night, work which could only be done at the mill, and which were better done that night. that done, the morrow would be clear for the morrow's work. he would have an hour at his account books, he told ben, and sleep at the mill, and jack--you have not, reader, forgotten work'us jack--should bear him company. hannah protested in vain that "tom was killing himself with overwork. flesh and blood couldn't stand it, and tom would never make old banes if he went on at that noit. it was bad enough to kill one's self to keep one's self, but it was ten times worse to kill one's self building a house o' cards, only to be blown down by that jabez tinker." so tom and jack turned out into the night and set forth up the valley toward hinchliffe mill. their road lay at times by the winding serpentine course of the river, and when the watery moon glanced downwards with bleared eye from among the clouds they could see the swollen waters. they met scarce a soul. it was late and a'ready the lights in the village and on the hillsides were being extinguished in the "house" or chamber. an occasional cur sadly bayed the moon. the swollen waters of the river rolled in their bed with sullen sob. it was a night of dread through which the growing wind wailed amid its tears. the gloom of the hour and scene fell upon the comrades. scarce a word passed between them, as with bent heads and cloaks close drawn they made their way through the mire of the high-road and the sloughs of known bye-paths little trod. it was hard on ten of the night when the mill was reached. jack kindled a fire in the office-grate and sat beside it for a time to dry his shoon. he made a brew of strong coffee for his master to cheer him through his task. then jack in stocking-feet sought the wool-hole where he had improvised a bed of unscoured pieces, greasy, but snug and warm, and anon his loud breathing might be heard above the beating of the storm without. up to something near the weird midnight hour tom bent over his invoices and books, fighting against the waywardness of thoughts that seemed intent on anything but accounts. at length he abandoned his task half done. he felt strangely wake and alert. at all times able to do with little sleep,--that is a feature of your mill-worker--to-night he felt that he should woo slumber in vain. donning his pilot jacket that had been steaming and drying on a chair-back before the fire, and lighting a lanthorn and taking in his hand his stout gnarled shillelagh, bought from an irish hay-maker last harvest-time, he set forth alone on his usual round of the mill-yard, leaving the outer door of the mill on the latch. his round finished, led by what impulse, moved by that presentment he did not stay to consider, he left the mill-yard and began to climb the hill towards bilberry reservoir. he walked sharply, for the night air was biting shrewdly, and tom was a noted walker. his long strides soon covered the distance that lay between the mill and the reservoir bank. tom hummed an air to keep him company in that vast solitude. the sky was clearer now than an hour or two before, but the night was still dark enough to make the feeble glimmer of the lanthorn grateful. tom moderated his pace as he neared the embankment. was it worth while to climb its steep face or should he turn his steps downhill. he could hear the water above his head lapping against the copings of the bank. still, as he had come so far he might, he thought, as well walk the round of the embankment. he was on the huge abutment that turned its breast towards the valley the long barricade that cooped up the vast pile of water, and slowly, the lanthorn dangling by his side and swaying in the wind, he began to tread the path on the embankment top, slowly for in the uncertain light, a slip might cost him a sousing, and it was no hour for a cold bath. but, as he walked, peering ahead to pierce the gloom, and watching carefully his steps by the lanthorn's pale glimmer, he came, midway in his course, upon a sight that checked him with sudden halt, and made his heart stand still. there, at his very feet the water was trickling over the bank, and down the outside. a thin flow, perhaps, a couple of feet in width, had worn the upper soil, and now a continuous stream, not a quarter of an inch in depth, was gently, silently ebbing over the embankment. even as tom gazed spell-bound, he was sensible that the opening widened, the water that overflowed was deeper, and its escape in quicker time. a great fear seized on tom, a dreadful thought well-nigh crushed his brain. he felt powerless to move. then, with a cry, he rushed heedless along the embankment to the culvert. not a drop of water flowed over the culvert's lip. the pent giant had found an outlet for itself, and was making for it. tom ran back to the gap he had but just left. even by this faint light he saw the breach was wider, the furrow deeper. sick at heart, scarce realising what he did, tom with stick and hand tried to tear up stones, cobbles, or sods that might stem the growing current. he spent his time and in vain. fast as he made his tiny barrier, the licking wavelets undermined it and washed it gently down the embankment side; and the stream that now, oh! so silently, so grimly wore away the surface layers, bit and gnawed into the vast barrier and the clinging earthwork. but to tom, with action had come perception. vivid as lightning's flash the whole sequence of the possible, nay, the seeming inevitable, was borne upon his mind. he sprang to his feet, dashed down the embankment side. not two hundred yards below the reservoir some houses stood darkling in the night, their inmates locked in sleep. with fist and stick tom hammered at the door, thrust his stick, his fist through the windows of the bottom room, where oft the turn-up bed was stretched. "rouse ye, rouse ye!" he cried. "the reservoir! flee for your lives!" down to the co-op mill he dashed, racing as sure only as those do speed who know that death follows hard upon their heels, and ever as he sped and passed some silent, lowly cot he paused a breathing space to rend the midnight silence with wild, yet wilder cry, "the flood! the flood! haste ye, save yourselves." he reached the gates of his own mill, dashed to the corner where jack still slept in dreamless sleep. he kicked his prostrate form, he shook him, dragged him to his feet. "don yo'r breeches. here's yo'r' clogs. haste, man! bilberry's brust. damn yo' wakken. ar't deead?" in that time of frenzied haste the language of his childhood came back to his lips. then as jack, half awake, bewildered, donned his nether garments with but one idea, that co-op mill was on fire, tom rushed to the stable where their one horse was housed. he threw a halter over its head; there was no time, no need for saddle. jack had followed, thrusting his arms into his coat sleeves as he came. tom sprang to the horse's back. the gate still opened wide. "clutch mi leg, jack, an' stick to me an' yell wi' all thi might." tom's first thought had not been of ben or his household; but gratitude, duty alike, made them his first care. he must reach ben at any cost. the horse, urged by tom's prodding heels and by the sticks that beat upon its flanks, galloped down the hill. jack could not keep pace; panting, gasping, clinging, he stumbled and fell. "make for ben garside's," shouted tom, and was swallowed up in the night, the horse's hoof beating the rain washed road with dull thuds, its heavy pants audible afar. it was one o'clock and after when tom made ben's cottage he thundered at the door, and in a marvellously short time that seemed eternity to tom, the upper window was raised, and ben's capped head thrust forth. "th' pub's lower dahn, tha' druffen fooil," said ben's voice drowsily. "open, ben, open for god's sake. th' embankment's burst at bilberry." but ere ben had ceased to gape out of the lattice, hannah, in her petticoat, had run down the slender, narrow stairs, and unbolted the door. "quick, quick, where's lucy? wakken her! don yo', hannah. ben, ben, haste thee, man. oh, here's jack; that's reight lad, aw feart tha'd be longer." lucy, pale, trembling, but calm, had come down, part dressed. "ar't sure, tom?" asked ben. "it's giving bi inches, it cannot howd. what shall we do? oh! what shall we do?" "mak' for th' hills, for sure," gasped jack, as he drew deep draughts of breath. then tom felt a quiet hand upon his own, and lucy by his side drew him part aloof. "there's dorothy lower down," she whispered, "and if flood come, oh! woe is me for all at wilberlee. hark! the alarm is spread. race to wilberlee; and tom! kiss me, it may be good-bye." tom kissed the tremulous lips raised to his. "god keep you, lucy, god keep us all. i cannot leave you." but hannah, too, had thought of wilberlee. "there's dorothy. yo' mun give th' alarm at wilberlee." "and you?" asked tom: but even as he asked he had turned to the door where the horse, all untethered, stood. "ben an' me 'll manage," said jack. "up wi' thee, tom. by gosh! hark to 'em screechin' up the valley." aye, aye, the warning cries had been heard and heeded, and as tom wrung ben's hand and vaulted to patient bess's back the wind bore to his ears the startled cry, "the flood! the flood! it's come at last," and as the mare, spinning cobbles and pebbles behind its clattering feet, galloping as though the foul fiend pursued, dashed past farm and mill and house tom cried loud and ever tender, "oh, rouse yo', good folk, rouse yo'. bilberry's on yo'. the bank's brust," and the small-paned windows were raised with quick grasp from within, and startled faces with widening eyes peered forth into the night, and still tom raised the cry, now hoarse, now shrill, in voice that almost failed. "the flood, the flood!" and loud and louder still behind him grew the cries, deep toned of men, anguished shrill of women, wailing tones of children roused from cradle and from cot. the sleepy valley behind him slept no more. it had roused to panic, to the sudden apprehension of ravage, ruin, death. whither flee? how save the little hoarded wealth; how bear the infirm mother, who by inglenook declined daily to her grave cheered by the babbling prattle of her daughter's bairns; how save the bairns themselves! and even as tom rode the cries behind him swelled in volume till they fell upon his ears as a hoarse roar, broken by shrill and piercing shriek, and if his ears betrayed him not, above the din of human voice he heard the growl of gathered waters loosed. no use to look behind, the darkening skies veiled the sight. thank god! here is wilberlee. well tom knew the entrance to the yard. pray god the gate yielded to his thrust! it did. by there, through the yard, was the shortest cut to the house. he swung from the back of the beast, now blown and trembling. the panic had seized upon it. grasping its mane tom led it through the yard, round the mill gable. here the noises from above were broken by the mill's flank and hushed. not a light shone through the windows of the house. all was silent within, but at the garden foot the river roared, and tom in the dim light saw that on its foaming breast it bore objects, strange, hideous, torn from the fields, floating stacks of hay, ponderous engines and machines, the dark outline of animals swept quickly by. "oh! rouse yo'! rouse yo'!" shrieked tom. he tore a boulder from a rockery by, and with it crashed at the stout outer door. it shook and groaned but yielded not. tom remembered that the window of the sitting-room or drawing-room came to within a foot's step from the ground. it was a moment's work to dash the window open with his feet, and tom amid the falling of the glass and the creaking crash of wood-work was within the dark room, his clothes rent, his face scratched, his hands bleeding. there were sounds above of awakening life. tom sprung to the foot of the passage stairs, finding the inner door he knew not how. "wake ye, wake ye," he cried hoarsely. then a light glimmered above, on the landing. it was jabez tinker in his dressing gown. a candle was in his hand that he shaded from the upward current. "thank god, yo're up," shouted tom, bounding up the steps. "dress yo', quick. rouse the house. bilberry's burst. oh! hark yo'." some building higher up the river had fallen with a groan into the stream and frantic cries rent the leaden skies mingling with the crash of stone and iron and stout timbers torn like mere sprigs. suddenly from the well of darkness shone the gleam of a lanthorn. it was impossible to see who held it. mr. tinker cried out: "who's that?" "it's me, sergeant ramsden," said a calm, stentorian voice. "glad you're up, sir. time to flit. had to wade here. where's betty?" "i'm here, george; but yo' munnot think o' coming up till aw've med mysen some bit like." but the tramp of the sergeant was on the stairs already. his was a welcome presence. the hurry and agitation of the past hour had told on tom. he felt sorely the need of help. mr. tinker seemed paralysed not so much from fear as the sudden waking from sleep to stand face to face with what perils none could tell. betty clung to her constable, but he was probably used to being clung to for protection by the weaker sex. "where's peggy?" asked tom. "gone to harrogate to fetch aunt home." it was dorothy who spoke. she had partially dressed, but her long, curling, beautiful glossy hair fell like a veil upon her shoulders to her waist she was pale and anxious, but she retained a great measure of composure. she had drawn to her uncle's side but her eyes were on tom. "are we safe here?" asked mr. tinker. "is there any chance of my being able to get across the yard to the office?" "can't be done, sir," said the sergeant, touching his high hat as well as he could with the hand that held the lanthorn. his other arm supported betty. "the garden's three feet deep and more. same in mill yard, no doubt, and rising every second; had to wade in. glad to find window broken down." there was a sudden shriek from betty. through the door of the parlour that opened into the passage at the stair feet came a torrent of water nigh as high as the doorway itself. it flooded the passage, and, step by step, quicker than a man could mount them, scaled the staircase to the landing on which they stood. small articles of furniture and ornaments were borne from the room, tossing and colliding as if in a grotesque dance. "make for the attic," said mr. tinker, and led the way, followed by the women. tom was hard upon them. the sergeant followed with an agile departure from his professional staidness, deliberation, and dignity of gait that only stress of circumstances constrained. if a withering glance could have arrested it the rapidly rising, gaining flood would have stayed its inroad. the attic was a low, barely furnished room, immediately under the roof. it was lighted from above by a thick sky-window. it held two low beds of plain deal--the chaste couches of betty and peggy. there were two chests of drawers, one doubtless sacred to each maid. there were two chairs, a washstand, a portrait of the sergeant, staff-in-hand, and the like of a soldier over which peggy was supposed to weep out her heart in moments of despondency. "i doubt we're not out of it here," whispered the sergeant to tom. he cast his light through the doorway. "see, the water mounts quickly. 'twill be on us, and we mun drown like rats in a hole." "can you swim?" asked tom, under his breath. the sergeant nodded. "doff your boots; keep your cloak and breeches nothing else. get into that corner. give me the light. don't let them see you doff. they're fleyed enough." there was no time even for suspense. the water was already in the attic. tom dragged a bed beneath the skylight and with a blow from his stick shivered the thick glass. "yo' mun get through th' skylight, ramsden," he bawled. the turmoil of the waters drowned all lower speech. "i'll pass t'others to you." ramsden nodded. the habit of discipline is invaluable in the hour of emergency. tom had taken the command even in his old master's house, and it seemed natural that he should order and others obey. with difficulty he twisted the portly constable through the aperture. it was a tight squeeze. "tear up some of the slates. widen th' hole," shouted tom, as he dragged a trunk to the top of the bed to stand on. "now dorothy," he whispered, "you next." "no, uncle," she said, drawing back. this was no hour for ceremony. tom almost lifted mr. tinker bodily on to the trunk, the sergeant from above seized his wrists, and tom, with a mighty heave, hoisted him aloft. "now you, betty," said dorothy. it was well for betty the stone slabs had been wrenched with little difficulty from the sounding lines of the aperture. she was stout and heavy as seemeth a cook, and if there had not been strong braced thighs on the stack, and arms like iron beneath her, betty would have slept that morn her last sleep on earth in the tiny attic she had known so long. "now, dorothy," said tom. she was already on the chest. he pressed her hand tenderly as she turned her face towards the gap through which the sergeant had passed. tom lifted her through almost bodily. "come you, now," she said as she left his arms. "here, sergeant," bawled tom, "take these blankets and things. it'll be cold up there." and tom hastily passed blankets, sheets, and counterpanes through the window. then those above heard him tearing at the bedsteads like one possessed. he rove them asunder by main force and passed the sections to the sergeant. then springing on to the chest he thrust his arms to either side of the roof, and with a thrust of the feet that sent the box flying, forced and prised himself to the roof. they could see little even by the light which the constable still retained. they were sure only that wilberlee house was all but submerged, and that the devouring waters as they swept by them crawled up the sloping roof. from the thick darkness came shouts and wails and cries, and the thundering crash of falling buildings. by the lanthorn's glare and the casual glimpsing of the moon they saw, as they strained their visions to pierce the black encircling pall, what looked like huge pieces of machinery that broke from the tomb of the night before their eyes and then were gone again. more than once, almost level with the house eaves, a face of a man or woman, a white, pallid, drawn face, with eyes distended in speechless horror, would flash above the waters and then be borne away like chaff in a mighty blast, or the long white trailing of a woman's dress would shoot beneath their feet, come and go ere they realised it was come. and ever and anon those awful, thrilling, sickening cries, whose dread import they but too surely guessed. the night was bitter cold. they clung together, crouching low, their absorbing thought--would the house stand the shock of those pounding waters, would the dinning flood go on for ever? tom only had been engaged. getting what hold he could by the low chimney of the house, he fastened together with the cording of the beds the disjointed laths, making a very passable raft. this he lowered to the verge of the roof. it might be needed, who might say? the very house seemed to shake under them as they crouched and waited in agonised suspense. had it been less stoutly built it must ere this have been swept bodily away as rows upon rows of houses that night of doom were swept away by the devouring torrent--many bearing with them husband, wife and child, scarce roused from sleep ere the flood clasped them in the embrace of death. and still the surging water rose higher and higher, now creeping slowly up the thatch, now sweeping swiftly upwards and now falling as suddenly for a foot or two, giving a momentary hope the violence of the storm was over--but only to surge nearer and nearer to those who now clung to the ridge of the arched roof. tom contrived to crawl cautiously to mr. tinker's side. with difficulty making the dazed man hear him above the roar of the waters and the dinn that stunned their sense, tom made him understand that they must now trust to the frail raft he had improvised. "it's our only chance, sir. the bindings of the roof are giving. and look, look!" tom pointed across the mill-yard. the moon was clear of the clouds, and for a few moments the scene of desolation and the waste of waters might be seen by the silver light. mr. tinker's gaze followed the direction of the outstretched arms. across the yard towered the long mill chimney, and it was rocking and swaying like a drunken man. there was not a moment to be lost. the sergeant and tom slipped the raft on to the bosom of the racing flood. it was all but torn from their grasp. "get you on it with the women," cried tom. betty was with difficulty placed upon the frail support. mr. tinker followed her. the sergeant, obedient to tom's gesture, sprang upon it. "now, dorothy, jump for your life"; but even as the words left his lips, the bark was torn from his grasp. there was a shriek of terror from those aboard, and ramsden cried, "the chimney. oh! god! it's falling!" tom breathed a prayer. "it's you and me for it, dorothy. can you trust me?" he passed his arm around her; she pressed her lips to his, and tom, with his almost unconscious charge, leaped far out into the centre of the headlong current. and even as he leaped the great chimney-stack, its base destroyed, swayed towards the house, and in one unbroken mass fell upon the roof that had been their refuge, and tom and dorothy were lost in the crested billows that leaped with angry roar to meet the very skies. chapter xv. some ten days or so after the events recorded in the last chapter, a stout woman past the middle age sat by a large four-posted bed in a spacious and well-furnished bedroom. the eider-down coverlet of the bed, its damask hangings, the prie-dieu by its side, the rich covering of the walls, the silken curtaining of the windows, the full pile of the carpets, the costly paintings on the walls indicated the abode of wealth and refinement. the woman by the bedside, on whom fell the genial rays of a bright-burning fire, was plainly but neatly dressed. the anxious glances she cast upon the figure stretched upon the bed seemed to bespeak a greater, a tenderer concern than that of the ordinary professional nurse. there was no sound in the room save the ticking of the massive marble clock upon the mantel, and the regular breathing of the patient. the nurse turned the pages of a ponderous family bible, but as her attention was confined to the highly coloured illustrations it is probable the printed page was a dead letter to her eyes. so absorbed was she in the contemplation of the ornate plate depicting the sale of joseph by his brethren that she almost dropped the heavy book from her knees as a faint voice issued from between the curtain folds. "has th' buzzer gone, hannah?" "sakes, alive! if he isn't wakken," the nurse exclaimed, drawing back the curtain. "eh! tom, lad, it's fain aw am to yer thi voice. but tha munnot talk nor fash thisen." "has th' buzzer gone?" the invalid asked again. then his eyes wandered slowly and somewhat vacantly about the room. "where am i?" he asked. "aye, tha may weel ax, lad. thou'rt at mester willie brooke's at northgate house i' honley, an' here tha's been awmost ivver sin they sammed thi up i'th churchyard all swoonded away; an' long it wer' afore they knowed reightly whether tha wer' wick or deead." "have i been poorly?" asked tom. "what am i doing here? where's ben? is he at th' mill? there's those pieces for skilbeck's want 'livering. why isn't lucy here?" "poorly! tha may weel say that, an' off thi yed for days together, an' of all th' stuff 'at ivver a man talked, all abaat 'junctions, an' love, an' ferrets, an' rabbits, an' then tryin' to swim, an' it took two on us to howd thi i' bed. but theer, it's time tha had thi physic, an' then thi mun go to sleep agen, an' th' cook 'll mak thi some arrowroot, an' thou'rt to have a glass o' port wine in it, th' doctor says, teetotal or no teetotal, which aw nivver did howd wi' i' time o' sickness, an' agen th' law o' natur' in a way o' speikin'." but hannah's views on this grave question were lost upon the invalid. he had again sunk into deep and refreshing sleep, and as hannah laid her hand gently upon his brow, the slight moisture told that the fever in which he had tossed and raved had succumbed to care and treatment. when tom awoke hannah's place had been taken by a tall, grey-haired man of spare form, broad shoulders and slightly bent, his forehead lined with the tracery of time and care. his eyes had been long fixed upon the features of the sleeping youth and seemed from their expression to seek for some flitting transient likeness they bore a moment but to lose the next. it was jabez tinker. from the face so often, so minutely scanned, the eyes of the watcher turned at times to a small gold locket he held in his palm. it bore in pearls the letters. a.j. it was the locket taken by moll o' stuarts from the slender neck of the way-worn woman the _hanging gate_ had received more than twenty years before, the locket confided to tom by mr. black, and which, ever since, night and day, sleeping or waking, he had worn beneath his vest. presently mr. tinker became aware by that subtle uneasy sense we all have felt, that tom's eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face. he rose somewhat stiffly to his feet and bent over the bed. he took the hand that lay upon the coverlet. "are you better, tom?" he asked, very gently. "we have been very anxious about you." tom looked upon the features, usually so stern, with puzzled interest. he seemed to be searching for some elusive memory of the past. "i dreamed you were dead, drowned," he said at length. "but i seem to remember so many strange things for an instant or two. then it is all blank again. but mostly i seem to be fighting with some awful, pitiless enemy that tosses and whirls and throttles me till i choke. and then again all is dark and vague, and i remember nothing." "well, you see, i am not dead yet, tom, thanks be to god, and under god to you. 'tis you, tom, that have been nearer jordan than i." "jordan!" said tom, musingly. "jordan! i was right then. i knew there was a flood, somehow, but i thought it was bilberry burst." then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud: "dorothy! dorothy! where is dorothy! oh god, i've let her slip again," and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face, and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in tears. mr. tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. she had entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. it was dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for hannah had told her that tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary waiting and fearing was at an end. as dorothy with noiseless step approached the bed mr. tinker drew aside. dorothy touched gently the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek. "no, tom!" she whispered. "not lost--won." and as tom raised his face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. she stole her hand into his, and for a while they were still. jabez came and stood by his niece's side. "leave us for a time, dorothy," he said. it was the voice of jabez; but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. it was almost caressing in its gentleness. dorothy smiled her assent. "i'm to bring your arrowroot up, tom, and i've made it myself. i know the port wine's nice. i tasted it. don't let the food be spoiled, uncle, and, remember, tom's not to be bothered or upset. if he is, won't hannah give it you, that's all," and she tripped away with a glance at tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine. mr. tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he drew a chair to the bedside. "i mustn't agitate you, tom," he spoke. "but, oh! if you could realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you would forgive much to an old and stricken man." he opened the hand in which he still held the locket. involuntarily tom raised his to feel for the trinket he had so long cherished. "can you tell me the meaning of this locket? it was found upon your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after the flood had abated. you had saved dorothy, how, she scarce seems to know. but she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast. they thought you both dead. but dorothy was soon no worse. but this locket, speak, tom, what does it mean?" "it was my mother's," said tom. "and she?" "she died the night i was born." "but her name? who was she? for heaven's sake, tom, tell me all you know. you cannot divine how much hangs on your words. they mean perhaps as much to me as you." then tom told him the tale of the night on which this story opened. "and fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? they can tell me more, they can speak to this. does this moll o' stute's still live?" "oh, yes, moll's safe enough. did you know my mother, mr. tinker?" "know her! oh! my god, know her! but ask me no more now, tom. not a moment must be lost. brook will lend me a horse. mine went with the flood. i'll see you to-morrow. now have your arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. whether my hopes are well founded or not, you're my son from this day, tom, for you saved my life, lad, and you saved dorothy's. and i'm proud of you, lad, i'm proud of you--tom pinder, foundling, and there isn't a man in the valley that wouldn't like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn't win. hannah and dorothy'll look after you till tomorrow, then." it was the afternoon of the next day before jabez tinker returned from his quest. in the interval between his departure and return, hannah had yielded to tom's importunity, and sent for ben. "eh! lad," was ben's greeting, as he wrung the invalid's hand with a grip that made tom wince, "aw could awmost find it i' mi heart to call it an answer to prayer. yo' munnot let on to hannah, but mony a time a day this last ten days an' more, aw've been dahn o' my marrow-bones a prayin' tha med be spared th' laws o' natur's all vary weel, tom, for th' intellec' but there's times, lad, when th' heart o' man turns to its maker like a babby to its mother i' its pain. an' this has been sich a time, aw reckon. eh! man! its fair heart-breakin' to gooa dahn th' valley. near on eighty folks drahned, caantin' th' childer in, an' as for th' damage to property, a quarter million pund willn't cover it, folk sayn. th' co-op. mill's gone, choose yah, an' wilberlee house an' all. yar bit o' a whomstid's safe, an' that's summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer we'st all ha' to turn for summat to do, there's thaasan's an' thaasan's o' folk aat o' wark, an' no prospec' o' ther getting onny, an' i' thick o' winter, too." "it's all a dreadful muddle to me, ben, i can't seem to remember much about it. how did you escape, and how came i here?" "well, aw nivver did!" exclaimed ben. "didn't yo' com' an' wakken me up, an' didn't jack an' me awmost carry th' missus an' yar lucy till we gate 'em on to th' 'ill-side. an' if we couldn't see mich on account o' th' dark we could hear enough. by god! aw thowt th' end o' th' world wer' come. an' th' skrikin'! eh! lad, it wer' enough to freeze th' blood i' yo'r veins. but that didn't last long. it were short shrift for most on 'em. an' then wonderin' an' wonderin' what had come on yo'. aw thowt lucy'd go fair daft abaat yo'. that's a heart for feelin', if yo' like. then jack couldn't stand it no longer. he said he could swim down to wilberlee if he could nobbut be sure of findin' th' road. he said 'at if tha wer' deead he'd as lief be deead, too, an' aat o' th' gate. an', by gosh, he off, an' 'atween runnin' an' wadin' an' swimmin' he gate theer, but theer wer nooa signs o' thee, or onybody else, for that matter, an' nowt but part o' th' mill truck to be seen. th' chimbley wer' clean gone. but it wer' jack that fun' thee all th' same up in honley churchyard liggin' ovver a gravestooan. an' miss dorothy. gow! lad, ha tha mun ha' hugged her. it's a mercy tha didn't squeeze th' life aat on her. aw've nooan seen 'em missen, 't isn't likely," and, ben winked; "but yar hannah says oo's black an blue wheer thi arm held her. but oo'll think none th' worse of thee for that." "get on with your story, ben, and don't be frivolous. where's jack?" "oh, jack's all reight, barrin' 'at he says he's supped soa mich watter o' late that nowt but owd ale an' plenty on it 'll tak' th' taste aat of his maath." "but you mustn't let jack get into evil courses ben." "oh! jack 'll be reight enough when he's getten summat to do. but it's the owd tale. 'satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.' yo' see ther's a seet o' folk come fro' all th' parts o' yorkshire an' lancashire to see th' course o' th' flood and th' deborah, as th' newspapper ca'd th' muck an' th' rubbish 'at's left. holmfirth's more like a fair nor owt else. it's as bad as honley feeast time. an' all th' seet-seers 'at can get howd o' jack mun treeat him. if he does get a bit fuddled afore bed-time it's little wonder. aw've often noticed 'at folk 'll pay for a pint o' ale for a chap 'at wouldn't gi' him a penny-teea-cake if he wer clammin'. dun they let yo' smoke i' this fine room, tom? aw'm fair dyin' for a reek o' baccy." but now dorothy entered with a tray covered with a napkin snowy-white and on it a basin of arrowroot, and ben slipped his clay and flat tin box into his pocket. "aw rekkon aw'll be gooin', tom, or hannah 'll be flytin' me. nivver yo' get wed, tom, if yo' want to ca' yo'r soul yo'r own. it's just awful' th' way a felly's put on after he's once getten th' noose raand 'is neck. tak a frien's advice tom an' be warned i' time." and with a wink that meant volumes, ben conveyed himself away, walking on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeper to whom sleep might mean life or death. "now, tom, you've got to eat this just now," said dorothy, "wait till i see if it's cool enough," and she touched the lip of the spoon with hers and affected to taste the odorous compound with the air of a connoisseur. "it's just nice, sir, and if that doesn't cure you, nothing will." "i could drink a bucketful," protested tom. couldn't i have a chop or a steak? i'm as hungry as a hunter.'' "chop, indeed! i should think not. later on you shall have a cup of chicken-broth and the weest slice of toast. you've no idea how ill you are." dorothy spoke lightly, but suddenly the woman gushed into her eyes, and it was a poor, faltering voice that said, "but you're better now, thank god. oh! tom, if you had died!" "would you have cared very much, dorothy?" asked tom. "is that what you call eating arrowroot, sir? listen, that's uncle. how soon he's back." dorothy had gone to the window and drawn aside the curtains. "the horse is covered with foam, and uncle looks ten years younger and as glad as a bridegroom." a quick step was heard on the stairs, and jabez tinker stood at the door of the sick-room. "is he awake, dorothy?" whispered mr. tinker. "awake, yes, and likely to be, as far as i can see, what with one and another. call this a sick-room. better call it a show and charge for admission. it takes one maid's time to attend to the door. if mr. brooke doesn't send in a bill for a new knocker and fresh paint, he's a saint." "there, there, chatterbox," exclaimed jabez, gaily. "out you go, dorothy, and don't come up again till i ring. then you may come, no one else." mr. tinker looked radiant, and, as dorothy had said, younger by ten good years. in his impatience he almost pushed his niece from the room. then he strode to the bed and held out both his hands to tom. "it's true, tom, it's true, every word of it. oh! that ever i should live to see this day. i've dreamed of it, i've prayed for it, and now it has come to me, this my great joy, out of the deep waters. truly god moves in a mysterious way." tom had risen to a sitting posture. jabez flung a loose shawl--it was dorothy's--over his shoulders. "you mustn't risk taking cold," he said, very gently. "are you quite sure you feel strong enough to hear a rather long story, tom, or would you rather wait?" "i would rather hear it now, sir." "then hear me to the finish and don't judge me too harshly. god knows i've suffered enough without your condemnation. but it might have been worse, it might have been worse." mr. tinker was silent for a time, as if to arrange his thoughts or choose his words. then very gravely he spoke: "my father, tom, was a very strict, stern man" ("i'm not surprised to hear that," thought his listener) "and with an overweening sense of family pride. he was very proud that he was a tinker, and, indeed, tom, we are as old a family as there is in the valley. never forget that. and we have an unsullied name. my father had another failing, if failing it be called. he was inordinately fond of money. he expected, he took it for granted, that both dick and myself would marry not for money, of course, but where money was. "but both his sons disregarded their father's wishes. i, secretly, while he yet lived; richard, as you know, after his death. it was my fate, at the house of a customer in liverpool, to meet sweet annie lisle, the family governess. she was an orphan, alone and unfriended, in the world. what else she was, how sweet, how winsome, how patient, how true and how trustful i cannot bear to think of, still less speak. i won her love. i dared not speak of my passionate devotion at home. my father with the burden of age had become each year more exacting, less tolerant of opposition to his will. i feared to anger him. it was in his power to disinherit me by his will. i was absolutely dependent on him. the homestead was his, the mill, the business, were his. i was not man enough to face poverty, expulsion from my home, loss of social status--not even for my loved one's sake. call me a poltroon, tom, a coward, a cur, if you like. i have used bitterer words than those to myself. i knew it would be hopeless to ask my father's consent. he would have had one word--'go!' then i began, with a satisfaction i strove in vain to banish, to observe, nay, to gauge, the sign of my father's failing health. i persuaded myself he was not long for this world, and in my heart of hearts i was glad. but my passion ill brooked delay. i urged annie to a secret wedding. reluctantly she consented. she procured a week's holiday from her employer, and we were married by special license at the parish church of seaford, on the south coast, a small fishing hamlet little frequented by the tourist or holiday-maker. it was a week of paradise. then my wife returned to her employment, i was to find a favourable opportunity of breaking the news to my father. meantime anything might happen. i conjured my wife to keep our secret. i kept the certificate of our marriage, so afraid was i lest it should fall into another's hand. my wife was not even to write to me lest my father's suspicions should be aroused. i continued to call on my liverpool customer as usual, and when he asked me as usual to dine or sup at his house, i treated my own wife with the distant courtesy one shows to a governess. one day, early in the winter of , i called at the house of mr.----, i was determined to take my wife away. my father had softened much during the past few months. he had agreed to pay me a fixed salary, instead of doling out a pound or two for pocket money. i had resolved to place annie in some small cottage not far from holmfirth i had thought of greenfield. i could see her there each week. and there was another reason why another home should be found for her. judge of my consternation when mrs.--, in answer to the inquiry which i made with assumed indifference as to the health of the children and their governess, told me that miss lisle had been dismissed her service, dismissed ignominiously, without a character. i controlled myself as well as i could. mrs. ---- said enough to convince me that my darling had been dismissed under the darkest suspicion that can rest upon a pure, unsullied woman. but even then i did not disclose the truth. my wife had vanished and left no trace behind her. she had been true to her promise to me, even when a word would have cleared her name and confounded the angry jealous woman who spurned her from her home. almost penniless she turned into the world. she never wrote to me or sent me word. judge how i searched in all places likely and unlikely for her. secretly, with what scant means i could procure. i instituted inquiries on every side; but my wife had disappeared as effectively as though she had never been. she had never worn her wedding ring; she had borne my name only during all that too brief week of wedded bliss at seaford. time went by; i knew my wife, if she still lived, must be a mother. i feared, then at last i persuaded myself, that in her shame and grief she had destroyed herself. i called upon my head the curse of the almighty, but god seemed heedless of my blasphemous ravings. from that time life for me had lost its savour. i lived only for work, for business success. they were my distraction. then, as you know, i married. but of that i need not speak. my wife bore me no children, and when i took dorothy as my ward i almost hated the child because i could not love her as my own." there was a long silence. tom feared to speak. he guessed the rest too surely. "one present only had i given to my sweetheart. it was a locket with our initials intertwined, and a love-knot of our hair inside. it was a whim of annie's. tom, my boy, my son, you have worn that locket about your neck. can you forget the wrong i did your mother, and forgive the father who can never forgive himself?" "nay, mr. tinker, nay, father, if indeed i am your son," faltered tom. "i've seen moll o' stute's. i've seen mrs. schofield. they remembered the features of your mother as though she died but yesterday. besides--but there can be no question of it." "well, father," said tom, very solemnly, "i thank god that i am indeed your son. it is not for me to judge or to forgive. i will try to be to you all your son should be." jabez bent over the bed and kissed tom's brow, and the tears streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had never known before. "do you know, tom," he half laughed, half sobbed, "you're not unlike what i was at your age. you're a tinker, whether you like it or not." "and a lisle," added tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great comfort. then he added: "so dorothy's my cousin." jabez nodded. "can i come in?" spoke dorothy's voice outside. "open the door, uncle, i've both hands full." "i'll leave you together, tom. i know more than you think i know," whispered the old man, and quitted the room. "of all the born conspirators commend me to jabez tinker, esq., j.p., of wilberlee mill, that was, and to mr. tom pinder, of co-op. mill, also that was. here's your chicken-broth, sir, and you're to drink a glass of champagne--doctor's orders." "put it on the table, dorothy, for a moment. i want to speak to you. come, stand here, please." dorothy pouted, but obliged, "behold, thine handmaiden," she said, "what wills my lord?" "dorothy, be serious for a moment. your uncle has told me a strange story. i cannot repeat it all. can you credit it? i am your cousin!" "oh! poor fellow, he's raving again. i knew how it would be, all this talking. i'm sorry to hear it, tom--i do so hate cousins. i've dozens of 'em, and not one nice one in the lot." "and i'm not tom pinder, either." "and who may you please to be?" "only tom tinker, son of jabez tinker, of wilberlee mill that was and is to be." dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and fixedly on tom. "and is that all you have to tell me, mr. tom tinker?" "no, dorothy, i have another secret to tell you. but you must come closer, closer still. dorothy, i love you. i have loved you for years. will you be my wife?" dorothy made answer none. but when tom drew her face to his she suffered him. "my darling, oh, my darling! i love you more than life," murmured tom in her ear. "and is that what you call telling me a secret? you silly boy, i've known it ever so long." "and you, dorothy, how long have you loved me?" "ah! that's my secret." the story i set about to tell is told. another house stands by wilberlee mill; another mill stands upon the ruins of wilberlee, and tom tinker is master of the mill, and nominal master of the house. there is a young jabez plays about an old man's knee, and a sweet fair-haired lucy prattles and babbles on its godmother's knee. lucy garside was bridesmaid at dorothy's wedding, and was sponsor for her daughter at the font. she remained unmarried through her life, and she, too, had a secret; it was one that was never told. wilberlee mill prospered. the hands were paid on the same principles as tom and ben had introduced at co-op. mill, and prospered with the mill. if tom was never rich as this world counts riches, he was rich in a wealth above a miser's dream. "what about the action 'pinder at the suit of tinker,'" asked nehemiah wimpenny of his client. "judgment for the defendant with costs," was the curt reply. "happy to draw the marriage settlements," ventured the unabashed attorney. "thank you, edwin sykes will do that," was the reply. wimpenny returned to his siege of the facile heart of the lively polly, and in time wedded her. but their marriage was not a happy one. nehemiah's attachment to the bar of the _rose and crown_ survived polly's translation to a loftier sphere of life. he became a confirmed tippler, and his clients left him one after the other. he became in time that most pitiable of objects--a pot-house lawyer, and only escaped the last disgrace of a lawyer's life because no one would trust him with their money. ben garside took to methodism in his old age, and wore glossy black-cloth o' sundays. but he always averred that he had fallen from his best ideals, and suffered the fear for his own soul to deaden his concern for the souls of others. he and jack smoked many a pipe together in the calm summer months of peaceful and prosperous years, seated on the crumbling walls of co-op. mill, and mourning over a vanished dream. the last sage dictum of ben to be recorded in this narrative suggested its title. it was uttered on the eve of his friend's wedding. "aw reckon, tom, as ha' tha'll be goin' to aenon chapel after tha'rt wed?" "why so?" asked tom "cost tha'rt one o' th' elect." "i don't take you, ben." "why, mon, doesn't elect mean chossen." "i suppose so, ben." "why, doesn't ta see, tha'rt dorothy's choice?" the end. the holmfirth flood. as many of the readers of "dorothy's choice" may not be conversant with the facts upon which that story is based, and as those who are may wish to have in concise form a historical narrative of that great catastrophe the following account, taken from the author's "history of huddersfield and its vicinity," is appended:-- "the bilberry reservoir is situated at the head of a narrow gorge or glen, leading from the holme valley, at holme bridge, to a high bluff of land called good bent, and was supplied by two streams flowing through the cloughs running to the north-east and south-east of good bent, and draining the moors of holme moss on the one side and the hills running up to saddleworth on the other, including some thousands of acres of moorland. the confluence of the streams takes place between two large hills, called hoobrook hill and lum bank, and which run parallel to each other for a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards, when they open out and form an extensive oval basin of not less than three hundred yards diameter. the reservoir formed by blocking up the valley below the basin enclosing some twelve acres of surface. it was defective in its original construction, and was for a long time known to be in a most dangerous condition. at the time when the embankment gave way the quantity of water in the reservoir would not be less than eighty-six million two hundred and forty-eight thousand gallons or the enormous and fearful amount of three hundred thousand tons in weight. it burst a little before one o'clock in the morning of february th, . the moon shone bright over the varied and romantic landscape; the streamlets swollen by recent heavy rains, filled the river to its banks; the industrious population were recruiting their wasted energies by sleep, when all at once, in a moment, the ponderous embankment was carried away by the force and weight of the pent-up waters, and desolation, ruin, and death overspread the rich and fertile valley for miles around. trees were torn up by the roots and hurried onwards by the rush of waters, roaring with renewed fury as they swept each successive obstruction. the death-shrieks of scores were hushed as the flood passed forwards to new scenes of destruction and death, leaving in its track ponderous pieces of rock weighing many tons; the dead carcases of horses, cows, goats, and other cattle; here and there broken machinery, bags of wool, carding machines, dye pans, steam engine boilers, timber, spars, looms, furniture, and every variety of wreck. it would seem as if the whole body of accumulated waters had tumbled down the valley together, sweeping all before them, throwing a four-storey mill down like a thing of nought, tossing steam engine boilers about like feathers, and carrying death and destruction in their progress. in consequence of the narrowness between the mountain bluffs on either side, a vast volume of water was kept together, which spent its force upon holmfirth, where the mass of houses, shops, mills, warehouses, and other buildings was expected to present a formidable barrier to its further progress. the check, however, was but momentary for the flood, with the mass of floating wreck which it carried in its bosom, shot through buildings, gutted some, and tumbled others down, until it found a further outlet and passed on, doing more or less damage lower down the valley at thongs bridge, honley, and armitage bridge. after passing the last place mentioned the flood got more into the open country spreading itself out in the fields, and swelling the river down below huddersfield. much might be written on the details and incidents connected with the catastrophe. a few of the most striking may be mentioned. a few hundred yards below the reservoir stood a small building two storeys high called bilberry mill, the occupation of joseph broadhead, and used as a scribbling and dressing mill. the end of the mill was caught by the sudden swell, and about ten feet in length and its gable were washed down the valley. a little further down the valley, and on the same side as bilberry mill, stood digley upper mill, lately occupied by mr. john furniss, woollen manufacturer. the building was a block of stone work, consisting of a factory, a large house, farm buildings, and outhouses. the end of the mill was washed away, a quantity of machinery, and a large amount of property in the shape of pieces, warps, etc., destroyed, and the gable end of the house, which was comparatively new, and the farm buildings swept away. in the latter were twelve tons of hay, three cows, a horse, and several head of poultry, which were all carried down the stream. a short distance below stood digley mill property, which consisted of a large building sixty yards square, four storeys high, built of stone; a weaving shed, containing thirty-four looms and other machinery; two dwelling-houses, seven cottages, farm, and other outbuildings, making altogether a small town. adjacent to it in the valley and on the hill side were several fields of rich and fertile land; the whole forming a secluded but compact estate, valued at from twelve to fifteen thousand pounds. in one of the houses built on the river side, resided mrs. hirst, widow of the late george hirst; and in the other resided henry beardsall, her son-in-law. the cottages were occupied by work people. the buildings formed a mass of solid stone work; but the torrent swept it away like a straw, carrying its ponderous machinery down the valley, and tossing its boilers about with the greatest ease. the engine was carried from its place, and became embedded in the mud lower down in the valley. the house built on the hill-side remained, but the cottages and all the other buildings were carried away, except a tall engine chimney. with the buildings were swept away four cows and a valuable horse. bank end mill was the next building in the valley. its gable end and one window from the top to the bottom of the building were washed away. it was completely gutted in the lower rooms and the machinery in the upper storeys was thrown together in heaps. the dye house and stove, about twenty yards long, were completely cleared away, leaving nothing of them standing above the ground. the property belonged to joe roebuck whose loss was estimated at from two to three thousand pounds. the valley here widens until it reaches holme bridge, a small village composed of a few hundred inhabitants. the stream here is crossed by a bridge of one arch, about forty yards on one side of which stands holme church, in the centre of a graveyard; and about the same distance on the other side stood a toll gate and a number of dwellings. the bridge was swept away to its foundations. the wall surrounding the church was ravished by the speeding torrent, and the few trees planted in the yard were uprooted and carried down the stream. the interior of the church and the graveyard, as seen a day or two after the flood, presented a melancholy spectacle. inside the church the water had risen about five feet. the floor was torn up--the pews had been floating, and the floor was covered with sand and mud several inches thick. in the centre of the aisle was laid the body of a goat which had been washed from upper digley mill, and within a few feet of it, resting on the seat of one of the pews, lay the coffin and remains of a full grown man. both these relics, with others not found, had been washed up from their graves by the whirlpools formed by the current, as it passed over the churchyard. the roads and fields from the reservoir downwards to this point were almost covered with huge masses of stone and other loose substances, of which the bank of the reservoir had been formed. down to this point no human life appears to have been lost; but a little lower down, at the village of hinchliffe mill, the loss of life was very great. this village was on the left bank of the river, and consisted principally of cottage houses. the factory, which gave its name to the village, was a large building five storeys high, built on the opposite side of the river, and which remained, though the water had passed its first and second floor, and done great damage to the machinery. the mill was for some time blocked up to the windows in the second storey with huge pieces of timber, broken machinery, and wreck of various descriptions, which the torrent brought down from the mills above. on the village side of the river, six dwellings which formed "water street," were swept down and hurled forward with the flood, and thirty-five of the inmates perished. the following is the list of the occupants of the houses that were swept down. the first house was occupied by miss marsden and three others; the second by joseph todd, his wife and children; the third by j. crosland and seven others; the fourth by james metternick, and nine others; the fifth by joshua earnshaw, his little girl, and two sons; and the sixth by john charlesworth, and nine others. the houses in this neighbourhood not washed down, were in some cases flooded into the chambers; and in one of them--the endmost left standing--were sixteen individuals, who saved their lives by getting on an adjoining roof. in the adjoining houses, five persons perished. of the five persons who were overcome by the waters in the houses above hinchliffe, three were drowned in one house, viz.--james booth, his wife, and a lodger. in the same pile of buildings, the wife of joseph brook (who was endeavouring to save herself and child) was drowned with her infant in her arms. the country grows wilder below the last-mentioned place; and in the centre of a wide valley stood bottom's mill. from the open country here offered to the stream, the factory, which was a very large one, sustained comparatively little damage. after leaving the mill, the torrent assailed the machine shops and works of messrs. pogson and co.; proceeding thence to harpin's victoria woollen mill, doing great damage. machinery was broken, cottages carried away, and much property destroyed. at the time of the calamity twenty persons were in these cottages, and were only rescued by a communication being opened up through the walls with the end house which was rather higher up away from the flood. here in one chamber, the poor creatures were huddled together expecting momentary death, when at last the water abated sufficiently to allow of their being removed which was scarcely effected before the house fell in. within a short distance of victoria mill stood dyson's mill, which was occupied by mr. sandford in the yard of which mr. sandford resided. his house was swept away, and with it himself, his two children, and servant. the factory sustained very serious damage, both in its walls and machinery. mr. sandford was a person of considerable property, and is said to have had three or four thousand pounds in the house at the time. however this may be, it is known that he had just before been in treaty for the purchase of a considerable estate at penistone, and that he had only that very week given instructions to a share broker at huddersfield to buy for him a large amount of london and north western railway stock. his life was also insured for a large sum. the bodies of mr. sandford's two daughters and his housekeeper were found a few days after the flood; but the body of mr. sandford was not found till february th. his friends wished to find the body in order to prove his death, without which they would not have been entitled to receive the amount secured by his policy of insurance. a reward of ten pounds was therefore offered in the first instance for the recovery of his body, which sum was increased to one hundred pounds. procklington or farrars' upper mill stood next, the large dyehouse of which was completely destroyed. the damage was estimated at two, or three thousand pounds; and one of the boilers, weighing six tons, was carried by the water to berry brow, a distance of three miles. these were the property of mr. j. farrar. the factory known as the tower mill, situate a little below, was built across the stream; but the torrent rushed onward and carried the greater portion of the mill along with it, leaving the two ends standing. the mill was filled with valuable machinery and woollen material, and was the property of mr. hodson farrar. in the factory yard two children were drowned, and a little further down a third child was found dead. at the _george_ inn, near this place, nine bodies, principally recovered from the stream, were laid. at holmfirth, hundreds of dwellings were inundated, some of them were filled to the top storey, compelling the inmates to escape through and get upon the roof for safety; indeed, the houses were thoroughly gutted. happily no lives were lost; but the most heart-rending scenes occurred to the inhabitants of some of the houses on the opposite side of the street. on the left hand side of what the day previous was a narrow street stood the toll-bar house, kept by s. greenwood, who, with his wife and child, were swept away. he was seen to come out of the house with a lighted candle in his hand return into the house, close the door after him, and in a moment or two not a vestige of the house was to be seen. lower down, on the same side of the street, was an extensive warehouse occupied by messrs. crawshaw, carriers, which was swept away. to the left were some extensive blue dye works; the destruction of these premises was most complete. a little above the mill and between that building and a stable, stood two small cottages, one occupied by s. hartley and his family, the other by r. shackleton and family. all the members save three of these families, were swept away with the cottages. victoria bridge was dismantled. on the right hand side, over the bridge, was a new row of shops, built in the modern style, every one of which was flooded. the loss sustained by the various occupants was great. at smithy place (a hamlet about two miles north-east of holmfirth) the water rose to a fearful height, and but for the alarm which had been given, the loss of life must have been great. whole families had to leave their beds and betake themselves out of the way of the flood with no other covering than what they slept in some quite naked; and the shrieks and cries of children for their parents, and parents for their children, were heartbreaking. the damage done in this place was very great. from honley to armitage bridge the wreck was fearful, the front and back walls of st. paul's church, at the latter place, being completely destroyed. two children were found dead above the "golden fleece" inn, one of them on the water side, the other washed into a tree; they were conveyed to the inn. a young woman, about eighteen years of age, was found dead and naked in a field near armitage fold. beyond this part there was some slight damage done. from a statement published soon after the occurrence, it appears, that so far as could be ascertained, lives had been lost, of them being adults, and children; were married, unmarried, and children were left destitute. the estimated damage and summary of property, in addition to the loss from devastated land under tillage was as follows :--buildings destroyed: mills, dyehouses, stoves, cottages, tradesmen's houses, shops, bridges, warehouses, barns and stables. buildings seriously injured: dyehouses, mills, stoves, cottages, tradesmen's houses, large shops, public-houses bridges, county bridge, warehouses, barns, places of worship, and iron foundries. hands thrown out of work: adults, , ; children, , total, , . the total loss of property was estimated at £ , . the coroner's jury, who viewed the bodies of the persons drowned by the flood, in addition to the usual verdict of "found drowned," made a statement to the effect that the holme reservoir commissioners had been guilty of great and culpable negligence in allowing the reservoir to remain for several years in a dangerous state, with a full knowledge thereof, and that had they been in the position of a private individual or firm they would certainly have subject themselves to a verdict of "manslaughter." generous subscriptions were raised for the sufferers in various parts of the country, amounting altogether to £ , . a large surplus of the fund was left after relieving the sufferers, which was devoted towards the erection of five almshouses, the first stone being laid in . a brass plate bears the following inscription:-- "the foundation stone of the holmfirth monumental alms houses, erected to commemorate the great flood caused by the bursting of the bilberry reservoir, on the th of february, (by which upwards of eighty lives were lost), and also the munificent liberality of the british public, was laid by the provincial grand lodge of freemasons of west yorkshire, on monday, the th of april, , ." mothers to men [illustration: logo] the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto mothers to men by zona gale author of "friendship village," "friendship village love stories," "the loves of pelleas and etarre," etc. new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the butterick publishing company, the ridgeway company, the crowell publishing company, and the standard fashion company. copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published september, . norwood press j. s. cushing co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. mothers to men "daddy!" the dark was so thick with hurrying rain that the child's voice was drowned. so he splashed forward a few steps in the mud and puddles of the highway and plucked at the coat of the man tramping before. the man took a hand from a pocket and stooped somewhat to listen, still plodding ahead. "daddy! it's the hole near my biggest toe. my biggest toe went right through that hole an' it chokes my toe awful." the man suddenly squatted in the mud, presenting a broad, scarcely distinguishable back. "climb up," he commanded. the boy wavered. his body ached with weariness, his feet were sore and cold, something in his head was numb. but in a moment he ran on, two steps or three, past the man. "nope," he said, "i'm seeing if i could walk all the way. i could--yet. i just told you 'bout my toe, daddy, 'cause i _had_ to talk about it." the man said nothing, but he rose and groped for the child's arm and got it about the armpit, and, now and then as they walked, he pulled the shoulder awkwardly upward, trying to help. after a time of silence the rain subsided a little, so that the child's voice was less like a drowned butterfly. "daddy," he said, "what's velvet?" "i dunno, sonny. some kind of black cloth, i guess. why?" "it came in my head," the child explained. "i was tryin' to think of nice things. velvet sounds like a king's clothes--but it sounds like a coffin too. i didn't know if it's a nice thing." this, the man understood swiftly, was because _her_ coffin had been black velvet--the coffin which he had had no money to buy for her, for his wife and the boy's mother, the coffin which had been bought with the poor fund of a church which he had never entered. "what other nice thing you been thinkin' of?" he asked abruptly. "circus. an' angels. an' ice-cream. an' a barrel o' marbles. an' bein' warm an' clean stockin's an' rocked...." "my god!" said the man. the child looked up expectantly. "did he say anything back?" he inquired eagerly. "not a word," said the man in his throat. "lemme try," said the child. "god--oh, god--_god dear_!" he called into the night. from the top of the hill on the edge of the pump pasture which in that minute they had reached, they suddenly saw, cheery and yellow and alive, the lamps of friendship village, shining in the valley; and away at one side, less in serene contemplation than in deliberate withdrawal, shone the lights of a house set alone on its hill. "oh, daddy, daddy--look at the lights!" the child cried. "god didn't say nothin' with words. maybe he talks with lights instead of 'em." the man quickened his steps until, to keep pace with him, the little boy broke into uneven running. "is those lights where we're goin', daddy?" he asked. "that's where," said the man. he put his hand in his pocket and felt for the fifteen cents that lay there, wrapped in paper. the fancied odour and warmth of something to drink caught at him until he could hardly bear the longing. but before he could get to the drink he must do something else. the man had been fighting away the thought of what he meant to do. but when they entered the village and were actually upon its main street, lonely in the rainy, eight o'clock summer dusk, what he meant to do had to be faced. so he began looking this way and that for a place to leave the child. there was a wagon shop. old wagons stood under the open shed, their thills and tongues hanging, not expectant of journeys like those of new wagons, but idle, like the worn arms of beaten men. some men, he thought, would leave the boy there, to sleep under a seat and be found in the morning; but he was no such father as that, he reflected complacently. he meant to leave the boy in a home, give him a fair start. there was a little house with a broken picket fence--someway she wouldn't have liked him to be there; _she_ always liked things nice. he had never been able to give the boy much that was nice, but now, he said to himself, he would take nothing second rate. there was a grocery with a light above stairs where very likely the family lived, and there, too, was a dry stairway where the child could sit and wait until somebody came--no, not there either.... "the best ain't none too good for the little fellow," thought the man. "dad-_ee_!" cried the child suddenly. he had run a few steps on and stood with his nose against the misty pane of abagail arnold's home bakery. covered with pink mosquito-netting were a plate of sugar rolls, a fruit cake, a platter of cream puffs, and a tall, covered jar of shelled nuts. "hustle up--you!" said the man roughly, and took him by the arm again. "i was comin'," said the little boy. why not leave the child at the bakery? no--a house. it must be a house, with a porch and a front stair and big upstairs rooms and a look of money-in-the-bank. he was giving care to the selection. it was as if he were exercising some natural paternal office, to be scrupulously discharged. music issued from the wooden saloon building with the false two-story front and the coloured windows; from a protesting piano a dance tune was being furiously forced, and, as the door swung open, the tap and thud of feet, the swell of voices and laughter, the odour of the spirits caught at the cold and weary man. "hurry along--hurry along!" he bade the boy roughly. that was where he would come back afterward, but first he must find the right place for the boy. vaguely he was seeking for that section of the village which it would call "the residence part," with that ugly and naked appropriation of the term which excludes all the humbler homes from residence-hood at all. but when he had turned aside from the main street he came upon the first church, with lights streaming from the ground-glass windows of the prayer-meeting room, and he stood still, staring up at it. she had cared a good deal about that sort of thing. churches did good--it was a church that had buried her when he could not. why not there? why not leave the child there? he turned aside and mounted the three wooden steps and sat down, drawing the boy beside him. grateful for a chance to rest, the child turned sidewise and dropped his head heavily on his father's arm. there was light enough for the father to see the thick, wet hair on the babyish forehead. "i did walked all the way, didn't i?" the child said triumphantly. "you bet you did," said his father absently. since the boy's mother had died only three months had passed, but in that time had been crowded for the child a lifetime of physical misery. before that time, too, there had been hunger and cold and the torture of the continual quarreling between that mother, sickly, half-fed, irritable, and this father, out of work and drunken. then the mother had died, and the man had started out with the boy, seeking new work where they would not know his old vice. and in these three months, for the boy's sake, that old vice had been kept bound. for the boy's sake he had been sober and, if the chance had come, he would have been industrious. but, save for odd jobs, the chance never came; there seemed to be a kind of ineffectualness in the way he asked for work which forbade him a trial. then one day, after almost three months of the struggle, he had waked to the old craving, to the need, the instant need, for liquor. he had faced the situation honestly. he knew, or thought he knew, his power of endurance. he knew that in a day or two he would be worsted, and that there would follow a period of which, afterward, he would remember nothing. meanwhile, what of the boy? he had a fondness for the boy, and there remained to the man some shreds of decency and even of tradition. he would not turn him over to the "authorities." he would not cast him adrift in the city. he resolved to carry him to the country, to some near little town where, dimly it seemed to him, the people would be more likely to take him in. "they have more time--an' more room--an' more to eat," he sought to explain it to himself. so he had walked, and the child had walked, from the city to friendship village. he must find a place to leave him: why not leave him here on the church steps, "outside the meetin'?" "don't you go to sleep, kiddie," he said, and shook him lightly. "i was jus' restin' my eye-flaps. eye-things. _what_ are they, daddy?" "eye-lids." "yes. them. they're tired, too," said the child, and smiled--the sleepy smile which gave his face a baby winsomeness. then he snuggled in the curve of arm, like a drowsy, nosing puppy. the father sat looking down on him, and in his breast something pulled. in these three months he had first become really acquainted with the boy, had first performed for him little personal offices--sewed on a button or two, bought him shoes, bound up a hurt finger. in this time, too, he had first talked with him alone, tried to answer his questions. "where _is_ my mamma, an' will she rock somebody else?" "are you going to be my daddy till you die, an' _then_ who'll be?" "what is the biggest thing everybody knows? can i know it too?"... also, in these three months, at night he had gone to sleep, sometimes in a bed, oftener in a barn, now and again under the stars, with the child breathing within his reach, and had waked to keep him covered with his own coat. now he was going to end all this. "it ain't fair to the kid not to. it ain't fair to cart him around like this," he said over and over, defending himself before some dim dissenter. the boy suddenly swung back from his father's arm and looked up in his face. "will--will there be any supper till morning?" he asked. you might have thought that the man did not hear, he sat so still looking down the wet road-ruts shining under the infrequent lamps. hunger and cold, darkness and wet and ill-luck--why should he not keep the boy from these? it was not deserting his child; it was giving him into better hands. it did not occur to him that the village might not accept the charge. anything would be better than what he himself had to give. hunger and cold and darkness.... "you stay still here a minute, sonny," said the man. "you goin' 'way?" the child demanded. "a minute. you stay still here--right where you are," said the man, and went into the darkness. the little boy sat still. he was wide awake now that he was alone; the walls of the dark seemed suddenly to recede, and instead of merely the church steps there was the whole black, listening world to take account of. he sat alert, trying to warm each hand on the cold wrist of its fellow. where had his father gone? to find them a place to stay? suppose he came back and said that he had found them a home; and they should go to it; and it would have a coal stove and a bedstead, and a pantry with cookies and brown sugar in the jars. and a lady would come and cook molasses candy for him.... all this time something was hurting him intolerably. it was the foot, and the biggest toe, and the hole that was "choking" _him_. he fumbled at his shoe laces, but they were wet and the shoes were wet and sodden, and he gave it up. where had his father gone? how big the world seemed when he was gone, and how _different_ the night was. and when the lady had the molasses candy cooked, like in a story, she would cool it at the window and they would cut it in squares.... as suddenly as he had gone, his father reappeared from the darkness. "here," he said roughly, and thrust in the child's hands a paper bag. and when he had opened it eagerly there were sugar rolls and cream puffs and a piece of fruit cake and some shelled nuts. fifteen cents' worth of food, badly enough selected, in all conscience, but--fifteen cents' worth. the fifteen cents which the man had been carrying in his pocket, wrapped in paper. "now set there," said his father, "an' eat 'em up. an' listen, son. set there till folks come out from in there. set there till they come out. an' here's somethin' i'm puttin' in your coat pocket--see? it's a paper. don't you look at it. but when the folks come out from in there--an' ask you anything--you show 'em that. remember. show 'em that." in the prayer-meeting room the reed organ sent out some trembling, throaty chords, and the little group in there sang an old melody. it was strange to the man, as he listened-- "break thou the bread of life to me, to me--" but, "that's it," he thought, "that's it. break it to him--i can't. all i can give him is stuff in a paper bag, an' not always that. now you break it to him--" "dad-_ee_!" cried the child. "you!" startled, the man looked down at him. it was almost like a counter charge. but the child was merely holding out to him half his store. the man shook his head and went down the steps to the sidewalk and turned to look back at the child munching happily from the paper sack. "break it to him--break it to him--god!" the father muttered, as he might have used a charm. again the child looked out expectantly. "did he say anything back?" he asked eagerly. "not a word--not a word," said the man again. this time he laughed, nervously and foolishly. "but mebbe he will," he mumbled superstitiously. "i dunno. now, you set there. an' then you give 'em the paper--an' go with anybody out o' the church that asks you. dad may not get back for--quite a while...." the man went. the child, deep in the delight of a cream puff, wondered and looked after him troublously, and was vaguely comforted by the murmur of voices beyond the doors. "why, god didn't answer back because he was to the church meeting," the child thought, when he heard the people moving about within. i "inside the church that night," calliope marsh is wont to tell it, "the friendship married ladies cemetery improvement sodality was having one of our special meetings, with hot chocolate and ice lemonade and two kinds of wafers. there wasn't a very big attendance, account of the rain, and there was so much refreshments ready that us ladies was urgin' the men to have all they wanted. "'drink both kinds, timothy,' mis toplady says to her husband, persuadin'; 'it'll have to be throwed away if somebody don't drink it up.' "'lord, amandy,' says timothy, testy, 'i do hate to be sicked on to my food like that. it takes away my appetite, same as poison would.' "'they always do it,' says jimmy sturgis, morose. 'my wife'll say to me, "jimmy, eat up them cold peas. they'll spoil if you don't," and, "jimmy, can't you make 'way with them cold pancakes?" till i wish't i could starve.' "'well, if you hadn't et up things,' says mis' sturgis, mild, 'we'd of been scrappin' in the poor-house by now. i dunno but i'd ruther scrap where i am.' "'sure!' says postmaster silas sykes, that always pours oil on troubled waters except when the trouble is his own; and then he churns them. "'i dunno what ailed me in business meeting to-night,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss. 'i declare, i was full as nervous as a witch. i couldn't keep my feet still anywheres.' "'the fidgets,' comprehends mis' uppers, sympathetic. 'i get 'em in my feet 'long toward night sometimes. turn an' twist an' shift--i know the feeling. whenever my feet begin that, i always give right up an' take off my shoes an' get into my rubbers.' "'well, i wish't i had some rubbers now,' says mis' mayor uppers. 'i wore my best shoes out to tea an' come right from tea here, like a maniac. an' now look at me, in my three dollar-and-a-half kids an' the streets runnin' rivers.' "'you take my rubbers,' mis' timothy toplady offered. 'i've set with 'em on all evening because i always get 'em mixed up at sodality, an' i declare the water'll feel good to my poor feet.' "'no, no, don't you trouble,' says mis' uppers. 'i'll just slip my shoes off an' track that one block in my stocking feet. then i'll put 'em in good, hot water an' go to bed. i wouldn't of come out to-night at all if it hadn't of been for the professor.' "'for goodness' sakes,' i says, 'don't call him that. you know how he hates it.' "'but i do like to say it,' mis' uppers insists, wistful. 'he's the only professor i ever knew.' "'me either,' i says--and i knew how she felt. "just the same, we was getting to like mr. insley too much to call him that if he didn't want it, or even 'doctor' that was more common, though over to indian mound college, half way between us and the city, he is one or both, and i dunno but his name tapers off with capital letters, same as some. "'i just came over here to work,' he told us when we first see him. 'i don't profess anything. and "doctor" means teacher, you know, and i'm just learning things. must you have a formal title for me? won't mr. do?' "most of the college called him just 'insley,' friendly and approving, and dating back to his foot-ball days, and except when we was speaking to him, we commonly got to calling him that too. a couple of months before he'd come over from the college with a letter of introduction from one of the faculty to postmaster silas sykes, that is an alderman and our professional leading citizen. the letter from the college said that we could use mr. insley in any local civic work we happened to be doing. "'civic work?' silas says to him, thoughtful. 'you mean shuttin' up saloons an' like that?' "'not necessarily,' he told him. 'just work with folks, you know.' "'well-a, settin' out bushes?' silas asks. "'whatever you're most interested in, mr. sykes,' says he. 'isn't there some organization that's doing things here?' "silas wasn't interested in so very much of anything except silas. but the word 'organization' helped him out. "'there's the friendship married ladies cemetery improvement sodality,' says he. 'that must be the very kind of a thing you mean.' "insley laughed a little, but he let mis' sykes, that loves new things and new people, bring him to our next evening meeting in the church parlors, and he'd been back several times, not saying much, but just getting acquainted. and that rainy night, when the men met with us to talk over some money raising for sodality, we'd asked him to come over too. we all liked him. he had a kind of a used-to-things way, and you felt like you'd always known him or, for the time you hadn't, that you'd both missed something out; and he had a nice look too, a look that seemed to be saying 'good morning' and to be beginning a fine, new day--the best day yet. "he'd set there kind of broodin' the most of that evening, drinking whatever anybody brought him, but not putting his mind to it so very much; but it was a bright broodin', an' one that made you think of something that's going to open and not just of something that's shut up. you can brood both ways, but the effect is as different as a bud from a core. "'speakin' of money raisin' for sodality,' says silas sykes, kind of pretend hearty and pretend casual, like he does, 'why don't sodality make some money off'n the fourth of july? everybody else is.' ("sodality always speaks of itself and of the cemetery real intimate, without the _the_, an' everybody's got to doing it.) "us ladies all set still and kept still. the fourth of july, that was less than a week off, was a sore point with us, being we'd wanted a celebration that would _be_ a celebration, and not merely a money-raiser for the town. "'oh, i say canvass, house to house,' says timothy. 'folks would give you a dime to get you off'n the front porch that wouldn't come out to a dime entertainment, never.' "'why not ask them that's got dead in their own families, to pay out for 'em, an' leave them alone that's got livin' mouths to feed?' says threat hubbelthwait, querulous. threat ain't no relations but his wife, and he claims to have no dead of his own. i always say they must be either living or dead, or else where's threat come in? but he won't admit it. "'what you raisin' money for anyhow?' asks eppleby holcomb, quiet. eppleby always keeps still a long time, and then lets out something vital. "as a matter of fact, sodality didn't have no real work on hand, cemetery lookin' real neat and tasty for cemetery, and no immediate dead coming on as far as we could know; but we didn't have much of anything in the treasury, either. and when we didn't have any work on hand, we was in the habit of raising money, and when we'd got some money earnt, we was in the habit of devising some nice way to spend it. and so we kept sodality real alive. "'well, there may not be any active dead just now,' mis' sykes explains it, 'but they are sure to die and need us. we had two country funerals to pay for last year. or i might say, one an' a half, one corpse contributing half enough for his own support in cemetery.' "with that insley spoke up, kind of firm and nice, with muscles in his tone, like he does: "'what's the matter with doing something with these folks before they die?' he asks. "i guess we all looked kind of blank--like when you get asked _why_ columbus discovered america and all you know how to answer is just the date he done so on. "'well-a,' says mis' sykes, 'do what?' "'mustn't there be something to do with them, living, if there's everything to be done for them, dead?' insley asks. "'well-a' says mis' sykes, 'i don't know that i understand just how you mean that. perhaps the mission band--' "'no,' says insley. 'you. us.' "i never knew a man to say so little and yet to get so much said. "'well-a,' says mis' sykes, 'of course sodality was formed with the idee of caring for cemetery. you see that lets in the dead only.' "'gosh,' says eppleby holcomb, 'how exclusive.' but i don't know as anybody heard him but me. "'i know,' says insley, slow. 'well, at any rate, perhaps there are things that all of us living might do together--for the sake, say, of earning some money for the dead. there'd be no objection to that, would there?' "'oh, no,' says mis' sykes. 'i'm sure nobody could take exception to _that_. of course you always have to earn money out of the living.' "insley looked at us all kind of shy--at one and another and another of us, like he thought he might find some different answer in somebody's eyes. i smiled at him, and so did mis' toplady, and so did eppleby; and mis' eleanor emmons, the widow-lady, lately moved in, she nodded. but the rest set there like their faces was on wrong side out and didn't show no true pattern. "'i mean,' he says, not quite knowing how to make us understand what he was driving at, 'i mean, let's get to know these folks while they are alive. aren't we all more interested in folks, than we are in their graves?' "'_folks_,' timothy toplady says over, meditative, like he'd heard of members, customers, clients, murderers and the like, but never of folks. "'i mean,' insley says again, 'oh, any one of a dozen things. for instance, do something jolly that'll give your young people something to do evenings--get them to help earn the money for cemetery, if you want to,' he adds, laughing a little. "'there's goin' to be a vigilance committee to see after the young folks of friendship village, nights,' says silas sykes, grim. "'you might have town parties, have the parties in schools and in the town hall,' insley goes on, 'and talk over the cemetery that belongs to you all, and talk over the other things besides the cemetery that belong to you all. maybe i could help,' he adds, 'though i own up to you now i'm really more fond of folks--speaking by and large--than i am of tombstones.' "he said a little more to us, about how folks was doing in the world outside the village, and he was so humorous about it that they never knew how something inside him was hopping with hope, like i betted it was, with his young, divine enthusiasm. and when he'd got done he waited, all grave and eager, for somebody to peep up. and it was, as it would be, silas sykes who spoke first. "'it's all right, it's all right,' says he, 'so long as sodality don't go meddling in the village affairs--petitionin' the council and protestin' an' so on. that gets any community all upset.' "'that's so,' says timothy, nodding. 'meetin', singin' songs, servin' lemonade an' plantin' things in the ground is all right enough. it helps on the fellow feelin' amazin'. but pitchin' in for reforms and things--' timothy shook his head. "'as to reforms,' says insley, 'give me the fellowship, and the reforms will take care of themselves.' "'things is quite handy about takin' their course, though,' says silas, 'so be we don't yank open the cocoons an' buds an' others.' "'well,' says mis' uppers, 'i can't do much more, professor. i'm drove to death, as it is. i don't even get time to do my own improvin' round the place.' mis' uppers always makes that her final argument. 'sew for the poor?' i've heard her say. 'why, i can't even get my own fall sewing done.' "'me, too,' and, 'me, either,' went round the circle. and, 'i can't do a great deal myself,' says mis' sykes, 'not till after my niece goes away.' "i thought, 'i shouldn't think you could tend to much of anything else, not with miss beryl sessions in the house.' that was the sykes's niece, till then unknown to them, that we'd all of us heard nothing but, since long before she come. but of course i kept still, part because i was expecting an unknown niece of my own in a week or so, and your unknown relatives is quite likely to be glass houses. "'another thing,' says mis' hubbelthwait, 'don't let's us hold any doin's in this church, kicking up the new cork that the ladies' aid has just put down on the floor. it'll all be tracked up in no time, letting in tom, dick, and harry.' "'don't let's get the church mixed up in anything outside, for pity's sakes,' says silas. 'the trustees'll object to our meeting here, if we quit working for a dignified object and go to making things mutual, promiscuous. churches has got to be church-like.' "'well, silas,' says eppleby holcomb, that hadn't been saying anything, 'i donno as some of us could bring ourselves to think of christ as real christ-like, if he come back the way he use' to be.' "insley sat looking round on them all, still with his way of saying good morning on a good day. i wondered if he wasn't wishing that they'd hang on that way to something worth hanging to. for i've always thought, and i think now, that they's a-plenty of stick-to-itiveness in the world; but the trouble is, it's stuck to the wrong thing. "the talk broke up after that, like somebody had said something in bad taste; and we conversed around in groups, and done our best to make 'way with the refreshments. and insley set talking to mis' eleanor emmons, the new widow, lately moved in. "about mis' emmons the social judgment of friendship village was for the present hanging loose. this was partly because we didn't understand her name. "'my land, was her husband a felon or a thief or what that she don't use his name?' everybody asked everybody. 'what's she stick her own name in front of his last name like that for? sneaked out of usin' his christian name as soon as his back was turned, _i_ call it,' said some. 'my land, i'd use my dead husband's forename if it was nebuchadnezzar. _my_ opinion, we'd best go slow till she explains herself.' "but i guess insley had more confidence. "'you'll help, i know?' i heard him say to mis' emmons. "'my friend,' she says back, 'whatever i can do i'll do. it's a big job you're talking about, you know.' "'it's _the_ big job,' says insley, quiet. "pretty soon mis' toplady got up on her feet, drawing her shawl up her back. "'well,' she says, 'whatever you decide, count on me--i'll always do for chinkin' in. i've got to get home now and set my bread or it won't be up till day _after_ to-morrow. ready, timothy? good night all.' "she went towards the door, timothy following. but before they got to it, it opened, and somebody come in, at the sight of who mis' toplady stopped short and the talk of the rest of us fell away. no stranger, much, comes to friendship village without our knowing it, and to have a stranger walk unbeknownst into the very lecture-room of the first church was a thing we never heard of, without he was a book agent or a travelling man. "here, though, was a stranger--and such a stranger. she was so unexpected and so dazzling that it shot through my head she was like a star, taking refuge from all the roughness and the rain outside--a star, so it come in my head, using up its leisure on a cloudy night with peepin' in here and there to give out brightness anyway. the rough, dark cheviot that the girl wore was sort of like a piece of storm-cloud clinging about that brightness--a brightness of wind-rosy face and blowy hair, all uncovered. she stood on the threshold, holding her wet umbrella at arm's length out in the entry. "'i beg your pardon. are you ready, aunt eleanor?' she asked. "mis' eleanor emmons turned and looked at her. "'robin!' she says. 'why, you must be wet through.' "'i'm pretty wet,' says the girl, serene, 'i'm so messy i won't come in. i'll just stop out here on the steps. don't hurry.' "'wait a minute,' mis' emmons says. 'stay where you are then, please, robin, and meet these people.' "the girl threw the door wide, and she stepped back into the vestibule, where her umbrella had been trailing little puddles; and she stood there against the big, black background of the night and the village, while mis' emmons presented her. "'this is my niece, miss sidney,' she told us. 'she has just come to me to-day--for as long as i can keep her. will you all come to see her?' "it wasn't much the way mis' sykes had done, singing praises of miss beryl sessions for weeks on end before she'd got there; nor the way i was doing, wondering secret about my unknown niece, and what she'd be like. mis' emmons introduced her niece like she'd always been one of us. she said our names over, and we went towards her; and miss sidney leaned a little inside the frame of the doorway and put out her hand to us all, a hand that didn't have any glove on and that in spite of the rain, was warm. "'i'm so sorry,' she says, 'i'm afraid i'm disgracing aunt eleanor. but i couldn't help it. i love to walk in the rain.' "'that's what rain is for,' insley says to her; and i see the two change smiles before mis' hubbelthwait's 'well, i do hope you've got some good high rubbers on your feet' made the girl grave again--a sweet grave, not a stiff grave. you can be grave both ways, and they're as different from each other as soup from hot water. "'i have, thank you,' she says, 'big storm boots. did you know,' she adds, 'that somebody else is waiting out here? somebody's little bit of a beau? and i'm afraid he's gone to sleep.' "we looked at one another, wondering. who was waiting for any of us? 'not me,' one after another says, positive. 'we've all raced home alone from this church since we was born,' mis' uppers adds, true enough. "we was curious, with that curiosity that it's kind of fun to have, and we all crowded forward into the entry. and a little to one side of the shining lamp path was setting a child--a little boy, with a paper bag in his arms. ii "who on earth was he, we wondered to ourselves, and we all jostled forward, trying to see down to him, us women lifting up our skirts from the entry wet. he was like a little wad of clothes, bunched up on the top step, but inside them the little fellow was all curled up, sleeping. and we knew he hadn't come for any of us, and he didn't look like he was waiting for anybody in particular. "silas fixed up an explanation, ready-done:-- "'he must belong down on the flats,' says silas. 'the idear of his sleepin' here. i said we'd oughter hev a gate acrost the vestibule.' "'roust him up an' start him home,' says timothy toplady, adviceful. "'i will,' says silas, that always thinks it's his share to do any unclaimed managing; and he brought down his hand towards the child's shoulder. but his hand didn't get that far. "'let me wake him up,' says robin sidney. "she laid her umbrella in the wet of the steps and, silas being surprised into giving way, she stooped over the child. she woke him up neither by speaking to him nor grasping his arm, but she just slipped her hands along his cheeks till her hands met under his chin, and she lifted up his chin, gentle. "'wake up and look at me,' she says. "the child opened his eyes, with no starting or bewildering, and looked straight up into her face. there was light enough for us all to see that he smiled bright, like one that's real glad some waiting is done. and she spoke to him, not making a point of it and bringing it out like she'd aimed it at him, but just matter-of-fact gentle and commonplace tender. "'whose little boy are you?' she ask' him. "'i'm goin' with whoever wants me to go with 'em,' says the child. "'but who are you--where do you live?' she says to him. 'you live, don't you--in this town?' "the child shook his head positive. "'i lived far,' he told her, 'in that other place. i come up here with my daddy. he says he might not come back to-night.' "robin sidney knelt right down before him on the wet steps. "'truly,' she said, 'haven't you any place to go to-night?' "'oh, yes,' says the child, 'he says i must go with whoever wants me to go with 'em. do--do you?' "at that miss sidney looked up at us, swift, and down again. the wind had took hold of a strand of her hair and blew it across her eyes, and she was pushing it away as she got up. and by then insley was standing before her, back of the little boy, that he suddenly stooped down and picked up in his arms. "'let's get inside, shall we?' he says, commanding. 'let's all go back in and see about him.' "we went back into the church, even silas taking orders, though of course that was part curiosity; and insley sat down with the child on his knee, and held out the child's feet in his hand. "'he's wet as a rat,' he says. 'look at his shoes.' "'well-a, make him tell his name, why don't you?' says mis' sykes, sharp. '_i_ think we'd ought to find out who he is. what's your name, boy?' she adds, brisk. "insley dropped the boy's feet and took a-hold of one of his hands. 'yes,' he says, hasty, 'we must try to do that.' but he looked right straight over mis' sykes's shoulder to where, beyond the others, robin sidney was standing. 'he was your friend first,' he said to her. 'you found him.' "she come and knelt down beside the child where, on insley's knee, he sat staring round, all wondering and questioning, to the rest of us. but she seemed to forget all about the rest of us, and i loved the way she was with that little strange boy. she kind of put her hands on him, wiping the raindrops off his face, unbuttoning his wet coat, doing a little something to his collar; and every touch was a kind of a little stroke that some women's hands give almost without their knowing it. i loved to watch her, because i'm always as stiff as a board with a child--unless i'm alone with them. then i ain't. "'my name's robin,' she says to the little fellow. 'what's yours, dear?' "'christopher,' he says right off. 'first, christopher. an' then john. an' then bartlett. have you only got one name?' he asked her. "'yes, i've got two,' she says. 'the rest of mine is sidney. where--' "'only two?' says the child. 'why, i've got three.' "'only two,' she answers. 'where did your father go--don't you know that, christopher?' "that seemed to make him think of something, and he looked down at his paper bag. "'first he bringed me these,' he says, and his face lighted up and he held out his bag to her. 'you can have one my cream-puffs,' he offers her, magnificent. i held my breath for fear she wouldn't take it, but she did. 'what fat ones!' she says admiring, and held it in her hand while she asked him more. it was real strange how we stood around, us older women and all, waiting for her to see what she could get out of him. but there wasn't any use. he was to go with whoever asked him to go--that was all he knew. "silas sykes snaps his watch. 'it's gettin' late,' he gives out, with a backward look at nothing in particular. 'hadn't we best just leave him at the police station? threat hubbelthwait and me go right past there.' "mis' toplady, she sweeps round on him, pulling her shawl over her shoulders--one of them gestures of some women that makes it seem like even them that works hard and don't get out much of anywhere has motions left in them that used to be motioned in courts and castles and like that. 'police station! silas sykes,' says she, queenly, 'you put me in mind of a stone wall, you're that sympathizin'.' "'well, _we_ can't take him, amandy,' timothy toplady reminds her, hurried. 'we live too far. 'twouldn't do to walk him 'way there.' timothy will give, but he wants to give to his own selected poor that he knows about; an' he won't never allow himself no luxuries in givin' here an' there, when something just happens to come up. "'land, he may of come from where there's disease--you can't tell,' says mis' uppers. 'i think we'd ought to go slow.' "'yes,' says two-three others, 'we'd best go slow. why, his father may be looking for him.' "mis' eleanor emmons spoke up serene. "'while we're going slow,' she says, 'i think i'll just take him home and get his feet dry. i live the nearest. mr. sykes, you might report him at the police station as you go by, in case someone is looking for him. and if nobody inquires, he can sleep on my couch beside my grate fire to-night. can't he, robin?' "'i'd love it,' says the girl. "'excellent,' says insley, and set the little boy on his feet. "but when he done that, the child suddenly swung round and caught miss sidney's arm and looked up in her face; and his little nose was screwed up alarming. "'what _is_ it--what's the matter, christopher?' she ask' him. and the rest of us that had begun moving to go, stopped to listen. and in that little stillness christopher told us:-- "'oh,' he says, 'it's that hole near my biggest toe. my biggest toe went right through that hole. and it's _chokin'_ me.' "just exactly as if a hand had kind of touched us all, a nice little stir went round among us women. and with that, insley, who had been standing there so big and strong and able and willing, and waiting for a chance to take hold, he just simply put his hands on his knees and stooped over and made his back right for the little fellow to climb up on. the child knew what it was for, soon enough--we see somebody somewheres must of been doing it for him before, for he scrambled right up, laughing, and miss sidney helping him. and a kind of a little ripple, that wan't no true words, run round among us all. most women and some men is strong on ripples of this sort, but when it comes right down to doing something in consequence, we ain't so handy. "'leave me come along and help take care of him a little while,' i says; and i thought it was because i was ashamed of myself and trying to make up for not offering before. but i think really what was the matter with me was that i just plain wanted to go along with that little boy. "'i'm your automobile,' says insley to the little fellow, and he laughed out, delighted, hanging onto his paper sack. "'if you'll give me the big umbrella, aunt eleanor,' says miss sidney on the church steps, 'i'll try to keep the rain off the automobile and the passenger.' "the rain had just about stopped when we four started down daphne street. the elms and maples along the sidewalk was dripping soft, and everybody's gardens was laying still, like something new had happened to them. it smelled good, and like everything outdoors was going to start all over again and be something else, sweeter. "when we got most to mis' emmon's gate, i stopped stock still, looking at something shining on the hill. it was proudfit house, lit up from top to bottom--the big house on the hill that had stood there, blind and dark, for months on end. "'why, some of the proudfits must of come home,' i says out loud. "mis' emmons answered up, all unexpected to me, for i never knew she knew the proudfits. 'mr. alex proudfit is coming on to-morrow,' she says. and i sort of resented her that was so near a stranger in the village hearing this about alex proudfit before i did, that had known him since he was in knickerbockers. "'am i keeping the rain off you two people?' miss sidney asks as, at the corner, we all turned our backs on proudfit house. "'nobody,' insley says--and his voice was always as smooth and round as wheels running along under his words, 'nobody ever kept the rain off as you are keeping it off, miss sidney.' "and, 'i did walked all that way--in that rain,' says christopher, sleepy, in his automobile's collar. iii "if it was anyways damp or chilly, mis' emmons always had a little blaze in the grate--not a heat blaze, but just a come-here blaze. and going into her little what-she-called living-room at night, i always thought was like pushing open some door of the dark to find a sort of cubby-corner hollowed out from the bigger dark for tending the homey fire. that rainy night we went in from the street almost right onto the hearth. and it was as pleasant as taking the first mouthful of something. "insley, with christopher still on his back, stood on the rug in front of the door and looked round him. "'how jolly it always looks here, mrs. emmons,' he says. 'i never saw such a hearty place.' "i donno whether you've ever noticed the difference in the way women bustle around? most nice women do bustle when something comes up that needs it. some does it light and lifty, like fairies going around on missions; and some does it kind of crackling and nervous, like goblins on business. mis' emmons was the first kind, and it was real contagious. you caught it yourself and begun pulling chairs around and seeing to windows and sort of settling away down deep into the minute. she begun doing that way now, seeing to the fire and the lamp-shade and the sofa, and wanting everybody to be dry and comfortable, instant. "'you are so good-natured to like my room,' she says. 'i furnished it for ten cents--yes, not much more. the whole effect is just colour,' she says. 'what i have to do without in quality i go and wheedle out of the spectrum. what _should_ we do without the rainbow? and what in the world am i going to put on that child?' "insley let christopher down on the rug by the door, and there he stood, dripping, patient, holding his paper bag, and not looking up and around him, same as a child will in a strange room, but just looking hard at the nice, red, warm blaze. miss sidney come and stooped over him, with that same little way of touching him, like loving. "'let's go and be dry now,' she says, 'and then let's see what we can find in the pantry.' "the little fellow, he just laughed out, soft and delicious, with his head turned away and without saying anything. "'i never said such a successful thing,' says miss sidney, and led him upstairs where we could hear mis' emmons bustling around cosey. "mr. insley and i sat down by the fire. i remember i looked over towards him and felt sort of nervous, he was so good looking and so silent. a good-looking _talking_ man i ain't afraid of, because i can either admire or despise him immediate, and either way it gives me something to do answering back. but one that's still, it takes longer to make out, and it don't give you no occupation for your impressions. and insley, besides being still, was so good looking that it surprised me every new time i see him. i always wanted to say: have you been looking like that all the time since i last saw you, and how _do_ you keep it up? "he had a face and a body that showed a good many men looking out of 'em at you, and all of 'em was men you'd like to of known. there was scholars that understood a lot, and gentlemen that acted easy, and outdoor men that had pioneered through hard things and had took their joy of the open. all of them had worked hard at him--and had give him his strength and his merriness and his big, broad shoulders and his nice, friendly boyishness, and his eyes that could see considerably more than was set before them. by his own care he had knit his body close to life, and i know he had knit his spirit close to it, too. as i looked over at him that night, my being nervous sort of swelled up into a lump in my throat and i wanted to say inside me: o god, ain't it nice, ain't it nice that you've got some folks like him? "he glanced over to me, kind of whimsical. "'are you in favour of folks or tombstones?' he asks, with his eyebrows flickering up. "'me?' i says. 'well, i don't want to be clannish, but i do lean a good deal towards folks.' "'you knew what i meant to-night?' he says. "'yes,' i answered, 'i knew.' "'i thought you did,' he says grave. "then he lapsed into keeping still again and so did i, me through not quite knowing what to say, and him--well, i wasn't sure, but i thought he acted a good deal as if he had something nice to think about. i've seen that look on people's faces sometimes, and it always makes me feel a little surer that i'm a human being. i wondered if it was his new work he was turning over, or his liking the child's being cared for, or the mere nice minute, there by the grate fire. then a door upstairs shut, and somebody come down and into the room, and when he got up, his look sort of centred in that new minute. "it was miss sidney that come in, and she set down by the fire like something pleased her. "'aunt eleanor is going to decorate christopher herself,' she says. 'she believes that she alone can do whatever comes up in this life to be done, and usually she's right.' "insley stood looking at her for a minute before he set down again. she had her big black cloak off by then, and she was wearing a dress-for-in-the-house that was all rosy. she wasn't anything of the star any longer. she was something more than a star. i always think one of the nicest commonplace minutes in a woman's everyday is when she comes back from somewheres outside the house where she's been, and sets down by the fire, or by a window, or just plain in the middle of the room. they always talk about pigeons 'homing'; i wish't they kept that word for women. it seems like it's so exactly what they _do_ do. "'i love the people,' miss sidney went on, 'that always feel that way--that if something they're interested in is going to be really well done, then they must do it themselves.' "insley always knew just what anybody meant--i'd noticed that about him. his mind never left what you'd said floating round, loose ends in the room, without your knowing whether it was going to be caught and tied; but he just nipped right onto your remark and _tied it in the right place_. "'i love them, too,' he says now. 'i love anybody who can really feel responsibility, from a collie with her pups up. but then i'm nothing to go by. i find i'm rather strong for a good many people that can't feel it, too--that are just folks, going along.' "i suppose he expected from her the nice, ladylike agreeing, same as most women give to this sort of thing, just like they'd admit they're fond of verbenas or thin soles. but instead of that, she caught fire. her look jumped up the way a look will and went acrost to his. i always think i'd rather have folks say 'i know' to me, understanding, than to just pour me out information, and that was what she said to him. "'i know,' she says, 'on the train to-day--if you could have seen them. such dreadful-looking people, and underneath--the _giving-up-ness_. i believe in them,' she added simple. "when a thing you believe gets spoke by somebody that believes it, too, it's like the earth moved round a little faster, and i donno but it does. insley looked for a minute like he thought so. "'i believe in them,' he says; 'not the way i used to, and just because i thought they must be, somehow, fundamentally decent, but because it's true.' "'i know just when i first knew that,' miss sidney says. 'it come to me, of all places, in a subway train, when i was looking at a row of faces across the car. nobody, _nobody_ can look interesting in that row along the side of a subway car. and then i saw....' "she thought for a minute and shook her head. "'i can't tell you,' she says, 'it sounds so little and--no account. it was a little thing, just something that happened to a homely woman with a homely man, in a hat like a pirate's. but it almost--let me in. i can do it ever since--look into people, into, or through, or with ...' she tries to explain it. then her eyes hurried up to his face, like she was afraid he might not be understanding. he just nodded, without looking at her, but she knew that he knew what she meant, and that he meant it, too. " ... i thought it was wonderful to hear them. i felt like an old mountain, or anything natural and real ancient, listening to the song of believing, sung by two that's young and just beginning. we all sing it sometime in our lives--or lord grieve for them that never do--and i might as well own up that i catch myself humming that same song a good deal of the time, to keep myself a-going. but i love to hear it when it's just begun. "they was still talking when mis' emmons come downstairs with christopher. land, land but the little chap looked dear, dragging along, holding up a long-skirted lounging dress of mis' emmons's. i never had one of them lounging dresses. there's a lot of common things that it never seems to me i can buy for myself: a nice dressing-gown, a block of black pins, a fancy-headed hat pin, and a lemon-squeezer. i always use a loose print, and common pins, and penny black-headed hat pins, and go around squeezing my lemons by hand. i donno why it is, i'm sure. "'i'm--i'm--i'm--a little boy king!' christopher stutters, all excited and satisfied, while insley was a-packing him in the morris chair. "'rained on!' says mis' emmons, in that kind of dismay that's as pure feminine as if it had on skirts. 'water isn't a circumstance to what that dear child was. he was saturated--bless him. he must have been out for perfect hours.' "christopher, thinking back into the rain, mebbe, from the pleasantness of that minute, smiled and took a long breath. "'i walked from that other place,' he explains, important. "mis' emmons knew he was hungry, and she took miss sidney and insley off to the kitchen to find something to eat, and left me with the little fellow, me spreading out his clothes in front of the fire to dry. he set real still, like being dry and being with somebody was all he wanted. and of course that is a good deal. "i don't always quite know how to start talking to a child. i'm always crazy to talk with them, but i'm so afraid of that shy, grave, criticizin' look they have. i feel right off like apologizing for the silly question i've just asked them. i felt that way now when christopher looked at me, real dignified and wondering. 'what you going to be when you grow up to be a man?' was what i had just asked him. and yet i don't know what better question i could of asked him, either. "'i'm goin' to have a cream-puff store, an' make it all light in the window,' he answers ready. "'all light in the window?' i says puzzled. "'and i'm going to keep a church,' he goes on, 'and i'm going to make nice, black velvet for their coffings.' "i didn't know quite what to make of that, not being able to think back very far into his mind. so i kept still a few minutes. "'what was you doin' in the church?' he says to me, all at once. "'i don't really know. waiting for you to come, i guess, christopher,' i says. "'_was_ you?' he cried, delighted. 'pretty soon i came!' he looked in the fire, sort of troubled. 'is god outdoors nights?' he says. "i said a little something. "'well,' he says, 'i thought he was in the house by the bed when you say your prayer. an' i thought he was in church. but i don't think he stays in the dark, much.' "'mebbe you don't,' i says, 'but you wait for him in the dark, and mebbe all of a sudden some night you can tell that something is there. and just you wait for that night to come.' "'that's a nice game,' says christopher, bright. 'what game is that?' "'i donno,' i says. 'game of life, i guess.' "he liked the sound; and he set there--little waif, full of no supper, saying it over like a chant:-- "'game o' life--game o' life--game o' l-i-f-e--' "just at that minute i was turning his little pockets wrong side out to dry them, and in one of them i see a piece of paper, all crumpled up and wrinkled. i spread it out, and i see it had writing on. and i held it up to the light and read it, read it through twice. "'christopher,' i says then, 'where did you get this piece of paper? it was in your pocket.' "he looked at it, blank, and then he remembered. "'my daddy,' he says. 'my daddy told me to give it to folks. i forgot.' "'to folks?' i says. 'to what folks?' "'to whoever ask' me anything,' he answers. 'is it a letter?' he ask'. "'yes,' i says, thoughtful, 'it's a letter.' "'to tell me what to do?' he ask' me. "'yes,' i says, 'but more, i guess, to tell us what to do.' "i talked with him a little longer, so's to get his mind off the paper; and then i told him to set still a minute, and i slipped out to where the rest was. "the pantry had a close, spicey, foody smell of a pantry at night, when every tin chest and glass jar may be full up with nice things to eat that you'd forgot about--cocoanut and citron and cinnamon bark. in grown-up folks one of the things that is the last to grow up is the things a pantry in the evening promises. you may get over really liking raisins and sweet chocolate; you may get to wanting to eat in the evening things that you didn't use' to even know the names of and don't know them now, and yet it never gets over being nice and eventive to go out in somebody's pantry at night, especially a pantry that ain't your own. "'put everything on a tray,' mis' emmons was directing them, 'and find the chafing-dish and let's make it in there by christopher. mr. insley, can you make toast? don't equivocate,' she says; '_can_ you make toast? people fib no end over what they can make. i'm always bragging about my omelettes, and yet one out of every three i make goes flat, and i know it. and yet i brag on. beans, buckwheat, rice--what do you want to cream, robin? well, look in the store-room. there may be something there. we must tell miss sidney about grandma sellers' store-room, mr. insley,' she says, and then tells it herself, laughing like a girl, how grandma sellers, down at the other end of daphne street, has got a store-room she keeps full of staples and won't let her son's wife use a thing out. 'i've been hungry,' grandma sellers says, 'and i ain't ashamed of that. but if you knew how good it feels to have a still-room stocked full, you wouldn't ask me to disturb a can of nothing. i want them all there, so if i should want them.' 'she's like me,' mis' emmons ends, 'i always want to keep my living-room table tidy, to have a place in case i should want to lay anything down. and if i put anything on it, i snatch it up, so as to have a place in case i want to lay anything down.' "they was all laughing when i went out into the kitchen, and i went up to mis' emmons with the paper. "'read that,' i says. "she done so, out loud--the scrawlin', downhill message:-- "'keep him will you,' the paper said, 'i don't chuck him to get rid of but hes only got me since my wifes dead and the drinks got me again. ive stood it quite awhile but its got me again so keep him and oblidge. will send money to him to the p o here what i can spare i aint chuckin him but the drinks got me again. "'resp, his father. "'p s his name is christopher bartlett he is a good boy his throat gets sore awful easy.' "when mis' emmons had got through reading, i remember miss sidney's face best. it was so full of a sort of a leaping-up pity and wistfulness that it went to your heart, like words. i knew that with her the minute wasn't no mere thrill nor twitter nor pucker, the way sad things is to some, but it was just a straight sounding of a voice from a place of pain. and so it was to insley. but mis' emmons, she never give herself time to be swamped by anything without trying to climb out right while the swamping was going on. "'what'll we do?' she says, rapid. 'what in this world shall we do? did you ever hear of anything--well, i wish somebody would tell me what we're going to do.' "'let's be glad for one thing,' says allen insley, 'that he's here with you people to-night. let's be glad of that first--that he's here with you.' "miss sidney looked away to the dark window. "'that poor man,' she says. 'that poor father....' "we talked about it a little, kind of loose ends and nothing to fasten to, like you will. mis' emmons was the first to get back inside the minute. "'well,' she says, brisk, 'do let's go in and feed the child while we have him. nobody knows when he's had anything to eat but those unholy cream-puffs. let's heat him some broth and let's carry in the things.' "back by the fire christopher set doing nothing, but just looking in the blaze like his very eyesight had been chilly and damp and needed seeing to. he cried out jolly when he see all the pretty harness of the chafing-dish and the tray full of promises. "'oh,' he cries, '_robin!_' "she went over to him, and she nestled him now like she couldn't think of enough to do for him nor enough things to say to keep him company. i see insley watching her, and i wondered if it didn't come to him like it come to me, that for the pure art of doing nothing so that it seems like it couldn't be got along without, a woman--some women--can be commended by heaven to a world that always needs that kind of doing nothing. "'children have a genius for getting rid of the things that don't count,' miss sidney says. 'i love his calling me "robin." mustn't there be some place where we don't build walls around our names?' "insley thought for a minute. 'you oughtn't to be called "miss," and you oughtn't to wear a hat,' he concluded, sober. 'both of them make you--too much _there_. they draw a line around you.' "'i don't feel like miss to myself,' she says, grave. 'i feel like robin. i believe i _am_ robin!' "and i made up my mind right then and there that, to myself anyway, i was always going to call her robin. it's funny about first names. some of them fit right down and snuggle up close to their person so that you can't think of them apart. and some of them slip loose and dangle along after their person, quite a ways back, so that you're always surprised when now and then they catch up and get themselves spoke by someone. but the name robin just seemed to wrap miss sidney up in itself so that, as she said, she _was_ robin. i like to call her so. "it was her that engineered the chafing-dish. a chafing-dish is a thing i've always looked on a little askant. i couldn't cook with folks looking at me no more than i could wash my face in company. i remember one hot july day when there was a breeze in my front door, i took my ironing-board in the parlor and tried to iron there. but land, i felt all left-handed; and i know it would be that way if i ever tried to cook in there, on my good rug. robin though, she done it wonderful. and pretty soon she put the hot cream gravy on some crumbled-up bread and took it to christopher, with a cup of broth that smelled like when they used to say, 'dinner's ready,' when you was twelve years old. "he looked up at her eager. 'can you cut it in squares?' he asked. "'in what?' she asks him over. "'squares. and play it's molasses candy--white molasses candy?' he says. "'oh,' says robin, 'no, not in squares. but let's play it's hot ice-cream.' "'_hot ice-cream_,' he says, real slow, his eyes getting wide. to play little boy king and have hot ice-cream was about as much as he could take care of, in joy. sometimes i get to wondering how we ever do anything else except collect children together and give them nice little simple fairylands. but while, on the sly, we was all watching to see christopher sink deep in the delight of that hot toothsome supper, he suddenly lays down his spoon and stares over to us with wide eyes, eyes that there wasn't no tears gathering in, though his little mouth was quivering. "'what is it--what, dear?' robin asks, from her stool near his feet. "'my daddy,' says the little boy. 'i was thinking if he could have some this.' "robin touched her cheek down on his arm. "'blessed,' she says, 'think how glad he'd be to have you have some. he'd want you to eat it--wouldn't he?' "the child nodded and took up his spoon, but he sighed some. 'i wish't he'd hurry,' he says, and ate, obedient. "robin looked up at us--i don't think a woman is ever so lovely as when she's sympathizing, and it don't make much difference what it's over, a sore finger or a sore heart, it's equally becoming. "'i know,' she says to us, 'i know just the _place_ where that hurts. i remember, when i was little, being in a house that a band passed, and because mother wasn't there, i ran inside and wouldn't listen. it's such a special kind of hurt....' "from the end of the settle that was some in the shadow, insley set watching her, and he looked as if he was thinking just what i was thinking: that she was the kind that would most always know just the place things hurt. and i bet she'd know what to do--and a thousand kinds of things that she'd go and do it. "'o ...' christopher says. 'i like this most next better than molasses candy, cutted in squares. i do, robin!' he looked down at her, his spoon waiting. 'is you that robin redbreast?' he inquired. "'i'm any robin you want me to be,' she told him. 'to-morrow we'll play that, shall we?' "'am i here to-morrow? don't i have to walk to-morrow?' he ask' her. "'no, you won't have to walk to-morrow,' she told him. "christopher leaned back, altogether nearer to luxury than i guess he'd ever been. "'i'm a little boy king, and it's hot ice-cream, and i love _you_,' he tops it off to robin. "she smiled at him, leaning on his chair. "'isn't it a miracle,' she says to us, 'the way we can call out--being liked? we don't do something, and people don't pay any attention and don't know the difference. then some little thing happens, and there they are--liking us, doing a real thing.' "'i know it,' i says, fervent. 'sometimes,' i says, 'it seems to me wonderful cosey to be alive! i'm glad i'm it.' "'so am i,' says insley, and leaned forward. 'there's never been such a time to be alive,' he says. 'mrs. emmons, why don't we ask miss sidney for some plans for our plan?' "do you know how sometimes you'll have a number of floating ideas in your mind--wanting to do this, thinking that would be nice, dreaming of something else--and yet afraid to say much about it, because it seems like the ideas or the dreams is much too wild for anybody else to have, too? and then mebbe after a while, you'll find that somebody had the same idea and dreamed it out, and died with it? or somebody else tried to make it go a little? well, that was what begun to happen to me that night while i heard insley talk, only i see that my floating ideas, that wan't properly attached to the sides of my head, was actually being worked out here and there, and that insley knew about them. "i donno how to tell what my ideas was. i'd had them from time to time, and a good many of us ladies had, only we didn't know what to do with them. and an idea that you don't know what to do with is like a wild animal out of its cage: there ain't no performance till it's adjusted. for instance, when we'd wanted to pave daphne street and the whole town council had got up and swung its arms over its head and said that having an economical administration was better than paving--why, then us ladies had all had the same idee about that. "'is the town run for the sake of being the town, with money in its treasury, or is the town run for the folks in it?' i remember mis' toplady asking, puzzled. 'ain't the folks the town really?' she ask'. 'and if they are, why can't they pave themselves with their own money? don't that make sense?' she ask' us, and we thought it did. "us ladies had got daphne street paved, or at least it was through us they made the beginning, but there was things we hadn't done. we was all taking milk of rob henney that we knew his cow barns wasn't at all eatable, but he was the only milk wagon, nobody else in town delivering, so we kept on taking, but squeamish, squeamish. then there was the grocery stores, leaving their food all over the sidewalk, dust-peppered and dirt-salted. but nobody liked to say anything to silas sykes that keeps the post-office store, nor to joe betts, that his father before him kept the meat market, being we all felt delicate, like at asking a church member to come out to church. then us ladies had bought a zinc wagon and started it around to pick up the garbage to folks' doors, but the second summer the council wouldn't help pay for the team, because it was a saving council, and so the wagon was setting in a shed, with its hands folded. then there was black hollow, that we'd wanted filled up with dirt instead of scummy water, arranging for typhoid fever and other things, but the council having got started paving, was engaged in paving the swamp out for miles, silas sykes's cousin being in the wooden block business. and, too, us ladies was just then hopping mad over the doings they was planning for the fourth of july, that wasn't no more than making a cash register of the day to earn money into. all these things had been disturbing us, and more; but though we talked it over considerable, none of us knew what to do, or whether anything could be. it seemed as though every way we moved a hand, it hit out at the council or else went into some business man's pocket. and not having anybody to tell us what other towns were doing, we just set still and wished, passive. "well, and that night, while i heard insley talking, was the first i knew that other towns had thought about these things, too, and was beginning to stir and to stir things. insley talked about it light enough, laughing, taking it all casual on the outside, but underneath with a splendid earnestness that was like the warp to his words. he talked like we could pick friendship village up, same as a strand if we wanted, and make it fine and right for weaving in a big pattern that his eyes seemed to see. he talked like our village, and everybody's village and everybody's city wasn't just a lot of streets laid down and walls set up, and little families and little clubs and little separate groups of folks organized by themselves. but he spoke like the whole town was just one street and _no_ walls, and like every town was a piece of the big family that lives on the same street, all around the world and back again. and he seemed to feel that the chief thing all of us was up to was thinking about this family and doing for it and being it, and getting it to be the way it can be when we all know how. and he seemed to think the things us ladies had wanted to do was some of the things that would help it to be the way it can. "when he stopped, robin looked up at him from the hearth-rug: '"the world is beginning,"' she quotes to him from somewheres; "'i must go and help the king."' "he nodded, looking down at her and seeing, as he must have seen, that her face was all kindled into the same kind of a glory that was in his. it was a nice minute for them, but i was so excited i piped right up in the middle of it:-- "'oh,' i says, '_them_ things! was it them kind of things you meant about in sodality to-night that we'd ought to do? why, us ladies has wanted to do things like that, but we felt sort of sneaking about it and like we was working against the council and putting our interests before the town treasury--' "'and of the cemetery,' he says. "'is _that_,' i ask' him, 'what you're professor of, over to indian mound college?' "'something like that,' he says. "'nothing in a book, with long words and italics?' i ask' him. "'well,' he says, 'it's getting in books now, a little. but it doesn't need any long words.' "'why,' i says, 'it's just being professor of human beings, then?' "'trying to be, perhaps,' he says, grave. "'professor of human beings,' i said over to myself; 'professor of being human....' "on this nice minute, the front door, without no bell or knock, opened to let in mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, with a shawl over her head and a tin can in her hand. "'no, i won't set any, thanks,' she says. 'i just got to thinking--mercy, no. don't give me any kind of anything to eat any such time of night as this. i should be up till midnight taking soda. that's what ails folks' stomachs, my notion--these late lunches on nobody knows what. no, i got to bed and i was just dropping off when i happened to sense how wringing wet that child was, and that i betted he'd take cold and have the croup in the night, and you wouldn't have no remedy--not having any children, so. it rousted me right up wide awake, and i dressed me and run over here with this. here. put some on a rag and clap it on his chest if he coughs croupy. i donno's it would hurt him to clap it on him, anyway, so's to be sure. no, i can't stop. it's 'way past my bed-time....' "'there's lots of professors of being human, miss marsh,' insley says to me, low. "mis' holcomb stood thinking a minute, brushing her lips with the fringe of her shawl. "'mebbe somebody up to the proudfits' would do something for him,' she says. 'i see they're lit up. who's coming?' "'mr. alex proudfit will be here to-morrow,' mis' emmons told her. 'he has some people coming to him in a day or two, for a house party over the fourth.' "'will he be here so soon?' says insley. 'i've been looking forward to meeting him--i've a letter to him from indian mound.' "'whatever happens,' says mis' holcomb, 'i'll get up attic first thing in the morning and find some old clothes for this dear child. i may be weak in the pocket-book, but i'm strong on old duds.' "insley and i both said good night, so's to walk home with mis' holcomb, and christopher kissed us both, simple as belonging to us. "'we had that hot ice-cream,' he announced to mis' holcomb. "'the lamb!' says she, and turns her back, hasty. "i wondered a little at mis' emmons not saying anything to her about the letter we'd found, that made us know somebody would have to do something. but just as we was starting out, mis' emmons says to me low, 'don't let's say anything about his father yet. i have a plan--i want to think it over first.' and i liked knowing that already she had a plan, and i betted it was a plan that would be born four-square to its own future. "insley stood holding the door open. the rain had stopped altogether now, and the night was full of little things sticking their heads up in deep grasses and beginning to sing about it. i donno about what, but about something nice. and insley was looking toward robin, and i see that all the ancestors he'd ever had was lingering around in his face, like they knew about something he was just beginning to know about. something nice--nicer than the little outdoor voices. "'good night, miss sidney,' he says. 'and what a good night for christopher!' and he looked as if he wanted to add: 'and for me.' "'good night, mis' emmons,' i says. 'it's been an evening like a full meal.' iv "by messenger the next day noon come a letter for me that made me laugh a little and that made me a little bit mad, too. this was it:-- "'dear calliope: "'come up and help straighten things out, do. this place breathes desolation. everything is everywhere except everything which everyone wants, which is lost. come at once, calliope, pray, and dine with me to-night and give me as much time as you can for a fortnight. i'm having some people here next week--twenty or so for over the fourth--and a party. a company, you know! i need you. "'alex proudfit.' "it was so exactly like alex to send for me just plain because he wanted me. never a word about if i was able or if i wasn't putting up berries or didn't have company or wasn't dead. i hadn't heard a sound from him in the two years or more that he'd been gone, and yet now it was just 'come,' like a lord. and for that matter like he used to do when he was in knickerbockers and coming to my house for fresh cookies, whether i had any baked or not. but i remember actually baking a batch for him one day while he galloped his pony up and down the plank road waiting for them. and i done the same way now. i got my work out of the way and went right up there, like i'd always done for that family in the forty years i could think back to knowing them, when i was a girl. i guessed that alex had lit down sudden, a day or so behind his telegram to the servants; and i found that was what he had done. "proudfit house stands on a hill, and it looks like the hill had billowed up gentle from underneath and had let some of the house flow down the sides. it was built ambitious, of the good cream brick that gives to a lot of our middle west towns their colour of natural flax in among the green; it had been big in the beginning, and to it had been added a good many afterthoughts and postscripts of conservatory and entrance porch and sun room and screened veranda, till the hill couldn't hold them all. the house was one of them that was built fifty years ago and that has since been pecked and patted to suit modern uses, pinched off here and pulled off there to fit notions refining themselves gradual. and all the time the house was let to keep some nice, ugly things that after a while, by mere age and use-to-ness, were finally accepted wholesale as dignified and desirable. the great brown mansard roof, niched and glassed in two places for statues--and having them, too, inside my memory and until mr. alex pulled them down; the scalloped tower on a wing; the round red glass window on a stairway--these we all sort of come to agree to as qualities of the place that couldn't be changed no more'n the railroad track. tapestries and water-colours and persian carpets went on inside the house, but outside was all the little twists of a taste that had started in naked and was getting dressed up by degrees. "since the marriage of her daughter clementina, madame proudfit had spent a good deal of time abroad, and the house had been shut up. this shutting up of people's houses always surprises me. when i shut up my house to go away for a couple of months or so, i just make sure the kitchen fire is out, and i carry the bird down to mis' holcomb's, and i turn the key in the front door and start off. but land, land when proudfit house is going to be shut, the servants work days on end. rugs up, curtains down, furniture covered and setting around out of place, pictures and ornaments wrapped up in blue paper--i always wonder _why_. closing my house is like putting it to sleep for a little while, but closing proudfit house is some like seeing it through a spasm and into a trance. they done that to the house most every summer, and i used to think they acted like spring was a sort of contagion, or a seventeen-year locust, or something to be fumigated for. i supposed that was the way the house looked when alex got home to it, and of course a man must hate it worse than a woman does, because he doesn't know which end to tell them to take hold of to unravel. so i went right up there when he sent for me--and then it was a little fun, too, to be on the inside of what was happening there, that all the village was so curious about. "he'd gone off when i got there, gone off on horseback on some business, but he'd left word that he'd be back in a little while, and would i help him out in the library. i knew what that meant. the books was all out of the shelves and packed in paper, and he wanted me to see that they got back into their right places, like i'd done many and many a time for his mother. so i worked there the whole afternoon, with a couple of men to help me, and the portrait of linda proudfit on the wall watching me like it wanted to tell me something, maybe about the way she went off and died, away from home; and a little after four o'clock a servant let somebody into the room. "i looked up expecting to see alex, and it surprised me some to see insley instead. but i guessed how it was: that alex proudfit being a logical one to talk over friendship village with, insley couldn't lose a day in bringing him his letter. "'well, miss marsh,' says he, 'and do you live everywhere, like a good fairy?' "i thought afterwards that i might have said to him: 'no, mr. insley. and do you appear everywhere, like a god?' but at the time i didn't think of anything to say, and i just smiled. i'm like that,--if i like anybody, i can't think of a thing to say back; but to silas sykes i could talk back all day. "we'd got the room part in order by then, and insley sat down and looked around him, enjoyable. it was a beautiful room. i always think that that library ain't no amateur at its regular business of being a vital part of the home. some rooms are awful amateurs at it, and some ain't no more than apprentices, and some are downright enemies to the house they're in. but that library i always like to look around. it seems to me, if i really knew about such things, and how they ought to be, i couldn't like that room any better. colour, proportion, window, shadow--they was all lined up in a kind of an enjoyable professionalism of doing their best. the room was awake now, too--i had the windows open and i'd started the clock. insley set looking around as if there was sighs inside him. i knew how, down in new england, his father's home sort of behaved itself like this home. but after college, he had had to choose his way, and he had faced about to the new west, the new world, where big ways of living seemed to him to be sweeping as a wind sweeps. he had chose as he had chose, and i suppose he was glad of that; but i knew the room he had when he was in town, at threat hubbelthwait's hotel, must be a good deal like being homesick, and that this library was like coming home. "'mr. proudfit had just returned and would be down at once,' the man come back and told him. and while he waited insley says to me: "'have you seen anything of the little boy to-day, miss marsh?' "i was dying to answer back: 'yes, i see miss sidney early this morning,' but you can't answer back all you die to. so i told him yes, i'd seen all three of them and they was to be up in the city all day to buy some things for christopher. mis' emmons and robin was both to come up to proudfit house to alex's house party--seems they'd met abroad somewheres a year or more back; and they was going to bring christopher, who mis' emmons didn't show any sign of giving up while her plan, whatever it was, was getting itself thought over. so they'd whisked the child off to the city that day to get him the things he needed. and there wasn't time to say anything more, for in come alex proudfit. "he was in his riding clothes--horseback dress we always call it in the village, which i s'pose isn't city talk, proper. he was long and thin and brown, and sort of slow-moving in his motions, but quick and nervous in his talk; and i don't know what there was about him--his clothes, or his odd, old-country looking ring, or the high white thing wound twice around his neck, or his way of pronouncing his words--but he seemed a good deal like a picture of a title or a noted man. the minute you looked at him, you turned proud of being with him, and you pretty near felt distinguished yourself, in a nice way, because you was in his company. alex was like that. "'i don't like having kept you waiting,' he says to insley. 'i'm just in. by jove, i've left topping's letter somewhere--insley, is it? thank you. of course. well, calliope, blessings! i knew i could count on you. how are you--you look it. no, don't run away. keep straight on--mr. insley will pardon us getting settled under his nose. now what can i get you, mr. insley? if you've walked up, you're warm. no? as you will. it's mighty jolly getting back--for a minute, you know. i couldn't stop here. how the devil do you stop here all the time--or do you stop here all the time?...' all this he poured out in a breath. he always had talked fast, but now i see that he talked more than fast--he talked foreign. "'i'm here some of the time,' says insley; 'i hoped that you were going to be, too.' "'i?' alex said. 'oh, no--no. i feel like this: while i'm in the world, i want it at its best. i want it at its latest moment. i want to be living _now_. friendship village--why, man, it's living half a century ago--anyway, a quarter. it doesn't know about a.d. nineteen-anything. i love the town, you know, for what it is. but confound it, i'm living _now_.' "insley leaned forward. i was dusting away on an encyclopædia, but i see his face and i knew what it meant. this was just what he'd been hoping for. alex proudfit was a man who understood that the village hadn't caught up. so he would want to help it--naturally he would. "'i'm amazed at the point of view,' alex went on. 'i never saw such self-sufficiency as the little towns have. in england, on the continent, the villages know their place and keep it, look up to the towns and all that--play the peasant, as they are. know their betters. here? bless you. not a man down town here but will tell you that the village has got everything that is admirable. they believe it, too. electric light, water, main street paved, cemetery kept up, "nice residences," telephones, library open two nights a week, fresh lettuce all winter--fine, up-to-date little place! and, lord, but it's a back-water. with all its improvements the whole _idea_ of modern life somehow escapes it--music and art, drama, letters, manners, as integral parts of everyday living--what does it know of them? it thinks these things are luxuries, outside the scheme of real life, like monoplanes. jove, it's delicious!' "he leaned back, laughing. insley must have felt his charm. alex always was fascinating. his eyes were gray and sort of hobnobbed with your own; his square chin just kind of threatened a dimple without breaking into one; his dark hair done clusters like a statue; and then there was a lot of just plain charm pouring off him. but of course more than with this, insley was filled with his own hope: if alex proudfit understood some things about the village that ought to be made right, it looked to him as though they might do everything together. "'why,' insley says, 'you don't know--you don't know how glad i am to hear you say this. it's exactly the thing my head has been full of....' "'of course your head is full of it,' says alex. 'how can it help but be when you're fast here some of the time? if you don't mind--what is it that keeps you here at all? i don't think i read topping's letter properly....' "insley looked out from all over his face. "'i stay,' he says, 'just because all this _is_ so. it needs somebody to stay, don't you think?' "'ah, yes, i see,' says alex, rapid and foreign. 'how do you mean, though? surely you don't mean renouncing--and that sort of thing?' "'renouncing--no!' says insley. 'getting into the game.' "he got his enthusiasm down into still places and outlined what he meant. it was all at the ends of his fingers--what there was to do if the town was to live up to itself, to find ways to express the everyday human fellowship that insley see underneath everything. and alex proudfit listened, giving that nice, careful, pacifying attention of his. he was always so polite that his listening was like answering. when insley got through, alex's very disagreeing with him was sympathizing. "'my dear man,' says he--i remember every word because it was something i'd wondered sometimes too, only i'd done my wondering vague, like you do--'my dear man, but are you not, after all, anticipating? this is just the way nature works--beating these things into the heads and hearts of generations. aren't you trying to do it all at once?' "'i'm trying to help nature, to be a part of nature--exactly,' says insley, 'and to do it here in friendship village.' "'why,' says alex, 'you'll be talking about facilitating god's plan next--helping him along, by jove.' "insley looks at him level. 'i mean that now,' he says, 'if you want to put it that way.' "'good lord,' says alex, 'but how do you know what--what he wants?' "'don't you?' says insley, even. "alex proudfit turned and touched a bell. 'look here,' he says, 'you stay and dine, won't you? i'm alone to-night--calliope and i are. stay. i always enjoy threshing this out.' "to the man-servant who just about breathed with a well-trained stoop of being deferential, his master give the order about the table. 'and, bayless, have them hunt out some of those tea-roses they had in bloom the other day--you should see them, calliope. oh, and, bayless, hurry dinner a bit. i'm as hungry as lions,' he added to us, and he made me think of the little boy in knickerbockers, asking me for fresh cookies. "he slipped back to their topic, ranking it right in with tea-roses. in the hour before dinner they went on 'threshing it out' there in that nice luxurious room, and through the dinner, too--a simple, perfect dinner where i didn't know which to eat, the plates or the food, they was both so complete. up to proudfit house i can hardly ever make out whether i'm chewing flavours or colours or shapes, but i donno as i care. flavours, thank my stars, aren't the only things in life i know how to digest. "first eager, then patient, insley went over his ground, setting forth by line and by line, by vision and by vision, the faith that was in him--faith in human nature to come into its own, faith in the life of a town to work into human life at its best. and always down the same road they went, they come a-canterin' back with alex proudfit's 'precisely. it is precisely what is happening. you can't force it. you mustn't force it. to do the best we can with ourselves and to help up an under dog or two--if he deserves it--that's the most nature lets us in for. otherwise she says: "don't meddle. i'm doing this." and she's right. we'd bungle everything. believe me, my dear fellow, our spurts of civic righteousness and national reform never get us anywhere in the long run. in the long run, things go along and go along. you can't stop them. if you're wise, you won't rush them.' "at this i couldn't keep still no longer. we was at the table then, and i looked over to alex between the candlesticks and felt as if he was back in knickerbockers again, telling me god had made enough ponies so he could gallop his all day on the plank road if he wanted to. "'you and silas sykes, alex,' i says, 'have come to the same motto. silas says nature is real handy about taking her course so be you don't yank open cocoons and buds and like that.' "'old silas,' says alex. 'lord, is he still going on about everything? old silas....' "'yes,' i says, 'he is. and so am i. out by my woodshed i've got a greening apple tree. when it was about a year old a cow i used to keep browst it down. it laid over on the ground, broke clean off all but one little side of bark that kept right on doing business with sap, like it didn't know its universe was sat on. i didn't get time for a week or two to grub it up, and when i did go to it, i see it was still living, through that little pinch of bark. i liked the pluck, and i straightened it up and tied it to the shed. i used to fuss with it some. once in a storm i went out and propped a dry-goods box over it. i kept the earth rich and drove the bugs off. i kind of got interested in seeing what it would do next. what it done was to grow like all possessed. it was twenty years ago and more that the cow come by it, and this year i've had seven bushels of greenings off that one tree. suppose i hadn't tied it up?' "'you'd have saved yourself no end of trouble, dear calliope,' says alex, 'to say nothing of sparing the feelings of the cow.' "'i ain't so anxious any more,' says i, 'about sparing folks' feelings as i am about sparing folks. nor i ain't so crazy as i used to be about saving myself trouble, either.' "'dear calliope,' says alex, 'what an advocate you are. won't you be my advocate?' "he wouldn't argue serious with me now no more than he would when he was in knickerbockers. but yet he was adorable. when we got back to the library, i went on finishing up the books and i could hear him being adorable. he dipped down into the past and brought up rich things--off down old ways of life in the village that he'd had a part in and then off on the new ways where his life had led him. java--had insley ever been in java? he must show him the moonstone he got there and tell him the story they told him about it. but the queerest moonstone story was one he'd got in lucknow--so he goes on, and sends bayless for a cabinet, and from one precious stone and another he just naturally drew out romances and adventures, as if he was ravelling the stones out into them. and then he begun taking down some of his old books. and when it come to books, the appeal to insley was like an appeal of friends, and he burrowed into them musty parchments abundant. "'by george,' insley says once, 'i didn't dream there were such things in friendship village.' "'next thing you'll forget they're in the world,' says alex, significant. 'believe me, a man like you ought not to be down here, or over to indian mound, either. it's an economic waste. nature has fitted you for her glorious present and you're living along about four decades ago. don't you think of that?...' "then the telephone on the library table rang and he answered a call from the city. 'oh, buy it in, buy it in, by all means,' he directs. 'yes, cable to-night and buy it in. that,' he says, as he hung up, 'just reminds me. there's a first night in london to-night that i've been promising myself to see.... what a dog's life a business man leads. by the way,' he goes on, 'i've about decided to put in one of our plants around here somewhere--a tannery, you know. i've been off to-day looking over sites. i wonder if you can't give me some information i'm after about land around indian mound. i'm not saying anything yet, naturally--they'll give other people a bonus to establish in their midst, but the smell of leather is too much for them. we always have to surprise them into it. but talk about the ultimate good of a town ... if a tannery isn't that, what is it?' "it was after nine o'clock when i got the books set right--i loved to handle them, and there was some i always looked in before i put them up because some of the pictures give me feelings i remembered, same as tasting some things will--spearmint and caraway and coriander. insley, of course, walked down with me. alex wanted to send us in the automobile, but i'm kind of afraid of them in the dark. i can't get it out of my head that every bump we go over may be bones. and then i guess we both sort of wanted the walk. "insley was like another man from the one that had come into the library that afternoon, or had been talking to us at mis' emmons's the night before. down in the village, on mis' emmons's hearth, with robin sitting opposite, it had seemed so easy to know ways to do, and to do them. everything seemed possible, as if the whole stiff-muscled universe could be done things to if only everybody would once say to it: _our_ universe. but now, after his time with alex, i knew how everything had kind of _tightened_, closed in around him, shot up into high walls. money, tanneries, big deals by cable, moonstones from java, they almost made me slimpse too, and think, what's the use of believing alex proudfit and me belong to the same universe? so i guessed how insley was feeling, ready to believe that he had got showed up to himself in his true light, as a young, emotioning creature who dreams of getting everybody to belong together, and yet can't find no good way. and alex proudfit's parting words must of followed him down the drive and out on to the plank road:-- "'take my advice. don't spend yourself on this blessed little hole. it's dear to me, but it _is_ a hole ... eh? you won't get any thanks for it. ten to one they'll turn on you if you try to be one of them. get out of here as soon as possible, and be in the real world! this is just make-believing--and really, you know, you're too fine a sort to throw yourself away like this. old nature will take care of the town in good time without you. trust her!' "sometimes something happens to make the world seem different from what we thought it was. them times catch all of us--when we feel like we'd been let down gentle from some high foot-path where we'd been going along, and instead had been set to walk a hard road in a silence that pointed its finger at us. if we get really knocked down sudden from a high foot-path, we can most generally pick ourselves up and rally. but when we've been let down gentle by arguments that seem convincing, and by folks that seem to know the world better than we do, then's the time when there ain't much of any rally to us. if we're any good, i s'pose we can climb back without rallying. rallying gives some spring to the climb, but just straight dog-climbing will get us there, too. "it was a lovely july night, with june not quite out of the world yet. there was that after-dark light in the sky that makes you feel that the sky is going to stay lit up behind and shining through all night, as if the time was so beautiful that celestial beings must be staying awake to watch it, and to keep the sky lit and turned down low.... we walked along the plank road pretty still, because i guessed how insley's own thoughts was conversation enough for him; but when we got a ways down, he kind of reached out with his mind for something and me being near by, his mind clutched at me. "'what if it _is_ so, miss marsh?' he says. 'what if the only thing for us to do is to tend to personal morality and an occasional lift to an under dog or two--"if he deserves it." what if that's all--they meant us to do?' "it's awful hard giving a reason for your chief notions. it's like describing a rose by the tape-measure. "'shucks!' i says only. 'look up at the stars. i don't believe it.' "he laughed a little, and he did look up at them, but still i knew how he felt. and even the stars that night looked awful detached and able to take care of themselves. and they were a-shining down on the plank road that would get to be daphne street and go about its business of leading to private homes--_private_ homes. the village, that little cluster of lights ahead there, seemed just shutting anybody else out, going its own way, kind of mocking anybody for any idea of getting really inside it. it was plain enough that insley had nothing to hope for from alex proudfit. and alex's serene sureness that nature needed nobody to help, his real self-satisfied looking on at processes which no man could really hurry up--my, but they made you feel cheap, and too many of yourself, and like none of you had a license to take a-hold. for a second i caught myself wondering. maybe nature--stars and streets and processes--_could_ work it out without us. "something come against my foot. i pushed at it, and then bent over and touched it. it was warm and yieldy, and i lifted it up. and it was a puppy that wriggled its body unbelievable and flopped on to my arm its inch and a quarter of tail. "'look at,' i says to insley, which, of course, he couldn't do; but i put the little thing over into his hands. "'well, little brother,' says he. 'running away?' "we was just in front of the cadozas', a tumble-down house halfway between proudfit house and the village. it looked like the puppy might belong there, so we turned in there with it. i'd always sort of dreaded the house, setting in back among lilacs and locusts and never lit up. when i stopped to think of it, i never seemed to remember much about those lilacs and locusts blooming--i suppose they did, but nobody caught them at it often. some houses you always think of with their lilacs and locusts and wisteria and hollyhocks going all the time; and some you never seem to connect up with being in bloom at all. some houses you always seem to think of as being lit up to most of their windows, and some you can't call to mind as showing any way but dark. the cadozas' was one of the unblossoming, dark kind, and awful ramshackle, besides. i always use' to think it looked like it was waiting for some kind of happening, i didn't know what. and sometimes when i come by there in the dark, i used to think: it ain't happened yet. "we went around to the back door to rap, and mis' cadoza opened it--a slovenly looking woman she is, with no teeth much, and looking like what hair she's got is a burden to her. i remember how she stood there against a background of mussy kitchen that made you feel as if you'd turned something away wrong side out to where it wasn't meant to be looked at. "'is it yours, mis' cadoza?' i says, insley holding out the puppy. "'murder, it's patsy,' says mis' cadoza. 'give 'm here--he must of followed spudge off. oh, it's you, miss marsh.' "over by the cook stove in the corner i see past her to something that made me bound to go inside a minute. it was a bed, all frowzy and tumbled, and in it was laying a little boy. "'why,' i says, 'i heard eph was in bed. what's the matter with him?' and i went right in, past his mother, like i was a born guest. she drew off, sort of grudging--she never liked any of us to go there, except when some of them died, which they was always doing. 'come in and see eph, mr. insley,' i says, and introduced him. "the little boy wasn't above eight years old and he wasn't above six years big.... he was laying real still, with his arms out of bed, and his little thin hands flat down on the dark covers. his eyes, looking up at us, watching, made me think of some trapped thing. "'well, little brother,' says insley, 'what's the trouble?' "mis' cadoza come and stood at the foot of the bed and jerked at the top covers. "'i've put him in the bed,' she says, 'because i'm wore out lifting him around. an' i've got the bed out here because i can't trapse back an' forth waitin' on him.' "'is he a cripple?' asks insley, low. i liked so much to hear his voice--it was as if it lifted and lowered itself in his throat without his bothering to tell it which kind it was time to do. and i never heard his voice make a mistake. "'cripple?' says mis' cadoza, in her kind of undressed voice. 'no. he fell in a tub of hot water years ago, and his left leg is witherin' up.' "'let me see it,' says insley, and pulled the covers back without waiting. "there ain't nothing more wonderful than a strong, capable, quick human hand doing something it knows how to do. insley's hands touched over the poor little leg of the child until i expected to see it get well right there under his fingers. he felt the cords of the knee and then looked up at the mother. "'haven't they told you,' he says, 'that if he has an operation on his knee, you can have a chance at saving the leg? i knew a case very like this where the leg was saved.' "'i ain't been to see nobody about it,' says mis' cadoza, leaving her mouth open afterwards, like she does. 'what's the good? i can't pay for no operation on him. i got all i can do to keep 'm alive.' "eph moved a little, and something fell down on the floor. mis' cadoza pounced on it. "'ain't i forbid you?' she says, angry, and held out to us what she'd picked up--a little dab of wet earth. 'he digs up all my house plants,' she scolds, like some sort of machinery grating down on one place continual, 'an' he hauls the dirt out and lays there an' makes _figgers_. the idear! gettin' the sheets a sight....' "the child looked over at us, defiant. he spoke for the first time, and i was surprised to hear how kind of grown-up his voice was. "'i can get 'em to look like faces,' he says. 'i don't care what _she_ says.' "'show us,' commands insley. "he got back the bit of earth from mis' cadoza, and found a paper for the crumbs, and pillowed the boy up and sat beside him. the thin, dirty little hands went to work as eager as birds pecking, and on the earth that he packed in his palm he made, with his thumb nail and a pen handle from under his pillow, a face--a boy's face, that had in it something that looked at you. 'but i can never get 'em to look the same way two times,' he says to us, shy. "'he's most killed my lady washington geranium draggin' the clay out from under the roots,' mis' cadoza put in, resentful. "insley sort of sweeps around and looks acrost at her, deep and gentle, and like he understood about her boy and her geranium considerable better than she did. "'he won't do it any more,' he says. 'he'll have something better.' "the boy looked up at him. 'what?' he asks. "'clay,' says insley, 'in a box. with things for you to make the clay like. do you want that?' "the boy kind of curled down in his pillow and come as near to shuffling as he could in the bed, and he hadn't an idea what to say. but i tell you, his eyes, they wasn't like any trapped thing any more; they was regular _boy's_ eyes, lit up about something. "'mrs. cadoza,' insley says, 'will you do something for me? we're trying to get together a little shrubbery, over at the college. may i come in and get some lilac roots from you some day?' "mis' cadoza looked at him--and looked. i don't s'pose it had ever come to her before that anybody would want anything she had or anything she could do. "'why, sure,' she says, only. 'sure, you can, mr. what's-name.' "and then insley put out his hand, and she took it, i noted special. i donno as i ever see anybody shake hands with her before, excep' when somebody was gettin' buried out of her house. "when we got out on the road again, i noticed that insley went swinging along so's i could hardly keep up with him; and he done it sort of automatic, and like it was natural to him. i didn't say anything. if i've learned one thing living out and in among human beings, it's that if you don't do your own keeping still at the right time, nobody else is going to do it for you. he spoke up after a minute like i thought he would; and he spoke up buoyant--kind of a reverent buoyant:-- "'i don't believe we're discharged from the universe, after all,' he says, and laughed a little. 'i believe we've still got our job.' "i looked 'way down the plank road, on its way to its business of being daphne street, and it come to me that neither the one nor the other stopped in friendship village. but they led on out, down past the wood lots and the pump pasture and across the tracks and up the hill, and right off into that sky that somebody was keeping lit up and turned down low. and i said something that i'd thought before: "'ain't it,' i says, 'like sometimes everybody in the world come and stood right close up beside of you, and spoke through the walls of you for something inside of you to come out and be there with them?' "'that's it,' he says, only. 'that's it.' but i see his mind nipped onto what mine meant, and tied it in the right place. "when we got to mis' emmons's corner, i turned off from daphne street to go that way, because i'd told her i'd look in that night and see what they'd bought in town. it was late, for the village, but mis' emmons never minded that. the living-room light was showing through the curtains, and insley, saying good night to me, looked towards the windows awful wistful. i guessed why. it was part because he felt as if he must see robin sidney and they must talk over together what alex proudfit had said to him. and part it was just plain because he wanted to see her again. "'why don't you come in a minute,' i says, 'and ask after christopher? then you can see me home.' "'wouldn't they mind it being late?' he asks. "i couldn't help smiling at that. once mis' emmons had called us all up by telephone at ten o'clock at night to invite us to her house two days later. she explained afterwards that she hadn't looked at the clock for a week, but if she had, she might have called us just the same. 'for my life,' she says, 'i _can't_ be afraid of ten o'clock. indeed, i rather like it.' i told him this, while we was walking in from her gate. "'mrs. emmons,' he says, when she come to the door, 'i've come because i hear that you like ten o'clock, and so do i. i wanted to ask if you've ever been able to make it last?' "'no,' she says. 'i prefer a new one every night--and this one to-night is an exceptionally good one.' "she always answered back so pretty. i feel glad when folks can. it's like they had an extra brain to 'em. "insley went in, and he sort of filled up the whole room, the way some men do. he wasn't so awful big, either. but he was pervading. christopher had gone to bed, and robin sidney was sitting there near a big crock of hollyhocks--she could make the centre and life of a room a crock full of flowers just as you can make it a fireplace. "'come in,' she says, 'and see what we bought christopher. i wanted to put him in black velvet knickerbockers or silver armour, but aunt eleanor has bought chiefly khaki middies. she's such a sensible relative.' "'what are we going to do with him?' insley asks. i loved the way he always said 'we' about everything. not 'they' or 'you,' but always, 'what are _we_ going to do.' "'i'll keep him awhile,' mis' emmons says, 'and see what develops. if i weren't going to europe this fall--but something may happen. things do. calliope,' she says to me, 'did i buy what i ought to have bought?' "i went over to see the things spread out on the table, and insley turned round to where robin was. i don't really believe he had been very far away from where she was since the night before, when christopher come. and he got right into what he had to say, like he was impatient for the sympathy in her eyes and in her voice. "'i must tell you,' he says. 'i could hardly wait to tell you. isn't it great to be knocked down and picked up again, without having to get back on your own feet. i--wanted to tell you.' "'tell me,' she says. and she looked at him in her nice, girl way that lent him her eyes in good faith for just a minute and then took them back again. "'i've been to see alex proudfit,' he said. 'i've dined with him.' "i don't think she said anything at all, but insley went on, absorbed in what he was saying. "'i talked with him,' he says, 'about what we talked of last night--the things to do, here in the village. i thought he might care--i was foolish enough for that. have you ever tried to open a door in a solid wall? when i left there, i felt as if i'd tried just that. seriously, have you ever tried to talk about the way things are going to be and to talk about it to a perfectly satisfied man?' "robin leaned forward, but i guess he thought that was because of her sympathy. he went right on:-- "'i want never to speak of this to anyone else, but i can't help telling you. you--understand. you know what i'm driving at. alex proudfit is a good man--as men are counted good. and he's a perfect host, a fascinating companion. but he's a type of the most dangerous selfishness that walks the world--' "robin suddenly laid her hand, just for a flash, on insley's arm. "'you mustn't tell me,' she says. 'i ought to have told you before. alex proudfit--i'm going to be alex proudfit's wife.' v "in the next days things happened that none of us friendship village ladies is likely ever to forget. some of the things was nice and some was exciting, and some was the kind that's nice after you've got the introduction wore off; but all of them was memorable. and most all of them was the kind that when you're on the train looking out the car window, or when you're home sitting in the dusk before it's time to light the lamp, you fall to thinking about and smiling over, and you have them always around with you, same as heirlooms you've got ready for yourself. "one of these was the fourth of july that year. it fell a few days after alex proudfit come, and the last of the days was full of his guests arriving to the house party. the two proudfit cars was racking back and forth to the station all day long, and jimmy sturgis, he went near crazy with getting the baggage up. i never see such a lot of baggage. 'land, land,' says mis' toplady, peeking out her window at it, 'you'd think they was all trees and they'd come bringing extra sets of branches, regular forest size.' mis' emmons and robin and christopher went up the night before the fourth--mis' emmons was going to do the chaperoning, and alex had asked me to be up there all i could to help him. he knows how i love to have a hand in things. however, i couldn't be there right at first, because getting ready for the fourth of july was just then in full swing. "do you know what it is to want to do over again something that you ain't done for years and years? i don't care what it is--whether it's wanting to be back sitting around the dinner table of your home when you was twelve, and them that was there aren't there now; or whether it's rocking in the cool of the day on the front porch of some old house that got tore down long ago; or whether it's walking along a road you use' to know every fence post of; or fishing from a stream that's dried up or damned these twenty years; or eating spice' currants or pickle' peaches that there aren't none put up like them now; or hearing a voice in a glee club that don't sing no more, or milking a dead cow that _wasn't_ dead on the spring mornings you mean about--no, sir, i don't care what one of them all it happens to be, if you know what it is to want to do it again and can't, 'count of death and distance and long-ago-ness, then i tell you you know one of the lonesomest, hurtingest feelings the human heart can, sole outside of the awful things. and that was what had got the matter with me awhile ago. "it had come on me in the meeting of townspeople called by silas sykes a few weeks before, to discuss how friendship village should celebrate the fourth. we hadn't had a fourth in the village in years. seeing the fourth and the cemetery was so closely connected, late years, sodality had took a hand in the matter and had got fire-crackers and pistols voted out of town, part by having family fingers blowed off and clothes scorched full of holes, and part through silas and the other dealers admitting they wan't no money in the stuff and they'd be glad to be prevented by law from having to sell it. so we shut down on it the year after little spudge cadoza bit down on a cap to see if it'd go off, and it done so. but we see we'd made the mistake of not hatching up something to take the place of the noise, because the boys and girls all went off to the next-town fourths and come home blowed up and scorched off, anyway. and some of the towns, especially red barns, that we can see from friendship village when it's clear, was feeling awful touchy and chip-shouldered towards us, and their two weekly papers was saying we borrowed our year's supply of patriotism off the county, and sponged on public spirit, and like that. so the general friendship feeling was that we'd ought to have a doings this year, and postmaster sykes, that ain't so much public spirited as he is professional leading citizen,--platform introducer of all visiting orators and so on,--he called a mass-meeting to decide what to do. "mis' sykes, she was awful interested, too, through being a born leader and up in arms most of the time to do something new. and this year she was anxious to get up something fancy to impress her niece with--the new niece that was coming to visit her, and that none of us had ever see, and that the sykes's themselves had only just developed. seems she was looking for her family tree and she wrote to mis' sykes about being connect'. and the letter seemed so swell, and the address so mouth-melting and stylish that mis' sykes up and invited her to friendship village to look herself up in their bible, born and died part. "the very night of that public mass-meeting miss beryl sessions--such was the niece's name--come in on the through, and mis' sykes, she snapped her up from the supper table to bring her to the meeting and show her off, all brimming with the blood-is-thicker-than-water sentiments due to a niece that looked like that. for i never see sweller. and being in the glee club i set where i got a good view when mis' sykes rustled into the meeting, last minute, in her best black cashmere, though it was an occasion when the rest of us would wear our serges and alapacas, and mis' sykes knew it. all us ladies see them both and took in every stitch they had on without letting on to unpack a glance, and we see that the niece was wearing the kind of a dress that was to ours what mince-pie is to dried apple, and i couldn't blame mis' sykes for showing her off, human. "silas had had dr. june open the meeting with prayer, and i can't feel that this was so much reverence in silas as that he isn't real parliamentary nor yet real knowledgeable about what to do with his hands, and prayer sort of broke the ice for him. that's the way silas is. "'folks,' says he, 'we're here to consider the advisability of bein' patriotic this year. of having a doings that'll shame the other towns around for their half-an'-half way of giving things. of making the glorious fourth a real business bringer. of having a speech that'll bring in the country trade--the honourable thaddeus hyslop has been named by some. and of getting our city put in the class of the wide awake and the hustlers and the up-to-date and doing. it's a grand chance we've passed up for years. what are we going to do for ourselves this year? to decide it is the purpose of this mass-meetin'. sentiments are now in order.' "silas set down with a kitterin' glance to his new niece that he was host and uncle of and pleased to be put in a good light before, first thing so. "several men hopped up--timothy toplady saying that friendship village was a city in all but name and numbers, and why not prove it to the other towns? jimmy sturgis that takes tintypes, besides running the 'bus and was all primed for a day full of both--'a glorious fourth,' says he, 'would be money in our pockets.' and the farm machinery and furniture dealers, and gekerjeck, that has the drug store and the ice-cream fountain, and others, they spoke the same. insley had to be to the college that night, or i don't believe the meeting would have gone the way it did go. for the first line and chorus of everything that all the men present said never varied:-- "'the fourth for a business bringer.' "it was threat hubbelthwait that finally made the motion, and he wasn't real sober, like he usually ain't, but he wound up on the key-note:-- "'i sold two hundred and four lunches the last fourth we hed in friendship village,' says he, pounding his palm with his fist, 'an' i move you that we celebrate this comin' fourth like the blazes.' "and though silas softened it down some in putting it, still that was substantially the sentiment that went through at that mass-meeting, that was real pleased with itself because of. "well, us ladies hadn't taken no part. it ain't our custom to appear much on our feet at public gatherings, unless to read reports of a year's work, and so that night we never moved a motion. but we looked at each other, and us ladies has got so we understand each other's eyebrows. and we knew, one and all, that we was ashamed of the men and ashamed of their sentiments. but the rest didn't like to speak out, 'count of being married to them. and i didn't like to, 'count of not being. "but when they got to discussing ways and means of celebrating, a woman did get onto her feet, and a little lilt of interest run round the room like wind. it was miss beryl sessions, the niece, that stood up like you'd unwrapped your new fashion magazine and unrolled her off'n the front page. "'i wonder,' says she--and her voice went all sweet and chirpy and interested, 'whether it would amuse you to know some ways we took to celebrate the fourth of july last year at home ...' and while the men set paying attention to her appearance and thinking they was paying attention to her words alone, she went on to tell them how 'at home' the whole town had joined in a great, fourth of july garden party on the village 'common,' with a band and lanterns and fireworks at night, and a big marquee in the middle, full of ice-cream. 'we made it,' she wound up, 'a real social occasion, a town party with everybody invited. and the business houses said that it paid them over and over.' "well, of course that went with the men. land, but men is easy tamed, so be the tameress is somebody they ain't used to and is gifted with a good dress and a kind of a 'scalloped air. but when she also has some idea of business they go down and don't know it. 'why, i should think that'd take here like a warm meal,' says timothy toplady, instant--and i see mis' amanda toplady's chin come home to place like she'd heard timothy making love to another woman. 'novel as the dickens,' says simon gekerjeck. 'move we adopt it.' and so they done. "while they was appointing committees i set up there in the glee club feeling blacker and blacker. coming down to the meeting that night, i recollect i'd been extra gentle in my mind over the whole celebration idea. walking along in the seven-o'clock light, with the sun shining east on daphne street and folks all streaming to the town-meeting, and me sensing what it was going to be for, i'd got all worked up to 'most a declaration of independence lump in my throat. when i went in the door to the meeting, little spudge cadoza and some other children was hanging around the steps and silas sykes was driving them away; and it come to me how deathly ridiculous that was, to be driving _children_ away from a meeting like that, when children is what such meetings is for; and i'd got to thinking of all the things insley was hoping for us, and i'd been real lifted up on to places for glory. and here down had come the men with their talk about a _paying_ fourth, and here was miss beryl sessions showing us how to celebrate in a way that seemed to me real sweet but not so very patriotic. it was then that all of a sudden it seemed to me i'd die, because i wanted so much to feel the way i'd use to feel when it was going to be the fourth o' july. and when they sung 'star spangled banner' to go home on and all stood up to the sentiment, i couldn't open my mouth. i can't go folks that stands up and carols national tunes and then talks about having a fourth that'll be a real business bringer. "'what'd you think of the meeting?' says mis' toplady, low, to me on the way out. "'i think,' says i, frank, 'it was darn.' "'there's just exactly what we all think,' says mis' toplady, in a whisper. "but all the same, preparations was gone into head first. most of us was put on to from one to five committees--i mean most of them that works. the rest of the town was setting by, watching it be done for them, serene or snarling, according to their lights. of course us ladies worked, not being them that goes to a meeting an' sets with their mouths shut and then comes out and kicks at what the meetin' done. yet, though we wan't made out of that kind of meal, we spoke our minds to each other, private. "'what under the canopy _is_ a marquee?' asks mis' amanda toplady, when we met at her house to plan about refreshments. "mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss spoke right up. "'why, it's a finger ring,' she says. 'one of them with stones running the long way. the minister's wife's got a blue stone one....' "'finger ring!' says mis' mayor uppers, scornful. 'it's a title. that's what it is. from england.' "we looked at them both, perplexish. mis' holcomb is always up on things--it was her that went into short sleeves when the rest of us was still crocheting cuff turnovers, unconscious as the dead. but mis' uppers had been the mayor's wife, and though he'd run away, 'count o' some money matter, still a title is a title, an' we thought mis' uppers had ought to know. "then abagail arnold, that keeps the home bakery, she spoke up timid. 'i see,' she says, 'in the _caterer's gazette_ a picture called "marquee decorated for fête." the picture wan't nothing but a striped tent. could a tent have anything to do with it?' "'pity sakes, no,' says mis' uppers. 'this is somethin' real city done, abagail.' "we worked on what we could, but we all felt kind of lost and left out of it, and like we was tinkering with tools we didn't know the names of and a-making something we wasn't going to know how to use. and when the article about our fourth flared out in the _friendship daily_ and red barns and indian mound weeklies, we felt worse than we had before: 'garden party.' 'all day fête.' '_al fresco_ celebration,' the editors had wrote it up. "'all _what_?' says mis' uppers, listening irritable to the last one. 'i can't catch that word no more'n a rabbit.' "'it's a french word,' mis' holcomb told her, superior. 'seems to me i've heard it means a failure. it's a funny way to put it, ain't it? i bet, though, that's what it'll be.' "but the men, my, the men thought they was doing things right. the committee on orator, with silas for rudder, had voted itself fifty dollars to squander on the speech, and they had engaged the honourable thaddeus hyslop, that they'd hoped to, and that was formerly in our legislature, to be the orator of the day; they put up a platform and seats on the 'common'--that wan't nothing but the market where loads of wood stood to be sold; they was a-going to cut evergreens and plant them there for the day; the committee on fireworks was a-going to buy set pieces for the evening; they was a-going to raise ned. somebody that was on one of the committees wanted to have some sort of historic scenes, but the men wouldn't hear to it, because that would take away them that had to do the business in the stores; no caluthumpians, no grand basket dinner--just the garden party, real sweet, with miss beryl sessions and a marquee full of ice-cream that the ladies was to make. "'it sounds sort of sacrilegious to me,' says mis' holcomb, 'connectin' the fourth up with society and secular doin's. when i was young, my understandin' of a garden party would of been somethin' worldly. now it seems it's patriotic. well, i wonder how it's believed to be in the sight of the lord?' "but whether it was right or whether it was wrong, none of it rung like it had ought to of rang. they wan't no _glow_ to it. we all went around like getting supper on wash-day, and not like getting up a meal for folks that meant a lot to us. it wan't going to be any such fourth as i'd meant about and wanted to have come back. the day come on a pacing, and the nearer it come, the worse all us ladies felt. and by a few days before it, when our final committee meeting come off in abagail arnold's home bakery, back room, 'count of being central, we was all blue as the grave, and i donno but bluer. we set waiting for silas that was having a long-distance call, and abagail was putting in the time frosting dark cakes in the same room. we was most all there but the niece miss beryl sessions. she had gone home, but she was coming back on the fourth in an automobile full o' city folks. "'the _marquee's_ come,' says mis' holcomb, throwing out the word clickish. "nobody said anything. seems it _was_ a tent all along. "'silas has got in an extra boy for the day,' says mis' sykes, complacent. 'it's the littlest cadoza boy, spudge. he's goin' to walk up an' down daphne street all day, with a prize coffee board on his back.' "'where's spudge's fourth comin' in?' i couldn't help askin'. "mis' sykes stared. she always could look you down, but she's got a much flatter, thicker stare since her niece come. 'what's them kind o' folks _for_ but such work?' says she, puckering. "'oh, i donno, i donno,' says i. 'i thought mebbe they was partly made to thank the lord for bein' born free.' "'how unpractical you talk, calliope,' she says. "'i donno that word,' says i, reckless from being pent up. 'but it seems like a liberty-lovin' people had ought to hev _one_ day to love liberty on an' not tote groceries and boards and such.' "'_don't it!_' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, explosive. "'what you talking?' says mis' sykes, cold. 'don't you know the fourth of july can be made one of the best days of the year for your own town's good? what's that if it ain't patriotic?' "'it's yankee shrewd,' says i, snapping some, 'that's what it is. it ain't yankee spirited, by a long shot.' "'"_by a long shot_,"' quotes mis' sykes, withering. she always was death on wording, and she was far more death after her niece come. but i always thought, and i think now, that correcting your advisary's grammar is like telling him there's a smooch on his nose, and they ain't either of them parliamental _or_ decent. "mis' uppers sighed. 'the whole thing,' says she, candid, 'sounds to me like fourth o' july in europe or somewheres. no get-up-an'-get anywheres to it. what do they do in europe on the fourth o' july, anyway?' she wondered. 'i donno's i ever read.' "'i donno, either,' says mis' holcomb, dark, 'but i bet you it's one of these all frost celebrations--or whatever it is they say.' "mis' toplady set drying her feet by abagail's stove, and she looked regular down in the mouth. 'well, sir,' she said, 'a fourth o' july all rosettes an' ribbins so don't sound to me one bit like the regular fourth at all. it don't sound to me no more'n the third--or the fifth.' "i was getting that same homesick feeling that i'd had off and on all through the getting ready, that hankering for the old kinds of fourths of julys when i was a little girl. when us girls had a quarter apiece to spend, and father'd cover the quarter with his hands on the gate-post for us to guess them; and when the boys picked up scrap-iron and sold old rubbers to get their fourth money. it wan't so much what we used to do that i wanted back as it was the _feeling_. why, none of our spines use' to be laid down good and flat in our backs once all day long. and i wisht what i'd wisht more than once since the mass-meeting, that some of us ladies had of took hold of that fourth and had run it so's 'twould of been like you mean 'way inside when you say 'the fourth of july'--and that death and distance and long-ago-ness is awful in the way of. "'we'd ought to of had a grand basket dinner in the depot woods,' i says, restless. "'an' a p'rade,' says mis' toplady. 'i donno nothin' that makes me feel more patriotic than the minute before the p'rade comes by.' "'an' children in the fourth somehow,' mis' uppers says. 'land, children is who it's for, anyhow,' she says, like i'd been thinking; 'an' all we've ever done for 'em about it is to leave 'em kill 'emselves with it.' "well, it was there, just there, and before mis' sykes could dicker a reply that in come tearing her husband from his long-distance telephoning, and raced into the room like he hadn't a manner in his kit. "'we're all over with,' silas shouts. 'it's all done for! thaddeus hyslop is smashed an' bleedin'. he can't come. we ain't got no speech. his automobile's turned over on top of his last speakin' place. everybody else that ain't one-horse is sure to be got for somewheres else. our fourth of july is rooned. we're done for. the editor's gettin' it in the _weekly_ so's to warn the county. we'll be the laughing stock. dang the luck!' says silas; 'why don't some o' you say somethin'?' "but it wasn't all because silas was doing it all that the men didn't talk, because when he'd stopped, they all stood there with their mouths open and never said a word. seems to me i did hear timothy toplady bring out, 'blisterin' benson,' but nobody offered nothing more fertile. that is, nobody of the men did. but 'most before i got my thoughts together i heard two feet of a chair come down onto the floor, and mis' amanda toplady stood up there by abagail's cook stove, and she took the griddle lifter and struck light on the side of the pipe. "'hurrah!' she says. 'now we can have a real fourth. a fourth that does as a fourth is.' "'what you talkin', amanda toplady?' says silas, crisp; and ''mandy, what the blazes do you mean?' says timothy, her lawful lord. but mis' toplady didn't mind them, nor mind mis' sykes, that was staring at her flat and thick. "'i mean,' says mis' toplady, reckless, 'i been sick to death of the idea of a fourth with no spirit to it. i mean i been sick to death of a fourth that's all starched white dresses an' company manners an' no hurrahs anywheres about it. an' us ladies, most all of us, feels the same. we didn't like to press in, bein' you men done the original plannin', an' so not one of us has said "p'rade," nor nothin' else to you. but now that your orator has fell through on himself, you men just leave us ladies in on this thing to do more'n take orders, an' you needn't be the laughin' stock o' nothin' an' nobody. i guess you'll all stand by me. what say, ladies?' "well, sir, you'd ought to of heard us. we joined in like a patch of grasshoppers singing. they wasn't one of us that hadn't been dying to get our hands on that fourth and make it a fourth full of unction and oil of joy, like the bible said, and must of meant what we meant. "'oh, ladies,' i remember i says, fervent, 'i feel like we could make a fourth o' july just like stirrin' up a white cake, so be we was let.' "'what d' you know about managin' a fourth?' snarls silas. 'you'll have us all in the hole. you'll have us shellin' out of our own pockets to make up--' "mis' toplady whirled on him. 'would you druther have red barns an' indian mound a-jumpin' on you through the weekly press for bein' bluffers, an' callin' us cheap an' like that, or would you druther not?' she put it to him. "'dang it,' says silas, 'i never tried to do a thing for this town that it didn't lay down an' roll all over me. i wish i was dead.' "'you wan't tryin' to do this thing for this town,' says mis' toplady back at him, like the wind. 'you was tryin' to do it for the _stores_ of this town, an' you know it. you was tryin' to ride the fourth for a horse to the waterin' trough o' good business, an' you know it, silas sykes,' says she, 'an' so was jimmy and threat an' all of you. the hull country tries to get behind the fourth of july an' make money over its back like a counter. it ain't what was meant, an' us ladies felt it all along. an' neither was it meant for a garden party day alone, though _that_,' says mis' toplady, gracious, 'is a real sweet side idea. an' mis' sykes an' mis' sessions had ought to go on an' run that part of it, bein' the--tent's here,' she could _not_ bring herself to use that other word. 'but,' she says, 'that ain't all of a real fourth, nor yet a speech ain't, though he did use to be in the legislature. them things alone don't make a real flag, liberty-praisin' fourth, to me nor to none of us.' "'well,' says silas, sour, 'what you goin' to _do_ if the men decides to let you try this?' "'that ain't the way,' says mis' toplady, like a flash; 'it ain't for the men to _let us do_ nothin'. it's for us all to do it together, yoke to yoke, just like everything else ought to be done by us both, an' no talk o' "_runnin_'" by either side.' "'but what's the idee--what's the idee?' says silas. 'dang it all, somebody's got to hev an idee.' "'us ladies has got 'em,' says mis' toplady, calm. 'an',' says she, 'one o' the first of 'em is that if we have anything to do with runnin' the fourth of our forefathers, then after a.m., all day on that day, every business house in town has got to shut down.' "'what?' says silas, his voice slippin'. 'gone crazy-headed, hev ye?' "'no, silas,' says mis' toplady, 'nor yet hev we gone so graspin' that we can't give up a day's trade to take notice of our country.' "'lord harry,' says silas, 'you can't get a dealer in town to do it, an' you know it.' "'oh, yes, you can, silas,' says somebody, brisk. and it was abagail, frosting dark cakes over by the side of the room. 'i was goin' to shut up shop, anyway, all day on the fourth,' abagail says. "'an' lose the country trade in lunches?' yells silas. 'why, woman, you'd be ten dollars out o' pocket.' "'i wan't never one to spend the mornin' thankin' god an' the afternoon dippin' oysters,' says abagail. and silas scrunched. he done that one year when his thanksgiving oysters come late, and he knew he done it. "well, they went over it and over it and tried to think of some other way, and tried to hatch up some other speaker without eating up the whole fifty dollars in telephone tolls, and tried most other things. and then we told them what we'd thought of different times, amongst us as being features fit for a fourth in the sight of the lord and the sight of men. and they hemmed and they hawed and they give in about as graceful as a clothes-line winds up when you've left it out in the sleet, but they did give in and see reason. timothy last--that's quite vain of being firm. "'if we come out with a one-horse doin's, seems like it'd be worse than sittin' down flat-foot failed,' he mourns, grieving. "amanda, his wife, give him one of her looks. 'timothy,' says she, 'when, since you was married to me, did i ever fail to stodge up a company dinner or a spare bed or a shroud when it was needed sudden? when did any of us ladies ever fail that's here? do you sp'ose we're any more scant of idees about our own nation?' "and timothy had to keep his silence. he knew what she said was the old testament truth. but i think what really swung them all round was the thought of red barns and indian mound. imagination of what them two weekly papers would say, so be we petered out on our speech and didn't offer nothing else, was too much for flesh and blood to bear. and the men ended by agreeing to seeing to shutting every business house in friendship village and they went off to do it,--resolved, but groaning some, like men will. "mis' sykes, she made some excuse and went, too. 'i'll run the garden party part,' says she. 'my niece an' i'll do that, an' try our best to get some novelty into your fourth. an' we'll preside on the marquee, like we'd agreed. more i don't say.' "but the rest of us, we stayed on there at abagail's, and we planned like mad. "we didn't look in no journal nor on no woman's page for something new. we didn't rush to our city relations for novelties. we didn't try for this and that nor grasp at no agony whatever. we just went down deep into the inside of our understanding and thought what the fourth was and how them that made it would of wanted it kept. no fingers blowed off nor clothes scorched up, no houses burned down, no ear-drums busted out--none of them would of been in _their_ programme, and they wan't in ours. some of the things that was in ours we'd got by hearing insley tell what they was doin' other places. some o' the things he suggested to us. some o' the things we got by just going back and back down the years an' _remembering_--not so much what we'd done as the way we use' to feel, long ago, when the fourth was the fourth and acted like it knew it. some of the things we got by just reaching forward and forward, and seeing what the fourth is going to mean to them a hundred years from now--so be we do our part. and some of the things we got through sheer make-shift woman intelligence, that put its heads together and used everything it had, that had anything to do with the nation, or the town, or with really living at all the way that first fourth of july meant about, 'way down inside. "before it was light on the morning of the fourth, i woke up, feeling all happy and like i wanted to hurry. i was up and dressed before the sun was up, and when i opened my front door, i declare it was just like the glory of the lord was out there waiting for me. the street was laying all still and simple, like it was ready and waiting for the light. early as it was, mis' holcomb was just shaking her breakfast table-cloth on her side stoop, and she waved it to me, big and billowy and white, like a banner. and i offs with my apron and waved it back, and it couldn't of meant no more to either of us if we had been shaking out the folds of flags. it was too early for the country wagons to be rattling in yet, and they wan't no other sounds--except a little bit of a pop now and then over to where bennie uppers and little nick toplady was up and out, throwing torpedoes onto the bricks; and then the birds that was trilling an' shouting like mad, till every tree all up and down daphne street and all up and down the town and the valley was just one living singing. and all over everything, like a kind of a weave to it, was that something that makes a sunday morning and some holiday mornings better and sweeter and _goldener_ than any other day. i ain't got much of a garden, not having any real time to fuss in it, but i walked out into the middle of the little patch of pinks and parsley that i have got, and i says 'way deep in me, deeper than thinking: 'it don't make no manner of differ'nce how much of a fizzle the day ends up with, this, here and now, is the way it had ought to start.' "never, not if i live till beyond always, will i forget how us ladies' hearts was in our mouths when, along about 'leven o'clock, we heard the friendship village stonehenge band coming fifing along, and we knew the parade was begun. we was all on the market square--hundreds of us, seems though. red barns and indian mound had turned out from side to side of themselves, mingling the same as though ploughshares was pruning-hooks--or whatever that quotation time is--both towns looking for flaws in the day, like enough, but both shutting up about it, biblical. even the marquee, with its red and white stripes, showing through the trees, made me feel good. 'land, land,' mis' toplady says, 'it looks kind of homey and old-fashioned, after all, don't it? i mean the--tent,' she says--she would _not_ say the other word; but then i guess it made her kind of mad seeing mis' sykes bobbing around in there in white duck an' white shoes--her that ain't a grandmother sole because of nature and not at all through any lack of her own years. everything was all seeming light and confident--but i tell you we didn't feel so confident as we'd meant to when we heard the band a-coming to the tune o' 'hail, columbia! happy land.' and yet now, when i look back on that independence day procession, it seems like regular floats is no more than toy doings beside of it. "what do you guess us ladies had thought up for our procession,--with insley back of us, letting us think we thought it up alone? mebbe you'll laugh, because it wan't expensive to do; but oh; i think it was nice. we'd took everything in the town that done the town's work, and we'd run them all together. we headed off with the fire-engine, 'count of the glitter--and we'd loaded it down with flags and flowers, and the hook and ladder and hose-carts the same, wheels and sides; and flags in the rubber caps of the firemen up top. then we had the two big sprinkling carts, wound with bunting, and five-foot flags flying from the seats. then come all the city teams drawn by the city horses--nice, plump horses they was, and rosettes on them, and each man had decorated his wagon and was driving it in his best clothes. then come the steam roller that friendship village and red barns and indian mound owns together and scraps over some, though that didn't appear in its appearance, puffing along, with posies on it. then there was the city electric light repair wagon, with a big paper globe for an umbrella, and the electric men riding with their leggings on and their spurs, like they climb the poles; and behind them the telephone men was riding--because the town owns its own telephone, too--and then the four centrals, in pretty shirtwaists, in a double-seated buggy loaded with flowers--the telephone office we'd see to it was closed down, too, to have its fourth, like a human being. and marching behind them was the city waterworks men, best bib and tucker apiece. and then we hed out the galvanized garbage wagon that us ladies hed bought ourselves a year ago, and that wasn't being used this year count of the city pleading too poison poor; and it was all scrubbed up and garnished and filled with ferns and drove by its own driver and the boy that had use' to go along to empty the cans. and then of course they was more things--some of them with day fireworks shooting up from them--but not the hearse, though we had all we could do to keep timothy toplady from having it in, 'count of its common public office. "well, and then we'd done an innovation--an' this was all insley's idea, and it was him that made us believe we could do it. coming next, in carriages and on foot, was the mayor and the city council and every last man or woman that had anything to do with running the city life. they was all there--city treasurer, clerk of the court, register of deeds, sheriffs, marshals, night-watchmen, health officer, postmaster, janitor of the city hall, clerks, secretaries, stenographers, school board, city teachers, and every one of the rest--they was all there, just like they had belonged in the p'rade the way them framers of the first fourth of july had meant they should fit in: conscience and all. but some of them servants of the town had made money off'n its good roads, and some off'n its saloons, and some off'n getting ordinances repealed, and some off'n inspecting buildings and sidewalks that they didn't know nothing about, and some was making it even then by paving out into the marsh; and some in yet other ways that wasn't either real elbow work nor clean head work. what else could they do? we'd ask' them to march because they represented the town, and rather'n own they _didn't_ represent the town, there they was marching; but if some of them didn't step down daphne street feeling green and sick and sore and right down schoolboy ashamed of themselves, then they ain't got the human thrill in them that somehow i _cannot_ believe ever dies clear out of nobody. they was a lump in my throat for them that had sold themselves, and they was a lump for them that hadn't--but oh, the differ'nce in the lumps. "'land, land,' i says to mis' toplady, 'if we ain't done another thing, we've made 'em remember they're servants to friendship village--like they often forget.' "'ain't we?' she says, solemn. 'ain't we?' "and then next behind begun the farm things: the threshin' machines and reapers and binders and mowers and like that, all drawn by the farm horses and drove by their owners and decorated by them, jolly and gay; and, too, all the farm horses for miles around--we was going to give a donated surprise prize for the best kep' and fed amongst them. and last, except for the other two bands sprinkled along, come the leading citizens, and who do you guess _they_ was? not silas nor timothy nor eppleby nor even doctor june, nor our other leading business men and our three or four professionals--no, not them; but the real, true, leading citizens of friendship village and indian mound and red barns and other towns and the farms between--the _children_, over two hundred of them, dressed in white if they had it and in dark if they didn't, with or without shoes, in rags or out of them, village-tough descended or with pew-renting fathers, all the same and together, and carrying a flag and singing to the tops of their voices 'hail, columbia,' that the bands kept a-playing, some out of plumb as to time, but all fervent and joyous. it was us women alone that got up that part. my, i like to think about it. "they swung the length of daphne street and twice around the market square, and they come to a halt in front of the platform. and doctor june stood up before them all, and he prayed like this:-- "'lord god, that let us start free an' think we was equal, give us to help one another to be free an' to get equal, in deed an' in truth.' "and who do you s'pose we hed to read the declaration of independence? little spudge cadoza, that silas had been a-going to hev walk up and down daphne street with a board on his back--insley thought of him, and we picked him out a-purpose. and though he didn't read it so thrilling as silas would of, it made me feel the way no reading of it has ever made me feel before--oh, because it was kind of like we'd snapped up the little kid and set him free all over again, even though he wasn't it but one day in the year. and it sort of seemed to me that all inside the words he read was trumpets and horns telling how much them words was _going_ to mean to him and his kind before he'd had time to die. and then the glee club struck into 'america,' and the whole crowd joined in without being expected, and the three bands that was laying over in the shade hopped up and struck in, too--and i bet they could of heard us to indian mound. leastways to red barns, that we can see from friendship village when it's clear. "the grand basket dinner in the depot woods stays in my head as one picture, all full of veal loaf and 'scalloped potato and fruit salad and nut-bread and deviled eggs and bake' beans and pickle' peaches and layer cake and drop sponge-cake and hot coffee--the kind of a dinner that comes crowding to your thought whenever you think 'dinner' at your hungriest. and after we'd took care of everybody's baskets and set them under a tree for a lunch towards six, us ladies went back to the market square. and over by the marquee we see the men gathered--all but insley, that had slipped away as quick as we begun telling him how much of it was due to him. miss beryl sessions had just arrived, in a automobile, covered with veils, and she was introducing the other men to her city friends. us ladies sort of kittered around back of them, not wanting to press ourselves forward none, and we went up to the door of the marquee where, behind the refreshment table, mis' sykes was a-standing in her white duck. "'my,' says mis' holcomb to her, 'it's all going off nice so far, ain't it?' "'they ain't a great deal the matter with it,' says mis' sykes, snappy. "'why, mis' sykes,' says mis' uppers, grieving, 'the parade an' the basket dinner seemed to me both just perfect.' "'the parade done well enough,' says mis' sykes, not looking at her. 'i donno much about the dinner.' "and all of a sudden we recollected that she hadn't been over to the grand basket dinner at all. "'why, mis' sykes,' says mis' toplady, blank, 'ain't you et nothin'?' "'my niece,' says mis' sykes, dignified, 'didn't get here till now. who was i to leave in the _tent_? i've et,' says she, cold, 'two dishes of ice-cream an' two chocolate nut-cakes.' "mis' toplady just swoops over towards her. 'why, my land,' she says, hearty, 'they's stuff an' to spare packed over there under the trees. you go right on over and get your dinner. poke right into any of our baskets--ours is grouped around mine that's tied with a red bandanna to the handle. and leave us tend the marquee. what say, ladies?' "and i don't think she even sensed she used that name. "when she'd gone, i stood a minute in the marquee door looking off acrost the market square, hearing miss beryl sessions and the men congratulating each other on the glorious fourth they was a-having, and the city folks praising them both sky high. "'real nice idee it was,' says silas, with his hands under his best coat tails. 'nice, tastey, up-to-date fourth. and cheap to do.' "'yes, we all hung out for a good fourth this year,' says timothy, complacent. "'it's a simply lovely idea,' says miss beryl sessions, all sweet and chirpy and interested, 'this making the fourth a county party and getting everybody in town, so. but tell me: whatever made you close your shops? i thought the fourth could always be made to pay for itself over and over, if the business houses went about it right.' "'oh, well,' says silas, lame but genial, 'we closed up to-day. we kind o' thought we would.' "but i stood looking off acrost the market square, where the children was playing, and quoits was being pitched, and the ball game was going to commence, and the calathumpians was capering, and most of red barns and indian mound and friendship village was mingling, lion and lamb; and i looked on along daphne street, where little spudge cadoza wasn't walking with a prize coffee board on his back,--and all of a sudden i felt just the way i'd wanted to feel, in spite of all the distance and long-ago-ness. and i turned and says to the other women inside the marquee:-- "'seems to me,' i says, 'as if the fourth of july _had_ paid for itself, over and over. oh, don't it to you?' vi "the new editor of the _friendship village evening daily_ give a fine write-up of the celebration. he printed it on the night after the fourth, not getting out any paper at all on the day that was the day; but on the night after that, the news columns of his paper fell flat and dead. in a village the day following a holiday is like the hush after a noise. the whole town seems like it was either asleep or on tiptoe. and in friendship village this hush was worse than the hush of other years. other years they'd usually been accidents to keep track of, and mebbe even an amputation or two to report. but this fourth there was no misfortunes whatever, nor nothing to make good reading for the night of july . "so the editor thought over his friends and run right down the news column, telling what there _wasn't_. like this:-- "'supper table jottings "'postmaster silas sykes is well. "'timothy toplady has not had a cold since before christmas. prudent timothy. "'jimmy sturgis has not broken his leg yet this year as he did last. keep it up, jimmy. "'eppleby holcomb has not been out of town for quite a while. "'none of the friendship ladies has given a party all season. "'the first church is not burnt down nor damaged nor repaired. insurance $ . "'nothing local is in much of any trouble. "'nobody is dead here to-day except the usual ones. "'nobody that's got a telephone in has any company at the present writing. where is the old-time hospitality? "'subscriptions payable in advance. "'subscriptions payable in advance. "'subscriptions payable in advance.' "it made quite some fun for us, two or three of us happening in the post-office store when the paper come out--mis' sykes and mis' toplady and me. but we took it some to heart, too, because to live in a town where they ain't nothing active happening all the time is a kind of running account of everybody that's in the town. and us ladies wan't that kind. "all them locals done to silas sykes, though, was to set him fussing over nothing ever happening to him. silas is real particular about his life, and i guess he gets to thinking how life ain't so over-particular about him. "'my dum,' he says that night, 'that's just the way with this town. i always calculated my life was goin' to be quite some pleasure to me. but i don't see as it is. if i thought i was going to get sold in my death like i've been in my life, i swan i'd lose my interest in dyin'.' "mis' timothy toplady was over in behind the counter picking out her butter, and she whirled around from sampling the jars, and she says to mis' sykes and me:-- "'ladies,' she says, 'le's us propose it to the editor that seems to have such a hard job, that us members of sodality take a hold of his paper for a day and get it out for him and put some news in it, and sell it to everybody, subscribers and all, that one night, for ten cents.' "mis' silas sykes looks up and stopped winking and breathing, in a way she has when she sights some distant money for sodality. "'land, land,' she says, 'i bet they'd go like hot cakes.' "but silas he snorts, scorching. "'will you ladies tell me,' he says, 'where you going to _get_ your news to put in your paper? the fourth don't come along every day. or less you commit murder and arson and runaways, there won't be any more in your paper than they is in its editor's.' "that hit a tender town-point, and i couldn't stand it no longer. i spoke right up. "'oh, i donno, i donno, silas,' i says. 'they's those in this town that's doin' the murderin' for us, neat an' nice, right along,' i told him. "'mean to say?' snapped silas. "'mean to say,' says i, 'most every grocery store in this town an' most every milkman an' the meat market as well is doin' their best to drag the health out o' people's systems for 'em. us ladies is more or less well read an' knowledgeable of what is goin' on in the world outside,' i says to silas that ain't, 'an' we know a thing or two about what ought to be clean.' "since insley come, we had talked a good deal more about these things and what was and what shouldn't be; and especially we had talked it in sodality, on account of our town stores and social ways and such being so inviting to disease and death. but we hadn't talked it official, 'count of sodality being for cemetery use, and talking it scattering we hadn't been able to make the other men even listen to us. "'pack o' women!' says silas, now, and went off to find black molasses for somebody. "mis' toplady sampled her butter, dreamy. "'rob henny's butter here,' she says, 'is made out of cow sheds that i can't bear to think about. an' silas knows it. honest,' she says, 'i'm gettin' so i spleen against the flowers in the fields for fear rob henny's cows'll get holt of 'em. i should think the _daily_ could write about that.' "i remember how us three women looked at each other then, like our brains was experimenting with our ideas. and when mis' toplady got her butter, we slipped out and spoke together for a few minutes up past the town pump. and it was there the plan come to a head and legs and arms. and we see that we had a way of picking purses right off of every day, so be the editor would leave us go ahead--and of doing other things. "the very next morning we three went to see the editor and get his consent. "'what's your circulation, same as city papers print to the top of the page?' mis' toplady asks him, practical. "'paid circulation or got-out circulation?' says the editor. "'paid,' says mis' toplady, in silver-dollar tones. "'ah, well, _paid for_ or subscribed for?' asks the editor. "'paid for,' says mis' toplady, still more financial. "'six hundred and eighty paid for,' the editor says, 'an' fifty-two that--mean to pay.' "'my!' says mis' toplady, shuddering. 'what business is! well, us ladies of the sodality want to run your paper for one day and charge all your subscribers ten cents extra for that day's paper. will you?' "the editor, he laughed quite a little, and then he looked thoughtful. he was new and from the city and young and real nervous--he used to pop onto his feet whenever a woman so much as come in the room. "'who would collect the ten cents?' says he. "'sodality,' says mis' toplady, firm. 'ourself, cash an' _in advance_.' "the editor nodded, still smiling. "'jove,' he said, 'this fits in remarkably well with the fishing i've been thinking about. i confess i need a day. i suppose you wouldn't want to do it this week?' "mis' toplady looked at me with her eyebrows. but i nodded. i always rather hurry up than not. "'so be we had a couple o' hours to get the news to happenin',' says she, 'that had ought to do us.' "the editor looked startled. "'news!' said he. 'oh, i say now, you mustn't expect too much. i ought to warn you that running a paper in this town is like trying to raise cream on a cistern.' "mis' toplady smiled at him motherly. "'you ain't ever tried pouring the cream into the cistern, i guess,' she says. "so we settled it into a bargain, except that, after we had planned it all out with him and just as we was going out the door, mis' toplady thought to say to him:-- "'you know, sodality don't know anything about it yet, so you'd best not mention it out around till this afternoon when we vote to do it. we'll be up at eight o'clock thursday morning, rain or shine.' "there wasn't ever any doubt about sodality when it see sixty dollars ahead--which we would get if everybody bought a paper, and we was determined that everybody should buy. sodality members scraps among themselves personal, but when it comes to raising money we unite yoke to yoke, and all differences forgot. it's funny sometimes at the meetings, funny and disgraceful, to hear how we object to each other, especially when we're tired, and then how we all unite together on something for the good of the town. i tell you, it makes me feel sometimes that the way ain't so much to try to love each other,--which other folks' peculiarities is awful in the way of,--but for us all to pitch in and love something altogether, your town or your young folks, or your cemetery or keeping something clean or making somethin' look nice--and before you know it you're loving the folks you work with, no matter how peculiar, or even more so. it's been so nice since we've been working for cemetery. folks that make each other mad every time they try to talk can sell side by side at the same bazaar and count the money mutual. there's quite a few disagreements in sodality, so we have to be real careful who sets next to who to church suppers. but when we pitch in to work for something, we sew rags and 'scallop oysters in the same pan with our enemies. don't it seem as if that must mean something? something big? "sodality voted to publish the paper, all right, and elected the officers for the day: editor, mis' postmaster sykes, 'count of her always expecting to take the lead in everything; assistant editor, me, 'count of being well and able to work like a dog; business manager and circulation man, mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, 'count of no dime ever getting away from her unexpected. and the reporters was to be most of the rest of the sodality: mis' timothy toplady, the three liberty girls, mis' mayor uppers, mis' fire chief merriman, mis' threat hubbelthwait, an' abagail arnold, that keeps the home bakery. it was hard for abagail to get away from her cook stove and her counter, so we fixed it that she was to be let off any other literary work along of her furnishing us our sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs that day noon. it was quite a little for abagail to do, but she's always real willing, and we didn't ask coffee of her. mis' sturgis, her that is the village invalid, we arranged should have charge of the woman's column, and bring down her rocking chair and make her beef broth right there on the office wood-stove. "i guess we was all glad to go down early in the morning that day, 'count of not meeting the men. one and all and with one voice the friendship men had railed at us hearty. "'pack o' women!' says silas sykes, over and over. "'you act like bein' a woman an' a wife was some kind o' nonsense,' says mis' sykes back at him, majestic. 'well, i guess bein' yours is.' "'land, amandy,' says timothy toplady, 'you women earn money so _nervous_. why don't you do it regular an' manly?' "only eppleby holcomb had kept his silence. eppleby sees things that the run of men don't see, or, if they did see them, they would be bound to stick them in their ledgers where they would never, never belong. eppleby was our friend, and sodality never had truer. "so though we went ahead, the men had made us real anxious. and most of us slipped down to the office by half past seven so's not to meet too many. the editor had had a column in the paper about what we was goin' to do--'loyal to our local dead' he headed it, and of course full half the town was kicking at the extra ten cents, like full half of any town can and will kick when it's asked to pay out for its own good, dead or alive. but we was leaving all that to mis' holcomb, that knows a thing or two about the human in us, and similar. "extra-paper morning, when we all come in, mis' sykes she was sitting at the editor's desk with her big apron on and a green shade to cover up her crimping kids, and her list that her and mis' toplady and i had made out, in front of her. "'now then, let's get right to work,' she says brisk. 'we ain't any too much time, i can tell you. it ain't like bakin' bread or gettin' the vegetables ready. we've all got to use muscles this day we ain't used to usin',' she says, 'an' we'd best be spry.' "so then she begun giving out who was to do what--assignments, the editor named it when he told us what to do. and i skipped back an' hung over the files, well knowing what was to come. "mis' sykes stood up in her most society way, an'-- "'anybody want to back out?' says she, gracious. "'land!' says everyone in a no-i-don't tone. "'very well,' says mis' sykes. 'mis' toplady, you go out to rob henney's place, an' you go through his cow sheds from one end to the other an' take down notes so's he sees you doin' it. you go into his kitchen an' don't you let a can get by you. open his churn. rub your finger round the inside of his pans. an' if he won't tell you, the neighbours will. explain to him you're goin' to give him a nice, full printed description in to-night's _daily_, just the way things are. if he wants it changed any, he can clean all up, an' we'll write up the clean-up like a compliment.' "just for one second them assembled women was dumb. but it hardly took them that instant to sense what was what. and all of a sudden, mame holcomb, i guess it was, bursted out in a little understanding giggle, and after a minute everybody joined in, too. for we'd got the whole world of friendship village where we wanted it, and every one of them women see we had, so be we wasn't scared. "'mis' uppers,' mis' sykes was going on, 'you go down to betts's meat market. you poke right through into the back room. an' you tell joe betts that you're goin' to do a write-up of that room an' the alley back of it for the paper to-night, showin' just what's what. if so be he wants to turn in an' red it up this mornin', tell him you'll wait till noon an' describe it then, _providin'_ he keeps it that way. an' you might let him know you're goin' to run over to his slaughterhouse an' look around while you're waitin', an' put that in your write-up, too.' "'miss hubbelthwait,' mis' sykes went on, 'you go over to the calaboose. they won't anybody be in the office--dick's saloon is that. skip right through in the back part, an' turn down the blankets on both beds an' give a thorough look. if it's true they's no sheets an' pillow-cases on the calaboose beds, an' that the blankets is only washed three times a year so's to save launderin', we can make a real interestin' column about that.' "'miss merriman,' says mis' sykes to mis' fire chief, 'i've give you a real hard thing because you do things so delicate. will you take a walk along the residence part of town an' go into every house an' ask 'em to let you see their back door an' their garbage pail. tell 'em you're goin' to write a couple of columns on how folks manage this. ask 'em their idees on the best way. give 'em to understand if there's a real good way they're thinkin' of tryin' that you'll put that in, providin' they begin tryin' right off. an' tell 'em they can get it carted off for ten cents a week if enough go in on it. an' be your most delicate, mis' fire chief, for we don't want to offend a soul.' "libby an' viney liberty mis' sykes sent round to take a straw vote in every business house in town to see how much they'd give towards starting a shelf library in the corner of the post-office store, a full list to be printed in order with the amount or else 'not a cent' after each name. and the rest of sodality she give urrants similar or even more so. "'an' all o' you,' says mis' sykes, 'pick up what you can on the way. and if anybody starts in to object, you tell 'em you have instructions to make an interview out of any of the interestin' things they say. and you might tell 'em you don't want they should be buried in a nice cemetery if they don't want to be.' "well, sir, they started off--some scairt, but some real brave, too. and the way they went, we see every one of them meant business. "'but oh,' says mis' sturgis, fixing her medicine bottles outside on the window-sill, '_supposin'_ they can't do it. _supposin'_ folks ain't nice to 'em. what'll we put in the paper then?' "mis' sykes drew herself up like she does sometimes in society. "'well,' she says, 'supposin'. are we runnin' this paper or ain't we? there's nothin' to prevent our writin' editorials about these things, as i see. our husbands can't very well sue us for libel, because they'd hev to pay it themselves. nor they can't put us in prison for debt, because who'd get their three meals? i can't see but we're sure of an interestin' paper, anyway.' "then she looked over at me sort of sad. "'go on, calliope,' says she, 'you know what you've got to do. do it,' she says, 'to the bitter end.' "i knew, and i started out, and i made straight for silas sykes, and the post-office store. silas wan't in the store, it was so early; but he had the floor all sprinkled nice, and the vegetables set out, all uncovered, close to the sidewalk; and everything real tasty and according to grocery-store etiquette. the boy was gone that day. and silas himself was in the back room, sortin' over prunes. "'hello, calliope,' s'he. 'how's literchoor?' "'honest as ever,' i says. 'same with food?' "'who says i ain't honest?' says silas, straightening up, an' holding all his fingers stiff 'count of being sticky. "'why, i donno who,' says i. 'had anybody ought to? how's business, silas?' "'well,' says he, 'for us that keeps ourselves up with the modern business methods, it's pretty good, i guess.' "'do you mean pretty good, silas, or do you mean pretty paying?' i ask' him. "silas put on his best official manner. 'look at here,' s'e, 'what can i do for you? did you want to buy somethin' or did you want your mail?' "'oh, neither,' i says. 'i want some help from you, silas, about the paper to-day.' "my, that give silas a nice minute. he fairly weltered in satisfaction. "'huh,' he says, elegant, 'didn't i tell you you was bitin' off more'n you could chew? want some assistance from me, do you, in editin' this paper o' yours? well, i suppose i can help you out a little. what is it you want me to do for you?' "'we thought we'd like to write you up,' i told him. "silas just swelled. for a man in public office, silas sykes feels about as presidential as anybody i ever see. if they was to come out from the city and put him on the front page of the morning paper, he's the kind that would wonder why they hadn't done it before. "'sketch of my life?' s'e, genial. 'little outline of my boyhood? main points in my career?' "'well,' i says, 'no. we thought the present'd be about all we'd hev room for. we want to write up your business, silas,' i says, 'in an advertising way.' "'oh!' says silas, snappy. 'you want me to pay to be wrote up, is that it?' "'well,' i says, 'no; not if you don't want to. of course everybody'll be buried in the cemetery whether they give anything towards the fund for keeping it kep' up or not.' "'lord heavens,' says silas, 'i've had that cemetery fund rammed down my throat till i'm sick o' the thought o' dyin'.' "that almost made me mad, seeing we was having the disadvantage of doing the work and silas going to get all the advantages of burial. "'feel the same way about some of the ten commandments, don't you, silas?' i says, before i knew it. "silas just rared. "'the ten commandments!' says he, 'the ten commandments! who can show me one i ain't a-keepin' like an old sheep. didn't i honour my father an' mother as long as i had 'em? did they ever buy anything of me at more than cost? didn't i give 'em new clothes an' send 'em boxes of oranges an' keep up their life insurance? do i ever come down to the store on the sabbath day? do i ever distribute the mail then, even if i'm expectin' a letter myself? the sabbath i locked the cat in, didn't i send the boy down to let it out, for fear i'd be misjudged if i done it? who do i ever bear false witness against unless i know they've done what i say they've done? i can't kill a fly--an' i'm that tender-hearted that i make the hired girl take the mice out o' the trap because i can't bring myself to do it. so you might go through the whole list an' just find me workin' at 'em an' a-keepin' 'em. what do you mean about the ten commandments?' he ends up, ready to burst. "'don't ask me,' i says. 'i ain't that familiar with 'em. i didn't know anybody was. go on about 'em. take stealing--you hadn't got to that one.' "'_stealing_,' says silas, pompous. 'i don't know what it is.' "and with that i was up on my feet. "'i thought you didn't,' says i. 'us ladies of sodality have all thought it over an' over again: that you don't know stealing when you see it. no, nor not even when you've done it. come here, silas sykes!' i says. "i whipped by him into the store, and he followed me, sheer through being dazed, and keeping still through being knocked dumb. "'look here,' i says, 'here's your counter of bakery stuff--put in to take from abagail, but no matter about that now. where do you get it? from the city, with the label stuck on. what's the bakery like where you buy it? it's under a sidewalk and dust dirty, and i happen to know you know it. and look at the bread--not a thing over it, flies promenadin' on the crust, and you counting out change on an apple-pie the other day--i see you do it. look at your dates, all uncovered and dirt from the street sticking to them like the pattern. look at your fly-paper, hugged up against your dried-fruit box that's standing wide open. look at you keeping fish and preserved fruit and canned stuff that you know is against the law--going to start keeping the law quick as you get these sold out, ain't you, silas? look at your stuff out there in front, full of street dirt and flies and ready to feed folks. and you keepin' the ten commandments like an old sheep--and being a church elder, and you might better climb porches and bust open safes. i s'pose you wonder what i'm sayin' all this to you for?' "'no, ma'am,' says silas, like the edge o' something, 'i don't wonder at your sayin' _anything_ to anybody.' "'i've got more to say,' i says, dry. 'i've only give you a sample. an' the place i'm goin' to say it is _the friendship village evening daily_, _extra_, to-night, in a descriptive write-up of you and your store. i thought it might interest you to know.' "'it's libel--it's libel!' says silas, arms waving. "'all right,' says i, liberating a fly accidentally caught on a date. 'who you going to sue? your wife, that's the editor? and everybody else's wife, that's doing the same thing to every behind-the-times dealer in town?' "silas hung on to that straw. "'be they doin' it to the others, too?' he asks. "then i told him. "'yes,' i says, 'silas, only--they ain't goin' to start writing up the descriptions till noon. and if you--and they all--want to clean up the temples where you do business and make them fit for the lord to look down on and a human being to come into, you've got your chance. and seeing your boy is gone to-day, if you'll do it, i'll stay and help you with it--and mebbe make room for some of the main points in your career as well,' says i, sly. "silas looked out the door, his arms folded and his beard almost pointing up, he'd made his chin so firm. and just in that minute when i was feeling that all the law and the prophets, and the health of friendship village, and the life of people not born, was hanging around that man's neck--or the principle of them, anyway--silas's eye and mine fell on a strange sight. across the street, from out joe betts's meat market come joe betts, and behind him his boy. and joe begun pointing, and the boy begun taking down quarters of beef hung over the sidewalk. joe pointed consid'able. and then he clim' up on his meat wagon that stood by the door, and out of the shop i see mis' mayor uppers come, looking ready to drop. and she clim' up to the seat beside him--he reaching down real gentlemanly to help her up. and he headed his horse around on what i guessed was a bee-line for the slaughterhouse. "well, sir, at that, silas sykes put his hands on his knees and bent over and begun laughing. and he laughed like i ain't seen him since he's got old and begun to believe that life ain't cut after his own plan that he made. and i laughed a little, too, out of sheer being glad that a laugh can settle so many things right in the world. and when he sobered down a little, i says gentle:-- "'silas, i'll throw out the dates and the dusty lettuce. and we'll hev it done in no time. i'll be glad to get an early start on the write-up. i don't compose very ready,' i told him. "he was awful funny while we done the work. he was awful still, too. once when i lit on a piece of salt pork that i knew, first look, was rusty, 'them folks down on the flats buys it,' he says. 'they like it just as good as new-killed.' 'all right,' s'i, careless, 'i'll make a note of that to shine in my article. it needs humour some,' s'i. then silas swore, soft and under his breath, as an elder should, but quite vital. and he took the pork out to the alley barrel, an' i sprinkled ashes on it so's he shouldn't slip out and save it afterwards. "it was 'leven o'clock when we got done, me having swept out behind the counters myself, and silas he mopped his face and stood hauling at his collar. "'i'll get on my white kids now,' s'e, dry. 'i can't go pourin' kerosene an' slicin' cheese in this place barehanded any more. gosh,' he says, 'i bet when they see it, they'll want to have church in here this comin' sunday.' "'no need to be sacrilegious, as i know of, silas,' s'i, sharp. "'no need to be livin' at all, as i see,' says silas, morbid; 'just lay low an' other folks'll step in an' do it for you, real capable.' "i give him the last word. i thought it was his man's due. "when i got back to the office, libby liberty an' mis' toplady was there before me. they was both setting on high stools up to the file shelf, with their feet tucked up, an' the reason was that viney liberty was mopping the floor. she had a big pail of suds and her skirt pinned up, and she was just lathering them boards. mis' sykes at the main desk was still labouring over her editorials, breathing hard, the boards steaming soap all around her. "'i couldn't stand it,' viney says. 'how a man can mould public opinion in a place where the floor is pot-black gets me. my land, my ash house is a dinin' room side of this room, an' the window was a regular gray frost with dust. ain't men the funniest lot of folks?' she says. "'funny,' says i, 'but awful amiable if you kind of sing their key-note to 'em.' "mis' sykes pulled my skirt. "'how was he?' she asks in a pale voice. "'he was crusty,' says i, triumphant, 'but he's beat.' "she never smiled. 'calliope marsh,' says she, cold, 'if you've sassed my husband, i'll never forgive you.' "i tell you, men may be some funny, and often are. but women is odd as dick's hatband and i don't know but odder. "'how'd you get on?' i says to mis' toplady and the libertys. the libertys they handed out a list on two sheets, both sides with sums ranging from ten to fifty cents towards a shelf library for public use; but mis' toplady, the tears was near streaming down her cheeks. "'rob henney,' she says, mournful, 'gimme to understand he'd see me in--some place he hadn't ought to of spoke of to me, nor to no one--before i could get in his milk sheds.' "'what did you say to him?' i ask', sympathetic. "'i t-told him,' says mis' toplady, 'that lookin' for me wouldn't be the only reason he'd hev for goin' there. and then he said some more. he said he'd be in here this afternoon to stop his subscription off.' "'so you didn't get a thing?' i says, grieving for her, but mis' toplady, she bridled through her tears. "'i got a column!' she flashed out. 'i put in about the sheds, that the whole town knows, anyway, an' i put in what he said to me. an' i'm goin' to read it to him when he comes in. an' after that he can take his pick about havin' it published, or else cleanin' up an' allowin' sodality to inspect him reg'lar.' "by just before twelve o'clock we was all back in the office, mis' fire chief, mis' uppers, fresh from the slaughterhouse, and so on, all but mame holcomb that was out seeing to the circulation. and i tell you we set to work in earnest, some of us to the desks, and some of us working on their laps, and everybody hurrying hectic. the office was awful hot--mis' sturgis had built up a little light fire to heat up her beef broth, and she was stirring it, her shawl folded about her, in between writing receipts. but it made it real confusing, all of us doing our best so hard, and wanting to tell each other what had happened, and seeing about spelling and all. "'land, land,' says mis' fire chief merriman, 'you'd ought to _see_ the carters' back door. they wan't nobody to home there, so i just took a look, anyway, bein' it was for sodality, so. they ain't no real garbage pail--' "'who said, "give me liberty or give me death?"' ask' mis' sykes, looking up kind o' glassy. 'was it daniel webster or daniel boone?' "'ladies,' says mis' hubbelthwait, when we'd settled down on daniel boone, 'if i ever do a crime, i won't stop short at stealin' somebody's cow an' goin' to calaboose. i'll do a whole beef corner, or some real united states sin, an' get put in a place that's clean. why over to the calaboose--' "'ugh!' says mis' uppers, 'don't say "beef" when i'm where i can hear. i donno what i'll do without my steak, but do it i will. ladies, the cleanest of us is soundin' brass an' tinklin' cannibals. why do they call 'em _tinklin'_ cannibals?' she wondered to us all. "'oh--,' wailed mis' sturgis in the rocking-chair, 'some of you ladies give me your salad dressing receipt. mine is real good on salad, but on paper it don't sound fit to eat. i don't seem to have no book-style about me to-day.' "'how do you spell _embarrass_?' asked libby liberty. 'is it an _r_ an' two _s_'s or two _r_'s and an _s_?' "'it's two _s_'s at the end, so it must be one _r_,' volunteers mis' sykes. 'that used to mix me up some, too.' "just then up come abagail arnold bringing the noon lunch, and she had the sandwiches and the eggs not only, but a pot of hot coffee thrown in, and a basket of doughnuts, sugared. she set them out on mis' sykes's desk, and we all laid down our pencils and drew up on our high stools and swing chairs, mis' sturgis and all, and nothing in the line of food had ever looked so welcoming. "'oh, the eatableness of nice refreshments!' says mis' toplady, sighing. "'this is when it ain't victuals, its viands,' says mis' sykes, showing pleased. "but well do i remember, we wasn't started to eat, and abagail still doing the pouring, when the composing room door opened--i donno _why_ they called it that, for we done the composing in the office, and they only got out the paper in there--and in come the foreman, with an apron of bed-ticking. he was riddy styles, that we all knew him. "'excuse me,' he says, hesitating, 'but us fellows thought we'd ought to mention that we can't get no paper out by quittin' time if we don't get a-hold of some copy pretty quick.' "'copy o' what?' says mis' sykes, our editor. "'why, copy,' says riddy. 'stuff for the paper.' "mis' sykes looked at him, majestic. "'_stuff_,' she says. 'you will please to speak,' she says, 'more respectfully than that to us ladies, mr. styles.' "'it was meant right,' says riddy, stubborn. 'it's the word we always use.' "'it ain't the word you use, not with us,' says mis' sykes, womanly. "'well,' says riddy, 'we'd ought to get to settin' up _somethin'_ by half past twelve, if we start in on the dictionary.' "then he went off to his dinner, and the other men with him, and mis' sykes leaned back limp. "'i been writin' steady,' she says, 'since half past eight o'clock this mornin', an' i've only got one page an' one-half composed.' "we ask' each other around, and none of us was no more then started, let be it was mis' toplady, that had got in first. "'le's us leave our lunch,' says mis' sykes, then. 'le's us leave it un-et. abagail, you put it back in the basket an' pour the coffee into the pot. an' le's us _write_. wouldn't we all rather hev one of our sick headaches,' she says, firm, 'than mebbe make ourselves the laughing stock? ladies, i ask you.' "an' we woulded, one and all. sick headaches don't last long, but laughed-at has regular right down eternal life. "ain't it strange how slow the writing muscles and such is, that you don't use often? pitting cherries, splitting squash, peeling potatoes, slicing apples, making change at church suppers,--us ladies is lightning at 'em all. but getting idees down on paper--i declare if it ain't more like waiting around for your bread to raise on a cold morning. still when you're worried, you can press forward more than normal, and among us we had quite some material ready for riddy and the men when they came back. but not mis' sykes. she wan't getting on at all. "'if i could only _talk_ it,' she says, grieving, 'or i donno if i could even do that. what i want to say is in me, rarin' around my head like life, an' yet i can't get it out no more'n money out of a tin bank. i shall disgrace sodality,' she says, wild. "'cheer up,' says libby liberty, soothing. 'nobody ever reads the editorials, anyway. i ain't read one in years.' "'you tend to your article,' snaps mis' sykes. "i had got my write-up of silas all turned in to riddy, and i was looking longing at abagail's basket, when, banging the door, in come somebody breathing like raging, and it was rob henney, that i guess we'd all forgot about except it was mis' toplady that was waiting for him. "rob henney always talks like he was long distance. "'i come in,' he says, blustering, 'i come in to quit off my subscription to this fool paper, that a lot o' fool women--' "mis' sykes looks up at him out from under her hand that her head was resting on. "'go on out o' here, mr. henney,' she says sharp to him, 'an' quit your subscription quiet. can't you see you're disturbing us?' she says. "with that mis' toplady wheeled around on her high stool and looked at him, calm as a clock. "'rob henney,' says she, 'you come over here. i'll read you what i've wrote about you,' she told him. "the piece begun like this:-- "'rob henney, our esteemed fellow-townsman and milkman, was talked with this morning on his cow sheds. the reporter said to same that what was wanting would be visiting the stables, churn, cans, pans, and like that, being death is milked out of most cows if they are not kept clean and inspected regular for signs of consumption. mr. henney replied as follows: "'first: that his cows had never been inspected because nothing of that kind had ever been necessary. "'second: that he was in the milk business for a living, and did the town expect him to keep it in milk for its health? "'third: that folks had been drinking milk since milk begun, and if the lord saw fit to call them home, why not through milk, or even through consumption, as well as through pneumonia and others? "'fourth: that he would see the reporter--a lady--in the lake-that-burneth-with-fire before his sheds and churn and pans and cans should be put in the paper. "'below is how the sheds, churn, pans, and cans look to-day....' and i tell you, mis' toplady, she didn't spare no words. when she meant what, she said what, elaborate. "i didn't know for a minute but we'd hev to mop rob up off the clean floor. but mis' toplady she never forgot who she was. "'either that goes in the paper to-night,' she says, 'or you'll clean up your milk surroundin's--pick your choice. an' sodality's through with you if you don't, besides.' "'put it in print! put it in print, if you dast!' yells rob, wind-milling his arms some. "'no need to make an earthquake o' yourself,' mis' toplady points out to him, serene. "and at that rob adds a word intending to express a cussing idee, and he outs and down the stairs. and mis' toplady starts to take her article right in to riddy. but in the door she met riddy, hurrying into the office again. i never see anybody before that looked both red and haggard, but riddy did. he come right to the point:-- "'some of you ladies has got to quit handing in--news,' he says, scrabbling for a word to please mis' sykes. 'we're up to our eyes in here now. an' there ain't enough room in the paper, either, not without you get out eight pages or else run a supplement or else throw away the whole patent inside. an' those ways, we ain't got enough type even if we had time to burn.' "mis' sykes pushed back her green shade, looking just _chased_. "'what does he mean?' she says. 'can't he tend to his type and things with us doing all the work?' "riddy took this real nettlish. "'i mean,' s'he, clear but brutal, 'you got to cut your stuff somewheres to the tune of a couple o' columns.' "well, it's hard to pick out which colour you'll take when you have a new dress only once in every so seldom; or which of your hens you'll kill when you know your chickens like you know your own mind; but these are nothing to the time we had deciding on what to omit out of the paper that night. and the decision hurt us even more than the deciding, for what we left out was mis' sturgis's two women's columns. "'we _can't_ leave out meat nor milk nor cleanliness nor the library,' says mis' toplady, reasonable, 'because them are the things we live by. an' so with the other write-ups we got planned. but receipts and patterns an' moth balls is only kind o' decorations, seems though. besides, we all know about 'em, an' it's time we stopped talkin' about 'em, anyway.' "mis' sturgis she cried a little on the corner of her shawl. "'the receipts an' patterns an' moth balls is so w-womanly,' she says. "mis' toplady whirled round at her. "'if you know anything more womanly than conquerin' dirt an' disease an' the-dead-that-needn't-die,' s'she, 'i'll roll up my sleeves an' be into it. but it won't be eyelet embroidery nor yet boiled frostin'!' "after that they wrote in hasty peace, though four o'clock come racing across the day like a runaway horse, and us not out of its way. and a few minutes past, when riddy was waiting in the door for mis' sykes's last page, somebody most knocked him over, and there come mis' holcomb, our circulation editor, purple and white, like a ghost. "'lock the door--lock it!' she says. 'i've bolted the one to the foot of the stairs. lock both outside ones an' lay yourselves low!' s'she. "riddy an' i done the locking, me well knowing mis' holcomb couldn't give a false alarm no more than a map could. "'what is it?' we says, pressing mis' holcomb to speak, that couldn't even breathe. "'oh, ladies,' says mis' holcomb, 'they've rejoined us, or whatever it is they do. i mean they're going to rejoin us from gettin' out to-night's paper. the sheriff or the coroner or whoever it is they have, is comin' with injunctions--_is_ that like handcuffs, do you know? an' it's rob henney's doin'. eppleby told me. an' i run down the alley an' beat 'em to it. they're most here. let's us slap into print what's wrote an' be ready with the papers the livin' minute we can.' "mis' sykes had shoved her green shade onto the back of her head, and her crimping pins was all showing forth. "'what good'll it do us to get the paper _out_?' says she, in a numb voice. 'we can't distribute 'em around to no one with the sheriff to the front door with them things to put on us.' "then mis' holcomb smiled, with her eyes shut, where she sat, breathing so hard it showed through. "'i come in the coal door, at the alley,' s'she. 'they'll never think o' that. besides, the crowd'll be in front an' the carrier boys too, an' they'll want to show off out there. an' eppleby knows--he told me to come in that way--an' he'll keep 'em interested out in front. le's us each take the papers, an' out the coal door, an' distribute 'em around, ourselves, without the boys, an' collect in the money same time.' "and that was how we done. for when they come to the door and found it locked, they pounded a little to show who was who and who wan't and then they waited out there calm enough, thinking to stop us when the papers come down would be plenty time. they waited out there, calm and sure, while upstairs bedlam went on, but noiseless. and after us ladies was done with our part, we sat huddled up in the office, soothing mis' sturgis and each other. "'in one sentence,' mis' holcomb says, 'eppleby says rob henney was going to _put_ injunctions on us. an' in the next he says he was goin' to _serve_ 'em. what did he mean by that, do you s'pose?' "'i donno what he meant,' says mis' toplady, 'but i wouldn't have anything to do with _anything_ rob henney served.' "that made us think of abagail's lunch, laying un-et in the basket. they wasn't none of us felt like eating, but mis' sturgis says she bet if we didn't eat it, abagail would feel she hadn't had no part in writing the paper like us, and so we broke off a little something once around; but food didn't have much fun for us, not then. and nothing did up to the minute the paper was done, and we was all ready to sly out the alley door. "with sodality and riddy styles and the composing-room men we had above twenty carriers. riddy and the men helped us, one and all, because of course the paper was a little theirs, too, and they was interested and liked the lark. land, land, i ain't felt so young or so wicked as i done getting out that alley door. there's them i wish could see that there's just as much fun keeping secret about something that may be good as in being sly about something regular bad. "when we finally got outside it was suppertime and summer seeming, and the hour was all sweet and frank, and the whole village was buried in its evening fried mush and potatoes, or else sprinkling their front yards. i donno how it was with the others, but i know i went along the streets seeing through them little houses like they was glass, and seeing the young folks eating their suppers and growing up and getting ready to live and to _be_. and in us ladies' arms, in them heavy papers, it seemed to me we was carrying new life to them, in little ways--in little ways, but ways that was going to be big with meaning. and i felt as if something in me kind of snuggled up closer to the way things was meant to be. "us that went west got clear the whole length of daphne street without anybody seeing what we was doing, or else believing that we was doing it orderly and legitimate. and away out by the pump pasture, we started in distributing, and we come working down town, handing out papers to the residence part like mad and taking in dimes like wild. they was so many of us, and the _evening daily_ office was so located, that by the time mis' sykes and mis' toplady and i come around the corner where the men and rob henney and the rejoiners and the carriers was loafing, waiting, smoking, and secure, we didn't have many papers left. and we three was the first ones back. "'evenin' paper?' says mis' toplady, casual. '_friendship village evenin' daily, extra?_ all the news for a dime?' "never have i see a man so truly flabbergasted as rob henney, and he did look like death. "'you're rejoined!' he yelled, or whatever it is they say--'you're rejoined by law from printin' your papers or from deestributin' the same.' "'why, rob henney,' says mis' toplady, 'no call to show fight like that. half the town is readin' its papers by now. they've been out for three-quarters of an hour,' she says. "then soft and faint and acrost the street, we heard somebody laugh, and then kind of spat hands; and we all looked up. and there in the open upstairs window of the building opposite, we see leaning out eppleby holcomb and timothy toplady and silas sykes. and when we crossed eyes, they all made a little cheer like a theatre; and then they come clumping down stairs and acrost to where we was. "'won out, didn't you, by heck!' says silas, that can only see that far. "'blisterin' benson,' says timothy, gleeful. '_i_ say we ain't got no cause to regret our wifes' brains.' "but eppleby, he never said a word. he just smiled slow and a-looking past us. and we knew that from the beginning he had seen our whole plan, face to face. "mis' sykes and mis' toplady and me, seeing how rob henney stood muttering and beat, and seeing how the day had gone, and seeing what was what in the world and in all outside of it, we looked at each other, dead tired, and real happy, and then we just dragged along home to our kitchens and went to cooking supper. but oh, it wasn't our same old kitchens nor it wasn't our same old friendship village. we was in places newer and better and up higher, where we see how things are, and how life would get more particular about us if we'd get particular about some more of life. vii "well, of course then we had sixty dollars or so to spend, and sodality never could rest a minute when it had money to do with if it wasn't doing it, any more than it could rest when it had something to do and no money to do with. it made a nice, active circle. wishing for dreams to come true, and then, when they do come true, making the true things sprout more dreams, is another of them circles. i always think they're what keeps us a-going, not only immortal but busy. "and then with us there's another reason for voting our money prompt. as soon as we've made any and the news has got out around, it's happened two-three times that somebody has put in an application for a headstone for somebody dead that can't afford one. the first time that was done the application was made by the wife of a harness maker that had a little shop in the back street and had been saving up his money for a good tombstone. 'i ain't had much of a position here in life,' he used to say. 'i never was pointed out as a leading citizen. but i'm goin' to fix it so's when i'm buried and folks come to the cemetery, nobody'll get by my grave without noticin' my tombstone.' and then he took sick with inflammatory rheumatism, and if it didn't last him three years and et up his whole tombstone fund. he use' to worry about it considerable as the rheumatism kept reducing the granite inch after inch, and he died, thinking he wasn't going to have nothing but markers to him. so his old wife come and told sodality, crying to think he wasn't going to seem no real true inhabitant of cemetery, any more than he had of the village. and we felt so sorry for her we took part of the thirty dollars we'd made at the rummage sale and bought him a nice cement stone, and put the verse on to attract attention that he'd wrote himself:-- "'stop. look. listen. here lays me. my grave is just as big as yours will be.' "some was inclined to criticise jeb for being so ambitious in death, and stopping to think how good a showing he could make. but i donno, i always sort of understood him. he wanted to be somebody. he'd used to try to have a voice in public affairs, but somehow what he proposed wasn't ever practical and never could get itself adopted. his judgment wasn't much, and time and again he'd voted against the town's good, and he see it afterward. he missed being a real citizen of his town, and he knew it, and he hankered to be a citizen of his cemetery. and wherever he is now, i bet that healthy hankering is strained and purified and helping him ahead. "but our buying that stone for jeb's widow's husband's grave let us in for perpetual applications for monuments; and so when we had any money we always went right to work and voted it for general cemetery improvement, so there wasn't ever any money in the treasury for the applications. anyway, we felt we'd ought to encourage self-made graves and not pauperize our corpses. "so the very next afternoon after we got our paper out, we met at mis' sykes's; and the day being mild and gold, almost all of sodality turned out, and mis' sykes used both her parlours. it was funny; but such times there fell on them that sat front parlour a sort of what-you-might-call-distinction over them that sat back parlour. it's the same to our parties. them that are set down to the dining-room table always seem a little more company than them that are served to the little sewing tables around in the open rooms, and we all feel it, though we all pretend not, as well-bred as we know how. i donno but there's something to it, too. mis' sykes, for instance, she always gets put to a dining table. nobody would ever think of setting her down to a small one, no more than they would a proudfit. but me, i generally get tucked down to a sewing table and in a rocking-chair, if there ain't enough cane seats to go around. things often divide themselves true to themselves in this life, after all. "this was the last regular meeting before our annual. the annual, at insley's suggestion, was going to be in the schoolhouse, and it was going to be an open evening meeting, with the whole town invited in and ice-cream served after. regular meetings sodality gives just tea; special meetings we give hot chocolate or ice-lemonade, or both if the weather is unsettled; for entertainments we have cut-up fruit and little bakery cakes; but to our annual we mount up to ice-cream and some of our best cake makers' layer cake. and us ladies always dress according: afternoon home dresses to regular meetings; second best to specials; sunday silks to entertainments; and straight going-out clothes for the annual. it makes it real nice. nobody need to come dressed wrong, and nobody can go away disappointed at what they've been fed. "the meeting that day all ought to have gone smooth enough, it being so nice that our paper had sold well and all, but i guess the most of us was too tired out to have tried to have a meeting so soon. anyhow, we didn't seem to come together slippery and light-running, like we do some days; but instead i see the minute we begun to collect that we was all inclined to be heavy and, though not cross, yet frictionish. "for instance: mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss had come in a new red waist with black raspberry buttons. and it was too much for mis' fire chief merriman that's been turning her black poplin ever since the fire chief died. "'dear me, mis' holcomb,' she says, 'i never see anybody have more dressy clothes. did you put that on just for us?' "mis' holcomb shut her lips tight. "'this is for home wear,' she says short, when she opened them. "'mean to say you get a cooked supper in that rig?' says mis' merriman. 'fry meat in it, do you?' "'we don't eat as hearty as some,' says mame. 'we don't insist on warm suppers. we feel at our house we have to keep our bills down.' "mis' merriman straightened up, real brittle. "'my gracious,' she says, 'i guess i live as cheap as the best does.' "'i see you buying _shelled_ nuts, just the same,' says mis' holcomb, 'when shellin' 'em with your fingers cost twenty cents off.' "'i ain't never had my store-buyin' criticised before,' says mis' merriman, elbows back. "'nor,' says mis' holcomb, bitter, 'have i ever before, in my twenty-six years of married life, ever been called _dressy_.' "then mis' toplady, she sort of shouldered into the minute, big and placid and nice-feeling. "'mame,' she says, 'set over here where you can use the lead-pencil on my watch chain, and put down that crochet pattern i wanted, will you?' "mame come over by her and took the pencil, mis' toplady leaning over so's she could use it; but before she put the crochet pattern down, mame made one, experimental, on the stiff bottom of her work-bag, and libby liberty thought she'd make a little joking. "'s-sh-h,' says libby, 'the authoress is takin' down notes.' "mis' holcomb has had two-three poems in the _friendship daily_, and she's real sensitive over it. "'i'd be polite if i couldn't be pleasant, libby,' says mame, acid. "'i'm pleasant enough to pleasant folks,' snaps libby, up in arms in a minute. nothing whatever makes anybody so mad as to have what was meant playful took plain. "'i,' says mis' holcomb, majestic, 'would pay some attention to my company manners, no matter what i was in the home.' "'that makes me think,' puts in mis' toplady, hasty, 'speaking of company so, who's heard anything about the evenin' company up to proudfits'?' "it was something all our heads was full of, being half the village had just been invited in to the big evening affair that was to end up the house party, and we'd all of pitched in and talked fast anyhow to take our minds off the spat. "'elbert's comin' home to go to it an' to stay sunday an' as much as he can spare,' says mis' sykes. elbert is her son and all silas sykes ought to of been, elbert is. "'letty ames is home for the party, too,' says libby liberty, speaking up in defence of their block, that letty lives in. she's just graduated at indian mound and has been visiting up the state. "my niece that had come on for a few days would be gone before the party come off, so she didn't seem worth mentioning for real news value at a time when everything was centring in an evening company at proudfit house. no doubt about it, proudfit house does give distinction to friendship village, kind of like a finishing school would, or a circus wintering in us. "'i heard,' says mis' jimmy sturgis, 'that the hired help set up all night long cleanin' the silver. i shouldn't think _that_ would of been necessary, with any kind of management behind 'em.' "'you don't get much management now'-days,' says mis' hubbelthwait, sighing. 'things slap along awful haphazard.' "'i know i ain't the system to myself that i use' to have,' says abagail arnold. 'why, the other day i found my soda in one butt'ry an' my bakin' powder in the other.' "'an' i heard,' says mame holcomb--that's one thing about mame, you can't keep her mad. she'll flare up and be a tongue of flame one minute, and the next she's actin' like a friendly open fire on a family hearth. and i always trust that kind--i can't help it--'i heard,' she said, 'that for the party that night the ice-cream is coming in forms, calla-lilies an' dogs an' like that.' "'i heard,' says mis' uppers, 'that emerel daniel was invited up to help an' she set up nights and got her a new dress for helpin' in, and now little otie's sick and she likely can't go near.' "mis' toplady looks over her glasses. "'is otie sick again?' says she. 'well, if emerel don't move out of black hollow, she'll lose him just like she done abe. can't she sell?' "black hollow is the town's pet breeding place for typhoid, that the ladies has been at the council to clean up for a year now. and nobody will buy there, so emerel's had to live in her house to save rent. "'she's made her a nice dress an' she was so excited and pleased,' says mis' uppers, grieving. 'i do hope it was a dark shade so if bereavement follows--' "'i suppose you'll have a new cloth, mis' sykes,' says mis' hubbelthwait, 'you're so up-to-date.' it's always one trouble with mis' hubbelthwait: she will flatter the flatterable. but that time it didn't work. mis' sykes was up on a chair fixing a window-shade that had flew up, and i guess she must have pinched her finger, she was so crispy. "'i thought i _had_ things that was full stylish enough to wear,' she says stiff. "'i didn't mean harm,' says mis' hubbelthwait, humble. "just then we all got up to see out the window, for the proudfit automobile drew up to mis' sykes's gate. they was several folks in it, like they had been most of the time during the house party, with everybody flying hither and yon; and they was letting mis' emmons out. it was just exactly like her to remember to come right out of the midst of a house party to a meeting of sodality. that woman was pure gold. when they was a lot of things to choose about, she always seemed to let the pleasant and the light and the easy-to-do slip right through her fingers, that would close up by and by on the big real thing that most folks would pretend to try to catch _after_ it had slipped through, and yet would be awful glad to see disappearing. "we didn't talk clothes any more after mis' emmons come in. some way her clothes was so professional seeming, in colour and cut, that beside of her the rest of us never said much about ours; though i will say mis' emmons always wore her clothes like she was no more thinking about them than she would be thinking about morning housework togs. "'well-said, how's the little boy, mis' emmons?' asks mis' toplady, hearty. 'i declare i couldn't go to sleep a night or two ago for thinkin' about the little soul. heard any sound out of his folks?' "'i'm going to tell you about that pretty soon,' mis' emmons answered--and it made my heart beat a little with wondering if she'd got her plans thought out, not only four-square, but tower-high. 'he is well--he wanted to come to the meeting. "i like ladies," he said, "when they look at me like loving, but not when they touch me much." mr. insley has him out walking.' "'little soul,' says mis' toplady, again. "out in the back parlour, some of us had been talking about christopher already. "'i heard,' mis' merriman says, that wasn't to the church the night christopher come, 'i heard that he didn't have much of any clothes on. an' that nobody could understand what he said. an' that nobody could get him to speak a word.' "'pshaw,' mis' sturgis puts in, 'he was a nice-dressed little boy, though wet; an' quite conversational.' "'well, i think it's a great problem,' says mis' uppers. 'he's too young for the poorhouse and too old for the babies' home. seems like they wasn't anything _to_ do with him.' "there come a lull when mis' postmaster sykes, in a ruffled lawn that had shrunk too short for anything but house wear, stood up by the piano and called the meeting to order. and when we'd got on down to new business, the purpose of the meeting and a hint of the pleasure was stated formal by mis' sykes herself. 'one thing why i like to preside at sodality,' i heard her tell once, 'is, you do get your say whenever you want it, and nobody can interrupt you when you're in the chair.' "'ladies,' she says, 'we've seen from the treasurer's report we've got some sixty-odd dollars on hand. the question is, where shall we vote it to. let the discussion be free.' "mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss spoke first, with a kind of a bright manner of having thought it all out over her dish pan and her bread pan. there is this about belonging to sodality: we just live sodality every day, around our work. we don't forget it except to meetings, same as some. "'well, i just tell you what,' mame says, 'i think now is our time to get a big monument for the middle of cemetery that'll do some credit to the dead. all our little local headstones is quite tasty and shows our interest in them that's gone before; but not one of them is real up-to-date. let's buy a nice monument that'll show from the railroad track.' "i spoke up short off from the back parlour, where i set 'scallopin' a bedspread about as big as the carpet. "'who to?' i says. "'oh, i donno's it makes much differ'nce,' mis' holcomb says, warming to her theme, 'so's it was some leadin' citizen. we might take a town vote on it.' "mis' sturgis set up straight, eyebrows up. i donno how it is, but mis' sturgis's pompadour always seems so much higher as soon as she gets interested. "'why, my gracious,' she says, 'we might earn quite a lot o' money that way. we might have a regular votin' contest on who that's dead should get the monument--so much a vote an' the names of the successful ones run every night in the _daily_--' "'well-a, why do it for anybody dead?' says libby liberty. 'why not get the monument here and have it on view an' then have folks kind of bid on it for their own, real votin' style. in the cities now everybody picks out their own monuments ahead of time. that would be doing for the living, the way mr. insley said.' "'oh, there'd be hard feelin' that way,' spoke up mis' uppers, decided. 'whoever got it, an' got buried under it, never could feel it was his own stone. everybody that had bought votes for themselves could come out walking in the cemetery sunday afternoons and could point out the monument and tell how much of a money interest they had in it. oh, no, i don't think that'd do at all.' "'well, stick to havin' it for the dead, then,' libby gives in. 'we've got to remember our constitution.' "mis' amanda toplady was always going down after something in the bottom of her pocket, set low in her full black skirt. she done this now, for a spool or a lozenger. and she says, meantime: 'seems like that'd be awful irreverent, connectin' up the dead with votes that way.' "'_my_ notion,' says mis' sykes, with her way of throwin' up one corner of her head, 'it ain't one-tenth part as irreverent as forgettin' all about 'em.' "'of course it ain't,' agreed mis' hubbelthwait. 'real, true irreverence is made up of buryin' folks and leavin' 'em go their way. why, i bet you there ain't any one of 'em that wouldn't be cheered up by bein' voted for.' "i couldn't help piping up again from the back parlour. 'what about them that don't get no votes?' i asks. 'what about them that is beat in death like they may of been in life? what's there to cheer them up? if i was them,' says i, 'i'd ha'nt the whole sodality.' "'no need to be so sacrilegious in speakin' of the dead as i know of, calliope,' says mis' sykes that was in the chair and could rebuke at will. "that made me kind o' mad, and i answered back, chair or no chair: 'a thing is sacrilegious,' says i, 'according to which side of the fence you're on. but the fence it don't change none.' "mis' toplady looked over her glasses and out the window and like she see far away. "'land, land,' she says, 'i'd like to take that sixty dollars and hire some place to invite the young folks into evenings, that don't have no place to go on earth for fun. friendship village,' says she, 'is about as lively as cemetery is for the young folks.' "'well, but, mis' toplady,' says mis' sykes, reprovin', 'the young folks is alive and able to see to themselves. they don't come in sodality's scope. everything we do has got to be connect' with cemetery.' "'i can't help it,' mis' toplady answers, 'if it is. i'd like to invite 'em in for some good safe evenin's somewheres instead of leaving 'em trapse the streets. and if i had to have cemetery in it somehow, i donno but i'd make it a lawn party and give it in cemetery and have done with it.' "we all laughed, but i knew that underneath, mis' toplady was kind of half-and-half in earnest. "'the young folks,' says mis' sykes, mysterious, 'is going to be took care of by the proper means, very, very soon.' "'i donno,' says mis' holcomb, obstinate. 'i think the monument is a real nice idea. grandfather holcomb, now, him that helped draft the town, or whatever it is they do, i bet he'd be real pleased to be voted for.' "but mis' fire chief merriman, seems she couldn't forget the little way mame had spoke to her before, and she leaned forward and cut her way into the talking. "'why, mis' holcomb,' she says, 'of course your grandfather holcomb can be voted on if he wants to and if he thinks he could get it. but dead though he is, what he done can't hold a candle to what grandfather merriman done. that man just about run this town for years on end.' "'i heard he did,' said mame, short. 'those was the days before things was called by their true names in politics and in graft and like that.' "'i'm sure,' says mis' merriman, her voice slipping, 'grandfather merriman was an angel in heaven to his family. and he started the very cemetery by bein' buried in it first himself, and he took a front lot--' "'ladies, ladies,' says mis' sykes, stern, 'we ain't votin' _yet_. has anybody got anything else to offer? let the discussion be free.' "'what do we get a monument for, anyway?' says mis' toplady, hemming peaceful. 'why don't we stick the money onto the new iron fence for cemetery, same as we've been trying to do for years?' "'that's what i was thinking,' says abagail arnold, smiling. 'whenever i make one of my layer cakes for sodality annual, and frost it white and make mounds of frosted nuts on top, i always wish cemetery had a fence around so's i could make a frosting one on the edge of the cake, appropriate.' "'why, but my land, abagail,' says mis' holcomb, 'can't you see the differ'nce between workin' for a dead iron fence and working for the real, right down dead that once was the living? where's your humanity, i'd like to know, and your loyalty to friendship village inhabitants that was, that you set the old iron fence over against 'em. what's a fence beside folks?' "all this time mis' emmons, there in the front parlour, had just sat still, stitching away on some little garment or other, but now she looked up quick, as if she was going to speak. she even begun to speak with a 'madame president' that covered up several excited beginnings. but as she done so, i looked through the folding doors and see her catch sight of somebody out in the street. and i looked out the bay-window in the back parlour and i see who it was: it was a man, carefully guiding a little bit of a man who was walking on the flat board top of the sykes's fence. so, instead of speaking formal, all mis' emmons done was to make a little motion towards the window, so that her contribution to the debating was nothing but-- "'madame president--look.' "we all looked, them in the out-of-range corners of the room getting up and holding their work in their aprons, and peering past; and us in the back parlour tried for glimpses out the side bay-window, past mis' sykes's big sword fern. and so the most of us see insley walking with christopher, who was footing it very delicate and grave, picking out his places to step as if a real lot depended on it. "'that's chris,' says mis' emmons, simple, 'that's come to us.' and you'd of said she hardly spoke the 'us' real conscious of herself. she looked round at us all. 'let's have him in for a minute,' she says. "'the little soul! let's so do,' mis' amanda toplady says, hearty. "it was mis' emmons that went to the door and called them, and i guess insley, when he see her, must of wondered what made her face seem like that. he went on up town, and the little chap come trotting up the walk. "when chris come in mis' sykes's front parlour among all the women, there run round that little murmuring sound that a crowd of women uses to greet the coming in their midst of any child. and i s'pose it was a little more so than ever for chris, that they hadn't all seen yet--'count of so few being out the night he come and 'count of his having been up to proudfit house 'most ever since. us in the back parlour went crowding in the front, and some come down to the hall door to be the nearer. mis' amanda toplady, hunting in her deep pocket, this time for a lozenger, says fervent above the rest:-- "'the little soul.' "and he did resemble one, standing there so shy and manly in his new little brown clothes. "mis' emmons's eyes was bright, and i thought i see a kind of challenge in her way of drawing the child towards her. "'chris,' she says, 'tell them what you had in your paper bag when you came to the church the other night.' "chris remembered: sugar rolls and cream-puffs and fruit-cake, he recites it grand. 'my supper,' he adds, no less grand. 'but that was 'cause i didn't have my dinner nor my breakfast,' he explains, so's we wouldn't think he'd had too much at once. "'what was the matter with your foot?' mis' emmons goes on. "christopher had a little smile that just about won you--a sort of abashed little smile, that begun over by one side of his mouth, and when he was going to smile that way he always started in by turning away his head. he done this now; but we could all hear what he said. it was:-- "'my biggest toe went right through a hole, an' it choked me awful.' "about a child's foot hurting, or a little sore heel, there is something that makes mothers out of everybody, for a minute or two. the women all twittered into a little ripple of understanding. probably to every woman there come the picture of the little cold, wet foot and the choked toe. i know i could see it, and i can see it yet. "'lambin',' says mis' toplady, in more than two syllables, 'come here for a peppermint.' "chris went right over to her. 'i been thirsty for a drink of water since all day,' he says confidential. 'have you got one?' "mis' toplady went with the child, and then mis' emmons took something from her bag and held it up. it was christopher's father's letter that he'd brought with him that night. "she read the letter out loud, in everybody's perfectly breathless silence that was broken only by christopher laughing out in the kitchen. 'my friends,' mis' emmons says when she'd got through, 'doesn't it seem to you as if our work had come to us? and that if it isn't chris himself, at least it ought to be people, live people--and not an iron fence or even a monument that will show from the railroad track?' "and with that, standing in the doorway with my arms full of bedspread, i piped right up, just like i'd been longing to pipe up ever since that night at mis' emmons's when i'd talked with insley:-- "'yes, sir,' i says emphatic, 'it does. without meaning to be sacrilegious in the least,' i says toward mis' sykes, 'i believe that the dead is a lot better prepared to take care of themselves than a good many of the living is.' "there was a kind of a little pause at this, all but mis' sykes. mis' sykes don't pause easy. she spoke right back, sort of elevating one temple:-- "'the object of this meeting as the chair understands it,' says she, 'is to discuss money spending, _not_ idees.' "but i didn't pay no more attention than as if i'd been a speaker in public life. and mis' toplady and christopher, coming back to the room just then, i spoke to him and took a-hold of his little shoulder. "'chris,' i says, 'tell 'em what you're going to be when you grow up.' "the little boy stood up with his back against the door-casing, and he spoke back between peppermints:-- "'i'm going to drive the loads of hay,' he declares himself. "'a little bit ago,' i says to 'em, 'he was going to be a cream-puff man, and keep a church and manufacture black velvet for people's coffins. think of all them futures--not to spend time on other possibilities. don't it seem like we'd ought to keep him around here somewheres and help him decide? don't it seem like what he's going to be is resting with us?' "but now mis' sykes spoke out in her most presidential tone. "'it would be perfectly impossible,' she says, 'for sodality to spend its money on the child or on anybody else that's living. our constitution says we shall work for cemetery.' "'well,' says i, rebellish, 'then let's rip up our old constitution and buy ourselves a new pattern.' "mis' sykes was getting to verge on mad. "'but sodality ain't an orphan asylum, calliope,' says she, 'nor none of us is that.' "'ain't we--ain't we, mis' sykes?' i says. 'sometimes i donno what we're for if we ain't that.' "and then i just clear forgot myself, in one of them times that don't let you get to sleep that night for thinking about, and that when you wake up is right there by the bed waiting for you, and that makes you feel sore when you think of afterwards--sore, but glad, too. "'that's it,' i says, 'that's it. i've been thinking about that a good deal lately. i s'pose it's because i ain't any children of my own to be so busy for that i can't think about their real good. seems to me there ain't a child living no matter how saucy or soiled or similar, but could look us each one in the face and say, "what you doing for me and the rest of us?" and what could we say to them? we could say: "i'm buying some of you ginghams that won't shrink nor fade. some of you i'm cooking food for, and some of you i'm letting go without it. and some of you i'm buying school books and playthings and some of you i'm leaving without 'em. i'm making up some of your beds and teaching you your manners and i'm loving you--some of you. and the rest of you i'm leaving walk in town after dark with a hole in your stocking." _where's the line--where's the line?_ how do we know which is the ones to do for? i tell you i'm the orphan asylum to the whole lot of 'em. and so are you. and i move the cemetery improvement sodality do something for this little boy. we'd adopt him if he was dead--an' keep his grave as nice and neat as wax. let's us adopt him instead of his grave!' "my bedspread had slipped down onto the floor, but i never knew when nor did i see it go. all i see was that some of them agreed with me--mis' emmons and mis' toplady and mis' hubbelthwait and libby and even mame that had proposed the monument. but some of the others was waiting as usual to see how mis' sykes was going to believe, and mis' sykes she was just standing there by the piano, her cheeks getting pinker and pinker up high on her face. "'calliope,' she said, making a gesture. 'ladies! this is every bit of it out of order. this ain't the subject that we come together to discuss.' "'it kind of seems to me,' says i, 'that it's a subject we was born to discuss.' "mis' toplady sort of rolled over in her chair and looked across her glasses to mis' sykes. "'madame president,' says she, 'as i understand it this fits in all right. what we're proposing is to spend sodality's money on this little boy just the same as though he was dead. i move we do so.' "two-three of 'em seconded it, but scairt and scattering. "'mis' toplady,' says mis' sykes. 'ladies! this is a good deal too headlong. a committee'd ought--' "'question--question,' demands mis' emmons, serene, and she met my eye and smiled some, in that little _we_-understand look that can pierce through a roomful of people like the wind. "'mis' emmons,' says mis' sykes, wildish. 'ladies! sodality has been organized over twenty years, doing the same thing. you can't change so offhand--' you can't help admiring mis' sykes, for she simply don't know when she's beat. but this time she had a point with her, too. 'if we want to vote to amend the constitution,' she said, 'you've got to lay down your wishes on the table for one week.' "'i daresay you have,' says mis' emmons, looking grave. 'well, i move that we amend the constitution of this society, and i move that we do it next week at the open annual meeting of the sodality.' "'second the motion,' says i, with my feet on my white bedspread. "and somehow the phrase caught christopher's ear, like a tune might to march by. "'second a motion--second a motion!' he chants to himself, standing by mis' toplady's knee. viii "i had promised insley to run in the cadozas' after the meeting, and see the little boy; and mis' emmons having to go home before she started back to the proudfits', christopher walked along with me. when we got out to the end of daphne street, insley overtook us on his way out to the cadozas', too. "his shoes were some muddy, and i guessed that he had been where of late he'd spent as much time as he could spare, both when he was in the village and when he was over to indian mound. without digging down into his eyes, the same as some do to folks that's in trouble, i had sensed that there had come down on him everybody's hour of cutting something out of life, which is as elemental a thing to do as dying is, and i donno but it's the same kind as dying is besides. and he had been taking his hour in the elemental way, wanting to be alone and to kind of get near to the earth. i mean tramping the hills, ploughing along the narrow paths close to the barb' wire fences, plunging into the little groves. the little groves have such an' i-know look of understanding all about any difficulty till you walk inside of them, when all to once they stop seeming to know about your special trouble and begin another kind of slow soothing, same as summing things up will soothe you, now and then. "chris chattered to him, lovable. "'i had some peppermenges,' he says, 'and i like hot ice-cream, too. don't you? can you make that?' he inquires, slipping his hand in insley's. "of course this made a pang--when you're hurt, 'most everything makes a pang. and this must of brought back that one evening with robin that he would have to remember, and all the little stupid jokes they'd had that night must of rose up and hit at him, with the awful power of the little things that don't matter one bit and yet that matter everything. "'what can _you_ make, chris?' insley says to him. 'can you make candy? and pull it--like this?' "'once a lady stirred me some an' cut it up in squares,' chris explained, 'but i never did make any. my mama couldn't make candy, i guess, but she could make all other things--pancakes an' mittens an' nice stove fires my mama could make. the bag we got the salt in--she made me two handkerchiefs out of that bag,' he ended proudly. "'did she--did she?' insley tempted him on. "'yes,' chris went on, hopping beside him, 'but now i've got to hurry an' be a man, 'cause litty boys ain't very good things. can you make po'try?' he wound up. "'why, chris--can you?' insley asked. "'well, when i was comin' along with my daddy that night i made one,' the child says. and when insley questions him a little he got this much more out of him. 'it started, "look at the trees so green an' fair,"' he says, 'but i forget the rest.' "'do you want to be a poet when you grow up?' insley ask' him. "'yes, i do,' the child says ready. 'i think i'll be that first an' then i'll be the president, too. but what i'd rather be is the sprinkler-cart man, wouldn't you?' "'conceivably,' insley says, and by the look on his face i bet his hand tightened up on the child's hand. "'at sodality,' i says, 'he just told them he was going to drive loads of hay. he's made several selections.' "he looked at me over the child's head, and i guess we was both thinking the same thing: trust nature to work this out alone? 'conceivably,' again. but all of a sudden i know we both burned to help to do it. and as insley talked to the child, i think some touch of his enterprise come back and breathed on him. in them few last days i shouldn't wonder if his work hadn't stopped soaring to the meaning of spirit and sunk down again to be just body drudgery. he couldn't ever help having his old possessing love of men, and his man's strong resolution to keep a-going, but i shouldn't wonder if the wings of the thing he meant to do had got folded up. and christopher, here, was sort of releasing them out again. "'how's the little cadoza boy?' i ask' him pretty soon. "'he's getting on,' he says. 'dr. barrows was down yesterday--he wants him for a fortnight or so at the hospital in town, where he can have good care and food. his mother doesn't want him to go. i hoped you'd talk with her.' "before we got to the cadoza house insley looked over to me, enigmatish. 'want to see something?' he says, and he handed me a letter. i read it, and some of it i knew what it meant and some of it i didn't. it was from alex proudfit, asking him up to proudfit house to the house party. " ... ain't it astonishing how awful festive the word 'house party' sounds. 'party' sounds festive, though not much more so than 'company' or 'gathering' that we use more common. 'ball,' of course, is real glittering, and paints the inside of your head into pictures, instantaneous. but a house party--maybe it's because i never was to one; maybe it's because i never heard of one till late in life; maybe it's because nobody ever had one before in friendship village--but that word give me all the sensation that 'her golden coach' and 'his silver armour' and 'good fairy' used to have for me when i was a little girl. 'house party!' anything shiny might happen to one of them. it's like you'd took something vanishin', like a party, and just seized onto it and made it stay longer than time and the world ever intended. it's like making a business of the short-lived. "well, some of alex's letter went about like this:-- "'join us for the whole time, do,' it says, and it went on about there being rather an interesting group,--'a jolly individualist,' i recollect he says, 'for your special benefit. he'll convert you where i couldn't, because he's kept his love for men and i haven't. and of course i've some women--pretty, bless them, and thank the lord not one of them troubling whether she loves mankind or not, so long as men love her. and there you have nature uncovered at her task! i shall expect you for every moment that you can spare....' i remember the wording because it struck me it was all so like alex that i could pretty near talk to it and have it answer back. "'tell me,' insley says, when i handed the letter back to him, 'you know--him. alex proudfit. does he put all that on? is it his mask? does he feel differently and do differently when folks don't know?' "'well,' i says, slow, 'i donno. he gives the cadozas their rent, but when mis' cadoza went to thank him, once, he sent down word for her to go and see his agent.' "he nodded, and i'd never heard him speak bitter before. 'that's it,' he says, 'that's it. that's the way we bungle things....' "we'd got almost to the cadozas' when we heard an automobile coming behind us, and as we stood aside to let it go by, robin's face flashed past us at the window. mis' emmons was with her, that robin had come down after. right off the car stopped and robin jumped out and come hurrying back towards us. i'll never forget the minute. we met right in front of the old tumble-down cadoza house with the lilacs so high in the front yard that the place looked pretty near nice, like the rest of the world. it was a splendid afternoon, one that had got it's gold persuaded to burst through a gray morning, like colour from a bunch of silver buds; and now the air was all full of lovely things, light and little wind and late sun and i donno but things we didn't know about. and everyone of them seemed in robin's face as she came towards us, and more, too, that we couldn't name or place. "i think the mere exquisite girlishness of her come home to insley as even her strength and her womanliness, that night he talked with her, had not moved him. i donno but in the big field of his man's dream, he had pretty near forgot how obvious her charm was. i'm pretty sure that in those days when he was tramping the hills alone, the thing that he was fighting with was that he was going to lose her companioning in the life they both dreamed. but now her hurrying so and her little faint agitation made her appeal a new thing, fifty times as lovely, fifty times as feminine, and sort of filling in the picture of herself with all the different kinds of women she was in one. "so now, as he stood there with her, looking down in her face, touching her friendly hand, i think that was the first real, overhauling minute when he was just swept by the understanding that his loss was so many times what he'd thought it was going to be. for it was her that he wanted, it was her that he would miss for herself and not for any dear plans of work-fellowship alone. she understood his dream, but there was other things she understood about, too. a man can love a woman for a whole collection of little dear things--and he can lose her and grieve; he can love her for her big way of looking at things, and he can lose her and grieve; he can love her because she is his work-fellow, and he can lose her and grieve. but if, on top of one of these, he loves her because she is she, the woman that knows about life and is capable of sharing all of life with him and of being tender about it, why then if he loses her, his grieving is going to be something that there ain't rightly no name for. and i think it was that minute there in the road that it first come to insley that robin was robin, that of all the many women that she was, first and most she was the woman that was capable of sharing with him all sides of living. "'i wanted ...' she says to him, uncertain. 'oh, i wish very much that you would accept the invitation to some of the house party. i wanted to tell you.' "'i can't do that,' he answers, short and almost gruff. 'really i can't do that.' "but it seemed there was even a sort of nice childishness about her that you wouldn't have guessed. i always think it's a wonderful moment when a woman knows a man well enough to show some of her childishness to him. but a woman that shows right off, close on the heels of an introduction, how childish she can be, it always sort o' makes me mad--like she'd told her first name without being asked about it. "'please,' robin says, 'i'm asking it because i wish it very much. i want those people up there to know you. i want--' "he shook his head, looking at her, eyes, mouth, and fresh cheeks, like he wished he was able to look at her face _all at once_. "'at least, at least,' she says to him rapid, then, 'you must come to the party at the end. you know i want to keep you for my friend--i want to make you our friend. that night aunt eleanor is going to announce my engagement, and i want my friends to be there.' "that surprised me as much as it did him. nobody in the village knew about the engagement yet except us two that knew it from that night at mis' emmons's. i wondered what on earth insley was going to say and i remember how i hoped, pretty near fierce, that he wasn't going to smile and bow and wish her happiness and do the thing the world would have wanted of him. it may make things run smoother to do that way, but smoothness isn't the only thing the love of folks for folks knows about. i do like a man that now and then speaks out with the breath in his lungs and not just with the breath of his nostrils. and that's what insley done--that's what he done, only i'm bound to say that i do think he spoke out before he knew he was going to. "'that would be precisely why i couldn't come,' he said. 'thank you, you know--but please don't ask me.' "as for robin, at this her eyes widened, and beautiful colour swept her face. and she didn't at once turn away from him, but i see how she stood looking at him with a kind of a sharp intentness, less of wonder than of stopping short. "christopher had run to the automobile and now he come a-hopping back. "'robin!' he called. 'aunt eleanor says you haf to be in a dress by dinner, and it's _now_.' "'do come for dinner, mr. insley,' mis' emmons calls, as robin and christopher went to join him. 'we've got up a tableau or two for afterward. come and help me be a tableau.' "he smiled and shook his head and answered her. and that reminded me that i'd got to hurry like wild, as usual. it was most six o'clock then,--it always _is_ either most six o'clock or most noon when i get nearest to being interested,--and that night great things was going to be going on. mis' sykes and mis' toplady and the school board and i was going to have a tableau of our own. "but for all that i couldn't help standing still a minute and looking after the automobile. it seemed as bad as some kind of a planet, carrying robin off for forever and ever. and i wasn't so clear that i fancied its orbit. "'i've got a whole string of minds not to go to that party myself,' i says, meditative. "but insley never answered. he just come on around the cadozas' house. ix "i never speak much about my relations, because i haven't got many. if i did have, i suppose i should be telling about how peculiar they take their tea and coffee, and what they died of, and showing samples of their clothes and acting like my own immediate family made up life, just like most folks does. but i haven't got much of any relatives, nor no ancestors to brag about. 'nothing for kin but the world,' i always say. "but back in the middle of june i had got a letter from a cousin, like a bow from the blue. and the morning i got it, and with it yet unopened in my hand, silas sykes come out from behind the post-office window and tapped me on the arm. "'calliope,' he says, 'we've about made up our minds--the school board an' some o' the leadin' citizens has--to appoint a women's evenin' vigilance committee, secret. an' we want you an' mis' toplady an' mis' sykes should be it.' "'vigilance,' i says, thoughtful. 'i recollect missin' on the meanin' of that word in school. i recollect i called it "viligance" an' said it meant a 'bus. i donno if i rightly know what it means now, silas.' "silas cleared his throat an' whispered hoarse, in a way he's got: 'women don't have no call, much for the word,' he says. 'it means when you sic your notice onto some one thing. we want a committee of you women should do it.' "'notice _what_?' i says, some mystified. 'what the men had ought to be up to an' ain't?' "but customers come streaming into the post-office store then, and some folks for their mail, and silas set a time a couple o' days later in the afternoon for mis' toplady and mis' sykes and me to come down to the store and talk it over. "'an' you be here,' says silas, beatin' it off with his finger. 'it's somethin' we got to do to protect our own public decency.' "'_public_ decency,' i says over, thoughtful, and went out fingerin' my letter that was in a strange handwriting and that i was dying to read. "it was a couple of days later that i what-you-might-say finished that letter, and between times i had it on the clock-shelf and give every spare minute to making it out. minerva beach the letter was from--my cousin minnie beach's girl. minnie had died awhile before, and minerva, her daughter, was on her way west to look for a position, and should she spend a few days with me? that was what i made out, though i donno how i done it, for her writing was so big and so up-and-down that every letter looked like it had on corsets and high heels. i never see such a mess! it was like picking out a crochet pattern to try to read it. "i recollect that i was just finishing composing my letter telling her to come along, and hurrying so's to take it to mail as i went down to the vigilance committee meeting, when the new photographer in town come to my door, with his horse and buggy tied to the gate. j. horace myers was his name, and he said he was a friend of the topladys, and he was staying with them while he made choice art photographs of the whole section; and he wanted to take a picture of my house. he was a dapper little man, but awful tired-seeming, so i told him to take the picture and welcome, and i put the stone dog on the front porch and looped the parlour curtains over again and started off for the meeting. "'i'll be up to show you the proofs in a few days,' he says as i was leaving. he was fixing the black cloth over his head, kind of listless and patient. "'land!' i says, before i knew it, 'don't you get awful sick of takin' pictures of humbly houses you don't care nothin' about?' "he peeked out from under the black cloth sort of grateful. 'i do,' he says, simple,--'sick enough to bust the camera.' "'well, i should think you would,' i says hearty; and i went down daphne street with the afternoon kind of feeling tarnished. i was wondering how on earth folks go on at all that dislikes their work like that. there was abe luck, just fixing the sykes's eaves-trough--what was there to _like_ about fixing eaves-troughs and about the whole hardware business? jimmy sturgis coming driving the 'bus, eppleby holcomb over there registering deeds, mis' sykes's girl em'ly washing windows,--what was there about any of it to _like_ doing? i looked at mis' sykes's em'ly real pitying, polishing panes outside, when abe luck come climbing down the ladder from the roof; and all of a sudden i see abe stick his head through the rungs, and quick as a flash kiss mis' sykes's em'ly. "'my land!' i started to think, 'mis' sykes had ought to discharge--' and then i just stopped short off, sudden. her hating windows, and him hating eaves-troughs, and what else did either of them have? nothing. i could sense their lives like i could sense my own--level and even and _darn_. and all at once i had all i could do to keep from being glad that abe luck had kissed em'ly. and i walked like lightning to keep back the feeling. "mis' sykes and mis' toplady was to the post-office store before me. it was a slack time of day, and silas set down on a mail-bag and begun outlining the situation that he meant about. "'the school board,' says silas, important, 'has got some women's work they want done. it's a thing,' s'he, 'that women can do the best--i mean it's the girls an' boys, hangin' round evenin's--you know we've all talked about it. but somebody's got to get after 'em in earnest, an' see they don't disgrace us with their carryin' on in the streets, evenin's.' "'why don't the men do it?' i ask' him, wonderin', 'or is it 'count of offending some?' "'no such thing!' says silas, touchy. 'where's your delicate feelin's, calliope? women can do these things better than men. this is somethin' delicate, that had ought to be seen to quiet. it ain't a matter for the authorities. it's women's work,' says he. 'it's women that's the mothers--it ain't the men,' says silas, convincing. "but still i looked at him, real meditative. 'what started you men off on that tack at this time?' i ask' him, blunt--because young folks had been flooding the streets evenings since i could remember, and no friendship village man had ever acted like this about it. "'well,' says silas, 'don't you women tell it out around. but the thing that's got us desperate is the schoolhouse. the entry to it--they've used it shameful. peanut shucks, down-trod popcorn, paper bags, fruit peelin's--every mornin' the stone to the top o' the steps, under the archway, is full of 'em. an' last week the board went up there early mornin' to do a little tinkerin', an' there set three beer bottles, all empty. so we've figgered on puttin' some iron gates up to the schoolhouse entry an' appointin' you women a vigilance committee to help us out.' "we felt real indignant about the schoolhouse. it stands up a little slope, and you can see it from 'most anywheres daytimes, and we all felt kind of an interest--though of course the school board seemed to own it special. "mis' toplady looked warm and worried. 'but what is it you want we should do, silas?' she ask', some irritable. 'i've got my hands so full o' my own family it don't seem as if i could vigilance for nobody.' "'s-h-h, mis' toplady. _i_ think it's a great trust,' says mis' silas sykes. "'it is a great trust,' says silas, warm, 'to get these young folks to stop gallivantin' an' set home where they belong.' "'how you going to get them to set home, silas?' i ask', some puzzled. "'well,' says silas, 'that's where they ought to be, ain't it?' "'why,' i says thoughtful, 'i donno's they had.' "'_what?_' says silas, with horns on the word. 'what say, calliope?' "'how much settin' home evenings did you do when you was young, silas?' i says. "'i'd 'a' been a long sight better off if i'd 'a' done more of it,' says silas. "'however that is, you _didn't_ set home,' i says back at him. 'neither will young folks set there now, i don't believe.' "'well,' says silas, '_anyhow_, they've got to get off'n the streets. we've made up our minds to that. they can't set on steps nor in stairways down town, nor in entries, nor to the schoolhouse. we've got to look out for public decency.' "'_public_ decency,' says i, again. 'they can do what they like, so's public decency ain't injured, i s'pose, silas?' "'no such thing!' shouts silas. 'calliope, take shame! ain't we doin' our best to start 'em right?' "'that's what i donno,' i answers him, troubled. 'driving folks around don't never seem to me to be a real good start towards nowheres.' "mis' amanda toplady hitched forward in her chair and spoke for the first time--ponderous and decided, but real sweet, too. 'what i think is this,' she says. 'they won't set home, as calliope says. and when we've vigilanced 'em off the streets, where are we goin' to vigilance 'em _to_?' "'that ain't our lookout,' says silas. "'ain't it?' says mis' toplady. '_ain't it?_' she set thinking for a minute and then her face smoothed. 'anyhow,' she says, comfortable, 'us ladies'll vigilance awhile. it ain't clear in my mind yet what to do. but we'll do it, i guess.' "we made up that we three should come down town one night that week and look around and see what we see. we all knew--every woman in friendship village knew--how evenings, the streets was full of young folks, loud talking and loud laughing and carrying on. we'd all said to each other, helpless, that we _wisht_ something could be done, but that was as far as anybody'd got. so we made it up that we three should be down town in a night or two, so's to get our ideas started, and silas was to have timothy toplady and eppleby holcomb, that's on the school board, down to the store so we could all talk it over together afterwards. but still i guess we all felt sort of vague as to what we was to drive _at_. "'it seems like silas wanted us to unwind a ball o' string from the middle out,' says mis' toplady, uneasy, when we'd left the store. "a few days after that minerva come. i went down to the depot to meet her, and i would of reco'nized her anywheres, she looked so much like her handwriting. she was dressed sort of tawdry swell. she had on a good deal. but out from under her big hat with its cheap plume that was goin' to shed itself all over the house, i see her face was little and young and some pretty and excited. excited about life and new things and moving around. i liked her right off. 'land!' thinks i, 'you'll try me to death. but, you poor, nice little thing, you can if you want to.' "i took her home to supper. she talked along natural enough, and seemed to like everything she et, and then she wiped the dishes for me, and looked at herself in the clock looking-glass all the while she was doing it. then, when i'd put out the milk bottles, we locked up the back part of the house and went and set in the parlour. "i'd always thought pretty well of my parlour. it hasn't anything but a plush four-piece set and an ingrain and nottinghams, but it's the _parlour_, and i'd liked it. but when we'd been setting there a little while, and i'd asked her about everybody, and showed her their pictures in the album, all of a sudden it seemed as if they wasn't anything to _do_ in the parlour. setting there and talking was nice, but i missed something. and i thought of this first when minerva got up and walked kind of aimless to the window. "'how big is friendship village?' she ask'. "i told her, real proud. "'they can't be a great deal goin' on here, is they?' she says. "'land, yes!' i says. 'we're so busy we're nearly dead. ladies' aid, ladies' missionary, cemetery improvement sodality, the rummage sale coming on, the bazaar, and i donno what all.' "'oh,' she says, vague. 'well--is they many young people?' "and when i'd told her, 'quite a few,' she didn't say anything more--but just stood looking down the street. and pretty soon i says, 'land! the parlour's kind o' stuffy to-night. let's go out in the yard.' and when we'd walked around out there a minute, smelling in my pinks, i thought, 'land! it's kind o' dreary doin' this,' an' i says to her all of a sudden, 'let's go in the house and make some candy.' "'oh, _let's_,' she says, like a little girl. "we went back in and lit the kitchen fire, and made butter-scotch--she done it, being real handy at it. she livened up and flew around and joked some, and the kitchen looked nice and messy and _used_, and we had a real good time. and right in the midst of it there come a rap at the side door and there stood the dapper, tired-looking little photograph man, j. horace myers, seeming as discouraged as he could. "we spread out the proofs of the pictures of my house and spent some time deciding. and while we was deciding, he showed us some more pictures that he'd made of the town, and talked a little about them. he was a real pleasant, soft-spoken man, and he knew how to laugh and when to do it. he see the funny in things--he see that the post-office looked like a rabbit with its ears up; he see that the engine-house looked like it was lifting its eyebrows; and he see the pretty in things, too--he showed us a view or two he'd took around friendship village just for the fun of it. one was daphne street, by the turn, and he says: 'it looks like a deep tunnel, don't it? an' like you wanted to go down it?' he was a wonderful nice, neutral little man, and i enjoyed looking at his pictures. "but minerva--i couldn't help watching her. she wasn't so interested in the pictures, and she wasn't so quick at seeing the funny in things, nor the pretty, either; but even the candy making hadn't livened her up the way that little talking done. she acted real easy and told some little jokes; and when the candy was cool, she passed him some; and i thought it was all right to do. and he sort of spruced up and took notice and quit being so down-in-the-mouth. and i thought, 'land! ain't it funny how just being together makes human beings, be they agent or be they cousin, more themselves than they was before!' "her liking company made me all the more sorry to leave minerva alone that next evening, that was the night mis' sykes and mis' toplady and i was due to a tableau of our own in the post-office store. it was the night when the vigilance committee was to have its first real meeting with the school board. but i lit the lamp for minerva in the parlour, and give her the day's paper, and she had her sewing, and when mis' toplady and mis' sykes come for me, i went off and left her setting by the table. my parlour had been swept that day, and it was real tidy and quiet and lamp-lit; and yet when mis' toplady and mis' sykes and i stepped out into the night, all smelling of pinks and a new moon happening, and us going on that mission we wasn't none of us sure what it was, the dark and the excitement sort of picked me up and i felt like i never felt in my parlour in my life--all kind of young and free and springy. "'let's us walk right down through town first,' says mis' toplady. 'that's where the young folks gets to, seems though.' "'well-a, i don't see the necessity of that,' says mis' sykes. 'we've all three done that again and again. we know how it is down there evenings.' "'but,' says mis' toplady, in her nice, stubborn way, 'let's us, anyway. i know, when i walk through town nights, i'm 'most always hurrying to get my yeast before the store shuts, an' i never half look around. to-night let's _look_.' "well, we looked. along by the library windows in some low stone ledges. in front of a store or two they was some more. around the corner was a place where they was some new tombstones piled up, waiting for their folks. and half a block down was the canal bridge. and ledges and bridge and tombstones and streets was alive with girls and boys--little young things, the girls with their heads tied in bright veils and pretty ribbons on them, and their laughs just shrilling and thrilling with the sheer fun of _hanging around_ on a spring night. "'land!' says mis' sykes, '_what_ is their mothers thinkin' of?' "but something else was coming home to me. "'i dunno,' i says, kind of scairt at the way i felt, 'if i had the invite, this spring night, all pinks and new moons, i donno but i'd go and hang over a tombstone with 'em!' "'calliope!' says mis' sykes, sharp. but mis' toplady, she kind of chuckled. and the crowd jostled us--more young folks, talking and laughing and calling each other by nicknames, and we didn't say no more till we got up in the next block. "there's a vacant store there up towards the wagon shop, and a house or two, and that's where the open stairways was that silas meant about. everything had been shut up at six o'clock, and there, sure as the world, 'most every set of steps and every stairway had its couple, sitting and laughing and talking, like the place was differ'nt sofas in a big drawing-room, or rocks on a seashore, or like that. "'mercy!' says mis' sykes. 'such goin'-ons! such bringin'-ups!' "just then i recollect i heard a girl laugh out, pretty and pleased, and i thought i recognized mis' sykes's em'ly's voice, and i thought i knew abe luck's answering--but i never said a word to mis' sykes, because i betted she wouldn't get a step farther than discharging em'ly, and i was after more steps than that. and besides, same minute, i got the scent of the bouncing bet growing by the wagon shop; and right out of thin air, and acrost more years than i like to talk about, come the quick little feeling that made me know the fun, the sheer _fun_, that em'ly thought she was having and that she had the right to. "'oh, well, whoever it is, maybe they're engaged,' says mis' toplady, soothin'. "'oh, but the bad taste!' says mis' sykes, shuddering. mis' sykes is a good cook and a good enough mother, and a fair-to-middling housekeeper, but she looks hard on the fringes and the borders of this life, and to her 'good taste' is both of them. "they wasn't nobody on the wagon shop steps, for a wonder, and we set down there for a minute to talk it over. and while mis' toplady and mis' sykes was having it out between them, i set there a-thinking. and all of a sudden the night sort of stretched out and up, and i almost felt us little humans crawling around on the bottom of it. and one little bunch of us was friendship village, and in friendship village some of us was young. i kind of saw the whole throng of them--the _young_ humans that would some day be the village. there they was, bottled up in school all day, or else boxed in a store or a factory or somebody's kitchen, and when night come, and summer come, and the moon come--land, land! they _wanted_ something, all of them, and they didn't know what they wanted. "and what had they got? there was the streets stretching out in every direction, each house with its parlour--four-piece plush set, mebbe, and ingrain and nottinghams, and mebbe not even that, and mebbe the rest of the family flooding the room, anyway. and what was the parlour, even with somebody to set and talk to them--what was the parlour, compared to the _magic_ they was craving and couldn't name? the feeling young and free and springy, and the wanting somehow to express it? something to do, somewheres to go, something to see, somebody to be with and laugh with--no wonder they swept out into the dark in numbers, no wonder they took the night as they could find it. they didn't have no hotel piazza of their own, no boat-rides, no seashore, no fine parties, no automobiles--no nothing but the big, exciting dark that belongs to us all together. no wonder they took it for their own. "why, friendship village was no more than a great big ball-room with these young folks leaving the main floor and setting in the alcoves, to unseen music. if the alcoves had been all palms and expense and dressed-up chaperons on the edges, everything would of seemed right. as it was, it was all a danger that made my heart ache for them, and for us all. and yet it come from their same longing for fun, for joy--and where was they to get it? "'oh, ladies!' i says, out of the fulness of the lump in my throat, 'if only we had some place to invite 'em to!' "'they wouldn't come if we had,' says mis' sykes, final. "'not come!' i says. 'with candy making and pictures and music and mebbe dancin'? not come!' "'dancin'!' says mis' toplady, low. 'oh, calliope, i donno as i'd go that far.' "'we've went farther than that long ago,' i says, reckless. 'we've went so far that the dangers of dancin' would be safe beside the dangers of what is.' "'but we ain't responsible for that,' says mis' sykes. "'ain't we--_ain't we?_' i says, like mis' toplady had. 'mis' sykes, how much does silas rent the post-office hall for, a night?' "'ten dollars, if he makes something; and five dollars at cost,' she says. "'that's it,' i says, groaning. 'we never could afford that, even to ask them in once a week. oh, we'd ought to have some place open every night for them, and us ladies take turns doing the refreshments; but they ain't no place in town that belongs to young folks--' "and all of a sudden i stopped, like an idee had took me from all four sides of my head at once. "'why, ladies,' i says, 'look at the schoolhouse, doing nothing every night out of the year and _built_ for the young folks!' "'oh, well,' says mis' sykes, superior, 'you know the board'd never allow 'em to use the schoolhouse _that_ way. the board wouldn't think of it!' "'_whose_ board?' says i, stern. 'ain't they our board? yours and mine and friendship village's? come on--come on and put it to 'em,' i says, kind o' wild. "i was climbing down the steps while i spoke. and we all went down, me talking on, and mis' toplady catching fire on the minute, an' mis' sykes holding out like she does unless so be she's thought of an idea herself. but oh, mis' toplady, she's differ'nt. "'goodness alive!' she said, 'why ain't some of us thought o' that before? ain't it the funniest thing, the way folks can have a way out right under their noses, an' not sense it?' "i had never had a new-born notion come into my head so ready-made. i could hardly talk it fast enough, and mis' toplady same way, and we hurried back to the post-office store, mis' sykes not convinced but keeping still because us two talked it so hard. "silas and timothy and eppleby holcomb was setting in the back part of the post-office store waiting for us, and mis' toplady and i hurried right up to them. "'you tell, calliope,' says mis' toplady. 'it's your idee.' "but first we both told, even mis' sykes joining in, shocked, about the doorway carryin' ons and all the rest. 'land, land!' mis' toplady says, 'i never had a little girl. i lost my little girl baby when she was eleven months. but i ain't never felt so like _shieldin'_ her from somethin' as i feel to-night.' "'it's awful, awful!' says timothy toplady, decided. 'we've just got to get some law goin', that's all.' "silas agreed, scowling judicial. 'we been talkin' curfew,' he says. 'i donno but we'll hev to get the curfew on 'em.' "'curfew!' says i. 'so you're thinking of curfewin' 'em off the streets. will you tell me, silas sykes, where you're going to curfew 'em _to_?' "'yes,' says mis' toplady, 'that's what i meant about vigilancin' 'em off somewheres. _where to?_ what say, silas?' "'that ain't our concern, woman!' shouts silas, exasperated by us harping on the one string. 'them young folks has all got one or more parents. leave 'em use 'em.' "'yes, indeed,' says mis' sykes, nodding once, with her eyes shut brief. 'an' young people had ought to be encouraged to do evening studyin'.' "mis' toplady jerked her head sideways. 'evenin' fiddlestick!' she snaps, direct. 'if you've got a young bone left in your body, mis' sykes,' says she, 'you know you're talkin' nonsense.' "'ain't you no idees about how well-bred young ladies should conduct themselves?' says mis' sykes, in her most society way. "'i donno so much about well-bred young ladies,' says mis' toplady, frank. 'i was thinkin' about just girls. human girls. an' boys the same.' "'me, too,' i says, fervent. "'what you goin' to _do_?' says silas, spreading out his hands stiff and bowing his knees. 'what's your idee? you've got to have a workin' idee for this thing, same as the curfew is.' "'oh, silas,' i says then, 'that's what we've got--that's what we've got. them poor young things wants a good time--same as you and all of us did, and same as we do yet. why not give 'em a place to meet and be together, normal and nice, and some of us there to make it pleasant for 'em?' "'heh!' says silas. 'you talk like a dook. where you goin' to _get_ a place for 'em? hire the opery-house, air ye?' "'no, sir,' i says to him. 'give 'em the place that's theirs. give 'em the schoolhouse, open evenings, an' all lit up an' music an' things doin'.' "'my lord heavens!' says silas, that's an elder in the church and ain't no more control of his tongue than a hen. 'air you crazy, calliope marsh? plump, stark, starin' ravin'--why, woman alive, who's goin' to donate the light an' the coal? _you?_' "'i thought mebbe the building and the school board, too, was _for_ the good o' the young folks,' i says to him, sharp. "'so it is,' says silas, 'it's for their _good_. it ain't for their foolishness. can't you see daylight, calliope?' "'is arithmetic good an' morals _not_, silas sykes?' i says. "then timothy toplady let loose: 'a school-buildin', calliope', s'he,--'why, it's a dignified place. they must respect it, same as they would a church. could you learn youngsters the constitution of the united states in a room where they'd just been cookin' up cough drops an' hearin' dance tunes?' "'well,' says i, calm, 'if you can't, i'd leave the constitution of the united states _go_. if it's that delicate,' i says back at him, 'gimme the cough drops.' "'you're talkin' treason,' says silas, hoarse. "timothy groans. '_dancin!_' he says. 'amanda,' he says, 'i hope you ain't sunk so low as calliope?' "mis' toplady wavered a little. she's kind of down on dancing herself. 'well,' she says, 'anyhow, i'd fling some place open and invite 'em in for _somethin'_.' "'_i_ ain't for this, silas,' says mis' sykes, righteous. '_i_ believe the law is the law, and we'd best use it. nothin' we can do is as good as enforcin' the dignity of the law.' "'oh, _rot_!' says eppleby holcomb, abrupt. eppleby hadn't been saying a word. but he looked up from the wood-box where he was setting, and he wrinkled up his eyes at the corners the way he does--it wasn't a real elegant word he picked, but i loved eppleby for that 'rot.' 'asking your pardon, mis' sykes,' he says, 'i ain't got so much confidence in enforcin' the law as i've got in edgin' round an' edgin' round accordin' to your cloth--an' your pattern. an' your pattern.' "'lord heavens!' says silas, looking glassy, 'if this was roosia, you an' calliope'd both be hoofin' it hot-foot for siberia.' "well, it was like arguing with two trees. they wasn't no use talking to either silas or timothy. i forget who said what last, but the meeting broke up, after a little, some strained, and we hadn't decided on anything. us ladies had vigilanced one night to about as much purpose as mosquitoes humming. and i said good night to them and went on up street, wondering why god lets a beautiful, burning plan come waving its wings in your head and your heart if he don't intend you to make a way for yourself to use it. "then, by the big evergreens a block or so from my house, i heard somebody laugh--a little, low, nice, soft, sort of foolish laugh, a woman's laugh, and a man's voice joined in with it, pleasant and sort of singing. i was right onto them before they see me. "'i thought it was a lonesome town,' says somebody, 'but i guess it ain't.' "and there, beside of me, sitting on the rail fence under the evergreens, was minerva beach, my own cousin, and the little, tired photograph-taking man. i had just bare time to catch my breath and to sense where the minute really belonged--that's always a good thing to do, ain't it?--and then i says, cool as you please: "'hello, minerva! my! ain't the night grand? i don't wonder you couldn't stay in the house. how do, mr. myers? i was just remembering my lemon-pie that won't be good if it sets till to-morrow. come on in and let's have it, and make a little lemonade.' "ordinarily, i think it's next door to immoral to eat lemon-pie in the evening; but i had to think quick, and it was the only thing like a party that i had in the butt'ry. anyhow, i was planning bigger morals than ordinary, too. "well, sir, i'd been sure before, but that made me certain sure. there had been my parlour and my porch, and them two young people was welcome to them both; but they wanted to go somewheres, natural as a bird wanting to fly or a lamb to caper. and there i'd been living in friendship village for sixty years or so, and i'd reco'nized the laws of housekeeping and debt paying and grave digging and digestion, and i'd never once thought of this, that's as big as them all. "ain't it nice the way god has balanced towns! he never puts in a silas sykes that he don't drop in an eppleby holcomb somewheres to undo what the silases does. it wasn't much after six o'clock the next morning, and i was out after kindling, when they come a shadow in the shed door, and there was eppleby. he had a big key in his hand. "'i'm a-goin' to the city, calliope,' says he. 'silas an' timothy an' i are a-goin' up to the city on the dick dasher' (that's our daily accommodation train, named for the engineer). 'silas and timothy is set on buying the iron gates for the schoolhouse entry, an' i'm goin' along. he put the key in my hand, meditative. 'we won't be back till the ten o'clock through,' he says, 'an' i didn't know but you might want to get in the schoolhouse for somethin' to-night--you an' mis' toplady.' "i must of stood staring at him, but he never changed expression. "'the key had ought to be left with some one, you know,' he says. 'i'm leavin' it with you. you go ahead. i'll go snooks on the blame. looks like it was goin' to be another nice day, don't it?' he says, casual, and went off down the path. "for a minute i just stood there, staring down at the key in my hand. and then, 'eppleby,' i sings after him, 'oh, eppleby,' i says, 'i feel just like i was going to _crow_!' "i don't s'pose i hesitated above a minute. that is, my head may have hesitated some, like your head will, but my heart went right on ahead. i left my breakfast dishes standing--a thing i do for the very few--and i went straight for mis' toplady. and she whips off her big apron and left _her_ dishes standing, an' off we went to the half a dozen that we knew we could depend on--abagail arnold, that keeps the home bakery, mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, mis' fire chief merriman, that's going to be married again and has got real human towards other folks, like she wasn't in her mourning grief--we told 'em the whole thing. and we one and all got together and we see that here was something that could be done, right there and then, so be we was willing to make the effort, big enough and unafraid. "when i remember back, that day is all of a whirl to me. we got the notice in the daily paper bold as a lion, that there would be a party to the schoolhouse that night, free to everybody. we posted the notice everywheres, and sent it out around by word of mouth. and when we'd gone too far to go back, we walked in on mis' sykes--all but abagail, that had pitched in to making the cakes--and we told her what we'd done, so she shouldn't have any of the blame. "she took it calm, not because calm is christian, i bet, but because calm is grand lady. "'it's what i always said,' says she, 'would be the way, if the women run things.' "'women don't run things,' says mis' toplady, placid, 'an' i hope to the land they never will. but i believe the time'll come when men an' women'll run 'em together, like the lord meant, an' when women can see that they're mothers to all men an' not just to their little two-by-four families.' "'my duty to men is in my own home,' says mis' sykes, regal. "'so is mine,' says mis' toplady, 'for a beginning. but it don't stop in my wood box nor my clothes-basket nor yet in my mixin'-bowl.' "we went off and left her--it's almost impossible to federate mis' sykes into anything. and we went up to the building and made our preparations. and then we laid low for the evening, to see what it would bring. "i was putting on my hat that night in front of the hall-tree looking-glass when j. horace myers come up on the front porch to call for minerva. he was all dressed up, and she come downstairs in a little white dimity she had, trimmed with lace that didn't cost much of anything, and looking like a picture. they sat down on the porch for a little, and i heard them talking while i was hunting one o' my gloves. "'ain't it the dandiest night!' says j. horace myers. "'ain't it!' says minerva. 'i should say. my! i'm glad i come to this town!' "'i'm awful glad you did, too,' says j. horace. 'i thought first it was awful lonesome here, but i guess--' "'they're goin' to have music to-night,' says minerva, irrelevant. "'cricky!' says the little photograph man. "minerva had her arm around a porch post and she sort of swung back and forth careless, and--'my!' she said, 'i just do love to go. have you ever travelled anywheres?' "'texas an' through there,' he says. 'i'm goin' again some day, when--' "'i'm goin' west now,' says minerva. 'i just can't stand it long in one place, unless,' she added, 'it's _awful_ nice.' "i'd found my glove, but i recollect i stood still, staring out the door. i see it like i never see it before--_they was living_. them two young things out there on my porch, and all the young folks of friendship village, they was just living--trying to find a future and a life of their own. they didn't know it. they thought what they wanted was a good time, like the pioneers thought they wanted adventure. but here they were, young pioneers of new villages, flocking together wherever they could, seeking each other out, just living. and us that knew, us that had had life, too, or else had missed it, we was just letting them live, haphazard. and us that had ought to of been mothers to the town young, no less than to our own young, had been leaving them live alone, on the streets and stairways and school entries of friendship village. "i know i fair run along the street to the schoolhouse. it seemed as if i couldn't get there quick enough to begin the new way. "the schoolhouse was lit up from cellar to garret and it looked sort of different and surprised at itself, and like it was sticking its head up. maybe it sounds funny, but it sort of seemed to me the old brick building looked _conscious_, and like it had just opened its eyes and turned its face to something. inside, the music was tuning up, the desks that was only part screwed down had been moved back; in one of the recitation-rooms we'd got the gas plates for the candy making, and abagail was in there stirring up lemonade in a big crock, and the other ladies, with white aprons on, was bustling round seeing to cutting the cakes. "it wasn't a good seven-thirty before they begun coming in, the girls nipping in pretty dresses, the boys awkward and grinning, school-girls, shop-girls, mis' sykes's em'ly an' abe luck and everybody--they come from all directions that night, i guess, just to see what it was like. "and when they got set down, i realized for the first time that the law and some of the prophets of time to come hung on what kind of a time they had that first night. "while i was thinking that, the music struck into a tune, hurry-up time, and before anybody could think it, there they were on their feet, one couple after another. and when the lilty sound of the dance and the sliding of feet got to going, like magic and as if they had dropped out of the walls, in come them that had been waiting around outside to see what we was really going to do. they come in, and they joined in and in five minutes the floor was full of them. and after being boxed in the house all day, or bottled in shops or polishing windows or mending eaves-troughs or taking photographs of humbly houses or doing i donno what-all that they didn't like, here they were, come after their good time and having it--_and having it_. "mis' toplady was peeking through a crack in the recitation-room door. "'_dancin'!_' she says, with a little groan. 'i donno what my conscience'll say to me about this when it gets me alone.' "'well,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, seeing to the frosting on the ends of her fingers, 'i feel like they'd been pipin' to me for years an' i'd never let 'em dance. an' now they're dancin' up here safe an' light an' with us. an' i'm glad of it, to my marrow.' "'i know,' says mis' toplady, wiping her eyes. 'i donno but _my_ marrow might get use' to it.' "long about ten o'clock, when we'd passed the refreshments and everybody had carried their own plates back and was taking the candy out of the tins, i nudged mis' toplady and we slipped out into the schoolhouse entry and set down on the steps. we'd just heard the through whistle, and we knew the school board iron gate committee was on it, and that they must of seen the schoolhouse lit from 'way acrost the marsh. besides, i was counting on eppleby to march them straight up there. "and so he done. almost before i knew it they stepped out onto us, setting there in the starlight. i stood up and faced them, not from being brave, but from intending to jump _first_. "'silas and timothy,' i says, 'what's done is done, but the consequences ain't. the women's evening vigilance committee that you appointed yourself has tried this thing, and now it's for us all to judge if it works.' "'heh!' says silas, showing his teeth. 'hed a little party, did you? thought you'd get up a little party an' charge it to the board, did you? be su'prised, won't you, when you women get a bill for rent an' light for this night's performance?' "'real surprised,' i says, dry. "'amanda,' pipes up timothy, 'air you a fool party to this fool doin's?' "'oh, shucks!' says mis' toplady, tired. 'i been doin' too real things to row, timothy.' "'nev' mind,' says silas, pacific. 'when the new iron gates gets here for this here entry, we won't have no more such doin's as this. they're ordered,' says silas, like a bombshell, 'to keep out the hoodlums.' "then eppleby, that had been peeking through the schoolhouse window, whirled around. "'yes,' says he. 'let's put up the gates to keep out the hoodlums. but what you going to do for the girls and boys of friendship village that ain't hoodlums? what you goin' to do for them? i want to tell you that i knew all about what was goin' on here to-night, and i give over the schoolhouse key myself. and now you look down there.' "it was friendship village he pointed to, laying all around the schoolhouse slope, little lights shining for homes. and eppleby went on before silas and timothy could get the breath to reply:-- "'the town's nothin' but _roots_, is it?' eppleby says. 'roots, sendin' up green shoots to the top o' this hill to be trained up here into some kind of shape to meet life. what you doin' to 'em? buildin' 'em a great, expensive schoolhouse that they use a few hours a day, part o' the year, an' the rest of the time it might as well be a hole in the ground for all the good it does anybody. an' here's the young folks, that you built it _for_ chasin' the streets to let off the mere flesh-an'-blood energy the lord has give to 'em. put up your iron gates if you want to, but don't put 'em up till the evenin's over an' till there's been some sort o' doin's here like this to give 'em what's their right. put up your iron gates, but shame on the schoolhouse that puts 'em up an' stops there! open the buildin' in the name of public decency, but in the name of public decency, don't shut it up!' "timothy was starting to wave his arms when mis' toplady stood up, quiet, on the bottom step. "'timothy,' she says, 'thirty-five years ago this winter you an' i was keepin' company. do you remember how we done it? do you remember singin' school? do you remember spellin' school? did our straw ridin' an' sleigh ridin' to the caledonia district schoolhouse for our fun ever hurt the schoolhouse, or do you s'pose we ever learnt any the less in it? well, i remember; an' we both remember; an' answer me this: do you s'pose them young things in there is any differ'nt than we was? an' what's the sin an' the crime of what they're doin' now? look at 'em!' "she pushed open the door. but just while we was looking, the music struck up the 'home sweet home' waltz, and they all melted into dancing, the ladies in white aprons standing by the recitation-room doors looking on. "'_dancin'!_' says timothy, shuddering--but looking, too. "'yes,' says amanda, brave as you please, 'ain't it pretty? lots prettier than chasin' up an' down daphne street. what say, timothy?' "eppleby give silas a little nudge. 'le's give it a trial,' he says. 'this is the vigilance committee's idee. le's give it a trial.' "silas stood bitin' the tail of his beard. 'go on to destruction if you want to!' he says. 'i wash my hands of you!' "'so do i,' says timothy, echoish, 'wash mine.' "eppleby took them both by the shoulders. 'well, then, go on inside a minute,' he says to 'em. 'don't let's leave 'em all think we got stole a march on by the women!' "and though it was that argument that made them both let eppleby push them inside, still, when the door shut behind them, i knew there wasn't anything more to worry over. but me--i waited out there in the entry till the waltz was through. and it was kind of like the village down there to the foot of the hill was listening, quiet, to great councils. x "up to proudfit house the conservatory wasn't set aside from everyday living for just a place to be walked through and looked at and left behind for something better. it was a glass regular room, full of green, but not so full that it left you out of account. willow chairs and a family of books and open windows into the other rooms made the conservatory all of a piece with the house, and at one end the tile was let go up in a big you-and-me looking fireplace, like a sort of shrine for fire, i use' to think, in the middle of a temple to flowers, and like both belonged to the household. "on the day of the evening company at proudfit house robin was sitting with a book in this room. i'd gone up that day to do what i could to help out, and to see to christopher some. him i'd put to taking his nap quite awhile before, and i was fussing with the plants like i love to do--it seems as if while i pick off dead leaves and give the roots a drink i was kind of doing their thinking for them. when i heard alex proudfit coming acrost the library, i started to go, but robin says to me, 'don't go, miss marsh,' she says, 'stay here and do what you're doing--if you don't mind.' "'land,' thinks i, turning back to the ferns, 'never tell me that young ladies are getting more up-to-date in love than they use' to be. my day, she would of liked that they should be alone, so be she could manage it without seeming to.' "i donno but i'm foolish, but it always seems to me that a minute like that had ought to catch fire and leap up, like a time by itself. in all the relationships of men and women, it seems like no little commonplace time is so vital as the minute when the man comes into a room where a woman is a-waiting for him. there is about it something of time to be when he'll come, not to gloat over his day's kill, or to forget his day's care, but to talk with her about their day of hardy work. habitual arriving in a room again and again for ever can never quite take off, seems though, the edge of that coming back to where she is.... but somehow, that day, alex proudfit must have stepped through the door before the minute had quite caught fire, and robin merely smiled up at him, calm and idle, from her low chair as he come to a chair beside her. "'tea, robin redbreast,' says he, 'is going to be here in a minute, with magnificent macaroons. but i think that you and i will have it by ourselves. everybody is either asleep or pretending. i'm glad,' he tells her, 'you're the sort that can do things in the evening without resting up for from nine to ten hours preceding.' "'i'm resting now,' robin said; 'this is quite heavenly--this green room.' "he looked at her, eager. 'do you like it?' he asked. 'i mean the room--the house?' "'enormously,' she told him. 'how could i help it?' "'i wanted you to like it,' he says. 'we shall not be here much, you know, but we shall be here sometimes, and i'm glad if you feel the feeling of home, even with all these people about. it's all going very decently for to-night, thanks to mrs. emmons. not a soul that we really wanted has failed us.' "'except mr. insley,' robin says. "'except insley,' alex concedes, 'and i own i can't make him out. not because he didn't come here. but because he seems so enthusiastic about throwing his life away. very likely,' he goes on, placid, 'he didn't come simply because he wanted to come. those people get some sort of mediæval renunciation mania, i believe. robin,' he went on, 'where do you think you would like to live? not to settle down, you know, but for the eternal place to come back to?' "'to come back to?' robin repeated. "'the twentieth century home is merely that, you know,' alex explained. 'we're just beginning to solve the home problem. we've tried to make home mean one place, and then we were either always wanting to get away for a while, or else we stayed dreadfully put, which was worse. but i think now we begin to see the truth: home is nowhere. rather, it is everywhere. the thing to do is to live for two months, three months, in a place, and to get back to each place at not too long intervals. home is where you like to be for the first two weeks. when that wears off, it's home no more. then home is some other place where you think you'd like to be. we are becoming nomadic again--only this time we own the world instead of being at its feet for a bare living. you and i, robin redbreast, are going to be citizens of the whole world.' "robin looked over at him, reflective. and it seemed to me as if the whole race of women that have always liked one place to get in and be in and stay in spoke from her to alex. "'but i've always had a little garden,' she says. "'a little what?' alex asks, blank. "'why, a garden,' she explains, 'to plant from year to year so that i know where things are going to come up.' "she was laughing, but i knew she meant what she said, too. "'my word,' alex says, 'why, every place we take shall have a garden and somebody to grub about in it. won't those and the conservatories do you?' "'i like to get out and stick my hands in the spring-smelly ground,' she explains, 'and to remember where my bulbs are.' "'but i've no objection to bulbs,' alex says. 'none in the world. we'll plant the bulbs and take a run round the world and come back to see them bloom. no?' "'and not watch them come up?' robin says, so serious that they both laughed. "'we want more than a garden can give,' alex says then, indulgent. 'we want what the whole world can give.' "she nodded. 'and what we can give back?' she says. "he leaned toward her, touched along her hair. "'my dear,' he said, 'we've got two of us to make the most of we can in this life: that's you and i. the world has got to teach us a number of things. don't, in heaven's name, let's be trying to teach the wise old world.' "he leaned toward her and, elbow on his knee, he set looking at her. but she was looking a little by him, into the green of the room, and i guess past that, into the green of all outdoors. i got up and slipped out, without their noticing me, and i went through the house with one fact bulging out of the air and occupying my brain. and it was that sitting there beside him, with him owning her future like he owned his own, robin's world was as different from alex's as the world is from the proudfits' conservatory. "i went up to chris, in the pretty, pinky room next to robin's and found him sitting up in bed and pulling the ties out of the down comforter, as hard as he could. i just stood still and looked at him, thinking how eating and drinking and creating and destroying seems to be the native instincts of everybody born. destroying, as i look at it, was the weapon god give us so that we could eat and drink and create the world in peace, but we got some mixed up during getting born and we got to believing that destruction was a part of the process. "'chris,' i says, 'what you pulling out?' "'i donno those names of those,' he says. 'i call 'em little pulls.' "'what are they for?' i ask' him. "'i donno what those are for,' he says, 'but they come out _slickery_.' "ain't it funny? and ain't it for all the world the way nature works, destroying what comes out _slickery_ and leaving that alone that resists her? i was so struck by it i didn't scold him none. "after a while i took him down for tea. on the way he picked up a sleepy puppy, and in the conservatory door we met the footman with the little tea wagon and the nice, drowsy quiet of the house went all to pieces with chris in it:-- "'supper, supper--here comes supper on a wagon, runnin' on litty wheels goin' wound an a-w-o-u-n-d--' says he, some louder than saying and almost to shouting. he sat down on the floor and looked up expectant: 'five lumps,' he orders, not having belonged to the house party for nothing. "'tell us about your day, chris,' robin asks. 'what did you do?' "'it isn't _by_, is it?' chris says, anxious. 'to-day didn't stop yet, did it?' "'not yet,' she reassures him. 'now is still now.' "'i want to-day to keep being now,' chris said, 'because when it stops, then the bed is right there. it don't be anywhere near to-night, is it?' he says. "'not very near,' robin told him. 'well, then, what are you doing to-day?' she asks. "'i'm to the house's party,' he explained. 'the house is having its party. an' i'm to it.' "'do you like this house, dear?' robin asked. "'it's nice,' he affirmed. 'in the night it--it talks wiv its lights. i saw it. with my daddy. when i was off on a big road.' chris looked at her intent, from way in his eyes. 'i was thinkin' if my daddy would come,' he says, patient. "robin stoops over to him, quick, and he let her. he'd took a most tremendous fancy to her, the little fellow had, and didn't want her long out of his sight. 'is that robin?' he always said, when he heard anybody coming from any direction. she give him a macaroon, now, for each hand, and he run away with the puppy. and then she turned to alex, her face bright with whatever she was thinking about. "'alex,' she says, 'he's a dear little fellow--a dear little fellow. and all alone. i've wanted so much to ask you: can't we have him for ours?' "alex looks at her, all bewildered up in a minute. 'how ours?' he asks. 'do you mean have him educated? that, of course, if you really want it.' "'no, no,' she says. '_ours._ to keep with us, bring up, make. let's let him be really ours.' "he just leaned back in the big chair, smiling at her, meditative. "'my dear robin,' he says, 'it's a terrible responsibility to meddle that way with somebody's life.' "she looked at him, not understanding. "'it's such an almighty assumption,' he went on, 'this jumping blithely into the office of destiny--keeping, bringing-up, making, as you say--meddling with, i call it--anybody's life.' "'isn't it really meddling to let him be in a bad way when we can put him in a better one?' she asked, puzzled. "'i love you, robin,' says he, light, 'but not for your logic. no, my dear girl. assuredly we will not take this child for ours. what leads you to suppose that nature really wants him to live, anyway?' "i looked at him over my tea-cup, and for my life i couldn't make out whether he was speaking mocking or speaking plain. "'if chris is to be inebriate, criminal, vicious, even irresponsible, as his father must be,' alex says, 'nature wants nothing of the sort. she wants to be rid of him as quickly as possible. how do you know what you are saving?' "'how do you know,' robin says, 'what you are letting go?' "'i can take the risk if nature can,' he contends. "she sat up in her chair, her eyes bright as the daylight, and i thought her eagerness and earnestness was on her like a garment. "'you have nobody to refer the risk to,' robin says, 'nature has us. and for one, i take it. so far as chris is concerned, alex, if no one claims him, i want him never to be out of touch with me.' "but when a woman begins to wear that garment, the man that's in love with her--unless he is the special kind--he begins thinking how much sweeter and softer and _womaner_ she is when she's just plain gentle. and he always gets uneasy and wants her to be the gentle way he remembers her being--that is, unless he's special, unless he's special. like alex got uneasy now. "'my heavens, dear,' he says--and i judged alex had got to be one of them men that lays a lace 'dear' over a haircloth tone of voice, and so solemnly believes they're keeping their temper--'my heavens, dear, don't misunderstand me. experiment as much as you like. material is cheap and abundant. if you don't feel the responsibility, have him educated wherever you want to. but don't expect me to play father to him. the personal contact is going it a little too strong.' "'that is exactly what he most needs,' says robin. "'come, dear,' says alex, 'that's elemental--in an age when everybody can do things better than one can do them oneself.' "she didn't say nothing, and just set there, with her tea. alex was watching her, and i knew just about as sure what he was thinking as though i had been his own thought, oozing out of his mind. he was watching her with satisfaction, patterned off with a kind of quiet amusement and jabbed into by a kind of worryin' wonder. how exactly, he was thinking, she was the type everlasting of wife. she was girlish, and in little things she was all i'll-do-as-you-say, and she was even shy; he believed that he was marrying a girl whose experience of the world was commendably slight, whose ideas about it was kind of vague--commendably again; and whose ways was easy-handled, like skein silk. by her little firmnesses, he see that she had it in her to be firm, but what he meant was that she should adopt his ideas and turn firm about them. he had it all planned out that he was going to embroider her brain with his notions of what was what. but all of a sudden, now and then, there she was confronting him as she had just done then with a serious, settled look of woman--the woman everlasting, wanting a garden, wanting to work, wanting a child.... "in the doorway back of alex, bayless come in, carrying a tray, but it didn't have no card. "'it's somebody to speak with you a minute, mr. proudfit,' says bayless. 'it's mr. insley.' "'have him come here,' alex says. 'i hope,' he says, when the man was gone, 'that the poor fellow has changed his mind about our little festivities.' "robin sort of tipped up her forehead. 'why _poor_?' she asks. "'poor,' says alex, absent, 'because he lives in a pocket of the world, instead of wearing the world like a garment--when it would fit him.' "i was just setting my tea-cup down when she answered, and i recollect i almost jumped: "'he knows something better to do with the world than to wear it at all,' was what she said. "i looked over at her. and maybe it was because she was sort of indignant, and maybe it was because she thought she had dared quite a good deal, but all of a sudden something sort of seemed to me to set fire to the minute, and it leaped up like a time by itself as we heard insley's step crossing the library and coming towards us.... "when he come out where we were, i see right off how pale he looked. almost with his greeting, he turned to alex with what he had come for, and he put it blunt. "'i was leaving the cadozas' cottage on the plank road half an hour ago,' he said. 'a little way along i saw a man, who had been walking ahead of me, stagger and sprawl in the mud. he wasn't conscious when i got to him. he was little--i picked him up quite easily and got him back into the cadozas' cottage. he still wasn't conscious when the doctor came. he gave him things. we got him in bed there. and then he spoke. he asked us to hunt up a little boy somewhere in friendship village, who belonged to him. and he said the boy's name was chris.' "it seemed like it was to alex proudfit's interested lifting of eyebrows rather than to robin's exclamation of pity that insley answered. "'i'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you,' he says, 'but chris ought to go at once. i'll take him down now.' "'that man,' robin says, 'the father--is he ill? is he hurt? how badly is he off?' "'he's very badly off,' says insley, 'done for, i'm afraid. it was in a street brawl in the city--it's his side, and he's lost a good deal of blood. he walked all the way back here. a few hours, the doctor thought it would be, at most.' "robin stood up and spoke like what she was saying was a take-for-granted thing. "'oh,' she says, 'poor, poor little chris. alex, i must go down there with him.' "alex looks over at her, incredulous, and spoke so: 'you?' says he. 'impossible.' "i was just getting ready to say that of course i'd go with him, if that was anything, when from somewheres that he'd gone with the puppy, chris spied insley, and come running to him. "'oh, you are to the house's party, too!' chris cried, and threw himself all over him. "robin knelt down beside the child, and the way she was with him made me think of that first night when she see him at the church, and when her way with him made him turn to her and talk with her and love her ever since. "'listen, dear,' she said. 'mr. insley came here to tell you something. something about daddy--your daddy. mr. insley knows where he is, and he's going to take you to him. but he's very, very sick, dear heart--will you remember that when you see him? remember robin told you that?' "there come on his little face a look of being afraid that give it a sudden, terrible grown-up-ness. "'sick like my mama was?' he asked in a whisper. 'and will he _go out_, like my mama?' "robin put her arm about him, and he turned to her, clung to her. "'you come, too, robin,' he said. 'you come, too!' "she got up, meeting alex's eyes with her straight look. "'i must go, alex,' she said. 'he wants me--needs me. why, how could i do anything else?' "alex smiles down at her, with his way that always seemed to me so much less that of living every minute than of watching it live itself about him. "'may i venture to remind you,' he says--like a little thin edge of something, paper, maybe, that's smooth as silk, but that'll cut neat and deep if you let it--'may i venture to remind you that your aunt is announcing our engagement to-night? i think that will have escaped your mind.' "'yes,' robin says, simple, 'it had. everything had escaped my mind except this poor little thing here. alex--it's early. he'll sleep after a little. but i must go down with him. what did you come in?' she asked insley, quiet. "i told her i'd go down, and she nodded that i was to go, but chris clung to her hand and it was her that he wanted, poor little soul, and only her. insley had come up in the doctor's rig. she and i would join him with the child, she told him, at the side entrance and almost at once. there was voices in the house by then, and some of the young folks was coming downstairs and up from the tennis-court for tea. she went into the house with chris. and i wondered if she thought of the thing i thought of and that made me glad and glad that there are such men in the world: not once, not once, out of some felt-he-must courtesy, had insley begged her not to go with him. he knew that she was needed down there with chris and him and me--he knew, and he wouldn't say she wasn't. land, land i love a man that don't talk with the outside of his head and let what he means lay cramped somewheres underneath, but that reaches down and gets up what he means, and holds it out, for you to take or to leave. "mis' emmons was overseeing the decorations in the dining room. the whole evening party she had got right over onto her shoulders the way she does everything, and down to counting the plates she was seeing to it all. we found her and told her, and her pity went to the poor fellow down there at the cadozas' almost before it went to chris. "'go, of course,' she said. 'i suppose alex minds, but leave him to me. i've got to be here--but it's not i chris wants in any case. it's you. get back as soon as you can, robin.' "i must say alex done that last minute right, the way he done everything, light and glossy. when robin come down, i was up in the little seat behind the doctor's cart, and alex stood beside and helped her. a servant, he said, would come on after us in the automobile with a hamper, and would wait at the cadozas' gate until she was ready to come back. somehow, it hadn't entered anybody's head, least of all, i guess, alex's own, that he should come, too. he see us off with his manners on him like a thick, thick veil, and he even managed to give to himself a real dignity so that robin said her good-by with a kind of wistfulness, as if she wanted to be reassured. and i liked her the better for that. for, after all, she _was_ going--there was no getting back of that. and when a woman is doing the right thing against somebody's will, i'm not the one to mind if she hangs little bells on herself instead of going off with no tinkle to leave herself be reminded of, pleasant. "we swung out onto the open road, with chris sitting still between the two of them, and me on the little seat behind. the sunset was flowing over the village and glittering in unfamiliar fires on the windows. the time was as still as still, in that hour 'long towards night when the day seems to have found its harbour it has been looking for and to have slipped into it, with shut sails--so still that robin spoke of it with surprise. i forget just what she said. she was one of them women that can say a thing so harmonious with a certain minute that you never wish she'd kept still. i believe if she spoke to me when i was hearing music or feeling lifted up all by myself, i wouldn't mind it. what she'd say would be sure to fit what was being. they ain't many folks in anybody's life like that. i believe she could talk to me any time, sole unless it's when i first wake up in the morning; then any talking always seems like somebody stumbling in, busy, among my sleeping brains. "for a minute insley didn't say anything. i was almost sure he was thinking how unbelievable it was that he should be there, alone with her, where an hour ago not even one of his forbidden dreams could have found him. "'beautifully still,' he answered, 'as if all the things had stopped being, except some great thing.' "'i wonder,' she says, absent, 'what great thing.' and all the time she seemed sort of relaxed, and resting in the sense--though never in the consciousness--that the need to talk and to be talked to, to suggest and to question, had found some sort of quiet, levelling process with which she was moving along, assentin'. "insley stooped down, better to shield her dress from the mud there was. i see him look down at her uncovered hands laying on the robe, and then, with a kind of surprise, up at her face; and i knew how surprising her being near him seemed. "'that would be one thing for you,' he answered, 'and another for me.' "'no,' she says, 'i think it's the same thing for us both.' "he didn't let himself look at her, but his voice--well, i tell you, his voice looked. "'what do you mean?' he says--just said it a little and like he didn't dare trust it to say itself any more. "'why, being able to help in this, surely,' she says. "i could no more of helped watching the two of them than if they had been angels and me nothing but me. i tried once or twice to look off across the fields that was smiling at each other, same as faces, each side of the road; but my eyes come back like they was folks and wanted to; and i set there looking at her brown hair, shining in the sun, without any hat on it, and at his still face that was yet so many kinds of alive. he had one of the faces that looked like it had been cut out just the way it was _a-purpose_. there wasn't any unintentional assembling of features there, part make-shift and part rank growth of his race. no, sir. his face had come to life by being meant to be just the way it was, and it couldn't have been better.... it lit up wonderful when he answered. "'yes,' he said, 'a job is a kind of creation. it's next best to getting up a sunrise. look here,' he remembered, late in the day, 'you'll have no dinner. you can't eat with them in that place. and you ought to have rest before to-night.' "ain't it funny how your voice gets away from you sometimes and goes dilly-nipping around, pretty near saying things on its own account? i use' to think that mebbe my voice didn't belong to the me i know about, but was some of the real me, inside, speaking out with my mouth for a trumpet. i donno but i think so yet. for sometimes your voice is a person and it says things all alone by itself. so his voice done then. the tender concern of it was pretty near a second set of words. it was the first time he had struck for her the great and simple note, the note of the caring of the man for the physical comfort of the woman. and while she was pretending not to need it, he turned away and looked off toward the village, and i was certain sure he was terrified at what might have been in his voice. "'i like to think of it down there,' he said, pretty near at random, 'waiting to be clothed in a new meaning.' "'the village?' she asked. "'everywhere,' he answered. 'some of the meanings we dress things up in are so--dowdy. we wouldn't think of wearing them ourselves.' "she understood him so well that she didn't have to bother to smile. and i hoped she was setting down a comparison in her head: between clothing the world in a new meaning, and wearing it for a garment. "chris looked up in insley's face. "'i'm new,' he contributes, 'i'm new on the outside of me. i've got on this new brown middie.' "'i've been admiring it the whole way,' says insley, hearty--and that time his eyes and robin's met, over the little boy's head, as we stopped at the cottage gate. xi "the lonesome little parlour at mis' cadoza's was so far past knowing how to act with folks in it, that it never changed expression when we threw open the shutters. rooms that are used to folks always sort of look up when the shutters are opened; some rooms smile back at you; some say something that you just lose, through not turning round from the window quite quick enough. but mis' cadoza's parlour was such a poor folkless thing that it didn't make us any reply at all nor let on to notice the light. it just set there, kind of numb, merely enduring itself. "'you poor thing,' i thought, 'nobody come in time, did they?' "insley picked out a cane-seat rocker that had once known how to behave in company, and drew it to the window. ain't it nice, no matter what kind of a dumb room you've got into, you can open its window and fit the sky onto the sill, and feel right at home.... "robin sat there with chris in her arms, waiting for any stir in the front bedroom. i went in the bedroom, while dr. heron told me about the medicine, and it seemed to me the bare floor and bare walls and dark-coloured bedcovers was got together to suit the haggardy unshaven face on the pillow. christopher's father never moved. i set in the doorway, so as to watch him, and insley went with the doctor to the village to bring back some things that was needed. and i felt like we was all the first settlers of somewheres. "chris was laying so still in robin's arms that several times she looked down to see if he was awake. but every time his eyes was wide and dark with that mysterious child look that seems so much like thought. it kind of hurt me to see him doing nothing--that's one of the parts about sickness and dying and some kinds of trouble that always twists something up in my throat: the folks that was so eager and able and flying round the house just being struck still and not able to go on with everyday doings. i know when lyddy ember, the dressmaker, died and i looked at her laying there, it seemed to me so surprising that she couldn't hem and fell and cut out with her thumb crooked like she done--and that she didn't know a dart from a gore; her hands looked so much like she knew how yet. it's like being inactive made death or grief double. and it's like working or playing around was a kind of life.... the whole house seemed inactive and silence-struck, even to the kitchen where mis' cadoza and the little lame boy was. "robin set staring into the lilacs that never seemed to bloom, and i wondered what she was thinking and mebbe facing. but when she spoke, it was about the cadoza kitchen. "'miss marsh,' she says, 'what kind of people must they be that can stay alive in a kitchen like that?' "'pioneers,' i says. 'they's a lot of 'em pioneerin' away and not knowing it's time to stop.' "'but the dirt--' she says. "'what do you expect?' i says. 'they're emergin' out of dirt. but they _are_ emergin'.' "'don't it seem hopeless?' says she. "'oh, i donno,' i says; 'dirt gets to be apples--so be you plant 'em.' "but the cadoza kitchen _was_ fearful. when we come through it, mis' cadoza was getting supper, and she'd woke up nameless smells of greasy things. there the bare table was piled with the inevitable mix-up of unwashed dishes that go along with the mis' cadozas of this world, so that you wonder how they ever got so much crockery together. there the floor wasn't swept, clothes was drying on a line over the stove, spudge was eating his supper on the window-sill, and in his bed in the corner lay little eph, so white and frail and queer-coloured that you felt you was looking on something bound not to last till much after you'd stopped looking. and there was mis' cadoza. when we had come through the kitchen, little eph had said something glad at seeing insley and hung hold of his hand and told him how he meant to model a clay patsy, because it was patsy, the dog, that had gone out in the dark and first brought insley in to see him. "'an' when i'm big,' the child says, 'i'm going to make a clay _you_, mr. insley.' "mis' cadoza had turned round and bared up her crooked teeth. "'don't you be impident!' she had said, raspish, throwing her hand out angular. "mis' cadoza was like somebody that hadn't got outside into the daylight of _yet_. she was ignorant, blind to life, with some little bit of a corner of her brain working while the rest lay stock-still in her skull; unclean of person, the mother to no end of nameless horrors of habit--and her blood and the blood of some creature like her had been poured into that poor little boy, sickly, bloodless, not ready for the struggle. "'_is_ there any use trying to do anything with anybody like that?' says robin. "'_is_ there?' says i, but i looked right straight at christopher. if there wasn't no use trying to do anything with little eph, with his mother out there in the kitchen, then what was the use of trying to do anything with chris, with his father here in the front bedroom? sick will, tainted blood, ruined body--to what were we all saving chris? maybe to misery and final defeat and some awful going out. "'i don't know,' she says, restless. 'maybe alex is right....' "she looked out towards the lilac bushes again, and i knew how all of a sudden they probably dissolved away to be the fine green in the conservatory at proudfit house, and how she was seeing herself back in the bright room, with its summer of leaves, and before the tea wagon, making tea for alex lounging in his low chair, begging her not, in heaven's name, to try to teach the wise old world.... " ... i knew well enough how she felt. every woman in the world knows. in that minute, or i missed my guess, she was finding herself clinging passionate and rebellious to the mere ordered quiet of the life alex would make for her; to the mere outworn routine, the leisure of long days in pretty rooms, of guests and house parties and all the little happy flummery of hospitality, the doing-nothingness, or the nice tasks, of travelling; the joy of sinking down quiet into the easy ways to do and be. something of the sheer, clear, mere self-indulgence of the last-notch conservative was sweeping over her, the quiet, the order, the plain _safety_ of the unchanging, of going along and going along and leaving things pretty much as they are, expecting them to work themselves out ... the lure of all keeping-stillness. and i knew she was wondering, like women do when they're tired or blue or get a big job to do or see a house like the cadozas', why, after all, she shouldn't, in alex's way, make herself as dainty in morals and intellect as she could and if she wanted to 'meddle,' to do so at arm's length, with some of the material that is cheap and abundant--like chris.... "'maybe there isn't any use trying to do anything with chris, either,' i says brutal. 'mebbe nature's way _is_ best. mebbe she knows best when to let them die off.' "robin's arms kind of shut up on the little kiddie. he looked up. "'did you squeeze me on purpose?' he whispered. "she nodded at him. "'what for?' he asks. "'just loving,' she answered. "after that, we sat still for a long time. insley came back with the medicine, and told me what to do if the sick man came to. then he filled and lit the bracket lamp that seemed to make more shadows than light, and then he stopped beside robin--as gentle as a woman over a plant--and asked her if she wanted anything. he come through the room several times, and once him and her smiled, for a still greeting, almost as children do. after a while he come with a little basket of food that he had had abagail put up to the bakery, and we tried to eat a little something, all of us. and all the while the man on the bed lay like he was locked up in some new, thick kind of silence. "when eight o'clock had gone, we heard what i had been expecting to hear--the first wheels and footsteps on the plank road directed towards proudfit house. and insley come in, and went over to robin, and found chris asleep in her arms, and he took him from her and laid him on the sagging brussels couch. "'you must go now,' he says to robin, with his kind of still authority that wan't ordering nor schoolmastery, nor you-do-as-i-say, but was just something that made you want to mind him. 'i'll wake chris and take him in at the least change--but you must go back at once.' "and of course i was going to stay. some of my minds was perfectly willing not to be at the party in any case, and anyhow the rest of them wanted to stay with chris. "insley picked up some little belongings of hers, seeming to know them without being told, and because the time was so queer, and mebbe because death was in the next room, and mebbe for another reason or two, i could guess how, all the while he was answering her friendly questions about the little cadoza boy--all that while the personal, the _personal_, like a living thing, hovered just beyond his words. and at last it just naturally came in and possessed what he was saying. "'i can't thank you enough for coming down here,' he says. 'it's meant everything to chris--and to me.' "she glanced up at him with her pretty near boyish frankness, that had in it that night some new element of confidence and charm and just being dear. "'don't thank me,' she says, 'it was mine to do, too. and besides, i haven't done anything. and i'm running away!' "he looked off up the road towards where, on its hill, proudfit house was a-setting, a-glowing in all its windows, a-waiting for her to come, and to have her engagement to another man announced in it, and then to belong up there for ever and ever. he started to say something--i donno whether he knew what or whether he didn't; but anyhow he changed his mind and just opened the door for her, the parlour door that i bet was as surprised to be used as if it had cackled. "the proudfit motor had stood waiting at the gate all this while, and as they got out to it, dr. heron drove up, and with him was mis' hubbelthwait come to enquire. so robin waited outside to see what dr. heron should say when he had seen chris's father again, and i went to the door to speak to mis' hubbelthwait. "'liquor's what ails him fast enough,' mis' hubbelthwait whispers--mis' hubbelthwait would of whispered in the middle of a forty-acre field if somebody had said either birth or death to her. 'liquor's what ails him. i know 'em. i remember the nice, well-behaved gentleman that come to the hotel and only lived one night after. "mr. elder," i says to him, severe, "you needn't to tell me your stomach ain't one livin' pickle, for i know it is!" an' he proved it by dyin' that very night. if he didn't prove it, i don't know what he did prove. "alcoholism," dr. heron called it, but i know it was liquor killed him. no use dressin' up words. an' i miss my guess if this here poor soul ain't the self-same river to cross.' "she would have come in, but there's no call for the whole town to nurse a sick-bed, i always think--and so she sort of hung around a minute, sympathetic and mum, and then slimpsed off with very little starch to her motions, like when you walk for sick folks. i looked out to where robin and insley was waiting by the big proudfit planet that was going to take her on an orbit of its own; and all of a sudden, with them in front of me and with what was behind me, the awful _good-byness_ of things sort of shut down on me, and i wanted to do something or tell somebody something, i didn't know what, before it was too late; and i run right down to them two. "'oh,' i says, scrabblin' some for my words, 'i want to tell you something, both of you. if it means anything to either of you to know that there's a little more to me, for having met both of you--then i want you to know it. and it's true. you both--oh, i donno,' i says, 'what it is--but you both kind of act like life was a person, and like it wasn't just your dinner to be et.... and i kind of know the person, too....' "i knew what i meant, but meant things and said things don't often match close. and yet i donno but they understood me. anyway, they both took hold of a hand of mine, and said some little broke-off thing that i didn't rightly get. but i guess that we all knew that we all knew. and in a minute i went back in the house, feeling like i'd got the best of some time when i might of wished, like we all do, that i'd let somebody know something while then was then. "when i got inside the door, i see right off by dr. heron's face that there'd been some change. and sure enough there was. chris's father had opened his eyes and had spoke. and i done what i knew robin would have wanted; i wheeled round and went to the door and told her so. "'he's come to,' i says, 'and he's just asked for chris.' "sharp off, robin turned to say something to the man waiting in the automobile. insley tried to stop her, but she put him by. they come back into the cottage together, and the proudfit automobile started steaming back to proudfit house without her. "once again robin roused chris, as she had roused him on the night when he slept on the church porch; she just slipped her hands round his throat and lifted his face, and this time she kissed him. "'come with robin,' she said. "chris opened his eyes and for a minute his little senses come struggling through his sleep, and then with them come dread. he looked up in robin's face, piteous. "'did my daddy _go out_?' he asks, shrill, 'like my mama did?' "'no, no, dear,' robin said. 'he wants you to say good-by to him first, you know. be still and brave, for robin.' "there wasn't no way to spare him, because the poor little figure on the bed was saying his name, restless, to restless movements. i was in there by him, fixing him a little something to take. "'where's chris?' the sick man begged. 'look on the church steps--' "they took chris in the room, and insley lifted him up to robin's knee on the chair beside the bed. "'hello--my nice daddy,' chris says, in his little high voice, and smiles adorable. 'i--i--i was waitin' for you all this while.' "his father put out his hand, awful awkward, and took the child's arm about the elbow. i'll never forget the way the man's face looked. it didn't looked _used_, somehow--it looked all sort of bare and barren, and like it hadn't been occupied. i remember once seeing a brand-new house that had burned down before anybody had ever lived in it, and some of it stuck up in the street, nice new doors, nice hardwood stairway, new brick chimney, and everything else all blackened and spoiled and done for, before ever it had been lived in. that was what chris's father's face made me think of. the outline was young, and the eyes was young--young and burning--but there was the man's face, all spoiled and done for, without ever having been used for a face at all. "'hello, sonny,' he says, weak. 'got a good home?' "'he's in a good home, with good people, mr. bartlett,' insley told him. "'for keeps?' chris's father asks, his eyes burning at insley's over the boy's head. "'we shall look after him somehow, among us,' robin says. 'don't worry about him, mr. bartlett. he's all right.' "the father's look turned toward her and it sort of lingered there a minute. and then it lit up a little--he didn't smile or change expression, but his look lit up some. "'you're the kind of a one i meant,' he says. 'i wanted he should have a good home. i--i done pretty good for you, didn't i, chris?' he says. "chris leaned way over and pulled at his sleeve. 'you--you--you come in our house, too,' he says. "'no, sonny, no,' says the man. 'i guess mebbe i'm--goin' somewheres else. but i done well by you, didn't i? your ma and i always meant you should hev a good home. i'm glad--if you've got it. it's nicer than bein' with me--ain't it? ain't it?' "chris, on robin's knee, was leaning forward on the bed, his hand patting and pulling at his father's hand. "'if you was here, then it is,' the child says. "at that his father smiled--and that was the first real, real look that had come into his face. and he looked around slow to the rest of us. "'i wasn't never the kind to hev a kid,' he says. 'the drink had me--had me hard. i knew i'd got to find somebody to show him--about growin' up. i'm glad you're goin' to.' "he shut his eyes and chris threw himself forward and patted his face. "'daddy!' he cried, 'i wanted to tell you--i had that hot ice-cream an'--an'--an' tea on a litty wagon....' "robin drew him back, hushed him, looked up questioning to insley. and while we all set there, not knowing whether to leave or to stay, the man opened his eyes, wide and dark. "'i wish't it had been different,' he said. 'oh--_god_....' "chris leans right over, eager, towards him. "'didn't he say anything back?' he says. "'i guess so,' the man says, thick. 'i guess if you're a good boy, he did.' then he turned his head and looked straight at robin. 'don't you forget about his throat, will you?' he says. 'it--gets--sore--awful--easy....' "he stopped talking, with a funny upsetting sound in his voice. it struck me then, like it has since, how frightful it was that neither him nor chris thought of kissing each other--like neither one had brought the other up to know how. and yet chris kissed all of us when we asked him--just like something away back in him knew how, without being brought up to know. "he knew how to cry, though, without no bringing up, like folks do. as robin come with him out of the room, chris hid his face in her skirts, crying miserable. she set down by the window with him in her arms, and insley went and stood side of them, not saying anything. i see them so, while dr. heron and i was busy for a minute in the bedroom. then we come out and shut the door--ain't it strange, how one minute it takes so many people around the bed, and next minute, there's the one that was the one left in there all alone, able to take care of itself. "dr. heron went away, and robin still set there, holding chris. all of a sudden he put up his face. "'robin,' he says, 'did--did my daddy leave me a letter?' "'a letter?' she repeated. "'to tell me what to do,' says the child. 'like before. on the church steps.' "'no--why, no, chris,' she answers him. 'he didn't have to do that, you know.' "his eyes was holding hers, like he wanted so much to understand. "'then how'll i know?' he asks, simple. "it seemed to me it was like a glass, magnifying living, had suddenly been laid on life. here he was, in the world, with no 'letter' to tell him what to do. "all she done was just to lay her cheek right close to his cheek. "'robin is going to tell you what to do,' she says, 'till you are big enough to know.' "insley stood there looking at her, and his face was like something had just uncovered it. and the minute seemed real and simple and almost old--as if it had begun to be long, long before. it was kind of as if robin's will was the will of all women, away back for ever and ever in time, to pour into the world their power of life and of spirit, through a child. "insley went out in the kitchen to see mis' cadoza about some arrangements--if 'arrangements' means funerals, it always seems like the word was spelt different and stiffer--and we was setting there in that sudden, awful idleness that comes on after, when there was the noise of an automobile on the plank road, and it stopped to the cottage and alex proudfit come springing up to the front door. he pushed it open and come in the room, and he seemed to put the minute in capitals, with his voice and his looks and his clothes. i never see clothes so black and so white and so just-so as alex proudfit's could be, and that night they was more just-so than usual. that night, his hands, with their thick, strange ring, and his dark, kind of _even_ face was like some fancy picture of a knight and a lover. but his face never seemed to me to be made very much a-purpose and just for him. it was rather like a good sample of a good brand, and like a good sample of any other good brand would have done him just as well. his face didn't fit him inevitable, like a cork to a bottle. it was laid on more arbitrary, like a window on a landscape, and you could have seen the landscape through any other window just as well, or better. "'robin!' he said, 'why did you let the car come back without you? we've been frantic with anxiety.' "she told him in a word or two what had happened, and he received it with his impressions just about half-and-half: one-half relief that the matter was well over and one-half anxiety for her to hurry up. everyone was at the house, everyone was wondering. mrs. emmons was anxious.... 'my poor robin, you've overtaxed your strength,' he ends. 'you'll look worn and not yourself to-night. it's too bad of it. come, for heaven's sake, let's be out of this. come, calliope....' he asked her if she had anything to bring, and he gathered up what she told him was hers. i got ready, too, so's to go up to proudfit house to put chris to bed and set by him awhile. and just as i was going out to let insley know we was leaving, the door to the other room opened and there stood mis' cadoza. i see she'd twisted her hair over fresh and she'd put on a collar. i remember now the way i felt when she spoke. "'i've got the coffee pot on and some batter stirred up,' says she, kind of shame-faced. 'i thought mebbe some hot pan-cakes and somethin' hot to drink'd go good--with mr. insley an' all of you.' "alex started to say something--heaven knows what--but robin went right straight up to mis' cadoza--and afterwards i thought back to how robin didn't make the mistake of being too grateful. "'how i'd like them!' she says, matter-of-fact. 'but i've got a lot of people waiting for me, and i oughtn't to keep them....' "insley spoke up from where he was over on the edge of little eph's bed, and i noticed mis' cadoza had tried to neaten up the kitchen some, and she'd set the table with oil-cloth and some clean dishes. "'i was afraid you'd all stay,' he says, 'and i do want all the pan-cakes. hurry on--you're keeping back our supper.' "he nodded to alex, smiled with us, and come and saw us out the door. mis' cadoza come too, and robin and i shook hands with her for goodnight. and as mis' cadoza stood there in her own door, seeing us off, and going to be hostess out in her own kitchen, i wondered to myself if it was having a collar on, or what it was, that give her a kind of pretty near dignity. "i got in the front seat of the car. chris was back in the tonneau between robin and alex, and as we started he tried to tell alex what had happened. "'my--my--my daddy----' he says. "'poor little cuss,' says alex. 'but how extremely well for the child, robin, that the beggar died. heavens, how i hate your going in these ghastly places. my poor robin, what an experience for _to-night_! for our to-night....' "she made a sudden move, abrupt as a bird springing free of something that's holding it. she spoke low, but i heard every word of it. "'alex,' she said, 'we've made a mistake, you and i. but it isn't too late to mend it now.' xii "'i hope, calliope,' said postmaster silas sykes to me, 'that you ain't in favour of women suffrage.' "'no, silas,' says i, 'i ain't.' "and i felt all over me a kind of a nice wild joy at saying a thing that i knew a male creature would approve of. "silas was delivering the groceries himself that day, and accepting of a glass of milk in my kitchen doorway. and on my kitchen stoop letty ames--that had come home in time for the proudfit party--was a-sitting, a-stitching away on a violet muslin breakfast-cap. it was the next day after the party and my regular wash-day and i was glad to be back in my own house, washing quiet, with emerel daniel to help me. "'at school,' says letty, 'everybody was for it.' "'i know it,' says silas, gloomy. 'the schools is goin' to the dogs, hot-foot. women suffrage, tinkerin' pupils' teeth, cremation--i don't know what-all their holdin' out for. in my day they stuck to 'rithmetic and toed the crack.' "'that isn't up to date, mr. sykes,' says letty, to get silas riled. "it done it. he waved his left arm, angular. "'bein' up to date is bein' up to the devil,' he begun, raspish, when i cut in, hasty and peaceful. "'by the way, silas,' i says, 'speaking of dates, it ain't more'n a _year_ past the time you aldermen was going to clear out black hollow, is it? ain't you going to get it done _this_ spring?' "'oh, dum it, no,' silas says. 'they're all after us now to get to pavin' that new street.' "'that street off there in the marsh. i know they are,' i says innocent. 'your cousin's makin' the blocks, ain't he, silas?' "just then, in from the shed where she was doing my washing come emerel daniel--a poor little thing that looked like nothing but breath with the skin drawn over it--and she was crying. "'oh, miss marsh,' she says, 'i guess you'll have to leave me go home. i left little otie so sick--i hadn't ought to of left him--only i did want the fifty cents....' "'otie!' i says. 'i thought otie was getting better.' "'i've kept sayin' so because i was ashamed to let folks know,' emerel says, 'an' me leavin' him to work. but i had to have the money--' "'land,' i says, 'of course you did. go on home. silas'll take you in the delivery wagon, won't you, silas? you're going right that way, ain't you?' "'i wasn't,' says silas, 'but i can go round that way to oblige.' that's just exactly how silas is. "'emerel,' i says, 'when you go by the hollow, you tell silas what you was tellin' me--about the smells from there into your house. silas,' i says, 'that hole could be filled up with sand-bar sand dirt cheap, now while the river's low, and you know it.' "'woman--' silas begins excitable. "'of course you can't,' i saved him the trouble, 'not while the council is running pavement halfway acrost the swamp to graft off'n the wooden block folks. that's all, silas. i know you, head and heart,' i says, some direct. "'you don't understand city dealin's no more'n--who-a!' silas yells, pretending his delivery horse needed him, and lit down the walk, emerel following. silas reminds me of the place in the atmosphere where a citizen ought to be, and ain't. "emerel had left the clothes in the bluing water, so i stood and talked with letty a minute, stitching away on her muslin breakfast-cap. "'i'd be for women voting just because silas isn't,' she says, feminine. "'in them words,' says i to her, 'is some of why women shouldn't do it. the most of 'em reason,' i says, 'like rabbits!' "letty sort of straightened up and looked at me, gentle. she just graduated from the indian mound school and, in spite of yourself, you notice what she says. 'you're mistaken, miss marsh,' says she, 'i believe in women voting because we're folks and mothers, and we can't bring up our children with men taking things away from 'em that we know they'd ought to have. i want to bring up my children by my votes as well as by my prayers,' says she. "'_your_ children!' says i. "i donno if you've ever noticed that look come in a girl's face when she speaks of her children that are going to be sometime? up to that minute i'd 'a' thought letty's words was brazen. but when i see how she looked when she said it, i sort of turned my eyes away, kind of half reverent. we didn't speak so when i was a girl. the most we ever heard mentioned like that was when our mothers showed us our first baby dress and told us that was for _our_ baby--and then we always looked away, squeamish. "'that's kind of nice,' i says, slow, 'your owning up, out loud that way, that maybe you might possibly have--have one, sometime.' "'my mother has talked to me about it since i began to know--everything,' letty said. "that struck awful near home. "'i always wisht,' i says, 'i'd talked with my mother--like that. i always wisht i'd had her tell me about the night i was born. i think everybody ought to know about that. but i remember when she begun to speak about it, i always kind of shied off. i should think it would of hurt her. but then,' i says, 'i never had any of my own. so it don't matter.' "'oh, yes, you have, miss marsh,' says letty. "i looked at her, blank. "'every child that's born belongs to you,' says letty to me, solemn. "'go on,' says i, to draw her out. 'i wouldn't own most of the little jackanapesses.' "'but you _do_,' says letty, 'and so do i! so does every woman, mother or not.' "she set the little violet muslin cap on her head to try it, and swept up and made me a little bow. pretty as a picture she looked, and ready for loving.... i always wonder if things ain't sometimes arranged to happen in patterns, same as crystals. for why else should it be that at that instant minute young elbert sykes, silas's son, that was home for the party and a little longer, come up to my door with a note from his mother--and see letty in the violet cap, bowing like a rose? "while they was a-talking easy, like young folks knows how to do nowdays, i read the note; and it was about what had started silas to talking suffrage. mis' sykes had opened her house to a suffrage meeting that evening, and mis' martin lacy from the city was a-going to talk, and would i go over? "'land, yes,' i says to elbert. 'tell her i'll come, just for something to do. i wonder if i can bring letty, too?' "'mother'd be proud, i know,' says elbert, looking at her like words, and them words a-praising. they had used to play together when they was little, but school had come in and kind of made them over. "'_so_,' says he to letty, bantering, 'you're in favour of women voting, are you?' "she broke off her thread and looked up at him. "'of course i am,' she says, giving a cunning little kitten nod that run all down her shoulders. "'so you think,' says elbert, 'that you're just as strong as i am--to carry things along? mind you, i don't say as clever. you're easily that. but put it at just _strong_.' "she done the little nod again, nicer than the first time. "'you talk like folks voted with their muscles,' says she. 'well, i guess some men do, judging by the results.' "he laughed, but he went on. "'and you think,' he says, 'that you would be just as wonderful in public life as you would be in your home--your very own home?' "letty put the last stitch in her muslin cap and she set it on her head--all cloudy and rose-budded, and land, land, she was lovely when she looked up. "'surely,' she says from under the ruffle, with a little one-cornered smile. "he laughed right into her eyes. 'i don't believe you think so,' he says, triumphant. and all of a sudden there come a-sticking up its head in his face the regular man look--i can't rightly name it, but every woman in the world knows it when she sees it--a kind of an _i'm the one of us two but don't let's stop pretending it's you_ look. "when she see it, what do you suppose letty done? first she looked down. then she blushed. then she shrugged up one shoulder and laughed, sort of little and low and soft. _and she kept still._ she was about as much like the dignified woman that had just been talking to me about women's duty as a bow of blue ribbon is like my work apron. and as plain as the blue on the sky, i see that _she liked the minute when she let elbert beat her--liked it_, with a sort of a glow and a quiver. "he laughed again, and, 'you stay just the the way you are,' he says, and he contrived to make them common words sort of flow all over her like petting. "that evening, when we marched into the sykes's house to the meeting, he spoke to her like that again. the men was invited to the meeting, too, but mis' sykes let it be known that they needn't to come till the coffee and sandwiches, thus escaping the speech. mis' sykes ain't in favour of suffrage, but she does love a new thing in town, and mis' martin lacy was so well dressed and so soft-spoken that mis' sykes would of left her preach foot-binding in her parlour if she'd wanted to. mis' sykes is like that. letty was about the youngest there, and she was about the prettiest i 'most ever saw; and when he'd got them all seated, young elbert sykes, that was the only man there, just naturally gravitated over and set down by her, like the lord meant. i love to see them little things happen, and i never smile at them, same as some. because it's like i got a peek in behind the curtain and see the eternal purpose working away, quiet and still. "well, mis' lacy, she talked, and she put things real sane and plain, barring i didn't believe any of what she said. and pretty soon i stopped trying to listen and i begun thinking about emerel daniel. i'd been down to see her just before supper, and i hadn't had her out of my head much of the time since. emerel's cottage wasn't half a block from black hollow, the great low place beyond the river road that the town used as a dump. it was full of things without names, and take it on a day with the wind just right, emerel had to keep her window shut on that side of her house. water was standing in the hollow all the whole time. flies and mosquitoes come from it by the flock and the herd. and when i'd held my nose and scud past it that afternoon to get to emerel's, i'd almost run into dr. heron, just coming out from seeing otie, and i burst right out with my thoughts all over him, and asked him if black hollow wasn't what was the matter with otie and if it wasn't all that was the matter with him. "'unquestionably,' says dr. heron. 'i told mrs. daniel six months ago that she must move.' "'well,' says i, 'not having any of her other country homes open this year, emerel had to stay where she was. and otie with her. but what did you say to the council about filling in the hole?' "'the council,' says dr. heron, 'is paving the county swamp. there's a good crop of wooden blocks this year.' "'true enough,' says i, grim, 'and otie is a-paying for it.' "that was exactly how the matter stood. and all the while mis' lacy was a-talking her women suffrage, i set there grieving for emerel, and wondering how it was that silas sykes and timothy toplady and jimmy sturgis and even eppleby holcomb, that belonged to the common council, _could_ set by and see otie die, and more or less of the rest of us in the same kind of danger. "next i knew, mis' lacy, that was all silky movements and a sweet voice, had got through her own talk and was asking us ladies to express ourselves. everybody felt kind of delicate at first, and then libby liberty starts up and spoke her mind:-- "'_i_ believe all you've been a-saying,' she says, 'and i hev for twenty years. i never kill a hen without i realize how good the women can do a human being's work if they're put to it.' "'i always think of that, too,' says mis' hubbelthwait, quick, 'about the hotel....' she kind of stopped, but we all knew what she meant. threat is seldom if ever sober, especially on election day; but he votes, and she only runs the hotel and keeps them both out of the poorhouse. "'well, look at me,' says abagail arnold, 'doin' work to oven and to counter, an' can't get my nose near nothin' public but my taxes.' "'of course,' says mis' uppers, rocking, 'i've almost _been_ the mayor of friendship village, bein' his wife, so. an' i must say he never done a thing i didn't think i could do. or less it was the junketin' trips. i'd 'a' been down with one o' my sick headaches on every one o' them.' "'men _know_ more,' admitted mis' fire chief merriman, 'but i donno as they can _do_ any more than us. when the fire chief was alive an' holdin' office an' entertaining politicians, i use' often to think o' that, when i had their hot dinner to get.' "'i s'pose men do know more than we do,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, reflective. 'i know eppleby is lightnin' at figures, an' he can tell about time-tables, an' he sees sense to fine print parts o' the newspapers that looks like so many doctors' prescriptions to me. an' yet honestly, when it comes to some questions of sense, i've known eppleby not to have any.' "'jimmy, either,' says mis' sturgis, confidential. 'i donno. i've thought about that a good deal. it seems as if, if we got the chance, us women might not vote brilliant at first, but we would vote with our sense. the sense that can pick out a pattern and split a receipt, an' dress the children out o' the house money. i bet there's a lot o' that kind o' sense among women that don't get used up, by a long shot.' "mis' timothy toplady drew her shawl up her back, like she does. "'well-a,' she says, 'timothy's an awful good husband, but when i see some of the things he buys for the house, an' the way he gets took in on real estate, i often wonder if he's such a good citizen as he lets on.' "i kep' a-wondering why letty didn't say something, and by and by i nudged her. "'go on, speak up,' i intimated. "and, same time, i heard elbert sykes, on the other side, say something to her, low. 'i could tell them,' he says to her, 'that to look like you do is better than being elected!' "and letty--what do you s'spose?--she just glanced up at him, and made a little kind of a commenting wrinkle with her nose, and looked down and kept her silence. just like he'd set there with a little fine chain to her wrist. "we talked some more and asked some questions and heard mis' lacy read some, and then it was time for the men. they come in together--six or eight of them, and most of them, as it happened, members of the common council. and when mis' sykes had set them down on the edge of the room, and before anybody had thought of any remark to pass, mis' lacy she spoke up and ask' the men to join in the discussion, and called on mis' sykes, that hadn't said nothing yet, to start the ball a-rolling. "'_well_,' says mis' sykes, with her little society pucker, 'i must say the home and bring-up my children seems far, far more womanly to me than the tobacco smoke and whiskey of public life.' "she glanced over to the men, kind of with a way of arching her neck and they all gave her a sort of a little ripple, approving. and with this mis' toplady kind of tossed her head up. "'oh, well, i don't want the responsibility,' she says. 'land, if i was a votin' woman, i should feel as if i'd got bread in the pan and cake in the oven and clothes in the bluin' water all the whole time.' "'he, he, he!' says timothy, her lawful lord. and silas and jimmy sturgis and the rest joined in, tuneful. "then mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, she vied in, and done a small, careless laugh. "'oh, well, me, too,' she says, 'i declare, as i get older an' wake up some mornin's i feel like life was one big breakfast to get an' me the hired girl. if i had to vote besides, i donno what i _would_ do.' "'an',' says mis' hubbelthwait, 'i always feel as if a politician was a disgrace to be, same as an actor, _unless_ you got to be a big one. an' can us women ever be big ones even if we want? which i'm sure i don't want,' she says, sidling a look towards the men's row. "'oh, not only that,' says abagail arnold, 'but you'd feel so kind of sheepish votin' for the president, away off there in washington. i always feel terrible sheepish even prayin' for him, let alone votin'--an' like it _couldn't_ make no real difference.' "'oh, an' _ladies_!' says mis' mayor uppers, 'really it's bad enough to have been the wife of a mayor. if i had to vote an' was in danger of coming down with a nomination for somethin' myself, i couldn't get to sleep nights.' "'mercy,' said mis' fire chief merriman, 'a mayor is nothin' but a baby in public life compared to a fire chief. a mayor gets his night's rest. could a woman ever chase to fires at three o'clock in the mornin'? an' if she votes, what's to prevent her bein' elected to some such job by main strength?' "'or like enough get put on a jury settin' on a murderer, an' hev to look at dug-up bones an' orgins,' says mis' sturgis--her that's an invalid and gloomy by complexion. "and one and all, as they spoke, they looked sidewise to the men for their approval. and they got it. "'that's the ticket!' says timothy toplady, slapping his knee. 'i tell you, gentlemen, we've got a nice set of women folks here in this town. they don't prostitute their brains to no fool notions.' "there was a little hush, owing to that word that timothy had used kind of uncalled for, and then a little quick buzz of talk to try to cover it. and in the buzz i heard elbert saying to letty: "'you _know_ you think of yourself in a home afterward--and not around at polls and things, letty.' "'you don't have to board at the polls because you vote there, you know,' letty said; but she says it with a way, with a way. she said it like a pretty woman talking to a man that's looking in her eyes and thinking how pretty she is, and she knows he's thinking so. and you can't never get much real arguing done that way. "it always kind of scares me to see myself showed up--and now it was like i had ripped a veil off the whole sex, and off me, too. i see us face to face. why was it that before them men had come in, the women had all talked kind of doubtful and suffrage-leaning, and then had veered like the wind the minute the men had come on the scene? mis' toplady had defied timothy time after time, both public and private; mis' hubbelthwait bosses her husband not only drunk but sober; mis' sturgis don't do a thing jimmy wants without she happens to want it too--and so on. yet at the mention of this one thing, these women that had been talking intelligent and wondering open-minded had all stopped being the way they was and had begun to say things sole to please the men. even libby liberty had kept still--her that has a regular tongue in her head. and letty, that believed in it all, and had talked to me so womanly that morning, she was listening and blushing for elbert and holding her peace. and then i remembered, like a piece of guilt, sensing that nice, wild feeling i myself had felt that morning a-denying woman suffrage in the presence of postmaster silas sykes. what in creation ailed us all? "_what in creation...._ them words sort of steadied me. it looked to me like it was creation itself that ailed us yet. creation is a thing that it takes most folks a good while to recover from.... " ... i remembered seeing silas's delivery boy go whistling along the street one night, and pass a cat. the cat wasn't doing nothing active. it was merely idle. but the boy brought up a big shingle he was carrying and swished it through the air and says 'z-t-t-t-t,' to the cat's heels, to see the cat take to them--which it done--like the cat immemorial has done for immemorial boys, delivery and other. and once, at dusk, a big, strange man with a gun on his shoulder passed me on daphne street, and when he done so, he says to me 'z-t-t-t,' under his breath, just like the boy to the cat, and just like the untamed man immemorial has said when he got the chance. it seemed to me like men was created with, so to say, a shingle and a gun, for the hunting, and just as there is joy in their hunting, so there is a palpitatin' delight in being hunted and flattered by being caught and bound, hand and foot and mind. "'we like it--why, i tell you, we like it,' i says to myself, 'and us here in mis' sykes's parlour are burning with the old original, left-over fire, breathed at creation into women's breasts!' "and it seemed like i kind of touched hands with all the women that used to be. and i looked over to that row of grinning, tired men, not so very much dressed up, and i thought:-- "'why, you're the men of this world and we're the women, and there ain't no more thrilling fact in this universe. and why don't we all reco'nize it and shut up?' "that was what i was thinking over in my mind while mis' martin lacy said good night to us and rushed off to catch her train for the city, hoping she had made us see some light. that was what i was still going over when mis' sykes called me to help with the refreshments. and then, just as i started out to the kitchen, the outside door that was part open was pushed in and somebody come in the room. it was emerel daniel, in calico and no hat. and as soon as we see her face, everybody stopped talking and stared. she was white as the table-cloth and shaking. "'oh, ladies,' she says, 'won't one of you come down to the house? otie's worse--i donno what it is. i donno what to do to take care of him.' "she broke down, poor, nervous little thing, and sort of swallowed her whole throat. and mis' toplady and we all rushed right over to her. "'why, emerel,' mis' toplady says, 'i thought otie was getting ever so much better. is it the real typhoid, do you s'pose?' she ask' her. "emerel looked over to me. 'isn't it?' she says. and then i spoke right up with all there is to me. "'yes, sir,' i says, 'it is the real typhoid. and if you want to know what's giving it to him, ladies and gentlemen, ask the common council that's setting over there by the wall. dr. heron says that black hollow, that's a sink for the whole town, give it to him, and that nothing else did--piled full of diseases right in back of emerel's house. and if you want to know who's responsible for his dying if he dies,' i says right out, 'look over in the same direction to the men that wouldn't vote to fill in the black hollow with sand because they needed the money so bad for paving up half the county swamp.' "it was most as still in the room as when timothy had said 'prostitute.' all but me. i went right on--nothing could of kept me still then. "'us ladies,' i says, 'has tried for two years to get the council to fill in that hole. we've said and said what would happen to some of us, what with our pumps so near the place, and what with flies from it visiting our dinner-table dishes, sociable and continual. what did you say to us? you said women hadn't no idee of town finances. mebbe we ain't--mebbe we ain't. but we have got some idea of town humanity, if i do say it, that share in it. and this poor little boy has gone to work and proved it.' "with that, emerel, who had been holding in--her that's afraid even to ask for starch if you forget to give it to her--she broke right down and leaned her head on her arm on the clock shelf:-- "'oh,' she says, 'all the years i been giving him his victuals and his bath and sewing his clothes up, i never meant it to come to this--for no reason. if otie dies, i guess he needn't of--that's the worst. he needn't of.' "mis' toplady put her arm right around emerel and kind of poored her shoulder in that big, mother way she's got--and it was her that went with her, like it's always mis' toplady that does everything. and us ladies turned around and all begun to talk at once. "'let's plan out right here about taking things in to emerel,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss. 'i've got some fresh bread out of the oven. i'll carry her a couple of loaves, and another couple next baking or two.' "'i'll take her in a hen,' says libby liberty, 'so be she'll kill it herself.' "somebody else said a ham, and somebody some butter, and libby threw in some fresh eggs, if she got any. mis' hubbelthwait didn't have much to do with, but she said she would take turns setting up with otie. mis' sykes give a quarter--she don't like to bake for folks, but she's real generous with money. and silas pipes in:-- "'emerel can have credit to the store till otie begins to get better,' he said. 'i ain't been lettin' her have it. she's looked so peaked i been afraid she wan't a-goin' to be able to work, an' i didn't want she should be all stacked up with debts.' "but me, i set there a-thinking. and all of a sudden i says out what i thought: 'ladies,' i says, 'and all of you: what to emerel is hens and hams and credit? they ain't,' i says, 'nothing but patches and poultices on what's the trouble up to her house.' "eppleby holcomb, that hadn't been saying much, spoke up:-- "'i know,' he says, 'i know. you mean what good do they do to the boy.' "'i mean just that,' i says. 'what good is all that to otie that's lying over by black hollow? and how does it keep the rest of the town safe?' "'well,' says silas, eager, 'let's us get out the zinc wagon you ladies bought, and let's us go to collectin' the garbage again so that won't all be dumped in black hollow. and leave the ladies keep on payin' for it. it's real ladies' work, i think, bein' as it's no more'n a general scrapin' up of ladies' kitchens.' "then letty ames, that hadn't been saying anything, spoke up, to nobody in particular:-- "'otie's a dear little soul,' she said, 'a dear little soul!' "'ain't he?' says marne holcomb. 'eppleby 'most always has a nut or somethin' in his pocket to give him as he goes by. he takes it like a little squirrel an' like a little gentleman.' "'he's awful nice when he comes in the shop,' said abagail. 'he looks at the penny-apiece kind and then buys the two-for-a-cent, so's to give his mother one.' "'he knows how to behave in a store,' silas admitted. 'i 'most always give him a coffee-berry, just to see him thank me.' "'he come into the hotel one day,' says mis' hubbelthwait, 'an' stood by me when i was bakin'. i give him a little wad of dough to roll.' "'i let him drive the 'bus one day, settin' on my knee,' says jimmy sturgis. 'he was a nice, careful, complete little cuss.' "eppleby holcomb nodded with his eyes shut. "'we don't like folks to swing on our front gate,' he says. 'he done it, but he marched right in and told us he'd done it. i give him a doughnut--an' he's kep' right on swingin' an' ownin' up an' eatin' doughnuts.' "'even when he chased my chickens,' says libby liberty, 'he chased 'em like a little gentleman--_towards_ the coop an' not down the road. i always noticed that about him.' "'yes,' says letty, again, 'he's a dear little soul. _what makes us let him die?_' "she said it so calm that it caught even my breath--and my breath, in these things, ain't easy caught. but i got it right back again, and i says:-- "'yes, sir. he was on the way to being somebody that friendship village could have had for the right kind of an inmate. and now he'll be nothing but a grave, that's no good to anybody. and sodality,' i couldn't help adding, 'will likely pitch right in and take care of his grave, tasteful.' "and when i said that, it come over me how emerel had dressed him and bathed him and made his clothes, and done washings, tireless, to get the fifty cents--besides bringing him into the world, tedious. and now it was all going for nothing, all for nothing--when we could of helped it. and i plumped out with what i'd said that morning to silas:-- "'why don't you fill up black hollow with sand-bar sand out of the river, now it's so low? then, even if it's too late for otie, mebbe we can keep ourselves from murderin' anybody else.' "them half a dozen men of the common council set still a minute, looking down at mis' sykes's parlour ingrain. and i looked over at them, and my heart come up in my throat and both of them ached like the toothache. because all of a sudden it seemed to me it wasn't just timothy and eppleby and silas and some more of the council setting there by the wall--but it was like, in them few men, tired and not so very well dressed, was setting the lawmakers of the whole world; and there in front of them, wasn't only mis' holcomb and libby and letty and me, but emerel daniel, too, and all the women there is--saying to them: 'my land, we've dressed 'em an' bathed 'em an' sewed for 'em an' brought 'em into the world, tedious. let 'em live--fix things so's they can live an' so's it needn't all go for nothin'.' and i sort of bubbled up and spilled over, as if everything we was all of us _for_ had come up in my throat. "'oh, folks,' i says, 'just look what us in this room could have done for otie--so be we'd begun in time.' "right like a dash of cold water into my face, mis' sykes spoke up, cold as some kind of death:-- "'well, ladies,' she says, 'i guess we've got our eyes open now. _i_ say that's what we'd ought to hev been doin' instead o' talkin' women votin',' she says, triumphant. "then somebody spoke again, in a soft, new, not-used-to-it little voice, and in her chair over beside elbert, letty ames leaned forward, and her eyes was like the sunny places in water. "'don't you see,' she says, 'don't you see, mis' sykes, that's what mis' lacy meant?' "'how so?' says mis' sykes, short. "i'll never forget how sweet and shy and unexpected and young letty looked, but she answered, as brave as brave:-- "'otie daniel is sick,' she said, 'and all us women can do is to carry him broth and bread and nurse him. it's only the men that can bring about the things to make him well. and they haven't done it. it's been the women who have been urging it--and not getting it done. wasn't it our work to do, too?' "i see elbert looking at her--like he just couldn't bear to have her speak so, like some men can't. and i guess he spoke out in answer before he meant to:-- "'but let them do it womanly, letty,' he said, 'like your mother did and my mother did.' "letty turned and looked elbert sykes straight in the face:-- "'_womanly!_' she says. 'what is there womanly about my bathing and feeding a child inside four clean walls, if dirt and bad food and neglect are outside for him? will you tell me if there is anything more womanly than my right to help make the world as decent for my children as i would make my own home?' "i looked at letty, and looked; and i see with a thrill i can't tell you about how letty seemed. for she seemed the way she had that morning on my kitchen stoop, when she spoke of her children and when i felt like i'd ought to turn away--the way i'd used to when my mother showed me my baby dress and told me who it would be for. only now--only now, somehow, i didn't want to turn away. somehow i wanted to keep right on looking at letty, like elbert was looking. and i see what he see. how letty was what she'd said that morning that she was--and that i was--and that we all was: a mother, then and there, whether she ever had any children or not. and she was next door to owning up to it right there before them all and before elbert. we didn't speak so when i was a girl. we didn't own up, out loud, that we ever thought anything about what we was for. but now, when i heard letty do it.... " ... now, when i heard letty do it, all to once, i looked into a window of the world. and instead of touching hands like i had with the women that use' to be, i looked off and off down all the time there's going to be, and for a minute i touched, tip-fingers, the hands of the other women that's coming towards me; and out of places inside of me that i didn't know before had eyes, i see them, mothers to the whole world, _inside their four walls and out_. and they wasn't coming with poultices and bread and broth in their hands, to patch up what had been left undone; nor with the keys to schoolhouses that they'd got open by scheming; nor with newspapers full of health that they'd had to run down back alleys to sell; nor national holidays that they'd got a-hold of through sheer accident; nor yet with nice new headstones for cemetery improvements on the dead and gone--no, sir, their hands wasn't occupied with any of these ways of serving that they'd schemed for and stole. but their hands--was in men's hands, closer and nearer than they'd ever been before. and their eyes was lit up with a look that was a new look, and that give new life to the old original left-over blaze. and i looked across to that row of tired men, not so very much dressed up, and i thought:-- "'you're the men of this world and we're the women. and there ain't no more thrilling fact in this universe, save one, _save one_: and that's that we're all human beings. that your job and ours is to make the world ready for the folks that are to come, and to make the folks that come fit to live in that new world. and yet over there by black hollow one of our children is dying from something that was your job _and_ ours to do, and we didn't take hold of hands and do it!' "'oh, letty!' i says out. 'and silas and all of you! let's pretend, just for a minute, that we was all citizens and equal. and let's figure out things for otie, just like we had the right!' "i'd asked letty to spend the night with me, and elbert walked home with us. and just as we got there, he says to her again:-- "'oh, letty--you ain't _strong_ enough to help carry things along!' "'you've got more strength,' she says to him, 'and more brains. but it isn't so much the strength or the brains in women that is going to help when the time comes. it's the--mother in them.' "and i says to myself:-- "'and it's the--_human beingness_ of them.' but letty didn't know that yet. "elbert answered, after a minute:-- "'you may be right and you may be wrong, but, letty, letty, what a woman you are!' "and at that letty looked up at him, just as she had looked at him that morning--just for a minute, and then she dipped down the brim of her big hat. i donno what she answered him. i didn't care. i didn't care. for what i see was the old wild joy of a woman in being glorified by a male creature. and i knew then, and i know now, that that won't never die, no matter what. "elbert put out his hand. "'good night, letty,' he said. "she gave him hers, and he closed over it light with his other hand. "'may i see you to-morrow?' he asked her. "'oh, i don't know,' said letty. 'come and see if i'll see you--will you?' "he laughed a little, looking in her eyes. "'at about eight,' he promised. 'good night....' "i got the key out from under the mat to a tune inside me. because i'd heard, and i knew that letty had heard, that tone in elbert's voice that is the human tone--i can't rightly name it, but every woman in the world knows it when she hears it--a tone that says: _if i have my way, you and i are going to live out our lives together_. "and i knew then, and i know now, that that tone won't ever die, either. and some day, away off in a new world right here on this earth, i believe there's going to be a wilder joy in being men and women than all the men and women up to now have ever lived or dared or dreamed. xiii "'miss marsh,' says christopher. "mis' emmons's living-room was like a cup of something cool, and i set there in the after-supper light having such a nice rested time drinking it in that at first i didn't hear him. "'miss marsh,' he says again, and pulled at my dress. i put out my hand to him and he took it. sometimes i donno but hands are a race of beings by themselves that talk and answer and do all the work and act like slaves and yet really rule the world. "'is it me telling my feet where to go or do they tell me where i go?' asked christopher. "'you can have it either way you want,' i told him. 'some does one way and some does the other. which way do you like?' "he thought for a minute, twisting on one foot with the other up in his hand. "'i'd like 'em to know how without our sayin' so,' he announces finally. "'well,' i says, 'i left out that way. that's really the best way of all.' "he looked at me eager. "'is it a game?' he says. "'yes,' i told him. "'what's its name?' he ask' me. "'game of life,' i told him again. "he thought about it, still twisting. then he done one of his littlest laughs, with his head turned away. "'my feet heard you,' he says. 'now they know how to play.' "'i hope so, christopher,' says i, and kissed him on the back of his neck. that made him mad, like it usually done. "'my neck is my neck,' says he, 'and it's shut in my collar. it ain't home to-day.' "'is your mouth home?' i ask' him. "and it was. "i could of set there talking with him all evening, but not on the night of sodality's annual. i'd stopped by for mis' emmons. she was getting ready, and while i waited i could hear folks passing on their way to the schoolhouse where the meeting was. for the town was all het up about what the meeting was going to do. "i'd seen half-dozen or so of us that afternoon when we was putting plants on the hall platform, and we'd all spoke our minds. "'i'm gaspin',' observed mis' sturgis, 'to take a straw vote of us on this amendin' business. near as i can make out, it's going through.' "'near as i can make out,' says marne holcomb, 'a good deal more than amending is going on here to-night. it looks to me as if sodality was just going to get into its own cemetery and be forgot, and as if something else was coming to meet us--something big!' "mis' toplady spoke up, comfortable, down on her knees putting green paper on the pots. "'well, my land!' she says, 'i've noticed two-three things in my lifetime. and one is, that do what whoever will, things do change. and so whenever a new change pops up, i always think: "oh, i guess you're comin' along anyway. i donno's i need to help." an' yet somethin' in me always prances to pitch in, too.' "timothy was there, occupying himself with the high places us ladies couldn't get up to. "'well,' says he, 'if folks stop dying, like sodality evidently intends they shall if it goes out of business, maybe you'll stay home some, amandy, and not always be off laying folks out.' "'i know it,' mis' toplady returns, 'i've laid out most everybody i know, and of course i'm real glad to do it. but the last dead's hair i done up, i caught myself thinking how much more interesting it'd be if they was alive an' could find fault. doin' for the dead gets kind of monotonous, _i_ think.' "'_i_ don't,' says timothy, decided. 'the minute you work for the living, you get all upset with being criticised. i s'pose the dead would find fault, if they could, over the way you cut the grass for 'em. but they can't an' so there's an end to it, an' we get along, peaceful. if they was living folks layin' there, you can bet they'd do some back talk.' "'well,' says i, 'i've been sick of sodality for years. but it was about the most what-you-might-call society i had, and i hated to give it up.' "'me, either,' says mame holcomb. "'me, either,' says mis' uppers. 'i declare i've often said i wouldn't know what _to_ do if folks stopped dyin' so's sodality would have to close out.' "mis' sykes was setting watching the rest of us. "'well,' she observes, cold, 'if i was usin' the dead to keep in society, i donno's i'd own it up.' "silas sykes had just come over from the store to see if there was anything he could meddle in. "'heh!' says he, showing his teeth. 'not many of sodality, as i can see, _deserves_ to die and be done for, civilized.' "'don't you worry yourself, silas sykes,' says i, 'we're going to be done things for before we die hereafter, and more civilized than ever you dreamed of, all up and down your ledger. that's where you do dream, ain't it, silas?' i says. and though i said it gay, i meant it frank. "i remember i looked off down the room, and all of a sudden i see it as it would be that night, packed with folks. somehow, we'd got to saying less about the sodality part of the meeting, and more about the _open_ part. most of the town would be there. we'd got the school board to leave us announce the second party for that night, following the meeting, and music was coming, and us ladies had froze the ice-cream, and the whole time reminded me of a big bud, flowered slow and bursting sudden. "'land, land,' i says, fervent, 'i feel like friendship village was a person that i was going to meet to-night for the first time.' "'you express yourself so odd sometimes, calliope,' says mis' sykes, distant--but mis' toplady and mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, they both looked up and nodded, and they knew. "i set holding christopher in mis' emmons's living-room, and thinking about this and most everything else, when i looked out and see insley going along. he hadn't been back in town since christopher's father's funeral, two days before, and i'd been wanting to talk over with him a thing or two that was likely to come up at the meeting, that of course he was going to be at, and that had to be handled with thimbles on every finger, or somebody'd get pricked. so i rapped smart on the upper sash and called to him through the screen, but not before i had seen the look on his face. i've caught that special look only once or twice in my life--the look of somebody passing the house that is different to them from all other houses in the world. the look that wants to be a look and won't let itself be, that tries to turn the other way and can't start, that thinks it's unconscious and knows it isn't, and that finally, with insley, give it up and looked mis' emmons's house straight in the face for a minute, as if he might anyhow let himself have that much intimacy. "i had a little list of things i wanted to see go through that night. enough of us was ready to have sodality perform its last cemetery rite and bury itself so that that was pretty sure to go through, but i wanted more than that, and several of us ladies did; and it looked to me like the schoolhouse and the young folks and the milk and the meat of this town could be done nice things to, so be we managed the meeting right. i even had a wild dream that the whole new society might adopt christopher. well, i donno why that's funny. it ain't funny when a club makes a building or a play or a bazaar or a dinner. why shouldn't it make a man? "i told some of this to insley, and he caught fire and lit up into a torch and had it all thought out beforehand, better than i could of dreamed it. but he made me feel bad. haunted folks--folks haunted by something that was and that isn't--always makes me feel bad. how is it possible, i see he was asking himself the old, wore-out question, to drive out of the world something that is the world? "while we talked, christopher went off to sleep in my arms, and even while i was so interested, i was enjoying the change that comes--the head growing heavier and heavier on my arm, as if sleep weighed something. "'poor little kiddie,' i says, stupid. "'rich little kiddie,' insley says, wistful. "'dear little kiddie,' says somebody else. "in the dining room doorway robin stood--in a doorway as we had first seen her. "'put him over here on the couch, do,' she says. 'it's much too hot to hold him, calliope.' "she'd called me that at mr. bartlett's funeral, and i recollect how my throat went all over me when she done so. ain't it funny about your own first name? it seems so _you_ when somebody nice says it for the first time--more you than you ever knew you were. "insley lifted chris in his arms to do as she said, and then stood staring at her across the child. "'i've been thinking,' he said, blunt--it's like watching the sign of folks to watch the different kind of things that makes them blunt. 'it's not my affair, but do you think you ought to let chris get so--so used to you? what will he do when you're--when you go away?' "at this she said nothing for a moment, then she smiled up at him. "'i meant what i told him that night his father died,' she answered. 'i'm going to keep chris with me, always.' "'always?' he stared at her, saw her face mean what she said. 'how fine of you! how fine of mr. proudfit!' said insley. "she waited just a breath, then she met his eyes, brave. "'not fine of me,' she says--'only fine for me. and not--mr. proudfit at all. i ought to take back what i told you--since i did tell you. that is not going to be.' "i don't think insley meant for a minute to show any lack of formal respect for christopher's sleep. but what insley did was simply to turn and sit him down, bolt upright, on my lap. then he wheeled round, trying to read her face. "'do you mean you aren't going to marry him?' he demanded, rough--it's like watching another sign of folks to watch for the one thing that will make one or another rough. "'we are not going to be married,' she said. 'i mean that.' "i suppose likely the room went away altogether then, christopher and me included, and left insley there in some place a long ways from everywhere, with robin's face looking at him. and he just naturally took that face between his hands. "'robin,' he said, 'don't make me wait to know.' "insley was the suddenest thing. and land, what it done to her name to have him say it. just for a minute it sounded as if her name was the population of the world,--but with room for everybody else, too. "i think she put up her hands to take down his hands, but when she touched them, i think hers must have closed over his, next door to on purpose. "'dear,' she says, 'tell me afterward.' "in that minute of stillness in which any new heaven is let down on a suitable new earth, a little voice piped up:-- "'tell it now,' says the voice. 'is it a story? tell it now.' "and there was christopher, wide awake where he had been set down rude on my knee, and looking up at them, patient. "'i was dreamin' my dream,' he explained, polite. 'it was about all the nice things there is: you and you and you and hot ice-cream and the house's party.... is they any more?' he asked, anxious. "robin put out her arms for him, and she and insley and i smiled at one another over his head. "'ever so many more,' we told him. "i slipped out then and found mis' emmons, and i guess i come as near shining as anything that's like me can. "'what's the matter?' she says to me. 'you look as if you'd turned up the wick.' "'i did. they have. i won't tell,' i says. 'oh, mis' emmons, i guess the meeting to-night won't need to adopt christopher.' "she looked up at me quick, and then she started shining, too. "'what a universe it is,' she says, '--what a universe it is.' "then we went off down to the meeting together. and the village was wonderful to go through, like a home some of us had hollowed out of the hills and was living in, common. as we went walking to the schoolhouse, the sidewalks seemed to me no more than ways dickered up to fasten us together, and to fasten us to them whose feet had wore the road before us, and to lead us to them that was coming, coming after: christopher and eph and spudge cadoza and otie daniel, or them like these. otie daniel had died the night before. dr. barrows had said eph would not be lame, but we see he wan't sure of the value of the boy's physical life. but even so, even so we had a chance with chris, and we had a chance with spudge, and we had millions more. my feet wanted to run along them roads to meet the millions and my fingers tingled to get things ready. and as we went down daphne street to that meeting, i see how we all _was_ getting things ready, and i could of sung out for what i saw:-- "for mame holcomb, sprinkling clothes on the back porch and hurrying to get to the hall. "for mis' uppers, picking her currants before she went, so's to get an early start on her jam in the morning. "for viny liberty, setting sponge for her bread loud enough so we heard her clear out in the street, and for libby, shutting up her chicken coop that they earned their own living with. "for mis' toplady, driving by with timothy, and her in the brown silk she'd made herself, like she's made all she's got. "for abagail arnold, wiping out her window to be filled to-morrow with the pies of her hand. "for little mis' sparks, rocking her baby on the front stoop and couldn't come to the meeting at all, 'count of having nobody to leave him with. "for them that had left cloth bleaching in their side yards and was saving the price of buying bleached. for them that had done their day's work, from parlour to wood-shed, and had hurried up the supper dishes and changed their dress and was on their way to the schoolhouse. for them that had lived lives like this and had died at it. for all the little dog-eared, wore-out account books where every one of them women figured out careful what they couldn't spend. and i looked down the street till i couldn't see no farther, and yet daphne street was going on, round and round the world, and acrost and acrost it, full of women doing the same identical way. and i could see away off to the places that daphne street led past, where women has all these things done for them and where the factories is setting them free, like us here in the village ain't free just yet, and i felt a wicked envy for them that can set their hands to the new work, that us here in friendship village is trying so hard to get in between whiles. and i could see away ahead to times when sponge and currants and clothes and coops and similar won't have to be mothered by women 'most as much as children are; but when women, away off then, will be mothers and workers and general human beings such as yet we only know how to think about being, scrappy and wishful. but all the time, in their arms and in ours and nowheres else, lays all the rest of the world that is ever going to be. and something in me kind of climbed out of me and run along ahead and looked back at me over its shoulder and says: 'keep up, keep up, calliope.' and before i knew it, right out loud, i says: 'i will. i will.' "an hour later, up in the schoolhouse, silas sykes stood arguing, to the top of his tone, that the first work of the reorganized society--that was to take in the whole town--had ought to be to buy a bargain cupid-and-fish fountain he knew of, for the market square. "'it's going to take years and years to do--everything,' says mis' emmons to me, low. "but that didn't seem like much of anything to either of us. 'what if it is,' i says. and she nodded."