the augustan reprint society evan lloyd the methodist. a poem. ( ) introduction by raymond bentman publication number - william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles general editors william e. conway, william andrews clark memorial library george robert guffey, university of california, los angeles maximillian e. novak, university of california, los angeles david s. rodes, university of california, los angeles advisory editors richard c. boys, university of michigan james l. clifford, columbia university ralph cohen, university of virginia vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university earl miner, university of california, los angeles samuel h. monk, university of minnesota everett t. moore, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, william andrews clark memorial library james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles robert vosper, william andrews clark memorial library curt a. zimansky, state university of iowa corresponding secretary edna c. davis, william andrews clark memorial library editorial assistant jean t. shebanek, william andrews clark memorial library introduction evan lloyd's works consist chiefly of four satires written in and ,[ ] all of which are now little-known. what little notice he receives today results from his friendship with john wilkes and david garrick and from one satire, _the methodist_, which is usually included in surveys of anti-methodist literature.[ ] for the most part, his obscurity is deserved. in _the methodist_, however, he participates in a short-lived revolt against the tyranny of augustan satire and shows considerable evidence of a talent that might have created a new style for formal verse satire. the seventeen-sixties were a difficult period for satire. the struggle between crown and parliament, the new industrial and agricultural methods, the workers' demands for higher pay, the new rural and urban poor, the growth of the empire, the deteriorating relations with the american colonies, the increasing influence of the ideas of the enlightenment, the popularity of democratic ideas, the wilkes controversy, the growth of methodism, the growth of the novel, the interest in the gothic and the picturesque and in chinoiserie, sentimentality, enthusiasm--all these activities made england a highly volatile country. some changes were truly dynamic, others just fads. but to someone living in the period, who dared to look around him, the complexity of the present and the uncertainty of the future must have seemed enormous. to a satirist, such complexity makes art difficult. satire usually deals with every-day realities, to which it applies simple moral ideals. the augustan satiric alternative--returning to older beliefs in religion, government, philosophy, art--and the stylistic expression of such beliefs--formal verse satire and epistle, mock-poem, heroic or hudibrastic couplet, diction of polite conversation, ironic metaphysical conceits, fantastic fictional situations--become irrelevant to the satirist writing when the past seems lost. in his later works, pope took augustan satire about as far as it could go. _the epilogue to the satires_ becomes an epilogue to all augustan satire and the conclusion of _the new dunciad_ declares the death of its own tradition. there is a sense now that england and the world have reached the point of no return. the satirist of the seventeen-sixties who repeats the ideas and styles of butler, dryden, swift, gay, and pope seems not only imitative but out-of-touch with the world around him. but such difficulties can provide the impetus for new forms and for original styles. and in the seventeen-sixties the writers of formal satire show signs of responding to the challenge. christopher anstey, charles churchill, robert lloyd, and evan lloyd seem, during this decade, to be developing their considerable facilities with satiric technique toward the creation of new styles. anstey's _new bath guide_ has a combination of epistolary fiction, realism, use of naive observers, changing points of view, sweeping view of the social scene, great range of subjects, rolicking verse forms, and tone of detached amusement which suggests a satirist who, while still largely derivative, had the talent to create new techniques. churchill and robert lloyd are explicit in their wish to break from augustan style. churchill argues that it was "a sin 'gainst pleasure, to design / a plan, to methodize each thought, each line / highly to finish." he claims to write "when the mad fit comes on" and praises poetry written "wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild" (_gotham_ [ ], ii, - , , ). his satire--with its deliberate, irreverant, "byronic" run-on lines, fanciful digressions, playful indifference to formal structure, impulsively involuted syntax, long, wandering sentences--seems to move, as does robert lloyd's satire (at a somewhat slower pace), toward a genuinely new style. in being chatty, fluid, iconoclastic, spontaneous-sounding, self-revealing, his satire might eventually prove capable of dealing with the problems that the augustan satirists had predicted but did not have to deal with so directly. but both churchill and robert lloyd died before they could develop their styles to the point that they had a new, timely statement to make. anstey failed to develop beyond the _new bath guide_, and his influence proved to be more important on the novel than on verse satire. evan lloyd's first satire, _the powers of the pen_, is a clever but ordinary satire on good and bad writing. it has some historical interest as an example of the early influence of rousseau in england, of part of the attack on samuel johnson for his adverse criticism of shakespeare, of the influence of churchill (lloyd declared himself a disciple), and of the expression of the fashionable interest in artlessness which was influenced as much by joseph warton as by rousseau. in a "quill shop" the narrator discovers magic pens which write like various authors. the one whose "mate was purchas'd by rousseau" can: teach the passions how to grow with native vigour; unconfined by those vile shackles, which the mind wears in the _school of art_.... yet will no _heresies_ admit, to gratify the _pride of wit_ (p. ). he advances these critical dicta elsewhere in this satire, condemning johnson because he tries "nature" by "_critic-law_" (p. ). with fashionable rousseauistic ideas he praises: the _muse_, who never lov'd the town, ne'er flaunted in brocaded gown; pleas'd thro' the hawthorn'd vale to roam, or sing her artless strain at home, bred in plain nature's simple rules, far from the foppery of schools (p. ). evan lloyd, robert lloyd, and churchill, starting from somewhat different philosophic principles, all arrive at similar positions. _the curate_, his second satire, is largely autobiographical. it shows, as does _the powers of the pen_, some clever turns of phrases, pithy expressions, and amusing images. it also contains incisive criticism of corruption in the church, of declining respect for christianity, and, what seems to lloyd almost the same thing, of a collapsing class structure. the church wardens, "uncivil and unbred! / unlick'd, untaught, un-all-things--but unfed!" are "but sweepers of the pews, / the _scullions of the church_, they dare abuse, / and rudely treat their betters" (pp. - ). they show a lack of proper respect both for class-structure and christianity: _servant to christ!_ and what is that to me? i keep a servant too, as well as he (p. ). but _the curate_ frequently descends to a whine. the curate is morally above reproach while those above him are arrogant and those below him are disrespectful. the most serious problem with _the curate_, however, is the same as the problem with all of lloyd's satires except _the methodist_, and the same as the problem with almost all satires between pope and burns or blake. the satirist seems unwilling to probe, to find out what are the political, ethical, psychological, or aesthetic forces that cause the problems which the satirist condemns, and to recommend what can be done to change these forces. if the satirist notes any pattern at all, it is one of ineffective, unmoving abstraction and generality. one explanation for this deliberate avoidance of more profound issues is not hard to find. an astonishing number of satires of this period contain a large proportion of lines devoted to describing how wonderful everything is. the widespread conviction that whatever is, in the england of the late eighteenth century, is right, may have resulted from the influence of _an essay on man_. or the _essay_ may have been popular because it expressed ideas already in general acceptance. but whatever the explanation is, the catch-phrases extracted from pope's most popular work become the touchstones of post-augustan satire. the problem that the satirist faced in the sixties was, then, formidable. the country was in upheaval but the conventions demanded that the satirist say everything was nearly perfect. as a result, satire tended toward personal whines, like _the curate_, toward attacking tiresomely obvious objects, like the superficial chit-chat of lloyd's _conversation_, toward trivial quarrels, like churchill's _rosciad_, toward broadly unimpeachable morals, like johnson's _the vanity of human wishes_. it is understandable that many writers, such as joseph warton and christopher smart, abandoned satire for various kinds of enthusiasm. methodism lent itself to such satire. methodists could be described as unfortunate aberrants from an essentially good world, typical of those bothersome fanatics and deviants at the fringe of society who keep this world from being perfect. they were also logical heirs to the satire once visited upon dissenters but which diminished when dissenters became more restrained in their style of worship. (the preface to one anti-methodist satire even takes pains to exclude "rational dissenters" from its target.) many methodists were followers of calvin. these methodists brought out the old antagonisms against the calvinist doctrine of election (or the popular version of it), directed against its severity, its apparent encouragement of pride, and its antinomian implications. the mass displays of emotion at methodist meetings would be distasteful to many people in most periods and probably were especially so in an age in which rational behavior was particularly valued. and there were those people who believed that methodism, in spite of wesley's arguments to the contrary, led good members of the church of england astray and threatened religious stability. yet all these causes do not explain the harshness of anti-methodist satire. no other subject during this period received such severe condemnation. wesley and whitefield were accused of seducing their female converts, of fleecing all their converts of money, of making trouble solely out of envy or pride. evan lloyd is not so harsh nor so implacably bigoted about any other subject as he is about methodism. he was an intimate friend of john wilkes, the least bigoted of men. also, there are essential differences between the dissenters of the restoration and the methodists of the late eighteenth century that would seem to lessen the antagonism toward the methodists. to the satirists of the restoration, dissenters were reminders of civil war, regicide, the chaos that religious division could bring. now the only threat of religious war or major civil disturbance had come from the jacobites, and even that threat was safely in the past. it is notable that swift, pope, and gay tended to satirize dissenters within the context of larger problems. the assault on methodists, then, is actually not a continuation of anti-dissenter satire but something new. hence the whole movement of anti-methodist satire in the sixties and seventies has an untypically violent tone which cannot be explained solely in terms of satiric trends or religious attitudes. the explanation lies, i think, partly in the social, political, and economic background. the methodist movement was perhaps the most dramatic symptom (or at least the symptom hardest to ignore) of the changes taking place in england. the methodist open-air services were needed because new industrial areas had sprung up where there were no churches, and lay preachers were necessary because of population shifts but also because of the increase in population made possible by new agricultural and manufacturing methods. the practice of taking lay preachers from many social classes had obvious democratic implications. wesley, in spite of his political conservatism, challenged a number of widely-held, complacent aphorisms, such as the belief that people are "poor only because they are idle."[ ] the mass emotionalism of the evangelical meetings were reminders that man was not so rational as certain popular ideas tried to make him. wesley's insistence (with irritatingly good evidence) that he did no more than adhere to the true doctrine of the church of england strongly suggested that the church of england had strayed somewhere. (it is rather interestingly paralleled by wilkes's insistence that he only wanted to return to the declaration of rights, a reminder that the government had also strayed.) and methodism, by its very existence and popularity, posed the question of whether the church of england, in its traditional form, was capable of dealing with problems created by social and economic changes. these social, economic, and political issues are touched upon by a number of the anti-methodist satirists. most of these satirists, however, are contented simply to complain about the lower class tone of the methodist movement, to note generally, as dryden and swift had noted before, that protestantism contained the seeds of mob rule. the anonymous author of _the saints_ fears "their frantic pray'r [is] a mere _decoy_ for _mob_" (p. ) and the author[ ] of _the methodist and mimic_ claims that whitefield's preaching sends "the brainless mob a gadding" (p. ). evan lloyd is the one anti-methodist satirist who explores the larger implications. lloyd constructs his satire around the theme of general corruption, that nothing is so virtuous that it cannot be spoiled either by man's weakness or by time. the theme is common in the period and could have become banal, except that lloyd applies it to the corruption of the church and its manifestations in daily life, giving it an immediate, lively reference. the methodist practice of lay preachers, for example, lloyd treats as an instance of the collapse of the class system: each vulgar trade, each sweaty brow is search'd.... hence ev'ry blockhead, knave, and dunce, start into preachers all at once (p. ). lloyd combines the language of theology, government, and civil order to suggest a connection between recent riots, the excesses of the earl of bute, the protestant belief that religious concepts are easily understood by all social classes, democracy, the emotional displays of methodism, and lay preachers: hence ignorance of ev'ry size, of ev'ry shape wit can devise, altho' so dull it hardly knows, ... when it is day, or when 'tis night, shall yet pretend to keep the key of _god_'s dark secrets, and display his _hidden mysteries_, as free as if _god's privy council_ he, shall to his presence rush, and dare to raise a _pious riot_ there (pp. - ). lloyd presents an essentially disorderly world in which chaos spreads almost inevitably, in which riots, corrupt ministers, arrogant fools, disrespectful lower classes, giddy middle classes, and lascivious upper classes are barely kept in check by a system of social class, government, and church. now, with the checks withdrawn, lawyers and physicians spread their own disorder even further as they: quit their beloved wrangling _hall_, more loudly in a _church_ to bawl: ... and full as fervent, on their knees, for _heav'n_ they pray, as once for _fees_; ... the _physic-tribe_ their art resign, and lose the _quack_ in the _divine_; ... of a _new-birth_ they prate, and prate while _midwifry_ is out of date (pp. - ). he combines the language of tradesmen with the language of mythology and theology to suggest, rather wittily and effectively, that disorder can be commonplace and cosmic simultaneously: the _bricklay'r_ throws his _trowel_ by, and now _builds mansions in the sky_; ... the _waterman_ forgets his _wherry_, and opens a _celestial ferry_; ... the _fishermen_ no longer set for _fish_ the meshes of their net, but catch, like _peter_, _men of sin_, for _catching_ is to _take them in_ (pp. - ). this spreading confusion is, however, not just a passing social problem but one that results from many breasts being "tainted" and many hearts "infected" (p. ). the corruption is almost universal and results in wesley (as he actually did) selling "powders, draughts, and pills." madan "the springs of health _unlocks_,/ and by his preaching cures the _p_[_ox_]," (he was chaplain of lock hospital) and romaine: pulls you by _gravity up-hill_, ... by your _bad deeds_ your _faith_ you shew, 'tis but _believe_, and _up you go_ (p. ). lloyd treats the confusion between sexual desire and religious fervor as another aspect of general human depravity, extending the satire beyond the crude accusation of hypocrisy or cynicism. he argues that the confusion is a part of the human condition, allowed to go out of control by a religion that puts passion before reason. the countess of huntingdon, "cloy'd with _carnal_ bliss," longs "to taste how _spirits_ kiss." in his all-inclusive catalogue of "_knaves_/ that crawl on _earth_" lloyd includes "_prudes_ that crowd to _pews_,/ while their _thoughts_ ramble to the _stews_" (p. ). what makes lloyd interesting, in spite of his many derivative ideas and techniques, is inadvertently pointed out by the _critical review_, which complains that "the author outmethodizes even methodism itself."[ ] that the brutal tone of _the methodist_ went beyond the license usually permitted the satirists was recognized by lloyd himself. at the conclusion of the satire he asks god to halt the methodist movement by getting to its source: quench the hot flame, o god, that burns and _piety_ to _phrenzy_ turns! and then, after a few lines, he applies the same terms to himself: but soft----my _muse_! thy breath recall---- turn not _religion_'s milk to gall! let not thy _zeal_ within thee nurse a _holy rage_! or _pious curse_! far other is the _heav'nly plan_, which the _redeemer_ gave to man (pp. - ). the satirist, as robert c. elliott points out, has always, in art, satirized himself.[ ] but there is here as throughout this satire, some attempt to develop a style which will express the belief that the world will always be disorderly and that the disorder stems from man's "zeal within." this condition of the world can be expressed satirically by a personal, informal satire which recognizes and dramatizes just how universal the corruption is and how commonplace its manifestations have become. the informal, disorderly syntax, the colloquial diction, the chatty tone, the run-on lines, the conscious roughness of meter and rhyme, may have derived from churchill, but they become here more relevant than in any of churchill's satires. they combine with the intemperate tone and the satirist's concluding confession, his self-identification with the object of satire, to create a sense of an unheroic satirist, one who does not represent a highly commendable satiric alternative. satire must now turn its vision from the heroic, the apocalyptic, the broadly philosophical, even from the depraved, and become exceedingly ordinary. it must recognize that there is little hope in going back to lofty augustan ideals. for such subjects, it uses the impulsive tone of an over-emotional satirist who is as flawed as the subject he satirizes and still represents the best of a disordered world. lloyd had attempted an autobiographical satire in _the curate_. he failed to create an important satire for a number of reasons, one of which was that he tried to present himself as a high ideal, a belief that he apparently held so weakly that the satire became merely petulant. lloyd corrected this error in _the methodist_ and now seems, however briefly, to have opened the way to a truly prophetic style of satire. after _the methodist_ lloyd wrote _conversation_, a satire that not only failed to fulfill the promise of _the methodist_ but is more conservative in theme and style than any of his earlier satires. after that work he produced little. he published an expanded version of _the power of the pen_ and a dull ode printed in _the annual register_. when william kenrick, in _love in the suds_, implied that garrick was isaac bickerstaff's lover, lloyd defended garrick in _epistle to david garrick_. kenrick replied with _a whipping for the welch parson_, an ironic dunciad-variorum-type editing of lloyd's _epistle_, in which he got much the better of lloyd. lloyd was no match for kenrick at this sort of thing. except for these uninteresting productions and his convivial friendship with wilkes and garrick, we hear not much more of lloyd. we know so little about his life that we can only speculate why he failed to follow up the promise of _the methodist_; why, after favorable reviews from the journals[ ] and the flattering friendship of famous men, he was not encouraged to continue a career that was as promising as the early career of many famous satirists. the explanation may lie solely in his personality. perhaps the moderate success he achieved and the financial rewards it brought were enough for him. another explanation is suggested by the conservative ideas and style of _conversation_, which are more like pope's than are the ideas and style of any earlier satire of lloyd's. in this satire he explicitly repudiates his older, freer critical dicta in both theory and practice: tho' this be _form_--yet bend to _form_ we must, fools _with it_ please, _without it_ wits disgust (p. ). he uses mostly end-stop couplets, parallel constructions, augustan diction and similes. apparently, he began his rejection of his new ideas and style immediately after _the methodist_ and before his - outburst of satire-writing was over. lloyd, in writing _the methodist_, seems to have come as close as any satirist before blake and the writers of _the anti-jacobin_ to seeing the problems england and the world were headed toward, to recognizing how genuinely volatile english society was in the middle of the century, and to creating a style which could deal with those problems satirically. it may be that he got some realization that his own long passages in _the methodist_ praising this best of all possible worlds (pp. - ) and his invocation to the "heav'nly plan" at the conclusion made no sense, that they were contradicted by other passages in the same satire, that england and the world were changing with enormous rapidity, and that the satirist would have to create a new style to express the tremendous economic, political, social, and religious problems that were coming into being. it may be that getting such a faint notion he withdrew into artistic conservatism, into conviviality, and into silence. temple university notes to the introduction [ ] for a survey of all lloyd's work see cecil j. l. price, _a man of genius and a welch man_ (university of swansea, wales, ). lloyd is the subject of an unpublished dissertation, _the moral beau_, by paul e. parnell (new york university, ). two short passages from _the methodist_ are included in _the penguin book of satirical verse_, ed. edward lucie-smith (baltimore, ). [ ] most recently, albert m. lyles, _methodism mocked_ (london, ). [ ] journal, february , quoted by a. r. humphreys, _the augustan world_ (new york, ), p. . [ ] the pseudonymous author, peter paragraph, is identified by halkett and laing, _dictionary of anonymous and pseudonymous english literature_, as james makittrick adair. adair did write some works under that pseudonym but probably did not write _the methodist and mimic_. lyles, _op. cit._, p. n., suggests that the author may be samuel foote, in whose play, _the orators_, a character, peter paragraph, appears, probably representing george faulkner. robert lloyd, in "the cobbler of cripplegate's letter," hints that peter paragraph may be bonnel thornton. [ ] _the critical review_, xxiii ( ), pp. - . [ ] _the power of satire_ (princeton, ), p. and _passim_. [ ] the methodist was reviewed by _the monthly review_, xxv ( ), pp. - , and _gentleman's magazine_, xxxvi ( ), p. . _conversation_ was reviewed more favorably by _the monthly review_, xxxvii ( ), p. , and by _the critical review_ xxiv ( ), pp. - . _the critical review_ compared him with swift. bibliographical note this facsimile of _the methodist_ ( ) is reproduced from a copy [ . k. . ( .)] in the british museum by kind permission of the trustees. the methodist. a poem. by e lloyd [hw: signature] author of the powers of the pen, and the curate. london: printed for the author; and sold by richardson and urquhart, under the royal-exchange, cornhill. mdcclxvi. the methodist. nothing, search all creation round, nothing so _firmly good_ is found, whose substance, with such closeness knit, _corruption_'s _touch_ will not admit; but, spite of all incroaching stains, its native purity retains: whose texture will nor warp, nor fade, though moths and weather shou'd invade, which _time_'s sharp tooth cannot corrode, proof against _accident_ and _mode_; and, maugre each assailing dart, thrown by the hand of force, or art, remains (let fate do what it will) _simple_ and _uncorrupted_ still. _virtue_, of constitution nice, quickly degen'rates into _vice_; change but the _person_, _place_, and _time_, and what was _merit_ turns to _crime_. _wisdom_, which men with so much pain, with so much weariness attain, may in a little moment quit, and abdicate the throne of wit, and leave, a vacant seat, the brain, for folly to usurp and reign. should you but discompose the tide, on which _ideas_ wont to ride, _ferment_ it with a _yeasty storm_, or with high _floods of wine_ deform; altho' _sir oracle_ is he, who is as wise, as wise can be, in one short minute we shall find the wise man gone, a fool behind. _courage_, that is all nerve and heart, that dares confront death's brandish'd dart, that dares to single fight defy the stoutest hector of the sky, whose mettle ne'er was known to slack, nor wou'd on thunder turn his back; how small a matter may controul, and sooth the fury of his soul! shou'd this intrepid mars, his clay dilute with nerve-relaxing tea, thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel, he is no longer fierce and cruel, but mild and gentle as a dove, the _hero_'s melted down to _love_. the _juices_ soften'd, (here we note more on the _juices_ than the _coat_ depends, to make a valiant mars rich in the heraldry of scars) the _man_ is _soften'd_ too, and shews no fondness for a bloody nose. when _georgy s--k----le shunn'd the fray_, he'd swill'd a little too much tea. _chastity_ melts like sun-kiss'd snow, when lust's hot wind begins to blow. let but that _horrid creature, man_, breathe on a lady thro' her fan, her _virtue_ thaws, and by and bye will of the _falling sickness_ die. lo! _beauty_, still more transitory, fades in the mid-day of its glory! for _nature_ in her kindness swore, that she who kills, shall kill no more; and in pure mercy does erase each killing feature in the face; plucks from the cheek the damask rose, e'en at the moment that it blows; dims the bright lustre of those eyes to which the gods wou'd sacrifice; dries the moist lip, and pales its hue, and brushes off its honied dew; flattens the proudly swelling chest, furrows the round elastic breast, and all the loves that on it play'd, are in a tomb of wrinkles laid; recalls those charms, which she design'd to _please_, and not _bewitch_ mankind; but with too delicate a touch, heightening the _ornaments_ too much, she finds her daughters can convert blessings to curses, good to hurt, proof of parental love to give, she blots them out that man may live. the hour will come (which let not me indulgent nature, live to see!) the hour will come, when _chloe_'s form shall with its beauty feed the worm; that face where troops of cupids throng, whose charms first warm'd me into song, shall wrinkle, wither, and decay, to age, and to disease, a prey! _chloe_, in whom are so combin'd the charms of body and of mind, as might to earth elicit _jove_, thinking his heav'n well left for love; perfection as she is, the hour will come, when she must feel the pow'r of _time_, and to his wither'd arms, resign the rifling of her charms! must veil her beauties in a cloud, a grave her bed, her robe a shroud! when all her glowing, vivid bloom, must fade and wither in the tomb! when she who bears the ensigns now, of beauty's priestess on her brow, shall to th' abhorr'd embrace of death give up the sweetness of her breath! when worms--but stop, _description_, there-- my heart cannot the picture bear-- sickens to think there is a day, when _chloe_ will be made a prey to death, a piece-meal feast for him with rav'nous jaw to tear each limb, and feature after feature eat, while _beauty_ only serves for _meat_-- wretched to know that this is true, forbear t' anticipate the view! hence, _observation_!--take your leave!-- and kindly, _memory_, deceive! and when some forty years are fled, and age has on her beauties fed, dear _self-delusion_! lend thy skill to fancy she is _chloe_ still! _cities_ and _empires_ will decay, and to _corruption_ fall a prey! _athens_, of arts the native land, cou'd not the stroke of time withstand; there serpents hiss, and ravens croak, where _socrates_ and _plato_ spoke. proud _troy_ herself (as all things must) is crumbled into native dust; is now a pasture, where the beast strays for his vegetable feast, old _priam_'s royal palace now may couch the ox, the ass, the cow.-- _rome_, city of imperial worth, the mighty mistress of the earth; _rome_, that gave law to all the world, is now to blank destruction hurl'd!-- is now a sepulchre, a tomb, to tell the stranger, "here was _rome_."-- view the _west abbey_! there we see how frail a thing is royalty! where crowns and sceptres worms supply, and kings and queens, like lumber lie. the _tombs themselves_ are worn away, and own the empire of _decay_, mouldering like the royal dust, which to preserve they have in trust. nor has the _marble_ more withstood the rage of _time_, than _flesh and blood_! the _king of stone_ is worn away, as well as is the _king of clay_-- here lies a _king without a nose_, and there a _prince without his toes_; here on her back a _royal fair_ lies, but a little worse for wear; those lips, whose touch cou'd almost turn old age to youth, and make it burn; to which young kings were proud to kneel, are kick'd by every schoolboy's heel; struck rudely by the _showman's wand_, and crush'd by every callous hand: here a _puissant monarch_ frowns in menace high to rival crowns; he threatens--but will do no harm-- our _monarch_ has not left an arm. thus all _things_ feel the gen'ral curse, _that all things must with time grow worse_. but your philosophers will say, _best things grow worst when they decay_. and many facts they have at hand to prove it, shou'd you proofs demand. as if _corruption_ shut her jaw, and scorn'd to cram her filthy maw, with aught but dainties rich and rare, and morsels of the choicest fare; as garden birds are led to bite, where'er the fairest fruits invite. if _phoebus'_ rays too fiercely burn, the _richest wines_ to _sourest_ turn: and they who living _highly fed_, will breed a _pestilence when dead_. thus _aldermen_, who at each feast, cram tons of spices from the east, whose leading wish, and only plan, is to learn how to _pickle man_; who more than vie with _�gypt_'s art, and make themselves a _human tart_, a _walking pastry-shop_, a _gut_, shambles by wholesale to inglut; and gorge each high-concocted mess the art of cookery can dress: yet spite of all, when _death_ thinks fit to take them off, lest t' other bit shou'd burst these _living mummies_, able neither to eat, nor quit the table; whether he dropsy sends or gout, to fetch them by the shoulders out; tho' living they were _salt_ and _spice_, the carcase is not over nice; and all may find, who have a _nose_, _dead aldermen_ are not a rose. this reas'ning only serves to shew, the world call'd _natural_, is so. but various instances proclaim, 'tis in the _moral world_ the same. thus _woman_, nature's _chastest_ work, _lust-struck_, out-paramours the turk; tho' _gentle_ as the suckling child, _enrag'd_, than famish'd wolves more wild; a more fell minister of _death_-- _rime_ gives the instance in _mackbeth_. _reason herself_, that _sober dame_, so mild, so temperate, so tame, her head once turn'd, and giddy grown, raving with phrenzy not her own, plays madder pranks, more full of spleen than any hoyden of sixteen. whether she burns with _love_ or _hate_, or grows with _baseless hopes_ elate, with _desperation_ is forlorn, or with imagin'd horrors torn, if on _ambition_'s swelling tide, her crazy bark from side to side, reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost, or in the _gulph of pride_ is lost; whate'er the _leading passion_ be, that works the soul's anxiety, in each _extreme_ th' effect is bad, _sense_ grows diseas'd, and _reason_ mad. why shou'd the muse of _angels_ tell turn'd into _devils_ when they fell? why search the chronicles of _hell_, while _earth_ examples it as well? why talk of _satan_, while we see each day some new apostacy? _tories_ to _whigs_ convert, and _whigs_, _mere ministerial whirlegigs_, turn'd by the hand of _int'rest_, take the _tory-part_, for lucre's sake. _patriots_ turn _placemen_, and support against their country's good the court; are bought with _pensions_ to retire, when drooping kingdoms most require their aid----tho' here the muse wou'd fain _except_ one of the _pension'd train_, (_one_ meritorious 'bove the rest, a _patriot minister_, confest) yet strictest honour can't acquit that _pensioner_, who once was _p----_. instance on instance to my view come rushing, of the changeling crew, that i could quarrel with my nature, to think that man is such a creature-- and are we all a fickle tribe, venal to ev'ry golden bribe? is there not one of honour found, in all the list of _placemen_ found? yes--_one_ there is, in perils tried, yet never known to _change his side_, or _principles_--nor think it strange, he ne'er had _principles_ to change, and for a _side_ (the proof is new) he's _none_, because that _he has two_. throw him from _party_'s giddy heights, a _cat in politics_ he lights ever upon his feet; his heart clings both to _whig_ and _tory-part_; is _this_, is _that_, is _both_, or _neither_, and still keeps shifting with the weather. who does not know that _t--s--d_'s he, that reads the _book of ministry_? thus let us turn where'er we will, _each machiavel_'s a _changeling_ still. but tho' among all _nature_'s works the seed of foul _corruption_ lurks, yet no where is it known to bear so vile a crop on ground so fair, as when upon _religion_'s root _it raises diabolic fruit_. when the almighty father's love call'd things to being, from above millions of winged _blessings_ flew, sent from his right hand, to bedew the new-born earth, and from their wings shed good on all _created things_. precious and various tho' the store which down to earth these legates bore, that _heav'nly spark_ we _reason call_, was far the richest boon of all. by _this_ we find _th' almighty cause_ from whom the world its being draws; _by whom earth_'s plenteous table's spread, at which each living creature's fed; _who_ gave the _breath of life_, and whence this fine _variety_ of _sense_; _whose hands_ unfold the azure sky, sublimely pleasing to _the eye_; _who_ tun'd the feather'd songster's throat, giving such softness to his note, to fill the _ear_ with dulcet sound, and pour sweet music all around; who on the teeming branches plac'd such various fruit to please the _taste_; what bounteous hand perfum'd the _rose_, and ev'ry scented flow'r that blows, and wafts its fragrance thro' the vale, courting the _smell_ in ev'ry gale, to _whom_ it is we owe so much substantial pleasure in the _touch_; and _whence_, superior to the whole, those raptures that transport _the soul_; _this_ gives our gratitude to glow to him, from whom such blessings flow; this teaches man his _moral part_, and grafts _religion_ in the heart. _glory to god, good will to man, and peace on earth_, compos'd the plan, for which _religion_ first came down, and brought to earth a _heav'nly crown_. better her purpose to complete, and _satan_'s malice to defeat, a troop of _holy genii_ came, co-workers in the glorious scheme. to each a scroll the goddess gave, on which these lines she did engrave: "go, teach the sons of men to raise their voice unto their _maker_'s praise. go, call forth _charity_ to meet distress that seeks her in the street; bid her the lame with legs supply, and be unto the blind an eye; a mantle o'er the naked throw, and reach a healing hand to woe; visit the bed where sickness lies, and wipe the tears from orphans eyes; bid her affliction's hour beguile, and teach the tear-worn cheek to smile; bid her send comfort to expell grief from the lonely widow's cell; make blunt the arrows of mischance, and ope the eyes of ignorance; to those lost pilgrims point the way, who in _sin_'s tenfold darkness stray, recall them from _hell_'s thickest night, and shew _salvation_'s glorious light; for thus the world that peace shall find, for which it was by _god_ design'd."-- such the commands _religion_ gave, when first she came the world to save, such the attendants in her train, when she began her holy reign. and when _messiah_'s gracious love urg'd him to leave the _realms_ above, urg'd him to quit his _heav'nly throne_, his people's trespass to atone, and, tho' so long they had withstood his will, to wash them with his blood; the great command he did renew, to _give to god, and man his due_; bade the bright _sun of faith_ arise, and open'd heav'n to mortal eyes, leaving _religion_ on the earth, more fair and pure than at her birth.-- how mutilated now and marr'd, deform'd, distorted, mangled, scarr'd! thro' _modern conventicles_ trace the goddess, you'll not know her face: the _holy genii_ all are fled, and _sprites_ and _dev'ls_ come in their stead. and now a counterfeiting dame usurps _religion_'s sacred name, but no more like in _heart_ or _face_, than _f--x_'s deeds to deeds of grace. visit her at her _t-tt--m_ seat, you'll find she is an errant cheat. for _satan_, man's invet'rate foe, whose greatest joy is human woe, repining at the heav'nly plan, that promis'd so much good to man, us'd all his malice, wit, and pow'r, the world's great blessings to devour. well the _malicious spirit_ knew whence _man_ his chief resources drew of happiness, and saw confest, where all was good, _religion_ best; and at her unpolluted heart he aim'd his most envenom'd dart. he knew the interest of _hell_ cou'd never on the _earth_ go well, while _pure religion_ did maintain o'er man a sanctimonious reign. with her he wag'd malicious war, he might, if not destroy her, mar her face; might with false lights misguide, and make her combat on his side. highly did his _ambition_ burn heav'n's arms against itself to turn. nor would his _malice_ triumph less, to _damn_ where _god_ design'd to _bless_. for this _the fiend_ to earth ascends, to try his int'rest with his friends. long in his fiery chariot hurl'd, he had explor'd the pendent world; long had he search'd without avail, each _meeting_, _dungeon_, _court_, and _jail_, each _mart of villainy_, where _vice_ presides, and _virtue_ bears no price, where _fraud_, _hypocrisy_, and _lies_ are selling while the devil buys. long had he search'd, but could not find an _agent_ suited to his mind, who cou'd transact his business well, and do on earth the work of hell; that he might at his leisure go, and manage his affairs below.-- tir'd and despairing of a friend on whom he safely might depend, at _t-tt--m_ he alights from air-- _magus_, that _sorcerer_, was there. pleas'd _satan_ somewhat nearer drew, look'd thro' him at a single view, bless'd his good luck, and grinn'd aghast-- "'tis well, for i have found at last, the thing i long have sought, in _thee_, _an agent in iniquity_. thus let me mark thee for my own, and from henceforth for _mine_ be known." then with out-stretched claws his eyes he _twisted_ diff'rent ways--the _skies_ are watch'd by _one_, and (strange to tell!) the _other_ is the guard of _hell_. then thus--"'tis fit thy eyes shou'd roll, _cross_ as the purpose of thy soul, fit that they look a diff'rent way, like what you _do_, and what you _say_; thy _eye-balls_ now are pois'd and hung, as even as thy _heart_ and _tongue_-- prosper--to _me_, to _hell_ (he cried) be true, but false to all beside. _riches are mine_--i will repay for ev'ry soul you lead astray-- give out thyself a light to shew which way 'tis best to heav'n to go; but lead the pilgrims wrong, and shine an _ignis fatuus_ of mine-- draw them thro' bog, thro' brake, thro' mire, i'll dry them at a _rousing fire_." _magus_ complacent smil'd--his eyes twinkled with signs of joy, one flies upward, and t'other down, like scales, where this ascends, when that prevails-- then _thrice_ he turn'd upon his heel, and swore allegiance to the _de'el_-- right faithfully his _oath_ he kept, and might each night before he slept boast of his labours to maintain, and spread abroad his _master_'s reign; might boast the magic of his rod to whip away the _love of god_, for all of _god_ he makes appear has nought to _love_, but all to _fear_. that debt, which _gratitude_ each day paying, wou'd still own much to pay; instead of _duty_ freely paid, a _tyrant_'s _hard exaction_'s made. fitted the simple to cajole, first of his wits, and then his soul, he urges fifty false pretences, preaching his hearers from their senses. he knows his _master_'s realm so well, his sermons are a _map of hell_, an _ollio_ made of _conflagration_, of _gulphs of brimstone_, and _damnation_, _eternal torments_, _furnace_, _worm_, _hell-fire_, a _whirlwind_, and a _storm_, with _mammon_, _satan_, and _perdition_, and _beelzebub_ to help the dish on; _belial_ and _lucifer_, and all the _nick-names_ which _old nick_ we call-- but he has ta'en especial care, to have nor _sense_ nor _reason_ there. a thousand scorching words beside, over his tongue as glibly slide, familiar as a glass of wine, or a tobacco-pipe on mine; that you wou'd swear he was compleater, than _powell_, as a _fire-eater_. virgins he will seduce astray, only to shew the shortest way to _heaven_, and because it lies above the _zodiac_ in the skies, that they _may better see the track_, he lays them down _upon their back_. domestic peace he can destroy, and the confusion view with joy, children from parents he can draw, what's _conscience_?--he is safe from _law_-- the closest union can divide, take husbands from their spouses' side, but it turns out to better use, wives from their husbands to seduce; and as their journey lies _up-hill_, ev'ry incumbrance were an ill; and lest their speed shou'd be withstood, he takes their _money_--_for their good_. such is the agent _satan_ chose, _religion_'s progress to oppose-- too great the task for _one_ was thought, and _under-agents_ must be sought-- on this high enterprize intent, a troop of _evil sprites_ he sent, commission'd, wheresoe'er they found _hearts hollow, rotten, and unsound_, within those breasts accurs'd to dwell, teaching the liturgy of _hell_. big with the charge th' infernal crew to their belov'd appointment flew; with busy search thro' ev'ry class, thro' ev'ry rank of men they pass, in ev'ry class of men they find some _hearts_ corrupted to their mind, ev'ry profession they explore, ev'ry profession gives them more; the higher functions ransack'd, now each vulgar trade, each sweaty brow is search'd, and in them all were found, _some hollow, rotten, and unsound_. in each depraved bosom dwell these _sprites_, nor miss their native _hell_. hence ev'ry blockhead, knave, and dunce, start into preachers all at once. hence ignorance of ev'ry size, of ev'ry shape wit can devise, altho' so dull it hardly knows, which are its fingers, which its toes, which is the left hand, which the right, when it is day, or when 'tis night, shall yet pretend to keep the key of _god_'s dark secrets, and display his _hidden mysteries_, as free as if _god_'s _privy council_ he, shall to his presence rush, and dare to raise a _pious riot_ there. _lawyers_ (a commutation strange!) _coke littleton_ for _bible_ change; quit their beloved wrangling _hall_, more loudly in a _church_ to bawl: _statutes at large_ are thrown aside, and now the _testament_'s their guide; and full as fervent, on their knees, for _heav'n_ they pray, as once for _fees_; _plaintiff_, _defendant_, and _my lord_, are banish'd, and now _faith_'s the word, of _briefs_ no longer now they dream, _religion_ is the only theme. the _physic-tribe_ their art resign, and lose the _quack_ in the _divine_; _galen_ lies on the shelf unread, a _pray'r-book_ open in its stead; _salvation_ now is all the _cant_, _salvation_ is the _only_ want. "_throw physic to the dogs_," they cry, 'twill never bring you to the sky. of a _new-birth_ they prate, and prate while _midwifry_ is out of date; let fevers, agues, take their turn, to freeze the patient, or to burn, in vain he seeks the physic tribe, no _recipe_ will they prescribe, but what is sovereign to controul the maladies that hurt the soul. and tho' while _body-quacks_, with _pill_ or _bolus_, 'twas their trade to kill, more miserably still, alack! for the _diseased soul_ they _quack_. the _sons of war_ sometimes are known to fight with weapons not their own, ceasing the _sword of steel_ to wield, they take _religion_'s _sword and shield_. ev'ry _mechanic_ will commence _orator_, without _mood_ or _tense_. _pudding_ is _pudding_ still, they know, whether it has a plumb or no; so, tho' the preacher has no skill, a _sermon_ is a _sermon_ still. the _bricklay'r_ throws his _trowel_ by, and now _builds mansions in the sky_; the _cobbler_, touch'd with _holy pride_, flings his _old shoes_, and _last_ aside, and now devoutly sets about cobbling of _souls_ that _ne'er wear out_; the _baker_, now a _preacher_ grown, finds man _lives not by bread alone_, and now his customers he feeds with _pray'rs_, with _sermons_, _groans_ and _creeds_; the _tinman_, mov'd by warmth within, _hammers_ the _gospel_, just like _tin_; _weavers inspir'd_ their _shuttles_ leave, _sermons_, and _flimsy hymns_ to weave; _barbers_ unreap'd will leave the chin, to trim, and shave the _man within_; the _waterman_ forgets his _wherry_, and opens a _celestial ferry_; the _brewer_, bit by phrenzy's grub, the _mashing_ for the _preaching tub_ resigns, _those waters_ to explore, which if you drink, you _thirst no more_; the _gard'ner_, weary of his trade, tir'd of the mattock, and the spade, chang'd to _apollos_ in a trice, _waters_ the _plants of paradise_; the _fishermen_ no longer set for _fish_ the meshes of their net, but catch, like _peter_, _men of sin_, for _catching_ is to _take them in_. well had the wand'ring spirits sped, and thro' the world their poison spread, made lodgments in each tainted breast; and each infected heart possess'd. the _wayward bus'ness_ being done, _satan_ to make his choice begun of _under-ministers_, to do what _one_ cou'd not be equal to. a _second agent_, like the first, who on _dæmoniac milk_ was nurst, had _moorfields_ trusted to his care, for _satan_ keeps _an office_ there. _lean_ is the _saint_, and _lank_, to shew that _flesh and blood to heav'n can't go_; his hair like _candles_ hangs, a sign how bright his _inward candles_ shine. of _satan_'s _agents_ these _the chief_, a thousand others lend relief, and take some labour off their hands, each as th' _internal sprite_ commands: but working with a _diff'rent spell_, they lead by various ways to _hell_. sickens the soul? and is its state with _sin_'s disease grown desperate? to divers quacks you may apply, and _special nostrums_ of them buy. _tottenham_'s the best accustom'd place, there _magus squints_ men into _grace_. _w-s--y_ sells powders, draughts, and pills, sov'reign against all sorts of ills, _assurance_ charms away the fit, or at least makes it intermit-- _m-d--n_ the springs of health _unlocks_, and by his preaching cures the _p----_ _r-m--ne_ works greater wonders still, pulls you by _gravity up-hill_, and for whate'er you do _amiss_, rewards you with _celestial bliss_; by your _bad deeds_ your _faith_ you shew, 'tis but _believe_, and _up you go_. _b--rr--s_ and _w-r--r_ set up shop, to sell _religion_'s _pill and drop_, they teach their patients how to fly on _voice_ and _action_ to the sky. one of the _magi of the east_, a _little perking, puppet-priest_, has got the _harlequino_-way, his patients heav'nward to convey; and their salvation to advance, a _jig_ will _at the altar dance_. such were the _plenipo_'s in _town_, who serv'd the _diabolic_ crown. not far remov'd, a _female friend_ gave proofs, that _satan_ might depend on her best service, and support, for what serv'd him, to her was sport. _h----_, cloy'd with _carnal_ bliss, longing to taste how _spirits_ kiss, bids _chapels_ for her _saints_ arise, which are but _bagnios_ in disguise; where she may suck her _t----_'s breath, expiring in _seraphic_ death. that _satan_ better might succeed, of _other agents_ he had need, his _country-int'rest_ to support, while _dodd_ was _preaching_ to the court. the town was left, and now his flight bore to the _north_ the horrid _sprite_; now had he travers'd many a league, and felt, as _spirits_ feel, fatigue, when, in a dark, romantic wood, in which an antique mansion stood, he spied, close to a hovel-door, a _saint_ conversing with his _whore_. double he seem'd, and worn with age, little adapted to engage in _love_'s hot war, too dry his trunk to cope with a lascivious punk; so humble too he seem'd, you'd swear, _humility_ herself was there; so like a _sawyer_ too he _bows_, you'd think that he was _meekness'_ spouse; but _satan_ read his _visage-lines_, and found some favourable signs, that this _meek saint_ might, _in the dark_, make his _infernalship_ a _clerk_; tho' muffled in _religion_'s cloak so close, that it might almost choak a _pharisee_, it might be still only a _cloak_ to doff at will; his _speech_ might be an acted part, a language foreign to his _heart_. he knew, that tho' upon his _tongue_, _religion_, a mere _cant-word_, hung, he might forget it in his _work_, and be at _heart_ a very _turk_. _finesse_ and _trick_ wou'd ne'er succeed, if men wou'd only learn to read, to read the lines of _nature_'s pen, drawn in the _countenance of men_, where truth speaks out distinct and clear, if we had but the trick to hear. so far'd it with _our saint_, while he wou'd seem downright _humility_, some honest features cry'd aloud, "our master is of spirit proud." pass him with bonnet on, his lip will hang as low as to his hip; his bloated eye its venom darts, and from its gloomy socket starts; and if the _body_'s frame we scan, he cannot be an _upright man_. and there are proofs, from which we see his _body_ and his _soul_ agree. altho' he is as fond of _pray'rs_, as country girls of country fairs; yet shou'd he in the church-yard spy some _tempting wanton_ passing by, e'en at the moment that his knee is bent in sign of _piety_, quick his _devotion_ leaves the _heart_, and settles in some _other part_; the book of _pray'r_ is shut, and _heav'n_ for the dear charms of _coelia_ giv'n. th' _arch-fiend_ this _saintly sinner_ spied, and with malicious pleasure ey'd, well pleas'd to think that he had found such a _hell-factor_ above ground; and thus began th' infernal sprite-- "_libidinoso!_ if i'm right! art thou that son of mine on earth, whose deeds so loud proclaim thy birth? of whom so many strumpets tell such tales as get thee fame in _hell_? but children know not whence they spring, whether by beggar got, or king; yet i by _certain marks_ can know, whether thou art _my child_, or no. uncase--and let me see your waist-- for there are private tokens plac'd, by which _my own_ i know--if there no secret lines of mine appear, i claim thee not--but if i see the two _initials_ _f_ and _p_, then art thou _mine_--nay, never start-- and _heav'n_ can claim _in thee_ no part"-- and now his sapless trunk he stripp'd, like culprits sentenc'd to be whipp'd, when lo! th' _initials_ rose to view, and prov'd the fiend's conjecture true. and all his waist (detested brand!) was scribbled with the _dev'l's short hand_; was mark'd with _whoredom_, _lust_, and _letchery_, _malice_, _hypocrisy_, and _treachery_, with _envy_, _lying_, and _betraying_, with _fasting_, _wenching_, _fiddling_, _praying_, and all the _catalogue of sin_ deeply engraven in his skin-- pleas'd the _grim pow'r_ survey'd, and smil'd, embrac'd and said--"my darling child, blest was the hour, and blest the spot, where thou, _my 'bidin_, wert begot. know then, you're not what you profess, her son, whose lands you do possess; no--thou'rt _my wayward son_, a witch litter'd thee in a loathsome ditch; and (for all creatures love the young which from their proper loins are sprung) to this old mansion thee convey'd, and in an infant's cradle laid: and when the _sorc'ress_ plac'd thee there, she stole away the _native heir_-- right well hast thou, my boy, repaid the _obligations_ on thee laid, and to thy parents' int'rest true hast prov'd thy fortunes were thy due-- go on--and, if thou canst, do more (but 't may not be) than heretofore-- keep the same path you always trod, and be an enemy to _god_; apply your fortune to oppress, and harrass _virtue_ with distress; to hide your blemishes use paint, to screen the _villain_ play the _saint_; affect _religion_, _church_ frequent, kneel, _seem_ to pray, and keep up _lent_-- _charity_ too must be display'd, but _charity in masquerade_; give _alms_--but not to those that need, but only for the _gallows feed_; whene'er you meet a _preaching thief_, be prompt to reach him out relief; if _liars_, _flatt'rers_, _pandars_, _pimps_, or any of my vagrant imps, approach thee, to thy mansion take, and give them welcome for my sake; but _needy merit_ must not dare to hope with these _thy alms_ to share, commit _that_ to the _bridewell_-lash, but give it neither _food_ nor _cash_; distinguish'd honour shalt thou gain in _pandæmonium_, for thy pain. but--one word more--my mind misgives, that _virtue_ a near _neighbour_ lives-- for in my search to find out thee, i spied in this vicinity a knot of friends, where i cou'd trace _honour_ emblazon'd in their face, these (for their thoughts i plainly see) bear no good will to you or me; _foolishly honest_, cheap they hold _libidinoso_ and his gold, and will maintain, to conscience true, their virtue, spite of me and you. altho' your influence be weak, oppose them for _opposing' sake_, do ev'ry little act of spite, and snarl, altho' you cannot bite-- be faithful--there will come a day, when i thy services will pay, will bring thee to my realm, and make thee _pilot of the burning lake_." he said--and quick as thought withdrew, and to th' infernal regions flew; blue sulph'rous streaks the peasants scare, marking his passage thro' the air-- _libidinoso_ left behind, began revolving in his mind his master's promises, and sigh'd to have them fully ratified; then homeward plodded, (but, be sure, before he went, he kiss'd his whore) resolv'd, if possible, on more and greater evils than before. all vain was the resolve--his cup of _wickedness_ was quite fill'd up, and no cup can another drop contain, when fill'd up to the top. since all improvement was forbid, what cou'd he do, but what he did? nought he diminish'd of the charge, but acts _hell_'s minister at large. a _pair of adamantine lungs_, a _throat of brass_, _fame's hundred tongues_, time out of mind have been confest, by _fifty poets_, at the least, too little to count _hybla's bees_, the _leaves that cloathe the forest-trees_; the _sands that broider neptune's side_, or _waves_ that on his bosom ride; the _grains_ which rich _sicilia_ yields, the _blades_ with which _spring_ robes the fields; the _stars_ which twinkling on the sight _jove_'s _threshold_ make so glorious bright: or (if we may annex to these _modern impossibilities_) to reckon up the sum of _knaves_ that crawl on _earth_, or sleep in _graves_, to count the _prudes_ that crowd to _pews_, while their _thoughts_ ramble to the _stews_, _lords_, whose sole merit is their _place_, _ladies_, whose worth's a _painted face_, who find _my lord_ has lost his _force_ in _love_, and sue for a _divorce_; or to abridge, and enter down the names of all the _fools in town_; or number those who _live by ink_, and _write_, altho' they cannot _think_; _critics_, who judge, but cannot read, and _praise_, or _censure_--as they're _fee'd_; or count _each bard_ by _self_ betray'd, who thought, when fondled by _his maid_, it was _melpomene_ that smil'd, and mark'd him for her fav'rite _child_, but finds the _harvest_ of his lines, is to _fast twice_ for _once he dines_. as well the _muse_ might one of these _poets' impossibilities_ assay to do, and speed as well, as if she should attempt to tell the _names_ and _characters_ of _all_ that on the name of _satan_ call, that preach, and lie, and whine, and cant, soldiers for _hell's church militant_; and use the head, the heart, the hand, to spread _its doctrines_ thro' the land. _arithmetic herself_ were dumb, if task'd with such an endless sum; nor wou'd the _muse_, tho' one more line wou'd all the host of _hell_ entwine, bestow another drop of ink, to map out an _infernal sink_-- thou god of truth and love! excuse the _honest anger_ of the _muse_, warm in _thy cause_, while she wou'd pray that thou from _earth_ wou'd'st sweep away such _rotten saints_, who wou'd conceal their _fraud_ beneath the name of _zeal_! who, mask'd with _spurious piety_, trample on _reason_, _truth_, and _thee_, and, while their hot career they run, tread on the _gospel_ of thy son! who, feigning to adore, make thee a _tyrant-god_ of cruelty! as if thy _right hand_ did contain only an universe of pain, _hell_ and _damnation_ in thy _left_, of ev'ry gracious gift bereft, hence raining floods of grief and woes, on those that never were thy foes, ordaining torments for the doom of infants, yet within the womb: by fifty false devices more, which _reason_ never heard before, and _methodists_ alone cou'd dream, thy boundless _goodness_ they blaspheme! who (tho' our _saviour_'s gracious plan was to teach happiness to man, by _friendly arguments_ to win the world from slavery to sin; for he, who all things knows, well knew, that they to duty are more true, who from a _filial love_ obey, and serve for _gratitude_, than they who from a _coward dread of law_ owe all their _virtue_ to their _awe_; who, tho' they seem so true, and just, so strictly faithful to their trust, will, if you take the _gallows_ down, out-pilfer half the _rogues_ in _town_). with saucy boldness will presume to pass th' impenetrable gloom, and lift the curtain which we see is drawn betwixt the world and thee; of nought but endless torments speak, to frighten and appall the weak; dwell on the horrid theme with glee, and fain themselves wou'd _hangmen_ be; with so much _dread_ their _hearers_ fill, that they have neither _pow'r_, nor _will_, tho' _heav'n_'s the prize, to move a hand, but _shuddering_ and _trembling_ stand. quench the hot flame, o god, that burns, and _piety_ to _phrenzy_ turns! let not thy _holy name_ be made a _cloak_ to hide a _pilf'ring trade_! nor suffer that thy _sacred word_, be turn'd to _rhapsody absurd_! let it not serve, like _magic sticks_, to preface _pious jugglers'_ tricks! root, root from _earth_, these baneful weeds, that choak _religion_'s _wholesome seeds_! give them the headlong winds to bear, and scatter in a desart air! grind them to powder, that no more they sprout and grow as heretofore! burn the rank stalks, and let the flame thy garden's hot luxuriance tame, nor let it flow'r, or plant produce, but what yields _ornament_ or _use_! but soft--my _muse_! thy breath recall-- turn not _religion_'s milk to gall! let not thy _zeal_ within thee nurse a _holy rage_, or _pious curse_! far other is the _heav'nly plan_, which the _redeemer_ gave to man, who taught the world in peace to live, and e'en _our enemies_ forgive! live then, _ye wretches_! to declare, how long _our god_ with men _can bear_! a living monument to be of the _almighty_'s clemency! who still is good, altho' you preach yourselves almost 'bove _mercy_'s reach; and, tho' his goodness you resist, can even spare a _methodist_. f i n i s. william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles the augustan reprint society publications in print the augustan reprint society publications in print - . henry nevil payne, _the fatal jealousie_ ( ). . nicholas rowe, _some account of the life of mr. william shakespear_ ( ). . anonymous, "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. ( ), and aaron hill, preface to _the creation_ ( ). - . susanna centlivre, _the busie body_ ( ). . lewis theobald, _preface to the works of shakespeare_ ( ). . samuel johnson, _the vanity of human wishes_ ( ), and two _rambler_ papers ( ). . john dryden, _his majesties declaration defended_ ( ). - . charles macklin, _the man of the world_ ( ). . thomas gray, _an elegy wrote in a country churchyard_ ( ), and _the eton college manuscript_. - . bernard mandeville, _a letter to dion_ ( ). - . selected hymns taken out of mr. herbert's _temple_ ( ). - . sir william temple, _an essay upon the original and nature of government_ ( ). . john tutchin, _selected poems_ ( - ). . anonymous, _political justice_ ( ). . robert dodsley, _an essay on fable_ ( ). . t. r., _an essay concerning critical and curious learning_ ( ). . _two poems against pope_: leonard welsted, _one epistle to mr. a. pope_ ( ), and anonymous, _the blatant beast_ ( ). - . daniel defoe and others, _accounts of the apparition of mrs. veal_. . charles macklin, _the covent garden theatre_ ( ). . sir roger l'estrange, _citt and bumpkin_ ( ). . henry more, _enthusiasmus triumphatus_ ( ). . thomas traherne, _meditations on the six days of the creation_ ( ). . bernard mandeville, _aesop dress'd or a collection of fables_ ( ). - . edmond malone, _cursory observations on the poems attributed to mr. thomas rowley_ ( ). . anonymous, _the female wits_ ( ). . anonymous, _the scribleriad_ ( ). lord hervey, _the difference between verbal and practical virtue_ ( ). - . lawrence echard, prefaces to _terence's comedies_ ( ) and _plautus's comedies_ ( ). . henry more, _democritus platonissans_ ( ). . walter harte, _an essay on satire, particularly on the dunciad_ ( ). - . john courtenay, _a poetical review of the literary and moral character of the late samuel johnson_ ( ). . john downes, _roscius anglicanus_ ( ). . sir john hill, _hypochondriasis, a practical treatise_ ( ). . thomas sheridan, _discourse ... being introductory to his course of lectures on elocution and the english language_ ( ). . arthur murphy, _the englishman from paris_ ( ). - . [catherine trotter], _olinda's adventures_ ( ). . john ogilvie, _an essay on the lyric poetry of the ancients_ ( ). . _a learned dissertation on dumpling_ ( ) and _pudding burnt to pot or a compleat key to the dissertation on dumpling_ ( ). . selections from sir roger l'estrange's _observator_ ( - ). . anthony collins, _a discourse concerning ridicule and irony in writing_ ( ). . _a letter from a clergyman to his friend, with an account of the travels of captain lemuel gulliver_ ( ). . _the art of architecture, a poem. in imitation of horace's art of poetry_ ( ). - - . thomas shelton, _a tutor to tachygraphy, or short-writing_ ( ) and _tachygraphy_ ( ). - . _deformities of dr. samuel johnson_ ( ). . _poeta de tristibus: or, the poet's complaint_ ( ). . gerard langbaine, _momus triumphans: or, the plagiaries of the english stage_ ( ). publications of the first fifteen years of the society (numbers - ) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $ . per unit, from the kraus reprint company, east th street, new york, n.y. . publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $ . for individuals and $ . for institutions per year. prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus. the augustan reprint society william andrews clark memorial library university of california, los angeles cimarron street (at west adams), los angeles, california _make check or money order payable to_ the regents of the university of california note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) prudence says so by ethel hueston author of prudence of the parsonage with illustrations by arthur william brown [illustration: come on. let's beat it] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company _to_ my little daughter elizabeth my comrade and my inspiration contents chapter page i the chaperon ii science and health iii a gift from heaven iv how carol spoiled the wedding v the serenade vi substitution vii making matches viii lark's literary venture ix a clear call x jerry junior xi the end of fairy xii sowing seeds xiii the connie problem xiv boosting connie xv a millionaire's son xvi the twins have a proposal xvii the girl who wouldn't propose prudence says so chapter i the chaperon "girls,--come down! quick!--i want to see how you look!" prudence stood at the foot of the stairs, deftly drawing on her black silk gloves,--gloves still good in prudence's eyes, though fairy had long since discarded them as unfit for service. there was open anxiety in prudence's expression, and puckers of worry perpendicularly creased her white forehead. "girls!" she called again. "come down! father, you'd better hurry,--it's nearly train time. girls, are you deaf!" her insistence finally brought response. a door opened in the hallway above, and connie started down the stairs, fully dressed, except that she limped along in one stocking-foot, her shoe in her hand. "it's so silly of you to get all dressed before you put on your shoes, connie," prudence reproved her as she came down. "it wrinkles you up so. but you do look nice. wasn't it dear of the ladies' aid to give you that dress for your birthday? it's so dainty and sweet,--and goodness knows you needed one. they probably noticed that. let me fix your bow a little. do be careful, dear, and don't get mussed before we come back. aunt grace will be so much gladder to live with us if we all look sweet and clean. and you'll be good, won't you, connie, and--twins, will you come!" "they are sewing up the holes in each other's stockings," connie vouchsafed. "they're all dressed." the twins, evidently realizing that prudence's patience was near the breaking point, started down-stairs for approval, a curious procession. all dressed as connie had said, and most charming, but they walked close together, carol stepping gingerly on one foot and lark stooping low, carrying a needle with great solicitude,--the thread reaching from the needle to a small hole on carol's instep. "what on earth are you doing?" "i'm sewing up the holes in carol's stocking," lark explained. "if you had waited a minute i would have finished--hold still, carol,--don't walk so jerky or you'll break the thread. there were five holes in her left stocking, prudence, and i'm--" prudence frowned disapprovingly. "it's a very bad habit to sew up holes in your stockings when you are wearing them. if you had darned them all yesterday as i told you, you'd have had plenty of--mercy, lark, you have too much powder on!" "i know it,--carol did it. she said she wanted me to be of an intellectual pallor." lark mopped her face with one hand. "you'd better not mention to papa that we powdered to-day," carol suggested. "he's upset. it's very hard for a man to be reasonable when he's upset, you know." "you look nice, twins." prudence advanced a step, her eyes on carol's hair, sniffing suspiciously. "carol, did you curl your hair?" carol blushed. "well, just a little," she confessed. "i thought aunt grace would appreciate me more with a crown of frizzy ringlets." "you'll spoil your hair if you don't leave it alone, and it will serve you right, too. it's very pretty as it is naturally,--plenty curly enough and--oh, fairy, i know aunt grace will love you," she cried ecstatically. "you look like a dream, you--" "yes,--a nightmare," said carol snippily. "if i saw fairy coming at me on a dark night i'd--" "papa, we'll miss the train!" then as he came slowly down the stairs, she said to her sisters again, anxiously: "oh, girls, do keep nice and clean, won't you? and be very sweet to aunt grace! it's so--awfully good of her--to come--and take care of us,--" prudence's voice broke a little. the admission of another to the parsonage mothering hurt her. mr. starr stopped on the bottom step, and with one foot as a pivot, slowly revolved for his daughters' inspection. "how do i look?" he demanded. "do you think this suit will convince grace that i am worth taking care of? do i look twenty-five dollars better than i did yesterday?" the girls gazed at him with most adoring and exclamatory approval. "father! you look perfectly grand!--isn't it beautiful?--of course, you looked nicer than anybody else even in the old suit, but--it--well, it was--" "perfectly disgracefully shabby," put in fairy quickly. "entirely unworthy a minister of your--er--lovely family!" "i hope none of you have let it out among the members how long i wore that old suit. i don't believe i could face my congregation on sundays if i thought they were mentally calculating the wearing value of my various garments.--we'll have to go, prudence.--you all look very fine--a credit to the parsonage--and i am sure aunt grace will think us well worth living with." "and don't muss the house up," begged prudence, as her father opened the door and pushed her gently out on the step. the four sisters left behind looked at one another solemnly. it was a serious business,--most serious. connie gravely put on her shoe, and buttoned it. lark sewed up the last hole in carol's stocking,--carol balancing herself on one foot with nice precision for the purpose. then, all ready, they looked at one another again,--even more solemnly. "well," said fairy, "let's go in--and wait." silently the others followed her in, and they all sat about, irreproachably, on the well-dusted chairs, their hands folded methodistically in their smooth and spotless laps. the silence, and the solemnity, were very oppressive. "we look all right," said carol belligerently. no one answered. "i'm sure aunt grace is as sweet as anybody could be," she added presently. dreary silence! "don't we love her better than anybody on earth,--except ourselves?" then, when the silence continued, her courage waned. "oh, girls," she whimpered, "isn't it awful? it's the beginning of the end of everything. outsiders have to come in now to take care of us, and prudence'll get married, and then fairy will, and maybe us twins,--i mean, we twins. and then there'll only be father and connie left, and miss greet, or some one, will get ahead of father after all,--and connie'll have to live with a step-mother, and--it'll never seem like home any more, and--" connie burst into loud and mournful wails. "you're very silly, carol," fairy said sternly. "very silly, indeed. i don't see much chance of any of us getting married very soon. and prudence will be here nearly a year yet. and--aunt grace is as sweet and dear a woman as ever lived--mother's own sister--and she loves us dearly and--" "yes," agreed lark, "but it's not like having prudence at the head of things." "prudence will be at the head of things for nearly a year, and--i think we're mighty lucky to get aunt grace. it's not many women would be willing to leave a fine stylish home, with a hundred dollars to spend on just herself, and with a maid to wait on her, and come to an ugly old house like this to take care of a preacher and a riotous family like ours. it's very generous of aunt grace--very." "yes, it is," admitted lark. "and as long as she was our aunt with her fine home, and her hundred dollars a month, and her maid, i loved her dearly. but--i don't want anybody coming in to manage us. we can manage ourselves. we--" "we need a chaperon," put in fairy deftly. "she isn't going to do the housework, or the managing, or anything. she's just our chaperon. it isn't proper for us to live without one, you know. we're too young. it isn't--conventional." "and for goodness' sake, connie," said carol, "remember and call her our chaperon, and don't talk about a housekeeper. there's some style to a chaperon." "yes, indeed," said fairy cheerfully. "and she wears such pretty clothes, and has such pretty manners that she will be a distinct acquisition to the parsonage. we can put on lots more style, of course. and then it was awfully nice of her to send so much of her good furniture,--the piano, for instance, to take the place of that old tin pan of ours." carol smiled a little. "if she had written, 'dear john: i can't by any means live in a house with furniture like that of yours, so you'll have to let me bring some of my own,'--wouldn't we have been furious? that was what she meant all right, but she put it very neatly." "yes. 'i love some of my things so dearly,'" lark quoted promptly, "'and have lived with them so long that i am too selfish to part with them. may i bring a few pieces along?' yes, it was pretty cute of her." "and do remember, girls, that you mustn't ask her to darn your stockings, and wash your handkerchiefs, and do your tasks about the house. it would be disgraceful. and be careful not to hint for things you want, for, of course, aunt grace will trot off and buy them for you and papa will not like it. you twins'll have to be very careful to quit dreaming about silk stockings, for instance." there was a tinge of sarcasm in fairy's voice as she said this. "fairy, we did dream about silk stockings--you don't need to believe it if you don't want to. but we did dream about them just the same!" carol sighed. "i think i could be more reconciled to aunt grace if i thought she'd give me a pair of silk stockings. you know, fairy, sometimes lately i almost--don't like aunt grace--any more." "that's very foolish and very wicked," declared fairy. "i love her dearly. i'm so glad she's come to live with us." "are you?" asked connie innocently. "then why did you go up in the attic and cry all morning when prudence was fixing the room for her?" fairy blushed, and caught her under lip between her teeth for a minute. and then, in a changed voice she said, "i--i do love her, and--i am glad--but i keep thinking ahead to when prudence gets married, and--and--oh, girls, prudence was all settled in the parsonage when i was born, and she's been here ever since, and--when she is gone it--it won't be any home to me at all!" her voice rose on the last words in a way most pitifully suggestive of tears. for a moment there was a stricken silence. "oh, pooh!" carol said at last, bravely. "you wouldn't want prue to stick around and be an old maid, would you? i think she's mighty lucky to get a fellow as nice as jerry harmer myself. i'll bet you don't make out half as well, fairy. i think she'd be awfully silly not to gobble him right up while she has a chance. for my own part, i don't believe in old maids. i think it is a religious duty for folks to get married, and--and--you know what i mean,--race suicide, you know." she nodded her head sagely, winking one eye in a most intelligent fashion. "and aunt grace is so quiet she'll not be any bother at all," added lark. "don't you remember how she always sits around and smiles at us, and never says anything. she won't scold a bit.--maybe carol and i will get a chance to spend some of our spending money when she takes charge. prudence confiscates it all for punishment. i think it's going to be lots of fun having aunt grace with us." "i'm going to take my dime and buy her something," connie announced suddenly. the twins whirled on her sharply. "your dime!" echoed carol. "i didn't know you had a dime," said lark. connie flushed a little. "yes,--oh, yes,--" she said, "i've got a dime. i--i hid it. i've got a dime all right." "it's nearly time," said fairy restlessly. "number nine has been on time for two mornings now,--so she'll probably be here in time for dinner. it's only ten o'clock now." "you mean luncheon," suggested carol. "yes, luncheon, to be sure, fair sister." "where'd you get that dime, connie?" "oh, i've had it some time," connie admitted reluctantly. "when i asked you to lend me a dime you said--" "you asked me if i had a dime i could lend you and i said, no, and i didn't, for i didn't have this dime to lend." "but where have you had it?" inquired lark. "i thought you acted suspicious some way, so i went around and looked for myself." "where did you look?" the twins laughed gleefully. "oh, on top of the windows and doors," said carol. "how did you know--" began connie. "you aren't slick enough for us, connie. we knew you had some funny place to hide your money, so i gave you that penny and then i went up-stairs very noisily so you could hear me, and lark sneaked around and watched, and saw where you put it. we've been able to keep pretty good track of your finances lately." the twins laughed again. "but i looked on the top ledge of all the windows and doors just yesterday," admitted lark, "and there was nothing there. did you put that dime in the bank?" "oh, never mind," said connie. "i don't need to tell you. you twins are too slick for me, you know." the twins looked slightly fussed, especially when fairy laughed with a merry, "good for you, connie." carol rose and looked at herself in the glass. "i'm going up-stairs," she said. "what for?" inquired lark, rising also. "i need a little more powder. my nose is shiny." so the twins went up-stairs, and fairy, after calling out to them to be very careful and not get disheveled, went out into the yard and wandered dolefully about by herself. connie meantime decided to get her well-hidden dime and figure out what ten cents could buy for her fastidious and wealthy aunt. connie was in many ways unique. her system of money-hiding was born of nothing less than genius, prompted by necessity, for the twins were clever as well as grasping. she did not know they had discovered her plan of banking on the top ledge of the windows and doors, but having dealt with them long and bitterly, she knew that in money matters she must give them the benefit of all her ingenuity. for the last and precious dime, she had discovered a brand-new hiding-place. the cook stove sat in the darkest and most remote corner of the kitchen, and where the chimney fitted into the wall, it was protected by a small zinc plate. this zinc plate protruded barely an inch, but that inch was quite sufficient for coins the size of connie's, and there, high and secure in the shadowy corner, lay connie's dime. now that she had decided to spend it, she wanted it before her eyes,--for ten cents in sight buys much more than ten cents in memory. she went into the kitchen cautiously, careful of her white canvas shoes, and put a chair beside the stove. she had discovered that the dishpan turned upside down on the chair, gave her sufficient height to reach her novel banking place. the preparation was soon accomplished, and neatly, for connie was an orderly child, and loved cleanliness even on occasions less demanding than this. but alas for connie's calculations!--carol was born for higher things than dish washing, and she had splashed soap-suds on the table. the pan had been set among them--and then, neatly wiped on the inside, it had been hung up behind the table,--with the suds on the bottom. and it was upon this same dishpan that connie climbed so carefully in search of her darling dime. the result was certain. as she slowly and breathlessly raised herself on tiptoe, steadying herself with the tips of her fingers lightly touching the stove-pipe, her foot moved treacherously into the soapy area, and slipped. connie screamed, caught desperately at the pipe, and fell to the floor in a sickening jumble of stove-pipe, dishpan and soot beyond her wildest fancies! her cries brought her sisters flying, and the sight of the blackened kitchen, and the unfortunate child in the midst of disaster, banished from their minds all memory of the coming chaperon, of prudence's warning words:--connie was in trouble. with sisterly affection they rescued her, and did not hear the ringing of the bell. they brushed her, they shook her, they kissed her, they all but wept over her. and when prudence and her father, with aunt grace in tow, despaired of gaining entrance at the hands of the girls, came in unannounced, it was a sorry scene that greeted them. fairy and the twins were only less sooty than connie and the kitchen. the stove-pipe lay about them with that insufferable insolence known only to fallen stove-pipe. and connie wept loudly, her tears making hideous trails upon her blackened face. "i might have known it," prudence thought, with sorrow. but her motherly pride vanished before her motherly solicitude, and connie was soon quieted by her tender ministrations. [illustration: we love you, but we can't kiss you] "we love you, aunt grace," cried carol earnestly, "but we can't kiss you." mr. starr anxiously scanned the surface of the kitchen table with an eye to future spots on the new suit, and then sat down on the edge of it and laughed as only a man of young heart and old experience can laugh! "disgraced again," he said. "prudence said we made a mistake in not taking you all to the station where we could watch you every minute. grace, think well before you take the plunge. do you dare cast in your fortunes with a parsonage bunch that revels in misfortune? can you take the responsibility of rearing a family that knows trouble only? this is your last chance. weigh well your words." the twins squirmed uncomfortably. true, she was their aunt, and knew many things about them. but they did think it was almost bad form for their father to emphasize their failings in the presence of any one outside the family. fairy pursed up her lips, puffing vainly at the soot that had settled upon her face. then she laughed. "very true, aunt grace," she said. "we admit that we're a luckless family. but we're expecting, with you to help us, to do much better. you see, we've never had half a chance so far, with only father behind us." the twins revived at this, and joined in the laughter their father led against himself. later in the day prudence drew her aunt to one side and asked softly, "was it much of a shock to you, aunt grace? the family drowned in soot to welcome you? i'm sure you expected to find everything trim and fresh and orderly. was it a bitter disappointment?" aunt grace smiled brightly. "why, no, prudence," she said in her slow even voice. "i really expected something to be wrong! i'd have been disappointed if everything had gone just right!" chapter ii science and health after all, the advent of a chaperon made surprisingly little difference in the life of the parsonage family, but what change there was, was all to the good. their aunt assumed no active directorate over household matters. she just slipped in, happily, unobtrusively, helpfully. she was a gentle woman, smiling much, saying little. indeed, her untalkativeness soon became a matter of great merriment among the lively girls. "a splendid deaf and dumb person was lost to the world in you, aunt grace," carol assured her warmly. "i never saw a woman who could say so much in smiles, and be so expressive without words." fairy said, "she carries on a prolonged discussion, and argues and orates, without saying a word." the members of the ladies' aid, who hastened to call, said, "she is perfectly charming--such a fine conversationalist!" she was always attractively dressed, always self-possessed, always friendly, always good-natured, and the girls found her presence only pleasing. she relieved prudence, admired fairy, laughed at the twins, adored connie. between her and mr. starr there was a frank camaraderie, charming, but seldom found between brothers- and sisters-in-law. "of course, aunt grace," prudence told her sweetly, "we aren't going to be selfish with you. we don't expect you to bury yourself in the parsonage. whenever you want to trip away for a while, you must feel free to go. we don't intend to monopolize you, however much we want to do so. whenever you want to go, you must go." "i shan't want to go," said aunt grace quickly. "not right away, of course," prudence agreed. "but you'll find our liveliness tiring. whenever you do want to go--" "i don't think i shall want to go at all," she answered. "i like it here. i--i like liveliness." then prudence kissed her gratefully. for several weeks after her initiation in the parsonage, life rolled along sweetly and serenely. there were only the minor, unavoidable mishaps and disciplinary measures common to the life of any family. of course, there were frequent, stirring verbal skirmishes between fairy and the twins, and between the twins and connie. but these did not disturb their aunt. she leaned back in her chair, or among the cushions, listening gravely, but with eyes that always smiled. then came a curious lull. for ten entire and successive days the twins had lived blameless lives. their voices rang out gladly and sweetly. they treated connie with a sisterly tenderness and gentleness quite out of accord with their usual drastic discipline. they obeyed the word of prudence with a cheerful readiness that was startlingly cherubimic. the most distasteful of orders called forth nothing stronger than a bright, "yes, prudence." they no longer developed dangerous symptoms of physical disablement at times of unpleasant duties. their devotion to the cause of health was beautiful. not an ache disturbed them. not a pain suggested a substitute. prudence watched them with painful solicitude. her years of mothering had given her an almost supernatural intuition as to causes, and effects. on wednesday morning, mr. starr bade his family good-by and set out on a tour of epworth league conventions. he was to be away from home until the end of the following week. a prospective presbyterian theologian had been selected from the college to fill his pulpit on the sabbath, and the girls, with their aunt, faced an unusually long period of running the parsonage to suit themselves. at ten o'clock the train carried their father off in the direction of burlington, and at eleven o'clock the twins returned to the parsonage. they had given him a daughterly send-off at the station, and then gone to the library for books. prudence, fairy and aunt grace sat sewing on the side porch as they cut across the parsonage lawn, their feet crinkling pleasantly through the drift of autumn leaves the wind had piled beneath the trees. "we're out of potatoes, twins," said prudence, as they drew near. "you'll have to dig some before dinner." for one instant their complacent features clouded. prudence looked up expectantly, sure of a break in their serene placidity. one doubtful second, then-- "certainly, prudence," said carol brightly. and lark added genially, "we'd better fill the box, i guess--so we'll have enough for the rest of the week." and singing a light but unharmonic snatch of song, the twins went in search of basket and hoe. the twins were not musical. they only sang from principle, to emphasize their light-heartedness when it needed special impressing. prudence's brows knitted in anxious frowns, and she sighed a few times. "what is the matter, prue? you look like a rainy christmas," said fairy. "it's the twins," was the mournful answer. "the twins!" ejaculated fairy. "why, they've acted like angels lately." even aunt grace lifted mildly inquiring eyebrows. "that's it!--that's just it. when the twins act like angels i get uneasy right away. the better they act, the more suspicious i feel." "what have they been doing?" "nothing! not a thing! that's why i'm worried. it must be something terrible!" fairy laughed and returned to her embroidery. aunt grace smiled and began plying her needles once more. but prudence still looked troubled, and sighed often. there was no apparent ground for her alarm. the twins came back with the potatoes, peeled some for luncheon, and set the table, their faces still bright and smiling. prudence's eyes, often fastened upon their angelic countenances, grew more and more troubled. in the afternoon, they joined the little circle on the porch, but not to sew. they took a book, and lay down on a rug with the book before them, reading together. evidently they were all absorbed. an hour passed, two hours, three. at times carol pointed to a line, and said in a low voice, "that's good, isn't it?" and lark would answer, "dandy!--have you read this?" prudence, in spite of her devotion to the embroidering of large s's on assorted pieces of linen, never forgot the twins for a moment. "what are you reading?" she asked at last aimlessly, her only desire to be reassured by the sound of their voices. there was an almost imperceptible pause. then carol answered,--her chin was in her palms which may have accounted for the mumbling of the words. "_scianceanelth._" "what?" another pause, a little more perceptible this time. "_science and health_," carol said at last, quite distinctly. "_science and health_," prudence repeated, in a puzzled tone. "is it a doctor book?" "why--something of the sort,--yes," said carol dubiously. "_science and health_? _science and health_," mused fairy. "you don't mean that christian science book, do you? you know what i mean, prudence--mary baker eddy's book--_science and health_,--that's the name of it. that's not what you twins are devouring so ravenously, is it?" carol answered with manifest reluctance, glancing nervously at prudence, "y-yes,--that's what it is." ominous silence greeted this admission. a slow red flush mantled the twins' cheeks. aunt grace's eyes twinkled a little, although her face was grave. fairy looked surprised. prudence looked dumfounded. when she spoke, her words gave no sign of the cataclysmic struggle through which she had passed. "what are you reading that for?" "why--it's very interesting," explained lark, coming to carol's rescue. carol was very good at meeting investigation, but when it came to prolonged explanation, lark stood preeminent. "of course, we don't believe it--yet. but there are some good things in it. part of it is very beautiful. we don't just understand it,--it's very deep. but some of the ideas are very fine, and--er--uplifting, you know." prudence looked most miserable. "but--twins, do you think--minister's daughters ought to read--things like that?" "why, prudence, i think minister's daughters ought to be well-informed on every subject," declared lark conscientiously. "how can we be an influence if we don't know anything about things?--and i tell you what it is, prue, i don't think it's right for all of us church people to stand back and knock christian science when we don't know anything about it. it's narrow-minded, that's what it is. it's downright un-christian. when you get into the book you will find it just full of fine inspiring thoughts--something like the bible,--only--er--and very good, you know." prudence looked at fairy and her aunt in helpless dismay. this was something entirely new in her experience of rearing a family. "i--i don't think you ought to read it," she said slowly. "but at the same time--" "of course, if you command us not to read it, we won't," said carol generously. "yes. we've already learned quite a lot about it," amended lark, with something of warning in her tone. "what do you think about it, aunt grace?" "why,--i don't know, prudence. you know more about rearing twins than i do." prudence at that moment felt that she knew very little about it, indeed. she turned to fairy. there was a strange intentness in fairy's fine eyes as she studied the twins on the floor at her feet. "you aren't thinking of turning christian scientists, yourselves, are you?" asked prudence rather humbly. "oh, of course, we aren't scientists, prudence," was the quick denial. "we don't know anything about it yet, really. but there are lots of very helpful things in it, and--people talk about it so much, and--they have made such wonderful cures, you know, and--we'd thought we'd just study up a little." "you take the book and read it yourself, prue," urged carol hospitably. "you'll see what we mean." prudence drew back quickly as though the book would sear her fingers. she looked very forlorn. she realized that it would be bad policy to forbid the twins to read it. on the other hand, she realized equally strongly that it was certainly unwise to allow its doctrines to take root in the minds of parsonage daughters. if only her father were at home,--ten days between herself and the lifting of responsibility! "when father comes home--" she began. and then suddenly fairy spoke. "i think the twins are right," she said emphatically, and the twins looked at her with a surprised anxiety that mated prudence's own. "it would be very narrow-minded of us to refuse to look into a subject as important as this. let them go on and study it; we can decide things later." prudence looked very doubtful, but a warning movement of fairy's left eyelash--the side removed from the twins--comforted her. "well--" she said. "of course, prudence, we know it would nearly break father's heart for us to go back on our own church,--but don't you think if folks become truly convinced that christian science is the true and good religion, they ought to stand by it and suffer,--just like the martyrs of old?" suggested lark,--and the suggestion brought the doubt-clouds thick about prudence's head once more. "we may not be convinced, of course," added carol, "but there is something rather--assuring--about it." "oh, twins," prudence cried earnestly, but stopped as she caught again the slight suggestive movement of fairy's left eyelash. "well, let it go for this afternoon," she said, her eyes intent on fairy's face. "i must think it over." the twins, with apparent relish, returned to their perusal of the book. fairy rose almost immediately and went into the house, coming back a moment later with her hat and gloves. "i'm going for a stroll, prue," she said. "i'll be back in time for supper." prudence gazed yearningly after her departing back. she felt a great need of help in this crisis, and fairy's nonchalance was sometimes very soothing. aunt grace was a darling, of course, but she had long ago disclaimed all responsibility for the rearing of the twins. it was two hours later when fairy came back. prudence was alone on the porch. "where are the twins?" asked fairy softly. "up-stairs," was the whispered reply. "well?" then fairy spoke more loudly, confident that the twins, in their up-stairs room, could hear every word she said. "come up-stairs, prue. i want to talk this over with you alone." and then she whispered, "now, you just take your cue from me, and do as i say. the little sinners! we'll teach them to be so funny!" in their own room she carefully closed the door and smiled, as she noted a creaking of the closet door on the twins' side of the wall. eavesdropping was not included among the cardinal sins in the twins' private decalogue, when the conversation concerned themselves. "now, prudence," fairy began, speaking with an appearance of softness, though she took great pains to turn her face toward the twins' room, and enunciated very clearly indeed. "i know this will hurt you, as it does me, but we've got to face it fairly. if the twins are convinced that christian science is the right kind of religion, we can't stand in their way. it might turn them from all religion and make them infidels or atheists, or something worse. any religion is better than none. i've been reading up a little myself this afternoon, and there are some good points in christian science. of course, for our sakes and father's, the twins will be generous and deny that they are scientists. but at heart, they are. i saw it this afternoon. and you and i, prudence, must stand together and back them up. they'll have to leave the methodist church. it may break our hearts, and father's, too, but we can't wrong our little sisters just for our personal pride and pleasure in them. i think we'll have them go before the official board next sunday while father is gone--then he will be spared the pain of it. i'll speak to mr. lauren about it to-morrow. we must make it as easy for them as we can. they'll probably dismiss them--i don't suppose they'll give them letters. but it must be all over before papa comes back." then she hissed in prudence's ear, "now cry." prudence obediently began sniffing and gulping, and fairy rushed to her and threw her arms about her, sobbing in heart-broken accents, "there, there, prue, i know--i felt just the same about it. but we can't stand between the twins and what they think is right. we daren't have that on our consciences." the two wept together, encouraged by the death-like stillness in the closet on the other side of the wall. then fairy said, more calmly, though still sobbing occasionally, "for our sakes, they'll try to deny it. but we can't let the little darlings sacrifice themselves. they've got to have a chance to try their new belief. we'll just be firm and insist that they stand on their rights. we won't mention it to them for a day or two--we'll fix it up with the official board first. and we must surely get it over by sunday. poor old father--and how he loves--" fairy indulged in a clever and especially artistic bit of weeping. then she regained control of her feelings by an audible effort. "but it has its good points, prue. haven't you noticed how sweet and sunny and dear the twins have been lately? it was science and health working in them. oh, prudence dear, don't cry so." prudence caught her cue again and began weeping afresh. they soothed and caressed and comforted each other for a while, and then went down-stairs to finish getting supper. in the meantime, the shocked and horrified twins in the closet of their own room, were clutching each other with passionate intensity. little nervous chills set them aquiver, their hands were cold, their faces throbbing hot. when their sisters had gone down-stairs, they stared at each other in agony. "they--they wo-won't p-p-put us out of the ch-ch-church," gasped carol. "they will," stammered lark. "you know what prudence is! she'd put the whole church out if she thought it would do us any good." "pa-p-pa'll--papa'll--" began carol, her teeth chattering. "they'll do it before he gets back." then with sudden reproach she cried, "oh, carol, i told you it was wicked to joke about religion." this unexpected reproach on the part of her twin brought carol back to earth. "christian science isn't religion," she declared. "it's not even good sense, as far's i can make out. i didn't read a word of it, did you?--i--i just thought it would be such a good joke on prudence--with father out of town." the good joke was anything but funny now. "they can't make us be scientists if we don't want to," protested lark. "they can't. why, i wouldn't be anything but a methodist for anything on earth. i'd die first." "you can't die if you're a scientist--anyhow, you oughtn't to. millie mains told me--" "it's a punishment on us for even looking at the book--good methodists like we are. i'll burn it. that's what i'll do." "you'll have to pay for it at the library if you do," cautioned frugal carol. "well, we'll just go and tell prudence it was a joke,--prudence is always reasonable. she won't--" "she'll punish us, and--it'll be such a joke on us, larkie. even connie'll laugh." they squirmed together, wretchedly, at that. "we'll tell them we have decided it is false." "they said we'd probably do that for their sakes." "it--it was a good joke while it lasted," said carol, with a very faint shadow of a smile. "don't you remember how prudence gasped? she kept her mouth open for five minutes!" "it's still a joke," added lark gloomily, "but it's on us." "they can't put us out of the church!" "i don't know. you know we methodists are pretty set! like as not they'll say we'd be a bad influence among the members." "twins!" the call outside their door sounded like the trump of doom to the conscience-smitten twins, and they clutched each other, startled, crying out. then, sheepishly, they stepped out of the closet to find fairy regarding them quizzically from the doorway. she repressed a smile with difficulty, as she said quietly: "i was just talking to mrs. mains over the phone. she's going to a christian science lecture to-night, and she said she wished i wasn't a minister's daughter and she'd ask me to go along. i told her i didn't care to, but said you twins would enjoy it. she'll be here in the car for you at seven forty-five." "i won't go," cried carol. "i won't go near their old church." "you won't go." fairy was astonished. "why--i told her you would be glad to go." "i won't," repeated carol, with nervous passion. "i will not. you can't make me." lark shook her head in corroborative denial. "well, that's queer." fairy frowned, then she smiled. suddenly, to the tempest-tossed and troubled twins, the tall splendid fairy seemed a haven of refuge. her eyes were very kind. her smile was sweet. and with a cry of relief, and shame, and fear, the twins plunged upon her and told their little tale. "you punish us this time, fairy," begged carol. "we--we don't want the rest of the family to know. we'll take any kind of punishment, but keep it dark, won't you? prudence will soon forget, she's so awfully full of jerry these days." "i'll talk it over with prudence," said fairy. "but--i think we'll have to tell the family." lark moved her feet restlessly. "well, you needn't tell connie," she said. "having the laugh come back on us is the very meanest kind of a punishment." fairy looked at them a moment, wondering if, indeed, their punishment had been sufficient. "well, little twins," she said, "i guess i will take charge of this myself. here is your punishment." she stood up again, and looked down at them with sparkling eyes as they gazed at her expectantly. "we caught on that it was a joke. we knew you were listening in the closet. and prudence and i acted our little parts to give you one good scare. who's the laugh on now? are we square? supper's ready." and fairy ran down-stairs, laughing, followed by two entirely abashed and humbled twins. chapter iii a gift from heaven the first of april in the mount mark parsonage was a time of trial and tribulation, frequently to the extent of weeping and gnashing of teeth. the twins were no respecters of persons, and feeling that the first of april rendered all things justifiable to all men, they made life as burdensome to their father as to connie, and fairy and prudence lived in a state of perpetual anguish until the twins fell asleep at night well satisfied but worn out with the day's activities. the twins were bordering closely to the first stage of grown-up womanhood, but on the first of april they swore they would always be young! the tricks were more dignified, more carefully planned and scientifically executed than in the days of their rollicking girlhood,--but they were all the more heart-breaking on that account. the week before the first was spent by connie in a vain effort to ferret out their plans in order that fore-knowledge might suggest a sufficient safe-guard. the twins, however, were too clever to permit this, and their bloody schemes were wrapped in mystery and buried in secrecy. on the thirty-first of march, connie labored like a plumber would if working by the job. she painstakingly hid from sight all her cherished possessions. the twins were in the barn, presumably deep in plots. aunt grace was at the ladies' aid. so when fairy came in, about four in the afternoon, there was only prudence to note the vengeful glitter in her fine clear eyes. and prudence was so intent upon feather-stitching the hems of pink-checked dish towels, that she did not observe it. "where's papa?" fairy asked. "up-stairs." "where are the twins?" "in the barn, getting ready for the day." fairy smiled delightfully and skipped eagerly up the stairs. she was closeted with her father for some time, and came out of his room at last with a small coin carefully concealed in the corner of her handkerchief. she did not remove her hat, but set briskly out toward town again. prudence, startled out of her feather-stitching, followed her to the door. "why, fairy," she called. "are you going out again?" fairy threw out her hands. "so it seems. an errand for papa." she lifted her brows and pursed up her lips, and the wicked joy in her face pierced the mantle of prudence's absorption again. "what's up?" she questioned curiously, following her sister down the steps. fairy looked about hurriedly, and then whispered a few words of explanation. prudence's look changed to one of unnaturally spiteful glee. "good! fine! serves 'em right! you'd better hurry." "tell aunt grace, will you? but don't let connie in until morning. she'd give it away." at supper-time fairy returned, and the twins, their eyes bright with the unholy light of mischief, never looked at her. they sometimes looked heavenward with a sublime contentment that drove connie nearly frantic. occasionally they uttered cryptic words about the morrow,--and the older members of the family smiled pleasantly, but connie shuddered. she remembered so many april fool's days. the family usually clung together on occasions of this kind, feeling there was safety and sympathy in numbers--as so many cowards have felt for lo, these many years. and thus it happened that they were all in the dining-room when their father appeared at the door. he had his hands behind him suggestively. "twins," he said, without preamble, "what do you want more than anything else?" "silk stockings," was the prompt and unanimous answer. he laughed. "good guess, wasn't it?" and tossed into their eager hands two slender boxes, nicely wrapped. the others gathered about them with smiling eyes as the twins tremulously tore off the wrappings. "a. phoole's pure silk thread hose,--guaranteed!" this they read from the box--neat golden lettering. it was enough for the twins. with cries of perfect bliss they flung themselves upon their father, kissing him rapturously wherever their lips might touch. "oh, papa!" "oh, you darling!" and then, when they had some sort of control of their joy, lark said solemnly, "papa, it is a gift from heaven!" "of course, we give you the credit, papa," carol amended quickly, "but the thought was heaven-prompted." fairy choked suddenly, and her fit of coughing interfered with the twins' gratitude to an all-suggesting providence! carol twisted her box nervously. "you know, papa, it may seem very childish, and--silly to you, but--actually--we have--well, prayed for silk stockings. we didn't honestly expect to get them, though--not until we saved up money enough to get them ourselves. heaven is kinder to us than we--" "you can't understand such things, papa," said lark. "maybe you don't know exactly how--how they feel. when we go to betty hill's we wear her silk stockings and lie on the bed--and--she won't let us walk in them, for fear we may wear holes. every girl in our class has at least one pair,--betty has three, but one pair's holey, and--we felt so awfully poor!" the smiles on the family faces were rather stereotyped by this time, but the exulting twins did not notice. lark looked at carol fondly. carol sighed at lark blissfully. then, with one accord, they lifted the covers from the boxes and drew out the shimmering hose. yes,--shimmering--but--they shook them out for inspection! their faces paled a little. "they--they are very--" began carol courageously. then she stopped. the hose were a fine tissue-paper imitation of silk stockings! the "april fool, little twins," on the toes was not necessary for their enlightenment. they looked at their father with sad but unresentful reproach in their swiftly shadowed eyes. "it--it's a good joke," stammered carol, moistening her dry lips with her tongue. "it's--one on us," blurted lark promptly. "ha, ha, ha," laughed carol, slowly, dryly, very dully. "yes--ha, ha, ha," echoed lark, placing the bitter fruit carefully back in its box. her fingers actually trembled. "it's a--swell joke, all right," carol said, "we see that well enough,--we're not stupid, you know. but we did want some silk stockings so--awfully bad. but it's funny, ha, ha, ha!" "a gift from heaven!" muttered lark, with clenched teeth. "well, you got us that time." "come on, lark, we must put them sacredly away--silk stockings, you know, are mighty scarce in a parsonage,--" "yes, ha, ha, ha," and the crushed and broken twins left the room, with dignity in spite of the blow. the family did not enjoy the joke on the twins. mr. starr looked at the others with all a man's confused incomprehension of a woman's notions! he spread out his hands--an orthodox, ministerial gesture! "now, will some one kindly tell me what there is in silk stockings, to--" he shook his head helplessly. "silk stockings! a gift from heaven!" he smiled, unmerrily. "the poor little kids!" then he left the room. aunt grace openly wiped her eyes, smiling at herself as she did so. fairy opened and closed her lips several times. then she spoke. "say, prue, knock me down and sit on me, will you? whatever made me think of such a stupid trick as that?" "why, bless their little hearts," whispered prudence, sniffing. "didn't they look sorry? but they were so determined to be game." "prudence, give me my eight cents," demanded connie. "i want it right away." "what do you want it for?" "i'm going down to morrow's and get some candy. i never saw a meaner trick in my life! i'm surprised at papa. the twins only play jokes for fun." and connie stalked grimly out of the parsonage and off toward town. a more abashed and downcast pair of twins probably never lived. they sat thoughtfully in their room, "a. phoole's silk thread hose" carefully hidden from their hurt eyes. "it was a good joke," lark said, now and then. "yes, very," assented carol. "but silk stockings, larkie!" and lark squirmed wretchedly. "a gift from heaven," she mourned. "how they must be laughing!" but they did not laugh. connie came back and shared her candy. they thanked her courteously and invited her to sit down. then they all ate candy and grieved together silently. they did not speak of the morning's disaster, but the twins understood and appreciated the tender sympathy of her attitude, and although they said nothing, they looked at her very kindly and connie was well content. the morning passed drearily. the twins had lost all relish for their well-planned tricks, and the others, down-stairs, found the usually wild and hilarious day almost unbearably poky. prudence's voice was gentle as she called them down to dinner, and the twins, determined not to show the white feather, went down at once and took their places. they bore their trouble bravely, but their eyes had the surprised and stricken look, and their faces were nearly old. mr. starr cut the blessing short, and the dinner was eaten in silence. the twins tried to start the conversation. they talked of the weather with passionate devotion. they discussed their studies with an almost unbelievable enthusiasm. they even referred, with stiff smiles, to "papa's good joke," and then laughed their dreary "ha, ha, ha," until their father wanted to fall upon his knees and beg forgiveness. connie, still solicitous, helped them wash the dishes. the others disappeared. fairy got her hat and went out without a word. their father followed scarcely a block behind her. aunt grace sought all over the house for prudence, and finally found her in the attic, comforting herself with a view of the lovely linens which filled her hope box. "i'm going for a walk," announced aunt grace briefly. "all right," assented prudence. "if i'm not here when you get back, don't worry. i'm going for a walk myself." their work done irreproachably, the twins and connie went to the haymow and lay on the hay, still silent. the twins, buoyant though they were, could not so quickly recover from a shock like this. so intent were they upon the shadows among the cobwebs that they heard no sound from below until their father's head appeared at the top of the ladder. "come up," they invited hospitably but seriously. he did so at once, and stood before them, his face rather flushed, his manner a little constrained, but looking rather satisfied with himself on the whole. "twins," he said, "i didn't know you were so crazy about silk stockings. we just thought it would be a good joke--but it was a little too good. it was a boomerang. i don't know when i've felt so contemptible. so i went down and got you some real silk stockings--a dollar and a half a pair,--and i'm glad to clear my conscience so easily." the twins blushed. "it--it was a good joke, papa," carol assured him shyly. "it was a dandy. but--all the girls at school have silk stockings for best, and--we've been wanting them--forever. and--honestly, father, i don't know when i've had such a--such a spell of indigestion as when i saw those stockings were april fool." "indigestion," scoffed connie, restored to normal by her father's handsome amends. "yes, indigestion," declared lark. "you know, papa, that funny, hollow, hungry feeling--when you get a shock. that's nervous indigestion,--we read it in a medicine ad. they've got pills for it. but it was a good joke. we saw that right at the start." "and we didn't expect anything like this. it--is very generous of you, papa. very!" but he noticed that they made no move to unwrap the box. it still lay between them on the hay, where he had tossed it. evidently their confidence in him had been severely shattered. he sat down and unwrapped it himself. "they are guaranteed," he explained, passing out the little pink slips gravely, "so when they wear holes you get another pair for nothing." the twins' faces had brightened wonderfully. "i will never play that kind of a trick again, twins, so you needn't be suspicious of me. and say! whenever you want anything so badly it makes you feel like that, come and talk it over. we'll manage some way. of course, we're always a little hard up, but we can generally scrape up something extra from somewhere. and we will. you mustn't--feel like that--about things. just tell me about it. girls are so--kind of funny, you know." the twins and connie rushed to the house to try the "feel" of the first, adored silk stockings. they donned them, admired them, petted connie, idolized their father, and then removing them, tied them carefully in clean white tissue-paper and deposited them in the safest corner of the bottom drawer of their dresser. then they lay back on the bed, thinking happily of the next class party! silk stockings! ah! "can't you just imagine how we'll look in our new white dresses, lark, and our patent leather pumps,--with silk stockings! i really feel there is nothing sets off a good complexion as well as real silk stockings!" they were interrupted in this delightful occupation by the entrance of fairy. the twins had quickly realized that the suggestion for their humiliating had come from her, and their hearts were sore, but being good losers--at least, as good losers as real live folks can be--they wouldn't have admitted it for the world. "come on in, fairy," said lark cordially. "aren't we lazy to-day?" "twins," said fairy, self-conscious for the first time in the twins' knowledge of her, "i suppose you know it was i who suggested that idiotic little stocking stunt. it was awfully hateful of me, and so i bought you some real silk stockings with my own spending money, and here they are, and you needn't thank me for i never could be fond of myself again until i squared things with you." the twins had to admit that it was really splendid of fairy, and they thanked her with unfeigned zeal. "but papa already got us a pair, and so you can take these back and get your money again. it was just as sweet of you, fairy, and we thank you, and it was perfectly dear and darling, but we have papa's now, and--" "good for papa!" fairy cried, and burst out laughing at the joke that proved so expensive for the perpetrators. "but you shall have my burnt offering, too. it serves us both right, but especially me, for it was my idea." and fairy walked away feeling very gratified and generous. only girls who have wanted silk stockings for a "whole lifetime" can realize the blissful state of the parsonage twins. they lay on the bed planning the most impossible but magnificent things they would do to show their gratitude, and when aunt grace stopped at their door they leaped up to overwhelm her with caresses just because of their gladness. she waved them away with a laugh. "april fool, twins," she said, with a voice so soft that it took all the sting from the words. "i brought you some real silk stockings for a change." and she tossed them a package and started out of the room to escape their thanks. but she stopped in surprise when the girls burst into merry laughter. "oh, you silk stockings!" carol cried. "three pairs! you darling sweet old auntie! you would come up here to tease us, would you? but papa gave us a pair, and fairy gave us a pair, and--" "they did! why, the silly things!" and the gentle woman looked as seriously vexed as she ever did look--she had so wanted to give them the first silk-stocking experience herself. "oh, here you are," cried prudence, stepping quickly in, and speaking very brightly to counterbalance the gloom she had expected to encounter. she started back in some dismay when she saw the twins rolling and rocking with laughter, and aunt grace leaning against the dresser for support, with connie on the floor, quite speechless. "good for you, twins,--that's the way to take hard knocks," she said. "it wasn't a very nice trick, though of course papa didn't understand how you felt about silk stockings. it wasn't his fault. but fairy and i ought to be ashamed, and we are. i went out and got you some real genuine silk ones myself, so you needn't pray for them any more." prudence was shocked, a little hurt, at the outburst that followed her words. "well, such a family!" aunt grace exclaimed. and then carol pulled her bodily down beside her on the bed and for a time they were all incapable of explanations. "what is the joke?" prudence asked, again and again, smiling,--but still feeling a little pique. she had counted on gladdening their sorry little hearts! "stockings, stockings--oh, such a family!" shrieked carol. "there's no playing jokes on the twins," said aunt grace weakly. "it takes the whole family to square up. it's too expensive." then lark explained, and prudence sat down and joined the merriment, which waxed so noisy that mr. starr from the library and fairy from the kitchen, ran in to investigate. "april fool, april fool," cried carol, "we never played a trick like this, larkie--this is our masterpiece." "you're the nicest old things that ever lived," said lark, still laughing, but with great warmth and tenderness in her eyes and her voice. "but you can take the stockings back and save your money if you like--we love you just as much." but this the happy donors stoutly refused to do. the twins had earned this wealth of hose, and finally, wiping their eyes, the twins began to smooth their hair and adjust their ribbons and belts. "what's the matter?" "where are you going?" "will you buy the rest of us some silk stockings?" queried the family, comic-opera effect. "where are we going?" carol repeated, surprised, seeming to feel that any one should know where they were going, though they had not spoken. "we're going to call on our friends, of course," explained lark. "of course," said carol, jabbing her hair pins in with startling energy. "and we've got to hurry. we must go to mattie's, and jean's, and betty's, and fan's, and birdie's, and alice's, and--say, lark, maybe we'd better divide up and each take half. it's kind of late,--and we mustn't miss any." "well, what on earth!" gasped prudence, while the others stared in speechless amazement. "for goodness' sake, carol, hurry. we have to get clear out to minnie's to-night, if we miss our supper." "but what's the idea? what for? what are you talking about?" "why, you silly thing," said carol patiently, "we have to go and tell our friends that we've got four pairs of silk stockings, of course. i wouldn't miss this afternoon for the world. and we'll go the rounds together, lark. i want to see how they take it," she smiled at them benignly. "i can imagine their excitement. and we owe it to the world to give it all the excitement we can. prudence says so." prudence looked startled. "did i say that?" "certainly. you said pleasure--but excitement's very pleasing, most of the time. come on, larkie, we'll have to walk fast." and with a fond good-by to the generous family, the twins set out to spread the joyful tidings, lark pausing at the door just long enough to explain gravely, "of course, we won't tell them--er--just how it happened, you know. lots of things in a parsonage need to be kept dark. prudence says so herself." chapter iv how carol spoiled the wedding a day in june,--the kind of day that poets have rhymed and lovers have craved since time began. on the side porch of the parsonage, in a wide hammock, lay aunt grace, looking languidly through half-closed lids at the girls beneath her on the step. prudence, although her face was all a-dream, bent conscientiously over the bit of linen in her hands. and fairy, her piquantly bright features clouded with an unwonted frown, crumpled a letter in her hand. "i do think men are the most aggravating things that ever lived," she declared, with annoyance in her voice. the woman in the hammock smiled slightly, and did not speak. prudence carefully counted ten threads, and solemnly drew one before she voiced her question. "what is he saying now?" "why, he's still objecting to my having dates with the other boys." fairy's voice was vibrant with grief. "he does make me wild! aunt grace, you can't imagine. last fall i mentioned casually that i was sure he wouldn't object to my having lecture course dates--i was too hard up to buy a ticket for myself; they cost four dollars, and aren't worth it, either. and what did he do but send me eight dollars to buy two sets of tickets! then this spring, when the baseball season opened, he sent me season tickets to all the games suggesting that my financial stringency could not be pleaded as an excuse. ever since he went to chicago last fall we've been fighting because the boys bring me home from parties. i suppose he had to go and learn to be a pharmacist, but--it's hard on me. he wants me to patter along by myself like a--like--like a hen!" fairy said "hen" very crossly! "it's a shame," said prudence sympathetically. "that's just what it is. you wouldn't say a word to his taking girls home from things, would you?" "hum,--that's a different matter," said fairy more thoughtfully. "he hasn't wanted to yet. you see, he's a man and can go by himself without having it look as though nobody wanted to be seen with him. and he's a stranger over there, and doesn't need to get chummy with the girls. the boys here all know me, and ask me to go, and--a man, you see, can just be passive and nothing happens. but a girl's got to be downright negative, and it's no joke. one misses so many good times. you see the cases are different, prue." "yes, that's so," prudence assented absent-mindedly, counting off ten more threads. "then you would object if he had dates?" queried aunt grace smilingly. "oh, no, not at all,--if there was any occasion for it--but there isn't. and i think i would be justified in objecting if he deliberately made occasions for himself, don't you?" "yes, that would be different," prudence chimed in, such "miles away" in her voice, that fairy turned on her indignantly. "prudence starr, you make me wild," she said. "can't you drop that everlasting hemstitching, embroidering, tatting, crocheting, for ten minutes to talk to me? what in the world are you going to do with it all, anyhow? are you intending to carpet your floors with it?" "this is a napkin," prudence explained good-naturedly. "the set cost me fifteen dollars." she sighed. "did the veil come?" the clouds vanished magically from fairy's face, and she leaned forward with that joy of wedding anticipation that rules in woman-world. "yes, it's beautiful. come and see it. wait until i pull four more threads. it's gorgeous." "i still think you're making a great mistake," declared fairy earnestly. "i don't believe in big showy church weddings. you'd better change it yet. a little home affair with just the family,--that's the way to do it. all this satin-gown, orange-blossom elaboration with curious eyes staring up and down--ugh! it's all wrong." prudence dropped the precious fifteen-dollar-a-set napkin in her lap and gazed at fairy anxiously. "i know you think so, fairy," she said. "you've told me so several times." fairy's eyes twinkled, but prudence had no intention of sarcasm. "but i can't help it, can i? we had quite settled on the home wedding, but when the twins discovered that the members felt hurt at being left out, father thought we'd better change over." "well, i can't see that the members have any right to run our wedding. besides, it wouldn't surprise me if the twins made it up because they wanted a big fuss." "but some of the members spoke to father." "oh, just common members that don't count for much--and it was mighty poor manners of 'em, too, if you'll excuse me for saying so." "and you must admit, fairy, that it is lovely of the ladies' aid to give that dinner at the hotel for us." "well, they'll get their money's worth of talk out of it afterward. it's a big mistake.--what on earth are the twins doing out there? is that jim forrest with them? listen how they are screaming with laughter! would you ever believe those twins are past fifteen, and nearly through their junior year? they haven't as much sense put together as connie has all alone." "come and see the veil," said prudence, rising. but she dropped back on the step again as carol came rushing toward them at full speed, with lark and a tall young fellow trailing slowly, laughing, behind her. "the mean things!" she gasped. "they cheated!" she dropped a handful of pennies in her aunt's lap as she lay in the hammock. "we'll take 'em to sunday-school and give 'em to the heathen, that's what we'll do. they cheated!" "yes, infant, who cheated, and how, and why? and whence the startling array of pennies? and why this unwonted affection for the heathen?" mocked fairy. "trying to be a blank verse, fairy? keep it up, you haven't far to go!--there they are! look at them, aunt grace. they cheated. they tried to get all my hard-earned pennies by nefarious methods, and--" "and so carol stole them all, and ran! sit down, jim. my, it's hot. give me back my pennies, carol." "the heathen! the heathen!" insisted carol. "not a penny do you get. you see, aunt grace, we were matching pennies,--you'd better not mention it to father. we've turned over a new leaf now, and quit for good. but we were matching--and they made a bargain that whenever it was my turn, one of them would throw heads and one tails, and that way i never could win anything. and i didn't catch on until i saw jim wink, and so of course i thought it was only right to give the pennies to the heathen." "mercy, prudence," interrupted lark. "are you doing another napkin? this is the sixteenth dozen, isn't it? you'd better donate some of them to the parsonage, i think. i was so ashamed when miss marsden came to dinner. she opened her napkin out wide, and her finger went right through a hole. i was mortified to death--and carol laughed. it seems to me with three grown women in the house we could have holeless napkins, one for company, anyhow." "how is your mother, jim?" "just fine, miss prudence, thank you. she said to tell you she would send a basket of red junes to-morrow, if you want them. the twins can eat them, i know. carol ate twenty-two when they were out saturday." "yes, i did, and i'm glad of it," said carol stoutly. "such apples you never saw, prudence. they're about as big as a thimble, and two-thirds core. they're good, they're fine, i'll say that,--but there's nothing to them. i could have eaten as many again if jim hadn't been counting out loud, and i got kind of ashamed because every one was laughing. if i had a ranch as big as yours, jim, i'll bet you a dollar i'd have apples bigger than a dime!" "'bet you a dollar,'" quoted fairy. "well, i'll wager my soul, if that sounds more like shakespeare. don't go, jim, we're not fighting. this is just the way fairy and i make love to each other. you're perfectly welcome to stay, but be careful of your grammar, for now that fairy's a senior--will be next year, if she lives--she even tries to teach father the approved method of doing a ministerial sneeze in the pulpit." "think i'd better go," decided the tall good-looking youth, laughing as he looked with frank boyish admiration into carol's sparkling face. "with fairy after my grammar, and you to criticize my manner and my morals, i see right now that a parsonage is no safe place for a farmer's son." and laughing again, he thrust his cap into his pocket, and walked quickly out the new cement parsonage walk. but at the gate he paused to call back, "don't make a mistake, carol, and use the heathen's pennies for candy." the girls on the porch laughed, and five pairs of eyes gazed after the tall figure rapidly disappearing. "he's nice," said prudence. "yes," assented carol. "i've got a notion to marry him after a little. that farm of his is worth about ten thousand." "are you going to wait until he asks you?" "certainly not! anybody can marry a man after he asks her. the thing to do, if you want to be really original and interesting, is to marry him before he asks you and surprise him." "yes," agreed lark, "if you wait until he asks you he's likely to think it over once too often and not ask you at all." "doesn't that sound exactly like a book, now?" demanded carol proudly. "fairy couldn't have said that!" "no," said fairy, "i couldn't. thank goodness!--i have what is commonly known as brains. look it up in the dictionary, twins. it's something you ought to know about." "oh, prudence," cried lark dramatically, "i forgot to tell you. you can't get married after all." for ten seconds prudence, as well as fairy and their aunt, stared in speechless amazement. then prudence smiled. "oh, can't i? what's the joke now?" "joke! it's no joke. carol's sick, that's what's the joke. you can't be married without carol, can you?" a burst of gay laughter greeted this announcement. "carol sick! she acts sick!" "she looks sick!" "where is she sick?" carol leaned limply back against the pillar, trying to compose her bright face into a semblance of illness. "in my tummy," she announced weakly. this called forth more laughter. "it's her conscience," said fairy. "it's matching pennies. maybe she swallowed one." "it's probably those two pieces of pie she ate for dinner, and the one that vanished from the pantry shortly after," suggested aunt grace. carol sat up quickly. "welcome home, aunt grace!" she cried. "did you have a pleasant visit?" "carol," reproved prudence. "i didn't mean it for impudence, auntie," said carol, getting up and bending affectionately over the hammock, gently caressing the brown hair just beginning to silver about her forehead. "but it does amuse me so to hear a lady of your age and dignity indulge in such lavish conversational exercises." lark swallowed with a forced effort. "did it hurt, carol? how did you get it all out in one breath?" "lark, i do wish you wouldn't gulp that way when folks use big words," said fairy. "it looks--awful." "well, i won't when i get to be as old and crabbed as--father," said lark. "sit down, carol, and remember you're sick." carol obediently sat down, and looked sicker than ever. "you can laugh if you like," she said, "i am sick, at least, i was this afternoon. i've been feeling very queer for three or four days. i don't think i'm quite over it yet." "pie! you were right, aunt grace! that's the way pie works." "it's not pie at all," declared carol heatedly. "and i didn't take that piece out of the pantry, at least, not exactly. i caught connie sneaking it, and i gave her a good calling down, and she hung her head and slunk away in disgrace. but she had taken such big bites that it looked sort of unsanitary, so i thought i'd better finish it before it gathered any germs. but it's not pie. now that i think of it, it was my head where i was sick. don't you remember, lark, i said my head ached?" "yes, and her eyes got red and bleary when she was reading. and--and there was something else, too, carol, what--" "your eyes are bloodshot, carol. they do look bad." prudence examined them closely. "now, carol starr, don't you touch another book or magazine until after the wedding. if you think i want a bloodshot bridesmaid, you're mistaken." they all turned to look across the yard at connie, just turning in. connie always walked, as carol said, "as if she mostly wasn't there." but she usually "arrived" by the time she got within speaking distance of her sister. "goodness, prue, aren't you going to do anything but eat after you move to des moines? carol and i were counting the napkins last night,--was it a hundred and seventy-six, carol, or--some awful number i know. carol piled them up in two piles and we kneeled on them to say our prayers, and--i can't say for sure, but i think carol pushed me. anyhow, i lost my balance, and usually i'm pretty well balanced. i toppled over right after 'god save,' and carol screamed 'the napkins'--prue's wedding napkins! it was an awful funny effect; i couldn't finish my prayers." "carol starr! fifteen years old and--" "that's a very much exaggerated story, prue. connie blamed it on me as usual. she piled them up herself to see if there were two feet of them,--she put her stockings on the floor first so the dust wouldn't rub off. it was lark's turn to sweep and you know how lark sweeps, and connie was very careful, indeed, and--" "come on, fairy, and see the veil!" "the veil! did it come?" with a joyous undignified whoop the parsonage girls scrambled to their feet and rushed indoors in a fine kilkenny jumble. aunt grace looked after them, thoughtfully, smiling for a second, and then with a girlish shrug of her slender shoulders she slipped out and followed them inside. the last thing that night, before she said her prayers, prudence carried a big bottle of witch hazel into the twins' room. both were sleeping, but she roused carol, and lark turned over to listen. "you must bathe your eyes with this, carol. i forgot to tell you. what would jerry say if he had a bleary-eyed bridesmaid!" and although the twins grumbled and mumbled about the idiotic nonsense of getting-married folks, carol obediently bathed the bloodshot eyes. for in their heart of hearts, every one of the parsonage girls held this wedding to be the affair of prime importance, national and international, as well as just plain methodist. the twins were undeniably lazy, and slept as late of mornings as the parsonage law allowed. so it was that when lark skipped into the dining-room, three minutes late for breakfast, she found the whole family, with the exception of carol, well in the midst of their meal. "she was sick," she began quickly, then interrupting herself,--"oh, good morning! beg pardon for forgetting my manners. but carol was sick, prudence, and i hope you and fairy are ashamed of yourselves--and auntie, too--for making fun of her. she couldn't sleep all night, and rolled and tossed, and her head hurt and she talked in her sleep, and--" "i thought she didn't sleep." "well, she didn't sleep much, but when she did she mumbled and said things and--" then the dining-room door opened again, and carol--her hair about her shoulders, her feet bare, enveloped in a soft and clinging kimono of faded blue--stalked majestically into the room. there was woe in her eyes, and her voice was tragic. "it is gone," she said. "it is gone!" her appearance was uncanny to say the least, and the family gazed at her with some concern, despite the fact that carol's vagaries were so common as usually to elicit small respect. "gone!" she cried, striking her palms together. "gone!" "if you do anything to spoil that wedding, papa'll whip you, if you are fifteen years old," said fairy. lark sprang to her sister's side. "what's gone, carrie?" she pleaded with sympathy, almost with tears. "what's gone? are you out of your head?" "no! out of my complexion," was the dramatic answer. even lark fell back, for the moment, stunned. "y-your complexion," she faltered. "look! look at me, lark. don't you see? my complexion is gone--my beautiful complexion that i loved. look at me! oh, i would gladly have sacrificed a leg, or an arm, a--rib or an eye, but not my dear complexion!" sure enough, now that they looked carefully, they could indeed perceive that the usual soft creaminess of carol's skin was prickled and sparred with ugly red splotches. her eyes were watery, shot with blood. for a time they gazed in silence, then they burst into laughter. "pie!" cried fairy. "it's raspberry pie, coming out, carol!" the corners of carol's lips twitched slightly, and it was with difficulty that she maintained her wounded regal bearing. but lark, always quick to resent an indignity to this twin of her heart, turned upon them angrily. "fairy starr! you are a wicked unfeeling thing! you sit there and laugh and talk about pie when carol is sick and suffering--her lovely complexion all ruined, and it was the joy of my life, that complexion was. papa,--why don't you do something?" but he only laughed harder than ever. "if there's anything more preposterous than carol's vanity because of her beauty, it's lark's vanity for her," he said. aunt grace drew carol to her side, and examined the ruined complexion closely. then she smiled, but there was regret in her eyes. "well, carol, you've spoiled your part of the wedding sure enough. you've got the measles." then came the silence of utter horror. "not the measles," begged carol, wounded afresh. "give me diphtheria, or smallpox, or--or even leprosy, and i'll bear it bravely and with a smile, but it shall not be said that carol's measles spoiled the wedding." "oh, carol," wailed prudence, "don't have the measles,--please don't. i've waited all my life for this wedding,--don't spoil it." "well, it's your own fault, prue," interrupted lark. "if you hadn't kept us all cooped up when we were little we'd have had measles long ago. now, like as not the whole family'll have 'em, and serve you right. no self-respecting family has any business to grow up without having the measles." "what shall we do now?" queried constance practically. "well, i always said it was a mistake," said fairy. "a big wedding--" "oh, fairy, please don't tell me that again. i know it so well. papa, whatever shall we do? maybe jerry hasn't had them either." "why, it's easily arranged," said lark. "we'll just postpone the wedding until carol's quite well again." "bad luck," said connie. "too much work," said fairy. "well, she can't get married without carol, can she?" ejaculated lark. "are you sure it's measles, aunt grace?" "yes, it's measles." "then," said fairy, "we'll get alice bird or katie free to bridesmaid with lark. they are the same size and either will do all right. she can wear carol's dress. you won't mind that, will you, carol?" "no," said carol moodily, "of course i won't. the only real embroidery dress i ever had in my life--and haven't got that yet! but go ahead and get anybody you like. i'm hoodooed, that's what it is. it's a punishment because you and jim cheated yesterday, lark." "what did you do?" asked connie. "you seem to be getting the punishment!" "shall we have alice or katie? which do you prefer, lark?" "you'll have to get them both," was the stoic answer. "i won't bridesmaid without carol." "don't be silly, lark. you'll have to." "then wait for carol." "papa, you must make her." "no," said prudence slowly, with a white face. "we'll postpone it. i won't get married without the whole family." "i said right from the start--" "oh, yes, fairy, we know what you said," interjected carol. "we know how you'll get married. first man that gets moonshine enough into his head to propose to you, you'll trot him post haste to the justice before he thinks twice." in the end, the wedding was postponed a couple of months,--for both connie and fairy took the measles. but when at last, the wedding party, marshalled by connie with a huge white basket of flowers, trailed down the time-honored aisle of the methodist church, it was without one dissenting voice pronounced the crowning achievement of mr. starr's whole pastorate. "i was proud of us, lark," carol told her twin, after it was over, and prudence had gone, and the girls had wept themselves weak on each other's shoulders. "we get so in the habit of doing things wrong that i half expected myself to pipe up ahead of father with the ceremony. it seems--awful--without prudence,--but it's a satisfaction to know that she was the best married bride mount mark has ever seen." "jerry looked awfully handsome, didn't he? did you notice how he glowed at prudence? i wish you were artistic, carol, so you could illustrate my books. jerry'd make a fine illustration." "we looked nice, too. we're not a bad-looking bunch when you come right down to facts. of course, it is fine to be as smart as you are, larkie, but i'm not jealous. we're mighty lucky to have both beauty and brains in our twin-ship,--and since one can't have both, i may say i'd just as lief be pretty. it's so much easier." "carol!" "what?" "we're nearly grown up now. we'll have to begin to settle down. prudence says so." for a few seconds carol wavered, tremulous. then she said pluckily, "all right. just wait till i powder my nose, will you? it gets so shiny when i cry." "carol!" "what?" "isn't the house still?" "yes--ghastly." "i never thought prudence was much of a chatter-box, but--listen! there isn't a sound." carol held out a hand, and lark clutched it desperately. "let's--let's go find the folks. this is--awful! little old prudence is gone!" chapter v the serenade a subject that never failed to arouse the sarcasm and the ire of fairy was that of the slaughter-house quartette. this was composed of four young men--men quite outside the pale as far as the parsonage was concerned--the disreputable characters of the community, familiar in the local jail for frequent bursts of intoxication. they slouched, they smoked, they lounged, they leered. the churches knew them not. they were the slum element, the bowery of mount mark, iowa. prudence, in her day, had passed them by with a shy slight nod and a glance of tender pity. fairy and lark, and even connie, sailed by with high heads and scornful eyes,--haughty, proud, icily removed. but carol, by some weird and inexplicable fancy, treated them with sweet and gracious solicitude, quite friendly. her smile as she passed was as sweet as for her dearest friend. her "good morning,--isn't this glorious weather?" was as affably cordial as her, "breakfast is ready, papa!" this was the one subject of dispute between the twins. "oh, please don't, carol, it does make me so ashamed," lark entreated. "you mustn't be narrow-minded, larkie," carol argued. "we're minister's girls, and we've got to be a good influence,--an encouragement to the--er, weak and erring, you know. maybe my smiles will be an inspiration to them." and on this point carol stood firm even against the tears of her precious twin. one evening at the dinner table fairy said, with a mocking smile, "how are your slaughter-house friends to-day, carol? when i was at the dentist's i saw you coming along, beaming at them in your own inimitable way." "oh, they seemed all right," carol answered, with a deprecating glance toward her father and her aunt. "i see by last night's paper that guy fleisher is just out after his last thirty days up," fairy continued solicitously. "did he find his incarceration trying?" "i didn't discuss it with him," carol said indignantly. "i never talk to them. i just say 'good morning' in christian charity." aunt grace's eyes were smiling as always, but for the first time carol felt that the smiles were at, instead of with, her. "you would laugh to see her, aunt grace," fairy explained. "they are generally half intoxicated, sometimes wholly. and carol trips by, clean, white and shining. they are always lounging against the store windows or posts for support, bleary-eyed, dissipated, swaggery, staggery. carol nods and smiles as only carol can, 'good morning, boys! isn't it a lovely day? are you feeling well?' and they grin at her and sway ingratiatingly against one another, and say, 'mornin', carol.' carol is the only really decent person in town that has anything to do with them." "carol means all right," declared lark angrily. "yes, indeed," assented fairy, "they call them the slaughter-house quartette, auntie, because whenever they are sober enough to walk without police assistance, they wander through the streets slaughtering the peace and serenity of the quiet town with their rendition of all the late, disgraceful sentimental ditties. they are in many ways striking characters. i do not wholly misunderstand their attraction for romantic carol. they are something like the troubadours of old--only more so." carol's face was crimson. "i don't like them," she cried, "but i'm sorry for them. i think maybe i can make them see the difference between us, me so nice and respectable you know, and them so--animalish! it may arouse their better natures--i suppose they have better natures. i want to show them that the decent element, we christians, are sorry for them and want to make them better." "carol wants to be an influence," fairy continued. "of course, it is a little embarrassing for the rest of us to have her on such friendly terms with the most unmentionable characters in all mount mark. but carol is like so many reformers,--in the presence of one great truth she has eyes for it only, ignoring a thousand other, greater truths." "i am sorry for them," carol repeated, more weakly, abashed by the presence of the united family. fairy's dissertations on this subject had usually occurred in private. mr. starr mentally resolved that he would talk this over with carol when the others were not present, for he knew from her face and her voice that she was really sensitive on the subject. and he knew, too, that it is difficult to explain to the very young that the finest of ideas are not applicable to all cases by all people. but it happened that he was spared the necessity of dealing with carol privately, for matters adjusted themselves without his assistance. the second night following was an eventful one in the parsonage. one of the bishops of the church was in mount mark for a business conference with the religious leaders, and was to spend the night at the parsonage. the meeting was called for eight-thirty for the convenience of the business men concerned, and was to be held in the church offices. the men left early, followed shortly by fairy who designed to spend the evening at the averys' home, testing their supply of winter apples. the twins and connie, with the newest and most thrilling book mr. carnegie afforded the town, went up-stairs to lie on the bed and take turns reading aloud. and for a few hours the parsonage was as calm and peaceful as though it were not designed for the housing of merry minister's daughters. aunt grace sat down-stairs darning stockings. the girls' intentions had been the best in the world, but in less than a year the family darning had fallen entirely into the capable and willing hands of the gentle chaperon. it was half past ten. the girls had just seen their heroine rescued from a watery grave and married to her bold preserver by a minister who happened to be writing a sermon on the beach--no mention of how the license was secured extemporaneously--and with sighs of gratified sentiment they lay happily on the bed thinking it all over. and then, from beneath the peach trees clustered on the south side of the parsonage, a burst of melody arose. "good morning, carrie, how are you this morning?" the girls sat up abruptly, staring at one another, as the curious ugly song wafted in upon them. conviction dawned slowly, sadly, but unquestionably. the slaughter-house quartette was serenading carol in return for her winsome smiles! carol herself was literally struck dumb. her face grew crimson, then white. in her heart, she repeated psalms of thanksgiving that fairy was away, and that her father and the bishop would not be in until this colossal disaster was over. connie was mortified. it seemed like a wholesale parsonage insult. lark, after the first awful realization, lay back on the bed and rolled convulsively. "you're an influence all right, carol," she gurgled. "will you listen to that?" for _rufus rastus johnson brown_ was the second choice of her cavaliers below in the darkness. "rufus rastus," lark cried, and then was choked with laughter. "of course, it would be--proper if they sang hymns but--oh, listen!" the rollicking strains of _budweiser_ were swung gaily out upon the night. carol writhed in anguish. the serenade was bad enough, but this unmerciful mocking derision of her adored twin was unendurable. then the quartette waxed sentimental. they sang, and not badly, a few old southern melodies, and started slowly around the corner of the house, still singing. it has been said that aunt grace was always kind, always gentle, unsuspicious and without guile. she had heard the serenade, and promptly concluded that it was the work of some of the high-school boys who were unanimously devoted to carol. she had a big box of chocolates up-stairs, for connie's birthday celebration. she could get them, and make lemonade, and-- she opened the door softly and stepped out, directly in the path of the startled youths. full of her hospitable intent, she was not discerning as parsonage people need to be. "come in, boys," she said cordially, "the girls will be down in a minute." the appearance of a guardian angel summoning them to paradise could not have confounded them more utterly. they stumbled all over one another in trying to back away from her. she laughed softly. "don't be bashful. we enjoyed it very much. yes, come right in." undoubtedly they would have declined if only they could have thought of the proper method of doing so. as it was, they only succeeded in shambling through the parsonage door, instinctively concealing their half-smoked cigarettes beneath their fingers. aunt grace ushered them into the pleasant living-room, and ran up to summon her nieces. left alone, the boys looked at one another with amazement and with grief, and the leader, the touching tenor, said with true musical fervor, "well, this is a go!" in the meantime, the girls, with horror, had heard their aunt's invitation. what in the world did she mean? was it a trick between her and fairy? had they hired the awful slaughterers to bring this disgrace upon the parsonage? sternly they faced her when she opened their door. "come down, girls--i invited them in. i'm going to make lemonade and serve my nice chocolates. hurry down." "you invited them in!" echoed connie. "the slaughter-house quartette," hissed lark. then aunt grace whirled about and stared at them. "mercy!" she whispered, remembering for the first time fairy's words. "mercy! is it--that? i thought it was high-school boys and--mercy!" "mercy is good," said carol grimly. "you'll have to put them out," suggested connie. "i can't! how can i?--how did i know?--what on earth,--oh, carol whatever made you smile at them?" she wailed helplessly. "you know how men are when they are smiled at! the bishop--" "you'll have to get them out before the bishop comes back," said carol. "you must. and if any of you ever give this away to father or fairy i'll--" "you'd better go down a minute, girls," urged their aunt. "that will be the easiest way. i'll just pass the candy and invite them to come again and then they'll go. hurry now, and we'll get rid of them before the others come. be as decent as you can, and it'll soon be over." thus adjured, with the dignity of the bishop and the laughter of fairy ever in their thoughts, the girls arose and went down, proudly, calmly, loftily. their inborn senses of humor came to their assistance when they entered the living-room. the slaughter boys looked far more slaughtered than slaughtering. they sat limply in their chairs, nervously twitching their yellowed slimy fingers, their dull eyes intent upon the worn spots in the carpet. it was funny! even carol smiled, not the serene sweet smile that melted hearts, but the grim hard smile of the joker when the tables are turned! she flattered herself that this wretched travesty on parsonage courtesy would be ended before there were any further witnesses to her downfall from her proud fine heights, but she was doomed to disappointment. fairy, on the averys' porch, had heard the serenade. after the first shock, and after the helpless laughter that followed, she bade her friends good night. "oh, i've just got to go," she said. "it's a joke on carol. i wouldn't miss it for twenty-five bushels of apples,--even as good as these are." her eyes twinkling with delight, she ran home and waited behind the rose bushes until the moment for her appearance seemed at hand. then she stepped into the room where her outraged sisters were stoically passing precious and luscious chocolates to tobacco-saturated youths. "good evening," she said. "the averys and i enjoyed the concert, too. i do love to hear music outdoors on still nights like these. carol, maybe your friends would like a drink. are there any lemons, auntie? we might have a little lemonade." carol writhed helplessly. "i'll make it," she said, and rushed to the kitchen to vent her fury by shaking the very life out of the lemons. but she did not waste time. her father's twinkles were nearly as bad as fairy's own--and the bishop! "i'd wish it would choke 'em if it wouldn't take so long," she muttered passionately, as she hurried in with the pitcher and glasses, ready to serve the "slums" with her own chaste hands. she was just serving the melting tenor when she heard her father's voice in the hall. "too late," she said aloud, and with such despair in her voice that fairy relented and mentally promised to "see her through." mr. starr's eyes twinkled freely when he saw the guests in his home, and the gentle bishop's puzzled interest nearly sent them all off into laughter. fairy had no idea of the young men's names, but she said, quickly, to spare carol: "we have been serenaded to-night, doctor--you just missed it. these are the mount mark troubadours. you are lucky to get here in time for the lemonade." but when she saw the bishop glance concernedly from the yellow fingers to the dull eyes and the brown-streaked mouth, her gravity nearly forsook her. the slaughterers, already dashed to the ground by embarrassment, were entirely routed by the presence of the bishop. with incoherent apologies, they rose to their unsteady feet and in a cloud of breezy odors, made their escape. mr. starr laughed a little, aunt grace put her arm protectingly about carol's rigid shoulders, and the bishop said, "well, well, well," with gentle inquiry. "we call them the slaughter-house quartette," fairy began cheerfully. "they are the lower strata of mount mark, and they make the nights hideous with their choice selection of popular airs. the parsonage is divided about them. some of us think we should treat them with proud and cold disdain. some think we should regard them with a tender, gentle, er--smiling pity. and evidently they appreciated the smiles for they gave us a serenade in return for them. aunt grace did not know their history, so she invited them in, thinking they were just ordinary schoolboys. it is home mission work run aground." the bishop nodded sympathetically. "one has to be so careful," he said. "so extremely careful with characters like those. no doubt they meant well by their serenade, but--girls especially have to be very careful. i think as a rule it is safer to let men show the tender pity and women the fine disdain. i don't imagine they would come serenading your father and me! you carried it off beautifully, girls. i am sure your father was proud of you. i was myself. i'm glad you are methodists. not many girls so young could handle a difficult matter as neatly as you did." "yes," said mr. starr, but his eyes twinkled toward carol once more; "yes, indeed, i think we are well cleared of a disagreeable business." but carol looked at fairy with such humble, passionate gratitude that tears came to fairy's eyes and she turned quickly away. "carol is a sweet girl," she thought. "i wonder if things will work out for her just right--to make her as happy as she ought to be. she's so--lovely." chapter vi substitution the twins came in at dinner-time wrapped in unwonted silence. lark's face was darkened by an anxious shadow, while carol wore an expression of heroic determination. they sat down to the table without a word, and helped themselves to fish balls with a surprising lack of interest. "what's up?" connie asked, when the rest of the family dismissed the matter with amused glances. lark sighed and looked at carol, seeming to seek courage from that spartan countenance. carol squared her shoulders. "well, go on," connie urged. "don't be silly. you know you're crazy to tell us about it, you only want to be coaxed." lark sighed again, and gazed appealingly at her stout-hearted twin. carol never could resist the appeal of those pleading eyes. "larkie promised to speak a piece at the sunday-school concert two weeks from to-morrow," she vouchsafed, as unconcernedly as possible. "mercy!" ejaculated connie, with an astonishment that was not altogether complimentary. "careful, larkie," cautioned fairy. "you'll disgrace the parsonage if you don't watch out." "nonsense," declared their father, "lark can speak as well as anybody if she just keeps a good grip on herself and doesn't get stage fright." aunt grace smiled gently. connie frowned. "it's a risky business," she said. "lark can't speak any more than a rabbit, and--" "i know it," was the humble admission. "don't be a goose, con," interrupted carol. "of course lark can speak a piece. she must learn it, learn it, learn it, so she can rattle it off backwards with her eyes shut. then even if she gets scared, she can go right on and folks won't know the difference. it gets to be a habit if you know it well enough. that's the whole secret. of course she can speak." "how did it happen?" inquired fairy. "i don't know," lark said sorrowfully. "nothing was ever farther from my thoughts, i assure you. the first thing i knew, mrs. curtiss was thanking me for my promise, and carol was marching me off like grim death." carol smiled, relieved now that the family commentary was over. "it was very natural. mrs. curtiss begged her to do it, and lark refused. that always happens, every time the sunday-school gives an entertainment. but mrs. curtiss went on to say how badly the sunday-school needs the money, and how big a drawing card it would be for both of us twins to be on the program, one right after the other, and how well it would look for the parsonage, and it never occurred to me to warn lark, for i never dreamed of her doing it. and all of a sudden she said, 'all right, then, i'll do it,' and mrs. curtiss gave her a piece and we came home. but i'm not worried about it. lark can do anything if she only tries." "i thought it wouldn't hurt me to try it once," lark volunteered in her own defense. aunt grace nodded, with a smile of interested approval. "i'm proud of you, lark, quite proud of you," her father said warmly. "it's a big thing for you to make such a plunge,--just fine." "i'm proud of you now, too," connie said darkly. "the question is, will we be proud of you after the concert?" lark sighed dolorously. "oh, pooh!" encouraged carol. "anybody can speak a silly little old piece like that. and it will look so nice to have our names right together on the program. it'll bring out all the high-school folks, sure." "yes, they'll come to hear lark all right," fairy smiled. "but she'll make it go, of course. and it will give carol a chance to show her cleverness by telling her how to do it." so as soon as supper was over, carol said decidedly, "now, connie, you'll have to help me with the dishes the next two weeks, for lark's got to practise on that piece. lark, you must read it over, very thoughtfully first to get the meaning. then just read it and read it and read it, a dozen times, a hundred times, over and over and over. and pretty soon you'll know it." "i'll bet i don't," was the discouraging retort, as lark, with pronounced distaste, took the slip of paper and sat down in the corner to read the "blooming thing," as she muttered crossly to herself. connie and carol did up the dishes in dreadful silence, and then carol returned to the charge. "how many times did you read it?" "fourteen and a half," was the patient answer. "it's a silly thing, carol. there's no sense to it. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea.'" "oh, that's not so bad," carol said helpfully. "i've had pieces with worse lines than that. 'the imprint of a dainty foot,' for instance. when you say, 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,' you must kind of let your voice glide along, very rhythmically, very--" "windily," suggested connie, who remained to witness the exhibition. "you keep still, constance starr, or you can get out of here! it's no laughing matter i can tell you, and you have to keep out or i won't help and then--" "i'll keep still. but it ought to be windily you know, since it's the wind. i meant it for a joke," she informed them. the twins had a very disheartening way of failing to recognize connie's jokes--it took the life out of them. "now read it aloud, lark, so i can see if you get the proper expression," carol continued, when connie was utterly subdued. lark obediently but unhappily read the quaint poem aloud and carol said it was very good. "you must read it aloud often, very often. that'll give you a better idea of the accent. now put it away, and don't look at it again to-night. if you keep it up too long you'll get so dead sick of it you can't speak it at all." for two entire weeks, the twins were changed creatures. lark read the "blooming piece" avidly, repeatedly and with bitter hate. carol stood grimly by, listening intently, offering curt apt criticisms. finally, lark "knew it," and the rest of the time was spent in practising before the mirror,--to see if she kept her face pleasant. "for the face has a whole lot to do with it, my dear," said carol sagely, "though the critics would never admit it." by the evening of the sunday-school concert--they were concerting for the sake of a hundred-dollar subscription to church repairs--lark had mastered her recitation so perfectly that the minds of the parsonage were nearly at peace. she still felt a deep resentment toward the situation, but this was partially counterbalanced by the satisfaction of seeing her name in print, directly beneath carol's on the program. "recitation_______________miss carol starr. recitation_______________miss lark starr." it looked very well indeed, and the whole family took a proper interest in it. no one gave carol's recitation a second thought. she always recited, and did it easily and well. it was quite a commonplace occurrence for her. on the night of the concert she superintended lark's dressing with maternal care. "you look all right," she said, "just fine. now don't get scared, lark. it's so silly. remember that you know all those people by heart, you can talk a blue streak to any of them. there's no use--" "but i can't talk a blue streak to the whole houseful at once," lark protested. "it makes me have such a--hollow feeling--to see so many white faces gazing up, and it's hot, and--" "stop that," came the stern command. "you don't want to get cold feet before you start. if you do accidentally forget once or twice, don't worry. i know the piece as well as you do, and i can prompt you from behind without any one noticing it. at first it made me awfully cross when they wanted us reciters to sit on the platform for every one to stare at. but now i'm glad of it. i'll be right beside you, and can prompt you without any trouble at all. but you won't forget." she kissed her. "you'll do fine, larkie, just as fine as you look, and it couldn't be better than that." just then connie ran in. "fairy wants to know if you are getting stage fright, lark? my, you do look nice! now, for goodness' sake, lark, remember the parsonage, and don't make a fizzle of it." "who says fizzle?" demanded their father from the doorway. "never say die, my girl. why, lark, i never saw you look so sweet. you have your hair fixed a new way, haven't you?" "carol did it," was the shy reply. "it does look nice, doesn't it? i'm not scared, father, not a bit--yet! but there's a hollow feeling--" "get her an apple, connie," said carol. "it's because she didn't eat any supper. she's not scared." "i don't want an apple. come on, let's go down. have the boys come?" "no, but they'll be here in a minute. jim's never late. i do get sore at jim--i'd forty times rather go with him than hartley--but he always puts off asking us until the last minute and then i have a date and you get him. i believe he does it on purpose. come on down." aunt grace looked at the pale sweet face with gratified delight, and kissed her warmly. her father walked around her, nodding approval. "you look like a dream," he said. "the wind a-drifting o'er the lea ne'er blew upon a fairer sight! you shall walk with me." "oh, father, you can't remember that you're obsolete," laughed fairy. "the twins have attained to the dignity of boys, and aren't satisfied with the fond but sober arm of father any more. our little twins have dates to-night, as usual nowadays." "aunt grace," he said solemnly, "it's a wretched business, having a parsonage full of daughters. just as soon as they reach the age of beauty, grace and charm, they turn their backs on their fathers and smile on fairer lads." "you've got me, father," said connie consolingly. "and me,--when babbie's in chicago," added fairy. "yes, that's some help. connie, be an old maid. do! i implore you." "oh, connie's got a beau already," said carol. "it's the fat allen boy. they don't have dates yet, but they've got an awful case on. he's going to make their living by traveling with a show. you'll have to put up with auntie--she's beyond the beauing stage!" "suits me," he said contentedly, "i am getting more than my deserts. come on, grace, we'll start." "so will we, connie," said fairy. but the boys came, both together, and the family group set out together. carol and hartley--one of her high-school admirers--led off by running a race down the parsonage walk. and lark, old, worn and grave, brought up the rear with jim forrest. jim was a favorite attendant of the twins. he had been graduated from high school the year previous, and was finishing off at the agricultural college in ames. but ames was not far from home, and he was still frequently on hand to squire the twins when squires were in demand. he was curiously generous and impartial in his attentions,--it was this which so endeared him to the twins. he made his dates by telephone, invariably. and the conversations might almost have been decreed by law. "may i speak to one of the twins?" the nearest twin was summoned, and then he asked: "have you twins got dates for the ball game?"--or the party, or the concert. and the twin at the telephone would say, "yes, we both have--hard luck, jim." or, "i have, but carol hasn't." sometimes it was, "no, we haven't, but we're just crazy to go." and in reply to the first jim always answered, "that's a shame,--why didn't you remember me and hold off?" and to the second, "well, ask her if i can come around for her." and to the third, "good, let's all go together and have a celebration." for this broad-minded devotion the twins gave him a deep-seated gratitude and affection and he always stood high in their favor. on this occasion carol had answered the telephone, and in reply to his query she answered crossly, "oh, jim, you stupid thing, why didn't you phone yesterday? i would so much rather go with you than--but never mind. i have a date, but lark hasn't. and you just called in time, too, for harvey lane told hartley he was going to ask for a date." and jim had called back excitedly, "bring her to the phone, quick; don't waste a minute." and lark was called, and the date was duly scheduled. "are you scared, lark?" he asked her as they walked slowly down the street toward the church. "i'm not scared, jim," she answered solemnly, "but i'm perfectly cavernous, if you know what that means." "i sure do know," he said fervently, "didn't i have to do a speech at the commencement exercises? there never was a completer cavern than i was that night. but i can't figure out why folks agree to do such things when they don't have to. i had to. it was compulsory." lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "i can't figure out, either. i don't know why i did. it was a mistake, some way." at the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"--commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, bibles and lesson sheets. there they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform--an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but sunday-schools and graduating classes. printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. not because it was necessary, but because superintendents have to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making. the program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. when the superintendent read, "recitation--miss carol starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. with sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. nobody ever worried when carol spoke a piece. things always went all right. and back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done. she sat down by lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that lark would come off as well. lark was trembling. "carol," she whispered, "i--i'm scared." instantly the triumph left carol's heart. "you're not," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right." lark trembled more violently. her head swayed a little. bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "i--can't," she muttered thickly. "i'm sick." carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. lark grew more pale. "recitation--miss lark starr." again the applause rang out. lark did not move. "i can't," she whispered again. "i can't." "lark, lark," begged carol desperately. "you must go, you must. 'the wind went drifting o'er the lea,'--it's easy enough. go on, lark. you must." lark shook her head. "mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly. "remember the parsonage," begged carol. "think of prudence. think of papa. look, there he is, right down there. he's expecting you, lark. you must!" lark tried to rise. she could not. she could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light. "you can," whispered carol. "you can do anything if you try. prudence says so." people were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. the other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. the superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger. "i can't," lark whispered, "i'm sick." "lark,--lark," called the superintendent. carol sighed bitterly. evidently it was up to her. with a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. the superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. the people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. he nodded quickly, and his eyes approved. "good!" his lips formed the word, and carol did not falter again. the applause was nearly drowned with laughter as carol advanced for her second recitation. "the wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,--her voice drifting properly on the words,--and so on to the end of the piece. most of the audience, knowing lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. the applause was deafening as she went back. it grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at lark. then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart. "lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow." "mercy!" gasped lark. "i didn't do anything." "it was supposed to be you--go on, lark! hurry! you've got to! think what a joke it will be." lark hesitated, but carol's dominance was compelling. "do as i tell you," came the peremptory order, and lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow. this time the applause ran riot, for people of less experience than those of mount mark could tell that the twins were playing a game. as it continued, carol caught larkin's hand in hers, and together they stepped out once more, laughing and bowing right and left. lark was the last one in that night, for she and jim celebrated her defeat with two ice-cream sodas a piece at the corner drug store. "i disgraced the parsonage," she said meekly, as she stepped into the family circle, waiting to receive her. "indeed you didn't," said fairy. "it was too bad, but carol passed it off nicely, and then, turning it into a joke that way took all the embarrassment out of it. it was perfectly all right, and we weren't a bit ashamed." "and you did look awfully sweet when you made your bow," connie said warmly,--for when a member of the family was down, no one ventured a laugh, laugh-loving though they were. curious to say, the odd little freak of substitution only endeared the twins to the people of mount mark the more. "by ginger, you can't beat them bloomin' twins," said harvey reel, chuckling admiringly. and no one disagreed. chapter vii making matches aunt grace sat in a low rocker with a bit of embroidery in her hands. and fairy sat at the table, a formidable array of books before her. aunt grace was gazing idly at her sewing basket, a soft smile on her lips. and fairy was staring thoughtfully into the twilight, a soft glow in her eyes. aunt grace was thinking of the jolly parsonage family, and how pleasant it was to live with them. and fairy was thinking--ah, fairy was twenty, and twenty-year-olds always stare into the twilight, with dreamy far-seeing eyes. in upon this peaceful scene burst the twins, flushed, tempestuous, in spite of their seventeen years. their hurry to speak had rendered them incapable of speech, so they stood in the doorway panting breathlessly for a moment, while fairy and her aunt, withdrawn thus rudely from dreamland, looked at them interrogatively. "yes, i think so, too," began fairy, and the twins endeavored to crush her with their lofty scorn. but it is not easy to express lofty scorn when one is red in the face, perspirey and short of breath. so the twins decided of necessity to overlook the offense just this once. finally, recovering their vocal powers simultaneously, they cried in unison: "duckie!" "duck! in the yard! do you mean a live one? where did it come from?" ejaculated their aunt. "they mean professor duck of their freshman year," explained fairy complacently. "it's nothing. the twins always make a fuss over him. they feel grateful to him for showing them through freshman science--that's all." "that's all," gasped carol. "why, fairy starr, do you know he's employed by the--society of--a--a scientific research organization--or something--in new york city, and gets four thousand dollars a year and has prospects--all kinds of prospects!" "yes, i know it. you haven't seen him, auntie. he's tall, and has wrinkles around his eyes, and a dictatorial nose, and steel gray eyes. he calls the twins song-birds, and they're so flattered they adore him. he sends them candy for christmas. you know that duckie they rave so much about. it's the very man. is he here?" the twins stared at each other in blank exasperation for a full minute. they knew that fairy didn't deserve to hear their news, but at the same time they did not deserve such bitter punishment as having to refrain from talking about it,--so they swallowed again, sadly, and ignored her. "he's in town," said lark. "going to stay a week," added carol. "and he said he wanted to have lots of good times with us, and so--we--why, of course it was very sudden, and we didn't have time to ask--" "but parsonage doors are always open--" "and i don't know how he ever wormed it out of us, but--one of us--" "i can't remember which one!" "invited him to come for dinner to-night, and he's coming." "goodness," said aunt grace. "we were going to have potato soup and toast." "it'll keep," said carol. "of course we're sorry to inconvenience you at this late hour, but larkie and i will tell connie what to do, so you won't have much bother. let's see, now, we must think up a pretty fair meal. four thousand a year--and prospects!" aunt grace turned questioning eyes toward the older sister. "all right," said fairy, smiling. "it's evidently settled. think up your menu, twins, and put connie to work." "is he nice?" aunt grace queried. "yes, i think he is. he used to go with our college bunch some. i know him pretty well. he brought me home from things a time or two." carol leaned forward and looked at her handsome sister with sudden intentness. "he asked about you," she said, keen eyes on fairy's. "he asked particularly about you." "did he? thanks. yes, he's not bad. he's pretty good in a crowd." by the force of her magnetic gaze, carol drew lark out of the room, and the door closed behind them. a few minutes later they returned. there was about them an air of subdued excitement, suggestive of intrigue, that fairy found disturbing. "you needn't plan any nonsense, twins," she cautioned. "he's no beau of mine." "of course not," they assured her pleasantly. "we're too old for mischief. seventeen, and sensible for our years! say, fairy, you'll be nice to duckie, won't you? we're too young really to entertain him, and he's so nice we want him to have a good time. can't you try to make it pleasant for him this week? he'll only be here a few days. will you do that much for us?" "why, i would, twins, of course, to oblige you, but you know gene's in town this week, and i've got to--" "oh, you leave babbie--gene, i mean--to us," said carol airily. fairy being a junior in college, and eugene babler a student of pharmacy in chicago, she felt obliged to restore him to his christian name, shortened to gene. but the twins refused to accede to this propriety, except when they particularly wished to placate fairy. "you leave gene to us," repeated carol. "we'll amuse him. is he coming to-night?" "yes, at seven-thirty." "let's call him up and invite him for dinner, too," suggested lark. "and you'll do us a favor and be nice to duckie, won't you? we'll keep babb--er, gene--out of the road. you phone to gene, carol, and--" "i'll do my own phoning, thanks," said fairy, rising quickly. "yes, we'll have them both. and just as a favor to you, twins, i will help amuse your professor. you'll be good, and help, won't you?" the twins glowed at fairy with a warmth that seemed almost triumphant. she stopped and looked at them doubtfully. when she returned after telephoning, they were gone, and she said to her aunt: "i'm not superstitious, but when the twins act like that, there's usually a cloud in the parsonage sky-light. prudence says so." but the twins comported themselves most decorously. all during the week they worked like kitchen slaveys, doing chores, running errands. and they treated fairy with a gentle consideration which almost drew tears to her eyes, though she still remembered prudence's cloud in the parsonage sky-light! they certainly interfered with her own plans. they engineered her off on to their beloved professor at every conceivable turn. and gene, who nearly haunted the house, had a savage gleam in his eyes quite out of accord with his usual chatty good humor. fairy knew she was being adroitly managed, but she had promised to help the twins with "duckie." at first she tried artistically and unobtrusively to free herself from the complication in which her sisters had involved her. but the twins were both persistent and clever, and fairy found herself no match for them when it came right down to business. she had no idea of their purpose,--she only knew that she and gene were always on opposite sides of the room, the young man grinning savagely at the twins' merry prattle, and she and the professor trying to keep quiet enough to hear every word from the other corner. and if they walked, gene was dragged off by the firm slender fingers of the friendly twins, and fairy and the professor walked drearily along in the rear, talking inanely about the weather,--and wondering what the twins were talking about. and the week passed. gene finally fell off in his attendance, and the twins took a much needed rest. on friday afternoon they flattered themselves that all was well. gene was not coming, fairy was in the hammock waiting for the professor. so the twins hugged each other gleefully and went to the haymow to discuss the strain and struggle of the week. and then-- "why, the big mutt!" cried carol, in her annoyance ignoring the methodist grammatical boundaries, "here comes that bubbling babler this minute. and he said he was going to new london for the day. now we'll have to chase down there and shoo him off before duckie comes." the twins, growling and grumbling, gathered themselves up and started. but they started too reluctantly, too leisurely. they were not in time. fairy sat up in the hammock with a cry of surprise, but not vexation, when gene's angry countenance appeared before her. "look here, fairy," he began, "what's the joke? are your fingers itching to get hold of that four thousand a year the twins are eternally bragging about? are you trying to throw yourself into the old school-teacher's pocketbook, or what?" "don't be silly, gene," she said, "come and sit down and--" "sit down, your grandmother!" he snapped still angrily. "old double d. d. will be bobbing up in a minute, and the twins'll drag me off to hear about a sick rooster, or something. he is coming, isn't he?" "i--guess he is," she said confusedly. "let's cut and run, will you?" he suggested hopefully. "we can be out of sight before--come on, fairy, be good to me. i haven't had a glimpse or a touch of you the whole week. what do you reckon i came down here for? come on. let's beat it." he looked around with a worried air. "hurry, or the twins'll get us." fairy hesitated, and was lost. gene grabbed her hand, and the next instant, laughing, they were crawling under the fence at the south corner of the parsonage lawn just as the twins appeared at the barn door. they stopped. they gasped. they stared at each other in dismay. "it was a put-up job," declared carol. "now what'll we do? but babbie's got more sense than i thought he had, i must confess. do you suppose he was kidnaping her?" carol snorted derisively. "kidnaping nothing! she was ahead when i saw 'em. what'll we tell the professor?" two humbled gentle twins greeted the professor some fifteen minutes later. "we're so sorry," carol explained faintly. "babbie came and he and fairy--i guess they had an errand somewhere. we think they'll be back very soon. fairy will be so sorry." the professor smiled and looked quite bright. "are they gone?" "yes, but we're sure they'll be back,--that is, we're almost sure." carol, remembering the mode of their departure, felt far less assurance on that point than she could have wished. "well, that's too bad," he said cheerfully. "but my loss is babler's gain. i suppose we ought in christian decency to give him the afternoon. let's go out to the creek for a stroll ourselves, shall we? that'll leave him a clear field when they return. you think they'll be back soon, do you?" he looked down the road hopefully, but whether hopeful they would return, or wouldn't, the twins could not have told. at any rate, he seemed quite impatient until they were ready to start, and then, very gaily, the three wended their way out the pretty country road toward the creek and blackbird lane. they had a good time, the twins always did insist that no one on earth was quite so entertaining as dear old duckie, but in her heart carol registered a solemn vow to have it out with fairy when she got back. she had no opportunity that night. fairy and gene telephoned that they would not be home for dinner, and the professor had gone, and the twins were sleeping soundly, when fairy crept softly up the stairs. but carol did not forget her vow. early the next morning she stalked grimly into fairy's room, where fairy was conscientiously bringing order out of the chaos in her bureau drawers, a thing fairy always did after a perfectly happy day. carol knew that, and it was with genuine reproach in her voice that she spoke at last, after standing for some two minutes watching fairy as she deftly twirled long ribbons about her fingers and then laid them in methodical piles in separate corners of the drawers. "fairy," she said sadly, "you don't seem very appreciative some way. here larkie and i have tried so hard to give you a genuine opportunity--we've worked and schemed and kept ourselves in the background, and that's the way you serve us! it's disappointing. it's downright disheartening." fairy folded a blue veil and laid it on top of a white one. then she turned. "yes. what?" she inquired coolly. "there are so few real chances for a woman in mount mark, and we felt that this was once in a lifetime. and you know how hard we worked. and then, when we relaxed our--our vigilance--just for a moment, you spoiled it all by--" "yes,--talk english, carrie. what was it you tried to do for me?" "well, if you want plain english you can have it," said carol heatedly. "you know what professor is, a swell position like his, and such prospects, and new york city, and four thousand a year with a raise for next year, and we tried to give you a good fair chance to land him squarely, and--" "to land him--" "to get him, then! he hasn't any girl. you could have been engaged to him this minute--professor david arnold duke--if you had wanted to." "oh, is that it?" "yes, that's it." fairy smiled. "thank you, dear, it was sweet of you, but you're too late. i am engaged." carol's lips parted, closed, parted again. "you--you?" "exactly so." hope flashed into carol's eyes. fairy saw it, and answered swiftly. "certainly not. i'm not crazy about your little prof. i am engaged to eugene babler." she said it with pride, not unmixed with defiance, knowing as she did that the twins considered gene too undignified for a parsonage son-in-law. the twins were strong for parsonage dignity! "you--are?" "i am." a long instant carol stared at her. then she turned toward the door. "where are you going?" "i'm going to tell papa." fairy laughed. "papa knows it." carol came slowly back and stood by the dresser again. after a short silence she moved away once more. "where now?" "i'll tell aunt grace, then." "aunt grace knows it, too." "does prudence know it?" "yes." carol swallowed this bitter pill in silence. "how long?" she inquired at last. "about a year. look here, carol, i'll show you something. really i'm glad you know about it. we're pretty young, and papa thought we ought to keep it dark a while to make sure. that's why we didn't tell you. look at this." from her cedar chest--a christmas gift from gene--she drew out a small velvet jeweler's box, and displayed before the admiring eyes of carol a plain gold ring with a modest diamond. carol kissed it. then she kissed fairy twice. "i know you'll be awfully happy, fairy," she said soberly. "and i'm glad of it. but--i can't honestly believe there's any man good enough for our girls. babbie's nice, and dear, and all that, and he's so crazy about you, and--do you love him?" her eyes were wide, rather wondering, as she put this question softly. fairy put her arm about her sister's shoulders, and her fine steady eyes met carol's clearly. "yes," she said frankly, "i love him--with all my heart." "is that what makes you so--so shiny, and smiley, and starry all the time?" "i guess it is. it is the most wonderful thing in the world, carol. you can't even imagine it--beforehand. it is magical, it is heavenly." "yes, i suppose it is. prudence says so, too. i can't imagine it, i kind of wish i could. can't i go and tell connie and lark? i want to tell somebody!" "yes, tell them. we decided not to let you know just yet, but since--yes, tell them, and bring them up to see it." carol kissed her again, and went out, gently closing the door behind her. in the hallway she stopped and stared at the wall for an unseeing moment. then she clenched and shook a stern white fist at the door. "i don't care," she muttered, "they're not good enough for prudence and fairy! they're not! i just believe i despise men, all of 'em, unless it's daddy and duck!" she smiled a little and then looked grim once more. "eugene babler, and a little queen like fairy! i think that must be heaven's notion of a joke." she sighed again. "oh, well, it's something to have something to tell! i'm glad i found it out ahead of lark!" chapter viii lark's literary venture as commencement drew near, and fairy began planning momentous things for her graduation, a little soberness came into the parsonage life. the girls were certainly growing up. prudence had been married a long, long time. fairy was being graduated from college, her school-days were over, and life was just across the threshold--its big black door just slightly ajar waiting for her to press it back and catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, yes, there was a rosy tinge showing faintly through like the light of the early sun shining through the night-fog, but the door was only a little ajar! and fairy was nearly ready to step through. it disturbed the parsonage family a great deal. even the twins were getting along. they were finishing high school, and beginning to prate of college and such things, but the twins were still, well, they were growing up, perhaps, but they kept jubilantly young along in the process, and their enthusiasm for diplomas and ice-cream sodas was so nearly identical that one couldn't feel seriously that the twins were tugging at their leashes. and connie was a freshman herself,--rather tall, a little awkward, with a sober earnest face, and with an incongruously humorous droop to the corners of her lips, and in the sparkle of her eyes. mr. starr looked at them and sighed. "i tell you, grace, it's a thankless job, rearing a family. connie told me to-day that my collars should have straight edges now instead of turned-back corners. and lark reminded me that i got my points mixed up in last sunday's lesson. i'm getting sick of this family business, i'm about ready to--" and just then, as a clear "father" came floating down the stairway, he turned his head alertly. "what do you want?" "everybody's out," came carol's plaintive voice. "will you come and button me up? i can't ask auntie to run clear up here, and i can't come down because i'm in my stocking feet. my new slippers pinch so i don't put them on until i have to. oh, thanks, father, you're a dear." after the excitement of the commencement, the commotion, the glamour, the gaiety, ordinary parsonage life seemed smooth and pleasant, and for ten days there was not a ruffle on the surface of their domestic waters. it was on the tenth day that the twins, strolling down main street, conversing earnestly together as was their custom, were accosted by a nicely-rounded, pompous man with a cordial, "hello, twins." in an instant they were bright with smiles, for this was mr. raider, editor and owner of the _daily news_, the biggest and most popular of mount mark's three daily papers. looking forward, as they did, to a literary career for lark, they never failed to show a touching and unnatural deference to any one connected, even ever so remotely, with that profession. indeed, carol, with the charm of her smile, had bewitched the small carriers to the last lad, and in reply to her sister's teasing, only answered stoutly, "that's all right,--you don't know what they may turn into one of these days. we've got to look ahead to lark's literary career." so when humble carriers, and some of them black at that, received such sweet attention, one can well imagine what the nicely rounded, pompous editor himself called forth. they did not resent his nicely-rounded and therefore pointless jokes. they smiled at them. they did not call the _daily news_ the "raider family organ," as they yearned to do. they did not admit that they urged their father to put mr. raider on all church committees to insure publicity. they swallowed hard, and told themselves that, after all, mr. raider was an editor, and perhaps he couldn't help editing his own family to the exclusion of the rest of mount mark. when, on this occasion, he looked lark up and down with his usual rotund complacency, carol only gritted her teeth and reminded her heaving soul that he was an editor. "what are you going to do this summer, lark?" he asked, without preamble. "why,--just nothing, i suppose. as usual." "well," he said, frowning plumply, "we're running short of men. i've heard you're interested in our line, and i thought maybe you could help us out during vacation. how about it? the work'll be easy and it'll be fine experience for you. we'll pay you five dollars a week. this is a little town, and we're called a little publication, but our work and our aim and methods are identical with those of the big city papers." he swelled visibly, almost alarmingly. "how about it? you're the one with the literary longings, aren't you?" lark was utterly speechless. if the national bank had opened its coffers to the always hard-pressed twins, she could not have been more completely confounded. carol was in a condition nearly as serious, but grasping the gravity of the situation, she rushed into the breach headlong. "yes,--yes," she gasped. "she's literary. oh, she's very literary." mr. raider smiled. "well, would you like to try your hand out with me?" again carol sprang to her sister's relief. "yes, indeed, she would," she cried. "yes, indeed." and then, determined to impress upon him that the _daily news_ was the one to profit chiefly from the innovation, she added, "and it's a lucky day for the _daily news_, too, i tell you. there aren't many larks in mount mark, in a literary way, i mean, and--the _daily news_ needs some--that is, i think--new blood,--anyhow, lark will be just fine." "all right. come in, monday morning at eight, lark, and i'll set you to work. it won't be anything very important. you can write up the church news, and parties, and goings away, and things like that. it'll be good training. you can study our papers between now and then, to catch our style." carol lifted her head a little higher. if mr. raider thought her talented twin would be confined to the ordinary style of the _daily news_, which carol considered atrociously lacking in any style at all, he would be most gloriously mistaken, that's certain! it is a significant fact that after mr. raider went back into the sanctum of the _daily news_, the twins walked along for one full block without speaking. such a thing had never happened before in all the years of their twinship. at the end of the block, carol turned her head restlessly. they were eight blocks from home. but the twins couldn't run on the street, it was so undignified. she looked longingly about for a buggy bound their way. even a grocery cart would have been a welcome though humbling conveyance. lark's starry eyes were lifted to the skies, and her rapt face was glowing. carol looked behind her, looked ahead. then she thought again of the eight blocks. "lark," she said, "i'm afraid we'll be late for dinner. and auntie told us to hurry back. maybe we'd better run." running is a good expression for emotion, and lark promptly struck out at a pace that did full credit to her lithe young limbs. down the street they raced, little tendrils of hair flying about their flushed and shining faces, faster, faster, breathless, panting, their gladness fairly overflowing. and many people turned to look, wondering what in the world possessed the leisurely, dignified parsonage twins. the last block was traversed at a really alarming rate. the passion for "telling things" had seized them both, and they whirled around the corner and across the lawn at a rate that brought connie out into the yard to meet them, with a childish, "what's the matter? what happened? did something bite you?" aunt grace sat up in her hammock to look, fairy ran out to the porch, and mr. starr laid down his book. had the long and dearly desired war been declared at last? but when the twins reached the porch, they paused sheepishly, shyly. "what's the matter?" chorused the family. "are--are we late for dinner?" carol demanded earnestly, as though their lives depended on the answer. the family stared in concerted amazement. when before this had the twins shown anxiety about their lateness for meals--unless a favorite dessert or salad was all consumed in their absence. and it was only half past four! carol gently shoved connie off the cushion upon which she had dropped, and arranged it tenderly in a chair. "sit down and rest, larkie," she said in a soft and loving voice. "are you nearly tired to death?" lark sank, panting, into the chair, and gazed about the circle with brilliant eyes. "get her a drink, can't you, connie?" said carol indignantly. "can't you see the poor thing is just tired to death? she ran the whole way home!" still the family stared. the twins' devotion to each other was never failing, but this attentiveness on the part of carol was extremely odd. now she sat down on the step beside her sister, and gazed up into the flushed face with adoring, but somewhat patronizing, pride. after all, she had had a whole lot to do with training larkie! "what in the world?" began their father curiously. "had a sunstroke?" queried fairy, smiling. "you're both crazy," declared connie, coming back with the water. "you're trying to fool us. i won't ask any questions. you don't catch me this time." "why don't you lie down and let lark use you for a footstool, carol?" suggested their father, with twinkling eyes. "i would if she wanted a footstool," said carol positively. "i'd love to do it. i'd be proud to do it. i'd consider it an honor." lark blushed and lowered her eyes modestly. "what happened?" urged their father, still more curiously. "did she get you out of a scrape?" mocked fairy. "oh, just let 'em alone," said connie. "they think it's smart to be mysterious. nothing happened at all. that's what they call being funny." "tell it, lark." carol's voice was so intense that it impressed even skeptical connie and derisive fairy. lark raised the glowing eyes once more, leaned forward and said thrillingly: "it's the literary career." the silence that followed this bold announcement was sufficiently dramatic to satisfy even carol, and she patted lark's knee approvingly. "well, go on," urged connie, at last, when the twins continued silent. "that's all." "she's going to run the _daily news_." "oh, i'll only be a cub reporter, i guess that's what you call them." "reporter nothing," contradicted carol. "there's nothing literary about that. you must take the whole paper in hand, and color it up a bit. and for goodness' sake, polish up mr. raider's editorials. i could write editorials like his myself." "and you might tone down the family notes for him," suggested fairy. "we don't really care to know when mrs. kelly borrows eggs of the editor's wife and how many dolls betty got for christmas and jack's grades in high school. we can get along without those personal touches." "maybe you can give us a little church write-up now and then, without necessitating mr. raider as chairman of every committee," interposed their father, and then retracted quickly. "i was only joking, of course, i didn't mean--" "no, of course, you didn't, father," said carol kindly. "we'll consider that you didn't say it. but just bear it in mind, larkie." fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on lark's shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "now, lark starr, you begin at the beginning and tell us. do you think we're all wooden indians? we can't wait until you make a newspaper out of the _daily news_! we want to know. talk." thus adjured, lark did talk, and the little story with many striking embellishments from carol was given into the hearing of the family. "five dollars a week," echoed connie faintly. "of course, i'll divide that with carol," was the generous offer. "no, i won't have it. i haven't any literary brains, and i can't take any of your salary. thanks just the same." then she added happily: "but i know you'll be very generous when i need to borrow, and i do borrow pretty often, larkie." for the rest of the week lark's literary career was the one topic of conversation in the starr family. the _daily news_ became a sort of literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically around it. lark's clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her admiring sisters. every evening the younger girls watched impatiently for the carrier of the _daily news_, and then rushed to meet him. the paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. they all admitted that lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force, indeed, one sorely needed. they begged her to give mount mark the news while it was news, without waiting to find what the other republican papers of the state thought about it. why, the instructions and sisterly advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient lark would have made an archangel giddy with confusion! during those days, carol followed lark about with a hungry devotion that would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. but now she was so full of the darling career that she overlooked the once most-darling carol. on monday morning, carol did not remain up-stairs with lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation into the world of literature. instead, she sulked grouchily in the dining-room, and when lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for the family's approval, she almost glowered upon her. "am i all right? do i look literary? oh, oh," gurgled lark, with music in her voice. carol sniffed. "oh, isn't it a glorious morning?" sang lark again. "isn't everything wonderful, father?" "lark starr," cried carol passionately, "i should think you'd be ashamed of yourself. it's bad enough to turn your back on your--your life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so wildly happy about it is--perfectly wicked." lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly dying out of her eyes. "why, carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music. "oh, that's all right. you needn't try to talk me over. a body'd think there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. i don't like 'em, anyhow. i think they're downright nosey! and we'll never be the same any more, larkie, and you're the only twin i've got, and--" carol's defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears. lark threw her gloves on the table. "i won't go at all," she said. "i won't go a step. if--if you think for a minute, carol, that any silly old career is going to be any dearer to me than you are, and if we aren't going to be just as we've always been, i won't go a step." carol wiped her eyes. "well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel like that, it's all right. i just wanted you to say you liked me better than anything else. of course you must go, lark. i really take all the credit for you and your talent to myself, and it's as much an honor for me as it is for you, and i want you to go. but don't you ever go to liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me." then she picked up lark's gloves, and the two went out with an arm around each other's waist. it was a dreary morning for carol, but none of her sisters knew that most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "it's just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness in them, and then they go, and we are left alone." lark's morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on that account. mr. raider received her cordially, and with a great deal of unctuous fatherly advice. he took her into his office, which was one corner of the press room glassed in by itself, and talked over her duties, which, as far as lark could gather from his discourse, appeared to consist in doing as she was told. "now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is business. pure business. we've got to give folks what they want to hear, and they want to hear everything that happens. of course, it will hurt some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public papers, but that's the newspaper job. folks want to hear about the private affairs of other folks. they pay us to find out, and tell them, and it's our duty to do it. so don't ever be squeamish about coming right out blunt with the plain facts; that's what we are paid for." this did not seriously impress lark. theoretically, she realized that he was right. and he talked so impressively of the press, and its mission in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that lark, looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure, immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come. it was her first view of the world's press. but on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, mr. raider met her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before. as a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men. "lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the dalys? on elm street?" "yes, they are members of our church. i know them." he leaned forward. "big piece of news down that way. this morning at breakfast, daly shot his daughter maisie and the little boy. they are both dead. daly got away, and we can't get at the bottom of it. the family is shut off alone, and won't see any one." lark's face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes. "oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "oh, how awful!" mr. raider did not observe the white horror in lark's face. "yes, isn't it?" he said. "i want you to go right down there." "yes, indeed," said lark, though she shivered at the thought. "of course, i will." lark was a minister's daughter. if people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "isn't it--awful? i never knew of--such a thing--before. maisie was in my class at school. i never liked her very well. i'm so sorry i didn't,--oh, i'm so sorry. yes, i'll go right away. you'd better call papa up and tell him to come, too." "i will, but you run along. being the minister's daughter, they'll let you right up. they'll tell you all about it, of course. don't talk to any one on the way back. come right to the office. don't stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and--er--comfort them as much as you can." "yes,--yes." lark's face was frightened, but firm. "i--i've never gone to the houses much when--there was trouble. prudence and fairy have always done that. but of course it's right, and i'm going. oh, i do wish i had been fonder of maisie. i'll go right away." and she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. mr. raider met her at the door. "did you see them?" "yes," she said in a low voice. "they--they took me up-stairs, and--" she paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in lark's strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story. "did they tell you all about it?" "yes, they told me. they told me." "come on into my office," he said. "you must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. you'll do it better while the feeling is on you." lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending. "write it up?" she repeated confusedly. "yes, for the paper. how they looked, what they said, how it happened,--everything. we want to scoop on it." "but i don't think they--would want it told," lark gasped. "oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. don't you remember what i told you? the press is a powerful task master. he asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. we've got to give the people what they want. there's a reporter down from burlington already, but he couldn't get anything out of them. we've got a clear scoop on it." lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. a huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. the press! she shuddered again. "i can't write it up," she faltered. "mrs. daly--she--oh, i held her in my arms, mr. raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and i can't write it up. i--i am the minister's daughter, you know. i can't." "nonsense, now, lark," he said, "be sensible. you needn't give all the sob part. i'll touch it up for you. just write out what you saw, and what they said, and i'll do the rest. run along now. be sensible." lark glanced over her shoulder again. the press seemed tremendously big, leering at her, threatening her. lark gasped, sobbingly. then she sat down at mr. raider's desk, and drew a pad of paper toward her. for five minutes she sat immovable, body tense, face stern, breathless, rigid. mr. raider after one curious, satisfied glance, slipped out and closed the door softly after him. he felt he could trust to the newspaper instinct to get that story out of her. finally lark, despairingly, clutched a pencil and wrote "terrible tragedy of the early morning. daly family crushed with sorrow." her mind passed rapidly back over the story she had heard, the father's occasional wild bursts of temper, the pitiful efforts of the family to keep his weakness hidden, the insignificant altercation at the breakfast table, the cry of the startled baby, and then the sudden ungovernable fury that lashed him, the two children--! lark shuddered! she glanced over her shoulder again. the fearful dark shadow was very close, very terrible, ready to envelope her in its smothering depths. she sprang to her feet and rushed out of the office. mr. raider was in the doorway. she flung herself upon him, crushing the paper in his hand. "i can't," she cried, looking in terror over her shoulder as she spoke, "i can't. i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i don't want any literary career. i am a minister's daughter, mr. raider, i can't talk about people's troubles. i want to go home." mr. raider looked searchingly into the white face, and noted the frightened eyes. "there now," he said soothingly, "never mind the daly story. i'll cover it myself. i guess it was too hard an assignment to begin with, and you a friend of the family, and all. let it go. you stay at home this afternoon. come back to-morrow and i'll start you again. maybe i was too hard on you to-day." "i don't want to," she cried, looking back at the shadow, which seemed somehow to have receded a little. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman. i think i'll be the other kind of writer,--not newspapers, you know, just plain writing. i'm sure i shall like it better. i wasn't cut out for this line, i know. i want to go now." "run along," he said. "i'll see you later on. you go to bed. you're nearly sick." dignity? lark did not remember that she had ever dreamed of dignity. she just started for home, for her father, aunt grace and the girls! the shabby old parsonage seemed suddenly very bright, very sunny, very safe. the dreadful dark shadow was not pressing so close to her shoulders, did not feel so smotheringly near. a startled group sprang up from the porch to greet her. she flung one arm around carol's shoulder, and drew her twin with her close to her aunt's side. "i don't want to be a newspaper woman," she cried, in a high excited voice. "i don't like it. i am awfully afraid of--the press--" she looked over her shoulder. the shadow was fading away in the distance. "i couldn't do it. i--" and then, crouching, with carol, close against her aunt's side, clutching one of the soft hands in her own, she told the story. "i couldn't, fairy," she declared, looking beseechingly into the strong kind face of her sister. "i--couldn't. mrs. daly--sobbed so, and her hands were so brown and hard, fairy, she kept rubbing my shoulder, and saying, 'oh, lark, oh, lark, my little children.' i couldn't. i don't like newspapers, fairy. really, i don't." fairy looked greatly troubled. "i wish father were at home," she said very quietly. "mr. raider meant all right, of course, but it was wrong to send a young girl like you. father is there now. it's very terrible. you did just exactly right, larkie. father will say so. i guess maybe it's not the job for a minister's girl. of course, the story will come out, but we're not the ones to tell it." "but--the career," suggested carol. "why," said lark, "i'll wait a little and then have a real literary career, you know, stories, and books, and poems, the kind that don't harrow people's feelings. i really don't think it is right. don't you remember prudence says the parsonage is a place to hide sorrows, not to hang them on the clothesline for every one to see." she looked for a last time over her shoulder. dimly she saw a small dark cloud,--all that was left of the shadow which had seemed so eager to devour her. her arms clasped carol with renewed intensity. "oh," she breathed, "oh, isn't the parsonage lovely, carol? i wish father would come. you all look so sweet, and kind, and--oh, i love to be at home." chapter ix a clear call the tinkle of the telephone disturbed the family as they were at dinner, and connie, who sat nearest, rose to answer the summons, while carol, at her corner of the table struck a tragic attitude. "if joe graves has broken anything, he's broken our friendship for good and all. these fellows that break themselves--" "break themselves?" asked her father gravely. "yes,--any of his members, you know, his leg, or his arm, or,--if he has, i must say frankly that i hope it is his neck. these boys that break themselves at the last minute, thereby breaking dates, are--" "well," connie said calmly, "if you're through, i'll begin." "oh, goodness, connie, deafen one ear and listen with the other. you've got to learn to hear in a hubbub. go on then, i'm through. but i haven't forgotten that i missed the thanksgiving banquet last year because phil broke his ankle that very afternoon on the ice. what business had he on the ice when he had a date--" "ready?" asked connie, as the phone rang again, insistently. "go on, then. don't wait until i get started. answer it." connie removed the receiver and called the customary "hello." then, "yes, just a minute. it's for you, carol." carol rose darkly. "it's joe," she said in a dungeon-dark voice. "he's broken, i foresee it. if there's anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates. i think it ought to be included among the condemnations in the decalogue. men have no business being broken, except their hearts, when girls are mixed up in it.--hello?--oh; oh-h-h! yes,--it's professor! how are you?--yes, indeed,--oh, yes, i'm going to be home. yes, indeed. come about eight. of course i'll be here,--nothing important,--it didn't amount to anything at all,--just a little old every-day affair.--yes, i can arrange it nicely.--we're so anxious to see you.--all right,--good-by." she turned back to the table, her face flushed, eyes shining. "it's professor! he's in town just overnight, and he's coming out. i'll have to phone joe--" "anything i despise and abominate it's a breaker of dates," chanted connie; "ought to be condemned in the decalogue." "oh, that's different," explained carol. "this is professor! besides, this will sort of even up for the thanksgiving banquet last year." "but that was phil and this is joe!" "oh, that's all right. it's just the principle, you know, nothing personal about it. seven-six-two, please. yes. seven-six-two? is joe there? oh, hello, joe. oh, joe, i'm so sorry to go back on you the last minute like this, but one of my old school-teachers is in town just for to-night and is coming here, and of course i can't leave. i'm so sorry. i've been looking forward to it for so long, but--oh, that is nice of you. you'll forgive me this once, won't you? oh, thanks, joe, you're so kind." "hurry up and phone roy, larkie. you'll have to break yours, too." lark immediately did so, while carol stood thoughtfully beside the table, her brows puckered unbecomingly. "i think," she said at last slowly, with wary eyes on her father's quiet face, "i think i'll let the tuck out of my old rose dress. it's too short." "too short! why, carol--" interrupted her aunt. "too short for the occasion, i mean. i'll put it back to-morrow." once more her eyes turned cautiously father-ward. "you see, professor still has the 'little twinnie' idea in his brain, and i'm going to get it out. it isn't consistent with our five feet seven. we're grown up. professor has got to see it. you skoot up-stairs, connie, won't you, there's a dear, and bring it down, both of them, lark's too. lark,--where did you put that ripping knife? aunt grace, will you put the iron on for me? it's perfectly right that professor should see we're growing up. we'll have to emphasize it something extra, or he might overlook it. it makes him feel methuselish because he's so awfully smart. but i'll soon change his mind for him." lark stoutly refused to be "grown up for the occasion," as carol put it. she said it was too much bother to let out the tuck, and then put it right back in, just for nonsense. at first this disappointed carol, but finally she accepted it gracefully. "all right," she said, "i guess i can grow up enough for both of us. professor is not stupid; if he sees i'm a young lady, he'll naturally know that you are, too, since we are twins. you can help me rip then if you like,--you begin around on that side." in less than two minutes the whole family was engaged in growing carol up for the occasion. they didn't see any sense in it, but carol seemed so unalterably convinced that it was necessary that they hated to question her motives. and, as was both habitual and comfortable, they proceeded to do as she directed. if her idea had been utterly to dumfound the unsuspecting professor, she succeeded admirably. carefully she planned her appearance, giving him just the proper interval of patient waiting in the presence of her aunt and sisters. then, a slow parting of the curtains and carol stood out, brightly, gladly, her slender hands held out in welcome, carol, with long skirts swishing around her white-slippered feet, her slender throat rising cream-white above the soft fold of old rose lace, her graceful head with its royal crown of bronze-gold hair, tilted most charmingly. the professor sprang to his feet and stared at her. "why, carol," he exclaimed soberly, almost sadly, as he crossed the room and took her hand. "why, carol! whatever have you been doing to yourself overnight?" of course, it was far more "overnight" than the professor knew, but carol saw to it that there was nothing to arouse his suspicion on that score. he lifted her hand high, and looked frankly down the long lines of her skirt, with the white toes of her slippers showing beneath. he shook his head. and though he smiled again, his voice was sober. "i'm beginning to feel my age," he said. this was not what carol wanted, and she resumed her old childish manner with a gleeful laugh. "what on earth are you doing in mount mark again, p'fessor!" when carol wished to be particularly coy, she said "p'fessor." it didn't sound exactly cultured, but spoken in carol's voice was really irresistible. "why, i came to see you before your hair turned gray, and wrinkles marred you--" "wrinkles won't mar mine," cried carol emphatically. "not ever! i use up a whole jar of cold cream every three weeks! i won't have 'em. wrinkles! p'fessor, you don't know what a time i have keeping myself young." she joined in the peal of laughter that rang out as this age-wise statement fell from her lips. "you'll be surprised," he said, "what does bring me to mount mark. i have given up my position in new york, and am going to school again in chicago this winter. i shall be here only to-night. to-morrow i begin to study again." "going to school again!" ejaculated carol, and all the others looked at him astonished. "going to school again. why, you know enough, now!" "think so? thanks. but i don't know what i'm going to need from this on. i am changing my line of work. the fact is, i'm going to enter the ministry myself, and will have a couple of years in a theological seminary first." utter stupefaction greeted this explanation. not one word was spoken. "i've been going into these things rather deeply the last two years. i've attended a good many special meetings, and taken some studies along with my regular work. for a year i've felt it would finally come to this, but i preferred my own job, and i thought i would stick it out, as carol says. but i've decided to quit balking, and answer the call." aunt grace nodded, with a warmly approving smile. "i think it's perfectly grand, professor," said fairy earnestly. "perfectly splendid. you will do it wonderfully well, i know, and be a big help--in our business." "but, professor," said carol faintly and falteringly, "didn't you tell me you were to get five thousand dollars a year with the institute from this on?" "yes. i was." carol gazed at her family despairingly. "it would take an awfully loud call to drown the chink of five thousand gold dollars in my ears, i am afraid." "it was a loud call," he said. and he looked at her curiously, for of all the family she alone seemed distrait and unenthusiastic. "professor," she continued anxiously, "i heard one of the bishops say that sometimes young men thought they were called to the ministry when it was too much mince pie for dinner." "i did not have mince pie for dinner," he answered, smiling, but conscious of keen disappointment in his friend. "but, professor," she argued, "can't people do good without preaching? think of all the lovely things you could do with five thousand dollars! think of the influence a prominent educator has! think of--" "i have thought of it, all of it. but haven't i got to answer the call?" "it takes nerve to do it, too," said connie approvingly. "i know just how it is from my own experience. of course, i haven't been called to enter the ministry, but--it works out the same in other things." "indeed, professor," said lark, "we always said you were too nice for any ordinary job. and the ministry is about the only extraordinary job there is!" "tell us all about it," said fairy cordially. "we are so interested in it. of course, we think it is the finest work in the world." she looked reproachfully at carol, but carol made no response. he told them, then, something of his plan, which was very simple. he had arranged for a special course at the seminary in chicago, and then would enter the ministry like any other young man starting upon his life-work. "i'm a presbyterian, you know," he said. "i'll have to go around and preach until i find a church willing to put up with me. i won't have a presiding elder to make a niche for me." he talked frankly, even with enthusiasm, but always he felt the curious disappointment that carol sat there silent, her eyes upon the hands in her lap. once or twice she lifted them swiftly to his face, and lowered them instantly again. only he noticed when they were raised, that they were unusually deep, and that something lay within shining brightly, like the reflection of a star in a clear dark pool of water. "i must go now," he said, "i must have a little visit with my uncle, i just wanted to see you, and tell you about it. i knew you would like it." carol's hand was the first placed in his, and she murmured an inaudible word of farewell, her eyes downcast, and turned quickly away. "don't let them wait for me," she whispered to lark, and then she disappeared. the professor turned away from the hospitable door very much depressed. he shook his head impatiently and thrust his hands deep into his pockets like a troubled boy. half-way down the board walk he stopped, and smiled. carol was standing among the rose bushes, tall and slim in the cloudy moonlight, waiting for him. she held out her hand with a friendly smile. "i came to take you a piece if you want me," she said. "it's so hard to talk when there's a roomful, isn't it? i thought maybe you wouldn't mind." "mind? it was dear of you to think of it," he said gratefully, drawing her hand into the curve of his arm. "i was wishing i could talk with you alone. you won't be cold?" "oh, no, i like to be out in the night air. oh," she protested, when he turned north from the parsonage instead of south, as he should have gone, "i only came for a piece, you know. and you want to visit with your uncle." the long lashes hid the twinkle the professor knew was there, though he could not see it. "yes, all right. but we'll walk a little way first. i'll visit him later on. or i can write him a letter if necessary." he felt at peace with all the world. his resentment toward carol had vanished at the first glimpse of her friendly smile. "i want to talk to you about being a preacher, you know. i think it is the most wonderful thing in the world, i certainly do." her eyes were upon his face now seriously. "i didn't say much, i was surprised, and i was ashamed, too, professor, for i never could do it in the world. never! it always makes me feel cheap and exasperated when i see how much nicer other folks are than i. but i do think it is wonderful. really sometimes, i have thought you ought to be a preacher, because you're so nice. so many preachers aren't, and that's the kind we need." the professor put his other hand over carol's, which was restlessly fingering the crease in his sleeve. he did not speak. her girlish, impulsive words touched him very deeply. "i wouldn't want the girls to know it, they'd think it was so funny, but--" she paused uncertainly, and looked questioningly into his face. "maybe you won't understand what i mean, but sometimes i'd like to be good myself. awfully good, i mean." she smiled whimsically. "wouldn't connie scream if she could hear that? now you won't give me away, will you? but i mean it. i don't think of it very often, but sometimes, why, professor, honestly, i wouldn't care if i were as good as prudence!" she paused dramatically, and the professor pressed the slender hand more closely in his. "oh, i don't worry about it. i suppose one hasn't any business to expect a good complexion and just natural goodness, both at once, but--" she smiled again. "five thousand dollars," she added dreamily. "five thousand dollars! what shall i call you now? p'fesser is not appropriate any more, is it?" "call me david, won't you, carol? or dave." carol gasped. "oh, mercy! what would prudence say?" she giggled merrily. "oh, mercy!" she was silent a moment then. "i'll have to be contented with plain mr. duke, i suppose, until you get a d.d. duckie, d.d.," she added laughingly. but in an instant she was sober again. "i do love our job. if i were a man i'd be a minister myself. reverend carol starr," she said loftily, then laughed. carol's laughter always followed fast upon her earnest words. "reverend carol starr. wouldn't i be a peach?" he laughed, too, recovering his equanimity as her customary buoyant brightness returned to her. "you are," he said, and carol answered: "thanks," very dryly. "we must go back now," she added presently. and they turned at once, walking slowly back toward the parsonage. "can't you write to me a little oftener, carol? i hate to be a bother, but my uncle never writes letters, and i like to know how my friends here are getting along, marriages, and deaths, and just plain gossip. i'll like it very much if you can. i do enjoy a good correspondence with--" "do you?" she asked sweetly. "how you have changed! when i was a freshman i remember you told me you received nothing but business letters, because you didn't want to take time to write letters, and--" "did i?" for a second he seemed a little confused. "well, i'm not crazy about writing letters, as such. but i'll be so glad to get yours that i know i'll even enjoy answering them." inside the parsonage gate they stood a moment among the rose bushes. once again she offered her hand, and he took it gravely, looking with sober intentness into her face, a little pale in the moonlight. he noted again the royal little head with its grown-up crown of hair, and the slender figure with its grown-up length of skirt. then he put his arms around her, and kissed her warmly upon the childish unexpecting lips. a swift red flooded her face, and receding as swiftly, left her pale. her lips quivered a little, and she caught her hands together. then sturdily, and only slightly tremulous, she looked into his eyes and laughed. the professor was in nowise deceived by her attempt at light-heartedness, remembering as he did the quick quivering of the lips beneath his, and the unconscious yielding of the supple body in his arms. he condemned himself mentally in no uncertain terms for having yielded to the temptation of her young loveliness. carol still laughed, determined by her merriment to set the seal of insignificance upon the act. "come and walk a little farther, carol," he said in a low voice. "i want to say something else." then after a few minutes of silence, he began rather awkwardly, and david arnold duke was not usually awkward: "carol, you'll think i'm a cad to say what i'm going to, after doing what i have just done, but i'll have to risk that. you shouldn't let men kiss you. it isn't right. you're too pretty and sweet and fine for it. i know you don't allow it commonly, but don't at all. i hate to think of any one even touching a girl like you." carol leaned forward, tilting back her head, and looking up at him roguishly, her face a-sparkle. he blushed more deeply. "oh, i know it," he said. "i'm ashamed of myself. but i can't help what you think of me. i do think you shouldn't let them, and i hope you won't. they're sure to want to." "yes," she said quietly, very grown-up indeed just then, "yes, they do. aren't men funny? they always want to. sometimes we hear old women say, 'men are all alike.' i never believe it. i hate old women who say it. but--are they all alike, professor?" "no," he said grimly, "they are not. but i suppose any man would like to kiss a girl as sweet as you are. but men are not all alike. don't you believe it. you won't then, will you?" "won't believe it? no." "i mean," he said, almost stammering in his confusion, "i mean you won't let them touch you." carol smiled teasingly, but in a moment she spoke, and very quietly. "p'fessor, i'll tell you a blood-red secret if you swear up and down you'll never tell anybody. i've never told even lark--well, one night, when i was a sophomore,--do you remember bud garvin?" "yes, tall fellow with black hair and eyes, wasn't he? in the freshman zoology class." "yes. well, he took me home from a party. hartley took lark, and they got in first. and bud, well--he put his arm around me, and--maybe you don't know it, professor, but there's a big difference in girls, too. now some girls are naturally good. prudence is, and so's lark. but fairy and i--well, we've got a lot of the original adam in us. most girls, especially in books--nice girls, i mean, and you know i'm nice--they can't bear to have boys touch them.--p'fessor, i like it, honestly i do, if i like the boy. bud's rather nice, and i let him--oh, just a little, but it made me nervous and excited. but i liked it. prudence was away, and i hated to talk to lark that night so i sneaked in fairy's room and asked if i might sleep with her. she said i could, and told me to turn on the light, it wouldn't disturb her. but i was so hot i didn't want any light, so i undressed as fast as i could and crept in. somehow, from the way i snuggled up to fairy, she caught on. i was out of breath, really i was ashamed of myself, but i wasn't just sure then whether i'd ever let him put his arm around me again or not. but fairy turned over, and began to talk. professor," she said solemnly, "fairy and i always pretend to be snippy and sarcastic and sneer at each other, but in my heart, i think fairy is very nearly as good as prudence, yes, sir, i do. why, fairy's fine, she's just awfully fine." "yes, i'm sure she is." "she said that once, when she was fifteen, one of the boys at exminster kissed her good night. and she didn't mind it a bit. but father was putting the horses in the barn, and he came out just in time to see it; it was a moonlight night. after the boys had gone, father hurried in and took fairy outdoors for a little talk, just the two of them alone. he said that in all the years he and my mother were married, every time he kissed her he remembered that no man but he had ever touched her lips, and it made him happy. he said he was always sort of thanking god inside, whenever he held her in his arms. he said nothing else in the world made a man so proud, and glad and grateful, as to know his wife was all his own, and that even her lips had been reserved for him like a sacred treasure that no one else could share. he said it would take the meanest man on earth, and father thinks there aren't many as mean as that, to go back on a woman like that. fairy said she burst out crying because her husband wouldn't ever be able to feel that way when he kissed her. but father said since she was so young, and innocent, and it being the first time, it wouldn't really count. fairy swore off that minute,--never again! of course, when i knew how father felt about mother, i wanted my husband to have as much pleasure in me as father did in her, and fairy and i made a solemn resolve that we would never, even 'hold hands,' and that's very simple, until we got crazy enough about a man to think we'd like to marry him if we got a chance. and i never have since then, not once." "carol," he said in a low voice, "i wish i had known it. i wouldn't have kissed you for anything. god knows i wouldn't. i--i think i am man enough not to have done it anyhow if i had only thought a minute, but god knows i wouldn't have done it if i had known about this. you don't know how--contemptible--i feel." "oh, that's all right," she said comfortingly, her eyes glowing. "that's all right. we just meant beaux, you know. we didn't include uncles, and fathers, and old school-teachers, and things like that. you don't count. that isn't breaking my pledge." the professor smiled, but he remembered the quivering lips, and the relaxing of the lithe body, and the forced laughter, and was not deceived. "you're such a strange girl, carol. you're so honest, usually, so kind-hearted, so generous. but you always seem trying to make yourself look bad, not physically, that isn't what i mean." carol smiled, and her loving fingers caressed her soft cheek. "but you try to make folks think you are vain and selfish, when you are not. why do you do it? every one knows what you really are. all over mount mark they say you are the best little kid in town." "they do!" she said indignantly. "well, they'd better not. here i've spent years building up my reputation to suit myself, and then they go and shatter me like that. they'd better leave me alone." "but what's the object?" "why, you know, p'fessor," she said, carefully choosing her words, "you know, it's a pretty hard job living up to a good reputation. look at prudence, and fairy, and lark. every one just naturally expects them to be angelically and dishearteningly good. and if they aren't, folks talk. but take me now. no one expects anything of me, and if once in a while, i do happen to turn out all right by accident, it's a sort of joyful surprise to the whole community. it's lots more fun surprising folks by being better than they expect, than shocking them by turning out worse than they think you will." "but it doesn't do you any good," he assured her. "you can't fool them. mount mark knows its carol." "you're not going?" she said, as he released her hand and straightened the collar of his coat. "yes, your father will chase me off if i don't go now. how about the letters, carol? think you can manage a little oftener?" "i'd love to. it's so inspiring to get a letter from a five-thousand-dollars-a-year scientist, i mean, a was-once. do my letters sound all right? i don't want to get too chummy, you know." "get as chummy as you can," he urged her. "i enjoy it." "i'll have to be more dignified if you're going to mccormick. presbyterian! the presbyterians are very dignified. i'll have to be formal from this on. dear sir: respectfully yours. is that proper?" he took her hands in his. "good-by, little pal. thank you for coming out, and for telling me the things you have. you have done me good. you are a breath of fresh sweet air." "it's my powder," she said complacently. "it does smell good, doesn't it? it cost a dollar a box. i borrowed the dollar from aunt grace. don't let on before father. he thinks we use mennen's baby--twenty-five cents a box. we didn't tell him so, but he just naturally thinks it. it was the breath of that dollar powder you were talking about." she moved her fingers slightly in his hand, and he looked down at them. then he lifted them and looked again, admiring the slender fingers and the pink nails. "don't look," she entreated. "they're teaching me things. i can't help it. this spot on my thumb is fried egg, here are three doughnuts on my arm,--see them? and here's a regular pancake." she pointed out the pancake in her palm, sorrowfully. "teaching you things, are they?" "yes. i have to darn. look at the tips of my fingers, that's where the needle rusted off on me. here's where i cut a slice of bread out of my thumb! isn't life serious?" "yes, very serious." he looked thoughtfully down at her hands again as they lay curled up in his own. "very, very serious." "good-by." "good-by." he held her hand a moment longer, and then turned suddenly away. she watched until he was out of sight, and then slipped up-stairs, undressed in the dark and crept in between the covers. lark apparently was sound asleep. carol giggled softly to herself a few times, and lark opened one eye, asking, "what's amatter?" "oh, such a good joke on p'fessor," whispered carol, squeezing her twin with rapture. "he doesn't know it yet, but he'll be so disgusted with himself when he finds it out." "what in the world is it?" lark was more coherent now. "i can't tell, lark, but it's a dandy. my, he'll feel cheap when he finds out." "maybe he won't find it out." "oh, yes, he will," was the confident answer, "i'll see that he does." she began laughing again. "what is it?" "i can't tell you, but you'll certainly scream if you ever do know it." "you can't tell me?" lark was wide awake, and quite aghast. "no, i can't, i truly can't." lark drew away from the encircling arm with as much dignity as could be expressed in the dark and in bed, and sent out a series of deep breaths, as if to indicate that snores were close at hand. carol laughed to herself for a while, until lark really slept, then she buried her head in the pillow and her throat swelled with sobs that were heavy but soundless. the next morning was lark's turn for making the bed. and when she shook up carol's pillow she found it was very damp. "why, the little goose," she said to herself, smiling, "she laughed until she cried, all by herself. and then she turned the pillow over thinking i wouldn't see it. the little goose! and what on earth was she laughing at?" chapter x jerry junior for some time the twins ignored the atmosphere of solemn mystery which pervaded their once so cheerful home. but when it finally reached the limit of their endurance they marched in upon their aunt and fairy with an admirable admixture of dignity and indignation in their attitude. "who's haunted?" inquired carol abruptly. "where's the criminal?" demanded lark. "yes, little twins, talk english and maybe you'll learn something." and for the moment the anxious light in fairy's eyes gave way to a twinkle. sad indeed was the day when fairy could not laugh at the twins. "then, in common vernacular, though it is really beneath us, what's up?" fairy turned innocently inquiring eyes toward the ceiling. "what indeed?" "oh, don't try to be dramatic, fairy," counseled lark. "you're too fat for a star-starr." the twins beamed at each other approvingly at this, and fairy smiled. but carol returned promptly to the charge. "are jerry and prudence having domestic difficulties? there's something going on, and we want to know. father looks like a fallen samson, and--" "a fallen samson, carol! mercy! where did you get it?" "yes, kind of sheepish, and ashamed, and yet hopeful of returning strength. that's art, a simile like that is.--prudence writes every day, and you hide the letters. and aunt grace sneaks around like a convict with her hand under her apron. and you look as heavy-laden as if you were carrying connie's conscience around with you." aunt grace looked at fairy, fairy looked at aunt grace. aunt grace raised her eyebrows. fairy hesitated, nodded, smiled. slowly then aunt grace drew one hand from beneath her apron and showed to the eagerly watching twins, a tiny, hand embroidered dress. they stared at it, fascinated, half frightened, and then looked into the serious faces of their aunt and sister. "i--i don't believe it," whispered carol. "she's not old enough." aunt grace smiled. "she's older than mother was," said fairy. lark took the little dress and examined it critically. "the neck's too small," she announced decidedly. "nothing could wear that." "we're using this for a pattern," said fairy, lifting a yellowed, much worn garment from the sewing basket. "i wore this, and so did you and so did connie,--my lovely child." carol rubbed her hand about her throat in a puzzled way. "i can't seem to realize that we ever grew out of that," she said slowly. "is prudence all right?" "yes, just fine." the twins looked at each other bashfully. then, "i'll bet there'll be no living with jerry after this," said lark. "oh, papa," lisped carol, in a high-pitched voice supposed to represent the tone of a little child. they both giggled, and blinked hard to crowd back the tears that wouldn't stay choked down. prudence! and that! "and see here, twins, prudence has a crazy notion that she wants to come home for it. she says she'll be scared in a hospital, and jerry's willing to come here with her. what do you think about it?" the twins looked doubtful. "they say it ought to be done in a hospital," announced carol gravely. "jerry can afford it." "yes, he wanted to. but prudence has set her heart on coming home. she says she'll never feel that jerry junior got the proper start if it happens any place else. they'll have a trained nurse." "jerry--what?" gasped the twins, after a short silence due to amazement. "jerry junior,--that's what they call it." "but how on earth do they know?" "they don't know. but they have to call it something, haven't they? and they want a jerry junior. so of course they'll get it. for prudence is good enough to get whatever she wants." "hum, that's no sign," sniffed carol. "i don't get everything i want, do i?" the girls laughed, from habit not from genuine interest, at carol's subtle insinuation. "well, shall we have her come?" "yes," said carol, "but you tell prue she needn't expect me to hold it until it gets too big to wiggle. i call them nasty, treacherous little things. mrs. miller made me hold hers, and it squirmed right off my knee. i wanted to spank it." "and tell prudence to uphold the parsonage and have a white one," added lark. "these little indian effects don't make a hit with me." "are you going to tell connie?" "i don't think so--yet. connie's only fourteen." "you tell her." carol's voice was emphatic. "there's nothing mysterious about it. everybody does it. and connie may have a few suggestions of her own to offer. you tell prue i'm thinking out a lot of good advice for her, and--" "you must write her yourselves. she wanted us to tell you long before." fairy picked up the little embroidered dress and kissed it, but her fond eyes were anxious. so a few weeks later, weeks crowded full of tumult and anxiety, yes, and laughter, too, prudence and jerry came to mount mark and settled down to quiet life in the parsonage. the girls kissed prudence very often, leaped quickly to do her errands, and touched her with nervous fingers. but mostly they sat across the room and regarded her curiously, shyly, quite maternally. "carol and lark starr," prudence cried crossly one day, when she intercepted one of these surreptitious glances, "you march right up-stairs and shut yourselves up for thirty minutes. and if you ever sit around and stare at me like a stranger again, i'll spank you both. i'm no outsider. i belong here just as much as ever i did. and i'm still the head of things around here, too!" the twins obediently marched, and after that prudence was more like prudence, and the twins were much more twinnish, so that life was very nearly normal in the old parsonage. prudence said she couldn't feel quite satisfied because the twins were too old to be punished, but she often scolded them in her gentle teasing way, and the twins enjoyed it more than anything else that happened during those days of quiet. then came a night when the four sisters huddled breathlessly in the kitchen, and aunt grace and the trained nurse stayed with prudence behind the closed door of the front room up-stairs. and the doctor went in, too, after he had inflicted a few light-hearted remarks upon the two men in the little library. after that--silence, an immense hushing silence,--settled down over the parsonage. jerry and mr. starr, alone in the library, where a faint odor of drugs, anesthetics, something that smelled like hospitals lingered, stared away from each other with persistent determination. now and then jerry walked across the room, but mr. starr stood motionless by the window looking down at the cherry tree beneath him, wondering vaguely how it dared to be so full of snowy blooms! "where are the girls?" jerry asked, picking up a roll of cotton which had been left on the library table, and flinging it from him as though it scorched his fingers. "i--think i'll go and see," said mr. starr, turning heavily. jerry hesitated a minute. "i--think i'll go along," he said. for an instant their eyes met, sympathetically, and did not smile though their lips curved. down in the kitchen, meanwhile, fairy sat somberly beside the table with a pile of darning which she jabbed at viciously with the needle. lark was perched on the ice chest, but carol, true to her childish instincts, hunched on the floor with her feet curled beneath her. connie leaned against the table within reach of fairy's hand. "they're awfully slow," she complained once. nobody answered. the deadly silence clutched them. "oh, talk," carol blurted out desperately. "you make me sick! it isn't anything to be so awfully scared about. everybody does it." a little mumble greeted this, and then, silence again. whenever it grew too painful, carol said reproachfully, "everybody does it." and no one ever answered. they looked up expectantly when the men entered. it seemed cozier somehow when they were all together in the little kitchen. "is she all right?" "sure, she's all right," came the bright response from their father. and then silence. "oh, you make me sick," cried carol. "everybody does it." "carol starr, if you say 'everybody does it' again i'll send you to bed," snapped fairy. "don't we know everybody does it? but prudence isn't everybody." "maybe we'd better have a lunch," suggested their father hopefully, knowing the thought of food often aroused his family when all other means had failed. but his suggestion met with dark reproach. "father, if you're hungry, take a piece of bread out into the woodshed," begged connie. "if anybody eats anything before me i shall jump up and down and scream." their father smiled faintly and gave it up. after that the silence was unbroken save once when carol began encouragingly: "every--" "sure they do," interrupted fairy uncompromisingly. and then--the hush. long, long after that, when the girls' eyes were heavy, not with want of sleep, but just with unspeakable weariness of spirit,--they heard a step on the stair. "come on up, harmer," the doctor called. and then, "sure, she's all right. she's fine and dandy,--both of them are." jerry was gone in an instant, and mr. starr looked after him with inscrutable eyes. "fathers are--only fathers," he said enigmatically. "yes," agreed carol. "yes. in a crisis, the other man goes first." his daughters turned to him then, tenderly, sympathetically. "you had your turn, father," connie consoled him. and felt repaid for the effort when he smiled at her. "they are both fine, you know," said carol. "the doctor said so." "we heard him," fairy assured her. "yes, i said all the time you were all awfully silly about it. i knew it was all right. everybody does it." "jerry junior," lark mused. "he's here.--'aunt lark, may i have a cooky?'" a few minutes later the door was carefully shoved open by means of a cautious foot, and jerry stood before them, holding in his arms a big bundle of delicately tinted flannel. "ladies and gentlemen," he began, beaming at them, his face flushed, his eyes bright, embarrassed, but thoroughly satisfied. of course, prudence was the dearest girl in the world, and he adored her, and--but this was different, this was fatherhood! [illustration: let me introduce to you my little daughter] "ladies and gentlemen," he said again in the tender, half-laughing voice that prudence loved, "let me introduce to you my little daughter, fairy harmer." "not--not fairy!" cried fairy, senior, tearfully. "oh, jerry, i don't believe it. not fairy! you are joking." "of course it is fairy," he said. "look out, connie, do you want to break part of my daughter off the first thing? oh, i see. it was just the flannel, was it? well, you must be careful of the flannel, for when ladies are the size of this one, you can't tell which is flannel and which is foot. fairy harmer! here, grandpa, what do you think of this? and prudence said to send you right up-stairs, and hurry. and the girls must go to bed immediately or they'll be sick to-morrow. prudence says so." "oh, that's enough. that's prudence all over! you needn't tell us any more. here, fairy harmer, let us look at you. hold her down, jerry. mercy! mercy!" "isn't she a beauty?" boasted the young father proudly. "a beauty? a beauty! that!" carol rubbed her slender fingers over her own velvety cheek. "they talk about the matchless skin of a new-born infant. thanks. i'd just as lief have my own." "oh, she isn't acclimated yet, that's all. do you think she looks like me?" "no, jerry, i don't," said lark candidly. "i never considered you a dream of loveliness by any means, but in due honesty i must admit that you don't look like that." "why, it hasn't any hair!" connie protested. "well, give it time," urged the baby's father. "be reasonable, connie. what can you expect in fifteen minutes." "but they always have a little hair," she insisted. "no, indeed they don't, miss connie," he said flatly. "for if they always did, ours would have. now, don't try to let on there's anything the matter with her, for there isn't.--look at her nose, if you don't like her hair.--what do you think of a nose like that now? just look at it." "yes, we're looking at it," was the grim reply. "and--and chin,--look at her chin. see here, do you mean to say you are making fun of fairy harmer? come on, tootsie, we'll go back up-stairs. they're crazy about us up there." "oh, see the cunning little footies," crowed connie. "here, cover 'em up," said jerry anxiously. "you mustn't let their feet stick out. prudence says so. it's considered very--er, bad form, i believe." "fairy! honestly, jerry, is it fairy? when did you decide?" "oh, a long time ago," he said, "years ago, i guess. you see, we always wanted a girl. prue didn't think she had enough experience with the stronger sex yet, and of course i'm strong for the ladies. but it seems that what you want is what you don't get. so we decided to call her fairy when she came, and then we wanted a boy, and talked boy, and got the girl! i guess it always works just that way, if you manage it cleverly. come now, fairy, you needn't wrinkle up that smudge of a nose at me.--let go, connie, it is my daughter's bedtime. there now, there now, baby, was she her daddy's little girl?" flushed and laughing, jerry broke away from the admiring, giggling, nearly tearful girls, and hurried up-stairs with jerry junior. but fairy stood motionless by the door. "prudence's baby," she whispered. "little fairy harmer!--mmmmmmm!" chapter xi the end of fairy now that the twins had attained to the dignity of eighteen years, and were respectable students at the thoroughly respectable presbyterian college, they had dates very frequently. and it was along about this time that mr. starr developed a sudden interest in the evening callers at his home. he bobbed up unannounced in most unexpected places and at most unexpected hours. he walked about the house with a sharp sly look in his eyes, in a way that could only be described as carol said, by "downright nosiness." the girls discussed this new phase of his character when they were alone, but decided not to mention it to him, for fear of hurting his feelings. "maybe he's got a new kind of a sermon up his brain," said carol. "maybe he's beginning to realize that his clothes are wearing out again," suggested lark. "he's too young for second childhood," connie thought. so they watched him curiously. aunt grace, too, observed this queer devotion on the part of the minister, and finally her curiosity overcame her habit of keeping silent. "william," she said gently, "what's the matter with you lately? is there anything on your mind?" mr. starr started nervously. "my mind? of course not. why?" "you seem to be looking for something. you watch the girls so closely, you're always hanging around, and--" he smiled broadly. "thanks for that. 'hanging around,' in my own parsonage. that is the gratitude of a loving family!" aunt grace smiled. "well, i see there's nothing much the matter with you. i was seriously worried. i thought there was something wrong, and--" "sort of mentally unbalanced, is that it? oh, no, i'm just watching my family." she looked up quickly. "watching the family! you mean--" "carol," he said briefly. "carol! you're watching--" "oh, only in the most honorable way, of course. you see," he gave his explanation with an air of relief, "prudence always says i must keep an eye on carol. she's so pretty, and the boys get stuck on her, and--that's what prudence says. i forgot all about it for a while. but lately i have begun to notice that the boys are older, and--we don't want carol falling in love with the wrong man. i got uneasy. i decided to watch out. i'm the head of this family, you know." "such an idea!" scoffed aunt grace, who was not at all of a scoffing nature. "carol was born for lovers, prudence says so. and these men's girls have to be watched, or the wrong fellow will get ahead, and--" "carol doesn't need watching--not any more at least." "i'm not really watching her, you know. i'm just keeping my eyes open." "but carol's all right. that's one time prudence was away off." she smiled as she recognized a bit of carol's slang upon her lips. "don't worry about her. you needn't keep an eye on her any more. she's coming, all right." "you don't think there's any danger of her falling in love with the wrong man?" "no." "there aren't many worth-having fellows in mount mark, you know." "carol won't fall in love with a mount mark fellow." "you seem very positive." "yes, i'm positive." he looked thoughtful for a while. "well, prudence always told me to watch carol, so i could help her if she needed it." "girls always need their fathers," came the quick reply. "but carol does not need you particularly. there's only one of them who will require especial attention." "that's what prudence says." "yes, just one--not carol." "not carol!" he looked at her in astonishment. "why, fairy and lark are--different. they're all right. they don't need attention." "no. it's the other one." "the other one! that's all." "there's connie." "connie?" "yes." "connie?" "yes." "you don't mean connie." aunt grace smiled. "why, grace, you're--you're off. excuse me for saying it, but--you're crazy. connie--why, connie has never been any trouble in her life. connie!" "you've never had any friction with connie, she's always been right so far. one of these days she's pretty likely to be wrong, and connie doesn't yield very easily." "but connie's so sober and straight, and--" "that's the kind." "she's so conscientious." "yes, conscientious." "she's--look here, grace, there's nothing the matter with connie." "of course not, william. that isn't what i mean. but you ought to be getting very, very close to connie right now, for one of these days she's going to need a lot of that extra companionship prudence told you about. connie wants to know everything. she wants to see everything. none of the other girls ever yearned for city life. connie does. she says when she is through school she's going to the city." "what city?" "any city." "what for?" "for experience." mr. starr looked about him helplessly. "there's experience right here," he protested feebly. "lots of it. entirely too much of it." "well, that's connie. she wants to know, to see, to feel. she wants to live. get close to her, get chummy. she may not need it, and then again she may. she's very young yet." "all right, i will. it is well i have some one to steer me along the proper road." he looked regretfully out of the window. "i ought to be able to see these things for myself, but the girls seem perfectly all right to me. they always have. i suppose it's because they're mine." aunt grace looked at him affectionately. "it's because they're the finest girls on earth," she declared. "that's why. but we want to be ready to help them if they need it, just because they are so fine. they will every one be splendid, if we give them the right kind of a chance." he sat silent a moment. "i've always wanted one of them to marry a preacher," he said, laughing apologetically. "it is very narrow-minded, of course, but a man does make a hobby of his own profession. i always hoped prudence would. i thought she was born for it. then i looked to fairy, and she turned me down. i guess i'll have to give up the notion now." she looked at him queerly. "maybe not." "connie might, i suppose." "connie," she contradicted promptly, "will probably marry a genius, or a rascal, or a millionaire." he looked dazed at that. she leaned forward a little. "carol might." "carol--" "she might." she watched him narrowly, a smile in her eyes. "carol's too worldly." "you don't believe that." "no, not really. carol--she--why, you know when i think of it, carol wouldn't be half bad for a minister's wife. she has a sense of humor, that is very important. she's generous, she's patient, she's unselfish, a good mixer,--some of the ladies might think her complexion wasn't real, but--grace, carol wouldn't be half bad!" "oh, william," she sighed, "can't you remember that you are a methodist minister, and a grandfather, and--grow up a little?" after that mr. starr returned to normal again, only many times he and connie had little outings together, and talked a great deal. and aunt grace, seeing it, smiled with satisfaction. but the twins and fairy settled it in their own minds by saying, "father was just a little jealous of all the beaux. he was looking for a pal, and he's found connie." but in spite of his new devotion to connie, mr. starr also spent a great deal of time with fairy. "we must get fast chums, fairy," he often said to her. "this is our last chance. we have to get cemented for a lifetime, you know." and fairy, when he said so, caught his hand and laughed a little tremulously. indeed, he was right when he said it was his last chance with fairy in the parsonage. two weeks before her commencement she had slipped into the library and closed the door cautiously behind her. "father," she said, "would you be very sorry if i didn't teach school after all?" "not a bit," came the ready answer. "i mean if i--you see, father, since you sent me to college i feel as if i ought to work and--help out." "that's nonsense," he said, drawing the tall girl down to his knees. "i can take care of my own family, thanks. are you trying to run me out of my job? if you want to work, all right, do it, but for yourself, and not for us. or if you want to do anything else," he did not meet her eyes, "if you want to stay at home a year or so before you get married, it would please us better than anything else. and when you want to marry gene, we're expecting it, you know." "yes, i know," she fingered the lapel of his coat uneasily. "do you care how soon i get married?" "are you still sure it is gene?" "yes, i'm sure." "then i think you should choose your own time. i am in no hurry. but any time,--it's for you, and gene, to decide." "then you haven't set your heart on my teaching?" "i set my heart on giving you the best chance possible. and i have done it. for the rest, it depends on you. you may work, or you may stay at home a while. i only want you to be happy, fairy." "but doesn't it seem foolish to go clear through college, and spend the money, and then--marry without using the education?" "i do not think so. they've been fine years, and you are finer because of them. there's just as much opportunity to use your fineness in a home of your own as in a public school. that's the way i look at it." "you don't think i'm too young?" "you're pretty young," he said slowly. "i can hardly say, fairy. you've always been capable and self-possessed. when you and gene get so crazy about each other you can't bear to be apart any longer, it's all right here." she put her arm around his neck and rubbed her fingers over his cheek lovingly. "you understand, don't you, father, that i'm just going to be plain married when the time comes? not a wedding like prudence's. gene, and the girls, and prue and jerry, and you, father, that is all." "yes, all right. it's your day, you know." "and we won't talk much about it beforehand. we all know how we feel about things. it would be silly for me to try to tell you what a grand sweet father you've been to us. i can't tell you,--if i tried i'd only cry. you know what i think." his face was against hers, and his eyes were away from her, so fairy did not see the moisture in his eyes when he said in a low voice: "yes, i know fairy. and i don't need to say what fine girls you are, and how proud i am of you. you know it already. but sometimes," he added slowly, "i wonder that i haven't been a bigger man, and haven't done finer work, with a houseful of girls like mine." her arm pressed more closely about his neck. "father," she whispered, "don't say that. we think you are wonderfully splendid, just as you are. it isn't what you've said, not what you've done for us, it's just because you have always made us so sure of you. we never had to wonder about father, or ask ourselves--we were sure. we've always had you." she leaned over and kissed him again. "there never was such a father, they all say so, prudence and connie, and the twins, too! there couldn't be another like you! now we understand each other, don't we?" "i guess so. anyhow, i understand that there'll only be three daughters in the parsonage pretty soon. all right, fairy. i know you will be happy." he paused a moment. "so will i." but the months passed, and fairy seemed content to stay quietly at home, embroidering as prudence had done, laughing at the twins as they tripped gaily, riotously through college. and then in the early spring, she sent an urgent note to prudence. "you must come home for a few days, prue, you and jerry. it's just because i want you and i need you, and i know you won't go back on me. i want you to get here on the early afternoon train tuesday, and stay till the last of the week. just wire that you are coming--the three of you. i know you'll be here, since it is i who ask it." it followed naturally that prudence's answer was satisfactory. "of course we'll come." fairy's plans were very simple. "we'll have a nice family dinner tuesday evening,--we'll get mrs. green to come and cook and have her niece to serve it,--that'll leave us free to visit every minute. i'll plan the dinner. then we'll all be together, nice and quiet, just our own little bunch. don't have dates, twins,--of course gene will be here, but he's part of the family, and we don't want outsiders this time. his parents will be in town, and i've asked them to come up. i want a real family reunion just for once, and it's my party, for i started it. so you must let me have it my own way." fairy was generally willing to leave the initiative to the eager twins, but when she made a plan it was generally worth adopting, and the other members of the family agreed to her arrangements without demur. after the first confusion of welcoming prudence home, and making fun of "daddy jerry," and testing the weight and length of little fairy, they all settled down to a parsonage home-gathering. just a few minutes before the dinner hour, fairy took her father's hand. "come into the lime-light," she said softly, "i want you." he passed little fairy over to the outstretched arms of the nearest auntie, and allowed himself to be led into the center of the room. "gene," said fairy, and he came to her quickly, holding out a slender roll of paper. "it's our license," said fairy. "we think we'd like to be married now, father, if you will." he looked at her questioningly, but understandingly. the girls clustered about them with eager outcries, half protest, half encouragement. "it's my day, you know," cried fairy, "and this is my way." she held out her hand, and gene took it very tenderly in his. mr. starr looked at them gravely for a moment, and then in the gentle voice that the parsonage girls insisted was his most valuable ministerial asset, he gave his second girl in marriage. it surely was fairy's way, plain and sweet, without formality. and the dinner that followed was just a happy family dinner. fairy's face was so glowing with content, and gene's attitude was so tender, and so ludicrously proud, that the twins at last were convinced that this was right, and all was well. but that evening, when gene's parents had gone away, and after fairy and gene themselves had taken the carriage to the station for their little vacation together, and jerry and prudence were putting little fairy to bed, the three girls left in the home sat drearily in their bedroom and talked it over. "we're thinning out," said connie. "who next?" "we'll stick around as long as we like, miss connie, you needn't try to shuffle us off," said lark indignantly. "prudence, and fairy,--it was pretty cute of fairy, wasn't it?" "let's go to bed," said carol, rising. "i suppose we'll feel better in the morning. a good sleep is almost as filling as a big meal after a blow like this. well, that's the end of fairy. we have to make the best of us. come on, larkie. you've still got us to boss you, con, so you needn't feel too forlorn. my, but the house is still! in some ways i think this family is positively sickening. good night, connie. and, after this, when you want to eat candy in bed, please use your own. i got chocolate all over my foot last night. good night, connie. well, it's the end of fairy. the family is going to pieces, sure enough." chapter xii sowing seeds "have you seen mrs. harbert lately, carol?" "yes, she's better, father. i was there a few minutes yesterday." "yesterday? you were there tuesday, weren't you?" carol looked uncomfortable. "why, yes, i was, just for a second." "she tells me you've been running in nearly every day since she took sick." carol bent sharply inquiring eyes upon her father. "what else did she tell you?" "she said you were an angel." "y-yes,--she seems somehow to think i do it for kindness." "and don't you?" "why, no, father, of course i don't. it's only two blocks out of my way and it's such fun to pop in on sick folks and show them how disgustingly strong and well i am." "where did you get the money for that basket of fruit?" "i borrowed it from aunt grace." carol's face was crimson with mortification. "but it'll be a sweet time before mrs. harbert gets anything else from me. she promised she wouldn't tell." "did any of the others know about the fruit?" "why--not--exactly." "but she thinks it was from the whole family. she thanked me for it." "i--i made her think that," carol explained. "i want her to think we're the nicest parsonage bunch they've ever had in mount mark. besides, it really was from the family. aunt grace loaned me the money and i'll have to borrow it from you to pay her. and lark did my dusting so i could go on the errand, though she did not know what it was. and i--er--accidentally took one of connie's ribbons to tie it with. isn't that a family gift?" "mr. scott tells me you are the prime mover in the junior league now," he continued. "well, goodness knows our junior league needs a mover of some sort." "and mrs. davies says you are a whole mercy and help department all by yourself." "what i can't understand," said carol mournfully, "is why folks don't keep their mouths shut. i know that sounds very inelegant, but it expresses my idea perfectly. can't i have a good time in my own way without the whole church pedaling me from door to door?" the twinkle in her father's eyes deepened. "what do you call it, carol, 'sowing seeds of kindness'?" "i should say not," came the emphatic retort. "i call it sowing seeds of fun. it's a circus to go around and gloat over folks when they are sick or sorry, or--" "but they tell me you don't gloat. mrs. marling says you cried with jeanie half a day when her dog died." "oh, that's my way of gloating," said carol, nothing daunted, but plainly glad to get away without further interrogation. it was a strange thing that of all the parsonage girls, carol, light-hearted, whimsical, mischievous carol, was the one most dear to the hearts of her father's people. not the gentle prudence, nor charming fairy, not clever lark nor conscientious connie, could rival the "naughty twin" in mount mark's affections. and in spite of her odd curt speeches, and her openly-vaunted vanity, mount mark insisted she was "good." certainly she was willing! "get carol starr,--she'll do it," was the commonest phrase in mount mark's vocabulary. whatever was wanted, whatever the sacrifice involved, carol stood ready to fill the bill. not for kindness,--oh, dear no,--carol staunchly disclaimed any such niceness as that. she did it for fun, pure and simple. she said she liked to show off. she insisted that she liked to feel that she was the pivot on which little old mount mark turned. but this was only when she was found out. as far as she could she kept her little "seeds of fun" carefully up her sleeve, and it was only when the indiscreet adoration of her friends brought the budding plants to light, that she laughingly declared "it was a circus to go and gloat over folks." once in the early dusk of a summer evening, she discovered old ben peters, half intoxicated, slumbering noisily on a pile of sacks in a corner of the parsonage barn. carol was sorry, but not at all frightened. the poor, kindly, weak, old man was as familiar to her as any figure in mount mark. he was always in a more or less helpless state of intoxication, but also he was always harmless, kind-hearted and generous. she prodded him vigorously with the handle of the pitch-fork until he was aroused to consciousness, and then guided him into the woodshed with the buggy whip. when he was seated on a chunk of wood she faced him sternly. "well, you are a dandy," she said. "going into a parsonage barn, of all places in the world, to sleep off an odor like yours! why didn't you go down to fred greer's harness shop, that's where you got it. we're such an awfully temperance town, you know! but the parsonage! why, if the trustees had happened into the barn and caught a whiff of that smell, father'd have lost his job. now you just take warning from me, and keep away from this parsonage until you can develop a good methodist odor. oh, don't cry about it! your very tears smell rummy. just you hang on to that chunk of wood, and i'll bring you some coffee." like a thief in the night she sneaked into the house, and presently returned with a huge tin of coffee, steaming hot. he drank it eagerly, but kept a wary eye on the haughty twin, who stood above him with the whip in her hand. "that's better. now, sit down and listen to me. if you would come to the parsonage, you have to take your medicine. silver and gold have we none, but such as we have we give to you. and religion's all we've got. you're here, and i'm here. we haven't any choir or any bible, but parsonage folks have to be adaptable. now then, ben peters, you've got to get converted." the poor doddering old fellow, sobered by this awful announcement, looked helplessly at the window. it was too small. and slender active carol, with the buggy whip, stood between him and the door. "no, you can't escape. you're done for this time,--it's the straight and narrow from this on. now listen,--it's really very simple. and you need it pretty badly, ben. of course you don't realize it when you're drunk, you can't see how terribly disgusting you are, but honestly, ben, a pig is a ray of sunshine compared to a drunk man. you're a blot on the landscape. you're a--you're a--" she fished vainly for words, longing for lark's literary flow of language. "i'm not drunk," he stammered. "no, you're not, thanks to the buggy whip and that strong coffee, but you're no beauty even yet. well now, to come down to religion again. you can't stop drinking--" "i could," he blustered feebly, "i could if i wanted to." "oh, no, you couldn't. you haven't backbone enough. you couldn't stop to save your life. but," carol's voice lowered a little, and she grew shy, but very earnest, "but god can stop you, because he has enough backbone for a hundred thousand--er, jellyfishes. and--you see, it's like this. god made the world, and put the people in it. now listen carefully, ben, and i'll make it just as simple as possible so it can sink through the smell and get at you. god made the world, and put the people in it. and the people sinned, worshiped idols and went back on god, and--did a lot of other mean things. so god was in honor bound to punish them, for that's the law, and god's the judge that can't be bought. he had to inflict punishment. but god and jesus talked it over, and they felt awfully bad about it, for they kind of liked the people anyhow." she stared at the disreputable figure slouching on the chunk of wood. "it's very hard to understand, very. i should think they would despise us,--some of us," she added significantly. "i'm sure i should. but anyhow they didn't. are you getting me?" the bleary eyes were really fastened intently on the girl's bright face, and he hung upon her words. "well, they decided that jesus should come down here and live, and be perfectly good, so he would not deserve any punishment, and then god would allow him to receive the punishment anyhow, and the rest of us could go free. that would cover the law. see? punishing him when he deserved no punishment. then they could forgive us heathens that didn't deserve it. do you get that?" she looked at him anxiously. "it all hinges on that, you know. i'm not a preacher myself, but that's the idea. so jesus was crucified, and then god said, 'there he is! look on him, believe in him, worship him, and in his name you stand o. k.' see? that means, if we give him the chance, god'll let jesus take our share of the punishment. so we've just got to let go, and say, 'all right, here i am. i believe it, i give up, i know i don't amount to a hill of beans--and you can say it very honestly--but if you want me, and will call it square, god knows i'm willing.' and there you are." "won't i drink any more?" "no, not if you let go hard enough. i mean," she caught herself up quickly, "i mean if you let clear go and turn the job over to god. but you're not to think you can keep decent by yourself, for you can't--it's not born in you, and something else is--just let go, and stay let go. after that, it's god's job, and unless you stick in and try to manage yourself, he'll see you through." "all right, i'll do it." carol gasped. she opened her lips a few times, and swallowed hard. she didn't know what to do next. wildly she racked her brain for the next step in this vital performance. "i--think we ought to pray," she said feebly. "all right, we'll pray." he rolled curiously off the stick of wood, and fell, as if by instinct, into the attitude of prayer. carol gazed about her helplessly. but true to her training, she knelt beside him. then came silence. "i--well, i'll pray," she said with grim determination. "dear father in heaven," she began weakly, and then she forgot her timidity and her fear, and realized only that this was a crisis in the life of the drunken man. "oh, god, he'll do it. he'll let go, and turn it over to you. he isn't worth anything, god, none of us are, but you can handle him, for you've had worse jobs than this, though it doesn't seem possible. you'll help him, god, and love him, and show him how, for he hasn't the faintest idea what to do next, and neither have i. but you brought him into our barn to-night, and you'll see him through. oh, god, for jesus' sake, help ben peters. amen. "now, what shall i do?" she wondered. "what's your father for?" she looked quickly at ben peters. he had not spoken, but something certainly had asked, "what's your father for?" "you stay here, ben, and pray for yourself, and i'll send father out. i'm not just sure what to say next, and father'll finish you up. you pray for all you're worth." she was gone in a flash, through the kitchen, through the hall, up the stairs two at a time, and her arm thrown closely about her father's shoulder. "oh, father, i got stuck," she wailed. "i'm so ashamed of myself. but you can finish him off, can't you? i honestly believe he's started." he took her firmly by the arms and squared her around on his lap. "one, two, three, ready, go. now, what?" "ben peters. he was drunk in the barn and i took him into the woodshed and gave him some hot coffee,--and some religion, but not enough to hurt him. i told him he had to get converted, and he said he would. so i told him about it, but you'd better tell him again, for i'm afraid i made quite a mess of it. and then we prayed, and i was stuck for fair, father, for i couldn't think what to do next. but i do believe it was god who said, 'what's your father for?' and so i left him praying for himself, and--you'd better hurry, or he may get cold feet and run away. be easy with him, father, but don't let him off. this is the first chance we've ever had at ben peters, and god'll never forgive us if we let him slip through our fingers." carol was dumped off on to the floor and her father was half-way down the stairs before she caught her breath. then she smiled. then she blushed. "that was one bad job," she said to herself sadly. "i'm a disgrace to the methodist church. thank goodness the trustees'll never hear of it. i'll bribe ben peters to eternal silence if i have to do it with kisses." then her face grew very soft. "poor old man! oh, the poor old man!" a quick rush of tears blinded her eyes, and her throat throbbed. "oh, why do they,--what makes men like that? can't they see, can't they know, how awful they are, how--" she shuddered. "i can't see for the life of me what makes god treat us decently at all." her face brightened again. "i was a bad job, all right, but i feel kind of pleased about it. i hope father won't mention it to the girls." and ben peters truly had a start, incredible as it seemed. yes, as carol had warned him, he forgot sometimes and tried to steer for himself, and always crashed into the rocks. then carol, with angry eyes and scornful voice, berated him for trying to get hold of god's job, and cautioned him anew about "sticking in when it was not his affair any more." it took time, a long time, and hard work, and many, many prayers went up from carol's bedside, and from the library at the head of the stairs, but there came a time when ben peters let go for good and all, and turned to carol, standing beside the bed with sorry frightened eyes, and said quietly: "it's all right, carol. i've let go. you're a mighty nice little girl. i've let go for good this time. i'm just slipping along where he sends me,--it's all right," he finished drowsily. and fell asleep. chapter xiii the connie problem mr. starr was getting ready to go to conference, and the girls hovered about him with anxious eyes. this was their fifth conference since coming to mount mark,--the time limit for methodist ministers was five years. the starrs, therefore, would be transferred, and where? small wonder that the girls followed him around the house and spoke in soft voices and looked with tender eyes at the old parsonage and the wide lawn. they would be leaving it next week. already the curtains were down, and laundered, and packed. the trunks were filled, the books were boxed. yes, they were leaving, but whither were they bound? "get your ecclesiastical dander up, father," carol urged, "don't let them give us a church fight, or a twenty-thousand-dollar debt on a thousand-dollar congregation." "we don't care for a big salary or a stylish congregation," lark added, "but we don't want to go back to washpans and kerosene lamps again." "if you have to choose between a bath tub, with a church quarrel, and a wash basin with peace and harmony, we'll take the tub and settle the scrap!" the conference was held in fairfield, and he informed the girls casually that he would be home on the first train after the assignments were made. he said it casually, for he did not wish them to know how perturbed he was over the coming change. during the conference he tried in many and devious ways to learn the will of the authorities regarding his future, but he found no clue. and at home the girls were discussing the matter very little, but thinking of nothing else. they were determined to be pleased about it. "it really doesn't make any difference," lark said. "we've had one year in college, we can get along without any more. or maybe father would let us borrow the money and stay at the dorm. and connie's so far along now that she's all right. any good high school will do for her. it doesn't make any difference at all." "no, we're so nearly grown up that one place will do just as well as another," agreed carol unconcernedly. "i'm rather anxious to move, myself," said connie. "i'm afraid some of the ladies might carry out their designs on father. they've had five years of practise now, you know." "don't be silly, con. isn't aunt grace here on purpose to chaperon him and keep the ladies off? i'd hate to go to new london, or mediapolis, or--but after all it doesn't make a bit of difference." just the same, on wednesday evening, the girls sat silent, with intensely flushed faces and painfully shining eyes, watching the clock, listening for the footstep. they had deliberately remained away from the station. they thought they could face it better within the friendly walls of the parsonage. it was all settled now, father knew where they were going. oh, why hadn't he wired? it must be terribly bad then, he evidently wanted to break it to them gently. maybe it was a circuit! there was the whistle now! only a few minutes now. suppose his salary were cut down,--good-by to silk stockings and kid gloves,--cheap, but kid, just the same! suppose the parsonage would be old-fashioned! suppose there wasn't any parsonage at all, and they would have to pay rent! sup--then the door slammed. carol and lark picked up their darning, and connie bent earnestly over her magazine. aunt grace covered a yawn with her slender fingers and looked out of the window. "hello!" "why, hello, papa! back already?" they dropped darning and magazine and flew to welcome him home. "come and sit down!" "my, it seemed a long time!" "we had lots of fun, father." "was it a nice conference?" "mr. james sent us two bushels of potatoes!" "we're going to have chicken to-morrow--the ladies' aiders sent it with their farewell love." "wasn't it a dandy day?" "well, it's all settled." "yes, we supposed it would be. was the conference good? we read accounts of it every day, and acted stuck-up when it said nice things about you." "we are to--" "ju-just a minute, father," interrupted connie anxiously. "we don't care a snap where it is, honestly we don't. we're just crazy about it, wherever it is. we've got it all settled. you needn't be afraid to tell us." "afraid to tell us!" mocked the twins indignantly. "what kind of slave-drivers do you think we are?" "of course we don't care where we go," explained lark. "haven't we been a parsonage bunch long enough to be tickled to death to be sent any place?" "father knows we're all right. go on, daddy, who's to be our next flock?" "we haven't any, we--" the girls' faces paled. "haven't any? you mean--" "i mean we're to stay in mount mark." "stay in--what?" "mount mark. they--" "they extended the limit," cried connie, springing up. "no," he denied, laughing. "they made me a presiding elder, and we're--" "a presiding elder! father! honestly? they--" "they ought to have made you a bishop," cried carol loyally. "i've been expecting it all my life. that's where the next jump'll land you. presiding elder! now we can snub the ladies' aid if we want to." "do you want to?" "no, of course not, but it's lots of fun to know we could if we did want to." "i pity the next parsonage bunch," said connie sympathetically. "why? there's nothing the matter with our church!" "oh, no, that isn't what i mean. but the next minister's family can't possibly come up to us, and so--" the others broke her sentence with their laughter. "talk about me and my complexion!" gasped carol, wiping her eyes. "i'm nothing to connie and her family pride. where will we live now, father?" "we'll rent a house--any house we like--and live like white folks." "rent! mercy, father, doesn't the conference furnish the elders with houses? we can never afford to pay rent! never!" "oh, we have a salary of twenty-five hundred a year now," he said, with apparent complacence, but careful to watch closely for the effect of this statement. it gratified him, too, much as he had expected. the girls stood stock-still and gazed at him, and then, with a violent struggle for self-composure carol asked: "did you get any of it in advance? i need some new slippers." so the packing was finished, a suitable house was found--modern, with reasonable rent--on maple avenue where the oaks were most magnificent, and the parsonage family became just ordinary "folks," a parsonage household no longer. "you must be very patient with us if we still try to run things," carol said apologetically to the president of the ladies' aid. "we've been a parsonage bunch all our lives, you know, and it's got to be a habit. but we'll be as easy on you as we can. we know what it would mean to leave two ministers' families down on you at once." mr. starr's new position necessitated long and frequent absences from home, and that was a drawback to the family comradeship. but the girls' pride in his advancement was so colossal, and their determination to live up to the dignity of the eldership was so deep-seated, that affairs ran on quite serenely in the new home. "aren't we getting sensible?" carol frequently asked her sisters, and they agreed enthusiastically that they certainly were. "i don't think we ever were so bad as we thought we were," lark said. "even prudence says now that we were always pretty good. prudence ought to think so. she got most of our spending money for a good many years, didn't she?" "prudence didn't get it. she gave it to the heathen." "well, she got credit for it on the lord's accounts, i suppose. but she deserved it. it was no joke collecting allowances from us." one day this beautiful serenity was broken in upon in a most unpleasant way. carol looked up from _de senectute_ and flung out her arms in an all-relieving yawn. then she looked at her aunt, asleep on the couch. she looked at lark, who was aimlessly drawing feathers on the skeletons of birds in her biology text. she looked at connie, sitting upright in her chair, a small book close to her face, alert, absorbed, oblivious to the world. connie was wide awake, and carol resented it. "what are you reading, con?" she asked reproachfully. connie looked up, startled, and colored a little. "oh,--poetry," she stammered. carol was surprised. "poetry," she echoed. "poetry? what kind of poetry? there are many poetries in this world of ours. 'life is real, life is earnest.' 'there was a young lady from bangor.' 'a man and a maiden decided to wed.' 'sunset and, evening star,'--oh, there are lots of poetries. what's yours?" her senseless dissertation had put her in good humor again. connie answered evasively. "it is by an old oriental writer. i don't suppose you've ever read it. khayyam is his name." "some name," said carol suspiciously. "what's the poem?" her eyes had narrowed and darkened. by this time carol had firmly convinced herself that she was bringing connie up,--a belief which afforded lively amusement to self-conducting connie. "why, it's _the rubaiyat_. it's--" "_the rubaiyat!_" carol frowned. lark looked up from the skeletons with sudden interest. "_the rubaiyat?_ by khayyam? isn't that the old fellow who didn't believe in god, and heaven, and such things--you know what i mean,--the man who didn't believe anything, and wrote about it? let me see it. i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it." carol turned the pages with critical disapproving eyes. "hum, yes, i know about this." she faced connie sternly. "i suppose you think, connie, that since we're out of a parsonage we can do anything we like. haven't we any standards? haven't we any ideals? are we--are we--well, anyhow, what business has a minister's daughter reading trash like this?" "i don't believe it, you know," connie said coolly. "i'm only reading it. how can i know whether it's trash or not, unless i read it? i--" "ministers' daughters are supposed to keep their fingers clear of the burning ends of matches," said carol neatly. "we can't handle them without getting scorched, or blackened, at least. we have to steer clear of things folks aren't sure about. prudence says so." "prudence," said connie gravely, "is a dear sweet thing, but she's awfully old-fashioned, carol; you know that." carol and lark were speechless. they would as soon have dreamed of questioning the catechism as prudence's perfection. "she's narrow. she's a darling, of course, but she isn't up-to-date. i want to know what folks are talking about. i don't believe this poem. i'm a christian. but i want to know what other folks think about me and what i believe. that's all. prudence is fine, but i know a good deal more about some things than prudence will know when she's a thousand years old." the twins still sat silent. "of course, some folks wouldn't approve of parsonage girls reading things like this. but i approve of it. i want to know why i disagree with this poetry, and i can't until i know where we disagree. it's beautiful, carol, really. it's kind of sad. it makes me want to cry. it's--" "i've a big notion to tell papa on you," said carol soberly and sadly. connie rose at once. "what's the matter?" "i'm going to tell papa myself." carol moved uneasily in her chair. "oh, let it go this time. i--i just mentioned it to relieve my feelings. i won't tell him yet. i'll talk it over with you again. i'll have to think it over first." "i think i'd rather tell him," insisted connie. carol looked worried, but she knew connie would do as she said. so she got up nervously and went with her. she would have to see it through now, of course. connie walked silently up the stairs, with carol following meekly behind, and rapped at her father's door. then she entered, and carol, in a hushed sort of way, closed the door behind them. "i'm reading this, father. any objections?" connie faced him calmly, and handed him the little book. he examined it gravely, his brows contracting, a sudden wrinkling at the corners of his lips that might have meant laughter, or disapproval, or anything. "i thought a parsonage girl should not read it," carol said bravely. "i've never read it myself, but i've heard about it, and parsonage girls ought to read parsonage things. prudence says so. but--" "but i want to know what other folks think about what i believe," said connie. "so i'm reading it." "what do you think of, it?" he asked quietly, and he looked very strangely at his baby daughter. it was suddenly borne in on him that this was one crisis in her growth to womanhood, and he felt a great yearning tenderness for her, in her innocence, in her dauntless courage, in her reaching ahead, always ahead! it was a crisis, and he must be very careful. "i think it is beautiful," connie said softly, and her lips drooped a little, and a wistful pathos crept into her voice. "it seems so sad. i keep wishing i could cry about it. there's nothing really sad in it, i think it is supposed to be rather jovial, but--it seems terrible to me, even when it is the most beautiful. part of it i don't understand very well." he held out a hand to connie, and she put her own in it confidently. carol, too, came and stood close beside him. "yes," he said, "it is beautiful, connie, and it is very terrible. we can't understand it fully because we can't feel what he felt. it is a groping poem, a struggling for light when one is stumbling in darkness." he looked thoughtfully at the girls. "he was a marvelous man, that khayyam,--years ahead of his people, and his time. he was big enough to see the idiocy of the heathen ideas of god, he was beyond them, he spurned them. but he was not quite big enough to reach out, alone, and get hold of our kind of a god. he was reaching out, he was struggling, but he couldn't quite catch hold. it is a wonderful poem. it shows the weakness, the helplessness of a gifted man who has nothing to cling to. i think it will do you good to read it, connie. read it again and again, and thank god, my child, that though you are only a girl, you have the very thing this man, this genius, was craving. we admire his talent, but we pity his weakness. you will feel sorry for him. you read it, too, carol. you'll like it. we can't understand it, as i say, because we are so sure of our god, that we can't feel what he felt, having nothing. but we can feel the heart-break, the fear, the shrinking back from the providence that he called fate,--of course it makes you want to cry, connie. it is the saddest poem in the world." connie's eyes were very bright. she winked hard a few times, choking back the rush of tears. then with an impulsiveness she did not often show, she lifted her father's hand and kissed it passionately. "oh, father," she whispered, "i was so afraid--you wouldn't quite see." she kissed his hand again. carol looked at her sister respectfully. "connie," she said, "i certainly beg your pardon. i just wanted to be clever, and didn't know what i was talking about. when you have finished it, give it to me, will you? i want to read it, too; i think it must be wonderful." she held out a slender shapely hand and connie took it quickly, chummily, and the two girls turned toward the door. "the danger in reading things," said mr. starr, and they paused to listen, "the danger is that we may find arguments we can not answer; we may feel that we have been in the wrong, that what we read is right. there's the danger. whenever you find anything like that, connie, will you bring it to me? i think i can find the answer for you. if i don't know it, i will look until i come upon it. for we have been given an answer to every argument. you'll come to me, won't you?" "yes, father, i will--i know you'll find the answers." after the door had closed behind them, mr. starr sat for a long time staring straight before him into space. "the connie problem," he said at last. and then, "i'll have to be better pals with her. connie's going to be pretty fine, i believe." chapter xiv boosting connie connie was past fifteen when she announced gravely one day, "i've changed my mind. i'm going to be an author." "an author," scoffed carol. "you! i thought you were going to get married and have eleven children." even with the dignity of nineteen years, the nimble wits of carol and lark still struggled with the irreproachable gravity of connie. "i was," was the cool retort. "i thought you were going to be a red cross nurse and go to war." carol blushed a little. "i was," she assented, "but there isn't any war." "well," even in triumph, connie was imperturbable, "there isn't any father for my eleven children either." the twins had to admit that this was an obstacle, and they yielded gracefully. "but an author, connie," said lark. "it's very hard. i gave it up long ago." "i know you did. but i don't give up very easily." "you gave up your eleven children." "oh, i've plenty of time for them yet, when i find a father for them. yes, i'm going to be an author." "can you write?" "of course i can write." "well, you have conceit enough to be anything," said carol frankly. "maybe you'll make it go, after all. i should like to have an author in the family and since lark's lost interest, i suppose it will have to be you. i couldn't think of risking my complexion at such a precarious livelihood. but if you get stuck, i'll be glad to help you out a little. i really have an imagination myself, though perhaps you wouldn't think it." "what makes you think you can write, con?" inquired lark, with genuine interest. "i have already done it." "was it any good?" "it was fine." carol and lark smiled at each other. "yes," said carol, "she has the long-haired instinct. i see it now. they always say it is fine. was it a masterpiece, connie?" and when connie hesitated, she urged, "come on, confess it. then we shall be convinced that you have found your field. they are always masterpieces. was yours?" "well, considering my youth and inexperience, it was," connie admitted, her eyes sparkling appreciatively. carol's wit was no longer lost upon her, at any rate. "bring it out. let's see it. i've never met a masterpiece yet,--except a dead one," said lark. "no--no," connie backed up quickly. "you can't see it, and--don't ask any more about it. has father gone out?" the twins stared at her again. "what's the matter with you?" "nothing, but it's my story and you can't see it. that settles it. was there any mail to-day?" afterward the twins talked it over together. "what made her back down like that?" carol wondered. "just when we had her going." "why, didn't you catch on to that? she has sent it off to a magazine, of course, and she doesn't want us to know about it. i saw through it right away." carol looked at her twin with new interest. "did you ever send 'em off?" lark flushed a little. "yes, i did, and always got 'em back, too--worse luck. that's why i gave it up." "what did you do with them when they came back?" "burned them. they always burn them. connie'll get hers back, and she'll burn it, too," was the laconic answer. "an author," mused carol. "do you think she'll ever make it?" "well, honestly, i shouldn't be surprised if she did. connie's smart, and she never gives up. then she has a way of saying things that--well, it takes. i really believe she'll make it, if she doesn't get off on suffrage or some other queer thing before she gets to it." "i'll have to keep an eye on her," said carol. "you wait until she can't eat a meal, and then you'll know she's got it back. many's the time prudence made me take medicine, just because i got a story back. prudence thought it was tummy-ache. the symptoms are a good bit the same." so carol watched, and sure enough, there came a day when the bright light of hope in connie's eyes gave way to the sober sadness of certainty. her light had failed. and she couldn't eat her dinner. lark kicked carol's foot under the table, and the two exchanged amused glances. "connie's not well," said lark with a worried air. "she isn't eating a thing. you'd better give her a dose of that tonic, aunt grace. prudence says the first sign of decay is the time for a tonic. give her a dose." lark solemnly rose and fetched the bottle. aunt grace looked at connie inquiringly. connie's face was certainly pale, and her eyes were weary. and she was not eating her dinner. "i'm not sick," the crushed young author protested. "i'm just not hungry. you trot that bottle back to the cupboard, lark, and don't get gay." "you can see for yourself," insisted lark. "look at her. isn't she sick? many's the long illness prudence staved off for me by a dose of this magic tonic. you'd better make her take it, father. you can see she's sick." the lust of a sweeping family revenge showed in lark's clear eyes. "you'd better take a little, connie," her father decided. "you don't look very well to-day." "but, father," pleaded connie. "a dose in time saves a doctor bill," quoted carol sententiously. "prudence says so." and the aspiring young genius was obliged to swallow the bitter dose. then, with the air of one who has rendered a boon to mankind, lark returned to her chair. after the meal was over, carol shadowed connie closely. sure enough, she headed straight for her own room, and carol, close outside, heard a crumpling of paper. she opened the door quickly and went in. connie turned, startled, a guilty red staining her pale face. carol sat down sociably on the side of the bed, politely ignoring connie's feeble attempt to keep the crumpled manuscript from her sight. she engaged her sister in a broad-minded and sweeping conversation, adroitly leading it up to the subject of literature. but connie would not be inveigled into a confession. then carol took a wide leap. "did you get the story back?" connie gazed at her with an awe that was almost superstitious. then, in relief at having the confidence forced from her, tears brightened her eyes, but being connie, she winked them stubbornly back. "i sure did," she said. "hard luck," said carol, in a matter-of-fact voice. "let's see it." connie hesitated, but finally passed it over. "i'll take it to my own room and read it if you don't mind. what are you going to do with it now?" "burn it." "let me have it, won't you? i'll hide it and keep it for a souvenir." "will you keep it hidden? you won't pass it around for the family to laugh at, will you?" carol gazed at her reproachfully, rose from the bed in wounded dignity and moved away with the story in her hand. connie followed her to the door and said humbly: "excuse me, carol, i know you wouldn't do such a thing. but a person does feel so ashamed of a story--when it comes back." "that's all right," was the kind answer. "i know just how it is. i have the same feeling when i get a pimple on my face. i'll keep it dark." more eagerly than she would have liked connie to know, she curled herself upon the bed to read connie's masterpiece. it was a simple story, but connie did have a way of saying things, and--carol laid it down in her lap and stared at it thoughtfully. then she called lark. "look here," she said abruptly. "read this. it's the masterpiece." she maintained a perfect silence while lark perused the crumpled manuscript. "how is it?" "why, it's not bad," declared lark in a surprised voice. "it's not half bad. it's connie all right, isn't it? well, what do you know about that?" "is it any good?" pursued carol. "why, yes, i think it is. it's just like folks you know. they talk as we do, and--i'm surprised they didn't keep it. i've read 'em a whole lot worse!" "connie's disappointed," carol said. "i think she needs a little boost. i believe she'll really get there if we kind of crowd her along for a while. she told me to keep this dark, and so i will. we'll just copy it over, and send it out again." "and if it comes back?" "we'll send it again. we'll get the name of every magazine in the library, and give 'em all a chance to start the newest author on the rosy way." "it'll take a lot of stamps." "that's so. do you have to enclose enough to bring them back? i don't like that. seems to me it's just tempting providence. if they want to send them back, they ought to pay for doing it. i say we just enclose a note taking it for granted they'll keep it, and tell them where to send the money. and never put a stamp in sight for them to think of using up." "we can't do that. it's bad manners." "well, i have half a dollar," admitted carol reluctantly. after that the weeks passed by. the twins saw finally the shadow of disappointment leaving connie's face, and another expression of absorption take its place. "she's started another one," lark said, wise in her personal experience. and when there came the starry rapt gaze once more, they knew that this one, too, had gone to meet its fate. but before the second blow fell, the twins gained their victory. they embraced each other feverishly, and kissed the precious check a hundred times, and insisted that connie was the cleverest little darling that ever lived on earth. then, when connie, with their father and aunt, was sitting in unsuspecting quiet, they tripped in upon her. [illustration: we enclose our check for forty-five dollars] "we have something to read to you," said carol beaming paternally at connie. "listen attentively. put down your paper, father. it's important. go on, larkie." "my dear miss starr," read lark. "we are very much pleased with your story,"--connie sprang suddenly from her chair--"your story, 'when the rule worked backwards.' we are placing it in one of our early numbers, and shall be glad at any time to have the pleasure of examining more of your work. we enclose our check for forty-five dollars. thanking you, and assuring you of the satisfaction with which we have read your story, i am, "very cordially yours,"-- "tra, lalalalala!" sang the twins, dancing around the room, waving, one the letter, the other the check. connie's face was pale, and she caught her head with both hands, laughingly nervously. "i'm going round," she gasped. "stop me." carol promptly pushed her down in a chair and sat upon her lap. "pretty good,--eh, what?" "oh, carol, don't say that, it sounds awful," cautioned lark. "what do you think about it, connie? pretty fair boost for a struggling young author, don't you think? family, arise! the chautauqua salute! we have arrived. connie is an author. forty-five dollars!" "but however did you do it?" wondered connie breathlessly. "why, we sent it out, and--" "just once?" "alas, no,--we sent it seven times." "oh, girls, how could you! think of the stamps! i'm surprised you had the money." "remember that last quarter we borrowed of you? well!" connie laughed excitedly. "oh, oh!--forty-five dollars! think of it. oh, father!" "where's the story," he asked, a little jealously. "why didn't you let me look it over, connie?" "oh, father, i--couldn't. i--i--i felt shy about it. you don't know how it is father, but--we want to keep them hidden. we don't get proud of them until they've been accepted." "forty-five dollars." aunt grace kissed her warmly. "and the letter is worth a hundred times more to us than that. and when we see the story--" "we'll go thirds on the money, twins," said connie. the twins looked eager, but conscientious. "no," they said, "it's just a boost, you know. we can't take the money." "oh, you've got to go thirds. you ought to have it all. i would have burned it." "no, connie," said carol, "we know you aren't worth devotion like ours, but we donate it just the same--it's gratis." "all right," smiled connie. "i know what you want, anyhow. come on, auntie, let's go down town. i'm afraid that silver silk mull will be sold before we get there." the twins fell upon her ecstatically. "oh, connie, you mustn't. we can't allow it. oh, of course if you insist, dearest, only--" and then they rushed to find hats and gloves for their generous sister and devoted aunt. the second story came back in due time, but with the boost still strong in her memory, and with the fifteen dollars in the bank, connie bore it bravely and started it traveling once more. most of the stories never did find a permanent lodging place, and connie carried an old box to the attic for a repository for her mental fruits that couldn't make friends away from home. but she never despaired again. and the twins, after their own manner, calmly took to themselves full credit for the career which they believed lay not far before her. they even boasted of the way they had raised her and told fatuous and exaggerated stories of their pride in her, and their gentle sisterly solicitude for her from the time of her early babyhood. and connie gave assent to every word. in her heart she admitted that the twins' discipline of her, though exceedingly drastic at times, had been splendid literary experience. chapter xv a millionaire's son "if jim doesn't ask for a date for the concert next week, lark, let's snub him good." "but we both have dates," protested lark. "what difference does that make? we mustn't let him get independent. he always has asked one of us, and he needn't think we shall let him off now." "oh, don't worry," interrupted connie. "he always asks. you have that same discussion every time there's anything going on. it's just a waste of time." mr. starr looked up from his mail. "soup of boys, and salad of boys,--they're beginning to pall on my palate." "very classy expression father," approved carol. "maybe you can work it into a sermon." "complexion and boys with carol, books and boys with lark, connie, if you begin that nonsense you'll get spanked. one member of my family shall rise above it if i have to do it with force." connie blushed. the twins broke into open derision. "connie! oh, yes, connie's above that nonsense." "connie's the worst in the family, father, only she's one of these reserved, supercilious souls who doesn't tell everything she knows." "'nonsense.' i wish father could have heard lee hanson last night. it would have been a revelation to him. 'aw, go on, connie, give us a kiss.'" connie caught her lips between her teeth. her face was scarlet. "twins!" "it's a fact, father. he kept us awake. 'aw, go on, connie, be good to a fellow.'" "that's what makes us so pale to-day,--he kept us awake hours!" "carol!" "well, quite a while anyhow." "i--i--" began connie defensively. "well, we know it. don't interrupt when we're telling things. you always spoil a good story by cutting in. 'aw, go on, connie, go on now!' and connie said--" the twins rocked off in a paroxysm of laughter, and connie flashed a murderous look at them. "prudence says listening is--" "sure she does, and she's right about it, too. but what can a body do when folks plant themselves right beneath your window to pull off their little romeo concerto. we can't smother on nights like these. 'aw, go on, connie.'" "i wanted to drop a pillow on his head, but carol was afraid he'd run off with the pillow, so we just sacrificed ourselves and let it proceed." "well, i--" "give us time, connie. we're coming to that. and connie said, 'i'm going in now, i'm sleepy.'" "i didn't--father, i didn't!" "well, you might have said a worse thing than that," he told her sadly. "i mean--i--" "she did say it," cried the twins. "'i'm sleepy.' just like that." "oh, connie's the girl for sentiment," exclaimed lark. "sleepy is not a romantic word and it's not a sentimental feeling, but it can be drawled out so it sounds a little mushy at least. 'i sleep, my love, to dream of thee,'--for instance. but connie didn't do it that way. nix. just plain sleep, and it sounded like 'get out, and have a little sense.'" "well, it would make you sick," declared connie, wrinkling up her nose to express her disgust. "are boys always like that father?" "don't ask me," he hedged promptly. "how should i know?" "oh, connie, how can you! there's father--now, he never cared to kiss the girls even in his bad and balmy days, did you, daddy? oh, no, father was all for the strictly orthodox even in his youth!" mr. starr returned precipitately to his mail, and the twins calmly resumed the discussion where it had been interrupted. a little later a quick exclamation from their father made them turn to him inquiringly. "it's a shame," he said, and again: "what a shame!" the girls waited expectantly. when he only continued frowning at the letter in his hand, carol spoke up brightly, "yes, isn't it?" even then he did not look up, and real concern settled over their expressive faces. "father! can't you see we're listening?" he looked up, vaguely at first, then smiling. "ah, roused your curiosity, did i? well, it's just another phase of this eternal boy question." carol leaned forward ingratiatingly. "now indeed, we are all absorption." "why, it's a letter from andrew hedges,--an old college chum of mine. his son is going west and andy is sending him around this way to see me and meet my family. he'll be here this afternoon. isn't it a shame?" "isn't it lovely?" exclaimed carol. "we can use him to make jim forrest jealous if he doesn't ask for that date?" and she rose up and kissed her father. "will you kindly get back to your seat, young lady, and not interfere with my thoughts?" he reproved her sternly but with twinkling eyes. "the trouble is i have to go to fort madison on the noon train for that epworth league convention. i'd like to see that boy. andy's done well, i guess. i've always heard so. he's a millionaire, they say." for a long second his daughters gazed at him speechlessly. then, "a millionaire's son," lark faltered feebly. "yes." "why on earth didn't you say so in the first place?" demanded carol. "what difference does that make?" "it makes all the difference in the world! ah! a millionaire's son." she looked at lark with keen speculative eyes. "good-looking, i suppose, young, of course, and impressionable. a millionaire's son." "but i have to go to fort madison. i am on the program to-night. there's the puzzle." "oh, father, you can leave him to us," volunteered lark. "i'm afraid you mightn't carry it off well. you're so likely to run by fits and jumps, you know. i should hate it if things went badly." "oh, father, things couldn't go badly," protested carol. "we'll be lovely, just lovely. a millionaire's son! oh, yes, daddy, you can trust him to us all right." at last he caught the drift of their enthusiasm. "ah! i see! that fatal charm. you're sure you'll treat him nicely?" "oh, yes, father, so sure. a millionaire's son. we've never even seen one yet." "now look here, girls, fix the house up and carry it off the best you can. i have a lot of old friends in cleveland, and i want them to think i've got the dandiest little family on earth." "'dandiest'! father, you will forget yourself in the pulpit some day,--you surely will. and when we take such pains with you, too, i can't understand where you get it! the people you associate with, i suppose." "do your best, girls. i'm hoping for a good report. i'll be gone until the end of the week, since i'm on for the last night, too. will you do your best?" after his departure, carol gathered the family forces about her without a moment's delay. "a millionaire's son," she prefaced her remarks, and as she had expected, was rewarded with immediate attention. "now, for darling father's sake, we've got to manage this thing the very best we can. we have to make this andy hedges, millionaire's son, think we're just about all right, for father's sake. we must have a gorgeous dinner, to start with. we'll plan that a little later. now i think, aunt grace, lovely, it would be nice for you to wear your lavender lace gown, and look delicate, don't you? a chaperoning auntie in poor health is so aristocratic. you must wear the lavender satin slippers and have a bottle of cologne to lift frequently to your sensitive nostrils." "why, carol, william wouldn't like it!" "wouldn't like it!" ejaculated the schemer in surprise. "wouldn't like it! why wouldn't he like it? didn't he tell us to create a good impression? well, this is it. you'll make a lovely semi-invalid auntie. you must have a faintly perfumed handkerchief to press to your eyes now and then. it isn't hot enough for you slowly to wield a graceful fan, but we can get along without it." "but, carol--" "think how pleased dear father will be if his old college chum's son is properly impressed," interrupted carol hurriedly, and proceeded at once with her plans. "connie must be a precocious younger sister, all in white,--she must come in late with a tennis racquet, as though she had just returned from a game. that will be stagey, won't it? lark must be the sweet young daughter of the home. she must wear her silver mull, her gray slippers, and--" "i can't," said lark. "i spilt grape juice on it. and i kicked the toe out of one of my slippers." "you'll have to wear mine then. fortunately that silver mull was always too tight for me and i never comported myself in it with freedom and destructive ease. as a consequence, it is fresh and charming. you must arrange your hair in the most _ladies' home journal_ style, and--" "what are you going to wear?" "who, me? oh, i have other plans for myself." carol looked rather uneasily at her aunt. "i'll come to me a little later." "yes, indeed," said connie. "carol has something extra up her sleeve. she's had the millionaire's son in her mind's eye ever since father introduced his pocketbook into the conversation." carol was unabashed. "my interest is solely from a family view-point. i have no ulterior motive." her eyes sparkled eagerly. "you know, auntie darling--" "now, carol, don't you suggest anything--" "oh, no indeed, dearest, how could you think of such a thing?" disclaimed carol instantly. "it's such a very tiny thing, but it will mean a whole lot on the general impression of a millionaire's son. we've simply got to have a maid! to open the door, and curtesy, and take his hat, and serve the dinner, and--he's used to it, you know, and if we haven't one, he'll go back to cleveland and say, 'ah, bah jove, i had to hang up my own hat, don't you know?'" "that's supposed to be english, but i don't believe it. anyhow, it isn't cleveland," said connie flatly. "well, he'd think we were awfully cheap and hard up, and andy hedges, senior, would pity father, and maybe send him ten dollars, and--no, we've got to have a maid!" "we might get mamie sickey," suggested lark. "she's so ugly." "or fay greer," interposed aunt grace. "she'd spill the soup." "then there's nobody but ada lone," decided connie. "she hasn't anything fit to wear," objected carol. "of whom were you thinking, carol?" asked her aunt, moving uneasily in her chair. carol flung herself at her aunt's knees. "me!" she cried. "as usual?" connie ejaculated dryly. "oh, carol," wailed lark, "we can't think of things to talk about when you aren't there to keep us stirred up." "i'm beginning to see daylight," said connie. she looked speculatively at lark. "well, it's not half bad, carol, and i apologize." "don't you think it is a glorious idea, connie?" cried carol rapturously. "yes, i think it is." carol caught her sister's hand. here was an ally worth having. "you know how sensible connie is, auntie. she sees how utterly preposterous it would be to think of entertaining a millionaire's son without a maid." "you're too pretty," protested lark. "he'd try to kiss you." "'oh, no, sir, oh, please, sir,'" simpered carol, with an adorable curtesy, "'you'd better wait for the ladies, sir.'" "oh, carol, i think you're awful," said their aunt unhappily. "i know your father won't like it." "like it? he'll love it. won't he, connie?" "well, i'm not sure he'll be crazy about it, but it'll be all over when he gets home," said connie. "and you're very much in favor of it, aren't you, connie precious?" "yes, i am." connie looked at lark critically again. "we must get lark some bright flowers to wear with the silver dress--sweet peas would be good. but i won't pay for them, and you can put that down right now." "but what's the idea?" mourned lark. "what's the sense in it? father said to be good to him, and you know i can't think of things to say to a millionaire's son. oh, carol, don't be so mean." "you must practise up. you must be girlish, and light-hearted, and ingenuous, you know. that'll be very effective." "you do it, carol. let me be the maid. you're lots more effective than i am." but carol stood firm, and the others yielded to her persuasions. they didn't approve, they didn't sanction, but they did get enthusiastic, and a merrier houseful of masqueraders was never found than that. even aunt grace allowed her qualms to be quieted and entered into her part as semi-invalid auntie with genuine zest. at three they were all arrayed, ready for the presentation. they assembled socially in the parlor, the dainty maid ready to fly to her post at a second's warning. at four o'clock, they were a little fagged and near the point of exasperation, but they still held their characters admirably. at half past four a telegraph message was phoned out from the station. "delayed in coming. will write you later. very sorry. andy hedges, jr." only the absolute ludicrousness of it saved carol from a rage. she looked from the girlish tennis girl to the semi-invalid auntie, and then to the sweet young daughter of the home, and burst out laughing. the others, though tired, nervous and disappointed, joined her merrily, and the vexation was swept away. the next morning, aunt grace went as usual to the all-day meeting of the ladies' aid in the church parlors. carol and lark, with a light lunch, went out for a few hours of spring-time happiness beside the creek two miles from town. "we'll come back right after luncheon," carol promised, "so if andy the second should come, we'll be on hand." "oh, he won't come to-day." "well, he just better get here before father comes home. i know father will like our plan after it's over, but i also know he'll veto it if he gets home in time. wish you could go with us, connie." "thanks. but i've got to sew on forty buttons. and--if i pick the cherries on the little tree, will you make a pie for dinner?" "yes. if i'm too tired larkie will. do pick them, con, the birds have had more than their share now." after her sisters had disappeared, connie considered the day's program. "i'll pick the cherries while it's cool. then i'll sew on the buttons. then i'll call on the piersons, and they'll probably invite me to stay for luncheon." and she went up-stairs to don a garment suitable for cherry-tree service. for cherry trees, though lovely to behold when laden with bright red clusters showing among the bright green leaves, are not at all lovely to climb into. connie knew that by experience. belonging to a family that wore its clothes as long as they possessed any wearing virtue, she found nothing in her immediate wardrobe fitted for the venture. but from a rag-bag in the closet at the head of the stairs, she resurrected some remains of last summer's apparel. first she put on a blue calico, but the skirt was so badly torn in places that it proved insufficiently protecting. further search brought to light another skirt, pink, in a still worse state of delapidation. however, since the holes did not occur simultaneously in the two garments, by wearing both she was amply covered. for a waist she wore a red crape dressing sacque, and about her hair she tied a broad, ragged ribbon of red to protect the soft waves from the ruthless twigs. she looked at herself in the mirror. nothing daunted by the sight of her own unsightliness, she took a bucket and went into the back yard. gingerly she climbed into the tree, gingerly because connie was not fond of scratches on her anatomy, and then began her task. it was a glorious morning. the birds, frightened away by the living scare-crow in the tree, perched in other, cherry-less trees around her and burst into derisive song. and connie, light-hearted, free from care, in love with the whole wide world, sang, too, pausing only now and then to thrust a ripe cherry between her teeth. she did not hear the prolonged ringing of the front-door bell. she did not observe the young man in the most immaculate of white spring suits who came inquiringly around the house. but when the chattering of a saucy robin became annoying, she flung a cherry at him crossly. "oh, chase yourself!" she cried. and nearly fell from her perch in dismay when a low voice from beneath said pleasantly: "i beg your pardon! miss starr?" connie swallowed hard, to get the last cherry and the mortification out of her throat. "yes," she said, noting the immaculate white spring suit, and the handsome shoes, and the costly panama held so lightly in his hand. she knew the panama was costly because they had wanted to buy one for her father's birthday, but decided not to. "i am andrew hedges," he explained, smiling sociably. connie wilted completely at that. "good night," she muttered with a vanishing mental picture of their lovely preparations the day previous. "i--mean good morning. i'm so glad to meet you. you--you're late, aren't you? i mean, aren't you ahead of yourself? at least, you didn't write, did you?" "no, i was not detained so long as i had anticipated, so i came right on. but i'm afraid i'm inconveniencing you." "oh, not a bit, i'm quite comfortable," she assured him. "auntie is gone just now, and the twins are away, too, but they'll all be back presently." she looked longingly at the house. "i'll have to come down, i suppose." "let me help you," he offered eagerly. connie in the incongruous clothes, with the little curls straying beneath the ragged ribbon, and with stains of cherry on her lips, looked more presentable than connie knew. "oh, i--" she hesitated, flushing. "mr. hedges," she cried imploringly, "will you just go around the corner until i get down. i look fearful." "not a bit of it," he said. "let me take the cherries." connie helplessly passed them down to him, and saw him carefully depositing them on the ground. "just give me your hand." and what could connie do? she couldn't sternly order a millionaire's son to mosy around the house and mind his own business until she got some decent clothes on, though that was what she yearned to do. instead she held out a slender hand, grimy and red, with a few ugly scratches here and there, and allowed herself to be helped ignominiously out from the sheltering branches into the garish light of day. she looked at him reproachfully. he never so much as smiled. "laugh if you like," she said bitterly. "i looked in the mirror. i know all about it." "run along," he said, "but don't be gone long, will you? can you trust me with the cherries?" connie walked into the house with great decorum, afraid the ragged skirts might swing revealingly, but the young man bent over the cherries while she made her escape. it was another connie who appeared a little later, a typical tennis girl, all in white from the velvet band in her hair to the canvas shoes on her dainty feet. she held out the slender hand, no longer grimy and stained, but its whiteness still marred with sorry scratches. "i am glad to see you," she said gracefully, "though i can only pray you won't carry a mental picture of me very long." "i'm afraid i will though," he said teasingly. "then please don't paint me verbally for my sisters' ears; they are always so clever where i am concerned. it is too bad they are out. you'll stay for luncheon with me, won't you? i'm all alone,--we'll have it in the yard." "it sounds very tempting, but--perhaps i had better come again later in the afternoon." "you may do that, too," said connie. "but since you are here, i'm afraid i must insist that you help amuse me." and she added ruefully, "since i have done so well amusing you this morning." "why, he's just like anybody else," she was thinking with relief. "it's no trouble to talk to him, at all. he's nice in spite of the millions. prudence says millionaires aren't half so dollar-marked as they are cartooned, anyhow." he stayed for luncheon, he even helped carry the folding table out beneath the cherry tree, and trotted docilely back and forth with plates and glasses, as connie decreed. "oh, father," she chuckled to herself, as she stood at the kitchen window, twinkling at the sight of the millionaire's son spreading sandwiches according to her instructions. "oh, father, the boy question is complicated, sure enough." it was not until they were at luncheon that the grand idea visited connie. carol would have offered it harborage long before. carol's mind worked best along that very line. it came to connie slowly, but she gave it royal welcome. back to her remembrance flashed the thousand witty sallies of carol and lark, the hundreds of times she had suffered at their hands. and for the first time in her life, she saw a clear way of getting even. and a millionaire's son! never was such a revenge fairly crying to be perpetrated. "will you do something for me, mr. hedges?" she asked. connie was only sixteen, but something that is born in woman told her to lower her eyes shyly, and then look up at him quickly beneath her lashes. she was no flirt, but she believed in utilizing her resources. and she saw in a flash that the ruse worked. then she told him softly, very prettily. "but won't she dislike me if i do?" he asked. "no, she won't," said connie. "we're a family of good laughers. we enjoy a joke nearly as much when it's on us, as when we are on top." so it was arranged, and shortly after luncheon the young man in the immaculate spring suit took his departure. then connie summoned her aunt by phone, and told her she must hasten home to help "get ready for the millionaire's son." it was after two when the twins arrived, and connie and their aunt hurried them so violently that they hadn't time to ask how connie got her information. "but i hope i'm slick enough to get out of it without lying if they do ask," she told herself. "prudence says it's not really wicked to get out of telling things if we can manage it." he had arrived! a millionaire's son! instantly their enthusiasm returned to them. the cushions on the couch were carefully arranged for the reclining of the semi-invalid aunt, who, with the sweet young daughter of the home, was up-stairs waiting to be summoned. connie, with the tennis racquet, was in the shed, waiting to arrive theatrically. carol, in her trim black gown with a white cap and apron, was a dream. and when he came she ushered him in, curtesying in a way known only on the stage, and took his hat and stick, and said softly: "yes, sir,--please come in, sir,--i'll call the ladies." she knew she was bewitching, of course, since she had done it on purpose, and she lifted her eyes just far enough beneath the lashes to give the properly coquettish effect. he caught her hand, and drew her slowly toward him, admiration in his eyes, but trepidation in his heart, as he followed connie's coaching. but carol was panic-seized, she broke away from him roughly and ran up-stairs, forgetting her carefully rehearsed. "oh, no, sir,--oh, please, sir,--you'd better wait for the ladies." but once out of reach she regained her composure. the semi-invalid aunt trailed down the stairs, closely followed by the attentive maid to arrange her chair and adjust the silken shawl. mr. hedges introduced himself, feeling horribly foolish in the presence of the lovely serving girl, and wishing she would take herself off. but she lingered effectively, whispering softly: "shall i lower the window, madame? is it too cool? your bottle, madame!" and the guest rubbed his hand swiftly across his face to hide the slight twitching of his lips. then the model maid disappeared, and presently the sweet daughter of the house, charming in the gray silk mull and satin slippers, appeared, smiling, talking, full of vivacity and life. and after a while the dashing tennis girl strolled in, smiling inscrutably into the eyes that turned so quizzically toward her. for a time all went well. the chaperoning aunt occasionally lifted a dainty cologne bottle to her sensitive nostrils, and the daughter of the house carried out her girlish vivacity to the point of utter weariness. connie said little, but her soul expanded with the foretaste of triumph. "dinner is served, madame," said the soft voice at the door, and they all walked out sedately. carol adjusted the invalid auntie's shawl once more, and was ready to go to the kitchen when a quiet: "won't miss carol sit down with us?" made her stop dead in her tracks. he had pulled a chair from the corner up to the table for her, and she dropped into it. she put her elbows on the table, and leaning her dainty chin in her hands, gazed thoughtfully at connie, whose eyes were bright with the fires of victory. "ah, connie, i have hopes of you yet,--you are improving," she said gently. "will you run out to the kitchen and bring me a bowl of soup, my child?" and then came laughter, full and free,--and in the midst of it carol looked up, wiping her eyes, and said: "i'm sorry now i didn't let you kiss me, just to shock father!" but the visit was a great success. even mr. starr realized that. the millionaire's son remained in mount mark four days, the cynosure of all eyes, for as carol said, "what's the use of bothering with a millionaire's son if you can't brag about him." and his devotion to his father's college chum was such that he wrote to him regularly for a long time after, and came westward now and again to renew the friendship so auspiciously begun. "but you can't call him a problem, father," said carol keenly. "they aren't problematic until they discriminate. and he doesn't. he's as fond of connie's conscience as he is of my complexion, as far as i can see." she rubbed her velvet skin regretfully. she had two pimples yesterday and he never even noticed them. then she leaned forward and smiled. "father, you keep an eye on connie. there's something in there that we aren't on to yet." and with this cryptic remark, carol turned her attention to a small jar of cold cream the druggist had given her to sample. chapter xvi the twins have a proposal it was half past three on a delightful summer afternoon. the twins stood at the gate with two hatless youths, performing what seemed to be the serious operation of separating their various tennis racquets and shoes from the conglomerate jumble. finally, laughing and calling back over their shoulders, they sauntered lazily up the walk toward the house, and the young men set off in the direction from which they had come. they were hardly out of hearing distance when the front door opened, and aunt grace beckoned hurriedly to the twins. "come on, quick," she said. "where in the world have you been all day? did you have any luncheon? mrs. forrest and jim were here, and they invited you to go home with them for a week in the country. i said i knew you'd want to go, and they promised to come for you at four, but i couldn't find you any place. i suppose it is too late now. it's--" "a week!" "at forrests'?" "come on, lark, sure we have time enough. we'll be ready in fifteen minutes." "come on up, auntie, we'll tell you where we've been." the twins flew up the stairs, their aunt as close behind as she deemed safe. inside their own room they promptly, and ungracefully, kicked off their loose pumps, tossed their tennis shoes and racquets on the bed, and began tugging at the cords of their middy blouses. "you go and wash, carol," said lark, "while i comb. then i can have the bathroom to myself. and hurry up! you haven't any time to primp." "pack the suit-case and the bag, will you, auntie, and--" "i already have," she answered, laughing at their frantic energy. "and i put out these white dresses for you to wear, and--" "gracious, auntie! they button in the back and have sixty buttons apiece. we'll never have time to fasten them," expostulated carol, without diminishing her speed. "i'll button while you powder, that'll be time enough." "i won't have time to powder," called back carol from the bathroom, where she was splashing the water at a reckless rate. "i'll wear a veil and powder when i get there. did you pack any clean handkerchiefs, auntie? i'm clear out. if you didn't put any in, you'd better go and borrow connie's. lucky thing she's not here." shining with zeal and soap, carol dashed out, and lark dashed in. "are there any holes in these stockings?" carol turned around, lifting her skirts for inspection. "well, i'm sorry, i won't have time to change them.--did they come in the auto? good!" she was brushing her hair as she talked. "yes, we had a luncheon, all pie, though. we played tennis this morning; we were intending to come home right along, or we'd have phoned you. we were playing with george castle and fritzie zale.--is it sticking out any place?" she lowered her head backward for her aunt to see. "stick a pin in it, will you? thanks. they dared us to go to the pie counter and see which couple could eat the most pieces of lemon pie, the couple which lost paying for all the pie. it's not like betting, you know, it's a kind of reward of merit, like a sunday-school prize. no, i won't put on my slippers till the last thing, my heel's sore, my tennis shoe rubbed the skin off. my feet seem to be getting tender. think it's old age?" lark now emerged from the bathroom, and both twins performed a flying exchange of dresses. "who won?" "lark and george ate eleven pieces, and fritzie and i only nine. so fritzie paid. then we went on the campus and played mumble-te-peg, or whatever you call it. it is french, auntie." "did they ask us to stay a whole week, auntie?" inquired lark. "yes. jim was wearing his new gray suit and looked very nice. i've never been out to their home. is it very nice?" "um, swell!" this was from carol, lark being less slangily inclined. "they have about sixteen rooms, and two maids--they call them 'girls'--and electric lights, and a private water supply, and--and--horses, and cows--oh, it's great! we've always been awfully fond of jim. the nicest thing about him is that he always takes a girl home when he goes to class things and socials. i can't endure a fellow who walks home by himself. jim always asks larkie and me first, and if we are taken he gets some one else. most boys, if they can't get first choice, pike off alone." "here, carol, you have my petticoat. this is yours. you broke the drawstring, and forgot--" "oh, mercy, so i did. here, auntie, pin it over for me, will you? i'll take the string along and put it in to-night." "now, carol," said aunt grace, smiling. "be easy on him. he's so nice it would be a shame to--" carol threw up her eyes in horror. "i am shocked," she cried. then she dimpled. "but i wouldn't hurt jim for anything. i'm very fond of him. do you really think there are any--er--indications--" "oh, i don't know anything about it. i'm just judging by the rest of the community." lark was performing the really difficult feat of putting on and buttoning her slippers standing on one foot for the purpose and stooping low. her face was flushed from the exertion. "do you think he's crazy about you, carol?" she inquired, rather seriously, and without looking up from the shoe she was so laboriously buttoning. "oh, i don't know. there are a few circumstances which seem to point that way. take that new gray suit for instance. now you know yourself, lark, he didn't need a new gray suit, and when a man gets a brand-new suit for no apparent reason, you can generally put it down that he's waxing romantic. then there's his mother--she's begun telling me all his good points, and how cute he was when he was born, and she showed me one of his curls and a lot of his baby pictures--it made jim wild when he came in and caught her at it, and she tells me how good he is and how much money he's got. that's pointed, very. but i must confess," she concluded candidly, "that jim himself doesn't act very loverly." "he thinks lots of you, i know," said lark, still seriously. "whenever he's alone with me he praises you every minute of the time." "that's nothing. when he's alone with me he praises you all the time, too. where's my hat, lark? i'll bet connie wore it, the little sinner! now what shall i do?" "you left it in the barn yesterday,--don't you remember you hung it on the harness hook when we went out for eggs, and--" "oh, so i did. there comes connie now." carol thrust her head out of the window. "connie, run out to the barn and bring my hat, will you? it's on the harness hook. and hurry! don't stop to ask questions, just trot along and do as you're told." carol returned again to her toilet. "well, i guess i have time to powder after all. i don't suppose we'll need to take any money, auntie, do you? we won't be able to spend it in the country." "i think you'd better take a little. they might drive to town, or go to a social, or something." "can't do it. haven't a cent." "well, i guess i can lend you a little," was the smiling reply. it was a standing joke in the family that carol had been financially hard pressed ever since she began using powder several years previous. "are you fond of jim, carol?" lark jumped away backward in the conversation, asking the question gravely, her eyes upon her sister's face. "hum! yes, i am," was the light retort. "didn't prudence teach us to love everybody?" "don't be silly. i mean if he proposes to you, are you going to turn him down, or not?" "what would you advise, lark?" carol's brows were painfully knitted. "he's got five hundred acres of land, worth at least a hundred an acre, and a lot of money in the bank,--his mother didn't say how much, but i imagine several thousand anyhow. and he has that nice big house, and an auto, and--oh, everything nice! think of the fruit trees, larkie! and he's good-looking, too. and his mother says he is always good natured even before breakfast, and that's very exceptional, you know! very! i don't know that i could do much better, do you, auntie? i'm sure i'd look cute in a sun-bonnet and apron, milking the cows! so, boss, so, there, now! so, boss!" "why, carol!" "but there are objections, too. they have pigs. i can't bear pigs! pooooey, pooooey! the filthy little things! i don't know,--jim and the gray suit and the auto and the cows are very nice, but when i think of jim and overalls and pigs and onions and freckles i have goose flesh. here they come! where's that other slipper? oh, it's clear under the bed!" she wriggled after it, coming out again breathless. "did i rub the powder all off?" she asked anxiously. the low honk of the car sounded outside, and the twins dumped a miscellaneous assortment of toilet articles into the battered suit-case and the tattered hand-bag. carol grabbed her hat from connie, leisurely strolling through the hall with it, and sent her flying after her gloves. "if you can't find mine, bring your own," she called after her. aunt grace and connie escorted them triumphantly down the walk to the waiting car where the young man in the new sentimental gray suit stood beside the open door. his face was boyishly eager, and his eyes were full of a satisfaction that had a sort of excitement in it, too. aunt grace looked at him and sighed. "poor boy," she thought. "he is nice! carol is a mean little thing!" he smiled at the twins impartially. "shall we flip a coin to see who i get in front?" he asked them, laughing. his mother leaned out from the back seat, and smiled at the girls very cordially. "hurry, twinnies," she said, "we must start, or we'll be late for supper. come in with me, won't you, larkie?" "what a greasy schemer she is," thought carol, climbing into her place without delay. jim placed the battered suit-case and the tattered bag beneath the seat, and drew the rug over his mother's knees. then he went to lark's side, and tucked it carefully about her feet. "it's awfully dusty," he said. "you shouldn't have dolled up so. shall i put your purse in my pocket? don't forget you promised to feed the chickens--i'm counting on you to do it for me." then he stepped in beside carol, laughing into her bright face, and the good-bys rang back and forth as the car rolled away beneath the heavy arch of oak leaves that roofed in maple avenue. the twins fairly reveled in the glories of the country through the golden days that followed, and enjoyed every minute of every day, and begrudged the hours they spent in sleep. the time slipped by "like banana skins," declared carol crossly, and refused to explain her comparison. and the last day of their visit came. supper was over at seven o'clock, and lark said, with something of wistfulness in her voice, "i'm going out to the orchard for a farewell weep all by myself. and don't any of you disturb me,--i'm so ugly when i cry." so she set out alone, and jim, a little awkwardly, suggested that carol take a turn or so up and down the lane with him. mrs. forrest stood at the window and watched them, tearful-eyed, but with tenderness. "my little boy," she said to herself, "my little boy. but she's a dear, sweet, pretty girl." in the meantime, jim was acquitting himself badly. his face was pale. he was nervous, ill at ease. he stammered when he spoke. self-consciousness was not habitual to this young man of the iowa farm. he was not the awkward, ignorant, gangling farm-hand we meet in books and see on stages. he had attended the high school in mount mark, and had been graduated from the state agricultural college with high honors. he was a farmer, as his father had been before him, but he was a farmer of the new era, one of those men who takes plain farming and makes it a profession, almost a fine art. usually he was self-possessed, assertive, confident, but, in the presence of this sparkling twin, for once he was abashed. carol was in an ecstasy of delight. she was not a man-eater, perhaps, but she was nearly romance-mad. she thought only of the wild excitement of having a sure-enough lover, the hurt of it was yet a little beyond her grasp. "oh, carol, don't be so sweet," lark had begged her once. "how can the boys help being crazy about you, and it hurts them." "it doesn't hurt anything but their pride when they get snubbed," had been the laughing answer. "do you want to break men's hearts?" "well,--it's not at all bad for a man to have a broken heart," the irrepressible carol had insisted. "they never amount to anything until they have a real good disappointment. then they brace up and amount to something. see? i really think it's a kindness to give them a heart-break, and get them started." the callow youths of mount mark, of the epworth league, and the college, were almost unanimous in laying their adoration at carol's feet. but carol saw the elasticity, the buoyancy, of loves like these, and she couldn't really count them. she felt that she was ripe for a bit of solid experience now, and there was nothing callow about jim--he was solid enough. and now, although she could see that his feelings stirred, she felt nothing but excitement and curiosity. a proposal, a real one! it was imminent, she felt it. "carol," he began abruptly, "i am in love." "a-are you?" carol had not expected him to begin in just that way. "yes,--i have been for a long time, with the sweetest and dearest girl in the world. i know i am not half good enough for her, but--i love her so much that--i believe i could make her happy." "d-do you?" carol was frightened. she reflected that it wasn't so much fun as she had expected. there was something wonderful in his eyes, and in his voice. maybe lark was right,--maybe it did hurt! oh, she really shouldn't have been quite so nice to him! "she is young--so am i--but i know what i want, and if i can only have her, i'll do anything i--" his voice broke a little. he looked very handsome, very grown-up, very manly. carol quivered. she wanted to run away and cry. she wanted to put her arms around him and tell him she was very, very sorry and she would never do it again as long as she lived and breathed. "of course," he went on, "i am not a fool. i know there isn't a girl like her in ten thousand, but--she's the one i want, and--carol, do you reckon there is any chance for me? you ought to know. lark doesn't have secrets from you, does she? do you think she'll have me?" certainly this was the surprise of carol's life. if it was romance she wanted, here it was in plenty. she stopped short in the daisy-bright lane and stared at him. "jim forrest," she demanded, "is it lark you want to marry, or me?" "lark, of course!" carol opened her lips and closed them. she did it again. finally she spoke. "well, of all the idiots! if you want to marry lark, what in the world are you out here proposing to me for?" "i'm not proposing to you," he objected. "i'm just telling you about it." "but what for? what's the object? why don't you go and rave to her?" he smiled a little. "well, i guess i thought telling you first was one way of breaking it to her gently." "i'm perfectly disgusted with you," carol went on, "perfectly. here i've been expecting you to propose to me all week, and--" "propose to you! my stars!" "don't interrupt me," carol snapped. "last night i lay awake for hours,--look at the rings beneath my eyes--" "i don't see 'em," he interrupted again, smiling more broadly. "just thinking out a good flowery rejection for you, and then you trot me out here and propose to lark! well, if that isn't nerve!" jim laughed loudly at this. he was used to carol, and enjoyed her little outbursts. "i can't think what on earth made you imagine i'd want to propose to you," he said, shaking his head as though appalled at the idea. carol's eyes twinkled at that, but she did not permit him to see it. "why shouldn't i think so? didn't you get a new gray suit? and haven't i the best complexion in mount mark? don't all the men want to propose to a complexion like mine?" "shows their bum taste," he muttered. carol twinkled again. "of course," she agreed, "all men have bum taste, if it comes to that." he laughed again, then he sobered. "do you think lark will--" "i think lark will turn you down," said carol promptly, "and i hope she does. you aren't good enough for her. no one in the world is good enough for lark except myself. if she should accept you--i don't think she will, but if she has a mental aberration and does--i'll give you my blessing, and come and live with you six months in the year, and lark shall come and live with me the other six months, and you can run the farm and send us an allowance. but i don't think she'll have you; i'll be disappointed in her if she does." carol was silent a moment then. she was remembering many things,--lark's grave face that day in the parsonage when they had discussed the love of jim, her unwonted gentleness and her quiet manners during this visit, and one night when carol, suddenly awakening, had found her weeping bitterly into her pillow. lark had said it was a headache, and was better now, and carol had gone to sleep again, but she remembered now that lark never had headaches! and she remembered how very often lately lark had put her arms around her shoulders and looked searchingly into her face, and lark was always wistful, too, of late! she sighed. yes, she caught on at last, "had been pushed on to it," she thought angrily. she had been a wicked, blind, hateful little simpleton or she would have seen it long ago. but she said nothing of this to jim. "you'd better run along then, and switch your proposal over to her, or i'm likely to accept you on my own account, just for a joke. and be sure and tell her i'm good and sore that i didn't get a chance to use my flowery rejection. but i'm almost sure she'll turn you down." then carol stood in the path, and watched jim as he leaped lightly over fences and ran through the sweet meadow. she saw lark spring to her feet and step out from the shade of an apple tree, and then jim took her in his arms. after that, carol rushed into the house and up the stairs. she flung herself on her knees beside her bed and buried her face in the white spread. "lark," she whispered, "lark!" she clenched her hands, and her shoulders shook. "my little twin," she cried again, "my nice old lark." then she got up and walked back and forth across the floor. sometimes she shook her fist. sometimes a little crooked smile softened her lips. once she stamped her foot, and then laughed at herself. for an hour she paced up and down. then she turned on the light, and went to the mirror, where she smoothed her hair and powdered her face as carefully as ever. "it's a good joke on me," she said, smiling, "but it's just as good a one on mrs. forrest. i think i'll go and have a laugh at her. and i'll pretend i knew it all along." she found the woman lying in a hammock on the broad piazza where a broad shaft of light from the open door fell upon her. carol stood beside her, smiling brightly. "mrs. forrest," she said, "i know a perfectly delicious secret. shall i tell you?" the woman sat up, holding out her arms. carol dropped on her knees beside her, smiling mischievously at the expression on her face. "cupid has been at work," she said softly, "and your own son has fallen a victim." mrs. forrest sniffed slightly, but she looked lovingly at the fair sweet face. "i am sure i can not wonder," she answered in a gentle voice. "is it all settled?" "i suppose so. at any rate, he is proposing to her in the orchard, and i am pretty sure she's going to accept him." mrs. forrest's arms fell away from carol's shoulders. "lark!" she ejaculated. "yes,--didn't you know it?" carol's voice was mildly and innocently surprised. "lark!" mrs. forrest was plainly dumfounded. "i--i thought it was you!" "me!" carol was intensely astonished. "me? oh, dear mrs. forrest, whatever in the world made you think that?" "why--i don't know," she faltered weakly, "i just naturally supposed it was you. i asked him once where he left his heart, and he said, 'at the parsonage,' and so of course i thought it was you." carol laughed gaily. "what a joke," she cried. "but you are more fortunate than you expected, for it is my precious old larkie. but don't be too glad about it, or you may hurt my feelings." "well, i am surprised, i confess, but i believe i like lark as well as i do you, and of course jim's the one to decide. people say lark is more sensible than you are, but it takes a good bit of a man to get beyond a face as pretty as yours. i'm kind o' proud of jim!" chapter xvii the girl who wouldn't propose it took a long time for carol to recover from the effect of lark's disloyalty, as she persisted in calling it. for several weeks she didn't twinkle at all. but when at last the smiles came easy again, she wrote to mr. duke, her p'fessor no longer, but now a full-fledged young minister. she apologized sweetly for her long delay. "but you will forgive me when you have read this," she wrote. "cupid is working havoc in our family. of course, no one outside the home circle knows yet, but i insisted on telling you because you have been such a grand good friend to us for so long. we may seem young to you, because you can't forget when we were freshmen, but we are really very grown up. we act quite mature now, and never think of playing jokes. but i didn't finish my news, did i? "it is jim forrest--he was in high school when we were. remember him? larkie and i were out to spend a week, and--but i needn't go into particulars. i knew you would be interested. the whole family is very happy about it, he is a great favorite with every one. but how our family is going to pieces! still, since it is jim--! he _is_ nice, isn't he? but you wouldn't dare say no." carol's eyes glittered wickedly as she sealed this letter, which she had penned with greatest care. and a few days later, when the answer came, she danced gleefully up the stairs,--not at all "mature" in manner, and locked the door behind her while she read: "dear carol: "indeed i am very interested, and i wish you all the joy in the world. tell jim for me how very much i think he is to be congratulated. he seems a fine fellow, and i know you will be happy. it was a surprise, i admit--i knew he was doing the very devoted--but you have seemed so young to me, always. i can't imagine you too grown up for jokes, though you do sound more 'mature' in this letter than you have before. lark will be lonely, i am afraid. "i am very busy with my work, so you will understand if my letters come less frequently, won't you? and you will be too busy with your own happiness to bother with an old professor any more anyhow. i have enjoyed our friendship very much,--more than you will ever know,--and i want once more to hope you may be the happiest woman in the world. you deserve to be. "very sincerely your friend, "david a. duke." carol lay down on the bed and crushed the letter ecstatically between her hands. then she burst out laughing. then she cried a little, nervously, and laughed again. then she smoothed the letter affectionately, and curled up on the bed with a pad of paper and her father's fountain-pen to answer the letter. "my dear mr. duke: however in the world could you make such a mistake. i've been laughing ever since i got your letter, but i'm vexed too. he's nice, all right; he's just fine, but i don't want him! and think how annoyed lark would be if she could see it. i am not engaged to jim forrest,--nor to any one. it's lark. i certainly didn't say it was i, did i? we're all so fond of jim that it really is a pleasure to the whole family to count him one of us, and lark grows more deliriously joyful all the time. but i! i know you're awfully busy, of course, and i hate to intrude, but you must write one little postal card to apologize for your error, and i'll understand how hard you are working when you do not write again. "hastily, but always sincerely, "carol." carol jumped up and caught up her hat and rushed all the way down-town to the post-office to get that letter started for danville, illinois, where the reverend mr. duke was located. her face was so radiant, and her eyes were so heavenly blue, and so sparkling bright, that people on the street turned to look after her admiringly. she was feverishly impatient until the answer arrived, and was not at all surprised that it came under special delivery stamp, though lark lifted her eyebrows quizzically, and aunt grace smiled suggestively, and her father looked up with sudden questioning in his face. carol made no comment, only ran up to her room and locked the door once more. "carol, you awful little scamp, you did that on purpose, and you know it. you never mentioned lark's name. well, if you wanted to give me the scare of my life, you certainly succeeded. i didn't want to lose my little chum, and i knew very well that no man in his proper senses would allow his sweetheart to be as good a comrade to another man as i want you to be to me. of course i was disappointed. of course i expected to be busy for a while. of course i failed to see the sterling worth of jim forrest. i see it now, though. i think he's a prince, and as near worth being in your family as anybody could be. i'm sure we'll be great friends, and tell lark for me that i am waxing enthusiastic over his good qualities even to the point of being inarticulate. tell her how happy i am over it, a good deal happier than i've been for the past several days, and i am wishing them both a world of joy. i'm having one myself, and i find it well worth having. i could shake you, carol, for playing such a trick on me. i can just see you crouch down and giggle when you read this. you wait, my lady. my turn is coming. i think i'll run down to mount mark next week to see my uncle--he's not very well. don't have any dates. "sincerely, d. d." and carol laughed again, and wiped her eyes. the reverend mr. duke's devotion to his elderly uncle in mount mark was a most beautiful thing to see. every few weeks he "ran down for a few days," and if he spent most of his time recounting his uncle's symptoms before the sympathetic starrs, no one could be surprised at that. he and mr. starr naturally had much in common, both ministers, and both--at any rate, he was very devoted to his uncle, and carol grew up very, very fast, and smiled a great deal, but laughed much less frequently than in other days. there was a shy sweetness about her that made her father watch her anxiously. "is carol sick, grace?" he asked one day, turning suddenly to his sister-in-law. she smiled curiously. "n-no, i think not. why?" "she seems very--sweet." "yes. she feels very--sweet," was the enigmatical response. and mr. starr muttered something about women and geometry and went away, shaking his head. and aunt grace smiled again. but the months passed away. lark, not too absorbed in her own happiness to find room for her twin's affairs, at last grew troubled. she and aunt grace often held little conferences together when carol was safely out of the way. "whatever do you suppose is the matter?" lark would wonder anxiously. to which her aunt always answered patiently, "oh, just wait. he isn't sure she's grown-up enough yet." then there came a quiet night when carol and mr. duke sat in the living-room, idly discussing the weather, and looking at connie who was deeply immersed in a book on the other side of the big reading lamp. conversation between them lagged so noticeably that they sighed with relief when she finally laid down her book, and twisted around in her chair until she had them both in full view. "books are funny," she began brightly. "i don't believe half the written stuff ever did happen--i don't believe it could. do girls ever propose, mr. duke?" "no one ever proposed to me," he answered, laughing. "no?" she queried politely. "maybe no one wanted you badly enough. but i wonder if they ever do? writers say so. i can't believe it somehow. it seems so--well--unnecessary, someway. carol and i were talking about it this afternoon." carol looked up startled. "what does carol think about it?" he queried. "well, she said she thought in ordinary cases girls were clever enough to get what they wanted without asking for it." carol moved restlessly in her chair, her face drooping a little, and mr. duke laughed. "of course, i know none of our girls would do such a thing," said connie, serene in her family pride. "but carol says she must admit she'd like to find some way to make a man say what anybody could see with half an eye he wanted to say anyhow, only--" connie stopped abruptly. mr. duke had turned to carol, his keen eyes searching her face, but carol sank in the big chair and turned her face away from him against the leather cushion. "connie," she said, "of course no girl would propose, no girl would want to--i was only joking--" mr. duke laughed openly then. "let's go and take a walk, shan't we, carol? it's a grand night." "you needn't go to get rid of me," said connie, rising. "i was just going anyhow." "oh, don't go," said mr. duke politely. "don't go," echoed carol pleadingly. connie stepped to the doorway, then paused and looked back at them. sudden illumination came to her as she scanned their faces, the man's clear-cut, determined, eager--carol's shy, and scared, and--hopeful. she turned quickly back toward her sister, pain darkening her eyes. carol was the last of all the girls,--it would leave her alone,--and he was too old for her. her lips quivered a little, and her face shadowed more darkly. but they did not see it. the man's eyes were intent on carol's lovely features, and carol was studying her slender fingers. connie drew a long breath, and looked down upon her sister with a great protecting tenderness in her heart. she wanted to catch her up in her strong young arms and carry her wildly out of the room--away from the man who sat there--waiting for her. carol lifted her face at that moment, and turned slowly toward mr. duke. connie saw her eyes. they were luminous. connie's tense figure relaxed then, and she turned at once toward the door. "i am going," she said in a low voice. but she looked back again before she closed the door after her. "carol," she said in a whisper, "you--you're a darling. i--i've always thought so." carol did not hear her,--she did not hear the door closing behind her--she had forgotten connie was there. mr. duke stood up and walked quickly across the room and carol rose to meet him. he put his arms about her, strongly, without hesitating. "carol," he said, "my little song-bird,"--and he laughed, but very tenderly, "would you like to know how to make me say what you know i want to say?" "i--i--" she began tremulously, clasping her hands against his breast, and looking intently, as if fascinated, at his square firm chin so very near her eyes. she had never observed it so near at hand before. she thought it was a lovely chin,--in another man she would have called it distinctly "bossy." "you _would_ try to make me, when you know i've been gritting my teeth for years, waiting for you to get grown up. you've been awfully slow about it, carol, and i've been in such a hurry for you." she rested limply in his arms now, breathing in little broken sighs, not trying to speak. "you have known it a long time, haven't you? and i thought i was hiding it so cleverly." he drew her closer in his arms. "you are too young for me, carol," he said regretfully. "i am very old." "i--i like 'em old," she whispered shyly. with one hand he drew her head to his shoulder, where he could feel the warm fragrant breath against the "lovely chin." "you like 'them' old," he repeated, smiling. "you are very generous. one old one is all i want you to like." but when he leaned toward her lips, carol drew away swiftly. "don't be afraid of me, carol. you didn't mind once when i kissed you." he laid his hand softly on her round cheek. "i am too old, dearest, but i've been loving you for years i guess. i've been waiting for you since you were a little freshman, only i didn't know it for a while. say something, carol--i don't want you to feel timid with me. you love me, don't you? tell me, if you do." "i--i." she looked up at him desperately. "i--well, i made you say it, didn't i?" "did you want me to say it, dearest? have you been waiting, too? how long have you--" "oh, a long time; since that night among the rose bushes at the parsonage." "since then?" "yes; that was why it didn't break my pledge when you kissed me. because i--was waiting then." "do you love me?" "oh, p'fessor, don't make me say it right out in plain english--not to-night. i'm pretty nearly going to cry now, and--" she twinkled a little then, like herself, "you know what crying does to my complexion." but he did not smile. "don't cry," he said. "we want to be happy to-night. you will tell me to-morrow. to-night--" "to-night," she said sweetly, turning in his arms so that her face was toward him again, "to-night--" she lifted her arms, and put them softly about his neck, the laces falling back and showing her pink dimpled elbows. "to-night, my dearest,--" she lifted her lips to him, smiling. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors correcteded. page , "make" changed to "made". (made a mistake) page , "fairly" changed to "fairy". (declared fairy earnestly) page , "envoleped" changed to "enveloped". (enveloped in a) page , word "a" added to text. (playing a game) page , "ordinariy" changed to "ordinary". (ordinary style of) page , "though" changed to "thought". (thought about it) page , "daly" changed to "raider". (office. mr. raider) page , "ny" changed to "any". (any business to) page , "noisiness" changed to "nosiness". (downright nosiness) page , "stanchly" changed to "staunchly". (carol staunchly disclaimed) page , "of" changed to "or". (or mediapolis) page , "dissappointment" changed to "disappointment". (shadow of disappointment) page , "mustn't" changed to "mustn't". (you mustn't. we) page , "brough" changed to "brought". (search brought to) page , "whisperingly" changed to "whispering". (whispering softly) page , "a" changed to "at". (at any rate) one instance each of "twinship" and "twin-ship" was retained. file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) burl. by morrison heady. nashville, tenn.: southern methodist publishing house. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by the book agents of the methodist episcopal church, south, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. preface. some one has said that inasmuch as the preface to a book is the last thing that is written, it ought to be the last that is read. i suppose that some readers prefer to omit the preface until they have read the book, for many writers, lord lytton among the number, really destroy the illusion of a work of fiction by specifying the conditions under which it was written. a certain amount of faith in the reality of the things recorded is, to many minds, essential to true enjoyment of the story. however the case may be, i prefer that the reader of this volume should read these lines of mine before he proceeds farther. the author of this little book is both _blind_ and _deaf_! for many years he has been absolutely blind. he has utterly lost the sense of hearing also; and whilst he speaks with singular clearness, and with some modulation of voice, he can receive no communication from his fellow-creatures except through an alphabet which he carries upon his hand! every word must be spelled letter by letter. thus deprived of two of his senses, it is a marvel that he is able to write at all. that he has written a book of more than ordinary interest i am sure the reader will decide when he has read it. there are passages of true poetry scattered here and there, and some descriptive scenes that will not suffer by comparison with those of the best of living authors. under other circumstances, i would exercise my editorial prerogative, and change the form of some of his expressions; but the style of mr. heady is peculiar: it is his own, and the merit of originality should not be denied to him, even in those rare instances in which he breaks away from the trammels of recognized laws of language. i am sure that the knowledge of the infirmities under which this author writes will secure to him a lenient spirit of criticism, whilst it inspires admiration in view of the great excellence of his work. not a line, not a word of complaint against the providence that has afflicted him--not the slightest allusion to his personal disabilities--will be found anywhere in this volume. the spirit of the writer is cheerful, to the verge of gayety itself. he has a keen sense of the ridiculous, and exhibits a quiet humor which is couched in quaint and striking phrases. how thankful ought we to be, to whom the gracious god has given the use of all our senses! should we not stand reproved in the presence of this blind and deaf man, who uses for the benefit of others the means that he possesses, whilst we, enjoying all of god's bounties, have made so little use of them? this work is a sermon to the despondent, complaining spirit, and a word of vigorous exhortation to the slothful man. may this _moral_ of the book leave its record for good in the heart of every reader! w.p. harrison, book editor, m.e. church, south. nashville, dec., . introduction. nearly twenty years had now elapsed since daniel boone had spent that memorable twelve-month all alone in the depths of the boundless wilderness; yet was kentucky still the hunter's paradise, or the land of the dark and bloody ground, just as the wild adventurer or peaceful laborer might happen to view it. in the more central regions, it is true, a number of thriving settlements had already sprung up, and by this time-- , or thereabout--were quite too populous and strong to apprehend any further serious molestation from their indian neighbors. but between these points and the ohio river lay a wide border of debatable land, where the restless savages still kept up their hostile demonstrations, which, though less bloody and wasting than at an earlier period, were yet sufficiently frequent and harassing to keep the white settlers in perpetual disquietude and fear. sometimes different settlements would unite their forces into strong parties of from fifty to two hundred riflemen, when a dash would be made across the river and the war carried for a week or two into the enemy's country. but as the indians, with their characteristic wariness, had usually timely notice of the approaching danger, and would abandon their villages for the more secure shelter of the forest, the white invaders could do little more in the way of vengeance and intimidation than burn the deserted towns and level the corn-fields to the ground. a brief interval of quiet would sometimes follow these raids; but it happened not unfrequently that the pioneers would hardly be back to their several stations, disbanded, and fairly at their labors in the field, when there again was the indian war-whoop ringing along the periled border as melodiously as ever, and the pillaging, murdering, scalping, and burning going on in the good old orthodox fashion the pesky red ravagers loved so well. what greatly aggravated this distressing state of things, kentucky was still but a district of virginia, hence powerless to use to the full extent the means of self-defense which otherwise had lain within her reach; while the seat of government was so remote from the scenes of disorder that the mother state could succor her infant settlements scarcely more than had they lain on the other side of the rocky mountains, instead of the alleghenies. thus trammeled, kentucky could do little more than, like a tethered bison, butt at the dangers which year in and year out beset her on every side. to be sure, conventions composed of her best men, and having for their object her erection into a separate state of the union, had been for the last three years, and for the next three years continued to be, as frequent as camp-meetings--quite as demonstrative too, and noisy, and quite as much to the purpose, so far as concerned the object in view. why, does not beseem us here to inquire. finally, just as the danger was over and gone, and the last hand of hostile indians that ever raised the war-whoop in the land of the "dark and bloody ground" had been driven across the ohio, kentucky was untrammeled, and suffered to rear her bleeding front among the mighty sisterhood of states--an independent, sovereign part of the independent, sovereign whole, as the phrase should go, until the great rebellion should call for new constructions and clear definitions. thenceforth for twenty years the fiery lines of war receded fitfully northward, till stayed at the battle of the thames, quenched in the life-blood of the heroic, the high-minded, the hapless tecumseh. contents. chapter i. page how big black burl figured in the paradise chapter ii. how little bushie figured in the paradise chapter iii. how big black burl and bushie figured in each other's eyes chapter iv. how somebody was lost in the paradise chapter v. how grumbo figured in the paradise chapter vi. how big black burl figured on the war-path by day chapter vii. how big black burl figured on the war-path by night chapter viii. how big black burl figured in a quandary chapter ix. how big black burl figured in ambush chapter x. how big black burl figured in the fight chapter xi. how little bushie figured in the fight chapter xii. how big black burl and grumbo figured after the fight chapter xiii. how big black burl figured in his triumph chapter xiv. how big black burl figured in oratory chapter xv. how big black burl sewed it up in his war-cap chapter xvi. how big black burl figured on the peace-path chapter xvii. how the glory of his race figured in his rising chapter xviii. how the eagle and the lion and the big bear figured in the great north-west chapter xix. how big black burl figured at the death-stake chapter xx. how kumshakah figured in the light of the setting sun chapter xxi. how the glory of his race figured in his setting burl. chapter i. how big black burl figured in the paradise. six feet six he stood in his moccasins, yet seemed not tall, so broad he was and ponderously thick. he had an elephantine leg, with a foot like a black-oak wedge; a chimpanzean arm, with a fist like a black-oak maul; eyes as large and placid as those of an ox; teeth as large and even as those of a horse; skin that was not skin, but ebony; a nose that was not a nose, but gristle; hair that was not hair, but wool; and a grin that was not a grin, but ivory sunshine. such was the outward man of big black burl. brave as a lion, deliberate as a bear, patient as an ox, faithful as a mastiff, affectionate as a newfoundland dog, sagacious as a crow, talkative as a magpie, and withal as cheery and full of song as a sky-lark. such was the inward man of big black burl. built up and limbed as just described, our hero, as you may well imagine, must have been a man of prodigious bodily strength. to be sure, a tall, supple, well-knit, athletic white man like simon kenton, for example, might, in a wrestling-match and by some unexpected sleight of foot, have kicked his heels from under him and brought him flat on his back with ease. but keeping him there would have been an altogether different matter. that would have taken simon kenton, daniel boone, and benjamin logan, all men of uncommon bone and muscle, and all upon him at once; and even then he would have tumbled and tousled them so lustily as at last to force them from sheer loss of breath to yield the point and let him up. the station, in and around which our colored hero was wont to figure, was one of the most exposed points along the northern border, and, being the rendezvous of many of kentucky's boldest hunters, was looked upon by the more interior settlements as their bulwark of defense against incursions of the indians. now, be it known that in the numerous skirmishes which took place in that quarter between the reds and the whites, big black burl played a rather conspicuous part; proving himself for deeds of warlike prowess a signal illustration of african valor--a worthy representative, indeed, of his great countryman mumbo jumbo, the far-famed giant-king of congo. in testimony whereof, there were the scalps of his enemies taken by his own hand in secret ambush and in open fight, and which, strung together like pods of red pepper, or cuttings of dried pumpkin, hung blackening in the smoke of his cabin. scalps! your pardon, christian reader; but the truth must be confessed, bald as it is, and worse than bald. it was the fashion of the day: the reds took scalps and the whites took scalps. it were, then, hardly fair in us to find fault with the blacks for doing the same, especially as they could neither read nor write nor cipher, nor had been taught the absolute truths of any creed whence, as a natural consequence, proceeds that profound fixedness of belief which needs must make itself manifest in the persistent exemplification of every christian virtue. had they enjoyed these inestimable advantages, the blacks--depend upon it--would have denied themselves so barbarous a luxury, and set a more christian example to the unchristian whites then dwelling in the paradise. the glory of such a manifestation was reserved to the nineteenth century, when the lovers of the great brotherhood of man should discover and proclaim to the listening earth the latent saint inherent in the nature of ebony, from ham, the favorite son of noah, down to uncle tom, the best man that ever lived. in the corn-field, barefooted and shirt-sleeved, burl was like the patient, plodding, slow-paced ox; but let the alarm-cry of "indians! indians!" ring along the border, and in a trice, with moccasins on feet, war-cap on head, rifle on shoulder, tomahawk and limiting-knife in belt, he was out upon the war-path--a roaring lion, thirsting for scalps and glory. indeed, so famous did he in time become for his martial exploits as to win for himself among whites a distinguished title of "the fighting nigger;" while among the reds, by whom he was regarded as a sort of okeeheedee--half man and half devil--he grew to be known as "the big black brave of the bushy head." when out on his "injun" hunts, the fighting nigger usually chose to be alone. his instinct told him--and that monitor rarely spoke to big black burl in vain--that he must not presume too far upon that fellowship into which, in virtue of his great achievements, the white hunters had condescended to admit him; lest familiarity, which breeds contempt, might incur him the risk of being snubbed, or thrust out altogether as an impertinent intruder, who had forgotten where he stood in the social scale. whereas, by the general observance of this prudent policy, not only should he win additional commendations from his white superiors for additional deservings, but secure to himself the undivided honor of the scalps--the trophies of victory--taken by his own hand in battle. for, colored though he was, with a nose inclining neither to the roman nor grecian, our hero showed that he cherished a genuine, therefore jealous, love of glory. in this respect, we may liken the fighting nigger to such godlike specimens of our race as alexander the great; to napoleon the great; or, perhaps more fitly still, to mumbo jumbo the great, the far-famed giant-king of congo. but if there was one thing in the paradise that big black burl loved more than scalps and glory, it was his little master, bushie--or, as the name had been written down in the good book, some eight or nine years before, bushrod reynolds, jr. bushrod reynolds, sr., the father, and jemima reynolds, the mother, were natives of the old dominion, whence they had migrated but a few months prior to the birth of their little son; bushrod, with his whole worldly estate across his shoulder, in the shape of rifle and ax; jemima, with her whole paternal inheritance close at her heels, in the shape of an unshapely, gigantic negro youth, destined in after years to win for himself among the red warriors of the wilderness the high-sounding title of "the big black brave of the bushy head." with brave and cheerful hearts, which the pioneer must maintain, or sink, they had gone to work, and cutting out a broad green patch from the vine-inwoven forest, had erelong, in the midst of the sunshine thus let in, built them a rustic home. here, in the due course of nature, a playful little pioneer made his appearance, whom they bundled up in red flannel and christened bushrod, and called bushie--burl's household idol. now, as a hunter and indian fighter, bushrod reynolds had few equals, even in the paradise--a land prolific beyond precedence of the heroic in that line. hence it naturally followed that he should take the lead of the other pioneers, who made fort reynolds--as in compliment to him the station was called--their place of refuge from the incursions of the indians, or their rallying-point for repelling the invaders. thus on a certain day it so befell that an indian chase was started near fort reynolds--a band of the red marauders having made a bloody, burning pounce upon the settlements the previous night, and now, loaded with booty and scalps, were making all speed for the ohio river, to throw that broad barrier between themselves and danger. the chase had been kept up for several miles, and the pursuers as yet had failed to catch a glimpse of the fugitives. swifter of foot than his comrades, captain reynolds had imprudently, perhaps unconsciously, pushed on far in advance, when on a sudden he found himself waylaid and set upon by four or five of the savages, who, bolder than their fellows, had dared to be the hindermost and cover the retreat. these, having caught sight of their foremost pursuer, and marking that he ran quite alone, had agreed among themselves to waylay and capture him; a prisoner being a more coveted prize than a scalp, since, while yet alive, he could be both scalped and roasted. but he resisted so desperately, dealing about their heads such ugly blows with the butt of his rifle, as quickly to convince them that he was not to be taken alive; and aware that the rest of their pursuers should soon be upon them, and exasperated by the bruises he had given them, they shot him down on the spot--nor turned to renew their flight till they had scalped him, though still alive and conscious. the red dastards were yet in sight when the other hunters gained the spot, where they found their leader wounded and dying. with a commanding gesture, he sternly bid them forward, nor mar the chase for him, who had but a few moments to live. fortunately, it so chanced that on the present occasion big black burl was with the white hunters; therefore they left him to minister to his dying master, and again pushed on in hotter, fiercer pursuit. for many a weary mile of bush-entangled forest and grass-entangled glade, of rocky dell and precipitous hill, the chase for life and death went on--nor ceased till it had brought pursued and pursuer to the banks of the broad ohio. here they who had dared to be the hindermost found themselves reduced to desperate straits, whether to fight or swim--their comrades, unmindful of them, having pushed off in all the canoes, and being by this time far out upon the river. needing but a glance to tell them where their chances lay, with a loud yell of defiance, they leaped from the high bank into the deep stream and swam for dear life. the instant after, the rifles of the white hunters rang out from among the trees along the shore: there was a stain of blood upon the water, and the next moment they who but now had stemmed the current with desperate sinews floated lifeless with it--all who dared to be the hindermost. meanwhile, the faithful burl had borne his wounded master to the banks of a forest brook which ran hard by, and had set him down, reclined against the trunk of a tree. then he took his powder-horn, having emptied its contents into his ammunition-pouch, and filling it from the stream, gave his master to drink--the clear, cool, sparkling water, so refreshing to the tired and thirsty, but to the wounded man sweet and grateful beyond expression. when he had drained the flask and revived a little, that hapless hunter thus addressed his slave: "burl, you have ever been faithful to me. have i been as kind to you?" a big sob was the only answer, but it came from the depths of the heart, and said "yes" a hundred times. "then, be faithful still. you have a brave heart and a strong arm, and to your support and protection must i, in some sort, leave my poor wife and child. then give me your word, your solemn promise, that you will be as faithful to miss jemima as you have been to me; and that you will take good care of her fatherless boy, till he be old and strong enough to shift for himself and for his mother, too. do you give me your promise?" "o master!" burl at length sobbed out, "it ain't much a pore nigger kin do fur white folks in dat way; but what i kin do i will do, an' won't never stop a doin' it." here, with a blubbering expression of grief, the poor fellow broke down. "your hand upon it, my good old boy," whispered the dying hunter, his breath now almost gone. "bid miss jemima and dear little bushie good-by for me, and carry them my dying blessing." in pledge of the promise, never to be broken, burl took the hand that was now powerless to take his, and held it till death had fixed its answering grasp and the hunter was gone to find another paradise. then he laid his master's body upon the streamlet's brink, to wash away the blood. how gently the huge hand laved the gory locks and dashed the soft water into the dead, pale face! it was a stern, rugged, weather-beaten face; but the light of the last loving thoughts still lingered upon it, lending it a beauty in death which it had never known in life. this part of his pious duty duly done, then tenderly in his mighty arms he took up the precious burden and laid it across his shoulder to bear it to the distant home. through the fast lengthening shadows of sunset, through the glimmering shades of twilight, through the melancholy starlight, through woods, woods, woods, he bore it, till the lamp that always burned at the little square window, when the hunter was abroad in the night, was spied from afar, telling that the faithful, loving heart was waiting and watching as she should never wait and watch again. burl stepped softly over the low rail-fence into the yard and laid his master's body upon a puncheon bench which stood under a forest-tree directly in front of the cabin. having composed the limbs of the dead, he stole with noiseless tread across the porch to the cabin door, at which he softly knocked with his knuckles, but holding it fast by the latch-handle, lest it should be too suddenly opened. straightway a quick step was heard approaching the door from within. the wooden bolt slid back with a thump, the wooden latch went up with a click, but the door remained shut. "it's nobody but me, miss jemimy; nobody here but me. you's awake, is you?" "yea, burl, i'm awake," answered a gentle voice within; and again the latch went up with a click. "not yit, miss jemimy, not yit. i said dare's nobody here but me; but didn't 'zacly mean what i said. you's awake, now, is you--wide awake?" "yes, burl, i am wide awake, and have been all night long. but why do you ask? and why do you hold the door so fast?" and now there was a tremor of alarm in the gentle voice. "den, put out de light, miss jemimy; o put out de light!" and the great sob which shook the door told the rest. in sweet pity we shall refrain from dwelling further upon the scene. but as burl stood out there in the night and witnessed the widow's anguish, and heard the wail of her fatherless child, from that heart whence had ascended to heaven the promise never to be broken there rose a terrible oath that never from that day forward, while he had life in his heart and strength in his arm, should an opportunity for vengeance slip his hand. how faithfully that oath was kept full many a red man's scalp, which hung blackening from his cabin beams, but too plainly attested. chapter ii. how little bushie figured in the paradise. "no, bushie, my boy, you can't go to the corn-field to-day," said mrs. reynolds to her son of nine years old, one fine may morning, about two years after the sad event recorded in the foregoing chapter. the little fellow had been teasing his mother for two or three hours to let him go to the field where burl was plowing corn, knowing full well, as every only child does, the efficacy of importunity. "but, mother, burl is singing so big and glad out there, and i should so love to be with him. and i should so love to watch the squirrels running up and down the trees and along on top of the fence; and the little ground-squirrels slipping from one hollow log to another; and the little birds building their nests; and the big crows flopping their wings about the limbs of the old dead trees. and then, too, burl would be--" "let burl go on with his singing," interrupted the mother; "and let the squirrels go on with their playing; and the birds with their nest-building; and the crows with their idling about the limbs of the old dead trees. all this is very nice, i know, but hardly worth the risk you must be at in getting there to enjoy it." "but, mother," urged bushie, "burl would be so glad to see me sitting up there, on top of the fence, just where he and old cornwallis would be coming out at the end of the row. i know just 'zacly what he'd say, the minute he sees me: 'i yi, you dogs!'" "yes, and somebody else might be glad to find a little white boy sitting up there on top of the fence," rejoined the mother, with a warning look. "somebody who would steal up from behind, as soft as a cat upon a bird, and before knowing it, there! you would find a big red hand clapped over your mouth to keep you from screaming for help. then, hugged tight in a pair of red arms, cruel and strong, off you'd go through the woods and over the hills and across the ohio to old chillicothe, there to be made a wild indian of, for the rest of your days, if not roasted alive at once. only this morning, captain kenton, on his way from limestone to lexington, dropped in at breakfast-time, and told us that he had seen fresh indian signs in the woods not more than five miles from the fort. and, bushie, my boy, have you forgotten that only this spring burl shot a panther in the woods between here and the field? and that only last winter he knocked a bear in the head with his ax, at the big sink-hole spring in the middle of the field? and that only last fall he trapped and killed that terrible one-eyed wolf in the black hollow just beyond the field?" and seeing her little son opening his mouth and fetching a breath for a fresh effort, the mother, with more decision, added: "no, bushie, no! play about the fort as much as you please, but go to the field to-day you must not, and you shall not. there!" and with this she clapped his little coon-skin cap upon his head, and ramming it down to his ears, bid him go and hunt up the other children and play at home, like mother's good boy. now, bushie loved his mother dearly, even tenderly, for a juvenile pioneer, especially at meal-times and at nights; the fort, too, in bad weather, he liked well enough. but on burl, between meals, and on the woods and fields, in fine weather, he fairly doted. the weather on the present occasion was as fine as the heart of a healthy, growing, adventurous boy could wish for recreation under the open sky--it being, indeed, the last day of may, which, as nobody ever makes a holiday of it, is always perfectly delightful. therefore was he strongly tempted to give a snapping pull at the apron-strings and make for sweet liberty--a thing he was in the habit of doing about once a week, when the keenest switching and the liveliest dancing that one could wish to witness would follow, sure as fate. to do our urchin hero justice, however, he rarely yielded to the temptation without making some considerable effort to resist it; efforts such as older transgressors are apt to set down largely to their own credit in their private accounts between self and conscience, vaguely hoping thereby to bamboozle somebody besides themselves--perhaps the recording angel. so, this morning, he hunted up the other children, as his mother had bidden him, and made a manful--nay, desperate--effort to be sportive at home; but the little fort, within the shelter of whose wooden walls had been their home ever since that melancholy night two years ago, had never seemed to him so dull and lonesome. the hunters and field-laborers, belonging to the station, were all abroad, and the other children seemed as little inclined to play as himself. finding that quiet amusement was not likely to come of its own accord, bushie was minded to draw it out by a little gentle persuasion, and to this intent challenged the tallest boy of the company--taller than himself by a head, though not so broad--to cope with him in a boxing match. having already tried that game several times and invariably come off with a savage griping in the pit of the stomach, the tall boy made it a point just then to hear his mother's call--though heard by no one else--which answering, he walked off briskly, under press of filial obedience, to see what was wanted. as if hoping to force what would not come of its own accord, or by persuasion, bushie now laid unauthorized hands on grumbo's tail, and giving it a cracking pull, got his finger bitten; ditto, then, on tom's tail, and giving it a cracking jerk, got his leg scratched. evidently, quiet amusement at home to-day was a consummation quite out of the question, however devoutly to be wished. so, he gave it up as a moral achievement beyond his present resources, and with the feeling of a boy who though he had failed in the discharge of duty had yet endeavored well, he went and stood in the gate-way of the fort, which, as it directly faced the distant field, was just the place to give the tempter a fair chance at him. the sky--how sunny and blue it bent above him! the woods--how shady and green they rose before him! the little log fort--how dull and lonesome it lay behind him! the little log grist-mill down there on the banks of the river at the foot of the hill--how tiresomely it went on creaking and humming and droning, forever repeating, "what a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" or, "clip it, bushie! clip it, bushie! clip it, bushie!" according to the tune one's fancy might chance to be singing at the moment. the tempter was creeping upon him apace. the melodious strains of that powerful voice--how cheerily, sweetly they come resounding through the echoing woods, growing more and more distinct as the singer neared the hither end of his furrow! the distance was too great for bushie to distinguish the words of the song; but to his longing ears, the burden of it seemed to be something very much to this effect: "come, come, come, bushie, come! burl a' plowin' in de fiel', a singin' for his little man to come." here the tempter crept up close to him and whispered in his ear: "don't you hear him bushie? he's singing for you. clip it! panthers, bears, wolves, indians! pshaw! they'll never dare to come a-nigh you, with that voice ringing in their ears. clip it! ain't he singing for his little man to come? clip it! i say. to be sure your mother will switch you well for running away, but who minds that? it's all over in the shake of a sheep's tail, and by the time you've rubbed your back and legs a little, eaten your supper, and said your prayers, you'll be feeling just as comfortable as ever. clip it, i say; clip it!" bushie could endure it no longer. so, after a short, one-sided debate between the good of him and the evil of him--the evil allowing the good but a half-say in the matter--our little white hero formed the bold design of making a sudden sally from the fort and surprising our big black hero in the open field. first, though, he must make sure that the coast was clear--_i.e._, that his mother was too busy about her household concerns to notice him and put her foot on his adventure. so, going back to the house, he peeped in at the door and reconnoitered. finding the chances rather in his favor, he returned to the gate, whistling as he went, and otherwise making a big pretense of being perfectly satisfied with his present surroundings, which, as there was nobody to be hoodwinked by it, was stratagem wasted. but no sooner did his foot touch the great oaken sill than with a sheep-like jump he had cleared his skirts of the gate, and now across the open clearing, in the center of which stood the fort, he was clipping away with a swiftness perfectly marvelous in one of his age. splendidly done, my fine rogue! how the mother of a well-ordered family of precise boys and prim girls would like to have the mending of your morals--_i.e._, the switching of your skedaddling young legs--this fine morning! gaining the covert of the woods unobserved, he struck into a bridle-path which ran winding amongst the trees and grape-vines toward the field, where he soon subsided, first into a dog-trot, then into a brisk walk, which he maintained for the rest of the way with long and guilty strides. when he was come to the fence which divided the woods from the field, with squirrel-like nimbleness he climbed up and perched himself on the rider, or topmost rail, just where his black chum and old cornwallis should be coming out at the end of the furrow. perhaps it were well to take advantage of the present moment, while we have him so conspicuously before us, to draw a life-size portrait of our little hero--which, however, at first glance may seem somewhat larger than life, the subject being uncommonly well grown for a boy of his age. his body and limbs are as round, smooth, tight, and hard as those of a buckskin doll; the materials used in their construction being of the most substantial description, and consisting chiefly of johnny-cakes, hominy, venison and other wild meat, with as much milk, maple molasses, and pumpkin-pie as the unsettled nature of the times would admit. his eyes are blue and bright, large and wide open--such as can look you full in the face, yet without boldness or impertinence. one would naturally suppose that a boy who was in the weekly habit of breaking away from apron-string control, and getting a whipping for it, ought to have long, narrow, half-shut eyes, of some uncertain color, which, though they can stare boldly enough at your boots, buttons, or breastpin, can never look you full in the face, like those big blue ones we have up there before us. his hair does not fall in clustering ringlets over his ears and around his neck, as we usually find it in nice, interesting little boys who figure in story-books; but it is pretty enough, being of a dark, rich brown, as glossy as watered silk. his nose is a good one, though at its present stage of development showing rather too much of the pug to look well on canvas; but it will gradually ripen into the roman as the owner ripens into years and experience, and comes to a full knowledge of his own importance in the world. the mouth, too, is a good one; not a rosebud mouth, such as we sometimes see in fancy pictures of the boy washington, with his little hatchet; of the boy napoleon, with his little cannon; or of the boy samuel, at his perpetual devotions; but a large mouth, handsomely formed, and capable, with the help of dimples in the cheeks and the shine in the eyes, of as bright and loving a smile as heart of fond mother could wish. the outfit of our little hero is in keeping with the rustic simplicity of the times, consisting of but three garments--an outside shirt, an inside shirt, and a hairy coon-skin cap: the latter having no visor, but being in lieu adorned behind with the ringed tail, just as it grew on the living animal. the cap conceals one of his best features--a forehead bold, broad, round, and white, which, could it be seen, would much improve our portrait. the inside shirt, as may be seen by the collar, is of homespun cotton; the outside shirt of fair, soft buckskin, secured at the waist by a belt of the same material, and falling a little below the knees. saving the buckskin of mother nature's own providing, the sturdy young legs are without covering--a deficiency which admits of plausible explanation. in those days of simple living and simple thinking, parents, going from cause to effect by shorter cuts than they do at the present time, were much more strict and direct in the training of their children; and breeches softening, as needs must, the severity of the switch, hence the moral efficacy thereof, boys, for the first ten years of their travels in the paradise, were seldom allowed to wear them--buckskin breeches especially. nor should we be surprised if just here were to be looked for the reason why our grandfathers and great-grandfathers were so much more energetic, manly, and upright than their grandsons and great-grandsons, and so many more of them broad-backed, clean-limbed, and six feet high. the background to our portrait is a forest, lofty, shaggy, and dense, and the home of a thousand wild things, which, being invisible at this moment, could not, with due regard to fidelity, be introduced into our picture. the foreground is a cultivated clearing of about one hundred acres, with woody walls, unbroken in their leafy density, hemming it in on every side. directly in front is a field of corn, the dark and thrifty green of which may well bespeak the deep, rich soil of the paradise. farther in are several other inclosures, either white with clover or brightly green with blue-grass, or darkly green with the yet unripened wheat. in the midst of all, and forming the central feature, stands a cabin, deserted and lowly since that unhappy night two years ago. scattered about the clearing, singly or in clumps, or even in small groves, are to be seen the giant survivors of the primeval forest, which, rearing high aloft their green heads and flinging afar their mighty arms, yield pleasant shade to the horses, sheep, and cattle grazing about them. but more numerous are to be seen those that are not survivors, though still standing, drained of their sap of life by the woodman's ax, which hacked those jagged girdles around their huge trunks. standing there leafless, rigid, and gray, they remind us, in their branching nakedness, of the antlered elk, and in their gigantic unsightliness of the monstrous mastodon, that thing of grisly bone which, as a thing of life, no son of adam ever beheld. hard by stands an enormous oak, whose main bough, scathed and deadened by lightning, is thrust from out its ragged green robe like the extended, unsleeved arm of a giant, leaving a broad gap in the foliage open to the sky. upon this blasted limb of the oak, as if met there to hold an indignation meeting relative to the scare-crows posted about the field, or to the objectionable nature of the plowman's music, or to some real or fancied cause of grievance, have congregated a large assembly of sober-feathered, sober-visaged, but noisy, wrangling, turbulent crows, who, like many unfeathered bipeds on the like occasions, seem to have left their good breeding and good sense at home. crows and their ways have always excited much interest in the minds of philosophic men, and the maneuvers of these before us have been watched with lively curiosity by our little friend bushie ever since we began drawing his portrait. chapter iii. how big black burl and bushie figured in each other's eyes. i spied a jay-bird on a tree, a ridin' on a swingin' lim'; he cocked his eye an' winked at me, i cocked my gun an' winked at him; an' de jay-bird flew away-- de jay-bird flew away-- an' lef' de lim' a-swingin'-- a-swingin'. such was a stanza from one of the songs that big black burl was singing while he plowed. the words were simple and crude enough, yet would the melody now and then be varied with an improvised cadence of wild and peculiar sweetness, such as one might readily fancy had often been heard in the far-off, golden days of pan and silvanus, and the other cloven-heeled, funny-eared _genii_ of the greenwood. though a swell in the ground hid them from his view, bushie could tell almost to the minute when burl and old cornwallis made their turn at the farther side of the field, by the singing, which now began to draw gradually nearer. the morning was breezy, and ever and anon, when a wave of air came softly flowing over the rustling corn, the song would reach his ear with an augmented volume and distinctness that made the unseen singer seem for the moment a hundred yards nearer than he really was. at length, right leisurely, they crept in sight--cornwallis first, with his piebald face; then, as the old horse would dip his head to nibble at the green blades under his nose, short glimpses of burl, though for awhile no further down than his enormous coon-skin cap, made, it is said, of the biggest raccoon that was ever trapped, treed, or shot in the paradise. but presently, observing the old horse prick up his ears at some object ahead, burl sighted the woods from between them, and caught a glimpse of the little figure perched up there on the topmost rail of the fence, square in front. whereat, snapping short his melody in its loudest swell, the plowman, in an altogether different key and tone, and at the top of his tremendous voice, sent forward his favorite greeting: "i yi, you dogs!" "i yi, you----" piped back bushie; but just as he would have added "dogs," he thought that "coons" would be more pat; but not acting upon the thought in time for right effect, he supplied its place with a grin which said more plainly than words could have said it--than even "dogs" or "coons"--"i knew you would be glad to see me out here!" and glad burl was, for as the plow, with the pleasant smell of fresh earth and growing herbs floating about it in the air, ran out of the furrow into the fence corner, he said, looking up with huge complacency at his little master: "he's come out to de fiel' to see his ol' nigger, has he? well, me an' corny's a little tired, so we'll take a little blow here in de shade uf de woods, an' hab a little good soshyble talk wid our little marster." so saying, he threw his plow-line over the plow-handle, and mounted the panel of the fence next to the one on which bushie was sitting, and squared himself for the confab, which the little master opened thus; "burl, just look at them crows up there on the dead limb of that big acorn-tree; what are they doing?" "dey's holdin' a pra'er-meetin', i 'spec'. no, not dat--camp-meetin', dey's so noisy. or, may be, now"--eyeing his black brethren with close attention--"may be dey's holdin' a kunvintion, like gener'l wilkerson an' t' other big guns, to hab ol' kaintuck stan' 'pon her own legs, so she kin lay off lan' as she please, an' fight de injuns on her own hook." "but why do they make so much noise?" inquired bushie. "beca'se dey likes to hear 'emselves talk--eb'rybody wantin' to do all de talkin', an' nobody wantin' to do none uf de list'nin'--jes' like people." "don't you wish you had betsy grumbo out here, burl? how she'd make their black feathers fly! and the woods are alive with squirrels. just see how they are running up and down the trees and along the top of the fence." "ef i had betsy grumbo out here, de woods wouldn't be alive wid squirrels, an' dem black rogues up dar wouldn't be so near by--so easy an' sassy." "why wouldn't they?" inquired bushie. "beca'se dey'd smell betsy's breaf, an' make 'emselves scarce." "what's the matter with betsy's breath?" "w'y, bushie, if betsy is always belchin' gunpowder, don't you know her breaf mus' smell uf gunpowder?" "burl," said bushie, turning his eyes from the crows and fixing them wide open on his black chum's face, "i killed a rattlesnake yesterday, while i was out in the woods hunting may-apples--a rattlesnake as big as your leg." "now, bushie, ain't you lettin' on?" said burl with an incredulous grin. "wusn't it a black-snake, big as your leg?" "do rattlesnakes always rattle with their tails when they poke out their heads to bite a man?" "yas, always; or to bite a boy, either." "and are rattlesnakes ever black?" "neber, 'ceptin on de back, an' dare dey's brown an' yaller." "well, then, i reckon it must have been a black-snake, for it was black, and didn't rattle its tail when it poked out its head to bite me." "now, dare's reason in dat; dare's reason in all things," said burl, looking at his little master, with his head turned slightly downward and his eyes turned slightly upward, showing more of the whites, which was his way of looking wise. "things as has reason in 'em i likes. says i to sich things, 'come 'long, me an' you can agree; walk in my house an' take a cheer, an' make yo'se'f at home.' but things as hain't got reason in 'em, says i to sich things, 'you g' 'long; me an' you can't agree; i's no use for you, don't want you in my house. scat!'" "and, burl, after i killed the snake i saw a painter." "now, bushie, lettin' on agin, ain't you? wusn't it our yaller tom dare at de fort, gwine out to see his kinfolks 'mong de wilecats 'way off yander?" "do painters always scream like a skeered woman or a burnt baby, when they go a-jumping from one tree to another? and do they always keep a-swinging their long, limber tails?" "dat's de cretor's music, an' dem's de cretor's capers," replied burl. "then i just know it was a painter," said bushie, more certain of his panther than he had been of his snake; "for that was just the way he carried on." "an' what did you do to de painter, bushie? kilt him, too, i 'spect." "no, i just looked cross-eyed at him and skeered him away." "h-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" laughed the black giant, till the fence shook and rattled. "now, burl," said bushie, regarding his black chum with great soberness, "didn't you tell me if ever i saw a painter i must skeer him away by looking cross-eyed at him?" "look at me, bushie, de way you did at de painter," said burl, with a broad grin. "i wants to see how well you've larnt your lesson." complying at once, bushie pulled down and screwed up his quizzical little face in such a marvelous manner that eyes, nose, mouth, and coon-skin cap seemed on the point of breaking out into a family row beyond hope of ever coming again to a good understanding one with another. "no wonder the varmint was skeered and went screamin' away!" and the black giant laughed till the forest shook to its roots, and every inquisitive squirrel and prying fox within a half mile peered warily forth from its hole to discover what jovial monster this might be that had invaded their leafy wilds. suddenly checking his laughter, burl said: "but, bushie, i forgot to ax you if you axed your modder to let you come out here to de fiel'. did you?" "yes." "an' she said you might come, did she?" "just look up yonder, burl, and see how the crows have gone to fighting." "you g' 'long with your crows, an' look at me right, an' tell me if yo' modder said you might come." "and burl, after i skeered the painter away," remarked bushie, "i saw two buffalo bulls fighting right on the high river-bank, and the one that got his tail up hill pushed the other clean----" "you g' 'long with your bulls too, an' no mo' uf yo' dodgin', but look me right in de face an' answer my question." now, bushie had never told a lie--that is to say, a downright lie--in all his life. it must be owned, however, that he would sometimes try to dodge the truth, by throwing out some remark quite foreign to the offense under consideration; an effective way of whipping the father of fibs around the stump, as many people who ought to know can testify. or, failing to clear his skirts by this shift, he would go on picking at the mud-daubing in the wall, near which he might chance to be standing, or breaking off splinters from the fence on which he might chance to be sitting, without saying a word either foreign or akin to the matter in hand. but let him once be fairly cornered, convinced that dodging the question was out of the question, then would he turn himself square about, and looking you full in the face, out with the naked truth as bluntly as if he had "chawed" it into a hard wad and shot it at you from his pop-gun. so, in the present instance, throwing down the handful of splinters he had broken from the rail, he turned his big blue eyes full upon the face of his black inquisitor, and bluntly answered, "no, she didn't." "did she say you mus'n't come?" "yes, she did." "den, why didn't you mind yo' modder?" "because." "ah, bushie, my boy, beca'se won't do. dare's painters an' wolves fur bad little boys as runs away frum home an' hain't got nothin' to say fur 'emselves but beca'se. an' injuns, too, wid cuttin' knives an' splittin' tomahawks fur sich boys; yes, an' bars too. w'y, bushie, don't you 'member how we reads in de good book 'bout de bad town-boys who come out to de big road one day an' throwed dirt at de good ol' 'lishy, de bal'-headed preacher, an' made ugly mouths at him, an' jawed him, an' sassed him, an' all de time kep' sayin', 'g' 'long, you ol' bal'-head; g' 'long, you ol' bal'-head!' den de good ol' 'lishy looked back an' cussed 'em, when two she-bars heerd him an' come out uf de woods wid der cubs at der heels, an' walked in on der hin' legs 'mong dem bad town-boys, a scratchin' an' a clawin', a bitin' an' a gnawin', right an' lef', an' neber stoppin' till dey had tore an' chawed 'em every one up. now, you see, bushie, dese bad town-boys had run 'way frum home dat mornin' when der modders had said dey mus'n't, an' hadn't nothin' to say fur 'emselves but beca'se." "burl, did you ever see colonel daniel boone?"--breaking off this disagreeable subject as he would a rail-splinter. "what's colonel danel boone got to do wid de good ol' 'lishy an' de bad town-boys? you look me right in de face an' tell me you's sorry fur not mindin' your modder. now, ain't you?" "no, i ain't." "ah, bushrod, bushrod, you's a hard little case, i'm afeard," said burl, with a grave shake of the head; but determined to bring the delinquent to a sense of his evil ways, he thus proceeded: "but, s'posin' now, while you's runnin' 'way you's to git lost 'way down yander in de black holler whar i kilt de one-eyed wolf las' fall, an' hafter stay dare all night all by yo'se'f, nothin' fur a good warm supper but a cap full of pawpaws or pussimmons, an' nothin' fur a good warm feather-bed but a pile of dry leabs. wouldn't you be sorry den?" "not much." "he's a pow'ful hard little case" said burl to himself; "i mus' try him a leetle stronger. well, den, sposin' next mornin' you's to wake up an' see a she-bar, wid a pack uf hungry cubs at her heels all a-comin' at you on dare hin' legs, an' all begin a scratchin' an' a clawin', a bitin' an' a gnawin' all over you, an' all at once. wouldn't you be sorry den?" "yes." "i yi!" cried burl triumphantly, "i thought dat would bring de little sinner to his milk." and having brought the young transgressor to know and feel the evil of his ways, he was now ready to answer the inquiry touching colonel daniel boone, and more than ready, since it had a direct bearing upon subjects in which he took particular interest. "so my little man would like to know ef i eber seed colonel danel boone. did i eber see a bar? did i eber see a buck? did i eber see a buffalo? course, i's seed colonel danel boone, many an' many a time, an' i knows him too, like a book." "is he the greatest man in the world, burl? i've heard he was." to which, with that profound air which men are apt to assume when called upon for an opinion touching a matter of moment, and aware what weight their judgment will carry in the minds of their listeners, and that it therefore behooves them to be cautious in expressing it, big black burl, with emphatic pauses between phrases and now and then an emphatic gesture, thus made response: "well----take him up dis side an' down dat----at de britch an' in de barr'l----mars dan--colonel boone, i mean--is----i s'pose you may say----de greates' man in de worl', but," an emphatic gesture, "if you mean by dat, is he de greates' injun-fighter in de worl', den says i, no, sir, colonel boone ain't de greates' injun-fighter in de worl'. he's a leetle too tender-hearted to be a real, giniwine, tip-top, out-an'-out injun-fighter. w'y, sir, he neber tuck a skelp in all his life. time an' agin has i been out wid him injun-huntin', a-scourin' de woods, hot on de heels uf de red varmints, an' when he shoots 'em down, dare he lets 'em lay an' neber fetches a har uf de skelps. den says he, 'it does seem sich a pity to kill de pore cretors, dey looks so much like humins, but it's boun' to be done: ef we don't kill 'em dey'll kill us, nip an' tuck.' den says i, 'mars dan--no, i don't say dat--colonel boone,' says i, 'what you gwine to do wid de skelps?' says he, 'jest let 'em stay whar dey is fur de buzzards.' den says i, 'colonel boone, let me have de skelps to hang up in my cabin to 'member you by.' says he, 'burlman rennuls,' dat's me, you know, bushie; 'burlman rennuls,' says he, 'you's 'tirely welcome to de skelps, ef you kin take 'em widout cuttin' an' spilin' de skin.' h-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" and the black braggart laughed as sincerely as if he were for the moment self-deceived into thinking that he was dealing in facts. but quickly recovering his lofty air, which had vanished while he laughed, the fighting negro thus proceeded with his observations upon the lights of the age: "now, ef you'd like to know my 'pinion as to who's de greates' injun-fighter in de worl', den says i agin, it ain't colonel boone; i will say it ain't colonel logan; yes, an' i'll say it ain't giner'l clarke; but dat man, sir, is----" an emphatic pause, "cap'n simon kenton. cap'n simon kenton, sir, is de greates' injun-fighter in de worl'." "does cap'n kenton take scalps?" inquired bushie. "does he take de skin uf a bar when he traps it? does he take de tail-feathers uf a eagle when he shoots it? course he takes skelps. how'd people know he had kilt de red varmints ef he didn't hab de top-nots to show fur it? cap'n kenton, sir, is a man uf grit. none o' yo' tender-hearted flinch in cap'n kenton; ef he's got any tender feelin's in him, dey's all fur us white folks. flint, sir, flint, lead, an' steel is all he has fur de red rubbish." "but mother says it is wrong for white men to take scalps," observed bushie. whereat the fighting negro was somewhat taken aback, and for a full minute quite at a loss for an answer which would justify himself and captain kenton in their practice of taking scalps, and yet not gainsay miss jemima's disapprobation of the same. but after taking a bird's-eye view of the landscape before him, and with it a bird's-eye view of the subject, he was his collected self again. he began his answer by observing, in a general way, that miss jemima doubtless meant that the practice in question was wrong so far only as it concerned the duties and obligations of husbands and fathers, without intending her stricture to apply to bachelors, like himself and captain kenton. having thus skillfully accommodated both sides of the matter in dispute, the fighting negro, with a persuasive gesture, wound up his vindication thus: "so, you see, bushrod, jemimy rennuls wus right, an' burlman rennuls wus right. dare's reason in all things. now, when you grows up an' gits to be a married man, den comes i to you an' says, 'cap'n rennuls;' dat'll be you, you know, bushie; 'cap'n rennuls,' says i, 'you's a married man now, got a wife, gwine to be a man of fam'ly, den it won't do fur you to take skelps. jes' leab dat part uf de business to de bucks dat hain't got no do's, like me an' cap'n kenton. i say, cap'n rennuls, don't you take no skelps, yo' wife won't like it.'" and the fighting negro triumphantly crossed his legs. a delicate and difficult question had been settled, and to the entire satisfaction of at least one party concerned. now, between these two personages of our story, so widely different from each other in size, age, color, and condition, there existed, as doubtless has already been discovered, a sort of mutual-admiration understanding, which always kept them on the best of terms one with another, no matter how roughly they might be at rubs with the rest of the world: the black giant making a household idol, so to speak, of his little master; the little master a pattern, so to speak, of the black giant. so, when the pattern crossed his legs, the idol needs must cross his legs likewise. but in the act, the rail on which he was sitting, giving a sudden turn, marred the new attitude before it was fairly assumed; when, up with a flourish, flew the little naked heels, as high as the little coon-skin cap had been, and backward tumbled the household idol into a dense clump of pea-vines which, with a smart sprinkling of briers, grew in the fence-corner behind him. in an instant the little man had vanished, and there instead lay sprawling a yelling urchin; the yelling, however, considerably smothered by his coon-skin cap rammed down over his mouth, and by his two shirts turned up over his head. with a swing of his huge limbs that made the knitted panels shake and rattle, burl had flung himself over the fence, and was now engaged in the ticklish task of extricating his little master from amongst the vines and briers, the latter being just sufficiently thick to spice the disaster. when he had succeeded in fishing him out, pulled down the shirts, and pushed up the cap, he began vigorously rubbing the bare young legs with the palm of his hand, spitting upon it, the better, as he said, to draw out the smarting and the stinging of the brier-scratches. then setting his idol, still howling, upon his own panel of the fence, burl began looking about him with wide-open eyes, as if in quest of something lost, wondering the while what could have become of his little man. "has he tuck de wings uf a duck an' flew away?"--giving a broad stare at the open sky, then, with a disappointed shake of the head, added: "n-o-h. has he tuck de claws uf a coon an' clum a tree?"--attentively scanning the tree-tops. "n-o-h," with another disappointed shake of the head. "may be he's changed hisself into a groun'-squirrel, an' crep' into a hollow log"--peeping narrowly into the hollow trunk of a fallen tree near by, "n-o-h. den whar can my little man a-went to?"--now quite desperate, taking a general survey of the neighboring country, and scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb. "'pon my honor, i b'lieve he's plowin' on tudder side de fiel'; thought i heerd him a-whistlin ober dar"--feigning to listen for a moment. "n-o-h; jes' bob white a-whistlin' ober dar. den sholey he's tuck his gun an' went to de lick to shoot us a buffalo calf for dinner; or, if not dat, he's went a injun-huntin' wid my frien' cap'n kenton. sho's you bawn, he's went a injun-huntin' wid my frien' cap'n kenton. w'y, dar he is!" exclaimed he with delighted surprise, bringing his eyes at last to bear upon his little master, who, having made a manful effort to call back his manhood, was now the howling urchin no longer, though he did look a little chap-fallen, nor had he yet left off rubbing his legs. "dar's my little man, come back to tell me how my frien' cap'n kenton is gittin' along. while he was gone i thought i heerd a buffalo bull-calf ober dar in de woods a bellerin' as if grumbo had him by de tail; but when i went to look fur him i couldn't find him. den i thought it mus' be a wilecat kitten a-mewin' ober dar in de woods, but couldn't find a kitten nudder. wonder ef my little man couldn't tell me what it was i heerd." the little man looked as if he knew nothing at all about the matter, and was quite willing to take burl's word for it and let the noise in question pass either for the bellowing of a buffalo bull-calf or for the mewing of a wild-cat kitten, he cared not a whistle which. by this time burl had climbed back over the fence into the field, and was now slowly turning his horse and plow to run his next furrow. "well, bushie, me an' ol' corny's had our blow. so we mus' pitch in agin an' go to scratching', an' keep a-scratchin' an' keep a-scratchin'; ef we don't, our little marster won't hab no roasin'-ears fur summer, no johnny-cakes an' punkin-pies fur winter. so you jes' stay whar you is, an' when de dinner horn blows i'll put you on ol' cornwallis an' take you home a-ridin'." and with a pleasant smell of fresh earth and growing herbs floating about them in the air, plow and plowman went their way, the singing recommencing with the work, as naturally as consequence follows cause: "squirly is a pretty bird, he carries a bushy tail, he eats up all de farmer's corn an' hearts it on de rail. he hearts it on de rail, young gals, he hearts it on de rail." louder and louder, higher and higher rose the giant voice, till filling all the hollow clearing, it overflowed the leafy walls of forest green in waves of jocund and melodious sound. chapter iv. how somebody was lost in the paradise. for an hour or two the plowing and singing went cheerily on; bushie, the while, shifting his perch upon the fence to keep himself on a line with the furrow next to be run. when the plow was not in sight he amused himself by watching the squirrels at play, or the birds at nest-building, or the crows where they still kept their station on the blasted limb of the oak. by this time the assembly had grown more noisy and obstreperous than ever, till finally, all order and decorum lost, the big talk broke up in a big row, the radicals turning tails upon each other and flying away to the north and the south; the conservatives, understanding each other no better, flying away to the east and the west. each time, as he neared the end of his furrow, burl cutting short his singing the moment he spied his little master, would send forward at the top of his stentorian lungs his wonted greeting, "i yi, you dogs!" this was a favorite expression with him, and variously to be understood according to circumstances. treading the peace-path barefooted and shirt-sleeved, he was wont to use it as a form of friendly greeting, in the sense of "hail fellow well met," or "good-morning, my friend," or as a note of brotherly cheer, equivalent to "hurrah, boys!" or "bully for you!" but treading the war-path, moccasin-shod and double-shirted, with rifle on shoulder and hatchet in belt, he used the expression in an altogether different sense. then it became his battle-cry, his note of defiance, his war-whoop, his trumpet-call to victory and scalps. taken by the indians, who never heard it but to their cost, it was understood as the english for "die, die, red dogs!" while making his turns between rounds, burl, glancing complacently up at his little master, would make some remark about the squirrels and the birds who seemed to be in a "monstrous" fine humor that morning, or about the crows who seemed to be in a "monstrous" bad humor: "de corn now gittin' too tall an' strong for 'em to pull up--de black rogues!" once or twice it was a sympathetic inquiry about "our little legs," with a comment upon the efficacy of spit for drawing out "de smartin' an' stingin' of brier-scratches." oftener, however, than any thing else, it was the assurance that by the time the plowing should reach a certain shell-bark hickory that stood near the middle of the field the dinner-horn would be blowing, when the little man should go home "a-ridin' ol' cornwallis;" the little man always answering this with a grin of glad anticipation. the turn by this time fairly made, the plowing and singing would recommence: "come, come! come, corn, come! burl a-plowin' in de fiel', a-singin' fur de roasin'-ear to come. "come, come! come, corn, come! burl a-plowin' in de fiel', a-singin' fur de johnny-cake to come. "come, come! come, punkin, come! burl a-plowin' in de fiel', a-singin' fur de punkin-pie to come." on nearing his eighth or ninth round, burl was on the point of shouting forward the accustomed greeting, when he saw that his little master had vanished from the fence. at this, however, he was not surprised, naturally supposing that the boy having grown weary with waiting so long, and lonesome, had returned to the fort. now the fact was, burl had gone to the field that morning before captain kenton had called at the station with the intelligence of having seen fresh indian traces in the wood but a few miles from the place. this circumstance was therefore unknown to him, else had the faithful fellow never lost sight of his little master until he had seen him safe back home. so, without any suspicion of danger, he went on singing at his work as before: "wher' now is our hebrew childern? wher' now is our hebrew childern? wher' now is our hebrew childern? safe in de promis' lan'. dey went up frum de fiery furnace, dey went up frum de fiery furnace, dey went up frum de fiery furnace, safe to de promis' lan'. by an' by we'll go an' see dem, by an' by we'll go an' see dem, by an' by we'll go an' see dem, safe in de promis' lan'." thus questioning, answering, promising, the song, or perhaps hymn it might be called, went on through several stanzas, telling in dolorous cadences how our good "ol' danel went up frum de den uf lions;" how "our good ol' 'ligy went up on wheels uf fire;" how "our good ol' samson went up wid de gates uf gaza;" how "our good ol' noah went up frum de mount uf areat;" how "our good ol' mary went up in robes uf whiteness," etc., all "safe to de promis' lan'," the comforting assurance over and over repeated that "by an' by we'll go an' see dem, safe in de promis' lan'." long as it was, the song was much too short for big black burl, as indeed was every song that he sung. but being a "dab" at improvising words, as well as music, he could easily spin out his melodies to any length he pleased. so, on getting to the end of his hymn, ignoring the fact, he went right on _ad libitum_ until he had sent up, in some manner, scriptural or not, or from some locality, scriptural or not, every good old hebrew he could think of, safe to the promised land, winding up thus with our good old jonah: "wher' now is our good ol' jonah? wher' now is our good ol' jonah? wher' now is our good ol' jonah? safe in de promis' lan'. he went up frum--i don't know wher' frum; he went up frum--i don't know wher' frum; he went up frum--i don't know wher' frum, safe to de promis' lan'. by an' by we'll go an' see him; by an' by we'll go an' see him; by an' by we'll go an' see him, safe in de promis' lan'." having got to the end of his hebrew rope, the singer, pausing but long enough for a "gee up, corny," to his slow-paced plow-horse, passed recklessly from sacred to profane, and fell to roaring "ol' zip coon," from which to pass in turn, by a cut as short, to "hark! from the tombs a doleful sound." when the dinner-horn blew, he unhitched old cornwallis from the plow and, mounting him, rode leisurely home. having tied his horse to a long trough set on two wide red-oak stumps just outside the gate of the fort, and throwing in a dozen ears of corn, he went on into miss jemima's kitchen to get his own dinner. drawing a puncheon-stool up to the puncheon-table, he sat down to his noonday meal with an appetite which had been sharp enough from his morning labors, but to which his singing had lent an edge keen as a tomahawk. he had cut him a long, thick slice of bacon and was in the act of conveying the first solid inch of the savory fat to his lips when the fork thus loaded was stayed midway between plate and open mouth by the voice of his mistress, who came to the kitchen-door to inquire if bushie had not come in with him. burl looked quickly round, saying with a tone of surprise: "why, miss jemimy, hasn't bushie come home?" "no; nor has he been seen in or about the fort for more than three hours," replied the mother. bolting the solid inch of bacon which the while he had held poised on his fork, he rose quickly from the table and was hurrying out of the house when his mistress, with more alarm at heart than look or tone betrayed, inquired of him whither he was going. "jus' back to de fiel' ag'in to git bushie. come out to de fiel' whar i was plowin', he did; staid a good smart bit, settin' on de fence, waitin' fur de dinner-horn to blow, when he was to ride ol' corny home. he's shorely laid down on de grass in de fence-corner an' went to sleep. but i'll go an' bring him home right away." and with this explanation burl was off to the field again, though with but the slightest hope of finding his little master out there asleep on the grass in the fence-corner, as he had suggested. on reaching the spot where he had last seen the boy he made a careful examination of the ground, and it was not long before his keen and practiced eye discovered in the crushed leaves and bruised weeds the traces of three indians. the savages had evidently crept upon the child and made him their captive before he could cry for help, while he who would have rescued him or perished was blithely singing at his work on the other side of the field. for several moments big black burl stood as if dumbfounded, gazing fixedly down at the hated foot-prints in the leaves. but when he raised his eyes and beheld the cabin where, deserted and lonely, it stood in the midst of the waving green, another look came into his face--one of vengeful and desperate determination right terrible to see. speeding back to the fort, he found his mistress standing in her cabin door-way waiting and watching his return. no need to be told the afflicting tidings, she read them in his hurried gait and dismayed countenance. she uttered not a cry, shed not a tear, but, with lips and cheeks blanched as with the hue of death, she sunk down upon a wooden settee that stood close behind her. and there, at the door of her desolate house, the widowed mother sat--continued to sit through the long, sad, weary hours of absence and suspense, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north. fortunately about a dozen of the hunters belonging to the station had just come in from the forest, who, upon learning what had happened, promptly volunteered to set out at once in pursuit of the savages and rescue, if possible, the unlucky bushie, the boy being a great favorite with everybody at the fort. no more work in the field that day for big black burl--he must now leave the peace-path to tread the war-path. but, before setting out, he must touch up his toilet a little, for, though careless enough of his personal appearance as a field-hand, our colored hero took a great pride in coming out on grand occasions like the present in a guise more beseeming his high reputation as an indian-fighter. so, going at once to his own cabin, where he kept all his war and martial rigging perpetually ready for use in a minute's notice, he dashed through the process with a celerity quite astonishing in one who was usually so heavy and deliberate in his motions. first, he drew on his moccasins, each of which was roomy enough to hide a half-grown raccoon; then, over his buckskin breeches he tied a pair of bear-skin leggins, hairy and wide; then, he drew on over his buckskin under-shirt a bear-skin hunting-shirt ample enough for the shoulders of hercules, securing it at the waist with a broad leathern belt, into which he stuck his sheathed hunting-knife and his tomahawk, or battle-ax it might be called, it was so ponderous. his ammunition-pouch and powder-horn--that on the left-hand side, this on the right--he then slung over his shoulders by two wide leathern straps, crossing each other on breast and back. last, he doffed his coon-skin cap and donned another of bear-skin, more portentous still in its dimensions; and with betsy grumbo--his long, black rifle; the longest, so said, in the paradise--gleaming aslant his shoulder, the fighting nigger sallied from his cabin, completely armed and rigged for war. giving a loud, fife-like whistle, he was instantly joined by a huge brindled dog of grim and formidable aspect. as he passed by the door where his mistress sat, in her mute, tearless, motionless grief, he turned to her for a moment, cap in hand, and with terrible sublimity said: "miss jemimy, you see me come back wid bushie, or you neber see yo' ol' nigger no mo'." he then joined the white hunters, who by this time were ready likewise, and led the way to the spot where he had last seen his unfortunate little master. chapter v. how grumbo figured in the paradise. the brindled dog, until his part of the work in hand should be made known to him, stalked on with an air of grim, consequential indifference, keeping his muzzle close under the shadow of his master's hunting-shirt, content for the time with the little that might be seen ahead from between the moving legs before him. now, grumbo--for such was the name of the brindled dog--was a personage of consequence in his day, and is to play a rather prominent part in our story. therefore, it were but due him, in memory of his great exploits, and of the signal service which on this particular occasion he rendered the settlement, that we draw a full-length portrait of our canine hero likewise. had you met his dogship in the fort, you would, at first glance, have put him down in your mind as an uncommonly large, well-conditioned wolf, whose habits and tastes had been so far civilized as to admit of his tolerating the companionship of man and subsisting on a mixed diet; but at the second glance, noting his color, and the shape of his head, with a certain loftiness of mien and suppleness of backbone--neither of which is ever to be found in the wolf--you would have pronounced him a little lion, shorn of his brindled mane. on further acquaintance, however--i cannot say intimate acquaintance, his excellency being of far too reserved a turn for that--you would have discovered him to be a most remarkable dog, whose character was well worth your study, made up as it was of every quality deemed most desirable in the larger breeds of his race. he had the obstinacy of the bull-dog, the fierceness of the blood-hound, the steadiness of the stag-hound, the sagacity of the shepherd-dog, and the faithfulness and watchfulness of the mastiff, with the courage and strength of them all combined. to this imposing array of canine virtues, those who enjoyed his more intimate acquaintance--the few--would have added the affectionate docility of the newfoundland, and the delicate playfulness of the italian greyhound. it must be owned, however, that he displayed little enough of the last-named qualities, excepting to burlman reynolds, jemima reynolds, and little bushie, in whose society only would he now and then deign to unbend--_i.e._, untwist and wag his iron hook of a tail--and, for a few moments snatched from the press of public business, play the familiar and agreeable. if he ever caught any one railing at grumbo--any colored individual, that is, in bad odor with his dogship--and cursing him for a misbegotten wolf, big black burl would be all afire in the flash of a gun-flint, and ready to pulverize the false muzzle that dared dab the fair name of his four-footed chum with a slur so foul. sometimes, though, the white hunters, also, would curse grumbo--denouncing him as a dog too wanting in the milk of human kindness to be allowed a place in human society, unmuzzled, excepting when on duty. too mindful of what was expected of him as a man of color to give his white superiors the denial flat, burl would, nevertheless, hasten to disprove the charge, by citing some act of signal service rendered by the injured one to his master at some moment of sore, besetting need. for example: one day the fighting nigger was out in the forest "a injun huntin'," his trusted dog on a hot scent far in advance, his trusty gun, betsy grumbo, in "bitin'" order, on his shoulder. on a sudden, with no other warning than a rough chorus of growls at his very heels, he found himself set upon by a whole family of bears, who spying him, as he passed unawares too near the door of their domestic den, had sallied out, higgledy-piggledy, to give the intruder battle. to step to one side and with the bullet already in his rifle lay the old he-bear, who led the onslaught, dead on the spot was easy enough; so would it have been as easy to dispatch the old she-bear, had she but allowed him time to reload his piece. but enraged at the sight of her slain lord, and afflicted at the thought of her fatherless cubs at her heels, the dam, rearing upon her hind legs, bore down upon him at once, at the same time growling out to her litter to fall, tooth and nail, on the enemy in flank and rear. so sudden was the charge that the unlucky burl had barely time to thrust out his gun against the chief assailant, when he found himself completely beset. wielding his unloaded rifle as he would a pike--poking, pushing, punching therewith at the infuriated dam, in throat and breast and ribs--he contrived for a time to keep himself clear of the terrible claws continually making at him in such fierce, unwelcome greeting. but the odds were against the black hunter. swift to obey their mother's command, the cubs with their milk-teeth were pulling and tugging at his buckskin breeches in a manner exceedingly lively, which, though it did not reach his skin, was making heavy demands on his breath, fast growing short and shorter. he could not hope to hold out long in a contest so unequal. where was grumbo--his trusty, his courageous grumbo? why was he not there to succor his master in that hour of peril? in his extremity he essayed to whistle for his dog, but his breath was too far spent for that. mustering up all the remaining strength of his lungs, he sent pealing afar through the forest wilds the old familiar battle-cry, "i yi, you dogs!" at the same moment fetching the dam a poke of unusual vigor and directness, which brought her for once sprawling upon her back. but in the act, while yet his whole weight was thrown upon his right foot, one of the cubs, more sturdy than the rest, caught up his left foot by the top of the moccasin and continued to hold it up so stiffly as to reduce him to the necessity either of coming to his knees or of hopping about on one foot; and hop was what he did, encumbered as was the hopping limb with the rest of the litter. hardly had he given a hop with one foot and a kick with the other, to free himself from the obstinate little tormentors, when the dam, recovering herself in a twinkling, was bearing down upon him again on her hind legs with greater fury than ever. against such desperate odds how could he hold out longer, reduced as he was to an empty gun, one leg, and no dog? still hopping about on one foot and kicking with the other, he had unsheathed his hunting-knife to do what he might with that in the unmotherly hug which he felt must come at last, when here, in the nick of time, having heard his master's call from afar, the heroic grumbo came dashing up to the rescue. without yelp, or bark, or growl, or any other needless ado, this jewel of a dog laid hold of the she-bear's stump of a tail, which his instinct told him was the enemy's vulnerable point, and with a sudden, forcible, backward pull, brought her ladyship growling to her all-fours. the cubs, seeing their dam's extremity, left off worrying the legs of the almost breathless hunter to fall tooth and nail on the new enemy. but heeding them no more than so many fleas to be scratched off at his leisure, grumbo continued to maintain his vantage-ground, holding the she-bear still by the tail with jaws inflexible as death, and merely turning from right to left as she turned from right to left, to keep himself on a line with her and beyond the reach of her claws and teeth. meanwhile, having inspected betsy grumbo, to make sure that she had sustained no damage in the conflict, burl put her in "extry bitin' order" by loading her with two bullets and a double charge of powder. then stepping a few paces to one side, so as not to endanger grumbo, he took deliberate aim and let the dam have it full in the body, just behind the shoulder. with a fierce growl she sunk down lifeless by the side of her slain lord, the jaws of the dog still clinched like a vice upon her tail. "an' dat's de way," to finish burl's own story in his own words, "burlman rennuls an' grumbo woun' up de ol' she-bar. den goes i up to de cubs, whar dey still kep a-gnawin' an' a-scratchin' an' a-clawin' ober grumbo, an' tickles 'em to death wid de pint uf my knife. den i looks roun' an' dare's grumbo still a-holdin' on to de varmint's tail like a dead turtle to a corn-cob. says i: 'grumbo, onscrew yo' vice an' stop yo' chawin'; de varmint's dead. don't you know betsy grumbo alwus bites in de heart, an' bars never play 'possum?' den grumbo lets go slow an' easy as uf he's afeerd de varmint wus makin' a fool uf him an' burlman rennuls, too. den we skins de bars, an' we kindles a fire; briles some uf de bar meat on de coals, streeks uf lean an' lumps uf fat; an' den we sets down an' shakes hans--me an' grumbo--ober de sweetest dinner eber et in ol' kaintuck. an' now you say grumbo got no human feelin's in him. git out!" should any of the white hunters choose to hint a doubt as to the truth of this story, big black burl had but to point to the bear-skin bed in his cabin, on which he slept; to the bear-skin rug under the shed at his door, where grumbo slept by day and watched by night; to his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin hunting-shirt, and bear-skin war-cap--and the thing was settled and established beyond doubt or controversy. concerning these and the like points grumbo himself maintained a grim and dignified reserve, never speaking of them to common dogs, nor even to his master, excepting when the subject was forced upon him; though that was certainly frequent enough for wholesome airing. grand, gloomy, and peculiar, he sat upon his bear-skin, a maneless lion, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. aloof from the vulgar pack, he lived and moved and had his being but in the atmosphere of the fighting nigger, in whose society only could he hope to find a little congenial companionship, and to whom only he unbosomed the workings of his mighty heart. methinks i see him now, with that air of consequence and mystery hanging about him, like the fog from his own shaggy hide after a winter wetting; with those short ears perpetually cocked, as if he felt that his destiny was cast in an age and a land where to hunt, kill, and utterly root out bears, panthers, wolves, and indians from the top of the earth was the sole end and aim of existence. i see him with that great brush of a tail curled tightly--nay, inflexibly--over his right leg, as if his was a will and a spirit not to be subdued or shaken by any power less than that irresistible and inexorable fate which has declared, and without repeal, that "every dog shall have his day." all this methinks i see, and as vividly too as if i had the living grumbo before my bodily eyes; for, in the course of his long and eventful career, it grew to be as characteristic of our canine hero as, twenty years later, became a little cocked hat, a gray great-coat, military boots, and a certain attitude, of that famous corsican, napoleon the first--commonly, vulgarly, bogusly called the great. chapter vi. how big black burl figured on the war-path by day. having followed big black burl to the spot where he had last seen his little master, the white hunters made a narrow inspection of the indian traces on the ground, which had evidently been left by feet in too great haste for much attempt at concealment or disguise. the black hunter then set his dog on the trail, who, with that grim fixedness of purpose betokened by a certain iron twist of the tail, now took the lead, and the chase for life and death began. thus surely led, they followed the trail with rapid ease for about two miles, when it was lost in another trail, larger and quite as fresh, made, it would seem from the number of foot-prints, by at least twenty indians. this they followed likewise, till at the distance of five or six miles farther on in the forest it brought them to the banks of a small, shallow river, just where it was formed by two tributaries, or "forks" as we western people call such streams before they unite and pursue their course together. here the trail suddenly disappeared; nor was there any sign of its reäppearance on the opposite bank, nor, so far as could be seen from that point, on the banks of either fork. now, of all the stratagems for baffling pursuit practiced in indian warfare, none perhaps are so often resorted to as that of wading up and down shallow streams, in whose beds no foot-print may be left that eye of man can discern, or scent thereof upon the water that nose of dog can detect. that the savages they were now pursuing had to this intent availed themselves of one or the other of these three streams there could be no doubt, but hardly one chance in ten that they had chosen the main stream, as that ran in the direction of the settlement, and was, in fact, that self-same little river which turned the little log grist-mill at fort reynolds, eight miles below. it was, then, all but certain that the indians had waded up one of the two forks, whose rocky channels wound among a group of low, rugged hills, which browed the more level country around the station; but which fork had been chosen for the purpose, the most experienced hunter of them all was unable to determine, as the wily savages had left not a tell-tale trace behind, and the two streams seemed equally favorable to the success of the stratagem in question. in order, then, to double their chances of overtaking the enemy, though it would double the odds against themselves should they succeed in doing so, it was resolved to divide the party into two squads--each to ascend a fork until the trail should reäppear upon its banks, then to notify the other, when reuniting they would again pursue the chase together. as there was one chance in ten that the indians--some of them at least, and perhaps the very ones who had the little captive in custody--had descended the main stream, big black burl determined to try the fortunes of war in that direction on his own account, feeling quite sure that without any further aid of his the white hunters would be equal to any emergency that should arise in their quarter. besides, as we have already seen, the fighting nigger usually chose to be alone when out on expeditions of this kind, partly because his instinct told him that if he would keep in good odor with his white superiors he must not rub against them more than occasion should absolutely demand, but chiefly that he might enjoy the undivided honor of the scalps taken by his own hand in war, should such be his good fortune. so, making a third squad of himself and dog, the black hunter detached himself from the white hunters, and three parties set out on their several ways. at a signal from his master, understood perfectly by the sagacious animal, grumbo, wading and swimming, made his way to the opposite side of the river, where, shaking the water from his shaggy hide, he turned and at a slow dog-trot began following the windings of the shore, keeping his keen and practiced nose bent with sharp and critical attention upon the ground. abreast, with the water between them, burl at brisk pace followed the windings of his shore, keeping his keen and practiced eye bent likewise with sharp and critical attention upon the ground, that not a mark or sign unusual in grass, leaves, mud, or sand might pass unnoted by. at intervals along the banks lay wide beds of solid rock, or pebbles mixed with mud or sand, left high and dry by the summer shrinking of the stream, where the indians might easily have quitted the water without leaving a trace perceptible to the eye. at such places burl would call grumbo over to help the eye with the more unerring nose, when, having satisfied themselves that the trail had not yet left the water, the dog, swimming and wading, would return to his side, and abreast the two go on as before. thus they proceeded till they had searched the banks for nearly a mile and the dog had made his third or fourth passage. coming then to a bed of limestone rock which spread wide and dry between the edge of the water and the skirts of the forest, grumbo sent over to his master a short, low bark, which said to the ear addressed, as plainly as words could have said it, "the red varmints!" whereat, having satisfied himself that the fording was not more than belly-deep to a tall horse, burl slipped off his moccasins and leggins, and rolling up his buckskin breeches till nothing was to be seen below his hunting-shirt but his great black legs, now in his turn waded over to the dog's side of the river, sure that here was the place where the indians had quitted the water and taken again to the woods. in a trice he had reärranged his toilet, and now was briskly following the unerring grumbo on the rediscovered trail. but for more than fifty yards after quitting the rocky margin of the stream, not a sign there could he discern, so artfully had the cunning savages concealed or disguised their foot-prints. cunning as they may have thought themselves, it was all as plain to grumbo's far-scenting nose as it could have been to burl's far-sighted eye, and he a reader, had they written it in letters on the ground, "here we are, and here we go." indeed, they had not advanced more than a hundred paces farther, when the traces of three indians became distinctly visible in the leaves and soft vegetable mold of the woods--as if they who had left them there had thought that as they had thus far so completely concealed their trail they might thenceforth proceed with less circumspection, as now quite beyond the risk of pursuit. on closely inspecting the foot-prints, burl knew by certain signs--such as the unusual slenderness of one and the mark of a patched moccasin in the other--that two of them had been left by feet whose traces he had examined at the corn-field fence. the third foot-print he had not seen that day, he was sure, nor its like until that moment, never in all his border experience. it was the longest and, excepting his own, the broadest foot-print he had ever seen, and must have been left there by the tread of a giant. the individual, then, who had captured his little master, and had him now in keeping, might not be of this party; and so far as concerned the main object of this their solitary adventure, they might, after all, be on a cold trail. nevertheless, they pushed on with speed and spirit. they had not proceeded more than a furlong farther, when grumbo stopped short, and giving a double sniff uttered a quick, low yelp both of surprise and joy, so it seemed, which said, as plainly as words could have said it, "halloo! what's this?" then, after another quick sniff or two, looking up at his master and expressing himself by wag of tail and glance of eye, he added: "good luck in the wind ahead." that grumbo had actually expressed this much may fairly be inferred from burl's answer: "o you's got a sniff of our pore little master's sweet little feet, has you, at las'? well, we kin foller our noses now an' know whar we gwine." had burl needed any interpretation of his dog's language in this particular instance, he would have found it, a few yards farther on, in two little foot-prints left clearly impressed in the clayey margin of a forest brook but a few hours before. he stopped to look at them, and his big eyes filled with tears of pitying tenderness at the sight. grumbo, too, smelt of them, and as he slowly drew in the familiar scent, his wild eyes grew almost human in their look of affection, like those of a newfoundland. burl now turned to inspect more narrowly the foot-prints of the indians, which were likewise left deeply impressed in the stiff clay of the brook's margin. nearest to those of the boy's were the traces of the slender-footed indian, who, in the act of taking the long stride that was to clear him of the water, seemed to have taken a short step aside to pick the little fellow up and lift him over dry-shod. this was further evident from the reäppearance of the little foot-prints on the other bank, side by side, instead of one in advance of the other. farthest to the left were the traces of the savage who wore the patched moccasin. between them, broad, long, and deep, and at huge strides apart, were the foot-prints of the giant. at these traces of some redoubtable warrior, so it would seem, big black burl, with grave and fixed attention, gazed for many moments. then, as if to bring the dimensions of the savage more vividly before his mind's eye, he measured one of the prints by laying his own foot over it, and found that, although not the broader of the two, it was the longer, from which it was fairly to be inferred that the red giant must be at least seven feet high, standing in his moccasins. "shorely, grumbo," said the black hunter, addressing his dog, "it mus' be dat black thunder, de big injun we hears de white hunters talk so much about. dey say he blacked his face wid gunpowder when he fus' started out a-fightin', an' ain't neber gwine to wash it off tel he's got 'nough uf us white folks's skelps to rig up his huntin'-shirt an' make it fine. i jes' as soon de ol' scratch git de grips uf his clutches on our little master, as dat black thunder. it's 'you tickle me an' i tickle you' betwixt him an' de ol' scratch. o you ol' black thunder!" with a sudden burst of energy, apostrophizing the absent brave; "jes' let de fightin' nigger git de whites uf his eyes on yo' red ugliness once, he'll give you thunder--gunpowder thunder, he will. jes' let betsy grumbo git her muzzle on yo' red ugliness once, may be she won't bark an' bite! may be she won't make yo' fine feathers fly! may be she won't, now! o plague yo' red hide! yug, yug, yug!" and with this terrible malediction, the black giant shook his mighty fist at the foot-prints of the red giant in the mud--grumbo catching his master's spirit, and giving the echo in a deep savage growl. having lost but a few moments in making these observations, with renewed spirit and vigor they resumed the pursuit. burl now felt confident that the chances of war were decidedly in their favor, let them but come upon the enemy under screen of night and undiscovered; and for more than this he would not ask, to bring his war-path to a brilliant end. ever and anon, after they trudged on for a mile or two, grumbo, fetching a harder sniff than usual, would give one of his quick, low yelps of satisfaction--when his master would know that at such places the indians, after carrying their little captive for some distance, to rest his young limbs a bit, had here set him down again to walk. this usually happened on their reaching the tops of the higher hills, or the heads of the longer and more rugged hollows. whenever they came to where the ground was moist and the trail was left distinctly marked, burl always noticed that the boy's foot-prints were nearest those of the slender-footed indian, as if they had walked together side by side; and by certain signs, similar to those he had observed at the first brook, he knew that the same hand had carried the little fellow over all the streams which ran across the trail. nothing further happened to break the monotony of the tramp till, after having left full many a mile of tangled forest behind them, they came, late in the day, to where, a little to one side, lay a dead eagle, stripped of its magnificent plumage. burl turned it over, and perceiving that the bullet-wound which had caused its death was still fresh and open, he knew that the bird had been brought down but a few hours before. here again, clearly to be distinguished from those of the others, were to be seen the traces of the boy and the slender-footed indian, still side by side, and going out to the dead eagle, where they were repeated many times, as if these two had lingered around the fallen monarch of the air, while the others walked slowly onward. now the sun was gliding swiftly down the steep slopes of the western sky, and long and somber stretched the shadows of the hills across the lonely, unhomed valleys of the immense wilderness. full many an irksome mile of bushy dell and rocky hill and forest-crested ridge lay traversed and searched behind them; untraversed and unsearched, lay as many more before them. where should the weary little feet find rest in the night now coming on? the little birds had their nests, the little squirrels their holes: should the forlorn little captive find where to lay his head in those inhospitable wilds? and far away, at the door of her desolate home, still sat the widowed mother, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north. and there, at the foot of the hill, the little log grist-mill, making the little log fort yet sadder and lonesomer every hour, still went on humming and droning its dolorous tune--a tune whose burden seemed ever to be, "what a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" chapter vii. how big black burl figured on the war-path by night. by this time the sun was almost down. since early morning, not a morsel of food had burlman reynolds tasted, excepting the solid inch of bacon at dinner-time, which, as he had bolted it half unknown to himself at the moment, and in his trouble of mind had long since forgotten, could hardly have had more effect in breaking his fast than had he merely dreamed of eating a meal. a gnawing sensation under his belt now began to warn him that it was high time he should be ministering to the wants of the inner man. aware that while out on the war-path he could not safely trust to the tell-tale rifle for procuring food, he had, with the foresight of a true warrior, fortified himself against future need, by slipping into his ammunition-pouch, on quitting the fort, a double handful of jerked venison. so, making answer at last to the call of hunger--sons of ebony are not wont to be tardy in answering such calls--he drew out his prog, and without abating his speed, lest time be lost, ministered to the inner man as he walked along. nor did his four-footed comrade-in-arms--who had an inner man also, or rather inner dog, to be ministered to likewise--fail to receive a liberal share of the store in hand. what was offered him, grumbo took and ate grimly, without any show of relish or satisfaction--merely, so it would seem, as something not to be well dispensed with under the circumstances; perhaps as a valuable means to the end they jointly had in view. our two adventurers had not finished their pedestrian supper till the sun was set and twilight stealing on apace, deepening with its glimmering shades the dusky shadows of the wilderness. soon it was too dark for the trail to be seen; nevertheless, they pushed on with unabated speed, the hunter following his dog, the dog following his nose. a dog's nose may be followed, and nobody made the victim of misplaced confidence; and this is more than can be said of a man's nose, which is always sure to be at fault from a cold, or out of joint in some way, when the owner has nothing better to guide him. the black hunter now moved with greater circumspection--lest stumbling upon the enemy unawares, thus warning them of their danger, he should cheat himself of the chances of war, which he could hope to hold in his favor so long as he had concealment and secrecy on his side. so, while the dog followed the invisible trail, he followed the scarcely visible dog--kept a sharp lookout about him, expecting every moment to catch the gleam of the indian camp-fire from among the trees. but, as if to render security doubly secure, the savages seemed bent on making a long day's tramp of it, before allowing themselves to halt for refreshment and repose. at length the night was full upon them, with no light to guide them through those trackless solitudes save the feeble glimmer of the stars through the openings in the tree-tops; still not a sign of the flying foe, whose unseen trail went evermore winding wearily on through the tangled wilds. now and then, from some distant quarter of the forest, were to be heard the howling of wolves, abroad on their nightly hunt. then from an opposite quarter, but nearer, the dismal whoopings of the horned owl would send their quavering echoes creeping among the tree-tops, which, swaying to the night winds, filled the air with noises, like half-formed whispers in the ear. then the shrill cry of the dingle-ambushed panther would ring out through the black stillness, like the shriek of a terrified woman. at one time, hardly had these sounds of evil omen died away, when, on a sudden, there started up before them a tall shape, with long arms outstretched, and all of a ghastly whiteness. the black giant stopped short, fixedly staring before him--all in an instant weak as a limber-jack, the whites of his eyes showing through the dark like half-moons. the thing, there dimly seen in the dusk of the overhanging trees, was, as superstitious fancy pictured it to the eyes of burlman reynolds, the ghost of a white hunter who had been murdered and scalped in that lonely spot by the barbarous indians, and now, in his cold, cold winding-sheet, was lingering around his bones, till some kind soul should come along that way and give the precious relics christian burial. now, had burlman reynolds taken the second thought, he might have known that, even had a white man been murdered there, and left on top of the ground, his ghost would hardly be so unreasonable as to choose an hour so unseasonable for making such an appeal to the living in behalf of the bones; seeing it would be impossible to find the bones in the darkness, covered up as they must be by leaves and grass, as bones usually are under the circumstances--perhaps scattered far and wide by the wolves, as bones are apt to be, if left exposed to ravenous animals of the kind. all this, not to mention the slender likelihood that any one should be coming along that way with a spade and pick-ax, at that time of night, and so far from the settlements. further, had burlman reynolds taken the third thought, he might have known that even had the ghost of a slain hunter been encountered then and there, he should be found taking his nightly airing in a buckskin hunting-shirt, rather than in a winding-sheet; woven fabrics of all kinds being still very scarce and dear in the paradise, irish linen especially. though the saying was often in his mouth, burlman reynolds did sometimes fail to bear in mind that "dare's reason in all things." but soon bethinking him of his usual shift for reässurance on such occasions--his touch-stone, so to speak--burl turned to note what impression this grizzly shade of the night was making on the steadfast mind of grumbo. the dog was composedly waiting for him a few yards in advance; his nose, that infallible index of what was in the wind, turned straight before him in the direction of real dangers, not of imaginary horrors, which--let them be met with where they might--were rather to be sneezed at than sniffed at. whereat the black giant picked up heart enough to pick up a club and fling it at the ghastly apparition, half expecting to see the missile pass through without impediment, as missiles are wont to do under circumstances of the kind. but the club was cheeked by substance as solid as itself, the result being a sounding thump. thereupon, eyes and ears comparing notes, it was discovered that the thing of dread was nothing more than the twisted and splintered stump of a storm-felled hickory-tree, the white sap-wood whereof had been stripped of its bark by lightning. "pshaw! what a fool you is anyhow, burlman rennuls!" cried the fighting nigger, fetching the individual addressed a heavy blow of the fist on the breast. "sich a everlastin' ol' fool, always a gittin' our nose out o' j'int somehow, you don't know how; an' skeerin' at somethin' you don't know what, that even a dog won't stop to smell at. git out an' g' 'long!" and smarting under this stinging rebuke, the unlucky burlman reynolds hastened to rejoin his dog, who, doubtless, was wondering why his two-footed comrade should all on a sudden become so intensely interested in a splintered stump. just here, i am reminded to say a few words with regard to a certain trait in our hero's character--a trait not unfrequently to be noticed in men of his color, but which, so far as i am aware, has never been made matter of particular comment. viewing himself from a point within himself, big black burl was wont to look at himself as made up of two distinct individuals, who though having their home in the same body, using the same limbs, and taking their observations of the outward world through the same senses, were yet in his eyes quite different each from the other. one of these individuals was called the "fighting nigger," the other went by the name of "burlman reynolds." the fighting nigger was a man of great distinction, burlman reynolds a fellow of small repute. when the two distinguished themselves, the fighting nigger claimed the lion's share of the glory; but when they disgraced themselves, then burlman reynolds must take the dog's share of the blame. now, this petting and humoring had spoiled the fighting nigger not a little, making him arrogant and overbearing with his humbler self, even to the extent at times of a threat to kick him bodily out-of-doors. but burlman reynolds, the best-natured fellow in the world, perfectly understood what all this fuming and puffing meant, and only laughed in his sleeve thereat, knowing as well as anybody that after all the fighting nigger was very much of a big humbug. hardly had they recovered their wonted balance after this, the mere shade of an adventure, when the fighting nigger and burlman reynolds were again brought to a stand by an apparition of quite a different complexion. less than twenty yards above them, on the side of a hill they were now ascending, stood a dense thicket of low bushes, the ragged edge of which showed in dim relief against the sky. suddenly had risen and vanished, and now suddenly rose and vanished again, what appeared to be the plumed crests of three indians, who were watching the black hunter's approach, by fitful glimpses, from behind their place of ambush. dodging to one side behind a tree, the black giant cocked his gun and planted himself firm and square on his moccasins, this time as strong and sturdy from head to foot as a black-jack oak. these real dangers, that might be met and vanquished with powder, lead, and steel, had far less terrors for the fighting nigger than such empty shades of the night as but now had sprung out at him from the foggy fancy of burlman reynolds. but quickly bethinking himself again of his dog, his touch-stone in every emergency where his own senses were at fault, he cautiously peeped out from behind the tree. perceiving again that grumbo was waiting for him with wonted composure, as if there was nothing in the wind to sniff at, the fighting nigger was reässured, convinced that the eyes and fancy of burlman reynolds had played him another trick. what he had seen proved in reality nothing more than a leafy shrub, swayed up and down by the night winds. for many minutes past, the unseen trail had been leading them up the brushy side of a long, slow hill, to whose summit a few more weary steps now brought them. here, for the first time since the chase had begun, the brindled dog came to a halt of his own accord--stopping short, with a deep, heavy growl, scarce louder than the purr of a panther. burl looked before him and caught from afar the glimmer of a camp-fire, burning on the summit of an opposite hill. they had, indeed, at last come up with the flying foe, but under circumstances far less favorable to the execution of his plans than he had all along been proposing to himself. the camp-fire was blazing brightly, as if it bad just been kindled, or replenished with fresh fuel. around it the savages were moving to and fro, as could be seen by the shadows of their bodies cast by the light, and, so far from having betaken themselves to rest, were chatting away in high good humor, as might be guessed from their peals of laughter borne faintly to the ear from over the valley lying dark and deep between. aware that as matters stood at present the odds would be too largely against him to allow of his bringing his adventure to a crisis just then, burl wisely resolved to wait till the savages, overcome at last by fatigue, should yield themselves up to sleep--when, according to the plan already cast in his mind, he would steal upon them, and by the light of their own fire dispatch them with hatchet and knife, as noiselessly as might be, one after another in quick succession, before they could awake. but in order to fortify himself against desperate resistance, should it come, he would himself take a little refreshment and repose, the need of which, now that the long chase had come to a pause, he felt beginning to press sorely upon him; accordingly, he retired within the shadow of a spreading elm, which offered in its thick foliage shelter from the dews of night, and in its mossy roots pillowing for his head. here, placing himself on the ground with his back against the tree, he ate a few more slices of the jerked venison--grumbo, of course, receiving a comrade's share. then, stretching his huge length along the ground and bidding his dog stand sentinel while he slept, he composed himself to rest--not doubting, son of ebony though he was, but that he could easily rouse himself before day-break, when, god willing, he would work deliverance to his little master. and there lay big black burl asleep on his war-path. chapter viii. how big black burl figured in a quandary. a broad red glare, striking full upon his closed eyelids, and bringing with it the alarming thought that fort reynolds had been set on fire by an army of besieging indians, roused big black burl from the deepest, heaviest sleep he had ever known. with a huge start he had scrambled to his feet, and, blinded by the glare, was rushing out of his cabin, so he thought, to rescue miss jemima and bushie from the flames, when his foot striking something soft and bulky, down with a tremendous squelch he fell to the ground. the next moment, now wide-awake, he saw that he had stumbled over his trusty sentinel grumbo--when all the rest struck like a lightning flash upon his mind, fell like a thunderbolt upon his heart. sad, sad to tell, the night, the friendly night, like a slighted ally, was gone; and with it the golden chance for vengeance to the warrior, deliverance to the captive. the day, the unwished for, the unprayed for, the most unwelcome day, like a challenged foe, had come; and with it new perils, tenfold risk of failure and disaster. "o burlman reynolds, born of ebony as thou wert, how couldst thou so far lose sight of the besetting weakness of thy race, as thus, in a moment like this, on the critical edge of hazard and hope, to trust thy limbs and senses to the deceitful embraces of sleep? black sluggard, avaunt! the fighting nigger be upon thee!" full of the bitterest self-reproach, and with a feeling of disappointment bordering on despair, burl looked bewilderingly about him. the newly risen sun, as if taunting him with the sorry miscarriage of his well-laid plans, was winking at him with its great impertinent eye, from over the hairy shoulder of a giant hill, upon whose shaggy head stood smiling the beautiful first of june. curling up lightly into the clear morning air, from out a clump of lofty trees which plumed the crest of the opposite hill, rose a slender column of smoke, betokening the indians already astir, and busy about their breakfast over the rekindled camp-fire. observing this, and that he was running some risk of being discovered--if he had not betrayed himself already--burl slunk back into a thicket of papaw bushes which grew a a few paces behind him, whence, with safety he might reconnoiter the enemy, and acquaint himself with the nature of the neighboring grounds, if peradventure they must be made the field of present operations. at his feet, and putting an air-line of about four hundred yards between his hill and the more commanding height where the indians were camped, ran a beautiful little valley, having its head among a cluster of lofty hills, about two miles to the eastward, and open to view for about the same distance to the westward, where it lost itself among another cluster of hills. its sides sloped smoothly down to the banks of a small but deeply bedded river, which, though a stream of considerable volume during the winter, was now so drought-shrunken as at intervals to ripple over its rocky bottom, filling the valley with pleasant murmurings, audible from the tops of the hills around. the slopes, for a mile above and below, were nearly bare of trees, being covered instead with a luxuriant growth of blue-grass, the peculiar green whereof was relieved with pleasing effect by the rich purple bloom of the iron-weed, which in dense patches mottled all the glade. if we may except the grass and iron-weeds, which grew everywhere, and the clump of trees from out of which was rising the smoke of the indian camp-fire, the opposite hill showed a bare front, and sloped steeply, but smoothly, to the edge of the river, where it was snubbed short by an overleaning bank twenty feet high. to big black burl, as a game-hunter, this valley-glade, with its verdant slopes, affording the richest pasturage to the wild herds of the forest, would have been a right delectable prospect; but to him as an indian-hunter, it was a sight disheartening enough, running, as it did, square across his war-path, and seeming to offer scarce the shadow of a shade for an ambush, without which it would be desperation itself to push the adventure to the perilous edge. judging from the general direction he had traveled since quitting fort reynolds, and from the length of time it had taken him to reach that spot, he guessed that he must be within a very few miles of the ohio river--and if he suffered the savages to put that broad barrier between themselves and pursuit, scarcely one chance in a thousand could be left of his ever being able to overtake them and rescue his little master. now, or never, must be struck the telling blow. but how? at one moment he felt an impulse--so desperate seemed the case--to dash across the open valley, and scaling the untimbered height, right in the face of the watchful foe, open a way of deliverance to his little master; or, failing in the attempt, bring life to the bitter end at once. but this was a thought not worth the second thinking. and in another moment he had nearly determined to make a wide circuit, in order to gain the rear of the enemy's stronghold. perhaps by bursting suddenly on them from that unexpected quarter, he and grumbo, by the very strangeness, not to say terribleness, of their aspect, with their mingled howlings and yellings, might strike the indians with such a panic as to send them scampering, helter-skelter, down the hill, with never a glance behind them to see what manner of varmints they had at their heels--a man, or bogey, or devil. thus, by a bloodless victory, might they accomplish the chief object of their adventure--the rescue of their little master; though, to the fighting nigger's taste, a victory without blood were but as a dram without alcohol, gingerbread without ginger, dancing without fiddling--insipid entertainment. this brilliant stratagem, smacking more of burlman reynolds's lively fancy than of the fighting nigger's slower judgment, was another thought scarce worth the second thinking. after all their trouble, they might gain the rear of the enemy's hill only to find the camp deserted, the indians by that time well into their canoes, far out on the broad ohio, paddling peacefully for "home, sweet home." or, finding the enemy still there, they might not find the woods and thickets to ambush in and burst out from in the startling, overwhelming manner proposed, as the back of the hill might be as bare of trees and bushes as the grassy breast before him. what, then, was to be done? o that treacherous, that thievish sleep, which had robbed him of his golden chance! should he perish in the attempt to rescue his little master, what a sad account should he have to render the dead father of the sacred trust confided to him under a promise so solemn and binding! or, should his little master, in spite of his utmost efforts, be borne away into lasting captivity, how could he return to tell the widowed mother that she was childless, though the dear one, henceforth to be mourned as dead, had not yet gone to the dead father? o that he had not slept! and with the big tears in his eyes, bespeaking the dumb anguish of his heart, the poor fellow turned to take another and a seventh survey of the valley, if haply he might not spy out some feature of the ground which, hitherto unnoted and favoring concealment, might enable him, without too great risk of detection, to come at the enemy and the dear object of his adventure. the seventh essay--as the seventh essay so often does--resulted in bringing the fortunate turn. suddenly a look, first of recognition, then of glad surprise, made light all over that huge black face. fetching his thigh a mighty blow of the fist, the fighting nigger, abruptly and in the most peremptory manner, called upon burlman reynolds, that "sleepy-headed ol' dog," to come up and report what he had been doing all this time with "dem eyes o' his'n." failing to render satisfactory account, that "eberlastn' ol' fool" was taken severely to task by his superior, and ordered to hand over the organs in question to somebody--the fighting nigger, say--who could use them to some purpose, and find for himself, instead, a "pa'r uf specs." smarting under these biting sarcasms, burlman reynolds, that "blare-eyed ol' granny," retired to the back part of the house to keep as much as possible out of the way, while the fighting nigger, having now the undivided use of "our eyes," proceeded to look about them, if haply something might not yet be done to straighten "our nose," which that "balky ol' dog" had run into the wrong hole and got knocked out of joint. the particular object which had caught burl's eye was a mammoth sycamore-tree which, with two huge white arms outstretched, as if to embrace a graceful beech directly in front of it, overhung the mouth of a glen on the opposite side of the valley. this tree, by its peculiarities of form and situation, had served to call up in his mind a train of recollections which told him that he had seen that valley-glade before--though, up to this moment, in his trouble and confusion of mind, the remembrance of the circumstance had been dodging in and out of his memory like a half-forgotten dream. all was now as clear us the unwelcome daylight. three or four years before he had visited this spot with a company of white hunters, who, with captain kenton for their leader, had come thither on a hunting excursion, and for more than a week had kindled their camp-fire at night on the self-same hill where now was burning that of the indians whose footsteps he was dogging. the mammoth sycamore he had the best of reasons to remember, for just there, round and round its great hollow trunk, over and over its great gnarled roots, he had then fought the biggest bear-fight of all his hunting experience--forever excepting the one wherein grumbo had proved himself a dog of "human feelin's." from the acquaintance with the neighboring country which that excursion had enabled him to make, burl knew that the glen marked by the leaning sycamore ran in but about two hundred yards between the opposite hills, where it divided itself into two prongs, the more easterly one of which led up to a deep, dark dingle in the very core of the enemy's hill. on that side, as he remembered, the hill was heavily timbered and thicketed, thus offering excellent covert for ambush almost to the summit. with this discovery, or rather reäwakening in his mind of what he knew already, came a clearer perception of his surroundings, so that he could now see how, without great risk of discovery, he could gain the bottom of the valley by availing himself of a shallow gulley which, furrowing the slope to his left, and fringed with grass and iron-weeds, ran down to the bank of the river. a similar feature in the ground on the farther side would favor him in gaining the mouth of the glen. he now felt that his chances were again coming within the limits of the possible; and for more than this--so fair did it seem, in contrast with the apparent hopelessness of the prospect but a few moments before--he would not ask, to brave the adventure to the crisis, still bristling, as it was, with neck-or-nothing hazards. let them but succeed in reaching, undiscovered, the shelter of yonder glen, and all might yet go well with burlman reynolds and the fighting nigger. chapter ix. how big black burl figured in ambush. bidding grumbo follow, our hero once more set his face point-blank to his adventure. keeping a sharp eye on the enemy's height, he begun making his way down the gulley into the valley--screening his movements, as best he might, where the gulley was too shallow to conceal him, by walking along in a stooping posture behind the weeds, or creeping along upon his belly through the grass; grumbo, with great circumspection, doing likewise. in a surprisingly short time, considering this somewhat inconvenient mode of getting over ground, they had made their way to the hither bank of the river. but here they found themselves once more brought to a stand. directly in front, as burl ascertained by throwing in a pebble and noting the length of time between its sinking and the bubble's rising, the stream was almost, if not quite, six feet deep. to wade across, then go in battle with his garments all soaked and heavy with water--a serious hinderance, as this must be, to the free and lightsome play of his limbs--were but to give the nimble foe yet another advantage over him, desperate being the odds already. to be sure, not more than a hundred yards below the river was so shallow as to ripple over the rocks, where he might easily make the fording all but dry-shod. but there he would be in open view of the indians, should they chance to be looking that way; whereas, by making the passage from where he was standing, he could throw between himself and them a small cane-brake, which crowned the opposite bank a short distance above. far rather had the fighting nigger gone into the dance of death, rigged out in all his martial bravery--his moccasins, his bear-skin leggins, his bear-skin hunting-shirt, his bear-skin war-cap, and his war-belt with its gleaming death-steel--guise so well beseeming the big black brave with a bushy head. but in a game so desperate, with objects so precious and dear at stake, the indulgence of so small a vanity were another thought not worth the second thinking. therefore did the magnanimous burl dismantle himself at once. aware that, in the coming contest, he should barely have time to let fly the single bullet already in his rifle, when he must take to his hatchet and knife, and that thereafter his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch would be but hindering encumbrances, he divested himself of these appendages, also laying with them his moccasins, leggins, and hunting-shirt, in a pile together on the river bank. the next moment, with grumbo swimming, hand over hand, close at his side, he was half way across the river, with nothing of him visible above the dimpled surface but his enormous bear-skin cap, and his right arm holding betsy grumbo high aloft to keep her priming dry. the passage swimmingly effected, our two adventurers made their reäppearance on the opposite bank, with their bulky dimensions brought down by their wetting to somewhat lanker proportions--grumbo with his shaggy coat buttoned close about him, burl with his buckskin shirt and breeches clinging clammily to his body and limbs. but of his martial rigging, the war-belt, with his tomahawk and hunting-knife, still remained; the bear-skin war-cap, too, which once rammed down firmly upon his head was never to quit that place, saving with the scalp it covered, or with the successful winding up of his adventure. between him and the mouth of the glen lay a narrow strip of bottom land, the crossing of which, overhung as it was by the very nose of the enemy's lookout, would demand his utmost caution and address. again availing themselves of gully, weeds, and grass, to screen their movements, and making their way through them as before, they succeeded at length in gaining, undiscovered, the shelter of the glen. here, under the overhanging hill, burl could walk upright, and that for the first time since quitting the opposite rim of the valley, if we may except when chin-deep in water he was fording the river. down the glen, with twisted current winding crookedly among the rocks, came bubbling a little brook, thus serving to muffle the sound of the black hunter's footsteps, as now with swift and powerful strides he ascended into the depths of the hills. when he came to where the two ravines united to form the larger glen, he took the more easterly one, which, as before remarked, led up to a dingle just under the height where the indians were camped. for some distance back the trees and bushes, reäppearing, had grown gradually thicker and thicker, till here they shagged the side of the hill with deep and tangled shade. so burl found the covert which he had promised himself for a place of ambush--a shade profound as night, through which, with snake-like secrecy, he could crawl to within hissing distance of the enemy, and before discovery all but bite his heel. "down, grumbo!" said the black hunter in a deep under-tone to his dog, not daring to trust him further in the adventure till he had brought it to the critical edge. "you wait here tell you hears me holler, den come a-pitchin', an' let yo'se'f in like de bery ol' scratch, an' no stoppin' to smell noses. do you hear?" the sagacious animal, as if perfectly understanding what was said to him, and what his part of the work in hand was to be, crouched down like a lion in the dark shadows of the dingle, there to wait until he should hear his master's call. then tightening his belt to make his knife and hatchet more secure, and reassuring himself that betsy grumbo was in tip-top "bitin' order," our hero addressed himself to the scaling of the enemy's height. half the ascent accomplished brought him almost to the brow of the hill, where its slower slope abruptly ended in the steep acclivity which he had just scaled, and here he could distinguish a faint murmur of voices from above. he was slowly bringing himself over the turn between precipice and slope, when a large stone, from which but now he had lifted his foot, supposing it to be the projecting corner of a ledge, slid slowly from its earthly socket, and with resounding din went rolling down the steep. whereat the murmur of voices above him suddenly ceased, but with admirable presence of mind, while yet the excited echoes were noising the thing from hill to hill, the black hunter, to mislead the minds of the indians as to the cause of the uproar, mimicked the snarling growl of a wolf. then he lay perfectly still for several moments, not daring to venture farther till assured that his cunning device had succeeded. after a brief space of silence, which seemed to be spent in listening, the murmur of voices above him recommenced, when he likewise recommenced his stealthy approaches. when he had advanced so far as to be no longer able to walk upright without risk of discovery, he threw himself prone on the ground, and like a black-snake went crawling along on his belly, inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, warily, noiselessly, slowly--his rifle laid along the hollow of his back. thus painfully had he worked his way for more than forty yards, when he found himself, almost unawares, at the very edge of his covert. here, peering through the leafy chinks, he could plainly see the enemy, whose footsteps he had so long been dogging. yes, there they were--the three indians--not twenty paces from betsy grumbo's muzzle. breakfast by this time ended, they were composedly smoking their pipes, and, for indians, chatting away quite socially, as if in no hurry to be off on their day's tramp. the giant--for such in fact he proved to be--whose foot-prints burl had so gravely scanned along the trail, was sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree; while over against him, with the now smoldering camp-fire between, were his two comrades, seated on opposite ends of a log. a little to one side lay a slain buck, upon whose flesh they had supped the evening before and breakfasted this morning. against the log, leant side by side, between the two smaller indians, rested their three rifles; while their hatchets, of which they had freed themselves to be the more at their ease, were sticking deeply sunk into the tree above the giant's head--their scalping-knives being the only weapons retained about their persons. the giant, a savage of terrible aspect, was dressed in complete indian costume--his robe being richly decorated with bead-work and stained porcupine quills, and where it showed a seam or border was fringed with scalp-locks, brown, flaxen, and red, as well as black--taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies--the last _agony_, doubtless, as the fashions had it among the swells in his quarter of the world. similar to this, excepting the _agony_, and that it was newer and fresher, was the dress worn by the indian who occupied the farther end of the log; and when we add that the heads of both were all waving with the gorgeous plumage of the eagle, we can easily fancy that the appearance of these two must have been rather splendid and imposing. quite the reverse, however, as regarded the third savage, who in a recent foray into the white settlements, having contrived to get his pilfering hands on a new broadcloth coat, with bright metal buttons, and a ruffled shirt, had added these two pieces of civilized finery to his indian gear--thus imparting to his whole appearance, which had else been wild, at least, and picturesque, an air exceedingly raw, repulsive, and shabby. to be sure, inharmoniousness of contrast was beginning to be a little subdued by the dirt and grease of the wearer's own laying on, the coat being no longer glossy and sky-blue, the shirt no longer starchy and snow-white. yet, notwithstanding his love for christian finery, the red heathen could hardly have had much love for christian people, as was evident from the fairhaired scalps which hung at his girdle; and altogether he was as ugly and ferocious-looking a barbarian as you would care to encounter on your war-path, should glory ever lead you to travel such a road. but bushie--where was poor little bushie all this time? bound hand and foot to a tree hard by, with scarcely freedom sufficient to draw his breath or wink his eyes, his face all blanched with the despair of a captive awaiting, in agonizing suspense, the hour of final and terrible doom--all as dismal apprehension had been picturing it for the last eighteen hours to the distressingly ingenious fancy of burlman reynolds? o by no means! true it was, our little master was there, and a captive. true, that since our last glimpse of him, where perched he sat on the topmost rail of the corn-field fence back yonder, he had taken many a pitiful, heart-broken cry, whenever the loved faces and familiar sights of home had risen with sudden vividness before his remembrance. but just at this moment, having followed up a sound night's sleep with a hearty breakfast of venison, he seemed, like the healthy, stout-hearted urchin he was, to have made up his mind not only to look, but keep, on the bright side of things--the best way in the world of dodging the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." without the mark of a buffalo-thong on ankle or wrist, to tell of captivity, the little man was running about the hill, to all appearance as he list--his moving shadow dodging hither and thither, as if it were a long-legged, short-bodied goblin quizzically mocking his motions, or playing at hide-and-seek with him among the trees and bushes. but burl observed that the dear little fellow, though left to his freedom, never came nigh the giant, nor the grim savage in the ruffled shirt and blue coat, but always kept nearest to him who sat on the further end of the log--the youngest of the three indian, quite youthful indeed, and of form and face exceedingly pleasing and noble. in fact, between the young brave and the little captive a friendly and familiar understanding seemed to have sprung up already; for while the giant and other savage talked together, these two kept up a lively confab between themselves, which, as neither could understand a word the other was saying, must have been highly entertaining and edifying to both. a few minutes before, while playing about the hill, bushie had found an old stone hatchet, and picking it up, had brought it to his red friend to have him fit a handle to it, which the young brave, with mingled pity and good humor, was now busy in doing--the edifying interchange of thought and sentiment never ceasing for a moment. had burl needed any further proof of the gentle, even indulgent kindness with which his little master had been treated--at least by the young indian--there it was to be seen in the little coon-skin cap, stuck thicker than even the giant's scalp-lock with the gorgeous plumes of the war-bird. all this, that has taken so long to describe, it took burl but a glance of the eye to discern, and as quickly to form his plan of attack. in the first place, he must, with the one bullet already in his gun, dispatch the two indians who sat on the log. this advantage gained, he should, he felt confident, then be able to cope with the giant on equal terms, full six inches taller though he seemed to be where he sat just there, so composedly smoking his war-pipe--not to mention his being freshly victualed withal. but in order to deal this double blow, he needs must shift his ground, so as to bring himself on a line with the two smaller indians--a movement, which to execute under the very skirts of a quick-eared foe, would put him up to all the cunning and skill he was master of. nevertheless, for the sake of the great advantage it might give him, he would risk the attempt. between where he was and the point he must gain the thicket was thin; so, silently, slowly, he backed himself--feet foremost--into his covert again, thrice his length or more, then veering away to the right, he began--head foremost--making his second approach. on regaining the edge of the thicket, he found the savages as he had left them, five minutes before--the two smaller indians on the log, and now on the same dead-line with himself--so nicely had he calculated the distances. then taking his gun from his back--where all this time it had lain--he raised himself slowly to one knee, and cautiously thrusting his weapon through the leafy twigs before him, took deliberate aim at the body of the grim savage. his finger was already on the trigger, ready to give the fatal pull, when bushie plumped himself down on the log beside the young indian, thus bringing his own little body in the same line with the deadly missile, which in an instant more would have come whizzing out of the thicket. with a disappointed shake of the head burl slowly lowered his piece, to wait till the little boy, led by his wayward humor, should quit the perilous seat. but, becoming the more interested in what was doing for his amusement--now that the hatchet was nearly ready for him--bushie seemed in no haste to quit the place. what if the savages should shift their position?--then indeed the signal advantage he now held, and had been at so much pains and had run so much risk to secure, would be lost, and the fighting nigger again reduced to desperate straits. would the boy never move? and waiting and watching, big black burl lay close in ambush. chapter x. how big black burl figured in the fight. will the boy never move? to the black hunter, there lying in ambush, the suspense was becoming all but insupportable. with an interest far more intense than that of the boy did he watch the nimble fingers of the young indian, as the whittling task went on--the heavy-footed seconds creeping draggingly by, and made, by the suspense, to seem as long as minutes. at last the hatchet was handled and delivered to the impatient bushie, who, the moment he received it, sprung forward to try its edge on the bark of a large walnut that grew a few paces in front of them. that same instant, while yet the pitying, good-humored smile, with which he watched the movements of the little captive, was still bright on the young brave's handsome face, the ambushed rifle rang out on the quiet scene, and with loud yells the two indians fell over backward behind the log, and after a few convulsive struggles, there lay as dead. "i yi, you dogs!" and with this his battle-cry shaking the lonely wilds, and finding echo in a deep-mouthed howl from the brindled dog in the dingle below, the fighting nigger burst from his ambush, all the lion of his nature now roused and rampant within him. throwing himself with a prodigious bound into the arena, on with huge strides he came, his ponderous battle-ax in broad, bright circles gleaming high over his head. "i yi, you dogs!" with a terrible cry, half as a yell of astonishment, half as a whoop of defiance, black thunder--the red giant being, in fact, none other than that redoubtable wyandot brave--leaped to his feet, and wrenching his tomahawk from the tree beside him, hurled it, with a horrible hiss, full at the shaggy front of this most unexpected, formidable foe. but, quick of eye and strong of hand, the fighting nigger caught the murderous missile on the head of his ax, and sent it ringing, like an anvil, high up in the air. on he came amain, and with another lion-like bound had planted himself square in front of his antagonist just as a second tomahawk was on the tip of leaping at him, which he sent ringing after the other, before it had quitted the red giant's grasp. foiled again, and seeing the ax uplifted, himself this time the mark for the impending blow, black thunder, pushed to desperation, darted sheer under the descending arm, thus bringing his shoulder under the handle of the weapon, instead of his head under its cleaving edge, and causing the force of the blow to be spent harmless on the ground behind him. then did those doughty giants close and grapple together in the wrestle for life and death. the red giant had the advantage in height, if not in weight; the black giant in strength of muscle, if not in suppleness of limbs. again, though not so good a wrestler, the red was better breathed, while the black, though fighting in a better cause, had not yet eaten his breakfast. so, when we come to weigh them fairly, it will be found that the advantages which each had over the other made the chances of war about nip and tuck between the black and the red. pushing and pulling, writhing and tugging and twisting, round and round with whirl and fling they went--now over the logs, now into the bushes, then driving right through the fire, and scattering the smoldering embers broadcast over the ground, and everywhere plowing up great furrows with their heels in the mellow soil. to the negro, with his prodigious strength of arm, it was an easy matter to toss up the indian from the ground; but when he would essay to fetch the final fling, the nimble savage, let his legs be ever so high in the air and wide apart, was always sure to bring the very foot down to the very place to stay his fall, though as quickly to jerk it up again, to shun the leveling sweep of those enormous black feet, so persistently making at his ankles. the combat had waged for many seconds without any decided advantage gained on either side, when, chancing to glance over black thunder's shoulder, burl spied a new danger threatening him from quite an unexpected quarter. though shot through the body and mortally wounded, the grim savage had so far recovered his strength as to be able to drag himself to the nearest rifle, and now, with the weapon laid on the log to steady his aim, was covering the combatants therewith, awaiting the moment when, without danger to his comrade, he could let fly, and thus beforehand revenge his own death. black thunder perceiving this as soon, it became at once the aim of each to keep the other exposed to the leveled weapon--the negro to hold the indian between it and himself as a shield, the indian to hold the negro sideways to it long enough to let his wounded comrade steady his aim and fire. time and again did each whirl his antagonist round, point-blank to the threatened danger; yet as often did the other regain the lost advantage. burning to revenge himself before his feeble spark of life went out, the dying savage, with his fiery eyes glaring along the barrel, continued to shift his rifle from side to side as the struggle shifted from place to place. the red giant was on the point of covering the black giant between a tree and a log, there for the telling instant to hold him fast, when a fierce growl was heard in the thicket behind him. the next moment, swift to his master's call, far swifter than would seem from the length of time it has taken to describe the combat up to this point, the brindled dog leaped like a little lion into the arena. no stopping to smell noses, or count them, either, but with bonaparte-like contempt of the cut-and-dried in warfare, right at the throat of the wounded savage, with one long bound, he sprung; and straightway there was a dying yell and the bang of a gun, the bullet sent whistling away through the tree-tops. the dog had turned the scale of battle. this danger happily averted, burl, finding it impossible to come near enough to his antagonist "to lock legs or kick ankles," bethought him of a stratagem by which, without much additional risk to himself, he might end this long wrestle and gain a decided advantage. he would suffer himself to be thrown. once flat of his back on the ground--the ground, where never by man of martial might had he yet been matched--he would find it an easy matter, he doubted not, to bring the long, supple savage underneath; and secure of this advantage, he should then have nothing to do but to wind up his morning's work in the way that should please his fancy best. accordingly, to play off his cunning device, he provoked his antagonist to a push of unusual vigor; when, still within each other's arms, down came the giant warriors, with an appalling squelch, to the ground--the red above, the black below. but in a twinkling there was a titanic flounce, when behold, the black was above, the red below. planting his knee with crushing weight on the breast of his prostrate foe, the fighting nigger felt for his knife with which to deal the final blow, but found that in the struggle it had slipped from its sheath; and when he would have seized and used the indian's, that too was gone, lost in like manner. glancing round for some murderous stone or club, he spied his ax, where it lay on the ground not three feet off to his right, and tickling himself with the thought, with the lucky chance thus offered of giving his work the finishing touch in tip-top style, he eagerly reached out to gather it up; but before he could do so and regain his perpendicular, the wary savage, snatching at his opportunity, gave in his turn a titanic flounce, which sent the already uplifted weapon with a side-long fling into the air, and brought his foe the second time to the earth. in a trice, however, the wheel of fortune had made another turn, not only bringing the black again to the top, but both black and red clean over the brink of the hill, whence, as elsewhere noticed, its grassy slope sunk steeply but smoothly down to the edge of the river, there ending in an overleaning bank twenty feet high. perceiving that he had lost his vantage-ground, upon the holding of which depended the successful result of his stratagem, and that the steep hill-side to which he had unwittingly shifted the struggle, gave the long and nimble savage a decided advantage over him, burl determined to shift again. desperate though it might seem, he would, by rolling with him thither, bear his antagonist bodily down to the foot of the hill, where on level ground once more, as he trusted, he should still be able to make his stratagem go. to this intent putting forth all his huge strength, he grappled yet closer with the indian, locking his legs around him as well as his arms. then with a heave on his part, like the roll of a buffalo-bull, unwittingly seconded by a big flounce on the part of the savage, down the precipitous slope did these redoubtable giants, leaving their wake to be traced by the weeds laid flat to the hill, and hugging yet tighter and tighter, go rolling and whirling and tumbling, over and over, each uppermost, undermost, all in a wink--till over the river bank whirlingly pitching, they dropped, with a splash too terrific to tell or conceive, into water full twenty feet deep. and a smooth, round, ponderous stone, which the force of their downward career had pushed from its seat on the hill, came rolling and leaping behind them with frightfully growing momentum, and tumbled in after them--plump! verily, the wheel of fortune had never before made so many turns in so short a time! its axle fairly smoked as it rolled into the water. tightly locked together in the mortal hug, as were the two warriors when they vanished beneath the shivered mirror of the stream, the next moment when the plumed crest of the red giant and the shaggy top of the black giant heaved above the surface, it was found that they had put full thirty feet of the river between them. dashing the water from his eyes, and seeing that the chances of war were still about nip and tuck between them, the fighting nigger, with ardor all undampened by his ducking, began, with long oar-like sweeps of his arms, manfully pulling again for the foe; but too prudent to trust himself again within the ireful grasp of the bushy-headed brave, and thinking, doubtless, that his vantage-ground lay elsewhere than in water twenty feet deep, black thunder began as manfully pulling for land. the negro had proved the stronger wrestler; but the indian, proving the swifter swimmer, was the first to land, and to prevent his antagonist from landing, began beating him back with stones. one of the missiles, better aimed than the rest, brought the black hunter a sounding thump on his bear-skin war-cap, where it still stuck fast and firm to his head, never to quit that place but with the scalp it covered, or with victory. the blow, however, hurt him no more than had his woolen knob been a messy pine-knot; though it did send him with a quick dive to the bottom of the river, that he might come up again at a more respectful distance. now, the fighting nigger, as we have seen, had calculated on finding, not water, but good level ground at the bottom of the hill, where, in his superior skill as a wrestler, he might regain the advantage he had lost by shifting the struggle to the steep hill-side; but he was too quick and expedient, and of too sturdy a spirit to be completely staggered by any blow of outrageous fortune, even though it should be backhanded and ever so unexpected. so finding that the tide of battle was setting strong and stiff against him in the straits to which he had brought himself, he held a short council of war with burlman reynolds, his right-hand man, and promptly determined upon a new course of action. in the first place, they must quit them of an element which offered so few facilities for the dodging and avoiding of well-aimed missiles. this accomplished, they must then bespeed them to the top of the hill again, where two loaded rifles yet remained, in whose leaden bullets lay, as they trusted, the golden chance of victory. just below the point where the two giants had made their involuntary dive, the river-bank was crowned with a small cane-brake, whose roots, striking through its overleaning edge, formed a ragged, yellow, rope-like fringe, that hung down almost to the surface of the water. in these roots, burl saw a means of extricating himself from his present predicament, and of escaping from the very enemy this self-same brake had aided him in coming at the hour before. accordingly, making a deep dive, that under cover of the water he might unanticipated take the first step in his new course of action, he came up a few moments after directly under the brake, with an upward shoot that brought him within reach of the rooty fringe. grasping a bunch, he began drawing himself up, hand over hand, at the same time widely gathering in the ropy mass with his knees, not only to expedite his climbing and reënforce his arms, but to lessen the strain on the smaller bunch, which could be grasped but by his hands. he had made but half the ascent, when becoming aware that the enemy had silenced his battery of stones, he glanced over his shoulder, still climbing, to discover the cause, and found to his dismay that his design had been frustrated. black thunder was seen running with prodigious swiftness along the opposite shore, to cross the river at the shallows about one hundred and fifty yards below, where the bank, losing its jutting feature, allowed of an easier passage, though less direct than that his black antagonist had chosen. the ascent was effected quickly enough, considering how desperate and novel the means. but by the time the negro had drawn himself over the bank and forced his way through the break, the indian had come dashing over at the shallows, and now was seen running across the narrow strip of bottom land which down there the river, in making a bend, had left between itself and the foot of the hill. now followed an uphill race more desperate, if that were possible, than the downhill roll. the black giant was nearer the goal, but the red giant had longer and nimbler legs, which made it again about nip and tuck between the black and the red. leaving their tracks to be traced by great handfuls of iron-weeds, caught at and uprooted in the scramble, up they struggled, with might and main, and with feet that could not quicken their speed, however fear might urge or hope incite. panting and all but spent, the two giants gained the top of the hill at the same instant--burl nearest his ax, where it lay on the ground, black thunder nearest his gun, where it leaned against the log. five long strides more and the indian had laid his hand on the loaded weapon, when having snatched up his ax, the negro hurled it with engine-like force at the savage, the ponderous head striking him full on the hip and sending him sprawling to the ground. burl was making all speed to recover his weapon, this time, with its cleaving edge, to deal the death-blow without fail, when, before he could do so, black thunder, though powerless to walk or stand, whirled himself from under his victor's uplifted hand, and with a few gigantic flounces had regained the brink of the steep. burl sent his battle-ax after him with a right good will, though not with right good aim, the missile merely inflicting a flesh wound in the enemy's arm. the next moment, with a loud whoop of defiance and scorn, black thunder had flung him away sheer over the brink of the steep. hastily snatching up one of the indian's rifles, burl ran to the brow of the hill, and taking deliberate aim at the rolling body far down there, fired. up came ringing a cry--a death-yell, so it would seem, so fierce it was, and wild and drear. the moment thereafter, now rolling with frightful rapidity, over the river bank vanished the wyandot giant. chapter xi. how little bushie figured in the fight. but bushie--where was poor little bushie all this time? the moment the fight had begun the boy, to keep clear of the conflicting giants, had run with the speed of a frightened fawn to the shelter of the neighboring thicket. here, crouched down and peering out through the openings of his covert, he had watched with fearful interest how manfully and against such desperate odds his brave, his faithful burl had battled for his deliverance--his little heart sinking within him whenever the combat seemed to be going against his champion. and when the two giants, still locked together in the death hug, had rolled to the foot of the hill, and he had seen his darling burl's bare, yellow soles, with a wide-wheeling fling, go vanishing over the river-bank, then had the poor little fellow given up all as lost and cried as if his heart would break. but when, some minutes after, he had spied the bear-skin cap he knew so well heaving above the purple iron-weeds far down there, then had he plucked up heart again. now that the fight seemed ended, with victory won and deliverance wrought, he was on the point of running out, in the joy and thankfulness of the moment, to seize his precious old chum by the hand, when a new danger, from an altogether unexpected quarter, suddenly presented itself and checked him in the act. the fighting nigger was still standing on the brow of the hill, and with his empty gun still sighting the river-bank where black thunder had vanished, when all in the self-same instant he heard a cry from his little master, a growl from grumbo, and the venomous hiss of a tomahawk which grazingly passed his nose and sunk with a vengeful quiver in the trunk of a tree beside him. wheeling about, he saw the young indian confronting him, and with his scalping-knife brandished aloft, in the act of making a panther-like spring upon him. the bullet which had passed through the body of the grim savage had pierced the young brave's left arm and spent its remaining force on his ammunition-pouch, the inner side of which, being made of thick, tough buffalo-hide, had stayed its further progress--though the shock had been so severe as to lay him senseless many minutes. consciousness and the power of motion returning to him at the close of the fight, he had leaped to his feet, and by reason of the wound in his left arm disabled from wielding a rifle, had snatched up the nearest tomahawk to hurl that at the big black brave with a bushy head, where he was still standing on the brow of the hill, peering through his rifle smoke at the river-bank below. up to this moment grumbo had kept his powerful jaws clenched unrelentingly on the throat of the dead savage; but seeing the new danger threatening his master, he had at last released his hold, and with a growl and a bound was at the enemy's skirts, which he seized with a violent backward tug, just as the tomahawk was on the point of being hurled, and with a force and an aim which else had sent the black giant rolling in his turn to the bottom of the hill. again had the war-dog turned the scale of battle in his leader's favor. "i yi, you dogs!" and with his battle-cry resounding again through the lonely wilds, the fighting nigger threw himself on his new antagonist, whom the invincible grumbo still held back by the skirts, and wresting the scalping-knife from the young brave's hand, bore him with resistless force to the ground--indian, nigger, and dog, all in a huddle together. "han's uff, grumbo!" for the war-dog, now that his blood was up, could hardly be restrained from falling tooth and nail on the prostrate foe. "han's uff! you's chawed up one uf de varmints; jes' let burlman rennuls wind up dis one. han's uff, i say; or i'll----." and with this the fighting nigger made a sham thrust with the knife at his comrade's nose, which forced him to fall back a few paces, where he sat doggedly down on his tail, with the injured air of a faithful follower who had been defrauded of his dues. big black burl looked down on the young indian brave: the young indian brave, with unflinching bright, black eyes, looked up at big black burl. slowly the victor raised the murderous knife aloft, his eyes still bent on the young brave's face, and seeing there something that made his hand less swift than was its wont in dealing the death-blow. but the knife was on the point of descending when bushie came running up to the spot, crying out in beseeching accents as he came: "don't, burl, don't kill that one! please don't!" this stayed the uplifted hand, and glancing around at his little master, burl, with a look of great surprise, exclaimed, "w'y, bushie, taint nothin' but a injun!" "but that one was good to me, burl." "a red varmint good to a little white boy! git out!" "yes, but he was, burl. that one," pointing to the dead savage, "was going to split my head open with his hatchet, when this one," pointing to the young brave, "ran up to him and pushed him away from me, and said something to him loud and mad which made him look scared and mean." "what did de big injun do to you, bushie?" inquired burl, now lowering the knife. "he didn't do nothing to me but look ugly at me, when this one would be toting me on his back across the creeks and up the hills." "which one uf de varmints was it, bushie, dat gobbled you up frum de corn-fiel' fence, back yander?" "that one," with a look toward the dead savage. "this one," with a nod toward the young brave, "didn't want him to do it, i know he didn't, because he walked on by talking to the other and shaking his head. and when the other got tired of toting me and wanted to kill me, then it was that this one ran up and took me away from him. then he led me by the hand till i got tired, then toted me on his back till i got rested. and that's the way he was doing all the time. and when i got so tired and sleepy i couldn't walk any longer, he took me up in his arms and carried me so far, i don't know how far, through the dark woods. then when they stopped he gave me something to eat and made me a bed of pawpaw limbs, and laid me down to sleep and slept by my side. and all the time he wouldn't let the others come a-nigh me. and see here, burl, what he gave me," flourishing his old stone hatchet with a new handle before the eyes of the still incredulous burlman reynolds. "and this, too," displaying his little coon-skin cap, all splendid with the glory of the war-bird. and with these visible proofs to back it, bushie wound up his eloquent little appeal. "did de young injun shoot de eagle down yesterday whar you got dem fedders?" "yes, and put them in my cap this morning." the black hunter glanced over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the young brave's lower limbs and reässure himself that this was the one who had left the slender foot-prints along the trail, side by side with which had always appeared those of the boy. slowly then rose the victor to his feet, and like a black colossus, standing astride his prostrate foe, remained for many moments profoundly silent, as if lost in thought, and uncertain, under circumstances so unexpected and peculiar, what course he should pursue. never, since that unhappy night two years ago, had he lifted his hand against an indian; but that remembrance of his master's cruel death, with the wail of the widowed mother and her fatherless child, had risen before him, making his aim the surer, his blow the heavier. but here was a new experience, calling for a new course of action. true was it that his old master had been inhumanly treated by this people, but no less true that the life of his young master had been preserved, in a signal manner, too, by one of the same hated race. if he had owed vengeance for the first, did he not now owe gratitude for the last? if, up to this moment, he had been swift to meet the claims of vengeance, should he not now be as ready to meet the claims of gratitude? the lion of him was fast going to sleep within him; the newfoundland of him was fast becoming awake. and looking down at the young brave between his feet, burl attentively scanned him. on hearing the voice of entreaty at his side, the young indian had turned his eyes from the face of our big black hero, and perceiving by the boy's looks, tones, and gestures that an appeal was making in his behalf, had fixed them earnestly on the face of our little white hero, as if willing to look there for mercy, though disdaining to ask it of the giant victor under whose grasp he lay. now that he had taken a good long look at him, burl could not help being in some sort struck with the wild and singular beauty of the young brave's whole appearance. then came back to his remembrance the pitying, good-humored smile, with which the little captive had been regarded, as they had sat so sociably chatting together on the log. here the lion went fast asleep, and the newfoundland grew broad awake. scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb, as was his habit in moments of perplexity, he at length turned to his little master and broke the painful silence thus: "an' is my little man shore de red varmint was good to him, an' toted him on his back?" "yes, indeed, that i am!" replied the boy with glad eagerness, now that he saw the light of mercy beginning to shine in the victor's eye. "and if you don't let him up, i'll bellow like a buffalo-bull, so i will; and won't never love you no more, so i won't." generous little runaway. "an' would my little man like fur us to take de young injun home wid us?" "yes, indeed, that i would!" the little man was delighted at the thought, but immediately added, "if he would like to go." considerate little runaway. "an' s'posin' ef he wouldn't; what den?" "then let him go home to his mother." filial little runaway. "i yi, my larky!" cried the fighting nigger, with an emphatic snap of finger and thumb, then added: "but bushie, why didn't you holler fur me when de dead varmint ober yander gobbled you up?" "because he slipped up behind me while i was watching the squirrels and crows, and before i knew it clapped his hand over my mouth." "ah, bushrod, bushrod!" with a sad shake of the head; "didn't i tole you dar's injuns in de woods wid stickin' knives an' splittin' tomahawks fur bad little boys as don't mind der mudders an' runs away frum home an' hain't got nothin' to say fur 'emselves but beca'se? heh, didn't i?" "yes, you did!" acknowledging the fact with sheepish frankness. "well, ef i let dis young injun up, will you eber do de like ag'in--run away wid de red varmints an' make yo'r pore mudder mizzible?" "no, indeed; that i won't! 'indeed, and double 'deed,' i won't!" his eyes now filling with tears. remorseful little runaway. "lef' her settin' dar, i did, at de doo'," continued burl, now modulating his voice into a sort of dolorous tune: "pore mudder all by herself at de doo'. couldn't speak a word, couldn't walk a step, so mizzible--so onsituwated, fur dar she's a-settin' yit, i know, a-lookin' an' a-lookin', a-prayin' an' a-prayin', to see her pore ol' nigger comin' home a totein' her pore little boy on his back. how could you, bushie, how could you leave yo' pore mudder so onsituwated? i wouldn't be 'stonished----" "o don't, burl! please don't; it hurts me so--it nearly kills me!" and with the loved pictures of home--the motherly face, with its white cap; the mother's bed, with his own little trundle-bed underneath; the table, with its white cloth folded and laid upon it; the hickory-bound cedar water-bucket, with its crooked handled gourd; the red corner-cupboard, with its store of johnny-cakes and cold potatoes for quiet enjoyment between meals; old cornwallis; the red rooster; the speckled hen; the yellow tomcat--with all these loved images passing with sudden vividness before his remembrance at the sound of the old home voice in that lonely place, the delinquent bushie, now thoroughly penitent, lifted up his voice and wept aloud. "the little sinner had come to his milk." yes, though a runaway, he had in him the good, sound stuff for making the good, sound man. burl remained silent for some moments, that wholesome repentance might have its way and start the penitent toward the better life; then, making a big pretense of yielding the point, and wishing to hide, under a show of obedience to his baby superior, what he deemed an unwarrior-like weakness of feeling, he wound up the matter thus: "well, bushie, dar's reason in all things. you's my little marster, i's yo' ol' nigger. bein' yo' ol' nigger, i mus' do what my little marster tells me to do, an' let de young injun up. but mind you now, i'm doin' it beca'se he was good to my little marster. but who'd a thought it was in de red rubbish to do de like?" and with this closing observation, spoken in an under-tone, and meant only for the private ear of burlman rennuls, the fighting nigger stepped from over the prostrate foe, giving, as he did so, a wide, upward wave of the hand, with a huge, upward nod of the head, which said as plainly as ever had chivalry said it: "vanquished warrior, rise and live!" the young indian rose to his feet, and going directly up to his little preserver, shook him with gentle earnestness by the hand, evincing in the simple act and the look attending it the utmost thankfulness of heart, mixed with respect and admiration. then he went to the log, against which still leaned a loaded rifle, and was picking it up when burl, suspecting treachery, sprung forward to frustrate the hostile design. but too quick for him, the young savage gathering up the weapon and wielding it in his right-hand, discharged it into the air. then, with grave composure, as though he had not noticed the movement of alarm, he surrendered the empty rifle to his victor, in token of his entire submission; though, as he did so, he pointed to bushie, his captive but the hour before, thus signifying that he wished to be regarded as the prisoner of his little preserver. without seeming to know what he was doing, burl took the rifle and, resting it on the ground, stood motionless for many moments, staring fixedly at the young indian with a look of unqualified astonishment and unmitigated bewilderment, as if his senses had told him something that had given the lie to his leading and abiding conviction--that eternal truth embodied in the words, "dar's reason in all things." burlman rennuls was in a fog; the fighting nigger was in a fog; in a fog was the entire man of big black burl. chapter xii. how big black burl and grumbo figured after the fight. now, it had always been the fighting nigger's belief--creed, so to speak--that indians, though possessed (by some strange chance or mischance) of the power of speech, with a few other faculties in common with colored people and the rest of mankind, had, nevertheless, neither souls nor human feelings. according to his view, they were a sort of featherless biped-beast--an almost hairless orang-outang, with short arms and long legs, having an unquenchable thirst for human blood; whom, therefore, it was the duty of every christian body--black, yellow, and white--to shoot down and scalp wherever they were to be found on top of the earth. but the creed he had so long adhered to, fought for, and gloried in had now on a sudden been knocked, picked, and crumpled up into a cocked hat by this young barbarian, whose conduct in the nobleness of soul it had displayed was utterly unlike any thing he had ever witnessed, heard of, or dreamed of, in this race. big black burl took off his bear-skin war-cap, for the first time since quitting home, and with the back of his sweaty hand wiped his sweaty brow, put the cap on again, and from under its shaggy shadow took another look at the fog. "u-gooh!" exclaimed the fighting nigger, at last so far recovering the power of speech as to be able to force an unspellable interjection through the nose; at the same time scratching his back with the knuckle of his thumb. "neber seed de like in all my bo'n days. 'pon my honor, ef dis young varmint don't carry on like a white man: couldn't a done dat thing mo'e ginteel'y myse'f. burlman rennuls"--jumping at solutions--"dar's black or white blood in dis young injun; shore's you bo'n, dar's black or white blood in dis young injun. ef dar' wusn't he wouldn't be gwine on dis way like a white man--min', i tell you!" and burlman rennuls walked out of the fog; the fighting nigger walked out of the fog--out of the fog, into the clear, unmisted light of reason, walked, by a short cut, the entire man of big black burl. thus satisfied in his own mind that, let the matter be viewed on either side--the black side or the white side--there existed a kindred tie between himself and the young indian, not to mention the debt of gratitude each owed the other, the fighting nigger felt that for once in his life he might, without soiling the skirts of his honor, or lowering the plumes of his dignity, play the familiar and brotherly with the red varmint. so, going up to the young brave, who the while had stood with his bright eyes fixed on some invisible quarter of the morning, our colored hero, with a bland condescension of manner that would have done a white man infinite good to see, shook his captive heartily by the hand. then, with awkward carefulness, he took the wounded arm of the indian between his fingers, to ascertain the extent of the injury done by his bullet. no bones were broken, but the flesh-wound inflicted by the ball--flattened and jagged as it was by its passage through the grim savage--was found to be ugly and painful enough. "betsy grumbo bites pow'ful hard when she gits a chance," remarked burl, after inspecting the wound with critical narrowness for a few moments. "well, jes' wait a bit, an' i'll see what i kin do for you." so saying, he went and divested the dead savage of his ruffled shirt, which he tore up into narrow strips, wherewith to bandage the crippled arm. for burlman rennuls, you must know, was quite a dab at surgery; his skill in that line having been called into frequent requisition by the mishaps of old cornwallis, who seldom got through the unlucky quarters of the moon without snagging his legs; and also by the wounds which the heroic grumbo had received in hunting and in war. while thus humanely engaged, his fluent tongue went on, and on, and on. sometimes he would address his remarks to burlman rennuls, enlarging upon the valorous deeds and distinguished abilities of the fighting nigger--such signal proofs whereof he, burlman rennuls, had that day enjoyed the rare pleasure of witnessing. then he would throw out some side hints, meant only for the private ear of the dead savage, relative to the incompatibleness of blue coats and ruffled shirts with the pure indian costume--that unlucky individual being admonished that thereafter, if he did not wish to be thought a dirty, sneaking, low-lived thief, he would do well "to stick to his raggedy rawhide tags and feathers." oftener, though, the black surgeon would be making some comment touching the matter more immediately in hand--seeming to take more interest therein than the patient himself, who, indian-like, could hardly have manifested less concern in what was doing for his relief than had the wounded limb been hanging to some other man's shoulder, and he but an accidental spectator of what was passing. when the wound was bandaged, or rather bundled up, the young indian, improvising a sling of his ammunition-pouch, slipped his arm in between the straps--this being the first notice he had apparently taken of his own mishap. "now, as you's fixed up an' feelin' easy an' good, me an' grumbo will take a bite o' somethin' to eat: hain't had our breakfas' yit, an' hungry as dogs. so, you an' bushie jes' set heer on de log, while we look about us fur some grub. den we'll all go a-p'radin' home togedder, arm-in-arm." the smoldering camp-fire was rekindled, and a dozen long slices being cut from the fat young buck upon whose flesh the savages had broken their fast, it was not long before the appetizing smell of savory meat broiling on glowing embers began to fill the air, provoking the hungry mouth to water. but big black burl, though colored and dressed in buckskin, was quite too much of the natural gentleman to suffer a morsel of food to enter his own mouth--water as it might--until he had discharged his duty as host toward their captive, who, being such, must needs in some sort be their guest. so, he took a choice slice of venison on the point of his hunting-knife, and going up to the young indian where he sat on the log, offered it to him with magnificent hospitality, at the same time showing the whites of his eyes in his blandest manner. the captive guest, however, with a courteous wave of the hand, declined the proffered food, inasmuch as he had broken his fast already. the steak was then offered to bushie, who, though he had breakfasted too, did not with a courteous wave of the hand decline it, but took and ate it, every bit--not that he was hungry at all, but so delightful did he find it to be eating again with his precious old black chum. unwilling, in the joy and thankfulness of his heart, that his red friend should remain a mere spectator to their pleasant repast, the generous little fellow, getting the loan of burl's knife, took another choice steak, and with his own hand offered it to their captive guest. this time--glad to do any thing in the world to please his little preserver--the young indian accepted the proffered hospitality, and taking the venison, ate it with much appearance of relish. now, you must know that after a battle fought and victory won, it was grumbo's wont to indulge himself in a little brief repose, which he would take stretched out on the ground, with his shaggy head laid, lion-like, on his extended paws--betraying, in both attitude and look, a sober self-satisfaction so entire as made it seem that for him the world had nothing more to offer. but this morning, notwithstanding the successful, even brilliant, winding up of their great adventure, our war-dog, instead of unbending as usual, held grimly aloof from the rest of the party, still seated on his tail, to which he had retired, snubbed, in the very flush of victory, by his ungrateful leader. evidently our canine hero had got his nose knocked out of joint. nevertheless, he failed not to maintain a wary though distant watch over the movements of the young indian, whom, being the sort of game they had always up to this moment hunted to the bloody end, he could not but regard with a jealous and distrustful eye. from time to time, by way of giving him a piece of his mind, he would cast side-long at his master a look of severe reproach, unqualified disapprobation. plain was it that to his dogship's way of thinking it was a very bungling fashion of doing business, thus to suffer this red barbarian to pass from under their hands, untouched by tomahawk or tooth--betraying, as it did, a weakness of feeling altogether unbeseeming warriors of the first blood like themselves. therefore did his excellency doggedly keep his tail, nor would he unbend, so far as even to sniff at--though hungry as a nigger--the raw meat which, without measure, his master had laid before him. observing the offended and distant demeanor of his comrade-in-arms, and knowing that he sometimes showed a civilized preference for cooked meat over raw, burl roasted one whole side of the buck and threw it before him, hot and smoking from the embers, hoping that this might win him over and tempt him into a more sociable and gracious humor. but his dogship had been too deeply offended to be so easily appeased; and let the savory fumes of the smoking dainty curl round and round his watering chops as temptingly as they might, he would not deign to stoop and taste. seeing that he still stood upon the reserve--sat on his tail--burl at length began to have some misgivings as to whether he had dealt altogether fairly by his right-hand man, to snub him as he had in the very moment of victory, which but for the injured one had never been achieved. so, he went and stripped the head of the slain savage of its scalp, which, with its long braided lock and tuft of feathers, he tied securely to the back of the war-dog's neck just behind the ears. this he did with the assurance that although they had won the trophy conjointly, yet in consideration of the gallant services which he--grumbo--had that day rendered their almost hopeless cause, would he, the fighting nigger, resign all claim thereunto in his comrade's favor, and allow him to enjoy the undivided honor thereof, as he so richly deserved. then the "captain explained to his lieutenant"--for with these titles the white hunters often coupled them--how matters stood between them and their indian prisoner, but for whose humanity they had never found their little master alive. having enlarged upon this point, the captain wound up his apology--for such the explanation was, in fact--with the promise, backed by the fighting nigger's inviolable word of honor, that as soon as they had squared the debt of gratitude under which this young barbarian had laid them, then would they go on doing up business in the good old orthodox fashion as before. more than this, that hereafter, whenever any of the red "varmints" should fall into their hands, he--grumbo--should be allowed to throttle and tumble, tousle and tug them to his heart's content. all this, so gratifying to a warrior's pride, seemed to have the desired effect in appeasing the wounded dignity of his dogship, as was apparent, first by his bending his nose to smell, then stooping his head to taste, and at last by his coming bodily to the ground and falling tooth and nail upon the juicy roast before him, which now he could venture to do without great risk of burning his mouth. by this time the dewy half of the morning was well-nigh spent, and if they would reach the shelter of the distant station by the going down of that day's sun, it was high time they were up and away on their homeward tramp. but big black burl could not think of quitting the spot without taking with him every thing--weapons, accouterments of war, scalps, prisoners of war, not to mention the rescued captive--that might bespeak a battle fought and victory won, and that could set off and give edge to the triumphal entry he anticipated making that evening into fort reynolds. the whole settlement--nay, the whole paradise from end to end--should ring with the noise of his grand achievement. to be sure, with respect to the prisoner of war, his little master, with that fellow-feeling which makes us wondrous kind, had said but the hour before, "let him go home to his mother." but our hero, colored though he was, had far too genuine a love of glory ever to allow an opportunity for the indulgence of his passion to escape him, no matter at what expense it might be to others, in life, liberty, and dearest affections. and here again, and for the third time, may we liken the fighting nigger to alexander the great, to napoleon the great, or, more fitly still, to his great-grandfather, mumbo jumbo the great, the far-famed giant-king of congo. by the way, i am just here reminded that i have forgotten to state, and much to my surprise, that big black burl was believed throughout the paradise to be the great-grandson of the great mumbo jumbo, and as such was in verity the case, the remarkable character of our hero admits of plausible explanation. who mumbo jumbo really was i must confess that, with due respect to authentic history, i am not exactly prepared to affirm; though that he must have been a man of immense consequence in his day was fairly to be inferred from the fact of his having made in africa a noise so loud as to have been heard, a full half century afterward, beyond the alleghany mountains--that, too, by a people so far behind the times as to know nothing whatever of even so redoubtable a man as baron munchausen. but to return to our war-path, and be just. the fighting nigger had no thought of using the life, liberty, and dearest affections thrown by the chances of war upon his mercy, excepting so far as to take his prisoner home with him as a trophy of victory; which done, then should he be allowed to return to his own people, bird-free, without the loss of a feather. as he had not killed the indian, how could he without gross violation of the rules of civilized warfare take his scalp? and without scalps to show for proof, let him but dare blow his own trumpet, and he should be blazed throughout the land as a windy, lying braggart. therefore, as neither party in question could quit that place without the scalp--the one having a natural right, the other a belligerent right to the same--expedient was it that the party who enjoyed but the natural right should be taken bodily to the settlements, there to appear as a living witness to that prowess in arms which had brought him under the conquering hand of the big black brave with a bushy head. now you can understand what the fighting nigger meant, when, in answer to his little master's "let him go home to his mother," he had, with a snap of his finger and thumb, exclaimed in anglo-congo lingo, "i yi, my larky!" accordingly, burl gathered up all the weapons and accouterments of the vanquished foe, where they lay scattered about the top of the battle-hill, sticking the hatchets and knives about his middle and hanging the powder-horns and ammunition-pouches from his shoulders. the three indians' rifles he tied together and gave to his prisoner to carry, a burden he would hardly have laid undivided on the wounded youth had he not foreseen that his little master, when weary of walking, must needs be getting upon his back from time to time to ride till rested. then betsy grumbo being put again in biting order and shouldered, the little party started forward on their homeward tramp--the young indian, at a sign from his captor, going on a little in advance, grumbo coming on a little in the rear, while burl and bushie walked hand in hand between. the war-dog had regained his wonted grim self-satisfaction, as could be seen by the iron twist of his tail over the right leg, and by the peculiar hang of the lower lip at the corners as if he carried a big quid of tobacco in each side of his mouth. nevertheless, he still maintained a wary watch over their red captive, whom he continued to regard with undiminished jealousy and distrust, and to whose living presence in their midst he seemed determined never to be reconciled. gaining the foot of the hill by an easier route, though less direct than that by which the two giants had reached it, they found there the traces of blood, which, reddening the grass at short intervals, marked the turns made by black thunder's body after receiving the bullet sent after him from his own rifle. "ugh!" exclaimed the indian; and that was all. "u-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, and a great deal more to the like purpose. burl would have given his war-cap, the trophy of victory over the bears, and gone home bare-headed--nay, bare-headed the livelong summer--could he by that sacrifice have secured the scalp of the wyandot giant, so greatly did he covet this additional trophy of his victory over a warrior so renowned. but the body was nowhere to be found, all traces of it vanishing at the brink of the river-bank. the party crossed the stream at the shallows, then ascended the opposite shore to where our two adventurers had made the passage an hour before the battle. here burl called a halt of a few moments, that he might resume his martial rigging left there, and give himself an appearance more becoming a great warrior returning home to receive the honors which his valor had won for him on the field of scalps and glory. and such was the morning of that ever-to-be-remembered first of june, . chapter xiii. how big black burl figured in his triumph. "what a pity! what a pity! what a pity!" the little log mill still went on saying to the little log fort, and making the little log fort yet sadder and lonesomer than had it held its peace, and not tried so hard to play the comforter. from noon to noon, with a dreary night between, hour after hour passed heavily, wearily by. and there, at the door of her desolate home, still sat the widowed mother, waiting and watching, her eyes turned ever toward the perilous north--waiting and watching as only those can wait and watch whose hearts are telling them that any hour may bring them the tidings that all they hold most dear on earth is lost to them forever. in homely kindness and sympathy her neighbors strove to comfort her, and rouse her from the lethargy of grief into which she seemed to be sinking. they forgot how little mere words of condolence, however tender and pitying, can avail, until the stricken heart, having taken in its full measure of sorrow, can begin to accommodate itself to the new presence, and be brought once more to feel that although much is lost still more remains for gratitude and peace. toward noon the next day the hunters, who had gone out in pursuit of the savages, weary and sad returned to the fort. after parting with burl, they had not ascended more than a mile into the hills, when the larger trail made its reäppearance on the banks of the more easterly of the two forks, whose united waters formed the little river which turned the mill of the settlement. rejoining their parties, they had renewed the chase with spirit, the trail now leading in a direct line toward the ohio, whose banks they had reached at sunset, and just in time to send a volley of bullets after the fugitives, who, however, before the pursuers were up with them, had regained their canoes and put a broad stretch of the river between themselves and the perilous shore. the hunters had had a clear view of the indians as they landed on the opposite side, and having made sure that there were no white prisoners among them, they had given over the chase, convinced that the unfortunate bushie must have been borne away in some other direction by the three indians whose traces had been discovered at the corn-field fence, and lost sight of in the larger trail. one chance more, however, remained to them: big black burl was still abroad, and so long as that faithful and courageous fellow kept the war-path, good reason had they for hoping that all yet might end well. the sun was nigh his setting; a few more far-reaching winks of his great bright eye and he would be sinking behind the evening hills of green kentucky, and rising above the morning hills of china. already had the horses and cattle--as was the custom of the times when indians were known to be across the border--been brought for the night within the shelter of the fort. already the ponderous wooden gate was swinging creakingly to on its ponderous wooden hinges; but just as its ponderous wooden bolt was sliding into the ponderous wooden staple, out from the neighboring forest ringing, with echo on echo, it came--the old familiar cry, the trumpet-call to battle abroad, the note of brotherly cheer at home: "i yi, you dogs!"--too jocund and triumphant for any one whose ears had caught the glad sound to doubt that glad tidings were coming. straightway reöpening the gate and looking forth, the hunters spied, moving toward them through the bushes in the edge of the woods, first the plumed crest of an indian warrior, then a more spreading display of bright feathers, so high aloft that one could fancy they topped the head of a giant full eight feet high, who came treading close behind. for a few moments this was all that could be seen; till now, full over the ragged skirts of the forest, there in open view, they came--the young indian in front, with his load of rifles laid across his arm; then big black burl, bristling all over with hatchets and knives; and lastly, with a consequential twist of the tail and with the plumed scalp-lock of an indian waving over his neck, the invincible grumbo bringing up the rear. and there, triumphantly borne aloft on the shoulders of our big black hero, his sturdy young legs astride his deliverer's neck and dangling down in front, bare and brier-scratched, his arms clasped tightly around the bear-skin war-cap, his own little coon-skin cap all brave with the pride of the war-bird--there sat our little white hero, that self-same runaway bushie, whose froward legs had so well-nigh carried him to death's door, and on whose account a whole settlement had been unsettled from dinner-time yesterday till supper-time to-day. but what a shout that was which at this sight went pealing up from the fort to the sky, went pealing down from the fort to the mill, which, just at this moment received the reserved water upon its wheel, and all on a sudden, clearing its wooden throat with a squeak, ceased droning, "what a pity! what a pity!" and fell to singing, in double-quick time, "what a naughty! what a naughty! what a naughty!" some of the hunters ran in to bear the poor mother the joyful tidings, some ran out to meet and welcome the returning conqueror, while others opened the gate to its utmost width to let the conqueror in. on they came, vanquished and victor; bushie grinning at them from over the head of the fighting nigger; the fighting nigger grinning at them from over the head of the indian; and the indian, with dignified composure, looking the whole white settlement full in the face. without a halt, right through the gate-way they drove, "like a wagon and team with a dog behind," to use the conqueror's own expressive words; nor could words have expressed more, had they told of the rumble of chariot-wheels. hardly were they over the sill when, to bring the triumph to a climax, here, followed by all the women, and children, and dogs, screaming, shouting, barking, laughing, crying--those gladder who cried than those who laughed, those gladder who barked than those who shouted--came running miss jemimy, to meet them. turning his back square on his mistress, the conqueror let the rescued treasure tumble bodily from his shoulders into the eager arms, upon the yearning bosom. with incoherent expressions of endearment to her darling boy, of thanks to their brave and faithful servant, and of praise to the merciful father of all, the widowed mother clasped the lost and found to her heart, being in turn all but choked and smothered by the hugs and kisses of the delighted bushie. then, hand in hand, they hastened to their cabin and shut the door behind them with a timbersome bang, which said as plainly as a puncheon-door, with oaken hinges and hickory latch, could say any thing, "let us have the first hour of recovered happiness to ourselves." it was a sight for which full many a stern, hard eye that saw it grew for the moment the brighter, if not the clearer; and burl, though he made a manful effort to keep it back, was forced to yield the point and let it come--the one big sob of tender and grateful feeling, which, sending a quiver through his huge frame, made his martial rigging shake and jingle like the harness of a whinnying war-horse. the hunters now gathered round the hero of the day and called upon him for an account of his adventures since parting with them at the forks of the river the day before. he told his story modestly and briefly enough, being well aware that there were those among his listeners far more learned in wood-craft than himself, and more skilled in the arts and stratagems of indian warfare. too magnanimous was he, though, to pass so briefly over the part his prisoner had played in the matter, dwelling at some length on the gentleness and humanity with which the young indian had treated his little master. when he had ended, the white hunters, one and all, came up to him and shook him heartily by the hand, pronouncing him an indian-fighter of the true grit--a compliment, in the fighting nigger's estimation, the highest that could be paid to mortal man, black, yellow, or white. then, going up to the young indian, who, leaning on his rifles, had stood the while with his bright eyes fixed serenely on some invisible quarter of the evening, they, one and all, shook him, likewise, as heartily by the hand--a dumb but eloquent expression of their grateful sense of the humanity he had shown their little friend in his hour of helpless peril and piteous need. the young brave received the demonstration with dignified composure; not, though, as if he had expected it, for, at the first greeting, he did lose his self-possessed reserve so far as to betray a little sign of great surprise. while our big black hero was narrating their adventures to the hunters without, our little white hero was giving his version of the same to his mother within--a medley of facts and fancies, where it was about nip and tuck between his old black chum and his young red friend as to which might claim the greater share of the juvenile gratitude and admiration. being gently reproved by his mother for his naughty behavior, which had been the cause of so much trouble and distress to them all, the young transgressor, for the first time in his life without the help of a switch to make him feel and know the error of his ways, besought his mother's forgiveness; only just let him off for that one time and he never, never would run away with the indians again as long as he lived--winding up the comforting assurance with a cub-like hug, to make the surer of clearing his legs of the switching he felt he richly deserved. having heard the rigmarole from beginning to end, and from end to beginning, and then from middle to middle again, and gathered therefrom that he to whom she owed her dear boy's life was wounded, mrs. reynolds sent bushie with word to burl to bring the young indian to her door. when they were come, she made a few inquiries of burl himself with regard to their adventures, and when answered, she bid him go and bring a keeler of water, that they might wash and dress the prisoner's wound. when the water was brought, she took off the bloody bandages from the crippled arm and gently laved and washed the wound, which by this time was much inflamed and swollen; then anointing it with some healing-salve, she bound it up again with clean bandages. this humane office duly done, the good woman bid burl take the young indian to his own cabin, there to be lodged and entertained with all hospitality till, healed of his wound, he should be able to shift for himself, when he should be allowed to return in peace to his own people. and as his mistress bid him did burl right willingly do playing the host in magnificent style, and setting before his captive guest the best his house afforded, not suffering a morsel to pass his own or grumbo's lips till the claims of hospitality were fully met. this last, however, was a piece of etiquette not at all to the war-dog's taste, since two hungry christian mouths were thereby made to water, and that too only out of respect to a red heathen, who, as such, in his dogship's opinion, deserved no better treatment at their hands than a common cur. therefore did grumbo harden his heart all the more against the red barbarian, holding him in worse odor than before. victor and vanquished were still at their friendly repast when all the ebony of the settlement--to the number of about thirty, men, women, and children--came flocking to the fighting nigger's cabin, and stood gathered in a close, black knot at the door, waiting with eager ears to hear the great event of the day from the hero's own lips; nor with eyes less eager to get a peep at the prisoner of war, a "live injun"--a sight that some of them had never seen before. their wonderment was much excited to see how a red varmint could drink _its_ water from a tin instead of needing to suck it up from a trough, like a horse; how _it_ could eat _its_ meat with a knife and fork, bite by bite, instead of gulping it up whole, like a dog; and how _it_ could do many other things in the civilized, human way, which they had supposed peculiar to "black people and white folks." supper ended, mine host filled and lighted his own pipe, and blandly showing the whites of his eyes, offered it to his captive guest. the captive guest, with a graceful acknowledgment, accepted the pipe, and with grave decorum began smoking, sending out the puffs at slow and regular intervals, and looking straight before him; sometimes at the curling smoke, then, through the smoke, at the opposite wall; then, through the wall--for so it seemed--at some object on the other side of the ohio river, miles away in the gathering shades of evening. once he turned his bright eyes full on the clump of shining black faces at the door, and scanned them attentively, though seemingly with as little consciousness of their living, personal presence as were they but so many stuffed specimens of their kind piled up there for exhibition. but glancing downward and spying three or four little woolies peeping fearfully at him from between the legs of the larger ones--the stride of the legs perceptibly widened "to give the little fellows a chance"--then did the young brave discharge a puff one second before its time, sending it with a force that carried it in a straight line to the bowl of the pipe before it began to rise. but for this, you would hardly have thought that the indian had seen any thing that seemed to him alive or human or funny. "cap'n rennuls, stop yo' monkey-shines ober de red varmint in dar, an' come out an' git up an' make us a speech," at length said one of the ebony brotherhood at the door, promoting our hero on the spot, and adding a still higher title to the illustrious list already coupled with his name. chapter xiv. how big black burl figured in oratory. accordingly, the fighting nigger came forth, still bristling all over with the trophies of victory and spoils of war--the three indian rifles now added to the rest. mounting a low, wide poplar stump directly in front of his cabin, he proceeded to give his colored brethren a circumstantial account of all that had happened to him in the course of his late adventure. as if the wonderful reality were not enough to satisfy any reasonable lover of the marvelous, he must needs lug in a deal that had not happened to him in the time, and never could have happened at any time to anybody, excepting giant-killers, dragon-fighters, and the like, whose exploits, though never witnessed by mortal eye, have made such a noise in the world of fancy, fog, and moonshine. though he could confine himself to facts with modest brevity when speaking of his achievements to white people--as we have already noticed--the fighting nigger, it must be owned, was something of a long-winded boaster, with a proneness to slide off into the fabulous, when blowing his own trumpet for the entertainment of his colored admirers, who bolted whatever monstrosity he might choose to toss into their greedy chops. but let us be just. it was with no direct intention of hoaxing or deceiving his hearers that he played the fabler; it was simply a way he had of holding up a magnifying-glass, so to speak, before their eyes, that he might help them to bring their imaginations up to his own idea of the wonderful reality. as the romancing went on, grumbo, who had taken the stump likewise, sat, with grim dignity, upon his haunches at his master's side, to lend his countenance to the matter under consideration; presiding, as it would seem, as chairman of the assembly. that such was the view he took of his present position was evident from his manner; for, ever and anon, when he saw their audience staggering under some marvel tossed too suddenly into their gaping mouths, our chairman would fetch the stump a ratifying rap of the tail, which said more plainly than his lips could have said it: "a fact, gentlemen--fact. on the word of an honest dog, that, also, strange though it may seem, is as true as all the rest my comrade has told you. i myself was present and had a hand in the matter; therefore ought i to know." now and then the speaker would be interrupted by his excitable listeners with some exclamation of wonder, horror, incredulity, derision, pity, or the like--which, being in anglo-congo or ebony lingo, must needs be unintelligible to many of my readers. therefore, for the enlightenment and edification of the unlearned, have i thought it best to give a list of the interjections and phrases in question, with the definition or free translation of each, ignoring etymologies as smacking, just here, of pedantry: glossary. git out--a cry of good-humored derision. shucks--pshaw; nonsense; fiddle-sticks. o hush--"you are too funny;" "you are too smart;" "you are a fool." i yi--hurrah; bravo; bully; well done: coupled with "my larky," equivalent to "catch me at that if you can." hoo-weep (followed by a whistle)--expressive of unspeakable astonishment. oho--a cry of exultation, translated into "goody, goody!" laus-a-marcy--shocking; horrible; dreadful: "my wool stands on end with horror." goodness gracious--used in a similar sense to the above, though in a milder degree. tsht, tsht, tsht--an unspellable sound, produced by applying the tip of the tongue to the palate with a quick suck at the air, repented three times; translatable into, "what a pity, what a pity!" "o dear, o dear!" lettin' on--making a pretense of; feigning; hoaxing. h-yah, h-yah, h-yah--ha, ha, ha. u-gooh--an unspellable interjection pronounced, or rather produced, by closing the lips and sending the sound through the nose, either forcibly and suddenly with a quick taper, or the reverse with a quick, short swell; or beginning gently, no bigger than a knitting-needle, and slowly swelling to a certain degree, then suddenly flaring, like the mouth of a dinner-horn. in short, varying according to the feeling or thought to be expressed. perhaps in the ebony lingo there is no word so frequently used, and in senses so various, as u-gooh. rendered into english, some of the sentiments expressed thereby are the following: "admirable!" "wonderful!" "o how nice!" "o how good!" "you astonish me!" "i admire you!" "i highly commend you!" "i applaud you!" "i am listening--pray proceed!" "what you tell me is very strange, nevertheless i believe you!" "i have no words to express what i feel, therefore can only say, 'u-gooh!'" what our black munchausen told the ebony wonder-mongers of his great adventure before and after the fight was such a jumble of marvels and horrors as were hardly fitting to appear in a sober book like ours, pledged to confine itself to possibilities, if not to facts. where the narrative should have been truest, if truly told, there the narrator was wildest, drawing freely upon his imagination to fill up the wide gaps between the few conspicuous incidents marking its setting out and winding up. gap number one was made interesting with bears; gap number two, lively with panthers; gap number three, thrilling with wolves; and where the war-path led into the shades of night, there the woods were alive with ghosts. we shall, therefore, make our dip into the medley just at that point where the narrator, having brought his listeners all agape to the hazardous edge of ambush and battle subsides into the possible; the story now rising of itself into the wonderful, and having no great need of exaggeration or embellishment to make it spicy. * * * * * "betsy grumbo," ses i to my gun, "you mus' put lead through two ob de varmints on de log, ef you cain't through all four." bang barks betsy; up jumps all de injuns, two falls back dead behin' de log, two goes runnin' down de hill a-yellin' as ef de ol' scratch wus arter 'em wid a sharp stick. ["h-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" audience.] "i yi, you dogs!" says i, lungin' out uf de bushes. "whoo-oop!" yells big injun, a-jerkin' his tommyhawk out uf de tree and flingin' it whizz at my head. i knocks it away wid my ax an' drives on. here comes anudder a-whizzin'. knocks dat off, too, still a-drivin' on at 'im. "i yi, you dogs!" anudder tommyhawk ready to fly. i knocks dat out de big injun's han'. big injun jumps back'ards, i jumps for'ards, my ax high up an' ready fur a cleaver. no chance fur big injun; ef he starts to run, it's a split in de back; ef he jumps to one side, it's a gash in de neck. de cleaver's a-comin' down, when here, wid a duck uf de head, comes injun right at me, his shoulder under my arm. down draps de ax, a-stickin' in de groun' atwixt his heels. bes' thing he could a-done fur hisse'f--cunnin' as a fox. den, ladies an' gen'lemen, we clinches, an' away we goes a-plungin' an' a-whirlin'; through de bushes an' through de fire, roun' an' roun' de logs, roun' an' roun' de trees, roun' an' roun' de hill. now i tosses 'im up tel his heels kicked de lim's uf de trees, he's so long; but eb'ry time i thinks i's gwine to bring him down kerwollop, down he comes wid all his feet under him, like a cat. activest thing i eber seed--he's so long. den he picks me up an' shakes me, dang-a-lang-a-downy-yo, as ef i's nothin' but a string-j'inted limber-jack. but when i at's him ag'in, to lock legs or kick ankles, dar he's 'way off yander, a-tippin' it on his toes, like a killdee. no gittin' a-nigh him, he's so active, he's so long. by an' by i happens to look 'roun'. dar's de dead varmint in de blue coat an' ruffled shirt up ag'in, wid his gun on de log, an' p'intin' right at my ribs. "ouch!" ses i, an' flings black thunder atwix. black thunder flings me back fur de pop. back i flings him ag'in atwix. den him me ag'in, me him ag'in, an' all de time de dead varmint a-follerin' us wid his gun, waitin' to pop my flanks. so, de dead varmint kep' me watchin' so close, an' de live varmint kep' me movin' so fas', i didn't know what i's doin', couldn't tell whar i's gwine. dar i was, rammed close up in a corner atwix a tree an' a log; no gittin' out, no flingin' big injun atwix. dead varmint takin' his aim--finger on trigger, ready to pull. "burlman rennuls," ses i to myse'f, "you's a goner," when dar comes grumbo a-pitchin'--no stoppin' to smell noses. one long lunge he makes, one long, stretchin' lunge--sich a lunge i neber seed a dog make befo'. 'peared as ef he'd lef' his hin' parts way back yander, to git de quicker at de varmint's throat wid his fo'parts. back falls injun, wid a kick an' a yell; off goes gun, wid a kick an' a bang, the bullet a-whizzin' right 'twix' our noses. "ouch!" ses i. "ugh!" says black thunder. [audience: "i yi!" "oho!" "u-gooh!" see glossary. it may have been a coincidence, but just here grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail.] ah! ladies an' gen'lemen [patting his comrade-in-arms on the head], you don't know how glad i wus to see dat dog. an' white folks say dat grumbo's got no humin feelin's. git out! den i takes a long bref, grumbo still a-holdin' fas' to de dead varmint. "burlman rennuls," says i to myse'f, "de big injun's too active fur you--too much like a cat fur you. you cain't throw him down, but you kin let him throw you down; an' once a-flat uf yo' back on de groun' you kin wollop him ober as easy as turnin' a pancake, den chaw him up any way you please." so, i pushes him hard--he pushes me back still harder--when down we comes, kerwollop, chug--nigger below, injun on top. but, in de shake uf a sheep's tail, nigger comes up, injun goes down. i grabs fur my knife. it's gone--slipped out in de scuffle. big injun grabs fur his knife; dat's gone, too. he jerks out his pipe an' breaks it in flinders ober my head. "ouch!" says i. i looks roun' fur somethin' good fur beatin' out brains, an' dar lays my ax. i grabs it up, now ready fur a cleaver, an' no mistake. big injun ain't, though; he ain't ready fur any sich a thing. up he comes wid a whirl, an' down i goes wid a fling, my ax a-flyin' way out yander. but in de wriggle uf a buck's tail comes up nigger ag'in; goes down injun ag'in. yes, an' a leetle mo' dan dat: nigger an' injun clean ober de turn uf de hill, an' now a-slidin', slidin' down whar it wus steep as a house-ruff. "burlman rennuls," ses i to myself, "whar you gwine? dis ain't de sort uf groun' fur you. you cain't manage de injun here on de steep hill-side--he's too active fur you; he's too long fur you; he's too much like a painter fur you. git to a lebel country, burlman rennuls; git to a lebel country quick as you kin." den i hugs him up tight in my arms, an' locks him up tight in my legs, an' 'way down de steep hill, rollin', rumblin', an' tumblin' we go--fus' nigger on top, den injun'--ober an' ober, fas'er an' fas'er. [the orator revolving his fists one round the other with increasing rapidity.] "burlman rennuls, whar you gwine?" don't know whar, but dat we's rollin' fas'er an' fas'er, an' dat we's startin' de rocks to rollin' too, a-hoppin' an' pitchin' behin' us as ef dey's in fur a frolic. now we's all in a whirl down dar at de foot uf de hill, an' no lebel country--nothin' but a leanin'-ober river-bank forty foot high. "burlman rennuls, whar you gwine?" don't know whar. but ober we pitches a-whirlin' [throwing out one of the revolving fists at a tangent]--down we draps into water full forty foot deep, kerslash; de rocks a-pitchin' in arter us thick as hail. [audience: "laws-a-marcy!" "goodness gracious!" "hoo-weep!" (with a whistle). after an impressive pause the speaker, with an impressive gesture, resumed his exciting story.] now, ladies an' gen'lemen, you's thinkin' dat's de las' uf burlman rennuls, an' dis his ghos' up here on de stump a-talkin' to you. 't ain't so: burlman rennuls pulled out; pulled out, i say. ef he didn't he wouldn't be up here a-tellin' you uf it. i ups an' looks roun', big injun ups an' looks roun'. i pulls fur big injun, big injun pulls for lan'. bes' swimmer; gits dar fus', an' ter keep me from landin' too, 'gins beatin' me back wid rocks, wid no more kunsideration fur de feelin's uf a gen'leman dan ef i'd been a shell-backed tarapin. whack comes one uf de rocks on my head. "ouch!" an' down i dives. "burlman rennuls," ses i to myself, down dar in de bottom uf de riber, "whar ar' you come to? not whar you started to go. dis ain't yo' lebel country. dis won't do. big injun too much fur you in water. git out uf de water quick as you kin. two loaded guns up dar on top uf de hill. you scratch out an' git de guns, an' yo' day's work's ober." so, i ups ag'in; an' dis time under de leanin'-over bank, whar de cane-brake wus, de roots uf de brake a-hangin' down 'mos' to de water. now comes de rocks ag'in, as thick as hail. grabbin' de cane-brakes, up i goes, han' ober han', han' ober han'. de rocks stop flyin'. i looks behin' me to see fur why. dar goes black thunder drivin' 'cross de riber down at de riffle, makin' de water fly befo' him like a runaway hoss. o my little marster! up i goes, in double-quick time. half way up i sees a painter a-grinnin' down at me frum a tree on de bank. didn't like his looks, but climbed on. [here the speaker was interrupted by a voice from the audience: "cap'n rennuls, see yer now; ain't you lettin' on?"] you g' long! who stops fur painters in a pinch like dat, or any thing else? ef i'd turned back den would i be here now to tell you uf it? git out! so, painter, or what not, up i scrabbles, ober de bank wid a tug, an' through de brake wid a squeeze, tel dar i wus at de foot uf de hill. o my little marster! [a woman's voice in the audience: "tsht, tsht, tsht! pore little feller!" see glossary.] up we goes a-scratchin'; pullin' at de bushes an' weeds an' grass ter help us 'long, an' tearin' dem up, like flax on a rainy day. injun has furder ter go, but longer legs ter go wid. so he gits ter de top uf de hill as quick as me--him nighest his gun, me nighest my ax. he's reachin' his han' out fur de gun, my han' 's on my ax a'ready, an' at him de ax goes whizzin', an' pops him plump on de hip, an' ober he tumbles. i runs to pick up my ax, dis time ter give de tough varmint a cleaver, or neber. he can't run, he can't crawl; but he kin wollop, an' wollop he does, like a rooster wid his head cut off. in de flash uf a gun-flint, dar he's wolloped hisse'f to de turn uf de hill. i sends my ax wid a good-by arter him, an' gives him a gash in de arm to 'member me by. he sends me back a grin an' a whoop, an' away big injun goes rollin' an' tumblin'. i grabs up a gun--his own gun it was--an' sends him a long far'well. he sends back a yell--de o-f-f-ullest yell i eber heerd in all my bo'n days; offul enough ter come frum a grave-yard. out comes spirtin' de blood, a-flyin' frum de rollin' body like water frum a flutter-mill. down to de foot uf de hill a-whirlin' he goes, tel ober de bank uf de riber he pitches. an' dat's de las' i sees uf big injun. [audience: "i yi!" "oho!" "u-gooh!"] "burlman rennuls," says i to myself, still p'intin' my gun at de bank, "yo' day's work's done." but hain't hardly said it when, "burl, burl!" ses bushie; "bow-wow," ses grumbo; and "w-h-izz," ses a tommyhawk, grazin' my nose an' stickin' itse'f in a tree by my side. [here hurling the identical tomahawk over the heads of the wincing listeners and sinking it in a tree behind them. "goodness gracious, bu'lman rennuls, how you skeer a pusson!" exclaimed a finical female voice in the audience. it may have been another coincidence, but just here grumbo fetched the stump another ratifying rap of the tail.] i wheels about, an' dar's t'udder dead varmint up on his legs an' a-comin' at me wid his knife, but grumbo holdin' him back by de coat-tail. "i yi, you dogs!" an' at him i go--grabs his knife, clinches his throat, when down to de groun' we come--injun, nigger, an' dog, dog-fashion, all in a pile togedder. ["cap'n rennuls," said a voice in the audience, "ef de varmint wus a dead one, how could he do all dat like a live one?"] you g' long! dat's none uf my lookout. ef it wusn't as i tell you, would de young injun be dar in my doo' now, smokin' his pipe? ef you won't b'lieve me ax him; an' ef you can't take his word fur it, ax grumbo. [audience: "h-yah, h-yah, h-yah!" "shucks!" see glossary. and here again, too roundly and soundly for mere coincidence, grumbo fetched the stump a ratifying rap of the tail, that said as plainly as a dog's tail ever said any thing: "yea, and i'll swear to it."] * * * * * but we have followed our black munchausen through the least wonderful part of his story, as narrated by himself; and further than this, for reasons already hinted, we dare not venture, the facts of the narrative here beginning to grow tame again, and the narrator's fancies wide. so we shall leave our lion to go on roaring it out into the ears of his colored admirers to his heart's satisfaction, till he is empty and they are full. at last, after blowing and puffing for nearly an hour in the popular ear, the windy story, tapering off with a little facetious gas designed for the ladies, found its way to an end, and dismissing his audience with a majestic wave of his war-cap, big black burl came down from the rostrum. chapter xv. how big black burl sewed it up in his war-cap. by the time the fighting nigger had made an end of blowing his trumpet, the shadows of the long summer twilight had deepened into the shades of night, reminding him that it was high time he should be looking after the comfort of his captive guest. while the blowing and roaring had been going on from the stump, the young indian had remained seated on the cabin door-sill, tranquilly smoking his pipe, the odorous contents of which showed forth at long and regular intervals in a dull-red glow from the dusky shadow of the cabin-shed. taking him in, burl hospitably yielded up to his guest his own bed--the bear-skin bed he was so proud of and loved so much to sleep on--spreading for himself instead a buffalo-rug on the floor. in a little while the spirit of sleep had descended on every weary soul in the fort--all save the wakeful grumbo, who, crouched on his bear-skin out there under the shed, maintained, as was his habit, vigilant watch through the livelong night. now that his great adventure had been brought to a happy end, the fighting nigger must once more doff his bear-skin cap--the cap of war--and don, instead, his coon-skin cap--the cap of peace; hang his battle-ax up on the wall, and lay his hand to the plow; muzzle his war-dog, and bridle his plow-horse; and leave the war-path in the forest to tread the peace-path in the field. accordingly, early next morning, having duly discharged his office as host for the time being, and left his guest to a pipe of tobacco and quiet meditation, burl was about betaking himself to his labors in the field, when his little master came running out to his cabin with word that miss jemima wished to speak with him before he left the fort. respectfully uncapping himself even before reaching her presence, the faithful fellow came, and showing the left shoulder and bushy head of him from round the edge of the door and looking side-long into the room where his mistress was sitting, said in answer to her summons, "yes 'um." "i have sent for you, burl," began mrs. reynolds with kindly seriousness of tone and manner, "to tell you how thankful i am for the good and brave part you have done by me and my poor fatherless boy, and to reward you in the best way i can." here she paused. "yes 'um," said burl, not knowing what else to say, and looking hard at grumbo, who, as if he had been summoned too, had followed his master, and now, seated on his haunches in the door-way, was listening with grave attention to what was going on--hoping, no doubt, that severe measures were at last about to be taken with regard to the red barbarian. mrs. reynolds resumed: "while you were gone, burl, i sat here in my great distress and made a solemn promise to myself and to heaven, that if you were permitted to bring me back my child alive and well, i would give you your freedom at once, as the only fitting reward i had it in my power to bestow for so great a proof of your fidelity and love to us." "now, miss jemimy!" exclaimed burl in a tone of remonstrance, the water welling up in his great ox-like eyes. "yes, but i must do it," rejoined his mistress. "heaven has heard my prayer, and i must keep my promise. faithful and good have you been to us, and richly deserve the reward i offer. would it were in my power to give you more." "now, miss jemimy!" repeated burl, in the same tone, "you needn't, indeed you needn't." and seeing that his mistress had had her say, he seized upon the subject with sudden energy, and thus unburdened his mind: "miss jemimy, i don't want my freedom; i 's no use fur it. hain't i got de bes' mistus in de worl' an' de finest little marster? hain't i got a gun an' a dog? plenty to eat an' plenty to w'ar? a whole cabin to myse'f, an' saturday ev'nin's to go a-huntin' an' a-fishin' ef i likes? de only thing i hain't got an' would like ter hab--dough dat's no fault uf yourn, miss jemimy--is a white skin. ef i had a white skin, den might i hab my freedom an' know whar's my place an' who's my comp'ny. as i is, turn me out free an' whar's my place? no whar. who's my comp'ny? nobody. too good fur common niggers, not good 'nough fur white folks. what den would i be? a ingin i s'pose. sooner be grumbo dar dan a injun. den miss jemimy wants to make a red varmint uf her ol' nigger. git out! 'scuse me, miss jemimy; i didn't go to say dat ter you. but i's bery glad an' thankful to hear you talk dat way. makes me gladder to be what i is, so glad to be what i is, i won't be nothin' else ef i kin he'p it." deeply touched at this new proof of fidelity and self-sacrifice, yet not a little amused withal at the droll shape in which it came, mrs. reynolds rejoined: "well, burl, you can do as you please, but so far as my will and wishes can make you free, free you are from this day forth, either to go and play or stay and work. my promise is given, never to be recalled." "den, miss jemimy," replied burl with look and tone of deep respect, "ef you's gwine ter let me do 's i please, w'y den, i pleases to stay." then, showing the whole of himself, excepting one arm and one leg, from round the edge of the door-way, and now rising into the oratorical, burlman reynolds proceeded to give his opinions upon the subject, having already expressed his feelings. "miss jemimy," with an impressive gesture, "dare's reason in all things. now, ef i had l'arnin', could read in a book, write on paper, figger on a slate, count up money, tel de names of de mont's, an' alwus say how ol' i is when axed, an' all sich things like white folks, w'y den, dare'd be some sense in a great he-nigger like me doin' what i please, gwine whar i please--free-papers in pockets. but ef i has my freedom an' hain't got l'arnin' to match it, den would i be like--like--" looking about him for a comparison, till chancing to cast his eye on his dog, a thing pat suggested itself. "w'y, miss jemimy, one uf de red varmints me an' grumbo chawed up yisterdy had on a blue coat an' ruffle shirt along with his ragetty rawhide tags an' fedders. thought i neber seed nothin' look so scan'lus. 'red varmint,' says i to him, 'coat an' no breeches won't do, shirt an' no breeches won't do.' an' now says i to miss jemimy, 'freedom an' no l'arnin' won't do no mo' dan shirt an' no breeches.' "now, look at de injuns." [presenting the subject in another light.] "dey has der freedom, kin do what dey please, kin go whar dey please, an' what do dey do? don't do nothin' but hunt an' fish an' fight. whar do dey go? w'y, jes' a-rippin' an' tearin' all ober da worl', 'sturbin' peacable people, keepin' dem mizzible an' onsituwated. so you see, de injun, dough he has his freedom, ain't nothin' arter all but a red varmint. an' fur why? beca'se he hain't got l'arnin' fur to tell him what to do wid his freedom, dat's why. so dey needs somebody to tell 'em what to do an' make 'em do it. yes, an' dar's some white folks, too, who hain't got l'arnin' an' don't know much better what to do wid dare freedom dan injuns an' free niggers, dough dey don't think so demselves, an' would knock a nigger down fur sayin' it. an' dem's my 'pinions on dat p'int. "an' miss jemimy" [here burl lowered his voice and looked at his mistress with solemn earnestness], "have you forgot how i promised mars bushrod i'd do what i could fur his wife an' pore little boy? all a pore nigger could fur white folks in dat way, an' wouldn't neber stop a-doin' it? an' s'posin' ef i was ter leabe 'em now, what would dey do? who-o-o'd----" here he choked up and broke down, and clapping his coon-skin cap on his head and pulling it down over his eyes, burl turned abruptly and walked hurriedly away. ten minutes after, mounted on his plow-horse, and with the big round tears playing at leap-frog down his face, he was riding along the bridle-path through the woods on his way to the corn-field, singing at the top of his huge, melodious voice: "squirly is a pretty bird." and that morning the sylvan wilds were kept resounding with the heart-easing, blithesome music which bespoke the thankfulness and the gladness of the singer's heart. it was the happiest morning he had ever known in all his life, and yet, despite an unaccountable accident of birth that had brought into the world so noble a soul with an ebony hide and fleecy head, the poor fellow had known a thousand mornings nearly as happy. he was having his reward. but at about eleven o'clock the singing suddenly ceased--so suddenly, indeed, that any one who might have been listening would have said, "assuredly something unusual has happened to burlman reynolds; something has struck him--perhaps an indian bullet." but when, in answer to the dinner-horn, the plowman came riding slowly home, it was evident from his unwonted seriousness of look and manner that a thought had struck the mind, not a bullet the body of burlman reynolds. it was further evident from the absent-minded way in which he fed cornwallis, throwing him two dozen instead of one dozen ears of corn; and further still, from the absent-minded way in which he fed himself, leaving his bacon untoasted and eating nothing but bonny-clabber and corn-dodgers. nor again that day was there an echo in the woods to tell that big black burl was at his cheerful labors in the field. yet, though the voice was silent, the heart went singing on, and the burden of the tune it sung was, "bery glad an' bery thankful." that evening after supper, having smoked a sociable pipe with his indian guest in the twilight under his cabin-shed, burl picked up his coon-skin cap and, without putting it on, carried it in his hand with profound respect to miss jemimy's door, where by early candle-light, she was putting bushie to bed. showing one shoulder and his bushy head from round the edge of the door-way, he looked in, and by way of breaking the subject uppermost in his thoughts, cleared his throat and said, "yes 'um." "well, burl, what is it?" kindly inquired his mistress. "'scuse me, miss jemimy, but i's come to tell you i's been thinkin'----" pausing; and as he still hesitated, his mistress said: "yes, so you have; i knew as much already, not having heard a song from you since dinner-time. out with it, then; i am ready to hear you." "well, miss jemimy, it's jes' dis. we's all pore mortal creeters, made of clay, you know; no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'." another pause. "nothing could be truer, burl," rejoined his mistress; "and yet not always right pleasant to think of. but go on, and speak your mind freely." "well, miss jemimy, bein' sich pore mortal creeters as we is, dare's no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin'. 'scuse me, ef you please." "and you are thinking that you might be left behind," added his mistress. "you've hit it 'zac'ly on de head, miss jemimy; dat's jes' de thing i's wantin' to say, but was afeered uf hurtin' feelin's. hope you don't think hard uf me fur havin' sich thoughts. but bein', as i wus sayin', de pore mortal creeters we is, some pussons is boun' to drap off sooner dan oders, some boun' to be lef' behin'; an' dar's no tellin' who de whos will be. sich things mus' happen, an' nobody's fault, you know." "it is all just as you say, burl," replied his mistress. "so go on without more ado, and tell me exactly what is in your mind, and no fear of hurting feelings." "thank you, miss jemimy, fur talkin' dat way; it makes me easy. so i'll go on an' tell it all, jes' as i's been thinkin' it. eber sence late dis mornin' i's been sayin' to myse'f out yander in de corn-fiel': 'we's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay--no tellin' who'll be took 'way fus', who'll be lef behin'. den s'posin',' ses i, 's'posin' ef my good missus an' sweet little marster might be took 'way fus', an' der ol' nigger lef' behin', what den? w'y, mebbe jes' dis: some white man i neber liked or neber knowed might come 'long a-sayin' to me: "you belongs to me now, i's paid my money fur you; you go plow in my fiel', go chop in my woods, go mow in my medder; i hain't bought yo' wife an' chil'en--no use fur dem; so jes' make up yo' min' to leabe 'em an' come 'long." den burlman rennuls be very sorry he didn't take what his good mistus wanted so much to give him long time ago.' so i goes on thinkin' it ober an' ober eber go long, till ses i to myse'f, 'i'll go to miss jemimy dis bery night an' say to her: "miss jemimy," ses i, "we's all pore mortal creeters made uf clay, no tellin' who'll be took away fus', who'll be lef' behin';" an' my good missus will know what i mean.' so i's come an' sed it. but min' you, miss jemimy, min' you now, i'm 'tirely willin' to work fur you an' my little marster all my days--'d ruther do it. but sich a thing might happen dat you two might be took away fus', an' yo' ol' nigger lef' behin'. den i'd a leetle ruther be free. i don't know, arter all, but freedom's a bery good thing to hab eben ef we hain't got l'arnin' to match it. dat is, ef we kin hab it an' not let it make fools uf us--set us a-thinkin' we's got nuthin' to do but lay in de shade an' kick up our heels. a nigger needn't make sich a show uf his freedom as de red varmint uf his ruffle shirt an' blue coat; jes' tie it up in a snug little bundle to tote along wid him an' let folks know he has it, an' dat'll be 'nuff fur any use. so i's thinkin' i'll come an' say: 'miss jemimy,' ses i, 'bein' as you want so much to do it, w'y den, ef you please, jes' write it down on a piece uf paper how, in case you an' my little marster might be took away fus', you wants yo' ol' nigger to hab his freedom.' den i'll sew it up in my b'ar-skin cap, to keep it till de time comes, ef de time mus' come, so i kin say to de fus' white man who comes 'long a-claimin' me, 'i yi, my larky,' pullin' out my free-papers. but, min' you now, miss jemimy, i don't want you to be a-thinkin' dat i'll be a-hopin' fur de time to come so i kin go rippin' an' tearin' 'bout de country, like some no-'count, raggetty, dirty free niggers i's seed afore now, who, beca'se dey could do what dey pleased, didn't please to do nuthin'. 't ain't so. i's sed it afore, an' i'll say it ag'in, i'll do what i kin fur my good missus an' my sweet little marster--all a pore nigger kin fur white folks in dat way, an' won't neber stop a-doin' it; an' i mean to keep my word." and right willingly did miss jemimy according to her faithful servant's wishes, writing it down on a "piece of paper," clear and full, not forgetting to take such steps as should make the document good and valid in the eyes of the law. then, having wrapped it up carefully in a piece of buckskin made water-proof and sweat-proof by bear's-grease rubbed in, burl, with an awl and two wax-ends, sewed it up securely in the crown of his bear-skin cap. and, as the poor fellow was never left behind, there it remained for the rest of his days, with never a hope that he might some day have occasion to use it--never one regret that he had not accepted at once the priceless blessing it offered. chapter xvi. how big black burl figured on the peace-path. it were long, and needless too, to tell of every thing that happened in and around our little fort during the fortnight the young indian remained a captive among the whites. captive, however, we should hardly call him, since he was left entirely at liberty to go whithersoever he chose; and there was nothing to hinder him from walking back to chillicothe, his home, whenever the humor might seize him, except a nice sense of honor and a crippled arm. every morning, after he had cheered his solitude with a pipe of tobacco, kumshakah--for that was the young indian's name--accompanied by bushie, would go and present himself at mrs. reynolds's door, that, according to her express desire, he might have his wound dressed. though grave and reserved in his demeanor toward every one else, kumshakah could show himself talkative and affable enough when alone with shekee-thepatee ("little raccoon"), as he called his little white friend bushie. for hours together would these two loving chums--for such they soon became--keep up a lively, confidential interchange of thought and sentiment, each in his own language, and evidently quite as much to the other's entertainment as to his own satisfaction, which was rather remarkable, seeing that neither understood a word the other was saying. the other children of the fort, holding the red stranger in too great awe and dread to trust themselves within his reach, would watch the two with sharp curiosity from a distance, admiring and envying the courage and easy assurance with which their playfellow could rub against so terrible a creature as a skin-clad, feather-crested indian warrior, who was always whittling with his scalping-knife. every day the pair would take a long ramble into the forest, in the course of which they never failed to go or come by the corn-field, where big black burl--his feet in the peace-path, his head in his peace-cap, his heart in his peace-song--was tickling the fat ribs of mother earth with a plow, to make her laugh with johnny-cakes and pumpkin-pies for his little master. kumshakah had given his big black friend also a new name, mish-mugwa ("big bear"); the title being suggested, no doubt, by the fighting nigger's bear-skin rigging no less than by his size, color, and strength. always on catching his first glimpse of them, where side by side they sat on the topmost rail of the fence, mish-mugwa would cut short his singing and send forward his wonted salutation, "i yi, you dogs!" not failing at such times to discover that old "corny" was sweating and would like to blow awhile, our black cincinnatus would run his plow into a shady corner, and, likewise taking his seat on the fence, square himself for a little edifying conversation. these visits were the white spots in the day to burl. apart from the pretext they gave him of resting from his work, they afforded him an opportunity of airing his achievements as a hunter, and his exploits as a warrior--_i.e._, of hearing himself talk. as the young indian understood not a word of what was said to him, he had but to sit and listen, which he would do with grave and decorous attention, composedly smoking his pipe the while, with his bright eyes fixed on the distant green or blue before him. once fairly going on this strain, the fighting nigger would never stop until he had made a squeezed lemon of every red "varmint" whose "top-knot" he had to show for proof and trophy of his prowess, winding up with a careful enumeration of all the scalps he had ever taken, telling them slowly off on his fingers, that his indian guest might take a note of it, if so minded. often, before our big black munchausen had blown his fill, our little white munchausen, fired by the illustrious example of his pattern, would come gallantly dashing in, to give his exploits and achievements a little airing likewise. he had caught with alarming aptitude his pattern's inventiveness and proneness to exaggeration; so that, before letting them go, his dogs and cats were sure to swell into wolves and panthers, his garter-snakes into rattlesnakes, his bellowing bull-frogs into roaring buffalo-bulls, and his white calves, seen in the dark, into "ghostises." nor was burl unwilling to listen; for, though so fond of talking himself, and so good a talker too, he was one of the best listeners in the world. this trait will seem the more commendable in our hero when we reflect how rarely we find the good talker and the good listener conjoined--more rarely, indeed, than the good talker and the exemplar of every christian virtue; so rarely, in fact, that we marvel so few of the good talkers have made the discovery for themselves. so to those sallies of his "little man" burl would listen with indulgent, condescending attention, or with a broad grin of mingled incredulity and admiration; expressing the latter sentiment by such exclamations as "i yi!" "oho!" "u-gooh!" "hoo-weep!" [with a whistle]; the former sentiment by such interrogative phrases as, "see here now!" "ain't you lettin' on?" "ain't de little man gwine leetle too fur jes' dar?" "hadn't my little man better rein up his horses now?"--just by way of keeping his juvenile imitator in the beaten track of the impossible, within the orthodox limits of the marvelous. thus seated side by side, on the top of the scraggy corn-field fence, would these three worthies, so strikingly different one from the other, while away the warm summer hours; often, too, long after old cornwallis, there dozing so contentedly in the shade of the overleaning wood, had dried off and recovered the breath he had not lost. perhaps, at such times, instead of keeping his eyes on some invisible point in the atmosphere, kumshakah would be employing them and his hands in the fashioning of two pipes--one of black stone, the other of white stone. on the bowl of the white stone pipe he carved the figure of a little raccoon, on the bowl of the black stone pipe the figure of a big bear--both pipes neatly executed, and the two figures passable likenesses. when he had finished the pipes, and fitted to them stems, handsomely ornamented with the feathers of birds, kumshakah presented the black pipe to mish-mugwa, the white pipe to shekee-thepatee, and to the infinite delight of both; of bushie, chiefly because he saw in his a token of his red friend's love; of burl, chiefly because he saw in his the only thing lacking to give completeness to his martial rigging--a war-pipe. all this time grumbo maintained toward every one, not even excepting his master, a grim, severe reserve--keeping much alone, seldom indulging in cooked meat, more seldom still in raw, and never tasting his corn-dodgers. the red barbarian, in particular, he regarded with an evil eye--holding him in worse and worse odor, as the rest received him into higher and higher favor. time and again did the captain essay to explain to his lieutenant how matters stood between them and their prisoner, but in vain. with that consistency of mind and fixedness of purpose for which he was remarkable, our canine hero stubbornly persisted in making it manifest that he was not a dog to be whistled, rubbed, and patted into winking at a measure so lax as that of allowing a red "varmint" to run at large in their midst, without even so much as a block and chain to hamper the freedom of his movements, or some sign to bespeak his inferiority to men and dogs. perhaps, like some perverse people we have known, grumbo took particular delight in being unsatisfactory to every one but himself. or, perhaps by the observance of this policy he meant to reproach his renegade leader for suffering himself to be so easily led away from the orthodox faith in which they had lived so long and happily together, and had acted in such harmonious concert. perhaps, too, it was meant as a warning that unless he should be given some assurance that business should hereafter be done up in the regular, scientific way, he would break with the captain altogether, and attach himself to the fortunes of some other leader, more consistent and better fitted to command, and who should have a more just appreciation of what was due a brave and faithful follower. but our four-footed hero, like many a two-footed hero we have read of, was doomed in his day and generation to be misunderstood, unappreciated, maligned, neglected. as usual in such cases, the result was a total upsetting in the mind of the injured one of all orthodox notions of human nature and the eternal fitness of things. i should hardly express myself so boldly were i not backed by the testimony of some of grumbo's own contemporaries, by whom i have been informed that, a few weeks after the events i am relating, his dogship renounced human society and a mixed diet altogether, and withdrawing himself from the pale of the civilized world to the solitudes of the forest, there, for the rest of his days, lived the life of a misanthropic hermit. according to other contemporaneous testimony, however, no less deserving our serious consideration, an ebony monster, with a woolly head and flat nose, but walking erect on two legs, and in other respects bearing a striking resemblance to man, had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of our canine hero from the theater of human action. moved with envy and spite at beholding the fighting nigger's renown and at hearing his praises in the popular mouth, and itching to inflict upon the object thereof the greatest possible injury he could, with the least possible risk to himself, this ebony monster secretly, and in the most dastardly manner, poisoned the heroic grumbo--thus cutting short his career of glory in the very prime and flower of his doghood. be all this as it may, of one thing we are sure, that after that ever-to-be-remembered first of june, , never was the war-dog seen again on the war-path with captain reynolds, the fighting nigger, the big black brave with a bushy head, mish-mugwa. it was a beautiful sabbath morning "in the leafy month of june." blue and sunny and loving hung the sky above the dark, green, perilous wilderness, where our pioneer fathers, in daily jeopardy of their lives, were struggling to secure for themselves and their children after them a home in the land so highly favored by heaven. that morning, on presenting himself at mrs. reynolds's door, kumshakah was pronounced by the good woman to be healed of his wound, and told that he might now depart in peace to his own land and people. with a sorrowful face burl took down the young indian's rifle from where it had lain with the others in the rifle-hooks against his cabin wall, and having cleaned and loaded it with care, returned it to its owner, along with his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch, liberally reënforced with ammunition from his own store. then he arrayed himself from top to toe in his martial rigging, proposing, as it was sunday, to escort his captive guest some miles into the wilderness, till he had seen him safe across the border. having, through burl's influence, gained his mother's permission to accompany them, bushie, likewise in honor of the occasion, had put on a clean homespun cotton shirt and a pair of buckskin moccasins, which, with the eagle feathers in his coon-skin cap and his white stone pipe worn tomahawk-wise in his girdle, lent him quite a holiday appearance. all being ready, the three then went to mrs. reynolds's door, that kumshakah might bid farewell to his kind hostess. "farewell, kumshakah," said the good woman, extending her hand. "may the great father of us all, whom you call the great spirit, have you now and have you ever in his holy keeping, and reward you according to your wondrous kindness to my poor helpless boy in his hour of need." with deep respect the young brave approached and took the proffered hand, which, with delicate emphasis, he shook just once, and there was a shining in his bright, wild eyes, as eloquent of gratitude as had it been the glistening of a tear. in further answer to her words, the purport whereof he had read in her face and voice, he made a brief speech in his own language, which, spoken in tones deep, melodious, and earnest, and delivered with singular grace and dignity, ever after lived in the white mother's remembrance like a strain of music, which, though unintelligible to the ear, is understood and echoed by the heart. then the young indian turned and, followed by burl and bushie, walked slowly and thoughtfully away. as side by side they pursued their tramp through the green entanglements of the forest, the black hunter was far less talkative than usual, and the red hunter scarcely spoke at all, though, indian-like, listening with respectful attention whenever his companion seemed to be addressing him in particular. but, as if reserving all his regrets for the parting moment, bushie--now mounted on burl's shoulder, now walking hand in hand with kumshakah--kept up a lively prattle which never ceased, and to which the others listened with pleased ears. sometimes, while riding aloft, he would amuse himself by catching at the slender, pliant branches of the trees brought within his reach, which he would draw after him as far as he could bend them, then letting them fly back, leave them swinging to and fro. at length, as if this amusement had suggested it to his mind, the boy struck up a cadence from one of burl's songs, singing in a clear, piping voice: an' de jay-bird flew away-- de jay-bird flew away-- an' lef' de lim' a-swingin'-- a-swingin'. "mus'n't sing sich songs on sunday, bushie--sing hymns on sunday. so, j'ine in wid me an' help me sing caneyan's happy sho' for kumshy, pore kumshy, who's gwine to leabe us, neber to come no mo'. it'll do him good." so, joining their voices, they sung a simple hymn which, with a _plaintive melody_ expressive of yearning, had for its burden the following words: o dat will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o dat will be joyful, to meet to part no more; to meet to part no more, on caneyan's happy shore; an' dar we'll meet at jesus' feet, an' meet to part no more. at noon they reached the spot where, a fortnight before, kumshakah brought down the eagle, which, stripped of its plumage and still bleeding, burl had found on the trail a few hours after. here a spring of clear, cool, sparkling water gurgled out from underneath a moss-grown rock in the hill-side, and here they halted. they quenched their thirst from the spring, then seating themselves on the moss-grown trunk of a fallen tree that lay near by, burl and kumshakah lighted their pipes and sat for many minutes smoking in thoughtful, even melancholy, silence. for, strange as it may seem, though neither had spoken a word intelligible to the other since the beginning of their acquaintance, a decided and cordial friendship had sprung up between the fighting nigger and his indian captive, insomuch that they were now very loath to part. but the feeling which had arisen between the young indian and the little white boy was of a far more tender nature, each beholding in the other the preserver of his life, and with a mutual gratitude heightened by mutual admiration. such is the power of instinct, which can discover what words might try to reveal and fail. their pipes smoked out, they broke their fast on some jerked venison and buttered johnny-cakes, which burl, hospitable to the last, had brought along in his hunting-pouch. by the time they had finished their simple repast and smoked another pipe, the forest shadows had slowly shifted round from west to east, and were now beginning perceptibly to lengthen, admonishing them that the hour was come when they must part and go their separate ways. but something more remained yet to be done. taking the white stone pipe which he had carved for shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with tobacco, kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to mish-mugwa. this the young indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. poor burl did not know that indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance with kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race, excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to him, the power of speech. so, till he had gone home that night and told the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe gave expression. nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to self-determined adaptability, mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many whiffs as he had seen kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to kumshakah. the peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. burl seized it with a huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an indian wince, and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye, thus bid farewell: "good-by, kumshy. de good lord go wid you all yo' days. come an' see us ag'in--miss jemimy an' mishy-muggy an' sheky-depatty; mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' sheky-depatty's bushie. come an' see us all ag'in. good-by." then going up to bushie, kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the young indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. but when he saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud. "come back, kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and never leave us, kumshakah!" the young indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. as he did so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had turned again to go, must--if ever indian warrior weeps--have gathered into a tear. with wistful eyes, burl and bushie followed the swiftly receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. here he faced about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. in final farewell burl waved his cap. kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no more. with sorrowful hearts, burl and bushie turned likewise, and retraced their steps to fort reynolds. from that day forward, never again did captain reynolds, the fighting nigger, the big black brave with a bushy head, mish-mugwa, lay the bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe. chapter xvii. how the glory of his race figured in his rising. listen! there lived an indian--a sachem of the powerful and warlike shawnees; an indian who loved his wild people, his wild land, and his wild freedom dearer than his life, and for their defense and weal he labored, and fought and died. why and how, and to what end--listen! the sachem looked around him. he saw his people, wasted to but the shadow of what they once were, slowly moving toward the setting sun. he saw them at deadly strife one with another--tribe with tribe, and kindred with kindred. he marked how they were falling away from the sober lives and pure faith of their fathers, and losing their wild independence in the slothful and corrupting habits of vagabond existence. he beheld his native wilderness gradually waning as from before a slow-approaching, far-extended fire. in terror at the sight, the animals of the chase, so needful to man in the savage state, went flitting by, outstripping his people in their journey toward the setting sun. the sachem looked far forth toward the regions of the rising sun, and there beheld the civilized and powerful white man, whose star of empire was leading him onward in his resistless progress toward the mighty rivers and the boundless plains of the far west--the land of the future. the powerful stranger laid his hand upon the woody hills, and they smoked; he set his foot upon the grassy plains, and they withered. he lifted the hand of violence against the red sons of the forest, and they fled; he breathed upon them, and they became diseased, corrupt, and feeble; he sowed the seeds of strife among them, and straightway they fell to wrangling and warring one with another, more fiercely than ever before; he stretched his long arm over their heads and thrust his terrible sword into the heart of their wilderness, now here, now there, saying: "this pleasant valley is mine, here will i make my dwelling-place; this fertile plain is mine, it shall yield me riches; this broad river is mine, it shall be a highway between my great towns. then, westward, red man, farther westward; nor think of rest, while you have the setting sun and this fair land before you!" still onward and westward the white man held his ever-widening, overwhelming course. a little while and the red man should not have in all the green earth where to lay his weary head and say: "this is my home--here dwelt my fathers before me, and here they be buried; here with them shall i rest when my race is run." the sachem saw all this, and his mighty spirit was stirred within him. "the shemanols,"[ ] said the sachem to his people, "have united their seventeen great fires[ ] into one, and the union has made them strong and happy. we must profit by the example. i will go forth among the tribes of red men, and by the help of the great spirit unite them into one people; make of them a dam to stay the flow of this mighty water, lest it utterly sweep away our forest and cast us like driftwood, broken and scattered, on the far-off shores beneath the setting sun. we have warned the white stranger to come no farther, but have spoken to the winds that hear not; we have entreated him to come no farther, but have prayed to the rocks that feel not. then, let him come. i see his warriors in the east, in the south, in the north, and in numbers like the leaves of the forest when rolling and rustling before the blasts of autumn. shall the sachem of the shawnees tremble? shall they say he hated the foe of his race and feared him? i too have my warriors, strong and brave and true; and many a forest and mountain and plain, left us by our fathers, have we still behind us and around us. then let us stand up like men and defend them. or, if fall we must, at least then here, where lie our fathers, let us leave our bones to cry out against the destroyer of our race, and our dust to poison the air his children shall breathe. if such must be our fate, it is well. wahcoudah's will be done!" [footnote : the shawnese for americans.] [footnote : the seventeen states of the union.] then did the sachem gird up his loins and go forth, like a strong man armed for the battle. verily, it was a vast enterprise, difficult and hazardous--all but hopeless; but his spirit, strong to endure and brave to encounter, rose with it. from the great lakes of the north to the flowery forests of the far south, from the great hills of the east to the grassy plains of the far west, month after month, year after year, from hopeful youth to sober prime, he roamed the wilderness. everywhere he called upon his countrymen to cease from warring among themselves and unite their tribes, that as one people they might stand up in the defense of their native land, given them by the master of life to be the one home and common possession of them all. to impress their minds with the necessity of such a league he held up before them the example of their white invaders, who had united all their "great fires" into one, and in that union had found strength, harmony, and prosperity. he appealed to every sentiment in human nature that can rouse to high and noble purpose--the love of country, of kindred, of freedom, of glory. he flattered their pride with glowing allusions to the antiquity and renown of their race, and by repeating to them their traditions which described them as having once been the favorite children of the great spirit, and again to be taken under his peculiar care whenever they should return to the bosom of their ancient brotherhood, and to the sober, simple habits and the pure faith of their fathers. he roused their resentment and the desire of vengeance by holding up to them the wrongs which they had suffered at the hands of the proud and powerful pale-face, whose presence in their midst had grown insupportable, and whose onward progress, unless cheeked at once, would soon become irresistible. he threatened them with disgrace, poverty, and ruin--yea, the final extinction of their race, which would assuredly be visited upon them, should they neglect or delay to profit by his warning. his labors grew upon him, yet wearied him not; disappointments baffled his endeavors, but discouraged him not; difficulties met him at every step, but turned him not aside; dangers thickened around him, but daunted him not; untoward conjunctures confused and enfeebled his vast scheme, but shook not the constant purpose of his mind; friends dissuaded, rivals opposed, enemies threatened, traitors undermined--still the heroic sachem, unshaken, undismayed, unsubdued, maintained his course onward and upward in the high destiny which long years before he had marked out for himself, and his trust was in the great spirit. when he first set out on his great mission, this wandering patriot of the wilderness found the minds of his countrymen we cowed with fear, or so benumbed with indifference as to their fate, that there was scarcely a man among them all, outside his own near kindred, to lend him an ear, or join him in his self-imposed, herculean labor. but toward the end, when every hill and valley, plain and forest, river and lake of the great north-west had been made to resound full many a year with the echoes of that awakening voice, behold the result. persuaded that their hour of deliverance and vengeance was come at last, thousands of the tawny warriors of the wilderness, drawn from the numerous tribes which he had succeeded in uniting, came flocking around him, ready to do his bidding, as one commissioned by the great spirit to be their leader and deliverer. never, since their first landing on the continent, had the whites beheld arrayed against them, by the energy and power of one mind, a league of the indian tribes so formidable and wide-spread. that the sachem was in error, there can of course be no doubt--all are who undertake to withstand the progress of a christian civilization; but no less certain is it that he erred not because his heart was wrong, but that his mind was unenlightened. and in fair truth, with such limited views as to the right and wrong in human motive and action as the rude, narrow sphere in which his lot was cast enabled him to make, what other course could he in his own judgment have chosen, without dishonor to himself and injury to the people whose weal he most assuredly had earnestly at heart. had his mind--crude as his own wilderness, as vast too, and as fertile and varied--been duly cultivated and enlightened, he would not have viewed the progress of civilization as a destroying flood, against which it behooved him as a patriot to array his people, lest thereby they be swept away from the earth. rather would he have perceived that it was a life-giving, beneficent light, into which it was his highest duty, as a lover of the great brotherhood of man, to lead his people, that with it they might spread themselves over the earth, and in it grow strong and prosperous and happy. during all this time, though his labors were of a nature to keep the wrongs and woes of his people and the power and pride of their white oppressors continually fresh in his mind, never did the savage hero lift the hand of violence against the aged, the helpless, or the unarmed. to his magnanimous spirit, indian heathen though he was, the captive was a sacred trust, and many a man of the hated race, thrown by the chances of war within their direful grasp, did he rescue from horrible death at the hands of his injured and exasperated countrymen. the booty taken by his hands from the whites in their raids across the border was immense; but the spoils of war, though he might well have claimed the lion's share, he left, with magnificent generosity, to his followers--the glory of war being all that a true hero could covet. in his habits of life the sachem was abstemious even to austerity, yet frank end popular in his manners, entering heartily into the rude amusements and athletic sports of his people. in the latter, such was his strength and activity of body, he rarely met his equal; and in hunting and wood-craft he was, even in the eyes of his hunter-race, a marvel of skill and address. he was the very soul of integrity and truth; and though born of a race proverbial for cunning and craft, he was of a nature singularly frank and straightforward, as he showed by the boldness and openness with which he was accustomed, even in the presence of his enemies, to acknowledge and discuss his great project. as a warrior-chieftain, he stands unrivaled in the barbarous traditions of his race, and as an orator, with scarcely a superior. his oratory was of the highest order, inasmuch as it was the outgrowth of a great intellect, active, powerful, and wide-grasping in its operations, and the outpouring of a mighty spirit, deep and earnest, pure and generous, and often sublime in its emotions. whenever he made the great mission of his life the theme of his declamations--and he took every suitable occasion for doing so--let his listeners be friends or foes, his appearance, at all times striking and prepossessing in the extreme, became as that of one inspired. his ample chest expanded with noble feeling; every gesture of hip hand, every movement and posture of his commanding form, grew eloquent with meaning. unmasked of its habitual cast of reserve, his handsome face, clear, strong, and firm in its lines, yet flexible in its play of muscle and feature, reflected with mirror-like distinctness the passing emotions of his heart. his eye, eagle-like in its unflinching brightness, flashed forth the lightnings of the fiery and haughty spirit within. language, direct in its unstudied simplicity, graphic and vigorous, and glowing with the thoughts and images of a luminous though unpolished mind, flowed from his lips majestic and resistless. added to all was that awakening voice whose echoes had so long resounded through thy great north-west. now it rang out, stern, abrupt, imperious, like the call of a trumpet to battle; now softened down to tones broken, tender, and pitying as those of a bereaved father sorrowing over his hapless children; then, as visions of the utter extinction of his race would break upon his prophetic soul, it would come wailing out like the despairing cry of a hebrew prophet lamenting the impending desolation of zion. such was tecumseh. thus he lived, this indian hannibal; thus he rose, this glory of his race. chapter xviii. how the eagle and the lion and the big bear figured in the great north-west. toward the close of a hazy october day, in the year , two small armies might have been seen, and according to history were seen, moving along the banks of the river thames. not the thames which, after winding among the pleasure-grounds of the english gentry and through the great city of london, under ever so many bridges, emptied its waters into the german ocean; but the thames which, after winding among the forest-slopes of canada west and through or by no cities at all, nor under any bridges whatever, discharged its waters into lake st. clair. so, along the canadian thames, at the time just named, two small armies were to be seen, each measuring ground with uncommon expedition; the foremost hurriedly, being in loose retreat; the hindmost rapidly, being in tight pursuit. over the van of the retreating army ungallantly dangled the crimson, lion-emblazoned banner of the united kingdom of great britain and ireland; over the van of the pursuing army gallantly waved the tri-colored, star-emblazoned, eagle-capped flag of the united states of america. the second war between great britain and the united states had now been going on for many a tedious month; sometimes languidly, sometimes spasmodically, never energetically. like a slow, dull fever, it had wasted and enfeebled the two countries without redounding more to the profit of the one than to the glory of the other; and the glory being too scant to be divided between them, they wisely left the crimson fog to the humor of the winds. how the winds disposed of it, the world has never heard. and the great indian sachem had become the ally of the little english king. and why? because the little english king and his rich people had promised the great indian sachem and his poor people to restore to them their hereditary lands if they would take up the hatchet and help their great father--the little english king--to wrest the lands in question from the americans, the children who had behaved so unbecomingly to the great father thirty-seven years before. the hereditary lands in question were in fact but the disputed territory, the principal cause of the contests between the two white powers, hence not so much to be viewed as a lost inheritance to be restored to the rightful owners as a prize to be secured by the rival claimants. john bull said, "it is mine, because i took it from the french;" brother jonathan said, "it is mine, because i took it from the english;" while neither party gave any heed to the poor indian, who never ceased saying, "it is mine, because my fathers gave it to me, and the great spirit gave it to my fathers." a hard, hard necessity must it have been which could have forced the poor, hunted wanderers of the wilderness to fly for refuge and protection from the talons and beak of the eagle to the claws and teeth of the lion. it was but a change, and made with but little hope of its being for the better. none saw this more clearly, felt it more deeply, than the sagacious tecumseh; and his proud spirit groaned under the humiliating thought that after all he and his warriors were not viewed as allies having an equal interest in the result of the struggle going on, but rather as instruments merely, which might be made useful to the purpose in hand, then dropped. to use his own expression: "they were but a pack of starved hounds, hallooed upon the americans by the english." along the northern lakes and rivers full many a battle had been fought--on a small scale, it is true, but bloody and ugly enough, especially to the americans, who up to this time had usually been the worsted party. but now the fortunes of war were beginning to turn in our favor. perry had won his brilliant little naval victory over the english fleet on lake erie, and had written to the secretary of the navy with cæsar-like conciseness: "we have met the enemy, and they are ours!" by land, too, the british had been met and beaten back at every point, till now they were without a foothold on the disputed territory--the hereditary lands. but, true to himself, true to the now quite hopeless cause for which he had labored and fought so long, the magnanimous sachem still kept his faith with the great father unbroken and inviolable, while the great father was immensely less concerned that he had failed to restore the hereditary lands to his red allies than that he had failed to wrest the disputed territory from his white enemies. so the little english king went on sipping his dainty wines in his marble palace over yonder on the other side of the globe, and took no further thought of the great indian sachem who was breaking his heart over here in the wilderness of america, as true to his ally as had he been a christian, baptized by an apostolic successor into the church of england. but to make another start toward the end of our story. the english people, like the majority of mankind, are a good enough people in a general way, and in a general way, like those of most nations, their soldiers are brave enough. good people, yet they have had their bad rulers--the great father, for example; and their brave soldiers have had their cowardly leaders--for example, general proctor; concerning whom we must now say something--a very little; the least possible. having with unsoldierly dispatch cleared his red skirts of the disputed territory, grown at least too hot for comfort, this proctor--a fat poltroon--was now in hurried retreat through the forest-wilds of canada west, at the head, not the rear, of an army composed of about nine hundred british regulars and two thousand indian allies under the leadership of tecumseh. on, in swift pursuit, with a stretch of about a half day's march between, came general harrison--a gaunt hero--at the head, not the rear, of an army consisting of two companies of united states regulars and about three thousand volunteers, nearly all of whom were tall, stalwart kentuckians, under the leadership of general shelby, the venerable governor of kentucky. no indian allies. in the van of the pursuing army, at the head of his regiment of mounted riflemen, one thousand strong, the very flower of green kentucky's chivalry, rode colonel richard m. johnson, afterward made vice-president of the united states by his grateful countrymen, because--rumpsey-dumpsey--dick had killed tecumseh. and there in the van, at the head of his company of mounted riflemen, mounted on a splendid kentucky bay, and rigged out in his dashing backwoods uniform, rode captain bushrod reynolds, whom we left twenty-four years ago in the paradise a sturdy urchin of nine, and still a candidate for breeches and boots. yes, there he rode, a tall, athletic man, in the prime of his days, frank-faced, clear-eyed, bold-browed, and with a nose that had gradually ripened from the pug into the roman, as he had ripened in years and experience, just as we predicted when drawing his portrait where he sat on the topmost rail of a scraggy worm-fence, watching the squirrels and crows. nor was it true that he had become a married man and a man of family, and a captain too--all pretty much as the far-seeing burl had prophesied at the same early period. at present, however, having been married but a year, his family was small. for, since reaching the stature and years of manhood, bushrod reynolds had spent many years in the great north-west, where as an indian-trader he had pushed his fortunes with great energy and success, yet with clean hands, never in all the time selling or bartering a single gallon of whisky to the indians--a virtue quite rare, we fear, in indian-traders, and one for which he was highly commended by tecumseh himself, who never drank any thing but water. the address, prudence, and integrity he displayed in this vocation had attracted the notice of general harrison, then governor of the north-west territory, through whose influence the young kentuckian received the appointment of united states indian agent in that quarter. here again he had acquitted himself in the same clean-handed manner, never touching a dollar of the money intrusted to him, saving so far as officially authorized. and there, conspicuous among the camp-followers, with a fund of good humor and laughter rich enough to keep the whole rear of the army in spirits, even when cut down to short rations and pushed to long marches--there, gigantic as life and shaggy with bear-skin from top to toe, was our old friend big black burl--cap'n rennuls, the fighting nigger, the big black brave with a bushy head, mish-mugwa--whom we left twenty-four years ago in the paradise, treading with unmoccasined feet the peace-path, and filling the resounding woods from morning till night with the echoes of his peace-songs. yes, as gigantic as life, and still as jolly as gigantic, with never a regret in all these years of servile toil that he had sewed it up in his bear-skin cap instead of accepting at once the priceless blessing which his good mistress, in the unspeakable gratitude of her mother's heart, had bidden him to take as his forever. time and the world had evidently dealt kindly by our hero, the ebony smoothness of his wide-snouted mug unfurrowed as yet by those lines of care and thought we so often find disfiguring the faces of shem and japheth, nor grizzled yet his fleecy locks, although he had left his fiftieth year behind him--an age when the heads of most men begin to whiten under the snows of life's winter. for all that, though they may not have brought him wrinkles and whitened his locks, the passing years had brought him wisdom and whitened the color of his thoughts, once so crimson. in proof whereof, he had long since taken unto himself a wife, and was now the father of a large family of large children. in further proof, he had long since left off fighting and gone to preaching, there being now in the paradise more black sinners to be mended than red heathen to be demolished; more friends to be led across the jordan than foes to be driven across the ohio. preaching, in a general way, is a good thing, and, in a particular way, to him who loves to hear himself talk, a pleasant thing, and if he talks well, rather pleasant to others. now, the fighting nigger loved to hear himself talk, but unlike many--too many--inflicted with that infirmity he talked well, as we have had frequent occasion to notice; while again, unlike the majority of the few who talk well, he listened well, which, also, we have once or twice remarked. as his walks through life should lead him no more upon the war-path, and as his color and condition forbade his taking the stump, or appearing at the bar, or sitting in the senate-house, he needs must take to preaching, as the only shift by which he could hope to retain that preëminence among his fellows which his prowess in arms had won for him. such a calling would give his oratorical powers full scope--a desperate revival among the ebony brotherhood, from time to time, with two or three funeral-sermons to each lay brother or lay sister of peculiar sanctity, being just the thing to set them off to the highest advantage. nor would this be all. while making the great display, he would be doing a little good--casting bread upon the waters, to be found many days hence; _i.e._, spreading the glad tidings of damnation to nearly everybody born to die, and of salvation to a select few--just enough to keep the angels from getting lonesome--conspicuous among whom were our good old abram, john calvin, and burlman reynolds. the lucky sect thus reënforced was that once known as the anti-missionary baptists, sometimes called the "ironside baptists," sometimes the "hard-shell baptists," having, as is usually the case with hard cases, hard names. i use the expression "once known," since, if i mistake not, the order has, in these latter days, deceased; dying of sheer decrepitude, with no weeping mourners around it, being intestate and insolvent, and is now to be numbered with the things that were--an old man's tale, the blunder of an hour.[ ] that so broad and warm and genial a nature as that of our hero should have gone for refuge and spiritual comfort to a creed so narrow, cold, and gloomy, admits of no easy explanation, especially when we consider that remarkable clearness of mental vision which enabled him to see the reason existing in all things; often, too, when a solomon, or a socrates, or a seneca, might have stared his eyes out in trying to see it for himself. but when he took to preaching, he was dwelling in the midst of a hard-shell community; and, perhaps, like the overwhelming majority of mankind, from enlightened to savage, from christian to fetich, burlman reynolds was but chameleon to his surroundings. yet, notwithstanding the somber complexion of his new vocation, and the more than somber complexion of his creed, outside of the pulpit his reverence was as genial, jolly, and joky as the cheeriest, smilingest, comfortingest, most latitudinarian methodist preacher you ever had at your bedside to help you look your latter end in the face, through the dubious issues of a surprise attack of cramp colic, or an overwhelming onslaught of cholera morbus. indeed, it not unfrequently happens that the human heart is better than the human creed, and the rev. burlman reynolds was wont to square his life by the dictates of his inward monitor rather than by the dogmas of his outward mentor. many of these dictates he embodied in words, a few of which i shall take the liberty of quoting _verbatim_. among them are some of his religious opinions, which will be found to have a somewhat latitudinarian smack, as is often the case where the heart is better than the creed: [footnote : since writing the above, the author has learned that, outside of kentucky, the sect alluded to still exists to some extent in some of the neighboring states.] "dar's reason in all things, ef dar's reason in people." "baptizin' won't do you no good, onless you let it wash you clean all ober, an' keep you clean foreber." "ef a pusson wants to be a chrischun jes' about in spots, w'y, den sprinklin' will do; but ef he wants to be a chrischun all ober, he mus' go clean under an' make a soaker uf it." "de lord ain't gwine to lub you much, onless you lub yo' neighbor." "don't tickle yo'se'f a-thinkin' you 'll eber be a angel up dar, onless you's been a good s'mar'tan here." "de lord help dem to 'lect dem who helps to 'lect demselves." "don't you think, beca'se you's got a leetle grace, you kin do what you please in dis worl', den say yo' pra'rs befo' you die an' go right straight to heaben. g'long wid sich grace!" "whar's de use an' de sense uf a pusson's bein' mizzible an' out uf sorts when he's 'live an' ain't a-sufferin', an' got a good home to go to when it's all ober? git out!" less elegant in manner, it may be, but quite as good, we think, in matter, as many a saw and dogma that have been flung at our foolish world, time out of mind. we have more than once paralleled our hero, in his passion for martial renown, to alexander the great, napoleon the great, and mumbo jumbo the great. somewhat singular to say, the parallel does not stop with this point of common resemblance. according to mr. abbott's interminable eulogy--mr. abbott was an american and a clergyman, consequently a republican and a christian--the hero of the russian campaign, of waterloo, etc., after his retirement to the rock, became deeply interested in theology, fighting being no longer a pastime he could indulge in unless by pugilistic assault on the british guards, which, contrary to his past experience, would have been entirely at his own expense, hence uncomfortable. and here we find him talking so well--this grand disturber of the world's peace--so profoundly, so beautifully, so reverently, of the prince of peace, that we cannot help wondering why he had never allowed some evidence of his religious sentiments to appear in his actions, when he stood so conspicuous before the world, and such a display would have redounded so vastly to his credit--made him "the washington of worlds betrayed." as respects alexander, the parallel still shows a shadow, though over the left. the fighting nigger, upon retiring from his war-path, tried his best to do the godly thing, and made his christian convictions manifest in the life he wished to live. alexander, on retiring from his great war-path, tried to do the godlike thing, and made his heathenish hallucinations manifest in the death he didn't wish to die. as to the third worthy in our list, i cannot continue the parallel with due regard to facts, the imagination of the historian having thrown as yet no light on the latter days of the great mumbo jumbo. but that the parallel should he found to hold good to the last degree of coincidence, may safely be inferred from what the lights of our age have been telling us for the last forty years of the latent saint inherent in the nature of ebony, from ham, the favorite son of noah, down to uncle tom, the best man that ever lived. but to return and make a third start toward the end of our story. when he heard that his young master had received a captaincy in the johnson regiment of mounted riflemen--the finest regiment, by the way, that figured in the second war--big black burl felt his heart beginning to glow with the martial ardor of his younger days. but when he saw the young captain, where, in the broad green meadow in front of the house, he was drilling his company, all mounted on fine horses and arrayed in their gallant backwoods uniforms, then did burlman reynolds feel the fighting nigger rising rampant within him, insomuch that he could not endure the thought of being left behind. so he made an earnest petition to his master to be allowed to go along, just to groom the "cap'n's horse," to clean the "cap'n's gun," and to see that the "cap'n always got plenty to eat--mo' dan his dry rations--a squirrel, or a partridge, or eben a fat buck, which he an' betsy grumbo would take a delight in providin' fur him." and to humor the good old fellow, captain reynolds bid him go and don his bear-skin rigging, shoulder betsy grumbo, mount young cornwallis, and take his place in the ranks of war. but here we are at the end of our chapter, and not a word of the figure the big bear made in the great north-west. this, though, amounts to but little--the omission amounting to nothing. chapter xix. how big black burl figured at the death-stake. burl had made it his habit, whenever the army halted and pitched tent for the night, to shoulder his rifle and take a solitary turn through the neighboring woods, if haply he might not bring down a squirrel, or a partridge, or it might be a fat buck, that the "cap'n" might have something juicy and savory wherewith to season and reënforce his sometimes scanty and never very palatable rations. but toward the close of this hazy october day, already thrice alluded to, when the army had encamped for the night, the humor, as luck would have it, seized captain reynolds to accompany his trusty forager in the accustomed evening hunt. so they set out together, and had not penetrated a mile into the forest to the northward, when on coming to a bushy dell they had the good fortune to start a fine buck, which captain reynolds brought down and had burl to shoulder, proposing to take it whole to camp, that he might share it with his men. hardly had they turned to retrace their steps, when suddenly, before reynolds could reload his gun, or burl disencumber himself of the buck, they found themselves completely surrounded by at least a dozen savages, who, hovering about the enemy's van, had spied the stragglers and laid in ambuscade to capture them, though all but within rifle-range of the american pickets. taken by surprise, and outnumbered two to one, any attempt at resistance or escape would have been instant death. so they surrendered at once, and quietly suffered themselves to be stripped of their arms and accouterments, which being done in a twinkling, they were swiftly borne off through the woods. the audacious savages, having made two or three circuits to avoid the american outpost, set their faces due north-east, then pursued their course without swerving to right or left. the sun went down, the moon came up, on those canadian wilds. ever and anon, as swiftly held they onward, other indians, singly or in squads, would fall into the file, gliding from out the mingled gloom of forest shade and night, as suddenly and silently as the shapes which flit through troubled dreams. among these, by and by, appeared a warrior of gigantic stature, who putting himself at the head of the file, stalked on a little in advance, and seemed to be their leader. captain reynolds now felt convinced that they had fallen into the hands of some of tecumseh's scouts, through whom that vigilant leader kept himself continually informed of the enemy's movements, if, peradventure, at some moment he might find them off their guard, either to be drawn into an ambuscade by day or surprised in camp by night. unswervingly due north-east the night-marchers held their course for several miles, the warrior gliding on before them, like a gigantic specter there to lead them over the shadowy borders of another world. so it seemed to burl, who felt his spirit strangely troubled within him whenever an opening through the forest, letting in the hazy glimmer of the moon, brought that huge bulk less vaguely before his eyes; and once in particular, as they neared the summit of a big bald hill, when the warrior for an instant towered in lofty, dim relief against the starry sky. toward midnight, the party descended from the upland forest into the valley of the thames, and shortly afterward reached the indian camp. here the prisoners were placed in the custody of fresh keepers, and all lay down to rest, stretched out on the ground near one of the numerous camp-fires which, by this time burning low, shone like great glow-worms along the side of the valley. the dim light of another hazy october day was creeping chillily over those forest wilds, when a heavy hand shaking him roughly by the shoulder roused big black burl from his slumbers. scrambling to his feet, and drowsily looking around him through that foggy confusion of thought and perception through which sons of ebony after a sound sleep needs must pass in getting back to their waking senses, the black hunter caught a broad, vague view of something which made him fancy that he was still flat of his back on the ground and dreaming of the giant warrior who had led in the night-march. the moment after, more at himself, yet lingering still on the misty borders of nod-land, he fancied that what he saw just there before him must surely be a ghost; and at this horrible thought the negro gave a big start, which brought him by a shorter cut than usual out of his sleepy fog into the clear light of his wide-awake senses. all but within reach of his hand, there stood before him in bodily form that terrible wyandot giant black thunder--that redoubtable warrior whom the fighting nigger had so long and fondly fancied he had slain in valiant fight, and his victory over whom he had ever since held up and trumpeted abroad as the crowning glory of all his martial exploits. the recognition was mutual, for never had either seen the other's like but once before, and that, too, under circumstances which neither was ever likely to forget. if the recognition was mutual, so was the surprise. "ugh!" exclaimed the indian, as he bent his wild, panther-like eye on the black giant with a look of undisguised astonishment, which gradually darkened into a smile of ferocious joy and triumph. "u-gooh!" exclaimed the negro, as he fixed his wild, ox-like eye unflinchingly on the red giant, but with a look of unspeakable amazement, which gradually vanished, leaving his face with a cast as impenetrable as black marble. having surveyed his captive from top to toe in exulting silence for some moments, black thunder turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, to be seen no more that morning. burl was still staring after his old acquaintance when his young master, who had with some surprise witnessed the dumb-show of mutual recognition, came up and inquired what it meant. burl explained, and having noticed the ugly smile with which he had been regarded, could not help foreboding the terrible fate that must await them if their lives lay at the mercy of that revengeful savage whom he had once made bite the dust. by this time the allied english and indian armies were all astir, and the disorderly retreat began afresh, tecumseh keeping his indian brigade half a mile in the rear of the regulars. toward the middle of the afternoon the party that had the white prisoners in keeping, having gradually fallen behind the line of march, abruptly turned into the mouth of a dingle which, deep and shadowy, opened gloomily into the valley of the thames. here, for the first time since morning, our luckless hunters spied black thunder, where a little farther within the dingle, as if there in waiting for them, he was vehemently, though not loudly, haranguing some fifteen or twenty of his warriors who, clustered in a close red knot before him, were taking in with ravenous ears his every word. evidently the evil, foreboded by burl in the morning, was in some shape near at hand, for a fierce gesture flung toward them from time to time by the speaker, with the vengeful glances of his listeners in the same direction, told but too plainly the drift of the harangue. at length, as if to make the surer of their savage sympathies and give the climax to his barbarous appeal, black thunder suddenly threw back his robe and disclosed to view two scars--a deep and ugly one in the arm, a long and ghastly one athwart the breast. whereat uprose a chorus of yells expressive not so much of savage sympathy as of savage delight. the moment after, seized foot, with brush-wood to feed the devouring flames heaped up against him to his shoulders, there stood big black burl, a victim doomed to the fiery tortures of the death-stake. helpless himself, captain reynolds could not choose but stand where he was and become a witness of the harrowing spectacle--too harrowing for any christian eye to behold, even were the victim but the poor dumb brute, who has only his howlings to tell of his agony; but that his affectionate, faithful, brave old burl should ever have come to a fate so terrible, wrung his heart with unshakable anguish--anguish the keener, when he reflected that this had never been but for that very heroism which, on a beautiful summer morning in the days long gone, had wrought deliverance to him, a forlorn little captive, and restored him to the love of a lone and widowed mother. o that ever this should be! and the strong man wept, as wept had he never till that sad day. "o mars'er bushie!" cried burl, in a firm, even comforting voice, "don't you cry for yo' pore ol' nigger. 't won't be long 'fore he'll be turnin' up all right in de kingdom. soon or late, we mus' all come to de end uf our journey; an' dis arter all's but a short cut to glory. ef you eber slips de clutches uf dese wretches, mars'er bushie, an' libes to git back home, tell eb'rybody good-by fur me. tell miss jemimy her ol' nigger never forgot, de longes' day he eber libed, how much she wanted to give him his freedom. an' tell sinar, my wife, how her ol' man tried to die like a chrischun gwine to glory. an' tell her, too, when de time will come fur her to cross de jordan water she'll fin' her ol' man waitin' to meet her on de odder side, wid a cabin snug an' ready, all happy an' safe in de promis' lan'." here, as if the closing words had suggested it to his mind, the poor old fellow lifted up his powerful and melodious voice and began singing a simple negro hymn, which, with a plaintive melody, had for its burden the following words: an' i hope to gain de promis' lan', halle--halleluyah! an' i hope to gain de promis' lan', yes, i do! glory, glory, halle--halleluyah! glory, glory! yes, i do! the death-pile kindled, the smoke of its burning in dense black volumes enveloped the victim. linked in a horrible circle around it, whooping and yelling and singing their war-songs, leaping and whirling and dancing their war-dance, clashing together their hatchets and war-clubs, waving above them the scalps of their foemen, went the barbarians merry as demons. and strong and clear, with never a quaver, still was heard above the confusion the hymning voice of the smoke-hid victim. but louder and higher than all, it is coming, ringing from far like the blast of a trumpet--a voice so stern, abrupt, and imperious that forthwith ceases the fiendish fandango. up dashes a warrior mounted on horseback, leaps to the ground, and now at the death-pile seizes the fagots and scatters them broadcast, stamping upon them with moccasined feet to smother the flames till all is extinguished. the savages--erst so active and lively--taken aback at his sudden appearance, now stood sullenly huddled together, somewhat apart in the gloom of the dingle. the fire extinguished, the chieftain--for such his dress and bearing bespoke him--wrathfully, scornfully, sternly rebuked them for their unmanly and barbarous treatment of a defenseless man and a captive. in the course of his experience as trader and agent among the indians, captain reynolds had picked up quite a smattering of several indian tongues, which now enabled him to understand perfectly what the chief was saying. even had he not been possessed of this knowledge, he could have readily followed the drift of the speaker's words by noting his gestures, looks, and the tones of his voice, so distinct and forcible were they, and so pointed with meaning. the appearance of this man was prepossessing in the highest degree, displaying as it did every requisite of mind and body that can ennoble and dignify manly beauty. he stood at the summit of his prime, his form erect and symmetrical, though somewhat stouter than is usually to be found in men of his race. his bearing was graceful, lofty, and commanding; his eye eagle-like in its unflinching brightness; his face, in its european regularity of feature and clearness of outline, eminently handsome, showing in its lines the energy and intelligence of a great mind, true to itself and to the best impulses of human nature. he was dressed in the peculiar and picturesque costume of his people, made magnificent by fineness of material and the richness of decoration. besides the usual indian weapons, all of polished steel and silver-mounted, he wore a handsomely hilted english broad-sword, though less as an ornament than as a badge of rank, or mark of distinction. word having reached him that black thunder and his party had fallen behind the line of march, and to what bloody-minded intent their whoops and yells, heard in that direction, plainly enough attested, the chief, prompt to the call of humanity, had galloped back, as just described, to arrest and rebuke a proceeding so inhuman and so unwarrior-like. his rebuke ended, he turned to take a look at the prisoner whom he had rescued from the flames, but of whom he had as yet seen nothing, the smoke at the moment of his coming up still hovering heavily over the death-pile. the big black brave with a bushy head still stood bound to the tree, yet without the mark or even the smell of fire upon his person, excepting a slight singeing of his fleecy locks and bear-skin cap, not to mention a smart watering at the eyes, the effect of the smoke. ah--smoke! i find that i have unwittingly made an important omission, for which i owe you an apology, kind and sympathetic reader. i should have told you that a heavy shower of rain had fallen but a few hours before the kindling of the death-pile, which, as needs must, had left the brush-wood in better condition for heavy smoking than for lively combustion. had i mentioned this circumstance in its proper place, i should have spared your tender sensibilities somewhat by giving you something contingent to catch at as suggestive of possible intervention. but to return. the instant the chief, with a sweep of his eagle-like eye, had scanned those huge, grotesque proportions, he threw up his hand with a gesture of surprise, and a look of recognition lighted up his handsome face. whereupon, as if needing nothing more to tell him who had been the prime mover in the day's outrage, and the base motive that had led to its perpetration, he turned abruptly upon black thunder, where sullen and lowering, his giantship stood with folded arms apart from the rest, and flung at him a rebuke so withering in its scorn, so burning in its generous indignation, that the big barbarian quailed from before it, daunted and abashed. then, without further ado, the chief went, and cutting the thongs of buffalo-hide which bound the captive to the tree, set him at liberty, and with a wave of his hand in the direction whence the american army was approaching, said in english, "go." to be thus jerked back by the skirts, so to speak, from the open jaws of death by a single savage had proved more confounding to the steadfast mind of big black burl than when but a few minutes before he was dragged thither by twenty, insomuch that ever since the unexpected surcease of the fiendish frolic he had continued to stare about him in a state of bewilderment not unlike that twilight fog of thought and sense through which he was wont to pass from sound asleep to wide awake. but no sooner did he feel that he was foot-loose and hand-loose again than he was all his own collected self once more, and to the welcome gesture and friendly word thus answered: "i yi, my larky! much obleeged to you fur puttin' out de fire, but smoke me ag'in ef you ketch me gwine 'way from dis holler widout mars'er bushie," giving a side-long roll of his big black thumb toward his young master. how much of this speech the chief really understood were hard to say; but having heard it, he turned, and for a few moments earnestly regarded the young kentuckian where, in delighted surprise at the unlooked-for turn their ugly adventure had taken, he had stood the while, and now, with the liveliest interest, was awaiting the upshot. then, as if comprehending fully the circumstances of the case, the chief ordered black thunder to restore both prisoners their arms and accouterments, and whatever else had been taken from them--a command sullenly but promptly obeyed. all being ready, their deliverer, speaking again in english, but this time addressing himself to the white man, said, "follow me!" and, setting his face westward, led the captives from the spot. to avoid the risk he must run of falling in with the american scouts or pickets, their guide ascended at once into the upland forest, through whose shadows lay not only their most secret but shortest route. as they gained the summit of the steep overlooking the dingle where his death-pile had been kindled, the fighting nigger--the preaching nigger fast asleep within him--made a momentary pause. waving his bear-skin war-cap loftily over his head, he sent down to black thunder, triumphantly and defiantly, his old war-cry, so often heard in the stormy days of long-ago in the land of the dark and bloody ground, now filling those canadian wilds with gigantic echoes which, flying affrightedly hither and thither, for full three minutes thereafter kept hill-top saying to hill-top, dingle to dingle, "i yi, you dogs!" chapter xx. how kumshakah figured in the light of the setting sun. the red man foremost, the black man hindmost, and the white man between, silently, swiftly they wended their way through the mazes, green and brown, of the autumn-painted forest. "what manner of man is this," the young kentuckian could not but say to himself, "at whose voice the fierce, unruly warriors of the wilderness stay their barbarous hands, from before the glance of whose eye their doughtiest champions quail, and under whose hand the captive goes forth again into life and freedom?" having with his war-cry eased his heart in a measure of the surplus joy and triumph he felt at their deliverance, big black burl could now content himself to go for a mile or more without speaking a word. he failed not, however, to steal from time to time a prying glance at their deliverer from over his master's shoulder. at the first glance nothing in particular struck his mind, excepting that he thought the red stranger was a wondrously handsome and gallant-looking man for an indian. at the second glance a fancy began to steal into his thoughts that at some time of his life he had had a dream in which he had seen such a form and face as that he now had before his eyes. at the third glance it began to dawn upon him that he had not only dreamed of seeing but really had seen that man before. at last, having fairly succeeded in cornering a dodging, skipping sprite of a recollection which he had been chasing about in his memory for the last ten minutes, mish-mugwa, in open-eyed amazement, brought himself along-side shekee-thepatee, to whose ear bending down he exclaimed in a big whisper, "kumshy!" reynolds started. a vague something of the sort had been flitting before his mind ever since the stranger's sudden appearance at the dismal scene in the dingle. during the many years that had come and gone since that eventful first of june, he and burl had often talked of the good and brave young indian warrior who had shown himself so gentle and true a friend to the forlorn little captive in his hour of peril and need. in brightest remembrance had they held him ever since, coupling every mention of his name with some expression of gratitude or admiration, or with the mutual remembrance of some pleasant incident of his sojourn among them. yes, though changed from the bright-eyed, graceful youth they had known him, they felt in their hearts that their deliverer could be none other than their old friend kumshakah. but who was kumshakah? without opening his lips to speak a word, or turning his head to glance behind him, silently, swiftly glided the indian on before them, straight against the setting sun. at length, late in the day, after traversing the forest for some miles, they came to the head of a quiet little dell which, scooped out smoothly from among the hills, descended without a curve to the valley of the thames. here the chieftain halted, and pointing before him, his bright eyes turned now full and clear upon them, said in english, "your friends." looking in the direction pointed out, and running their eyes down a long vista made through the trees of the dell by a brook on its way to the main stream, our hunters spied the american army where, at the distance of a mile, it had halted to encamp for the night. the tents, already pitched and all agleam in the low light of the sun, were scattered picturesquely about among the trees at the bottom of the dell, which then expanding like the flaring mouth of a bugle opened into the wider valley of the thames. setting the butt of his rifle on the ground and resting his hand upon the muzzle, the young kentuckian now addressed the chieftain, not only speaking to him in his own language, but adopting the poetical and figurative style of expression peculiar to his people: "this day many hands strong and cruel opened the doors of death to push us burning through; but one hand stronger than them all shut the doors and drew us back into the paths of the living. he has led us forth in safety from the midst of our deadly foes, and now bids us return in peace to our own people. we are glad; we are thankful. who our deliverer is we know; our eyes, our ears, our hearts have told us already. who should it be but kumshakah, the savior of the boy shekee-thepatee, the friend of the big black brave, mish-mugwa?" "your eyes and your ears and your hearts have told you untruly," replied the chief. "nor yet have they wholly deceived you. i am not kumshakah, but kumshakah's twin brother. more than twenty times has spring made green the forest since kumshakah started out on his first war-path. but they who went with him returned without him, saying, 'kumshakah has fallen in the land of the dark and bloody ground under the hand of the big black brave with a bushy head.' then went i out into the forest, wandering in lonely places, and mourning my much-loved brother. but before another moon had turned her face full and broad upon the earth, kumshakah returned, and there was a light in his eye brighter than that of the warrior's triumph. the story he told us you know; what we felt in our hearts you can guess. who mish-mugwa was i knew full well. i had seen him in battle; had heard his war-cry. afterward i saw him from where i lay in ambush, his life at my mercy, but i lifted not my hand against him, for he was the friend of my brother, and they had smoked the peace-pipe together." "then, where is kumshakah," inquired reynolds, "since our deliverer be not he whom we loved as a brother?" "twenty times has autumn made yellow the forest," replied the chieftain, "since the great spirit called and kumshakah answered and went his way. and before the going down of another sun the great spirit shall call again, when kumshakah's brother shall answer and go his way likewise." then, with a look of grateful interest, the chief inquired: "but tell me, is the mother of shekee-thepatee still alive? or have the swift years borne her to the dwelling of wahcoudah?" "she is still alive," was the reply; "and with pleasant days has wahcoudah blessed her since that morning when she bid him depart in peace whose goodness had restored to her the only child of her love, the chief joy of her heart. when we return and tell her that we have seen the brother of kumshakah, and that, like kumshakah, he is the protector of the helpless, the deliverer of the captive, the tidings will fill her with thankfulness and gladness. then shall she say, 'but who is kumshakah's brother, that mighty man whom the bold red warriors of the wilderness hold in such respect and awe, and at whose bidding they speed them to obey?' what shall our answer be--will the brother of kumshakah tell us?" "since you loved my brother," rejoined the chief, "and it had pleased you had i been he, then call me kumshakah, for what i have done i have done in his name and with his heart, and the time is close at hand when it will matter but little by what name i am known." the indian said this with a melancholy smile. then, with the light of the setting sun now thrown about him broad and strong, he thus proceeded with his answer: "then may you tell your people that kumshakah is dust, and truly. for though we part as friends to-day, to-morrow we meet as foes; and my heart is telling me that the might of the shemanols shall prevail, that the blood-red banner of the english manakee shall be laid in the dust, and that the ambushed army of the red man shall be broken and scattered. then farewell to kumshakah! when the battle is ended, search for him on the bloody war-plain, and you shall find him where he lies among the slain. if, then, you would know more of the fallen warrior, ask the sun that shines who kumshakah is, and he shall answer: 'a shadow on the ground;' ask the winds that blow, and they shall answer: 'an echo in the woods;' ask the rains that fall, and they shall answer: 'the dust that feeds the oak and the willow.' if you would know who kumshakah was, ask his people, who weep that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'one who loved us, and for our sake laid down his life;' ask his foes, who rejoice that he is fallen, and they shall answer: 'one who hated us, and warred against us to the death.' and should the children of the days hereafter rise and ask their sires who kumshakah was, then shall the tongue of tradition make answer: 'one who lived and died, endeavored and failed.' if such, then, be his story, why should more than this be known of kumshakah? let him sleep. wahcoudah's will be done. "white man, let us look another way." then, with the weird light of prophecy in his eye, imparting to its wonted brightness a mystical dimness, the indian chief thus ended: "white man, listen! up from the opening east, where the birds of morning are singing, the rising sun is leading your people over the earth to riches, to power, and to glory down into the closing west, where the birds of evening are silent, the setting sun is leading my people--whither, who shall say? but to become extinct, and be numbered with the things forgotten. but who shall say that the same great spirit who dwells in the rising sun, bidding his white children go forth and toil upon the earth, dwells not also in the setting sun, bidding his red children come and rest in the happy hunting-grounds? it is even so, and it is well. let wahcoudah rule. rule, great wahcoudah!" here paused the indian for a moment, his eagle-eye unflinchingly bent on the setting sun. "yes, it is even so, and it is well," he repeated. "let great wahcoudah's will be done. white brother, farewell! and you, my black brother, both farewell!" in silence each took, in his turn, the proffered hand, reynolds too profoundly moved at the indian's words to speak, and burl, overawed at his manner and appearance, which, while he was speaking, had risen into the solemn and sublime. without another word, he was gone. they followed him with their eyes as swiftly, duskily he went gliding away through the glimmering shades of evening. as he reached the brink of the hill on which they stood, a parting beam from the setting sun--sent streaming, broad and bright and red, through a vista in the forest--poured round him for an instant a flood of melancholy glory. a moment more, and the indian chief had vanished--plunged in the twilight depths of the valley beyond. that night, as the young kentuckian lay sleeping in his tent, still through his dreams he saw that face--a face it was to leave an image on the eye. and still through his dreams he heard that voice--a voice it was to leave an echo in the ear. the face reflecting ever the light of the setting sun; the voice repeating ever, "rule, great wahcoudah!" chapter xxi. how the glory of his race figured in his setting. the following day was the fifth of october, , whose sun beheld the memorable battle of the thames, when, for the last time in the regions of the north, the lion and the eagle met in fight. the final retreat had begun at fort malden, a strongly fortified post on the shores of lake st. clair, at the mouth of the thames, where an effectual stand might have been made against the farther advance of the now victorious americans. such was the opinion of tecumseh, and on learning that his white ally had resolved to destroy and abandon the fort to the intent of withdrawing still farther, even to the central regions of canada, he had boldly opposed the movement as unnecessary, and being unheeded, had scornfully denounced it to his ally's very face as unwarrior-like, dishonorable, contemptible. had the civilized general hearkened to the savage leader, the result of the war in that quarter, if not more successful to the british cause, would certainly have been far less dishonorable to the british name. during the retreat, the heroic sachem had earnestly and repeatedly recommended a sudden and determined face-about on their pursuers, and only the night before the decisive battle he had urged a backward movement, that, under screen of the darkness, they might surprise the sleeping enemy in his camp, and overpower him before any combined resistance could be made. but all in vain. his white ally was but a fat poltroon--"a big, fat, cowardly dog," to use tecumseh's own comparison, "that carries his tail curled fiercely over his back till danger threatens, then drops it between his legs and slinks away." throughout the war, this proctor had displayed far more enterprise and address as a plunderer than as a fighter, and now his sole end and aim was the conveying of his precious booty and his precious body as speedily as possible to some place of security before he should be overtaken. but by means of this very booty with which in his greediness he had overloaded himself, and the keeping of which he had far more at heart than the maintaining of his own or his country's honor, he was fated in the end to overwhelm himself with ruin and disgrace, since, by the unwieldy clog thus laid upon his movements, he had doubled his risk of being overtaken; and, with such a general, to be overtaken is to be defeated; and to be defeated, ruined. at last, after having pursued his heavy, blundering flight far up the thames to a place called willow marsh, near moravian town, and finding that the american van was pressing close upon his rear, the british general was prevailed upon by tecumseh and his own officers to face about and give the enemy battle. his ground was well chosen. parallel with the river and separated from it by a narrow strip of firm land, over which ran the beaten route, there lay a swamp of considerable extent which, besides being densely covered with other wet land growth, was thickly sprinkled over with willows, whence its name, "willow marsh." across this isthmus proctor hastily threw his regiment of about nine hundred regulars, while tecumseh, with his brigade of about two thousand warriors, ambushed himself in the fastness of the swamp. on this occasion, as had he, indeed, on every other occasion of the kind, the indian leader displayed a degree of generalship which stands without parallel in the annals of savage warfare. pivoting his brigade on the right of the english regiment, he stretched it out in a long line, inclined curvingly forward, with the intent of suddenly unmasking and swinging it round upon the enemy's flank, should he in a body attempt to force the passage of the isthmus. about the middle of the afternoon the americans came marching up in full force and in orderly array. inferring at once, from the features of the ground and from the little that was visible of the enemy, what the english and indian line of battle must be, general harrison promptly determined upon his plan of attack. the kentucky regiment of mounted riflemen, one thousand strong, commanded by colonel johnson, he ordered to open the engagement by falling upon the indian brigade where he knew it must be lying concealed in the swamp. his two companies of united states regulars, with a regiment of volunteer infantry, he sent forward to make a charge on the british regulars where, with their muskets and bayonets gleaming in the yellow autumn sunlight, they were seen extended in a long scarlet line from river to swamp. the general himself would hold a reserve of fifteen hundred men with which to coöperate as occasion should direct. the americans advanced to the attack with great spirit, and were received with equal spirit by the indian wing of the enemy, and with a steady concert of action unprecedented in indian warfare. but hardly had the kentuckians sent forth their first volley when proctor, too tender of his precious body even to strike a single blow for his precious booty, to say nothing of his precious honor, turned his back square on the foe and, followed by a small escort of horse, galloped ingloriously from the field, never drawing bridle till he had gained the shelter of fort chatham, many miles farther up the thames. thus hastily deserted by their general, the regulars, who otherwise had doubtless behaved with the wonted gallantry of brave englishmen, threw down their arms with scarcely a show of resistance and begged for quarter. the white wing of the enemy thus lopped off at the first blow, the two regiments--the only part of the american army actually engaged in the contest--now concentrated upon the red wing, where it still lay concealed within its swampy covert. up to this moment the kentucky regiment of mounted riflemen had made several ineffectual attempts to dislodge and drive the indians from their stronghold, of whom nothing as yet had been seen but a long, curved line of rifle-smoke which, curling upward from among the willows and hovering in small blue clouds above the heads of the ambushed savages, served to trace their order of array. meanwhile, the clarion voice of the indian leader had been heard, in tones of encouragement, exhortation, and command to his unseen warriors, rising high and clear above the din of battle. now, on a sudden, it rang out stern, abrupt, imperious, like the voice of a trumpet sounding a desperate charge. when he found himself deserted by his white ally--the strong hand under which he and his people had trusted to return to the land of their fathers--then did the heroic sachem feel that he was fighting the last battle of a hopeless cause. but too proud to survive a failure so vast--the blasted hopes of his life, the ruined schemes of his ambition--he determined to die then and there, and die, too, such a death as should shed over the very failure an undying glory. to this intent he would order a general charge, disdaining the further shelter of his stronghold and meeting the enemy in the open field. true, such a movement would be utterly at variance with the usages of indian warfare. true, also, the enemy to be charged was flushed with present success, not to mention his being the stronger and made audacious from having been the pursuer in the chase just ended. but such a movement, from the fact of its being without example and without hope, would make his skill as a leader the more apparent, his death as a warrior the more certain and glorious. yes, he would order a general charge. then, to the amazement of the americans, the heretofore invisible foe burst suddenly forth from his ambush, and now, in a long, well-ordered line, was coming impetuously on to meet them un-indian-like in the open field. headed by their intrepid leader, on they came amain, brandishing their tomahawks and war-clubs and filling the woods with their appalling yells and war-whoops. but now, well out of the bushy skirts of the swamp and able to look about them, they discovered what before their chief had designedly concealed from them--that the english regulars had all been captured, and that they were no longer supported by their white allies. the lengthened array of dusky warriors was observed to pause, to falter, then, at the next discharge of bullets sent point-blank at them, to break in pieces, dissolving at once into a mere disorderly rabble. all order lost, lost was all mutual confidence and all courage. back, with a howl of disappointment and dismay, they quailed from before the advancing foe, and as suddenly as they had appeared, vanished again in the somber shadows of the marsh. hastily rallying about three hundred of his bravest followers, conspicuous among whom towered the gigantic bulk of black thunder, and inspiring them to heroism by his own example, again was tecumseh pressing impetuously forward, his tomahawk brandished aloft and his trumpetlike voice still ringing high and clear above the rude uproar; nor paused he till with terrible energy he had hewn his way into the thick of the enemy's ranks. now, with tomahawk uplifted, he had planted himself directly confronting colonel johnson, who, mounted on a white horse, was pressing forward, though desperately wounded, to encounter the indian chief, his pistol already leveled. the next instant, and all in that self-same instant, the white horse dropped dead under his wounded rider, the pistol went off, a terrible cry was heard, a wild leap into the air was seen, and hushed was the clarion voice of command. the red warriors paused, gazed wildly about them, as were they listening to catch their leader's voice; then, hearing it no more, with a howl of dismay and despair, which found an echo in a howl as drear from their fellows crouched in the swamp, they turned and fled. the battle of the thames was over. the might of the shemanols had prevailed, the blood-red banner of the english manakee had been laid in the dust, and the ambushed army of the red man broken and scattered. the heroic, the high-minded, the hapless tecumseh was fallen. throughout the action, though he had gallantly headed his company in every charge, captain reynolds had not fired a single shot, lest, by some unhappy chance, kumshakah, the preserver of his life, might fall by his hand. when the battle was over and he had assisted in bearing his wounded colonel to camp, he hunted up burl and, bidding him follow, returned in the course of an hour to the battle-ground, to look once more on his face who at sunset had said, "let him sleep; wahcoudah's will be done." he had repeated to his old servant what their deliverer had told them of himself. but having taken in the evidence of his own senses and already drawn therefrom his own unalterable conclusions, big black burl could not be made to understand how a man who looked like kumshakah, talked like kumshakah, acted like kumshakah, called himself kumshakah, could be any other than the kumshakah whom he had met as a foe, entertained as a guest, parted with as a friend, and ever afterward loved as a brother. such was his conviction then, and such it remained through life. on reaching the spot where he had seen the hero fall, reynolds found a number of his brother soldiers already gathered there, and still others coming up, all eager either for the first time to behold or to get a nearer view of the renowned indian chieftain. with the dead of both friend and foe strewn thick around him, there he lay, his handsome face still lighted up with a glorious and triumphant smile, as if the magnanimous soul that so long had animated those noble features had, in rising, stamped it there to tell his enemies that, though fallen, he had fallen and conquered. beside him, and in striking contrast with his symmetrical and stately figure, his pleasing and majestic aspect, lay extended the huge bulk and scowled the terrible visage of black thunder. "pore, pore kumshy!" exclaimed burl, in a pitying voice. "yes, poor kumshakah, and poor tecumseh, too!" rejoined his master, with solemn and profound emotion. "what's dat you say, mars'er bushie?" inquired burl quickly and with a puzzled look. slowly young reynolds repeated what he had said, and then added: "what we now see before us, burl, is all that is left of the great tecumseh!" had this specter of the slain chief risen suddenly from his body and stood confronting him, the effect on the mind of big black burl could hardly have been more startling than that caused by this revelation. three huge backward strides he made, then motionless stood for many moments, one foot a step behind the other, his hands uplifted and outspread, his eyes wide open, staring fixedly with mingled amazement, incredulity, and awe, at the lifeless body before him. in his younger days, when the passion for martial glory burned strong within him, the fighting nigger, as we have seen, had been in the habit, when blowing his own trumpet, of running his warlike exploits into the fabulous and impossible--not from any direct design of deceiving his hearers, but merely that he might make his theme as interesting and wonderful to them as it was to himself; but that the honor of meeting and overcoming in battle so renowned a warrior as tecumseh, of whom the world in which he lived, the great wild west, was so full, should ever have been his, seemed to mish-mugwa more fabulous than even his own fables, and to which all his other achievements, granting them to have been as prodigious as he was wont to boast them, dwarf into unmentionable insignificance in comparison. the reader must not fail to bear in mind that, just here, we are viewing tecumseh through the eyes of burlman reynolds. at length, having taken in the evidence of his sight, but as if still needing that of his touch to set his doubts at rest and convince him that what he saw there was in verity a bodily form, burl stole cautiously up again and softly laid his hand on the breast of the fallen hero. no sooner had he done so than with a warm, tender rush came thronging back into his memory all those recollections which, stretching their bright train from that glorious first of june to that beautiful sabbath in the wilderness, he had ever viewed as being the happiest of his life. but when, linked with these, came back to his mind the thrilling events of yesterday, suddenly and to the surprise of all present, excepting his young master, the huge creature, with that liveliness of feeling peculiar to his race, burst into a blubbering explosion of tender, pitying, grateful feeling, and cried like a child. "pore, pore kumshy! de good lord hab pity on yo' soul an' gib you a mansion, ef it's only a wigwam, somewhar in his kingdom. you's a pore heathen, we know, but shorely somewhar in his kingdom he'll make room fur de like uf you." and with this simple oration over tecumseh's body, big black burl turned weeping away and followed his sorrowing master from the field, the stoniness and blindness of calvinism gone from his creed forever. that night, long after the somber autumn sun had set, and the somber autumn moon had risen, and the victorious foe had laid him down to sleep in his distant tent, silent as the shadows through which they glided, they returned to the battle-ground, the red warriors of the wilderness, to pay the last tribute of respect to their fallen chieftain. beside a fallen oak that lay along the verge of the marsh--there, on the spot where he had made his last stand for the wild people, the wild land, the wild independence he had loved more than his life--they dug a grave, and in it laid the mortal remains of the immortal tecumseh. then they went their way, their wild hearts breaking with grief and despair, and he was left to that solitude of silence and shadow which, like a hallowing spell inspiring reverence and awe in the minds of the living, ever lingers round the resting-places of the illustrious dead. but for many a year thereafter they made it their wont to return thither, as on pilgrimage to a holy shrine, once more to look with reverent eyes on the green mound where he lay, and with reverent hands keep back the willows and wild roses growing too thick around it, that, unshadowed, it might be ever open to the loving, pitying light of the setting sun. thus he died, this indian hannibal; thus he set, this glory of his race. let him sleep! wahcoudah's will be done! rule, great wahcoudah! the end. none none file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [illustration: steve p. holcombe.] steve p. holcombe, the converted gambler: his life and work. by rev. gross alexander. introduction by _rev. sam p. jones._ louisville: press of the courier-journal job printing company. . copyrighted, . to mrs. s. p. holcombe, the patient wife, the faithful mother, the friend of publicans and sinners, this account of the life and work of her husband is dedicated. table of contents. introduction by sam. p. jones letter from dr. j. a. broadus life and work of steve p. holcombe-- chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi letters testimonials of converts sermons preface. it has been thought and suggested by some of those having knowledge of mr. holcombe's history, that an account of his life and work in book-form would multiply his usefulness and do good. and since the narration of his experiences by himself has been of such great benefit to those who have been privileged to hear him, why may not others also be benefited by reading some account of his uncommon career? it is hoped that it will be of interest to the general reader as a revelation and record of the workings and struggles of some human hearts and the wretchedness and blessedness of some human lives. it is a sort of luxury to read about and sympathize with wretchedness, as it is a joy to see that wretchedness turned to blessedness. it will show to those who are unwillingly the slaves of sin what god has done for such as they. it will possibly interest and encourage those who are engaged in christian work. it may furnish suggestions as to practical methods to be pursued in working among poor and needy classes, whether in towns or cities. even ministers of the gospel may find encouragement and instruction in the experience of mr. holcombe's life and the methods and successes of his work. what few letters of mr. holcombe's could be found are put in as showing phases of this interesting character that could be shown as well no other way, and some letters written _to_ him are selected out of several hundred of like character to show how he touches all classes of people. the "testimonies" are from men who have been rescued under mr. holcombe's ministry, and will give some idea of the work that is being done. these are only a few of the men who have been brought to a better and happier life through mr. holcombe's efforts. if any should feel that there is a sameness in these testimonies, which it is believed very few will do, perhaps others will feel the cumulative effect of line upon line, example upon example. the sermons or addresses are inserted because they have been the means of awakening and guiding many to salvation, and they may be of interest and possibly of benefit to some who have not heard mr. holcombe. they contain much of the history of his inner life in statements of experience introduced by way of illustration. they are given in outline only, as will be seen. the book lays no claim to literary excellence. the position and work of the man make his life worth writing and reading apart from the style of the book. the accounts here given of mr. holcombe's character and work are not written for the purpose of glorifying him. many of these pages are profoundly painful and humiliating to him. but they are written that those who read them may know from what depths he has been brought, and to what blessedness he has been raised, through jesus christ, to whose name the glory is given and to whose blessing the book is commended. august, . introduction. by rev. sam p. jones. the author of this volume, the rev. gross alexander, professor of theology in vanderbilt university, was surely the man to give to the world the life of steve holcombe. the warm heart and clear head of the author, and the consecrated, self-denying life of the subject of the volume, assure the reader ample compensation for the time given to the book. mr. alexander has known brother holcombe from the beginning of his christian life, and tells the story of his fidelity to christ and loyalty to duty as no other could. i first met brother holcombe at louisville, in the year , when i was preaching in the church of his pastor, rev. j. c. morris. it was from brother morris that i learned of this consecrated layman. he often told me with joy of many incidents connected with the conversion and work of brother holcombe. my acquaintance with him soon grew into a warm friendship. it has always been an inspiration to me to talk with him, and a source of gratitude to me to know that i have his affection and prayers. the work he is doing now in the city of louisville, kentucky, is very much like jerry macauley's work in new york city years ago. no man has experienced more vividly the power of christ to save, and no man has a stronger faith in christ's ability to save. brother holcombe's humility and fidelity have made him a power in the work of rescuing the perishing and saving the fallen. i have been charmed by the purity of soul manifested by him on all occasions, and his continual efforts to bring back those who have been overtaken in a fault. hundreds of men who have felt his sympathizing arms about them and listened to his brotherly words have grown strong, because they had a friend and brother in steve holcombe, who, in spite of their failures and faults, has clung to them with a love like that which christ himself manifested toward those who were as bruised reeds and smoking flax. brother holcombe, rescued himself by the loving hand of christ, has extended the hand from a heart full of love for christ and men, and has done his best to save all who have come under his influence. this volume will be especially instructive to those who are interested in the salvation of the non-churchgoers of the great cities. for surely brother holcombe's mission is a place where the worst sinners hear of christ's power to save, and where they see, in brother holcombe himself, with his rich experience, one of the greatest triumphs of the gospel. i heartily commend this volume to all christian people, because it tells of the life of a saved man. it tells also what a saved man can do for others, and it will inspire many hearts with sympathy for such work and prepare many hands to help in it. i heartily commend this book because it is the biography of one whom i love and whom all men would love, if they knew him in his devotion to god and duty. brother holcombe has frequently been with me in my meetings and in my private room; i have frequently been with him in his mission, in his family circle, on the streets of the great cities, and he is one man of whom it may be said: "his conversation is in heaven." i frequently feel that my own life would have been more successful with such a fervent consecration to my work as brother steve holcombe exemplifies. the sermons contained in this volume will be read with interest. they are his sermons. they come from his heart, and they have reached the hearts of hundreds and thousands who have heard him gladly. i bespeak for the book a circulation which will put it into the library of all pastors and into thousands of homes. sam p. jones. cartersville, ga., october , . letter from dr. john a. broadus. i have read with very great interest the "life of steve holcombe," and have carefully looked through the letters, testimonies and sermons to be included in the proposed volume, and i rejoice that it is to be published. professor alexander, who was mr. holcombe's first pastor, has written the life with the best use of his fine literary gifts, and with sound judgment and good taste. it is a wonderful story. i have long felt interest in mr. holcombe and his work, for after beginning his mission he attended my seminary lessons in the new testament through a session and more; but this record of his life warms my heart still more toward him and his remarkable labors of love. i think the book will be very widely read. it will stir christians to more hopeful efforts to save the most wicked. it will encourage many a desperate wanderer to seek the grace of god in the gospel. such a book makes a real addition to the "evidences of christianity." no one can read it without feeling that christian piety is something real and powerful and delightful. much may be learned from mr. holcombe's recorded methods and discourses, and from the testimonies of his converts, as to the best means of carrying on religious work of many kinds. the book will, doubtless, lead to the establishment of like missions in other cities, and put new heart and hope into the pastors, missionaries and every class of christian workers. it will show that zeal and love and faith must be supported by ample common sense and force of character, as in mr. holcombe's case, if great results are to hoped for. many persons can be induced to read his brief outline sermons who would never look at more elaborate discourses. as to two or three slight touches of doctrinal statement, some of us might not agree with the speaker, but all must see that his sermons are very practical, pervaded by good sense and true feeling, and adapted to do much good. john a. broadus. louisville, ky., september , . life and work. chapter i. steve p. holcombe, known in former years as a gambler and doer of all evil, no less known in these latter days as a preacher of the gospel and doer of all good, was born at shippingsport, kentucky, in . the place, as well as the man, has an interesting history. an odd, straggling, tired, little old town, it looks as if it had been left behind and had long ago given up all hope of ever catching up. it is in this and other respects in striking contrast with its surroundings. the triangular island, upon which it is situated, lies lazily between the ohio river, which flows like a torrent around two sides of it, and the louisville canal, which stretches straight as an arrow along the third. on its northeast side it commands a view of the most picturesque part of la belle riviere. this part embraces the rapids, or "falls," opposite the city of louisville, which gets its surname of "falls city" from this circumstance. in the midst of the rapids a lone, little island of bare rocks rises sheer out of the dashing waters to the height of several feet, and across the wide expanse, on the other side of the river, loom up the wooded banks of the indiana side, indented with many a romantic cove, and sweeping around with a graceful curve, while the chimneys and towers and spires of jeffersonville and new albany rise in the distance, with the blue indiana "knobs" in the deep background beyond. from this same point on the island, and forming part of the same extensive view, one may see the two majestic bridges, each a mile in length, one of which spans the river directly over the falls and connects the city of louisville with jeffersonville, indiana, while the other joins the western portion of louisville with the thriving city of new albany. across the canal from the island, on the south, lies the city of louisville with its near , population, its broad avenues, its palatial buildings. in the very midst of all this profusion of beauty and all this hum and buzz and rush of commercial and social life, lies the dingy, sleepy old town of shippingsport with its three hundred or four hundred people, all unheeded and unheeding, uncared for and uncaring. there are five or six fairly good houses, and all the rest are poor. there is a good brick school-house, built and kept up by the city of louisville, of which, since , shippingsport is an incorporated part. there is one dilapidated, sad looking, little old brick church, which seldom suffers any sort of disturbance. on the northeast shore of the island directly over the rushing waters stands the picturesque old mill built by tarascon in the early part of the century. it utilizes the fine water-power of the "falls" in making the famous louisville cement. part of the inhabitants are employed as laborers in this mill, and part of them derive their support from fishing in the river, for which there are exceptional opportunities all the year around in the shallows, where the rushing waters dash, with eddying whirl, against the rocky shores of their island. there are, at this time, some excellent people in shippingsport, who faithfully maintain spiritual life and good moral character amid surrounding apathy and immorality. "for except the lord had left unto them a very small remnant, they should have been as sodom, and they should have been like unto gomorrah." and yet, shippingsport was not always what it is now. time was when it boasted the aristocracy of the falls. "the house is still standing," says a recent writer in harper's monthly magazine, "where in the early part of the century the frenchman, tarascon, offered border hospitality to many distinguished guests, among whom were aaron burr and blennerhasset, and general wilkinson, then in command of the armies of the united states." he might have added that shippingsport was once honored with a visit from lafayette, and later also from president jackson. but in other respects also shippingsport was, in former years, far different from what it is to-day. in business importance it rivaled the city of louisville itself. in that early day, before the building of the canal, steamboats could not, on account of the falls, pass up the river except during high water, so that for about nine months in the year shippingsport was the head of navigation. naturally, it became a place of considerable commercial importance, as the shrewd frenchman who first settled there saw it was bound to be. very soon it attracted a population of some hundreds, and grew into a very busy little mart. "every day," says one of the old citizens still living, "steamboats were landing with products and passengers from the south, or leaving with products and passengers from kentucky and the upper country." the freight which was landed at shippingsport was carried by wagons and drays to louisville, lexington and other places in kentucky and indiana. this same old citizen, mr. alex. folwell, declares that he has seen as many as five hundred wagons in one day in and around the place. there were three large warehouses and several stores, and what seems hard to believe, land sold in some instances for $ per foot. the canal was begun in , the first spadeful of dirt being taken out by dewitt clinton, of new york. during the next six years from five hundred to a thousand men were employed on it. they were, as a general thing, a rough set. sometimes, while steamboats were lying at the place, the unemployed hands would annoy the workmen on the canal so that gradually there grew up a feeling of enmity between the two classes which broke out occasionally in regular battles. in , when the canal was finished, the days of shippingsport's prosperity were numbered. thenceforth steamboats, independent of obstructions in the river, passed on up through the canal, and shippingsport found her occupation was gone. the better classes lost no time in removing to other places, and only the poorer and rougher classes remained. many of the workmen who had been engaged in building the canal settled down there to live; unemployed and broken-down steamboatmen gravitated to the place where they always had such good times; shiftless and thriftless poor people from other places came flocking in as to a poor man's paradise. within easy reach of louisville, the place became a resort for the immoral young men, the gamblers and all the rough characters of that growing city. such was the place to which steve holcombe's parents removed from central kentucky in , the year of his birth; and, though coming into the midst of surroundings so full of moral perils, they did not bring that strength of moral character, that fixedness of moral habit and that steadfastness of moral purpose which were necessary to guard against the temptations of every sort which were awaiting them. the father, though an honest and well disposed sort of man and very kind to his family, was already a drunkard. his son says of him: "my poor father had gotten to be a confirmed drunkard before i was born, and after he had settled at shippingsport, my mother would not let him stay about the house, so that most of his time was spent in lying around bar-rooms or out on the commons, where he usually slept all times of the year." it is not surprising that as a consequence of such dissipation and such exposure he died at the early age of thirty-three, when his son steve was eleven years old. dead, he sleeps in an unmarked grave on the commons where formerly he slept when drunk and shut out by his wife from his home. mrs. holcombe, the mother of steve, a woman five feet ten inches in height and one hundred and ninety pounds in weight, was as strong in passion as in physical power. "when aroused," says her son, "she was as fierce as a tigress and fearless of god, man or devil, although she was a woman of quick sympathy and impulsive kindheartedness toward those who were in distress, and would go further to help such than almost any one i have ever known." she was a woman of more than ordinary mind, though entirely without education. in the government of her children she was extremely severe. "though my father," says mr. holcombe, "never whipped me but once in my life, and that slightly, my mother has whipped me hundreds of times, i suppose, and with as great severity as frequency. she has, at times, almost beaten me to death. she would use a switch, a cane, a broom-stick or a club, whichever happened to be at hand when she became provoked. she whipped me oftener for going swimming than for anything else, i believe. if i told her a lie about it she would whip me, and if i told her the truth, she would whip me." from neglect and other causes little steve was very sickly and puny in his babyhood, so that he did not walk till he was four years old; but from the beginning his temper was as violent as his body was weak, and from his earliest recollection, he says, he loved to fight. at the same time he had his mother's tenderheartedness for those who were in distress. once a stranger stopped for a few days at the tavern in shippingsport, and the roughs of the place caught him out on one occasion and beat him so severely that he was left for dead; but he crawled afterward into an old shed where little holcombe, between five and six years old, found him and took him food every day for about two weeks. the boys with whom he associated in childhood were addicted to petty stealing, and he learned from them to practice the same. when about seven years old his mother, on account of their poverty, provided him with a supply of cakes, pies and fruits to peddle out on the steamers while they were detained in passing the locks of the canal. instead of returning the money to his mother, however, he would often lose it in gambling with the bad boys of the place, and sometimes even with his half-brothers, so that he seldom got home with his money, but always got his beating. at eight years of age he played cards for money in bar-rooms with grown men. at ten he began to explore those parts of the river about the falls, in a skiff alone looking for articles of various kinds lost in wrecks, that he might get means for gambling. this, together with the fact that his hair was very light in color, gained for him the distinction of the "little white-headed pirate." in shippingsport was taken into the city of louisville, and a school was established, which he attended about three months during this period of his life, and he never attended school afterward. the brown-haired, black-eyed little girl who afterward became his wife, attended this school at the same time. her parents had lately removed to shippingsport from jeffersonville, indiana. they were people of excellent character and were so careful of their children that they would not allow them to associate with the children of shippingsport any farther than was necessary and unavoidable. but, notwithstanding these restrictions, their little mary saw just enough of steve holcombe in school to form a strange liking for him, as he did also for her--an attachment which has lasted through many and varying experiences up to the present. at that time he had grown to be "a heavy set little boy," as mrs. holcombe describes him, and was "very good looking," indeed, "very handsome," as she goes on to say, "with his deep blue eyes and his golden hair." she did not know that she was in love with a boy who was to become one of the worst of men in all forms of wickedness, and as little did she know that she was in love with a boy who was to become one of the best of men in all forms of goodness and usefulness. nor did he foresee that he was forming an attachment then and there for one who was to love him devotedly and serve him patiently through all phases of infidelity and wickedness, and through years of almost unexampled trials and sufferings, who was to cling to him amid numberless perils and scandals, who was to train and restrain his children so as to lead them in ways of purity and goodness in spite of the father's bad example, who was to endure for his sake forms of ill treatment that have killed many a woman, and who was in long distant years to be his most patient encourager and helper in a singularly blessed and successful work for god and the most abandoned and hopeless class of sinful men, and to develop, amid all and in spite of all and by means of all, one of the truest and strongest and most devoted of female characters. a singular thing it seems, indeed, that an attachment begun so early and tested so severely should have lasted so late. and yet it is perhaps at this moment stronger than ever it was before. [illustration: birthplace of mr. holcombe. shippingsport.] notwithstanding young holcombe's lack of religious instruction and his extraordinary maturity in wickedness, he declares that at times he had, even before his tenth year, very serious thoughts. he says: "i always believed there was a god and that the bible was from god, but for the most part my belief was very vague and took hold of nothing definite. hence, nearly all my thoughts were evil, only evil and evil continually. i am sure, however, that i believed there was a hell. when a child, i used to dream, it seems to me, almost every night, that the devil had me, and sometimes my dreams were so real that i would say to myself while dreaming, 'now this is no dream; he has got me this time, sure enough.' i remember that one text which i heard a preacher read troubled me more than anything else, when i thought about dying and going to judgment. it was this: 'and they hid themselves in the dens and rocks of the mountains, and said to the mountains and rocks, fall on us and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne.' i always had a fear of death and a dread of the future. the rattling of clods on a coffin filled me with awe and dread. when i thought about my soul, i would always say to myself, 'i am going to get good before i go into the presence of god; but now i want to keep these thoughts out of mind so i can do as i please and not have to suffer and struggle and fight against sin--till i get consumption. when i get consumption i will have plenty of warning as to death's approach and plenty of time to prepare for it.' but i had gotten such an admiration for gamblers and such a passion for gambling that i had a consuming ambition to become a regular blackleg, as gamblers were called in those days. i made up my mind that this was to be my business, and i began to look about for some way to get loose from everything else, so i could do nothing but gamble, with nobody to molest or make me afraid." it is hard enough for a boy to keep from doing wrong and to do right always, even when he has inherited a good disposition, enjoyed good advantages and had the best of training. but our little friend, steve holcombe, poor fellow, inherited from his father an appetite for drink and from his mother a savage temper. to balance these, he had none of the safeguards of a careful, moral or religious education, and none of those sweet and helpful home associations which follow a man through life and hold him back from wrong doing. thus unprepared, unshielded, unguarded, at the tender age of eleven years he left home to work his own way in the world. no mother's prayers had hitherto helped him, and no mother's prayers from henceforth followed him. no hallowed home influences had blessed and sweetened his miserable childhood and no tender recollections of sanctified home life were to follow him into the great wicked world. on the contrary, he was fleeing from his home to find some refuge, he knew not what, he knew not where. he was going out, boy as he was, loaded down with the vices and hungry with the passions of a man. he did not seek employment among people that were good or in circumstances encouraging to goodness, but just where of all places he would find most vice and learn most wickedness--on a steamboat. one knowing his antecedents and looking out into his future could easily have foreseen his career in vice and crime, but would hardly have predicted for him that life of goodness and usefulness which now for eleven wonderful years he has been leading. he was employed on a steamboat which ran on the tennessee river, and his first trip was to florence, alabama. his mother did not know what had become of him. he was employed in some service about the kitchen. he slept on deck with the hands and ate with the servants. hungry as he was for some word or look of sympathy which, given him and followed up, might have made him a different character, nobody showed him any kindness. the steward of the boat on the contrary showed him some unkindness, and was in the act of kicking him on one occasion for something, when young holcombe jumped at him like an enraged animal and frightened him so badly that he was glad to drop the matter for the present and to respect the boy for the future. on this trip he found five dollars in money on the boat, and was honest enough to take it to the steward for the owner. when he returned home from this trip, strange to say, his mother so far from giving him a severer beating than usual, as might have been expected, did not punish him at all. she was probably too glad to get him back and too afraid of driving him away again. but nothing could restrain him now that he had once seen the world and made the successful experiment of getting on in the world without anybody's help. so that he soon went on another trip and so continued, going on four or five long steamboat runs before he was fourteen years of age, and spending his unoccupied time in gambling with either white men or negroes, as he found opportunity. after he was fourteen years old he went on the upper mississippi river and traveled to and from st. louis. on the mississippi steamers of those days gambling was common, not only among the servants and deck-hands, it was the pastime or the business of some of the first-class passengers also. sometimes when a rich planter had lost all his ready money in gambling, he would put up a slave, male or female, that he might happen to have with him, and after losing, would borrow money to win or buy again the slave. professional gamblers, luxuriously dressed and living like princes, frequented the steamers of those days for the purpose of entrapping and fleecing the passengers. all this only increased the fascination of gambling for young holcombe, and he studied and practiced it with increasing zeal. about this time, when he was in the neighborhood of fourteen years of age, his mother, awaking all too late to his peril and to her duty, got him a situation as office-boy in the office of dr. mandeville thum, of louisville, hoping to keep him at home and rescue him from the perilous life he had entered upon. dr. thum was much pleased with him, took great interest in him, and treated him with unusual kindness. he even began himself to teach him algebra, with the intention of making a civil engineer of the boy. and he was making encouraging progress in his studies and would, doubtless, have done well, had he continued. during the time he spent in the service of dr. thum, he attended a revival meeting held by the rev. mr. crenshaw, at shippingsport, and was much impressed by what he heard. he became so awakened and interested that he responded to the appeals that were made by this devoted and zealous preacher and sought interviews with him. he tried his level best, as he expresses it, to work himself up to a point where he could feel that he was converted, a not rare, but very wrong, view of this solemn matter. but he could not _feel_ it. while, however, he could not get the feeling, he _determined_ to be a christian, anyhow, a rarer and better, but not altogether correct, view of the subject either. for a week or ten days he succeeded in overcoming evil impulses, and in living right, but he was led away by evil companions. soon after this he tried it again, and this time he succeeded for a longer time than before in resisting temptations and following his sense of right, but was one day persuaded to go on a sunday steamboat-excursion to new albany, with some young folks from shippingsport, which proved the occasion of his fall. on returning home he and two other boys went part of the way on foot. they heard a man, not far away, crying for water, and holcombe's quick impulse of sympathy led him to propose to go to the relief of the sufferer. when they found he was not so bad off as they thought, the two other boys began to abuse and mistreat the stranger. he was an unequal match for the two, however, and as he was about to get the best of them, young holcombe knocked the poor man down, and they all kicked him so severely over the head and face that when they left him he was nearly dead. holcombe went back the next day, and half a mile away he found the coroner holding an inquest over the man. he was preparing to flee to indiana when he heard that the verdict of the jury was: "death from exposure to the sun." this cowardly and wicked deed wrought in him such shame, such self-loathing and such discouragement that he abandoned all hope and purpose of living a better life. with a sort of feeling of desperation and of revenge against his better nature for allowing him to yield and stoop to such meanness, he left his position in louisville and shipped on a steamboat again for st. louis. while the boat was lying at the wharf at st. louis he got into a difficulty with one of the deck-hands who applied to him a very disgraceful name. instantly young holcombe seized a heavy meat-cleaver and would have split the man's head in two if the cook had not caught his arm as he swung it back for the stroke. from st. louis he went up the missouri river to omaha, engaging, as usual, in gambling and other nameless vices. on his second trip from omaha to st. louis he innocently provoked the anger of the steward of the boat, who abused him in such a way that holcombe ran at him with an ice-pick, when the terrified man rushed into the office and took refuge behind the captain. it was decided that holcombe should be discharged and put ashore. when the clerk called him up to pay him off, he volunteered some reproof and abuse of the seventeen-year-old boy. but, upon finding he was dealing with one who, when aroused, knew neither fear nor self-control, he was glad to quiet down and pay him his dues, as holcombe remarked: "you may discharge me and put me ashore, but you shall not abuse me." and they put him ashore at kansas city, then a small village. while waiting at kansas city for the next boat to st. louis (all traveling being done in those days and regions by water), he spent his time around bar-rooms and gambling-houses. there he saw a different and more extensive kind of gaming than he had ever seen before. great quantities of money were on the tables before the players, greater than he had ever seen, and he saw it change hands and pass from one to another. such a sight increased his desire to follow such a life. so he put up his money, the wages of his labor on the boat, and lost it--all. he spent the remainder of his stay in kansas city wandering around, destitute, hungry, lonely, with various reflections on the fortunes and misfortunes of a gambler's life, till at last he got deck-passage on a boat to st. louis, and paid his fare by sawing wood. during this trip his violent and revengeful temper led him to commit an act that nearly resulted in murder. one of the deck-hands threw down some wood which he had piled up, and holcombe protested, whereupon the deck-hand cursed him and said: "you little rat, i will throw you overboard!" mr. holcombe replied: "i guess you won't," and said nothing more at the time. after the man had lain down and gone to sleep, mr. holcombe got a cord-stick, slipped upon him, and hit him on the skull with all his might, completely stunning the man. "now," says mr. holcombe, speaking of this incident, "i can not understand how a man could do so cruel a thing, but _then_ i felt i must have revenge some way, and _i could not keep from it_." at st. louis he got a position on a boat for new orleans, and soon after arriving in that city he shipped on board a steamship for galveston, texas, but returned immediately to new orleans. here, however, he soon lost, in gambling, all the money he had made on the trip, and was so entirely without friends or acquaintances that he could find no place to sleep, and wandered about on the levee until one or two o'clock in the morning. to add to the loneliness and dismalness of his situation, it was during an epidemic of yellow fever in the city, and people were dying so fast they could not bury them, but had to plow trenches and throw the corpses in, as they bury soldiers on a battle-field. about one or two o'clock, a colored man, on a steamboat seeing him walking around alone, called him, and finding out his condition, took him on board the steamer and gave him a bed. but holcombe was so afraid the negro had some design upon him, as there were no others on board, that he stole away from the boat and wandered around, alone, all the rest of the night. on that awful night the great deep of his heart was broken up and he felt a sense of loneliness that he had never felt before in his life. he was in a strange city among a strange people. he had no friends, he had no means. he had not where to lay his head. the darkness of the night shut off the sight of those objects which in the day would have diverted his mind and relieved his painful reflections; and the awful stillness, broken only by the rattling of wheels that bore away the dead, made it seem to him as if his thoughts were spoken to him by some audible voice. his past life came up before him, but there was in it nothing pleasant for him to remember. it had been from his earliest recollection one constant experience of pain and sin. he was uneasy about himself. he was frightened at the past, and the recollection of his hard, but vain, struggle to get his evil nature changed and bettered, cast a dark cloud over his future. what could he do? where could he go? who was there could help him? who was there that loved him? at his own home, if home it could be called, there was nothing but strife and cruelty and sin. father, he had none. he that was his father had lived a drunkard's life, had died a drunkard's death and was buried in a drunkard's grave. and his mother--she had no power to help him or even love him as most mothers love their children, and as on that lone dismal night he would have given the world to be loved. of god's mercy and love he did not know, he thought only of his wrath, nor had he learned how to approach him in prayer. alone, alone, he felt himself to be shut up between a past that was full of sin and crime and a future that promised nothing better. but he did think of one who had loved him and who had said she would always love him and he felt there was truth in her soul and in her words. it was the brown-haired, sweet-faced, strong-hearted little girl he had left in shippingsport. he would go back to her. she alone of all people in the world seemed able to help him and this seemed his last, his only hope. if she had remained true to him, and if she would love him, the world would not seem so dreary and the future would not seem so dark, and maybe she could help him to be a better man. "on the next day," says mr. holcombe, "an acquaintance of mine from louisville ran across me as i was strolling about the streets, took me aboard a steamer and made me go home with him." [illustration: the old mill at shippingsport.] chapter ii. as has already been said, mr. and mrs. evans, the parents of mrs. holcombe, were people of excellent moral character and were so careful of their children that as long as they could prevent it, they did not allow them to associate freely with the shippingsport children. but of steve holcombe, the worst of them all, they had a special dread. mr. evans could not endure to see him or to hear his name called. and yet, this same steve holcombe was in love with their own precious child, and had now come home to ask her to marry him. of course, he did not visit her at her own home but he managed to see her elsewhere. he found that she had not wavered during his absence, but that the bond of their childhood had grown with her womanhood. and yet she knew full well his past career and his present character. she went into it "with her eyes open," to quote her own words. against the will of her parents and against the advice of her friends she adhered to her purpose to marry steve holcombe when the time should come. even his own mother, moved with pity at the thought of the sufferings and wretchedness which this marriage would bring the poor girl, tried to dissuade her from it and warned her that she was going to marry "the very devil." she replied that she knew all about it, and when asked why she then did it, her simple answer was "because i love him." he promised her that he would try to be a better man and _she_, as well as _he, believed it_, though not because she expected he would some time become a christian and not because she had the christian's faith and hope. her simple belief was that the outcome of her love would be his reformation and return to a better life. it was not thus definitely stated to herself by herself. it was an unconscious process of reasoning or rather it was the deep instinct of her strong and deeply-rooted love. mrs. holcombe was recently asked if, during all the years of her husband's recklessness and disgraceful dissipation, his sins and crimes, his cruel neglect and heartless mistreatment of herself, her love ever faltered? she answered: "no; never. there never was a time, even when mr. holcombe was at his worst, that i did not love him. it pained me, of course, that some things should come _through_ him, but i never loved _him_ any less." a rare and wonderful love it surely was. when she was asked if during those dark and bitter years she ever gave up her belief that her husband would change his life and become a good man, she answered, "no; i never gave it up." a woman of deep insight, of large reading and wide observation, on hearing these replies of mrs. holcombe, said: "it is the most wonderful case of love and patience and faith i have ever known." he had come home then to marry mary evans. he met her at the house of a mutual friend and proposed an elopement. she was frightened and refused. but he pleaded and besought her, and, wounded and vexed at what seemed a disregard of his feelings and rights, he ended by saying, "it must be to-night or never." whereupon she consented, though with great reluctance, and they went together to the house of his mother, in the city of louisville. but his own mother would not consent to their marriage under such circumstances until she could first go and see if she could get the consent of the girl's parents. accordingly, she went at once to shippingsport, night as it was, and laid the case before them. they did not consent, but saw it would do no good to undertake to put a stop to it. so that, at the house of his mother in louisville, they were married, steve holcombe and mary evans, the hardened gambler and the timid girl. after his marriage he quit running on the river, settled down at shippingsport and went to fishing for a living. and it did seem for a time that his hope was to be realized and that through the helpful influences of his young wife he was to become a better man. he grew steadily toward better purposes and toward a higher standard of character, and within two or three months after their marriage they joined the church together. mrs. holcombe says, however, that she does not now believe that she was a christian at the time. they thought in a general way that it was right to join the church, and that it would do them good and somehow help them to be good. if they had had some one, wise and patient and faithful, to teach them and advise them and sympathize with them at this time of awakening and of honest endeavor after a spiritual life, they would probably have gone on happily and helpfully together in it. but alas! as is true in so many, many cases to-day, nobody understood or seemed to understand them, nobody tried or cared to understand them; nobody cared for their souls. it was taken for granted, then as now, that when people are gotten into the church, nothing special is to be done for them any further, though, in fact, the most difficult and delicate part of training a soul and developing christian character comes after conversion and after joining the church. mr. holcombe attributes his present success in the helping and guidance of inquiring and struggling souls to his lack on the one hand of careful and sympathetic training in his earlier efforts to be a christian and on the other hand to the great benefit of such training in his later efforts. in such a nature as his, especially, no mere form of religion and no external bond of union with the church was sufficient. the strength of his will, the tenacity of his old habits, the intensity of his nature and the violence of his passions were such that only an extraordinary power would suffice to bring him under control. it was not long, therefore, before he was overcome by his evil nature, and he soon gave over the ineffectual struggle and fell back into his old ways. his poor wife soon found to her sorrow that reforming a bad man was a greater undertaking than she had dreamed of, and was often reminded of her mother-in-law's remark that she had married "the very devil." and mr. holcombe found out, too, that his wife, good as she was, could not make him good. some men there are so hungry-hearted and so dependent, that they can not endure life without the supreme and faithful and submissive affection of a wife, but who know not how to appreciate or treat a wife and soon lose that consideration and love for her which are her due. then marriage becomes tyranny on the one side and slavery on the other. perhaps the reader will conclude later that this description applies all too well to the married life of steve holcombe and his faithful and brave-hearted young wife; for it was not long before he returned, in spite of all his solemn vows and his earnest resolutions, to his old habit of gambling and to all his evil ways. on a certain occasion not long after he married, in company with a friend, who is at this moment lying in the jail in louisville for the violation of the law against gambling, he went on a fishing excursion to mound city, illinois. having returned to the landing one night about midnight they found a fierce-looking man sitting on the wharf-boat who said to them on entering, "i understand there are some gamblers here and i have come to play them, and i can whip any two men on the ohio river," at the same time exposing a large knife which he carried in his boot. he was evidently a bully who thought he could intimidate these strangers and in some underhanded way get from them their money. mr. holcombe did not reply but waited till the next morning when he "sized up the man" and determined to play against him. after they had been playing some time mr. holcombe discovered that the man was "holding cards out of the pack" on him. he said nothing, however, till the man had gotten out all the cards he wanted, when mr. holcombe made a bet. the other man "raised him," that is, offered to increase the amount. mr. holcombe raised him back and so on till each one had put up all the money he had. then the man "showed down his hand" as the saying is, and he had the four aces. mr. holcombe replied "that is a good hand, but here is a better one;" and with that struck him a quick heavy blow that sent the man to the floor, mr. holcombe took all the money and the other man began to cry like a child and beg for it. mr. holcombe was instantly touched with pity and wanted to give him back his money but his partner objected. he did, however, give the man enough for his immediate wants and left him some the wiser for his loss of the rest. at the same place the owner of the storeboat left a young man in charge, who, during the absence of his proprietor, offered to play against mr. holcombe and lost all the money he had. then he insisted on mr. holcombe's playing for the clothing which he had in the store and mr. holcombe won all that from him, leaving him a sadder, but it is to be hoped a wiser, man. having thus once again felt the fascination of gambling and the intoxication of success, mr. holcombe was impelled by these and by his naturally restless disposition to give up altogether his legitimate business and to return to the old life. so without returning to visit his wife and child or even informing them of his whereabouts, he shipped on a steamer for memphis and thence to new orleans. on his return trip from new orleans he played poker and won several hundred dollars. on landing in louisville, his half-brother, mr. wm. sowders, the largest fish and oyster dealer in louisville, gave him a partnership in his business, but they soon fell out and he quit the firm. he removed to nashville, tennessee, and opened a business of the same kind there in connection with his brother's house in louisville, mr. holcombe shipping his vegetables and produce in return for fish and oysters. this was early in . it was a great trial for his young wife to be taken from among her relatives and friends and put down among people who were entire strangers, especially that she had found out in four or five years of married life that her husband had grown away from her, that his heart and life were in other people than his family, in other places than his home and in others pleasures than his duty. she knew that she could not now count on having his companionship day or night, in sickness or in health, in poverty or in wealth. and to make the outlook all the more gloomy for her, she had just passed through one of the severest trials that had come into her life. when an intense woman finds that she is deceived and disappointed in her husband, and the hopes of married bliss are brought to naught, she finds some compensation and relief in the love of her children. so it was with mrs. holcombe. but just before the time came for them to remove to nashville, death came and took from her arms her second-born child. this made it all the harder to leave her home to go among strangers. but already, as a wife, she had learned that charity which suffereth long and is kind, which seeketh not her own and which endureth all things. mr. holcombe's business in nashville was very profitable and he made sometimes as much as fifty dollars a day, so that in a short time he had accumulated a considerable amount of money. but his passion for gambling remained. his wife had hoped that the sufferings and death of their little child might soften his heart and lead him to a better life. but it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. though he did not follow gambling as a profession, he engaged in it at night and in a private way with business men. when the active hostilities of the war came on, his communication with louisville was cut off and so his business was at an end. leaving his wife and only remaining child alone in nashville he went to clarksville and engaged in the ice business. while he was there, the kentucky troops, who were encamped near that place, moved up to bowling green, kentucky. the sound of fife and drum and the sight of moving columns of soldiers stirred either his patriotism or his enthusiasm so that he got rid of his business and followed them on up to green river in kentucky, and went into camp with them where he spent some time, without, however, being sworn into service. but this short time sufficed for him and he became satisfied that "lugging knap-sack, box and gun was harder work than" gambling. he quit the camp, settled down at bowling green, and opened a grocery and restaurant, doing a very prosperous business. while there, he had a severe spell of sickness and came near dying, but did not send for his wife and child, who were still alone in nashville. just before the federal troops took possession of bowling green, he sold his grocery for a large claim on the confederate government which a party held for some guns sold to the confederacy. he then rode horseback from bowling green to nashville, where he rejoined his wife and child. after another severe spell of sickness through which his wife nursed him, he left his family again in those trying and fearful times and went south to collect his claim on the confederate government. having succeeded in getting it he returned to nashville with a large sum of money. as he had no legitimate business to occupy his time and his mind, he returned to gambling and this is his own account of it: "then i began playing poker with business men in private rooms; and one of those business men being familiar with faro banks, roped us around to a faro room to play poker; and while we were playing, the faro dealer, who had cappers around, opened up a brace game, and the game of poker broke up, and i drifted over to the faro table, and did not look on long until i began to bet, and soon lost two or three hundred dollars which i had in my pockets, and lost a little on credit, which i paid the next morning. i lost what i had the next day, and kept up that same racket until i was broke. during this time i had been very liberal with the gamblers, treated them to oyster stews and other good things; and when i got broke i got to sitting around the gambling-house, and heard them say to each other, 'we will have to make steve one of the boys,' and thus it was i became familiar with faro." chapter iii. the initiation of mr. holcombe into the game of faro was an epoch in his life. he was so fascinated with it, and saw so much money in it, that he now finally and deliberately gave up all attempts at any other business or occupation, and, removing again to louisville, in partnership with a gambling friend he "opened up a game" or established a house of his own for playing faro in that city. he sent for his family thinking he was settled for life. alas! how little he knew of that heart of his that knew so little of god. he found out later what st. augustine has so beautifully said for all humanity: "thou hast made us for thyself and our hearts find no repose till they repose in thee." it was not long before he had lost all his money and was "dead broke" again. it was about this time and during this residence at louisville, that, uncontrolled by the grace and power of god, and untouched by the love that can forgive as it hopes to be forgiven, he committed the greatest crime of his life. a young man was visiting and courting a half-sister of his at shippingsport, and, under promise of marriage, had deceived her. when mr. holcombe found it out, he felt enraged, and thought it his duty to compel him to marry her. but knowing himself so well, and being afraid to trust himself to speak to the young man about it, he asked his two older half-brothers to see him and get the affair settled. they refused to do so. mr. holcombe then got a pistol and looked the man up with the deliberate intention of having the affair settled according to his notion of what was right, or killing him. he met him at shippingsport, near the bank of the canal, and told him who he was--for they scarcely knew each other. then he reminded him of what had occurred, and said that the only thing to be done was to marry the girl. this the man declined to do, saying: "we are as good as married now." he had scarcely uttered the words when mr. holcombe drew his derringer and shot him. when he fell, mr. holcombe put his hand under the poor man's neck, raised him up and held him until a doctor could be called. he was touched with a great feeling of pity for his victim, and would have done anything in his power for him. but all his pity and repentance could not bring back the dying man. he went into a neighboring house and washed the blood from his hands, but he could not wash the blood from his conscience. in after years the cry of another murderer, "deliver me from blood-guiltiness, o, god!" was to burst from his lips, and faith in the blood of a murdered christ was to bring the answer of peace to his long troubled soul. but alas! alas! he was to add crime to crime and multiply guilt manifold before that time should come. he was soon arrested and taken to jail, where, after some hours, he was informed that the man was dead. some time afterward he was tried by a jury and acquitted, though the commonwealth's attorney, assisted by paid counsel, did all he could to procure his conviction. but no human sentence or approval of public opinion can quiet a guilty human conscience when awakened by the god whose sole prerogative of executing justice is guarded by his own solemn and awful words, "vengeance is mine; i will repay," saith the lord. when the conscience is pressed with a great sense of guilt, it seeks relief by the way of contrition and repentance, or it seeks relief by a deeper plunge into sin and guilt, as if the antidote to a poison were a larger dose of poison. there is no middle ground unless it be insanity. nor did mr. holcombe find any middle ground, though he declares that he never allowed himself to think about the killing of martin mohler, and could not bear to hear his name. he had to _keep very busy_ in a career of sin, however, to _keep from_ thinking about it, and that is exactly the second alternative of the two described above. "after this," says mr. holcombe, "i continued gambling, traveling around from place to place, and at last i settled down at nashville and dealt faro there. i took my family with me to nashville. i gambled there for awhile, and then came back to louisville, where i opened a game for working men. but when i looked at their hard hands and thought of their suffering families, i could not bear to take their money. then i turned my steps toward the south and landed in augusta, georgia. i went to augusta in in connection with a man named dennis mccarty. we opened there a big game of faro, where i did some of the biggest gambling i ever did in my life. on one occasion i played seven-up with a man and beat him out of five thousand dollars, which broke him up entirely." let us now take a peep into his home-life: mrs. holcombe says that in augusta he was in the habit of staying out for several days and nights at a time, a thing which he had never done before. they lived in augusta something over two years, and during all that time she had not one day of peace. he was more reckless than he had ever been before. she suffered most from his drunkenness and his ungovernable temper. sometimes he would come into the house in a bad humor and proceed to vent his wrath on her and the furniture; for he was never harsh to his children, but on the contrary, excessively indulgent, especially to his sons. during his outbursts of anger, mrs. holcombe always sat perfectly still, not in fear, but in grief; for she knew as little of fear as he. many a time he has come into the house in a bad humor and proceeded to upset the dining-table, emptying all the food onto the floor and breaking all the dishes. on one occasion he came home angry and found his wife sitting on a sofa in the parlor. he began to complain of her and to find fault with her, and as her silence seemed to provoke him, he began to curse her; and as she sat and wept in silence, he grew worse and worse, using the most dreadful oaths she ever heard. when he had fully vented his passion, he walked out and stood awhile at the front gate as if in a study. then he walked back into the house where she sat, still weeping, and said, in a mild and gentle tone: "well, mary, i was pretty mad awhile ago, wasn't i?" then he began to apologize and to tell her how sorry he was for having talked to her so harshly, and wound up by petting her. he was at times almost insanely jealous of his wife, and if he saw her even talking with a man, no matter whom, it put him in a rage which ended only when he had vented it in the most abusive language to her. on another occasion, while they were living in augusta, an incident occurred which illustrates at once her unexampled devotion and his unexampled depravity. on the night in question she had gone to bed, but not to sleep. about midnight he came staggering in and fell full length on the floor at the foot of the stairway. she tried to help him up, but he was so dead drunk she could not lift him. she left him lying at the foot of the stairway and went back to bed. but, though she was very tired, she could not endure the thought of lying in a comfortable bed while her husband was on the floor. she got up, therefore, and went down stairs again and sat on the floor beside him in her night-dress till morning. then she left him and went up stairs to dress, that she might be prepared for the duties of the day. when, some time afterward, she came back to where he was lying, he abused and cursed her for leaving him alone, and, before his tirade was ended he was sorry, and tried to smooth it over by saying: "i did not think _you_ would leave me." mrs. holcombe says concerning her life at this period: "i usually walked the floor, after the children were in bed, till past midnight waiting for him to come home. one night in particular, between eleven and twelve o'clock, i heard a shot fired and i heard a man cry out not far from the house. i thought it was mr. holcombe, and my agony was almost more than i could bear while waiting for day to come, for i was sure somebody had shot him. but between three and four o'clock in the morning he came in, and his coming brought me great relief." "then another time," she goes on to say, "i was sitting by the window when an express wagon drove up with a coffin in it. the driver said to me, 'does this coffin belong here?' i understood him to say, 'does mr. holcombe live here?' i thought it was mr. holcombe and that he had been killed and sent home to me in his coffin. the driver repeated his question twice, but i was so paralyzed i could not answer him a word." from augusta mr. holcombe removed with his family to atlanta, where he made a good deal of money. mrs. holcombe says concerning their stay in atlanta, "my life at atlanta was no better than it had been at augusta. much of my time was spent in walking the floor and grieving. often in my loneliness and sorrow my lips would cry out, 'how can i endure this life any longer?' i had not then become a christian and did not know what i do now about taking troubles and burdens to god. and yet i believe that it was god who comforted my heart more than once when my sorrow was more than i could bear. i cried to him without knowing him. all these years i tried to raise my children right, and i taught them to respect their father. i hid his sins from them when i could, and when i could not, i always excused him to them the best i could." but mr. holcombe instead of aiding his wife's efforts to bring up their children in the right path, often perversely put obstacles in her way and increased her difficulties, though he did try to conceal his drinking from them, and would never allow his boys to have or handle cards. so in many things he was a combination of contradictions. he could not endure, however, for his wife to punish the children, and especially the boys. on one occasion he came home and the younger son was still crying from the punishment inflicted by his mother for wading in a pond of water with his shoes on. mr. holcombe asked him what was the matter, and when he found out, he was so angry he made the boy go and wade in the pond again with his shoes on. and yet mrs. holcombe's love for her husband "never wavered," and she loved him "when he was at his worst." while mr. holcombe was living in atlanta he attended the races in nashville, and while there, two men came along that had a new thing on cards, and they beat him out of five or six thousand dollars--broke him, in fact. after he was broke, he went to one of the men by the name of buchanan and said, "i see that you have got a new trick on cards, and as i am well acquainted through the south, if you will give it away to me, we can go together and make money." the man, after some hesitation, agreed to do so. they went in partnership and traveled through the south as far as key west, florida, stopping at the principal cities and making money everywhere. at key west he and his partner had a split and separated. from key west mr. holcombe crossed over to cuba, and spent some time in havana. in seeking adventures in that strange city he made some very narrow escapes, and was glad to get away. on landing at new orleans, though he had a good deal of money, the accumulations of his winnings on his late tour through the south, he got to playing against faro bank and lost all he had. but he fell in with a young man about twenty years of age, from georgia, on his way to texas, and became very intimate with him. finding that this young man had a draft for $ , , by the most adroit piece of maneuvering he got another man, a third party, to win it from him for himself, and gave this third party $ for doing it. then he took charge of the young man in his destitution and distress, paid his bill for a day or two at a hotel in new orleans, and gave him enough to pay his way on to texas. the young man departed thinking mr. holcombe was one of the kindest men he had ever met. the gentle reader, if he be a young man who thinks himself wise enough to be intimate with strangers, might learn a useful little lesson from this young georgian's experience as herein detailed. from new orleans, mr. holcombe went by river to shreveport, louisiana, where he met again with his former partner, buchanan. they made up their differences and went into partnership again, and were successful in winning a good deal of money together. but afterward their fortunes changed and they both lost all they had. this soured buchanan, who had never cordially liked holcombe since their quarrel and separation at key west. mr. holcombe himself shall narrate what took place afterward: "during this time we had been sleeping in a room together. buchanan knew that i had two derringer pistols. he got phil spangler to borrow one, and i feel satisfied he had snaked the other. a friend of mine, john norton, asked me to deal faro bank, and i got broke, and the night that i did, i put the box in the drawer pretty roughly, and made some pretty rough remarks. buchanan was present, but took no exception to what i said that night. the next morning, however, in the bar-room he began to abuse me, and we abused each other backward and forward until i had backed clear across the street. during this time i had my derringer pistol out in my hand. he had a big stick in his hand and a knife in his bosom. when we got across the street i made this remark, 'mr. buchanan, i do not want to kill you,' he was then about ten feet from me, and made a step toward me. i took deliberate aim at his heart and pulled the trigger, but the pistol snapped. he walked away from me then. i ran up to the hotel where aleck doran was, knowing that his six-shooter was always in good condition. i borrowed it and started to hunt buchanan up, and when i found him, he came up to me with his hand out. we made up and have been good friends ever since. after we left there, these parties with whom we had been playing, got to quarreling among themselves about the different games, and the result was that john norton killed phil spangler and another one of the men. and such is the life of the gambler." and such is too often, alas! the death of the gambler. from shreveport he went back to atlanta where his family, consisting now of his wife, two sons and two daughters, had remained. but he could not be contented at any one place. it seemed impossible for him to be quiet, no matter how much money he was making. indeed, the more he got the more disquieted he seemed, and yet it was his passion to win money. sometimes he would go to his home with his pockets full of it and would pour it out on the floor and tell the children to take what they wanted. he was so restless when he had won largely that he could not sleep; and his wife says she has known him to get up after having retired late and walk back to the city to his gambling house to find somebody to play with. he seemed to want to lose his money again. in fact, he seemed happier when he was entirely without money than when he had a great deal. not contented, then, at atlanta, he went from there to beaufort, south carolina, to gamble with the officers of the navy. he got into a game of poker with some of them and won all the money. then he was ready to quit and leave the place, but he got into a difficulty with a man there whose diamond pin he had in pawn for money lent him, and though it be at the risk of taxing the reader's patience with these details, yet, in order to show vividly what a gambler's life is, we shall let mr. holcombe give his own account of the affair: "this man was the bully of the place. i had his diamond pin in pawn for seventy-five dollars, and another little fellow owed me eighteen dollars, or something like that, and i wanted him to pay me. instead of paying me, however, he began to curse and abuse me; and i hit him on the nose, knocked him over and bloodied it, and he was bleeding like everything. he got over into the crowd; and under the excitement of the moment, i drew my pistol and started toward him. this big bully caught me gently by the vest, and asked me quietly to put up my pistol. i did so. then he said, 'you can't shoot anybody here,' i said 'i do not want to shoot anybody.' i then asked him to turn me loose. he again said 'you can't shoot anybody here.' i then said, 'what is the matter with you? are we not friends?' and he said 'no,' and made the remark, 'i will take your pistol away from you and beat your brains out.' i struck him and knocked him over on a lounge, but he rose up and came at me, and we had quite a tussle around the room. the others all ran and left the house, and the barkeeper hid. "when we separated, the big fellow had quite a head on him; was all beaten up. he then went into the other room and sat down, and the barkeeper came in where i was. i was willing to do or say anything to reconcile this man, and i said to the barkeeper that i was sorry of the difficulty, as i liked the man, which was a lie, and a square one, for i hated him from the moment i saw him. when he heard what i said, he came sauntering into the room, and i said to him, 'i am sorry this occurred, but you called me such a name that i was compelled to do as i did. you know that you are a brave man; and if any man had called you such a name, you would have done just as i did.' he called me a liar, and at it we went again. we separated ourselves every time. i got the best of the round. after that he stepped up to the sideboard and got a tumbler; but i looked him in the eye so closely that he could not throw it at me, and he put it down. after a little more conversation, he started to lift up a heavy spittoon of iron. i stepped back a foot or two, drew my pistol, and told him if he did not put that down, i would kill him. he put it down. i then told the barkeeper he must come in there and witness this thing, because i expected to have to kill him. after the barkeeper came in, the man went out, saying, 'you had a gun on me to-night, and i will have one on you to-morrow.' feeling satisfied if i remained, one of us would have to be killed; and feeling that i did not want to kill him, neither did i want to get killed on a cold collar, i concluded to walk out of the place. i got the barkeeper to promise to ship my trunk to atlanta, and walked through the swamps to a station fourteen miles away, arriving there some time next day." other such experiences mr. holcombe had enough to fill a volume perhaps, but these are sufficient to give an impression of what a gambler's life is and to show what _was_ the life of that same steve holcombe who now for eleven years has been a pattern of christian usefulness and zeal. after spending a short time at atlanta, he went to hot springs, arkansas, and then again to louisville, where he opened a faro bank and once more settled down for life, as he thought. _at any rate for the first time in his life he thought of saving a little money_, and he did so, investing it in some houses in the west end. poor man! he had wandered _nearly_ enough. he had almost found that rest can not be found, at least in the way he was seeking it, and the time was approaching when he would be _prepared_ to hear of another sort and source of rest. until he should be prepared, it would be vain to send him the message. to give the truth to some people to-day would be to cast pearls before swine, to give it to them to-morrow may be re-clothing banished princes with due tokens of welcome and of royalty. to have told steve holcombe of christ yet awhile would probably have excited his wonder and disgust; to tell him a little later will be to welcome a long-lost, long-enslaved and perishing child to his father's house and to all the liberty of the sons of god. so _he thought_ of saving a little money and of investing in some cottages in the west end of louisville. and god was thinking, too, and he was thinking thoughts of kindness and of love for the poor wicked outcast. he was _more_ than thinking, he was getting things ready. but the time was not yet. a few more wanderings and the sinning one, foot-sore, heart-sore and weary will be willing to come to the father's house and rest. truth and god are always ready, but man is not always ready. "i have many things to say to you, but you can not bear them now." his income at louisville at this time was between five and seven thousand dollars a year. he had a large interest in the bank and some nights he would take in hundreds of dollars. but he could not be contented. the roving passion seized him again, and in company with a young man of fine family in louisville, who had just inherited five thousand dollars, he set out on a circuit of the races. but in lexington, the very first place they visited, they lost all they had, including the young man's jewelry, watch and diamond pin. they got more money and other partners and started again on the circuit and they made money. at kalamazoo, michigan, mr. holcombe withdrew from the party, just for the sake of change, just because he was tired of them; and in playing against the faro banks at kalamazoo he lost all he had again. then he traveled around to different places playing against faro banks and "catching on" when he could. he visited fort wayne, cleveland, utica, saratoga and new york. at new york he was broke and he had become so disgusted with traveling around and so weary of the world that he determined he _would_ go back to louisville and settle down for life. he did return to louisville and got an interest in two gambling houses, making for him an income again of five thousand dollars a year. during all these years his faithful wife, though not professing to be a christian herself, endeavored in all possible ways to lead her children to become christians. she taught them to pray the best she could, and sent them to sunday-school. after her first child was born she gave up those worldly amusements which before she had, to please her husband, participated in with him--a good example for christian mothers. she was in continual dread lest the children should grow up to follow the father's example. she always tried to conceal from them the fact of his being a gambler. the two daughters, mamie and irene, did not, when good-sized girls and going to school, know their father's business. they were asked at school what his occupation was, and could not tell. more than once they asked their mother, but she evaded the question by saying, "he isn't engaged in any work just now," or in some such way. mrs. holcombe begged her husband again and again not to continue gambling. she says, "i told him i was willing to live on bread and water, if he would quit it." and she would not lay up any of the money he would give her, nor use any more of it than was necessary for herself and the children, for she felt that it was not rightly gotten. and because she would neither lay it up nor use it lavishly, she had nothing to do but let the children take it to play with and to give away. under the training of such a mother with such patience, love and faith, it is no great marvel, and yet perhaps it is a great marvel, that willie, the eldest child, notwithstanding the father's example, grew up to discern good, to desire good and to be good. while he was still a child, when his father came home drunk, the wounded and wondering child would beg him not to drink any more. mrs. holcombe says of him further, "when willie would see his father on the street drinking, i have seen him, when twelve years old, jump off the car, go to his father and beg him with tears to go home with him. and i never saw mr. holcombe refuse to go." in this way the boy grew up with a disgust and horror of drunkenness and drinking, and when in the year the great temperance movement was rolling over the country and meetings were held everywhere, and in louisville also, though the boy had never drunk any intoxicating liquor in his life, he signed the pledge. he took his card home with his name signed to it, and when his father saw it, he was very angry about it. and yet, strange to say, on that very evening the father himself attended the meeting; and on the next evening he went again, in company with his wife. during the progress of the meeting he turned to his wife and said, "mary, shall i go up and sign the pledge?" concealing her emotions as best she could, lest the show of it might disgust and repel him, she replied, "yes, steve, willie and i would be very glad if you would," and he did so. some time after that, willie asked his father and mother if they would accompany him to the broadway baptist church in the city to see him baptized. while witnessing the baptism of his son, mr. holcombe made up his mind that he would quit gambling, and as he went out of the church, he said to his wife, "_i will never play another card_." some friend of his who overhead the remark said to him, "steve, you had better study about that." he answered, "no, i have made up my mind. i wish you would tell the boys for me that they may count me out. they may stop my interest in the banks. i am done." his wife, who was hanging on his arm, could no longer now conceal her emotions, nor did she try. she laughed and cried for joy. god was saying to her, "mary, thy toils and tears, thy sufferings and patience have come up for a memorial before me, and i will send a man who will tell thee what thou oughtest to do, and speak to thee words whereby thou and all thy house shall be saved." mr. holcombe was as good as his word. he did give up gambling from that time. but he had had so little experience in business that he was at a great loss what to do. finally, however, he decided to go into the produce and commission business as he had had some experience in that line years before in nashville, and as that required no great outlay of money for a beginning. all the money he had was tied up in the houses which he had bought in portland, the western suburb of louisville. he was living in one of these himself, but he now determined to rent it out and to remove to the city that he might be nearer his business. one day in october, , a stranger entered his place of business, on main street, and, calling for mr. holcombe, said: "i see you have a house for rent in portland." "yes," said he, "i have." "well," said the stranger, "i like your house; but as my income is not large, i should be glad to get it at as low a rent as you can allow." mr. holcombe replied: "i am rather pressed for money now myself, but maybe we can make a trade. what is your business?" "i am a methodist minister, and am just sent to the church in portland, and you know it can not pay very much of a salary." "that settles it then, sir," said mr. holcombe, with that abruptness and positiveness which are so characteristic of him, "i am a notorious gambler, and, of course, you would not want to live in a house of mine." he expected that would be the end of the matter, and he looked to see the minister shrink from him and leave at once his presence and his house. on the contrary, the minister, though knowing nothing of mr. holcombe's recent reformation, yet seeing his sensitiveness, admiring his candor and hoping to be able to do him some good, laid his hand kindly on his shoulder and said: "oh no, my brother; i do not object to living in your house; and who knows but that this interview will result in good to us both, in more ways than one?" mr. holcombe's impression was that ministers of the gospel were, in their own estimation, and in fact, too good for gamblers to touch the hem of their garments, and that ministers had, for this reason, as little use and as great contempt for gamblers as the average gambler has, on the very same account, for ministers. but he found, to his amazement, that he was mistaken, and when the minister invited him to come to his church he said, not to the minister, yet he said: "yes, i will go, i never had a good man to call me 'brother' before. and he knows what i am, for i told him. i am so tired; i am so spent. maybe he can tell me what to do and how to go. if sunday ever comes, i will go to that man's church." and when sunday came the minister and the gambler faced each other again. with a great sense of his responsibility and insufficiency the preacher declared the message of his lord, not as he wished, but as he could. to the usual invitation to join the church nobody responded. after the benediction, however, mr. holcombe walked down the aisle to the pulpit and said to the minister: "how does a man join the church?" he had not attended church for twenty-three years, and had been engaged in such a life that he had forgotten what little he knew. the minister informed him. "then," said he, "may i join your church?" "you are welcome, and more than welcome," replied the minister, and the people wondered. "from the day i joined his church," says mr. holcombe, "that minister seemed to understand me better than i understood myself. he seemed to know and did tell me my own secrets. he led me into an understanding of myself and my situation. i saw now what had been the cause of my restlessness, my wanderings, my weariness and my woe. i saw what it was i needed, and i prayed as earnestly as i knew how from that time. i attended all the services--preaching, sunday-school, prayer-meeting, class-meeting in any and all kinds of weather, walking frequently all the way from second street to portland, a distance of three miles, because i was making too little to allow me to ride on the street-cars. but with all this, i felt something was yet wanting. i began to see that i could not make any advance in goodness and happiness so long as i was burdened with the unforgiven guilt of forty years of sin and crime. it grew worse and heavier until i felt i must have relief, if relief could be had. one day i went in the back office of my business house, after the others had all gone home, and shut myself up and determined to stay there and pray until i should find relief. the room was dark, and i had prayed, i know not how long, when such a great sense of relief and gladness and joy came to me that it seemed to me as if a light had flooded the room, and the only words i could utter or think of were these three: 'jesus of nazareth.' it seemed to me they were the sweetest words i had ever heard. never, till then, did the feeling of blood-guiltiness leave me. it was only the blood of christ that could wash from my conscience the blood of my fellowman." as in his case, so always, in proportion as a man is in earnest about forsaking sin, will he desire the assurance of the forgiveness of past sins, and _vice versa_. but mr. holcombe did not find this an end of difficulty and trial and conflict--far from it. indeed, it was the preparation for conflict, and the entrance upon it. hitherto, in his old life, he had made no resistance to his evil nature, and there was no conflict with the world, the flesh and the devil. but such a nature as his was not to be conquered and subjected to entire and easy control in a day. his passions would revive, his old habits would re-assert themselves, poverty pinched him, people misunderstood him, failure after failure in business discouraged him. hence, he needed constant and careful guidance and an unfailing sympathy. and he thus refers to the help he received from his pastor in those trying days: "seeing the great necessity of giving me much attention and making me feel at home in his presence and in the presence of his wife, he spent much time in my company, and with loving patience bore with my ignorance, dullness and slowness. in this way i became so much attached to him that i had no need or desire for my old associations. he led me along till i was entirely weaned from all desire for my old sinful life and habits. i think he gave me this close attention for about two years, when he felt that it was best for me to lean more upon god and less upon him." mr. holcombe received continual kindness and encouragement from the minister's wife also, who not only had for him always a cordial greeting and a kindly word of cheer, but who took great pleasure in entertaining him frequently in their home. it was a perpetual benediction to him to know her, to see the daily beauty of her faithful life, to feel the influence of her heavenly spirit. with quick intuition she recognized the sincerity and intensity of mr. holcombe's desires and efforts to be a christian man; with ready insight she comprehended the situation and saw his difficulties and needs, and with a very christlike self-forgetfulness and joy she ministered to this struggling soul. not only mr. holcombe, but all who ever knew her, whether in adversity or prosperity, whether in sickness or in health, admired the beauty and felt the quiet unconscious power of her character. as for mr. holcombe himself, his mingled feeling of reverence for her saintliness and of gratitude for her sisterliness led him always to speak of her in terms that he did not apply to any other person whom he knew. he could never cease to marvel that one of her education, position and tender womanliness should take such pains and have such pleasure in helping, entertaining and serving such as he. a few years only was he blessed with the helpfulness of her friendship. in , when she was just past the age of thirty-one, her tender feet grew so tired that she could go no further in this rough world, and christ took her away. few were more deeply bereaved than the poor converted gambler, and when he was asked if he would serve as one of the pallbearers on the occasion of her funeral, he burst into tears and replied, "i am not worthy, i am not worthy." if those who knew her--little children of tender years, young men and women, perplexed on life's threshold and desiring to enter in at the strait gate, people of rank and wealth, people in poverty and ignorance, worldly-minded people whom she had unconsciously attracted, experienced christians whom she unconsciously helped, and, most of all, her husband and children who knew her best--if all these should be asked, all these would agree that st. paul has written her fitting epitaph: "well reported of for good works; if she have brought up children, if she have lodged strangers, if she have washed the saints' feet, if she have relieved the afflicted, if she have diligently followed every good work." it was not long after mr. holcombe's conversion before his entire family became members of the church. though this was to him cause of unspeakable joy and gratitude, it did not mark the limit of his love and zeal. from the time of his conversion he had a deep and brotherly sympathy for all who were without the knowledge and joy he had come into the possession of, but he felt a special interest in the salvation of the wretched and the outcast, and of the men of his own class and former occupation who were as ignorant as he was of these higher things and as shut out from opportunities of knowing them. so that from the very beginning of his christian life he undertook to help others, and when they were in need, not stopping to think of any other way, he took them to his own house. this, with the support of his own family, increased the cost of his living to such an extent that he was soon surprised and pained to find that he could not carry on his business. he had taken to his home, also, the father of his wife, whom he cared for till his death. and in a short time he was so pressed for means that he had to mortgage his property for money to go into another kind of business. when it was first reported that steve holcombe, one of the most successful, daring and famous gamblers in the south, had been converted and had joined the church, the usual predictions were made that in less than three months, etc., he would see his mistake or yield to discouragements and return to his old life of self-indulgence and ease. but when men passed and repassed the corner where this man had a little fruit store and was trying to make an honest living for his family, their thoughts became more serious and their questions deepen steve had got something or something had got him. he was not the man of former times. and most of his friends, the gamblers included, when they saw this, were glad, and while they wondered wished him well. but there was one man engaged in business just across the street from the little fruit store, who with a patronizing air bought little fruits from mr. holcombe, and then spent his leisure in discussions and arguments to prove not only that he had made a big blunder in becoming a christian, but that religion was all a sham, the bible a not very cunningly devised fable and that mr. ingersoll was the greatest man of the day, because he had shattered these delusions. mr. holcombe patiently heard it all, and perhaps did not frame as cogent or logical an answer to this man's sophistries as he could do now, but he felt in his own heart and he saw in his own life that he was a new man. he felt a profound pity for his friend who knew not nor cared for any of these things, and he lived on his humble, patient, uncomplaining christian life. it may not be out of place to add as the sequel of this little episode that the testimony of this man across the way, who was such an unbeliever and scoffer, is given elsewhere in this volume, and doubtless will be recognized by the reader. mr. holcombe's life was too much for his logic. when mr. holcombe had failed in every kind of business that he undertook, his property was forced on the market and nothing was left him from the sale of it. christian men of means might have helped him and ought to have helped him, but for reasons known to themselves they did not. perhaps they were afraid to take hold of so tough a case as steve holcombe was known to have been, perhaps they saw he was not an experienced business man, perhaps they felt indisposed to help a man who was so incapable of economy and so generous in entertaining his friends and helping the needy. greatly pressed, he went at last to his half-brother with whom in former years he had been associated as partner in business, and putting his case and condition before him asked for employment. but his half-brother declined on the spot, giving as his short and sole reason that he believed mr. holcombe was a hypocrite and was making believe that he was a christian for some sinister purpose. this was "the most unkindest cut" of all and for days the poor wounded man felt the iron in his soul. during his former life he would have cared nothing for such treatment. a ruined character is benumbed like a paralyzed limb, but a revived and repentant soul is full of sensitive nerves and feels the slightest slight or the smallest wound. he found out months afterward, however, that his half-brother was already losing his mind and was not responsible for this extraordinary behavior. he tried and his friends tried everywhere and every way to find employment for him, but he could get nothing to do. his money was all gone, his property was all gone, he sold his piano, he sold his brussels carpets, he removed from place to place, following cheaper rent till at last he took his family to a garret. it was now two years since his conversion. during these two years he had done nothing to bring reproach on his profession or to give ground for a doubt of his sincerity. he had not only lived a consistent life himself, he had striven earnestly to help others to do so. he assisted in holding meetings in shippingsport, and the people marveled and magnified the grace of god in him. but he was with his family on the point of starvation. when at last everything had been tried and no relief was found, in his desperation he thought of the improbable possibility of finding something, at least something to do, in the west, and he decided to go to colorado. in louisville, where he was suffering and where his family was suffering, he could have returned to gambling and have been independent in a month. he could have been living in a comfortable house; he could have had, as he was wont, the best the market afforded for his table, he could have decked himself with jewelry and diamonds, he could soon have been once more in position to spend, as he had regularly done, from two to ten dollars a day for the mere luxuries of life. he could have done all this and he could do all this even yet; for even yet he is in the prime of life and power. but he did not, and he does not. he did not turn christian because he had played out as a gambler. he did not turn to christianity because fortune had turned away from him. but he turned away himself from fortune when he was fortune's pet, in order to turn to a better and worthier life. when he had decided to go to colorado, he went to his pastor and told him. the pastor was astonished, alarmed. after two years and more of faithful and self-denying service was his friend and brother about to give away? was this a plan to get away into a "far country" where he might turn again to sin? he reasoned with him, he appealed to him, he besought him. he tried to picture the perils of the journey and the perils of the place. he reminded mr. holcombe of the condition, as far as he knew it, of his family. but all to no purpose. he committed his friend trustfully to god and gave it up. "but," said the pastor, "how are you going to get there?" "i am going to walk from place to place and work my way out. i can not stay here, i can get nothing to do and i must try elsewhere. i am desperate." "then," said the pastor, "if your mind is made up and you are going, i can let you have some money. i have about sixty-one dollars in bank which i laid aside when a single man, to use for christ, and if that will pay your way out, you can have it. christ has called for his own." he accepted it with tears, left a few dollars of it with his wife and, with the rest, started for leadville. when he first landed at denver, he met an old friend, john chisholm, with whom he had gambled in atlanta. this man had left atlanta on account of having killed somebody there, and had made a considerable amount of money in california. he had now come to denver and opened a game of faro. when he saw mr. holcombe on the street, he said: "you are just the man i want. i have opened a game of faro here, and i am afraid i can not protect myself. i will give you a good interest if you will go in with me." mr. holcombe replied: "yes, john; but i am a christian now, and can not deal faro." "i know," said the man, "you were a christian in louisville, but you are a long ways from there." "yes," mr. holcombe said, "but a true christian is a christian everywhere." notwithstanding, he insisted on mr. holcombe's going to his room to see another old atlanta friend. he did so, but felt so much out of place there that he did not remain ten minutes. from denver he concluded to go to silver cliff instead of leadville. when he arrived in that strange village, his money was all gone and he lacked fifteen cents of having enough to pay the stage-driver. "it was about sundown," says he, "when i got there. i did not know a living soul. i had not a cent of money. my courage failed me. i broke down and wept like a child." having a good trunk he knew he would not be asked to pay in advance, and he went to a hotel and spent the night. in the morning he walked out after breakfast to see what sort of a place he had gotten into. as he stood at the post-office, he saw across the street what he recognized as a gambling-house, "everything wide open," no attempt at concealment or privacy. he asked some one out of curiosity who was the proprietor, and found that two of his old acquaintances were running the house. he could easily, and at once, have gotten a situation with them, and could soon have had money to relieve his own wants and the wants of his family. but he had already stood severe tests, and had now arrived at a point where he had no inclination whatever to gamble and felt no temptation to procure money in that way or from that source. he did not even look for the proprietors of the establishment or let them know he was in the village. but while he was standing there, thinking of his condition and wondering what he should do, he overheard a man say that a dining-room waiter was wanted at the carbonate hotel, the one at which he had spent the night. he went at once to the hotel, made application for the place, and was accepted at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month and board. he was filled with thankfulness and joy, and he has declared since, that though, on one night during his gambling life, he had won three thousand dollars in money, the satisfaction which he felt then could not be compared with that which he felt now when the hotel-proprietor gave him this position of dining-room waiter _at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month_. he entered at once upon his duties. to his great surprise he found several louisville gentlemen stopping at the hotel, some of whom had known him in other days and circumstances, and whom he had boarded with at hotels where he paid five dollars a day, with two to four dollars a day, extra, for wine and cigars. but, notwithstanding that, he was not ashamed of his present position. on the contrary, he was very thankful for it and happy in it. he did such faithful service there that the proprietor became interested in him and showed him much kindness. during his stay at silver cliff he did not neglect any opportunity of doing good to others. one day, when he was standing in the door of the post-office, a man, whose name he afterward found to be james lewis, came in, got a letter and sat down on the step right under mr. holcombe to read it. as he read it, he was much affected and tears were running down his hardened face. mr. holcombe became so interested that he read the man's letter over his shoulder. it was from his wife, who, with her three children, had left her husband on account of his drunkenness. mr. holcombe made up his mind he would see if he could do something for the poor man to better his condition, and, if possible, bring about the reunion of the family. he did not like to approach him then and there. he watched him till he got up and moved away and started down through an alley. as he emerged from the alley, at the farther end, mr. holcombe, who had gone around another way, met him. little did the man suspect that the stranger who accosted him knew his trouble and his family secrets. mr. holcombe, with that tact which his knowledge of men had given him, spoke to him kindly, but in a way that would not arouse his suspicions. he told him, after a little while, his own condition in that far-off land away from his family and friends. he found out from the man where he stayed. he went to see him, found that he slept in a stable, provided him with some things he needed, and then got down on his knees there in the stable and prayed for him. finally, when the proper time had come, mr. holcombe showed him a murphy pledge and asked him if he would not sign it. he told him what he himself had been before, and what he had become, since signing that pledge. the man gave mr. holcombe his confidence, unbosomed himself to him and eagerly sought counsel. he signed the pledge also and said he would, by god's help, give up his sins that had separated him from a loving wife, and would try to live a better life. mr. holcombe wrote to the man's wife informing her of the change in her husband and the effort he was making to do right. she came at once to silver cliff and mr. holcombe had the pleasure of seeing them reunited and ate with them in their humble cabin. when he had been some time at the carbonate hotel, he found a position where he could make more money and worked there till he had saved enough to buy an outfit for "prospecting" in the mountains. this outfit consisted of a little donkey, several "agricultural implements for subverting _terra firma_" such as spade, pick, etc., and provisions for two or three weeks. having procured these and packed his burro, as the donkey is called out west, he and his partner started for the mountains. mr. holcombe kept a sort of diary of this part of his western trip, and we give it here, including the time from his leaving silver cliff to his return to denver. diary. tuesday, may , .--i entered into partnership with a man by the name of j. e. white from wisconsin for prospecting in the mountains. he had some blankets at oak creek, a distance of thirty miles from silver cliff. we walked out there one day and returned the next. the road was very full of dust and gravel. my shoes would get full of it. every little mountain stream we came to i would stop and wash my feet, which was very refreshing. this made me think of the blessed son of god and why, when he was a guest at different places, they brought him water for his feet, "those blessed feet which, eighteen hundred years ago, were nailed for our advantage on the bitter cross." wednesday, may .--after having bought a burro and a two weeks' grub-stake, j. e. white and myself started for the sangre de christo mountain, a wild, high range of the rockies. we paid for our burro twenty-one dollars, and for our grub seven dollars. it consisted of flour, coffee, sugar, bacon, salt, pepper, potatoes and baking powder. we had a coffee-pot, frying-pan, tin cups. we used our pocket-knives instead of table-knives. we had a butcher-knife and some teaspoons. with these and some other things we packed our burro and started. it was a funny sight. it all looked like a house on top of the poor little animal which was not much larger than a good sized newfoundland dog. but it was strong, faithful and sure-footed and could go anywhere in the mountains that a man could. we traveled this first day about ten miles and camped in a gulch at night. had a hard storm. our only shelter was a hut made of boughs of trees, indian fashion. thursday, may .--we moved up the gulch as far as we could for the snow. did some little prospecting of which neither of us knew very much, and, of course, we found nothing. every once in awhile, white would pick up a rock, look at it wisely and say "this is good float. i think there is a paying lode up on this mountain somewhere." up the mountain we go about , feet above the sea level. we turned over all the stones and dug up the earth every now and then and toward night we went to work to make our hut which we got about half finished. during the night snow fell about three inches. we were on the side of the mountain. could hardly keep the fire from rolling down the side of the mountain. could hardly keep our victuals from upsetting. this and the snow made me weaken considerably, and i did say in my heart i wished i was back home. friday, may .--we prospected the second ridge, south of horn's peak, going up about feet above timber line, or about , feet above the sea-level. there were no indications of minerals. about five miles off we could see a beautiful lake. i was very anxious to go to it, but white objected. said it would be dangerous, might be caught in a snow-storm. the sun was shining brightly. weather was very pleasant. i could not conceive of a snow-storm on the th of may. so i persuaded him to go. after we had gone some distance, all of a sudden it began to blow up cold and in a little while to snow. we turned our faces toward camp. just then we saw one of those beautiful rocky mountain spotted grouse. we were so hungry for something fresh to eat, we took several shots at it with white's pistol. but the blinding snow made it impossible for us to hit it. we had no grouse for supper. it grew cold very rapidly and in a very short time it seemed to me as cold as i ever felt it in my life. my moustache froze stiff. at last the storm got so heavy, and, the evening coming on, we could hardly see our way. the side of the mountain was full of dead timber, which was slick like glass and, as everything was covered with snow, we could not always see where to put our feet down, and to have slipped would have been almost certain death. once white did slip and but for having the pick and sticking it in a soft place, he would have been killed. we got lost and wandered about over the mountain side till late in the evening when we providentially struck on our camp. we were hungry, tired and wet. our bedding was covered with snow. before going to bed i read the first chapter of romans. saturday, may .--cloudy morning. four inches of snow. no wind. felt very well. we moved our camp. stopped at a deserted cabin. found a grindstone and ground our hatchet. we pitched camp about three miles south-east. built a hut of boughs. we got wet. i had but one pair of pants and one pair of socks. my feet were soaking wet. at bedtime i read romans, second chapter. sunday, june , .--snowed saturday night. when i awoke our blankets were wet. i had symptoms of rheumatism in knees and wrists. i read romans, third chapter, and we had prayer together. white sang "tell me the old, old story" and "safe in the arms of jesus." it made me think of my family so far away, of my dear pastor, brother----, and the dear old portland church, and the tears streamed down my face. spent the day in camp. monday, june .--woke up very cold. our hut of pine boughs was not sufficient to keep us warm. so much snow on the mountains that we prospected the foot-hills and found what we thought were indications of mineral. at night read romans, fourth chapter. much encouraged by abraham's faith. so cold i had to get my hat in the night and put it on my head to keep warm. dreamed that i was at home with my precious wife. tried to wake her up, but she was dead. what awful feelings! tuesday, june .--a beautiful bright morning. read romans v. partner wanted to go deer hunting with a pistol. seemed to me so foolish i would not go. i stayed at camp and was very lonesome. wednesday, june .--bright, clear morning. read romans vi. had our breakfast, bread, bacon, coffee and potatoes, early, so as to prospect on third mountain south of horn's peak. started for the mountains. went up above timber line. ate lunch up there. too much snow to go any higher. found what we thought were indications of mineral. saw a gray eagle sailing around. it looked very grand away up above that lonely mountain. suppose its nest was near. in evening returned to camp very tired. read romans vii., and it did me a great deal of good. thursday, june .--clear morning. prospected some around the foot-hills. found nothing. began to get disgusted with prospecting. struck camp about ten or eleven o'clock a. m. packed our burro and crossed valley about fifteen miles. very hot crossing. pack slipped out of place several times. very troublesome. white got out of humor. was inclined to quarrel, but i would not quarrel with him. after getting across the valley we had trouble finding a place to camp convenient to water, but found it at last. while we were unpacking a big rabbit jumped up. white fired three or four shots at him with his revolver. followed him up the side of the mountain. at last he killed him. he came down the mountain swinging old brer rabbit, and i think he was as happy looking a man as i ever saw. no doubt a smile of satisfaction might have been seen on your uncle remus' face, too, when i saw that rabbit. that was the first thing in shape of fresh meat we had had for about ten days. supper--bill of fare. _fried rabbit, fried bread, potatoes, coffee._ after supper we raised a few poles and threw our blankets over them for shelter. read romans viii., and went to sleep, feeling satisfied that if i died before morning, i would wake up in heaven. friday, june .--bright morning. fine appetite. good breakfast. read romans ix. we moved from the foot-hills and went up into the mountain. white went prospecting while i built us a hut for the night. when he came back he said he had found some very good float. very cold night. our burro got loose in the night and made considerable noise moving around. we were sure it was a mountain lion, but, of course, we were not afraid. i had my hatchet under my head and he had his pistols. of course, we were not afraid. saturday, june .--very cold morning. prospected. found a lode of black rock. felt sure we had struck it rich. dug a whole in the ground and staked a claim. read romans x, at night. slept cold. got to thinking. thought it was easier to find a needle in a haystack than a paying mine in the rocky mountains. sunday, june .--morning clear and bright. owing to the disagreeable place in which we were camped, we thought our health justified us in moving even on the lord's day. found an old cabin. it was worse than any horse stable, but we cleaned it out. made a bed of poles, which we cut and carried some distance. this was on the pueblo and rosita road. monday, june .--bright, cold morning. ice on the spring branch. after breakfast we started prospecting. found nothing, except another old deserted cabin of the arkansaw traveler's style. returned to camp in the evening. read romans xii. and xiii. and slept like a prince. tuesday, june --another bright, clear, cold morning. we prospected some. staked off a claim, more in fun than anything else, for we knew it was worth nothing. the locality is called hardscrabble. and it was the right name. our provisions had about given out, and it was a hard scrabble for us to get along. concluded to return to silver cliff, go to work, get another grub stake, and take another fresh start. in the afternoon we rested. read romans xiv., xv. and xvi. wednesday, june .--another beautiful colorado morning. read cor., i. started for silver cliff about : a. m. i carried white's pistol. on the way i killed two doves. had them for dinner about : p. m. how sweet they did taste! arrived at silver cliff about dark. thursday, june .--concluded the best thing i could do was to get home as soon as possible. we sold our burro for $ . , and with my part ($ . ) i started with a friend by the name of hall for home. we got a cheap ride in a freight wagon from silver cliff to pueblo. the country through which we passed is the wildest and grandest i ever saw anywhere in my life. hardscrabble canon is one of the most picturesque in the world, and then the beautiful mountain stream all the way, winding like a serpent down the valley. we crossed and re-crossed it several times. that night we slept in the wagon. i never neglected praying any day while i was on the prospecting tour. friday, june .--arrived at pueblo about : p. m. had a little money. got a bite to eat. at that time there was a railroad war. men were killing each other for three dollars a day for corporations. the excitement about this, and the moving bodies of men all anxious for news, kept me from thinking of my condition till night. at night i went out to the commons, on the edge of the city, and, with other tramps, went to sleep on the cold ground. saturday, june .--had a little money. some others of the tramps had a little. we pooled it, bought a little grub, and at : o'clock started on a tramp to denver, a distance of about one hundred and twenty-five miles. i felt fresh and strong. we walked about six miles and slept on the ground at night. sunday, june .--got up early. had a little breakfast. started about : a. m. walked about three miles when, two of our party having such sore feet, we stopped. i had a voracious appetite. went to cooking. we had some canned tomatoes and canned syrup. i cooked some tomatoes and ate them. then i went to a ranch, bought a nickel's worth of milk, fried some cakes, ate them with the syrup, drank the milk and was--sick. did not feel strong again all the time. i had had no experience in tramping and tried to carry too much luggage. my feet got sore. every day's tramp after that was a drag. one of the party left us and went on ahead by himself. we never saw him again. another was so broken down we had to leave him. hall and i went on sick and tired. about dark we went up to the house of a ranchman, and i told him my story. he took us in. i found out he was a professing christian. i read romans vii., and prayed with the family. his name is john irvine, el paso, colorado. monday, june .--left john irvine's soon after breakfast. walked five miles to a water-tank where the train had to stop for water. we waited till the train came along, and boarded her. the conductor did not see us till we had passed colorado springs some distance. when he did see us, i made the appeal of my life on account of myself and my friend, whose feet were so sore he could, with difficulty, hobble along. i told the conductor my own condition, and of my anxiety to get home to a suffering family. when i saw he would not believe what i said, i offered him my pocket-knife, a very fine and costly one, to let us ride a short distance further, but he was like a stone. at the next stop he put us off without a cent of money or a bite to eat. we walked about six miles, lay down on the ground, with the sky for a covering, and slept like logs. tuesday, june .--we started about daybreak, without anything to eat. walked about eight miles to a little place called sedalia. saw a german boarding house. sent hall in to see if we could get anything to eat. had no money, but told him to tell her i would give her a butcher-knife and a silver teaspoon, which i had brought from home, for something to eat. she said to him so i could hear her: "breakfast is over, but i will give you what i have." that was enough for me. in i went. sat down to a real german lunch, and never did a breakfast taste sweeter to me than that. god bless that good old german woman, not only for her good breakfast, but for her kind, motherly words to two strangers in want. it taught me a lesson which i have not forgotten yet, and i pray god i never may. i left sedalia feeling comfortable. walked about four miles. hall was about done. he could go no further. while we were sitting there, a christian man by the name of jennings came along, took pity on us, took us in his wagon, gave us something to eat and brought us to denver. we arrived there about : p. m., without one cent, nothing to eat, no place to go. slept that night in a stable-yard under jennings' wagon. wednesday, june .--got up next morning about daybreak. had a little cold breakfast with jennings. knocked about town a little. had a baker's blackberry pie and a cup of water for dinner. here the diary of the prospecting tour and the tramp to denver ends. mr. holcombe continued the next day to knock about town, not knowing what to do, when his old friend, frank jones, by nature one of the kindest-hearted men in the world, chanced to meet him and insisted on sharing his room with him. as his friend jones, however, was himself broke, he could render mr. holcombe no further assistance and it was necessary for mr. holcombe to look about for something to do. he spent a week in this occupation, or want of occupation, and at the end of that time found employment in a brickyard. but the work was so hard, at the end of three weeks, he had to give it up. after some time what little money he had was expended and again he was destitute. and at one time he was so pressed that he went into a grocery store and offered his fine pocket-knife again for something to eat, but it was refused. several times he passed the young men's christian association rooms. each time he stopped, looked wistfully in and debated with himself whether they would probably believe him and help him if he ventured to go in and make his condition known. but he had never been used to asking favors, and he did not know how to approach christian people, and so his heart failed him. at that time and in that condition he was assailed by a sore temptation. the devil, he says, suggested these thoughts to him: "this is a fine condition for steve holcombe to be in. before you heard of god and this religion, you could stop at first-class hotels, wear fine clothes, live like a gentleman, have a good home and all that money could buy for your family. now, you say you are serving god. you say he is your father and that he owns everything in the world. yet here you are without food and clothing and your family is at home in want. you have not enough to buy a meal for them or for yourself. can you afford to trust and serve such a master as that?" but he had not been serving god two years and more for naught. he had learned some things in that time. one of them was that trials and privations are a part of the christian's heritage, and that if any man will live godly in this present world, he must expect to suffer. so his reply was ready and he met the temptation with decision. "yea, and though he slay me, yet will i trust in him." and the sequel will show whether he made a mistake in trusting him. when he saw it was useless for him to remain longer away from home, he informed his friend, mr. jones, of his purpose to leave at once for louisville. mr. jones got him money enough to buy a ticket to kansas city, and there the great temperance lecturer, francis murphy, having found out his character and condition, gave him enough to get home. whether god can or not, at any rate he does not pour wisdom into a man as we pour water into a bottle. he does not so favor even his own children, if favor it could be called. but he gives a man opportunities of self-discipline, and if, aided by his divine help and grace, the man is willing to go through the process, he comes out with larger knowledge and better equipment for life and service and usefulness. without the experiences and lessons of this colorado trip, mr. holcombe could not have been the efficient man he is to-day. that season of loneliness and self-searching and severe testing and humiliation was to him, though a painful, yet a helpful, and perhaps necessary, stage in his christian life. indeed, all the trying experiences that had come to him since his conversion were helpful to him in one way or another. he needed to learn patience, he needed to learn economy, he needed to learn self-control. the disposition to practice all these was given him at the time of his conversion, he needed now to be put to the test and to "learn obedience, practically, by the things which he suffered." moreover, if he was to serve efficiently the poor and the tempted, he needed to become acquainted with their condition, their sorrows, their conflicts, by passing through them himself. the endurance of the evils which give occasion for the exercise of self-denial and for the acquisition of self-control is a far less evil than the want of self-denial and of self-control. so mr. holcombe was willing to suffer all these things rather than to decline them and be without the blessing which comes through them. this reflection justified his past sufferings and prepared him for any that might come in the future. he knew what he had been and he had learned that he was to be purified by fire. so he felt that if god would be patient with him, he would be patient with god's dealings. when he arrived at home he found his family in a very needy condition. shortly after his departure for colorado, his wife had to remove from the house she was occupying, because she could not pay the rent. she had never taken care of herself before or done any sort of work, for he always provided well for his family; but now she saw it was necessary for her to support the family. accordingly, she took in sewing, and in that way did support them till mr. holcombe's return. for six weeks after his return he could find nothing to do, and mrs. holcombe, brave, noble woman, continued to support the family with her needle. the time of her full deliverance was coming, but it was not yet. nor did she know when it would come, or that it would ever come. but all the same she waited, and while she waited, she served, and with a glad heart, too, for had not her husband turned his face heavenward? and poverty seemed now a small thing. some time after mr. holcombe's return, his friend, major ed hughes, was elected chief of the fire department in louisville, and he made application to him at once for a position. major hughes gave it to him unhesitatingly; but, as mr. holcombe was entirely without experience, it had to be a subordinate one, in which the salary was not large, being only a dollar and a half per day. it was impossible for him to support his family on so little, and though mrs. holcombe undertook to help him out by keeping boarders and doing all the work herself, they got behind all the time he was in the fire department. finding that keeping boarders after mrs. holcombe's liberal fashion was entirely unprofitable, she gave that up and commenced taking in sewing again. she even learned to make coats for clothing stores in louisville, and continued that for some time. [illustration: engine house.] meanwhile, he was having a hard time in his subordinate position in the fire department. in the first place he was required to be at the engine-house night and day and sundays, with the bare exception of a half hour or such a matter at meal time. for a man of his nature and habits this confinement was almost intolerable, and would have been quite so, if he had not been radically changed. in the second place he was subject to the orders of his superiors, though he had never been obliged to obey anybody, and as a matter of fact never had obeyed anybody since he was a mere infant. in the third place, notwithstanding his experience, his knowledge of the world and his capacity for higher work, he was required to do work which a well-trained idiot might have done just as well. one of his duties was to rub the engine and keep it polished. in order to clean some parts of it, he would have to lie down on the floor under it flat on his back; and in order to clean other more delicate parts of the machinery, he had to work in such places that he was always bruising and skinning his hands. if repeated failure in business in louisville was hard, if starving in colorado was harder, the confinement and drudgery of his position at the engine-house were hardest. it would require some effort to think of a position more thoroughly disagreeable and trying than this one which mr. holcombe filled to the satisfaction of his superiors for two mortal years. but he was learning some things he needed to know. he was passing through a necessary apprenticeship, though he did not know it, for something vastly higher. it perhaps should be added that mr. holcombe was practically isolated and alone at the engine-house, for none of the men there employed were congenial companions. however, to their credit, be it said, they showed great respect for him and for his christian profession; they quit gambling, they refrained from using obscene or profane language in his presence, and, in general, were very kind to him. nothing could lessen mr. holcombe's sympathy for the outcast and the lost, and nothing destroy his zeal for their salvation. though he was not allowed to leave his post even on sunday, without hiring, at his own expense, a substitute, yet he frequently went to shippingsport and other places to hold services among the poor "with the hope," as he says, "of helping and blessing them." he incurred the expense of a substitute that he might, once in awhile, go out bearing light and blessing to others, and he even took to his own home men who were trying to reform and live better lives. in view of the condition of his family, this was doubtless more than he ought to have done, and in after years he saw it was a mistake, but such was his insatiable longing to help and bless others, he let his zeal, perhaps, go beyond his prudence in that single particular. most of us err very far on the other side. he did not hesitate to take to his home in some instances men who had gone in their dissipation to the extent of delirium tremens. one such case was that of a fine young fellow who belonged to an excellent family in louisville, but who through drink had gone down, down, down, until he had struck bottom. during his drinking sprees he was the most forlorn and wretched looking man in louisville. he was at this time, by mr. holcombe's invitation, staying at his house. he ate there, he slept there; it was his home. but on one occasion, some time after midnight, he was attacked with a frightful spell of delirium tremens, or, as he said, the devils got after him. they told him, he said, that if he did not kill mr. and mrs. holcombe and their baby, they would kill him. he heard them. they told him to go and get his razor, and he did it. then they advanced on him and he backed from them, his razor in hand. as they advanced he retreated. he opened mr. holcombe's door (for he had hired a substitute and remained at home on the night in question in order to help his man through his spell). he backed to the bed in which mr. and mrs. holcombe were sleeping. he struck the bed as he retreated from the devils, and mrs. holcombe awoke to find a demonized man standing over them with a drawn razor. she woke her husband. he jumped out of bed, caught the man's arm and took the razor from him. after that mr. holcombe sat up with him the remainder of the night, and during most of the time the man was talking to imaginary devils. about daylight he snatched up a brickbat out of the hearth and rushed toward the door saying there were three big men out there who had come to kill him. mr. holcombe kept him with himself all next day. the next night while they were walking together in the open air, the man imagined that a woman whom he knew to be dead was choking him to death, and he was on the point of dying with suffocation when mr. holcombe called a physician to his aid. such was the kind of men mr. holcombe, even in those days of poverty and discouragement, was trying to help and rescue, and such were his efforts and trials and perils in rescuing them. when mr. holcombe's pastor saw the grace of god that abounded in him, it was plain to him that he might, in future, when a suitable opening should come, make a very useful helper in the work of the church. in order, therefore, that mr. holcombe might be prepared for an enlarged sphere, if it should ever come, the pastor proposed to teach him in certain lines and did so, visiting him regularly at the engine house for that purpose. mr. holcombe studied very industriously, but it was with extreme difficulty that he could apply himself to books at that time. later, however, he overcame to a great extent this difficulty and has gotten now to be quite a student. he has attended also, for two years, with great profit, the lectures of dr. broadus in the baptist seminary in louisville. as has been said elsewhere, mr. holcombe remained in the fire department for two years, enduring the confinement, performing the drudgery and trying, as best he could, to help and bless others. four years and more had now elapsed since his conversion. it was a long stretch and at times a heavy strain. but he endured it, and grew strong. chapter iv. the time had now come for such an extraordinary career and such an extraordinary man to be recognized, and he was. he had made an impression and his work, humble as it was, had made an impression. moreover, mr. holcombe himself was now growing impatient to get into a position more favorable to his usefulness. it was not the selfish impatience that could not longer endure the humiliation and manifold disagreeablenesses of his position at the engine house. he had overcome all that. it was the noble impatience of love and zeal. oh, how he did long to get into a place where he could help somebody and serve somebody and love somebody. he had been very kindly treated by his old friends, the gamblers, during all this time; and though he was loath to allow it and at first declined it, yet fearing lest his refusal might alienate them, he had, more than once, accepted substantial help from one or two particular friends among them. encouraged by assurances from some of these and by the promise of all the help his pastor could possibly give him, financially and otherwise, he had made up his mind to rent a room in the central part of the city and to open a meeting for the outcast classes. but on the very day when he was engaged in making these arrangements, his remarkable conversion and character and career were the subject of discussion at the methodist ministers' meeting. the result was that before the week had passed, the rev. jas. c. morris, pastor of the walnut-street methodist church, visited him at the engine-house and informed him that the official board of his church had authorized him to take measures for the establishment of a mission in the central part of the city and to employ mr. holcombe to take charge of it at an assured salary sufficient to meet the wants of his family. he at once accepted it as a call from god and gave up his position in the fire department, with no great degree of reluctance. a vacant store in the tyler block, on jefferson street between third and fourth, was offered free of rent. regular noon-day meetings were held there in charge of rev. mr. morris and mr. holcombe. it was a phenomenon. within two blocks of the two faro banks which steve holcombe used to own and run, he was now every day at high noon declaring the gospel of the grace of god. the people came to see and hear. they found it was no mushroom fanatic, but a man who for forty years was a leader in wickedness and for four years had been almost a pattern of righteousness. he spoke no hot words of excitement, but narrated facts with truth and soberness. many of his old time friends, the gamblers, their timidity overcome by their curiosity, joined the crowd and heard the man. poor drunkards, too far gone for timidity or curiosity, dragged themselves to the place where the famous gambler was telling about his conversion and his new life. and the power of god was present to heal, and great grace was upon them all. among those who were saved at that time and place were mr. ben harney, son of the distinguished editor of the old _louisville democrat_, who lives again in happiness and prosperity with his beloved family, and mr. d. c. chaudoin, at one time a main-street merchant, who remained faithful until death. when the supporters of the movement saw that it promised so much, they took steps at once to make larger provision for it and to secure its permanence. they sought a suitable house in a convenient place, and finally decided to take the room at no. jefferson street, between fourth and fifth streets, which had formerly been used as a gambling-house. mr. holcombe took possession of it, and found some of the gambling implements still there. a board of managers was elected, consisting of john l. wheat, james g. carter, p. h. tapp, c. p. atmore and george w. wicks. some friends from the walnut-street church and others volunteered as singers; the room was supplied with hymn-books, an organ was secured, and the meetings commenced under the most promising circumstances. at first, meetings were held three nights in the week, and the attendance was large. soon after, meetings were held every night and on sundays. people of all classes came. the services consisted of singing, prayers, reading of scripture, a short, earnest address from mr. holcombe, and sometimes testimonies from the men who had been helped and saved--among whom were drunkards, gamblers, pick-pockets, thieves, burglars, tramps, men who had fallen from high positions in business and social circles, and in short, men of all classes and kinds. many of these gave unquestionable proofs of conversion, "of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen asleep," faithful unto death. among those who were converted during that period were robert denny, fred ropke, captain b. f. davidson and charles wilson, whose testimonies will be found elsewhere in this book--besides others, some of whom are residents of louisville and some of other places. by request, the rev. james c. morris, d. d., now of kansas city, mo., has written a brief account of mr. holcombe's work from the beginning to the point which we have now reached in this narrative. and, as no part of it can well be omitted or changed for the better, it is here introduced entire, with a part of the genial letter which accompanied it: "kansas city, mo., august , . "_my dear brother_: "i inclose the notes for which you ask. you see they are in a crude state. but do not judge from that that i have no interest in the work you have in hand. my father in heaven knows i keep it very near my heart. i felt it would be sufficient for me to furnish you the matter in a crude state, and let you work it into your plan rather than give it any literary shape myself. besides, i am pressed, pressed to my utmost, and i therefore send you this imperfect sketch with an apology. i am glad you are doing the work. it will surely do good. brother holcombe's work ought to be known. i wish in my heart of hearts that every city and town had such a man in it to work for god and souls. praying god to bless you and your work, i am, "yours affectionately, "james c. morris." "in the year , while i was pastor of the walnut-street methodist church, in louisville, ky., i heard of steve holcombe, the converted gambler; of his remarkable career; of his remarkable conversion, and of his unusual devotion and zeal in the cause of religion. i heard also of his efforts in the line of christian work and of his desire for better opportunities. i mentioned his case to the official board of the walnut-street church, and suggested that he might be usefully employed by our churches in the city in doing missionary work. the matter was kindly received, but the suggestion took no practical shape. as i walked home from the meeting one of the stewards said to me: 'why could not we, of the walnut-street church, employ brother holcombe ourselves?' this question put me upon a course of thought about the work we might be able to do, and at the next meeting of the board i made the suggestion that we organize some work of the kind and employ brother holcombe to take charge of it. they unanimously accepted the suggestion and directed me to investigate the case. if anything could be done, they were ready to enter upon the work and support it. i lost no time in seeing brother holcombe. he was then employed at the engine-house, on portland avenue. i found him rubbing the engine. it took but a moment to introduce myself, and in a short time we were up-stairs, alone, talking about religion and work for christ. he told me how his heart was drawn out in solicitude for the classes who never attended church--the gamblers, drunkards and the like. it was easy to see that the movement contemplated was of god. we talked and rejoiced together; we knelt down and prayed together for god's guidance in all our plans and undertakings. i then told him how i came to call on him, and laid before him our plan. his eyes filled with tears--tears of joy--at the thought of having an opportunity to do the work that was on his heart. "at once i reported to the board, and recommended that brother holcombe be at once employed and the work set on foot without delay. god breathed on them the same spirit that he had breathed on us together at the engine-house. with unanimity and enthusiasm they entered into the plan and pledged their support. they fixed his salary at nine hundred dollars a year and authorized me to do all that was necessary to carry the plan into effect. "early the next morning brother holcombe gave up his place at the engine-house, and we went out to look for a house in which to domicile our work. i can never forget that day. what joy there was in that heart that had waited so long and prayed so fervently for an open door of opportunity. now the door was opened wide, and a song was put in his heart and in his mouth. we walked miles to find a suitable place, while we talked much by the way as our hearts burned within us. "at length we found a vacant storeroom on jefferson street, between third and fourth, and as we looked in the window, we said: 'this would make a grand place to begin in.' we went to see mr. isaac tyler, the owner, and he gave us a favorable answer and the key. the next day we began a meeting which continued through three months. and who can write the history of that work? only the all-seeing god; and he has the record of it in his book. we had a noon-day service every day, except sunday, and a saturday evening service every week. "the services were advertised and men stationed at the door invited the passer-by to come in. at the meetings all classes of men were represented. there were strong, wise, honorable business-men and there were tramps and drunkards with all the classes that lie between these two. no man was slighted. many a man was brought in who was too drunk to sit alone in his seat. many were there who had not slept in a bed for months. there were gamblers and drunkards and outcast men from every quarter of the city. the gathering looked more like that in the police courts of a great city on monday morning than like a religious meeting. the workers did literally go out into the highways and into the lowways and compel them to come in. and marvelous things took place there. "steve holcombe was known all over the city, and such a work done by such a man who had lately been a noted gambler in the community drew men who, for years, had had no thought of attending church. the old companions of his worldly life came, the worst elements of the city came, good men from all the churches came. brother holcombe was in his element. his soul was as free to the work as that of an apostle. daily he trod the streets inviting people to come, and daily, as they came, he spoke words of deep feeling to them, urging them to be saved. no man ever had a more respectful hearing than he had. no man ever devoted himself more fully in the spirit of the master to doing men good than did he. his devotion to the poor outcast who showed any willingness to listen or any wish to be saved was as marvelous as his own conversion. i never saw such in any other worker for christ. "in the progress of the work we often spoke of keeping a record of those who professed conversion there. i am sorry it was not done. hardly a day passed without some case of exceptional interest. men were saved who had been for years in the very lowest stages of dissipation and vagrancy. not a few of those who were thus saved were men who had belonged to the very best social, and business circles of the city. many of them are bright and blessed lights in christian circles to-day. many homes were built up out of wrecks where only ashes and tears remained. many scattered families were brought together after long separation. god only knows the results of that three months' work. i remember some conversions that were as marvelous as that of saul of tarsus. i could tell of some of them but perhaps this is not the place. "this meeting in the tyler block was a feature of a meeting which was in progress at the walnut-street church and to this it was tributary. in the evening those who had been reached by the services at the mission were invited to the church. they were largely of a class not often seen in the church but they came, and when they came the church welcomed them. "then there was rejoicing in the presence of the angels, for many sinners were repenting and returning. i saw the gospel net dragged to the shore enclosing fish that no one would have been willing to take out of the net except steve holcombe. but it is far different with them to-day. changed by the power of god, these repulsive creatures are honored members of the various churches, heads of happy families and respected and useful citizens of the community. "at the end of three months the meetings in the storeroom were discontinued. mr. holcombe had won thousands of friends, hundreds had been put in the way of a new life and the whole city was in sympathy with the work. "we were now to select and secure a suitable place for the permanent home of the mission. another search brought us to the room on the south side of jefferson between fourth and fifth streets, no. . it had been occupied as a gambling room, and the gambling apparatus was still there when we took possession of it. in a few days the house was fitted up and the 'gospel-mission' was opened. "the work was now thoroughly organized. there was, in addition to the regular services, a sunday-school for the children whose parents never went to church. colonel c. p. atmore was superintendent. the 'industrial school' also was organized, where christian women taught the girls to sew, furnishing them the materials and giving them the finished garments. it is especially worthy of remark that the old associates of mr. holcombe, the gamblers, contributed more than $ toward the expenses of this work. "this house became an open home for any weary, foot-sore wanderer who was willing to come in, and through the years many were the hearts made happy in a new life. "the year following the organization of the work, rev. sam p. jones conducted a meeting at the walnut-street church, and his heart was strangely drawn to that mission. he himself conducted many services there and he was more impressed with the character of the work and of the man who was in charge of it than with any christian work he had ever seen. during this meeting of mr. jones a programme of street-preaching was carried out by mr. holcombe and his fellow-workers. mr. holcombe himself preached several times on the courthouse steps, and, even in the midst of the tumult, souls were converted to god." this is the end of dr. morris' account of the beginnings of mr. holcombe's work, though the reader will probably wish it were longer, and even more circumstantial. mr. holcombe's family lived in the same building, over the mission room, and whenever men in need or distress applied, he gave them board and lodging. mrs. holcombe says that for three months they had never less than twenty men eating two meals a day. of course, among so many there were, doubtless, some imposters, but it took a pretty keen man to play imposter without being spotted by the keen man who was in charge of the enterprise. mr. holcombe had mixed with men long enough to know them. he had spent most of his life among bad men. he had studied their ways and he knew their tricks. and it is not necessary to say to the reader who has perused the foregoing pages, that mr. holcombe was not afraid of any man. his former experience in sin and his former association with sinners of every sort led him to see that it was necessary for him rigidly to protect the work he was now engaged in and he determined to do so. men would come into the meetings, sometimes, in a state of intoxication; sometimes lewd fellows of the baser sort would come in for the purpose of interrupting the service and still others for other purposes; but when mr. holcombe had put a few of them out, they saw that this man in getting religion had lost neither common sense nor courage, and that steve holcombe, the converted gambler, was not a man to be fooled with any more than steve holcombe, the unconverted gambler; so that all such interruptions soon ceased. but nobody should get the impression that mr. holcombe was harsh or unsympathetic. on the contrary, he is one of the most tenderhearted of men, and few men living would go farther, do more or make greater sacrifices to save a drunkard or a gambler or an outcast of any sort, than steve holcombe. for days he has gone without meat for himself and his family that he might have something to help a poor drunkard who was trying to reform. indeed, his pitying love for wretched men and women of every class and degree, manifested in his efforts to look them up and to do them good in any possible way, is the chief secret of his wonderful success in dealing with hardened and apparently inaccessible cases. the following account of his last and perhaps most desperate case is taken from one of the louisville daily papers and will illustrate what has been said: [illustration: james williams as he was.] drunk twenty-three years. remarkable story of "whisky jim's" wasted life and final conversion. how the work was effected. the work that steve holcombe is doing is well known, in a general way, but the public understand but little of the wonderful good that man is doing. the reformations he has brought about may be numbered by the hundred, and the drunkards he has reclaimed would make a regiment. but of all the wonderful and truly startling examples of what mr. holcombe is doing, the case of james williams is the climax. williams has been known for years as "whisky jim" and "old hoss," and there is not a more familiar character in the city. until the last two or three weeks no man in louisville ever remembers to have seen jim free from the influence of liquor. he was always drunk, and was looked upon as an absolutely hopeless case, that would be able to stand the terrible life he was leading but a year or two longer. the story of his life and reformation as related to a _times_ reporter is very interesting. he had asked mr. holcombe when his protégé could be seen, and was told at nine o'clock at the mission. williams was seen coming up the steps, his face clean shaven, his eyes bright and his gait steady. mr. holcombe said: "there he is now, god bless him; i could just kiss him. i knew he'd be here. one thing i've learned about jim is, that he is an honest man, and another is that he will not tell a lie. i feel that i can trust him. he has had the hardest struggle to overcome the drinking habit i ever saw, and i feel sure that he has gained the victory. i began on him quietly about one month ago and got him to attend our meetings. but here he is." the reporter was introduced, and mr. williams readily consented to tell anything concerning himself that would be of interest to the public and calculated to do good in the cause of temperance. he said: "i was born in paducah, ky., and am forty-eight years old. my father's name was rufus a. williams. while a boy i was sent to school, and picked up a little education. i was put at work in a tobacco manufactory, and am a tobacco-twister by trade. my father died when i was nine years old, after which our family consisted of my mother, now seventy-five years of age, my sister and myself. we now live on the east side of floyd street, near market. shortly after i grew up i found work on the river and have been employed on nearly every boat between louisville and new orleans. that is what downed me. i began to drink little by little, and the appetite and habit began to grow on me until i gave up all idea of resistance. up to yesterday a week ago, i can truthfully say that i have been drunk twenty-three years, day and night. "in i got a job on the 'science,' number , a little government boat running the ohio and cumberland rivers. coming down the cumberland on one trip i was too sick to work, and the boat put me ashore about twenty miles above clarksville. the woods where i was dumped out were full of guerrillas, but i managed to secure a little canoe in which i paddled down to clarksville. there i sold it for three dollars and with the small sum i had already i came to this city, where we were then living. i then drank up every cent i could rake and scrape. i could get all sorts of work, but could keep no job because i couldn't keep sober. i finally depended on getting odd jobs along the river front, such as loading and unloading freight, etc. but the work was so hard i could scarcely do it, and finally i had to give that up, especially after falling and breaking my leg while at work on the old 'united states' several years ago. that accident laid me up in the marine hospital for several months, and just as i felt able to get out i broke the same leg again at the same place. after recovering i yielded entirely to the appetite for strong drink and cared for nothing else. as i say, for twenty-three years i have not known what it is to be sober until a few days ago. "for the past six years i have earned my drinks and some free lunch by picking up old boxes and barrel staves which i would dispose of to the saloon-keepers along the river front who knew me. i did not often ask any one for money with which to buy whisky, for i could always earn it in this manner. i usually slept at my mother's house. as to eating i did not eat much and was getting so i could scarcely eat at all. i am getting over that now, and have a good appetite, as mr. holcombe can testify. "well, about one month ago mr. holcombe came to me and gave me a little talk. he did not say much, but he set me to thinking as far as i was capable of thinking. he saw me the second time, and then several times. of course, i was always drunk but i understood him. finally he said to me 'jim, if you're bound to have whisky, come around to the mission and let me give it to you.' i promised him i'd come around, and i did so, for i wanted some o' the liquor. after i had gone around several times and he had given me a few drinks, not to make me drunk, of course, but to help me get sober, if possible; he invited me to go in and attend the religious services. i did so and he invited me to come again, which i did. at last he insisted that i should take my meals at the mission, and i have been doing so for some days. finally i made up my mind to quit drinking altogether, and i intend to stick to the pledge i have taken. i was full last sunday week for the last time. i was trying to taper off then, but a saloon-keeper on market, just below jackson, knowing my condition and knowing that i was trying to quit, gave me a bucket of bock beer. i knew he meant no good to me, but i couldn't help drinking it. other saloon-keepers have been trying to get me to drink again, and i think they are trying to get me to do a great wrong. "i went to church yesterday for the first time since i was a boy. heard dr. eaton preach. "my poor old mother is greatly rejoiced at the change in me, for i have given her a great deal of torment and misery. as soon as the murphy meetings are over mr. holcombe and i will spend a couple of weeks at french lick springs." [illustration: james williams, as he is] during this period, when the mission occupied rooms at no. jefferson street, the meetings were not confined to that single place, but services were held in other parts of the city, on the streets and even on the courthouse steps. many strangers, as well as citizens of louisville, attended these, and some were so powerfully impressed that after going away to their distant homes they wrote back to mr. holcombe acknowledging the good they had received, and in some instances giving an account of their conviction, repentance and conversion. the holcombe mission became one of the "sights" of the city, so that strangers visiting the city would look it up and attend services there. in a new feature was added which, in turn, added much to the efficiency and usefulness of the mission. it was suggested by the sight of the poorly clad children who attended the mission with their parents, and who seemed willing and anxious themselves to do better and be better. this new feature was the industrial school, an account of the origin, history and methods of which is furnished by mrs. clark, the superintendent. a sunday-school was organized also, with c. p. atmore, esq., as superintendent, and some of the most earnest christian people of the city as teachers and helpers. a little later the kindergarten was also organized and is now in successful operation. [illustration: the industrial school. . cutting garments. . boys making carpets. . girls sewing.] the industrial school and the kindergarten. in order to enlarge the mission work and better reach the homes of the needy, both spiritually and temporally, the union gospel industrial school was opened in april, , with six little girls and three teachers in attendance. in may following it was formally organized as the union gospel mission industrial school with mrs. j. r. clark, superintendent; mrs. l. g. herndon, assistant superintendent; miss ella downing, secretary; miss ella harding, treasurer. in june, , it closed for the summer with twenty-two pupils and five teachers. in september following it opened for the fall and winter term with the same teachers and a small increase in the number of pupils, all from the neglected classes. the school was organized in the old mission room, at no. jefferson street, between fourth and fifth, and continued there for three winters. the children came, however, from all parts of the city, some of them from garrets and cellars. their ages ranged from five to eighteen years. in may, , the school was removed to its present spacious rooms in the union gospel mission building on jefferson street, above first. the work has steadily increased, each year bringing in a larger number of the neglected children. those who come are so interested and benefited, they become missionaries, so to speak, to other poor and neglected children. there is one class of girls, however, who are not charity-scholars, but come for the purpose of learning to sew. their work is done, not for themselves, but for the younger children of the poorer class who are not yet old enough to sew. for this reason, the class just mentioned is called the missionary class, and it is one of which the school is justly proud. they not only do their work for others, they do good in other ways and in general exert a good influence over the other children who are less fortunate. the children are first taught all the different stitches that are used in sewing. then work is cut out for them by a committee of ladies who attend for that purpose, and the children are taught to make all kinds of garments. when the garment is completed and passes examination, it is given to the child who made it. there is a class of boys, sixty in number, ranging from five to twelve years of age. these are first taught to sew on buttons and to mend rents in their own clothes and then other things follow. they are at present engaged in making a carpet for mr. holcombe's office. the teachers in charge of them endeavor to train them to habits of industry, self-reliance, cleanliness, truthfulness, etc. some of the boys are very bright and promising and some of them seem hopelessly cowed and broken. their histories would, doubtless, be full of pathos and of pain, if they were known. the school meets every saturday morning at : . the opening services consist of-- . singing (gospel hymns). . responsive recitation of a psalm, or the beatitudes or the ten commandments. . prayer. . distribution of work-baskets. the sewing continues for one hour and a half, then, at the tap of the bell, the work is folded nicely, replaced in the basket and taken to another room. the children then return to the large room and join in the closing exercises, which consist of-- . singing. . repeating of scripture texts, each teacher and child repeating a verse; or this is sometimes replaced with a chalk-talk, sometimes with a short address on the sunday-school lesson for the following sunday, sometimes with a short earnest appeal to the children by some visitor who is known to be an effective speaker for such occasions. . the lord's prayer is recited in concert. . dismissal. the teachers, besides instructing the children in the art of sewing, converse with them on pleasant and profitable topics and upon the subject of religion in seasonable times and ways. quite a number of families have been brought under christian influence through the pupils of the industrial school. several parents as well as children have been converted. mr. robert denny, the account of whose conversion is given by himself in another part of this volume, was induced to attend the meetings of the holcombe mission by what his children told him of the things they learned at the industrial school. one of the members of the first class of six and her mother are now acceptable members of the first presbyterian church. the daughter has become an artist and is employed in retouching pictures in one of the city photograph galleries. three or four of the girls connected with the school have died. two of them, one aged twelve and the other fourteen, gave every evidence of being christians. one of these when asked when she learned to love god and to pray, answered, "at the sewing school; jesus is always there." many when they began to attend did not even know the little prayer beginning: "now i lay me down to sleep." the ignorance of these poor children led the superintendent to open a "mothers' meeting," for the mothers of these children and any others who might wish to attend. the results have been wonderful. so many homes have become changed, and are now neat, clean, orderly and happy. in the rounds of the superintendent's visits she found a very sick woman who said to her: "oh, i'm so glad you have come, mrs. clark. i want you to pray with me." mrs. clark said, "can't you pray yourself?" she replied, "i don't know what to say. i did not know 'now i lay me down to sleep,' till my little jennie learned it at the sewing school, and i learned it from her." "but can't you say 'our father who art in heaven?'" asked mrs. clark. "no; not all of it, i know only a little of it." mrs. clark was much moved at the ignorance, helplessness and need of the poor woman, and was praying with her when the husband came in. she talked with him and he was deeply impressed, and before she left promised he would try to live a better life. a position as street car driver was gotten for him, and for a while he did well, but after a time he fell into his old ways and was dismissed. but, through the intervention of the friends who had helped him before, he was restored to his place, and to-day he is a sober industrious man and a member of the first christian church in the city. [illustration: kindergarten, thanksgiving day] perhaps a score of similar instances could be cited. the sewing school closed may , , with the annual picnic. the following is the report for the year just past: average weekly attendance of girls, ; average weekly attendance of boys, ; total average attendance of pupils, ; average attendance of officers and teachers, ; average attendance of visitors, ; total average attendance, ; total number of garments made by, and given to, the children, . the officers for the past year were as follows: mrs. j. r. clark, superintendent; miss mary l. graham, assistant superintendent; mrs. l. g. herndon, superintendent of work; miss lithgow, treasurer; miss ella gardiner, secretary. the kindergarten. in january, , there were so many little boys and girls between the ages of three and five years that the teachers did not know what to do with them. the superintendent, who had some knowledge of the kindergarten system, believed that its introduction here was what was needed. she could not see her way clear, however, to incur any more expense. but in answer to prayer the way was opened. money was given for the appliances and miss graham, an excellent teacher, offered her services freely. the class at first averaged twenty-four pupils, met each saturday morning in connection with the sewing school, and was called the kindergarten class. the interest increased till february, , when the board of directors of the holcombe mission consented that the superintendent should open a regular kindergarten for every day in the week except saturday. more money was raised and a trained kindergarten teacher from cincinnati was employed. in june, , the school closed with sixty little children in attendance and four young ladies training for kindergarten teachers. arrangements were made for the following year and several hundred dollars pledged. in september, , the kindergarten was re-opened with miss bryan, of chicago, as teacher of training class and superintendent of the school. in the following october a large and enthusiastic meeting was held in the warren memorial church and the free kindergarten association was formally organized. in february, , a second free kindergarten was opened in another part of the city. the year's work closed in june, , five young ladies graduating as kindergarten teachers. the number of children enrolled for the year was one hundred. the kindergarten, it will be noticed, is thus distinct from the industrial school. in , another department still was added to meet a want which had been developed in the progress of the work. the great number of broken-down men and tramps that came to mr. holcombe for food and help of one sort or another made it impossible for him to give them lodging in the mission rooms or board in his own family. and it encouraged indolence in unworthy men to feed and lodge them as a mere charity. and yet, if anything was to be done for their souls, they had for a time to be cared for. mr. holcombe conceived the idea, therefore, of establishing some sort of a place in connection with his work, where these men might earn their food and lodging by the sweat of their brows and at the same time be brought under the powerful religious influences of the mission. [illustration: mrs. j. m. clark.] the result was the establishment of the "wayfarers' rest." mayor reed and chief of police whallen gave mr. holcombe a police station building free of rent and mr. j. t. burghard gave the money to furnish it with bunks, stove, cooking utensils, facilities for bathing, etc., and it became at once an established feature, and a very admirable one, of the union gospel mission. when mayor jacob came into office he gladly continued the use of the building free of rent, and the institution has continued in successful operation up to the present time--a space of three years. the rooms are arranged for the accommodation of sixty men. all who come are required to do some sort of work for whatever they receive, whether it be food or lodging. the men do various kinds of work, according to their several ability, but the chief employment is sawing kindling wood out of material provided by the superintendent. each man is required to work an hour for one night's lodging or for a meal. the kindling wood is sold all over the city, and under the excellent management of mr. w. h. black, the present superintendent, the enterprise has become more than self-supporting, bringing in enough to pay the salary of the superintendent and the book-keeper, and leaving a surplus. it should, perhaps, in justice be added, that donations of food are made daily and have been from the beginning, by the alexander hotel company. during the winter of mr. black fed and lodged an average of fifty men a day. he has never turned one away. the average income per day from the sale of kindling wood is, in winter, ten dollars. the rules for the government of the inmates requiring registration, cleanliness, bathing, etc., are wisely conceived and strictly carried out. this institution has proved in louisville the solution of the vexed question as to the proper treatment of tramps and beggars. the citizens, instead of encouraging indolence and pauperism by feeding tramps at their houses, some of whom are burglars in disguise, can now send them to the wayfarers' rest, where they are always sure of finding food and lodging, and, what is better, the opportunity of earning what they get by honest work. and mr. holcombe's experience as a tramp in colorado leads him to take a brotherly interest in all these unfortunate men. in , the work had expanded beyond its quarters and beyond all expectations. it was predicted that steve holcombe would hold out three months. he had now held out three times three years, and that through unprecedented trials and discouragements. during these nine years he had helped many and many a man, almost as bad as he, into the blessed life that he was living. he had established a unique institution in the city of louisville which had been the means of helping and uplifting and blessing men and women and whole families. but the end was not yet. the man and his work had so won the confidence of the people of the city that in , a formal request was made by the evangelical churches of the city that they be allowed to share with the walnut-street methodist church in the expense and the care and the usefulness of the mission. it was changed then into a union mission, and representatives from the presbyterian, baptist, episcopal, christian and lutheran churches were added to the board of directors. in the same year, when mr. holcombe was feeling the need of more spacious quarters for his expanding work, the large and elegant house on jefferson street above first, known as the "smith property," was advertised for sale. mr. holcombe saw it and liked it. it was the very sort of a building he needed for his work and all its various departments. he procured the keys and went through the building alone, from cellar to garret, stopping in every room to pray that, in some way, god would put it into his hands, with a firm persuasion, moreover, that his prayer would be answered. an interesting letter written by mr. holcombe in february, , contains a reference to the project of purchasing the new house. it is addressed to one of the converts of the mission, mr. s. p. dalton, of cleveland, ohio, and, as it shows also mr. holcombe's interest in his spiritual children, it is given entire: louisville, ky., february , . _dear brother dalton_: your welcome and encouraging letter is just received. i acknowledge your claim, so gently urged, to something better than a hasty postal in reply. when i write you briefly, it is because my work compels it. my soul delights to commune with spirits like yours, consecrated to god, and with brothers who live in my memory as associates in our humble work here. our mission is being abundantly blessed of god, although meeting, from time to time, with those drawbacks which remind us of our dependence and the need of constant prayer. we are having good meetings and conversions are numerous, and, as a rule, of such a character as to make us believe they are genuine and permanent. as i write, our friends are canvassing the city for the collection of means to purchase the old smith mansion on jefferson street, for our use, and believing all our work to be of god i have no doubt that it will be ours within a week. then shall we do a great work for louisville and for souls. our sewing-school and our sunday-school, having outgrown our present quarters, will be greatly enlarged, and every department of our work also. i am truly glad you are having such opportunities of doing good in cleveland. may god bless you and your dear wife, my dear brother, and in his own time bring you back to us and to the work which always needs such help, is the prayer of your brother, s. p. holcombe. an incident that occurred in connection with the purchase of this elegant property will show how mr. holcombe and his work were looked upon in louisville even by those who were not christians. [illustration: the wayfarer's rest. . exterior. . office. . sleeping apartment. . taking meals. . at work. . on the levee.] a german singing society was negotiating for the building at the same time, and had offered a higher price than the friends of the mission thought they could give. mr. holcombe went to the leader of the society and told him he desired the building for the mission, and, though the man was an unbeliever, he said: "mr. holcombe, though i am not a christian and do not believe in christianity, i do believe in the work you are doing. i will not be in the way of your getting that building." he withdrew his bid at once, and the directors of the holcombe mission purchased it for $ , . mr. holcombe at once took possession. he fitted up the rooms of the lower floor for the various departments of the mission work. the large and elegant double-parlors were thrown into one and arranged for the audience-room. this has a seating capacity of two hundred or more. the other rooms of the lower floor are used, one for mr. holcombe's office, two others for the kindergarten, another for a cloak-room, and so on. the second floor, with its seven large, bright, airy rooms, is occupied by mr. holcombe's family, and, for the first time since his conversion, they are in comfortable quarters. chapter v. at last after years of love and faith and faithfulness mrs. holcombe has her full reward and joy. the long twenty-five years of sorrow and suspense passed by and her husband is what she unconsciously believed her love had the power of waiting for him to become--a good man. and more than a good man. he is consumed with the desire and somehow clothed with the power of making other men good, of making bad men good, of making the worst of bad men good. this he has now been doing, by god's grace, for seven faithful years and more--and continues to do. her husband is honored and beloved for his character, his work and his usefulness--no man, no minister in louisville more so. all her children are members of the church even down to little pearl, the latest-born. her oldest son, her willie, is happily married, occupies the position of book-keeper with the sievers hardware company on main street, and is an efficient officer of the church of god. her second daughter is happily married to a christian man, "one of the best of husbands," who is book-keeper in the old kentucky woolen mills, of louisville. her oldest daughter is a devoted christian and serves with equal efficiency as organist of the mission and teacher in the kindergarten. her baby-boy now eighteen years old and the rise of six feet in height is a member of the church and a good boy. he also is in business with the sievers hardware company on main street. and pearl, the blue-eyed, golden-haired, eight-year-old girl baby is, nobody dare question, the flower of the flock. her dead children are in heaven all, for they died before they knew sin, and her living children are on the way to heaven, all, for they trust in and serve him who was manifested to take away sin. [illustration: mrs. s. p. holcombe.] mrs. holcombe helps her husband in his noble work and the "converts" look on her as their spiritual mother as they regard him as their spiritual father. she _might_ say with simeon, the _nunc dimittis_, "now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation;" but instead of that she says with st. paul, "nevertheless to abide in the flesh is more needful" for my husband, my children and the work of christ. mrs. holcombe still has trials, but they are few and small, while her blessings are many and great. she still has faults, perhaps, as most of mortals have; but they are few and small, while her virtues are very many and very great. many daughters have done virtuously but few have excelled this one in those qualities which constitute a noble womanly character. the following letter, written to her by her husband during a short visit in the country, will show how that after so long a time of waiting, the hope of her earliest love is realized at last. louisville, ky., may , . my dear wife: your letter to hand. i am so happy to know that you are having a good time. isn't god good to us? when we look back over our past lives and see how good god has been to us, how thankful we should be. very little sickness in our immediate family and no death in thirty years. the two babes that we lost thirty years ago are safe in the arms of jesus, and all the living ones are sweetly trusting in him. let us from this hour be more earnest and untiring in our efforts to save the children of others. kiss mamie for me and then look in the glass and kiss yourself a thousand times for him who loves you with a true, deep love. yours in life, yours in death, steve p. holcombe. those who are familiar with mr. holcombe's career as a christian worker would regard any sketch of his life incomplete which did not contain some account of the assault made upon him by three strange men in the winter of . a few months after his removal to the new quarters that had been purchased by the mission, he was attacked by three men in his own house and severely injured. on a sunday afternoon in january, , he heard some one walking in the hall on the second floor of the building, and went out to see who it was. he found a man there whom he had never seen before, and asked him who he was and what he wanted. the man replied in an insolent, manner that he had come to visit a servant girl who was at the time working in mr. holcombe's family. when mr. holcombe asked him why he came into his private family apartments, the man became more impudent and defiant, and gave utterance to some abusive language. already provoked at the man's audacity and alarmed at the thought of what such a ruffian might have done to some one of his family if he had been absent, mr. holcombe's quick nature now became so exasperated that he forgot himself for a moment and thrust the man violently down the stairway and out of the house. the man left the place and mr. holcombe thought that was the end of it. but an hour or two later some one knocked at his room door on the same floor, and as he opened it, he saw himself confronted by three men, one of whom he recognized as the man he had put out of the house. the two others professed to be policemen who had come to arrest mr. holcombe, but when he asked to see their badges of authority they seized him. one against three, he resisted them with all his might, uttering no cry of distress or call for help. in the struggle mr. holcombe's leg was broken, both bones of it, and as he fell, with all his weight, the men thought he was badly hurt and fled, leaving him lying helpless on the floor. he was taken up by those whom he called and laid on his bed. physicians were sent for. the news spread in a few minutes all over the neighborhood, and before night, all over the city. the chief of police, colonel whallen, set his detectives to work looking for the men, and many citizens, self-constituted detectives, inquired concerning the appearance of the men and kept a sharp lookout for them. but they succeeded in escaping, and it was, perhaps, well for them they did. before night mr. holcombe's room was crowded with friends filled with sympathy and indignation. drs. kelly and alexander set the broken limb and gave mr. holcombe the unwelcome bit of information that he would have to lie in his bed for some five or six weeks, a sore trial to his restless spirit; but by the help of god he accepted it and settled down to endure it, not knowing, however, what good he was to get out of it. it was an opportunity for the people of louisville to show their estimation and appreciation of him, and it is safe to say that no man in louisville would have received the attentions and favors which this poor converted gambler, steve holcombe, did receive. it reminds one of a passage in dr. prime's account of the funeral of jerry mcauley in the broadway tabernacle in new york. dr. prime himself was to conduct the funeral service, and this is what he says: "we are going to-day to the tabernacle to talk of what jerry mcauley was and what he has done, to the little congregation that will gather there. if it were dr. taylor, the beloved and honored pastor, the house would be crowded and the streets full of mourners, but poor jerry, he is dead and who will be there to weep with us over his remains? ah, how little did i know the place poor jerry held in the hearts of the people of this vast city! i was to conduct the funeral and went early to complete all arrangements. as i turned down from fifth avenue through thirty-fourth street, i saw a vast multitude standing in the sunshine, filling the streets and the square in front of the tabernacle. astonished at the spectacle and wondering why they did not go and take seats in the church, i soon found that the house was packed with people so that it was impossible for me to get within the door. proclamation was made that the clergy who were to officiate were on the outside, and a passage was made for us to enter. what could be more impressive and what more expressive of the estimate set upon the man and his work? there is no other christian worker in the city who would have called out these uncounted thousands in a last tribute of love and in honor of his memory." the tribute which the people of louisville paid to the work and worth of steve holcombe _before_ his death was hardly less. on monday, the day following his misfortune, mr. holcombe's room was, nearly all the day long, full of people of every grade, from the mayor and the richest and finest people on broadway and fourth avenue, down to the poor drunkard and outcast, who forgot his shabby dress and pressed in among those fine people in order to see "brother holcombe," and find out how he was. the ministers of the leading churches of every protestant denomination came with words of sympathy and prayer. fine ladies came in their carriages, bringing baskets of fruit and all sorts of delicacies. those who could not go sent letters and messages. and mr. holcombe lay in his bed and wept--not for pain, but for gratitude and humble joy. "why," said he, "i would be willing to have half a dozen legs broken to know that these people think so much of me and of my poor efforts to be useful." this, then, was the first compensation and blessing. he learned also that it would be absolutely necessary for him to watch more closely his impulsive and fiery temper, and get a better control of it. for he does not deny that he was inexcusably hasty and severe in his treatment of the impudent intruder. and then he was temporarily relieved from the incessant demands and the constant strain of his daily activity and his nightly anxiety. he had time and opportunity, as far as the importunity and kindness of his friends would allow, to get calmed, to look down into his own heart, to analyze his motives, to study his own nature, to see his own faults, to find out his own needs and to pray. he had been told by one of his friends, that while he did not work too much, he did not pray _enough_, and that he was, therefore, liable to be overtaken by some sudden temptation and be betrayed into sin. that same friend, in conducting service in one of the churches of the city on that very sunday morning, had offered special public prayer for mr. holcombe and his work. he prayed specifically that if brother holcombe needed a thorn in the flesh, to keep him humble, god would send it. it was thought to be a special and speedy answer, that before sundown of that very day, mr. holcombe did receive almost literally a thorn in the flesh; a messenger of satan it was withal to buffet him. and mr. holcombe was the first to acknowledge that he needed this trial and the threefold blessing which came with it. the perpetrators of the cowardly deed were, some time afterward, caught and imprisoned--every one of them. one of them has been pardoned and released, and through mr. holcombe's kindly intervention the other two probably will be, while through his friendly counsels one of them has been brought to realize his own sinfulness, and has promised to live a better life. it would be out of the question to reproduce here all the written messages of sympathy which mr. holcombe received during his confinement from the injury he received. but one of them is too touching and beautiful to be left out. it was written by miss jennie casseday, a lady of culture and refinement, who has, for eighteen years, been confined to her "sick bed." she is well known as the originator of the "flower missions," which, all over this country, have been the bearers of blessing to many unblessed and unloved ones: "sick bed, january , . "_dear christian friend_: "i send you some lines which have been a great blessing to me: "'i can not say, beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, i joy in these; but i _can_ say that i _had rather_ walk this rugged way if him it please. "'i can not feel that all is well, when darkening clouds conceal the shining sun; but then i know god lives and loves, and say, since that is so, "thy will be done." "'i can not speak in happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek show i am sad; but i _can_ speak _of grace to suffer_ with submission meek, until made glad. "'i do not see why god should e'en permit _some things_ to be; when he is love; but i _can_ see, though often dimly, through the mystery, his hand above. "'i do not know where falls the seed that i have tried to sow with greatest care; but i shall know the meaning of each waiting hour below sometime, somewhere.' "selected with tender sympathy. "your friend, "jennie casseday." chapter vi. in conclusion it will not be out of place to glance for a moment backward and to call attention definitely to some plain facts. mr. holcombe inherited from his parents a diversely perverse and bad nature. already in his childhood he was cross, irritable, spiteful. in his boyhood his temper was savage and revengful. in his manhood he took the life of a fellowman. he inherited the love of drink from his father, who was a confirmed drunkard before the child was born; and the child himself was drunk before he was twelve years old. he was given to sensuality from his boyhood. his education was not good--as far as the educating power of daily example goes, it was bad, positively bad, continually bad. his associations outside of home were, for the most part, of the worst sort. his boyish companions were given to gambling, pilfering, fighting, and in all these things they called him chief. but the companionship of boys did not long satisfy him and already before he was fifteen, he drank and gambled with grown men in the bar-rooms of the village. he had an impulsive sympathy for helpless suffering when it was before his eyes. he had a vague, faint fear of the power that makes for righteousness, so that in his youth he made three or four ineffectual efforts to get the mastery of his evil nature and to become better. he provided well for his family in meat and drink and the like. he was generous to his friends. when this is said, about all is said on that side. apart from these things he gave himself up for forty years to the indulgence of all his passions without let or hinderance from parental authority, domestic bonds, fear of god or regard for man. so that the adverse power of evil habit, strengthened by forty years of indulgence, was superimposed upon the moral helplessness of an inherited bad nature made worse by bad education and bad associations. such he _was_. the preceding pages have described in part what he _is_. and only in part. the uttermost details of the purity of his life since october, , could not be stated without violating delicacy any more than the uttermost details of his sinful life could be uncurtained without injuring the innocent and offending the public. the candid reader will bridge for himself the past and present of mr. holcombe's life. these are the facts. and these facts are freely and fully recognized by all classes of the community in which he lives his daily life. thousands of eyes have watched him for years and no one has detected any immoral practice or act or found any fault of a serious nature in him. candor requires us to say that he is sometimes over-sensitive, that he has his own views as to the best methods of conducting his work and is sometimes a little domineering in carrying them out; that he sometimes uses unnecessary harshness in his public addresses in dealing with the sins and shortcomings of people, especially of the converts of the mission, a thing which is probably due to his over-anxiety for them; that he has not yet learned economy and the best way of conducting his financial affairs, and that owing to his own former wicked life he would be a trifle too severe in the control of his family but for the good sense and prudent firmness of his wife. but these are minor matters and when they are said, about all is said on _that_ side. and mr. holcombe has come to occupy a unique and commanding position in the city of louisville. all classes respect him, all classes look up to him and people from all classes seek his counsel and aid in certain emergencies. mothers in distress over the sins of their sons, sisters in sorrow over the dissipation of their brothers, wives in despair over the wickedness of their husbands, all these go to steve holcombe for advice, comfort, encouragement and help; and when they can not go, they write; sometimes from distant places, as far away as canada. the ministers of louisville refer to him those extreme cases which they meet with in their ministry, and which they feel his experience and his knowledge of the ways and temptations of dissipated men enable him to handle, as a letter from dr. broadus and one from dr. willits, elsewhere reproduced, will show. and the dissipated men themselves, the drunkards, the gamblers, the outcast, the lost--all these feel that steve holcombe is their friend, a friend who has the willingness and the power to help them up, and they go to him when they are in distress or when they awake to a sense of their wretched condition and desire to rise again. and through his instrumentality many a one _has_ risen again, and to many a mother, wife, sister, family, has come through him a resurrection of buried hope and joy. and those gamblers who have never yet come to distress or to religion regard him with admiration and affection. the following letter from mr. a. m. waddill, one of the leading sporting men of the south, was written in answer to an inquiry as to how mr. holcombe is looked upon by the gamblers: louisville, ky., august , . _rev. gross alexander_: dear sir: in writing of my friend, steve p. holcombe, i will say that his adoption of the pulpit has not lowered him in the esteem of his former associates--the gamblers. far from it. they are his admirers and his friends, and, when they have the funds, are as willing supporters of his work as any. they can not show him too much respect and can not exhibit a more profound love than is shown him every day by some one of his old companions. he has wielded a wonderful influence over them for good, both here and elsewhere, and has made many converts from their ranks, who could not have been influenced probably by any other minister of the gospel. i myself have been, i am happy to say, wonderfully benefited by the influence of his benevolent character. very respectfully yours, a. m. waddill. the esteem in which he is held by the leading business men of the city is shown by the fact that the board of directors of the mission is composed of such men as john a. carter, j. p. torbitt, l. richardson, j. b. mcferran, r. j. menefee, j. t. burghard, h. v. loving, arthur peter, john t. moore, j. k. goodloe, p. meguiar, c. mcclarty, w. t. rolph, john finzer, with p. h. tapp as treasurer. he has the confidence and esteem of the officers both of the city and state, and he has a large influence with them. the mayor, the chief of police, and the judges of the courts recognize his usefulness, his ability and his efficiency by co-operating with him, as far as may be, and by adopting his views and suggestions as to the treatment of criminals charged with lesser crimes and misdemeanors. the governor, j. proctor knott, readily granted pardon to the only man for whom mr. holcombe ever asked it, and the testimony of this now happy man is given in this volume. not only is mr. holcombe thus in honor and demand at home; he is in demand all over the country. until it came to be known that he would not leave his own work in louisville, he was constantly receiving requests to attend or conduct meetings of one sort or another in all parts of kentucky and in several other states. year before last, in the summer of , he was, by appointment of the governor of the state, a commissioner from kentucky in the national convention of corrections and charities at washington. in the fall of he attended, by request, the convention of christian workers of the united states and canada, in the broadway tabernacle in new york city, and made two addresses, both of which are printed among his sermons in this book. he was appointed a member of the executive committee of that body, in which capacity he now serves. but not only in direct results has the power of god been manifested through this instrument. mr. holcombe's conversion and work have had the effect of quickening the faith and zeal of all the churches of the city. it has not only drawn them nearer together in fostering and furthering a common enterprise into which they entered of their own motion, and without solicitation, but it has revived the languishing faith of all classes. not only has the gospel saved steve holcombe and others, he (let it be said reverently and understood rightly) has, in one sense, saved the gospel. many had lost faith in it. they thought it was an old, worn-out story. it had lost its novelty and vitality, and it had not the power it claimed to have. its achievements were not equal to its pretensions. some of the men who have been brought to a better life through mr. holcombe's instrumentality have said that, though they did not, out of respect for other people, publish the fact, they had lost all faith and were, at heart, utter infidels. some of them continued to attend church and to give to the church of their means, and to give respectful attention to the preaching, but it was out of deference to relatives or respect for custom, or for mere sunday pastime. but the conversion of steve holcombe, and the life he was living, arrested their thought, awakened inquiry and revived their faith, and many of these have been saved. the conversion of these has in turn resulted in the conviction of others and so the stream has broadened and deepened. as mr. holcombe says in one of his addresses, "there is naturally in the minds of men a doubt as to the truth and divinity of the religion which fails to do what it proposes to do, and so in times of religious deadness men lose faith and unbelief gets stronger and more stubborn while they see no examples of the power of the gospel to save bad men. but when bad men have been reached and quickened and made better through the gospel, and this continues year after year, then the tide turns, and faith becomes natural and easy not to say contagious and inevitable." these effects have demonstrated the reality of conversion in opposition to the view that it is an effect of the excitement of the imagination. "one hears," it is said, "the narration of the experience of others who claim to be converted, and he works at himself till he works himself up to the persuasion that he also has got it." but, as one of the converts in narrating his experience said, "imagination could not take the whisky habit out of a man. it never did take it out of me. but the power of this gospel which steve holcombe preaches has taken it out root and branch." another thing is shown also by the history of this work. a distinguished minister said once, "we must get the top of society converted and then we may expect to reach the lower classes." mr. holcombe, on the contrary, in accordance with the example and words of jesus and of paul, of luther and of wesley, has given his time and labor primarily and largely to the lower classes and the lost classes, and through these he has reached also the higher classes, exemplifying again what was said by the most apostolic man since the apostles, that the gospel "works not from the top down but from the bottom up." if you should ask what is the explanation of mr. holcombe's success, it may be answered that it is due to three things. the extraordinary change which has taken place in his character and in his life arrests attention and produces conviction. in the second place is his intense and pitying love for those who are not saved, and especially for those who, besides being most utterly lost, are, either by their own suspicions and fears or by the customs and coldheartedness of society, or both, shut out from all sympathy and opportunity. he has a very mother's love for poor, sinful, struggling souls, and he shows this not in words only or chiefly, but in service. some account has already been given from one of the louisville papers concerning his rescue of a man who had been drunk continuously for twenty-three years. to have preached temperance and morality and duty to this wild and degraded man would have been useless, to have _told_ him of the love of god would, perhaps, have been no better. but when this far off love of god took concrete form in the person of steve holcombe and was brought nigh and made real in his brotherliness and gentleness and patience and service, it proved stronger than a twenty-three years' whisky habit and to-day this man, who lately dwelt apart from men like the man among the tombs and who was possessed by the demon of drink so that no man could bind him with bonds of morality or duty--this man is to-day clothed and in his right mind. and though he has not fully apprehended the way of salvation, he says, yet a transfiguration has taken place in him which is little short of miraculous. he says also that he has got some light on the question of personal religion. he is thoroughly honest and will not claim or profess what he has not. he says a man who has always gone slow in everything else can't go fast in getting religion.[ ] [ ] this man has, since the above was written, been brought into a clear experience of conversion, and is now a clean and happy christian man. in the third place, mr holcombe's success is due to the character of his preaching. it is the simple gospel, wherein two points are continually made and emphasized, the reality and tenderness of god's love for sinful men, even the worst, and the absolute necessity of regeneration and a holy life. both these great truths he illustrates with fitness and force from his own life and that of the men who have been converted under his ministry. his sermons are so striking in their directness and simplicity, and so helpful withal, that some of them have been reproduced in outline in the present volume, and the reader who has never heard him may get some idea of his preaching from these, and, it is hoped, some profit as well. whatever men may say, the fact remains that when the gospel is preached on apostolic conditions, it has still apostolic success. in , when rev. sam p. jones was holding a meeting in cincinnati, he said of mr. holcombe: "mr. holcombe's work is finer than anything done since the death of jerry mcauley. he is fully consecrated to the work of rescuing the perishing and saving the fallen. hundreds of men, dug by him from the deepest depths of dissipation and degradation, are to-day clothed in their right minds. some of the most efficient christian men have passed through his mission, at no. jefferson street, in louisville. i feel that in helping steve holcombe, i shall be able to say, at least: 'lord, if i did not do much when i was on earth, i did what i could to help steve holcombe, the converted gambler, in his mission work among men who never hear preaching, and to whom a helping hand is never extended.' "there are mighty few men like steve holcombe to take hold of poor fellows and bring them back to a purer and better life." in , during a great temperance meeting in louisville, mr. francis murphy said of mr. holcombe: "of all the noble men i know, he is one of the noblest, and louisville may well be proud of the grand, big-hearted christian man, who, in his quiet, unassuming manner is doing such a world of good here." mr. d. l. moody, during his great meeting in louisville, in the months of january and february, , said of mr. holcombe: "i have got very much interested in a work in your city conducted by a man you call steve holcombe. i don't know when i met a man who so struck my heart. i went up and saw his headquarters and how he works. he is doing the noblest work i know of. i want you to help him with money and words of cheer. remember, here in louisville you make so many drunkards that you must have a place to take care of the wrecks. steve holcombe rescues them. let us help him all we can." and mr. holcombe's work is not done. he is in the vigor of life, with fifteen or twenty years of life and service, god willing, before him. he is only beginning to reap the results of these ten years of study and these ten years of christian living and working. he knows the gospel better than he ever did before, and he preaches it better. he knows himself and god better than he ever did before, and he lives nearer the source of power. he knows men good and bad, better than he ever did before, and he deals with them in all states and stages more wisely and successfully. he is of that nervous and intense temperament which can not rest without getting something done, and he is always doing something to advance his work. and though so intensely in earnest, he is singularly, it is not at all too strong to say, entirely free from fanaticism. he is in high esteem, with large influence at home and abroad, and this he does not prostitute to selfishness, but uses for usefulness. and, best of all, he has tokens, not a few, in the form of discipline on the one hand, and success on the other, that god is guarding and guiding his life and work. [illustration: the union gospel mission.] letters. to his first pastor. louisville, ky., november , . _my dear brother_: our meetings continue in interest. last night the holy ghost was with us in great power. at the close of the talk, we invited backsliders to come forward and kneel. six responded. then we invited all others who wanted to become christians to come forward and nine others responded, most of them the most hardened sinners in the city. i am sure nothing but the power of god could have lifted them from their seats. men who have fought each other actually embraced last night. continue to pray for us. yours, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., november , . _dear brother_: last night about two hundred persons were present, most of them non-churchgoers. about forty stood up for prayers. and oh, such good testimonies, no harangues but living testimonies as to what god can and will do for those who will let him. yours truly, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., november , . _dear brother_: how grateful i am to you for all your kindness god alone knows. i may and do lack education and refinement, but i will not allow myself under any circumstances to lack gratitude. the results of our meetings prove to me that it is the work of the holy ghost. of course, i could hardly believe you would come to louisville even for a little while and not come to see me, one who has cost you so much of time and care. there was a time when i could not have stood it. but thanks to god i am now above letting small things or great things upset me. give my love to your dear family. yours truly, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., february , . _dear brother_: how i do wish you could have been where you could have looked in on us last night. the room was full. they had to be turned away from the door. and they were so anxious to hear the glad tidings. no carpet, nothing to deaden the sound and yet you could have heard a pin drop. all the churches are feeling the results of our work. yesterday g. h. joined the christian church. he seems to be a thoroughly converted man, if i know one. p. d., whom you know, came in here about a week ago under the influence of liquor. said "i am an infidel and a drunkard. pray for me." we did pray for him. he has been coming ever since. he is now perfectly sober and says he was never so moved before. these are two out of many cases. yours truly, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., february , . _dear brother_: your kind favor received. p. d. comes every night and sometimes speaks. he is not drinking. he says he can not believe. he does so pitifully and pleadingly ask for the prayers of christian people. he is in earnest. pray for him. c. t. testified last night. he was a schoolmate of yours. he said: "for the last five years, when i would meet brother holcombe, i would say to myself: 'i wish he would say good day, and pass on.' but he would not. he generally had something to say about the way i was living. of late, every time he has met me he has invited me to the mission. i would promise to go, but went, instead, to some bar-room, until i wound up by losing my position, being sent to the work-house, and being left by a loving wife. two weeks ago he met me again, and this time i kept my promise. i have been coming every night since, and have not touched liquor since, and by god's help i do not expect to do so any more. i enjoy the meetings so much. the two hours i spend here seem so short." g. h. never misses a night. he is in the room with me now singing, "happy day, when jesus washed my sins away." and he is happy. although in the last four years he has spent thirty thousand dollars in riotous living, and although his wife has left him, he said to me: "brother holcombe, i believe i am as happy as i ever was in my life." i asked him, why? he said: "because i have something which i never had when i had wife, child and money. i have the forgiveness of sins and the friendship of god." i said: "you will have to watch the devil or he will get you in his power again." "yes," he replied, "the devil told me when i first began to come to this mission that i was too mean, and my heart was too dead ever to get religion; but i fought him on my knees and i got the victory. i know how hard it was to get, and by the help of god i am going to keep it, whether i ever have wife or child or money again." pray for me, that i may make no mistake in my difficult work. yours, as ever, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., february , . _dear brother_: i did just what you suggested; though i was disappointed i did not show it. god is helping me to give up my preferences. i am trusting in the lord, and sweetly singing "oh, to be nothing, nothing, only as led by his hand; a messenger at his gateway, only waiting for his command." i am willing to preach on the streets, at the mission, at walnut-street church, or i am willing to be door-keeper--anything for christ. so you heard that i am improving in preaching. well, i do believe that i shall yet learn how to preach. i had a letter requesting me to go to nicholasville to preach. but i can not go. i feel i have a little, humble work to do in louisville, and i am going to do it. the mission men are all doing well. though to you i may seem very weak, i am to them what you are to me. yours, etc., s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., may , . _dear brother_: yours to hand. i do not think you negligent. i know you love me, and i know you love the cause of christ for which i am laboring, and i know you will do all you can to help me to help it. i am surprised, not at what you don't do, but at what you do do. i suppose you saw in the paper what a handsome thing they did for us in the way of giving us a fifty-dollar parlor set, a fine brussels carpet, a large walnut book-case and many other articles, including a fine portrait of dear brother morris. even for this donation and for all the love shown me by these good people i am indebted to you. "jesus must needs go through samaria" to save the woman at the well. you must needs be sent to portland church to save and instruct and guide steve holcombe. this morning i prayed nearly an hour before breakfast, and it was lucky for me i did. something came up at noon that would have completely upset me, but i was fortified and withstood the temptation successfully. i am improving every way. my health is better, my memory is better. i can read my bible more profitably than ever and i can pray better. god grant you may have good health, length of days and all of this world's goods that may be good for you. s. p. h. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., may , . _dear brother:_ yours of the th to hand. god is so good to me. certain temptations have come to me lately and i could not have borne them but for his help. i talked at the church last sunday night in the absence of dr. messick. i felt so humble, it seemed a privilege to be treated shamefully that i might have an opportunity of showing that a christian can give up his own rights for the good of others. i have grown in grace since you showed me the necessity of secret prayer and of getting so well acquainted with god that he would become more real to me than my own father ever was. you have seen in the papers poor d. t.'s attempt at suicide. but god has spared him yet another season. he will recover. pray for him. may god bless you and strengthen you and keep you is the prayer of your friend and brother, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _my dear brother:_ yours received this a. m. i am so pressed for means i can not now buy the book you speak of, but will do so as soon as i can. i am _taking time_ to study. i am getting much better acquainted with god and the better i know him the more i love him. yours in love, s. p. h. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _dear brother:_ the men are all doing tolerably well. the attendance at the meetings is increasing. sunday-school holds up well. my great desire now is to be able to study the bible better. the more i think of what you have been to me, the more grateful i feel. i wish i could in some substantial way show you how i appreciate your care. but god will reward you. yours, etc., s. p. h. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _dear brother:_ the bible is becoming very sweet to me. i can study it all day long and not get tired. i am sure the holy ghost is helping me. i have read the book you gave me. it is very helpful. brother davidson has gone to housekeeping. he has his son and daughter with him. oh, the love and power of god. praise his name! s. p. h. * * * * * to the same. chicago, ill., september , . _dear brother:_ yours of the d to hand. think of you? the sun may forget to shine, but poor steve holcombe can never forget the man who has done so much for his soul. never has a day passed since my conversion that i have not prayed god's blessing on you, your family and your work. well, chicago is a great city, a grand field for christian work. i find many earnest christian men and women laboring for the master. i am not idle either. i talked four times last sunday--three times on the street and once at a mission. i am having a royal time, sailing on the lake, riding on street-cars, taking in the town. i wish you were here. god bless you always. steve. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _dear brother:_ yours of june th received. i do hope you will get brother c.[ ] those books to sell. these men must have employment. they can not live, as some christian people seem to think, on promises. it is all right to say, "oh, let go and trust in the lord," to a man who knows the way, but it is all not right when it is said to a poor struggling gambler, who, in faith, is as weak as a baby. i know of brother l.'s troubles. my heart goes out to him. all well. yours, s. p. h. [ ] a converted gambler. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., may , . _dear brother:_ since writing my card this morning i have learned that d. mcc., the boss nashville gambler, and an old partner of mine, is attending sam jones' meetings. i want you to go to see him. don't be afraid to go right up to him and introduce yourself. tell him you and i are old friends, and that i love him, and requested you to see him. but you know better how to approach him than i can tell you. but you must see him. take sam jones to see him. visit him at his home, with sam jones. he is worthy of concentration. if you can get him converted, he will be a power for good. most of your members know him, i guess. if you don't like to call on him, alone, get some of them to go along and introduce you. may god help us save poor d. mcc. yours, steve. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., december , . _dear brother:_ your favor to hand. i have had a terrible battle with self, but by the grace of god i have come out conquerer. i praise god now that i had the struggle, because it has enabled me to realize the emptiness of all that is earthly. it has convinced me that to depend on men is "like a foot out of joint." i make more miles toward my haven of rest during a night of storm than in days of calm weather. wishing you a merry christmas and a happy new year, i am as ever, your friend and brother in christ, steve p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., december , . _dear brother:_ yours was received a few days ago. yes, i thank god i am almost rid of my love of praise. i am willing to do the dirty and disagreeable work and let others have the picnics and the praise. "who am i that i should be a leader of the lord's people?" but i confess i did not get to this point without a struggle. how i did have to wrestle with god. he showed me the envy that was in my heart, that is my jealousy of any one who did more work or had more attention paid them than i had. but glory to god i hope i am rid of it at last. yours, s. p. h. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., january , . _dear brother:_ yours just received. i hardly think it would be worth while to ask mr. moody to visit our mission, as his time is so completely occupied. i think our work is as much thought of as ever. it is quiet but i think deep. i have kept it out of the papers, because too much newspaper notoriety is calculated to cause a poor little-brained fellow to exaggerate his own importance. and then there is such sweetness in the work when you are sure it is not for praise but for christ. i am afraid that many of us on analyzing our hearts will find first, self; second, self; and almost all for self in one way or another. may god deliver me from self. yours as ever, steve p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _dear brother:_ your letter to hand. there is nothing so comforting as true friendship. alas! how little of it there is in this world. happy the man who can claim _one true friend_. i know a man that has a true friend. i am that man and you are that friend. how do i know it? you are so faithful in telling me the truth about myself and showing me my faults and mistakes. who but a true friend that had your best interest at heart would have written such a letter as this last one from you? i want you to know that while i loved you much before, i love you more now. i have been going through the fire lately, but i think i shall come out all right. doesn't god sift a fellow? i believe i can say i rejoice in tribulation. i find i can not expect to be understood in this world or always have sympathy, but i do expect, if "i meekly wait and murmur not," to find it is all right in my father's house. your friend and brother in christ, steve p. holcombe. * * * * * to s. p. dalton (one of the converts). louisville, ky., july , . _my dear brother dalton:_ your good letter to hand. it is, as you say, so sweet to be bound together by the ties of christian love, and there is no tie which binds men more closely than the religion of christ. it breaks down every barrier, and all are alike to the true christian man; rich, poor, halt, lame, blind, there is no difference. and the christian is happiest when he is denying himself to help others. in order to convince the world of the truth and power of our religion, our own standard must be very high. we must deny ourselves of things which in themselves would be innocent, but which, if practiced by us, would lessen our influence for good. and how comforting to think that if we _suffer_ with him, we shall also reign with him. the suffering comes first, the humiliation first, the toil and weariness first. yes, we may _expect_ troubles and crosses here, but we leave it all behind when we enter within the gates into the city. i thank god that your heart has been changed and that you have tasted of the powers of the world to come. i am glad you find more pleasure in my poor company and lame words than in the follies and friendships of the world. hoping for you all good things, i am with much love, your brother in christ, steve holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., july , . _dear brother dalton:_ your letter from the great falls is to hand. it is very gratifying to me to know that in the midst of so much excitement you could and did think of one so humble and obscure as myself. i have been at the falls and have seen many wonderful and grand things, but the most beautiful thing i have ever seen is an old hardened sinner picking up his grip-sack and bidding the devil farewell forever. and, praise the lord, that is my privilege almost daily in the dear old mission. though the weather is very hot, we have glorious meetings; new converts testifying almost nightly. two professional gamblers have just been converted. one of them was one of the sweetest conversions i ever saw. the old converts are nearly all doing well. don't grow, cold, but be in some work for the master every day, and you will not miss the time or regret the service. god bless you. your friend and brother in christ, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., april , . _dear brother dalton:_ yours of the th to hand. we have purchased the property for our new home, and we shall move in in about a month. our work is moving like a thing of life. it was never so prosperous before. i wish you could be here to work with us. sister clark is in her glory. she is one of the grandest christian women i have ever seen. nearly all the converts are doing well. yours, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., november , . _dear brother dalton:_ i receive no letters that touch my heart more deeply than those i receive from you. our work is more quiet now. the papers do not notice it so much, but we are doing a good work. it is now more among the unfortunate business men of the city some of whom, were fallen very low. some who have recently been reclaimed are now first-class business men. the old converts are all right and doing well, but they don't stand by me in the work as i wish they would. oh, for "consecration and concentration." that is my motto. my married daughter has got one of the best of husbands and i think they are the happiest couple i know. the rest are all well. i hope you will be blown back this way by some favoring breeze, so we can have your help in our work. yours, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., january , . _dear brother dalton:_ our work is going on grandly again. you can see from the papers i am kept as busy as a bee. you must know from the number that come that my time is all taken up in nursing them. hence, i can not write long letters, however much i would like to. hope to see you soon. yours, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., october , . _s.p. dalton, cleveland, ohio:_ dear brother dalton: yours of the th is received. i am glad you are an active worker in the church, and that they have shown their appreciation of you by making you a steward in the church. i believe you will render a good account of your stewardship. the main thing for you to guard against is _care_. remember, always when you think you are too busy to pray in secret, read the bible, go to the meetings, etc., what jesus said to martha: "thou art careful and troubled about many things." i am trying to be a faithful servant. god is blessing my humble efforts. the converts are sticking and the work is growing. most of the converts are prospering in business. some that were in the gutter are now making from fifty to two hundred dollars a month. your friend and brother in christ, s. p. holcombe. * * * * * to the same. louisville, ky., may , . _dear brother dalton:_ yours of the th to hand. glad to hear of your continued success in business. you are a great man, but a man who is so prosperous in business must keep his eyes open. remember to give to the lord all that belongs to him of every dollar you earn. john wesley's motto is hard to improve on: "make all you can, save all you can, give all you can." and oh! what sweetness there is in giving. never get too busy to do some christian work. we have just had murphy at louisville, for a month. good-bye, steve p. holcombe. * * * * * [ ]letters to mr. holcombe. [ ] a few of the letters to mr. holcombe have been selected out of several hundreds. _mr. holcombe:_ i have heard and read so much of your influence and prayers for men leading dissolute lives, that i am going to ask you if you won't find my husband and stay and pray with him until he is saved. the other night, when he was drinking very hard, he appealed to me to send for you to pray for him. he has much confidence in your prayers, and believes in your life; i have often heard him say so. he has a noble, loving disposition, and forgiving; so you need not be afraid of offending him. his whole heart would forever offer thanksgivings for his delivery from drink; for it is that that he prays for. i have thought that, perhaps, god intended salvation to come to him through you; and how earnestly i pray that it may. so much has been done, and so many prayers offered for him, won't you please, at your next opportunity, find him and talk and pray with him? you would make a miserable, lonely woman's life happy again. we have been so happy together, so congenial, so well mated; and if god will answer all our united prayers, happiness will return to our hearts tenfold. oh, mr. holcombe, pray the prayer of faith, and my heart will ever turn in grateful acknowledgment to god for making you the humble instrument of my much-loved husband's salvation. won't you go now immediately and wrestle for and with him in prayer? believe me, most earnestly, your co-worker in prayer for his salvation. mrs. h. * * * * * birmingham, ala., may , . _dear brother holcombe:_ i hope you will not think hard of me for asking you to write once more to my husband. i feel so confident it will stir up a remembrance of his conversion. oh, brother, don't give up helping me. try to save my husband. it nearly kills me to see him come home full of the destroying thing called whisky; and it seems to have such a strong hold on him. all the imploring i can do will not change him at all. i have grieved until my life is almost grieved away. but oh, god will surely hear my cry after a while. if i could give my life to save my husband's soul, i would willingly, yes, gladly, do it. brother holcombe, what do you think about this plan? if you can get one of the converts whom my husband knows, and one who has been a great drunkard, to write a friendly, brotherly letter to him, don't you think that might do some good? oh, i have thought of so many plans and ways to try and get him back to the lord. i am sorry to say that the city of birmingham is the most wicked place i have ever seen; so few christians, and they are not working. i do fervently hope god will send some one here who is like yourself, not ashamed to work for the lost. i hope you will write, brother holcombe. pray for me; and oh, do ask all the friends there to pray for my husband. mrs. p. * * * * * louisville, ky., december d. _brother holcombe:_ will you ask the prayers of your people in behalf of my skeptical son-in-law. he is a talented man, but he is using his influence against his best friend. my poor child is suffering the penalty for marrying an infidel. if i dared tell you how desperate the case, i am sure your heart would be troubled to its depths. do pray that this man may be led into the light of the gospel, and become a better husband, father and citizen. a suffering mother. * * * * * bowling green, november , . _mr. holcombe:_ will you please go and see my son l., and try to persuade him to live a better life? he has great faith in what you say. when you wrote to him last spring he seemed very much affected, and said to me. "that is one of the best men in the world." oh, for heaven's sake, pray for him. if you can go and talk to him, advise him to leave kentucky and go away off and reform his life. if he comes back here, _danger awaits him_. i feel sure you can influence him, for he believes you are sincere. he is not mean and sinful at heart, but oh, the accursed demon drink causes him all his trouble. if he could get some respectable work and some one to encourage him and lift him above his darkened life, i believe he would be all right. he has relatives there, but they are the last to apply to for assistance. he is in jail in your city now. god only knows the pang it causes me to say he is in jail. he was such a good sunday-school boy and a good templar. is it possible that he is to be lost? i can't yet give up all hope. while my father in heaven has so sorely afflicted me, i can't help believing that after awhile the change will come. oh, how i wish brother morris could go to him to-day. he took more interest in him than any one else ever did. please do what you can. i know god _will hear your prayer_ and help you to save him. yours with a mother's aching heart for her boy, ---- ---- * * * * * chicago, may th. _rev. steve holcombe:_ my dear friend: i have just received a letter from my son, who has almost ruined himself and broken my heart by his intemperance. i have been always praying for his reformation, but felt almost hopeless, as he would not go to church and seemed hardened, and i know very well he could not rely on his own strength and would not look to a stronger arm for help. do you know when i received a letter from him to-day making a full confession of all his past course, and saying he had been to hear you and asked for your prayers, i could not realize it? how we are surprised when god hears us. i write this to thank you for anything you may have said to help him, and to beg you to follow him with your prayers and advice. oh, won't you try to help him all you can? it will be a hard battle with him, poor fellow, as he has been for some time indulging freely. will you look after him as much as you can and if he should fall, help him up? i am praying for you and your work, and have been doing so for a long time. your friend, mrs. p. w. m. * * * * * wednesday night. _dear mr. holcombe:_ will you please come out to my home on third street in the morning as early as you can? i dislike to trouble you in this way; but i am in great trouble with mr. l. he has been drinking, and i feel that you can be the means of bringing him back to god. i have prayed with him, and done all i could for him. i feel crushed to the earth with this deep sorrow and mortification. don't let him know that i sent for you. he is quite sick to-night. pray that god may sustain us and lift us out of this deep dark sorrow, and cast out the demon that seems to possess my poor dear husband. god bless you, our dear good friend, and keep us all this night. sincerely your friend, mrs. l. * * * * * louisville, ky., april , . _rev. s. p. holcombe:_ dear brother: it is with grief in my heart i must write you again. mr. l. went on a business trip three weeks since, but fell into bad company, and has been on a protracted spree. he came home last night utterly discouraged--will not even try to pray again. i am almost discouraged myself; can only wait and trust. i think if you could make it convenient to call to see him to-day, perhaps god will put words into your mouth that will help him. i leave it with you; and would not ask you to leave your duties, except i know your willingness to work for the master. he will not know that i have sent for you. oh, help me to pray that god will help my husband. your friend, mrs. l. * * * * * october th. _friend holcombe:_ i am locked up, and go to the work-house this morning. oh, can anything be done to help me; i want to become a different man. try and save me. truly, ---- ---- * * * * * city work-house, november , . _rev. stephen p. holcombe:_ dear sir: you kindly requested me to write you in event i reached the conclusion that under a change of condition i might become a different man. my knowledge of your own career inspires me with more confidence than anything that has ever fallen under my notice. coupled with the impression made upon me by the sermon on sunday afternoon, i firmly believe if you will come and see me, and allow me to state to you fully my convictions as to your ability to make a sober man of me, you will do one of the greatest and noblest acts of your life; and, in keeping me from the slavery of drink, rescue one who has suffered, and who has caused, and now is causing, much suffering to others. i stand ready to unite with you in any manner you may suggest, and pray god almighty to bless you. truly, ---- ----. * * * * * city work-house, november , . _friend holcombe:_ when i penned the few lines to you yesterday, i had to do it in so short a space of time, that in all probability i omitted to state specifically why i desired to see you. heretofore, i have never entertained any settled plan of operations to restrain my appetite for liquor other than the mere will power i deemed in my own possession and control, and, as a result, would invariably find myself in the very midst of violating every previously conceived resolution. your kindness in pointing out a course of discipline and conduct, and extending to me a welcome among those who have made, and who are making, successful battle against the great destroyer of happiness, awakened within me an entirely different current of thought; and when i stated i would unite with you in any manner you would suggest, to effect the object in view, i meant it with all my heart and mind; and i appeal to an all-wise and merciful creator to attest the sincerity of my declaration in this matter. again, my resolve is to attend strictly to any suggestions you may make. the accursed appetite has beggared me. i do not ask charity from any mortal toward me. i am not deserving of either sympathy or pity; and while the embracing of the cause of religion and temperance can not of itself work reformation, it places a man in a position where he can climb upward and go forward, instead of forever traveling the broad way that leads to destruction. holcombe, i want to redeem myself. i only crave this one last opportunity, and if god will help me no man shall ever know of me using either intoxicating drink or profane language as long as breath is in my body. when released, i do not want to be idle a day. i have mouths to feed whose entry into this troubled life is chargeable solely to me. i will work for a dollar a day to do my duty towards them. judge w. l. jackson, judge h. h. bruee, gary b. blackburn or major tom hays, would, i am sure, put in a good word for me; and judge price himself, i think has some hope for me. i had a violent chill to-day, and am in the hospital department, and my fingers are somewhat stiff from researches in the geological department.[ ] hence this cramped writing. come and see me, and do not give me up as hopeless. truly, ---- ----. [ ] he means the rock-pile. * * * * * bowling green, ky., march , . _rev. steve holcombe:_ dear sir: i am so much obliged to you for the kind letter you were pleased to write me. you no doubt think ere this that the seed has fallen on stony ground, and, perhaps, among thorns; but i can assure you that i made up my mind when in your city to lead a different life, and to devote the remainder of my life to the service of my god. i have so often thought of you, and have wished to see you. pray for me, and i do hope we may meet again. if ever convenient, call and see me. our doors will be open, yes, wide open, to you. thanking you again for your remembrance of me, i am, yours truly, ----. * * * * * sick bed, february th. _dear christian brother:_ i have a tenant in a little house, a grocery, on sixth street, right next to the first presbyterian church, who is a fearfully wicked man, a common drunkard, and steeped in sin; and i come to you to-day to beg you to seek him out and try to rescue him. he has four or five little motherless children, whose lives are full of the bitterest sorrow; they are so dirty and unkempt that the public school teacher had to send them home. they are under no control; have no one to train them for god, and ought to be where some one would save them from themselves and ruin. when i leased my house to him, he was a very handsome, well-to-do man; young, apparently honest, paid his rent regularly, and had a very nice little wife, who has since died--i think with a broken heart. will you not look him up at once? or, if you are too full of other cases, will you not get some one of your workers to try to lead him back to good paths? he is a very desperate case, i know, and seems almost past saving now; but you know god's grace can reach any heart. i would lay this poor dissolute creature, lost to all sense of honor, shame or manliness, on your soul, my brother, and beseech you, for christ's sake, for the sake of these poor motherless children, whose souls are worth saving for christ, do try to bring your influence and your prayers for god's help, to this miserable man's case, and see if you can help. if he is past god's mercy--and i can not believe that--will you not see what can be done for the little ones? the oldest boy is a bright little fellow, and may become a great light in our father's work. i hear that this man has been to hear mr. moody. i do not know if it helped him. will you not send after him, and try to get him to go to-night? i will meet you in prayer there for him. in bonds of christian friendship, jennie casseday. * * * * * alexander's hotel, louisville, ky., may , . _my dear mr. holcombe:_ i am struggling as hard as ever a poor wretch did against my appetite for liquor. i have asked the good lord to help me overcome the habit, but i feel that my prayers amount to nothing. may i ask you to ask the great controller of us all to give me strength to overcome this habit? save me, or help save me, i beg and implore you. please give me your prayers. ---- ----. * * * * * october , . _my dear steve:_ your kind favor of the th instant reached me in due time. i was, of course, delighted to hear from you, and inexpressibly glad to hear of the improved state of your health. i also note with much pleasure what you say in regard to the pleasant and extensive trip that you have just finished. it gratifies and pleases me beyond expression to know that the people of louisville are at last awakened to your worth, and are willing to manifest some substantial recognition of the same. "all things work well for those who love the lord." i believe the quotation is correct. oh, had i continued in the way you pointed out to me, how different my situation and circumstances would be. instead of being broken in health and bankrupt in purse, separated from all that i love and hold most dear, i would be, i am sure, what i was while i was endeavoring to lead a christian life--a happy husband and father and a respectable citizen. oh, steve, my dear friend, i am wretched, miserable, broken hearted. when i reflect upon what i was and what i might have been, and consider what i am and how little i have to look forward to, i simply get desperate. but i will not weary you with my troubles. as regards myself and habits, i may say, without exaggeration, that i am in better health and my mode of living is plainer and more regular than it has ever been. i rise every morning between four and five o'clock, and retire between eight and nine. my food is of the plainest and coarsest kind. my companions are, i regret to say, cowboys. you know, i presume, what they are, so i will say nothing about them. i neither drink nor smoke; i chew tobacco very moderately, and expect to quit that. i suffer terribly at times for the want of congenial company. you must excuse this effort, as i am surrounded by a lot of boys who are making a terrible lot of noise. give my love to all of your family. god bless you, my dear steve. pray for me and mine. your friend, ---- ---- ----. * * * * * november , . _my dear steve:_ your letter of the th is before me. it is just such a letter as i expected--so full of sympathy, love and good, wholesome advice. i wish it were possible, or, rather, expedient, to listen to your advice and return home, for i am heartily sick and tired of the life i am now living. don't you know that my life out here reminds me, in a measure, of your western experience? of course, i am not subjected to the hardships and deprivations that you were forced to undergo. but, as far as bodily comfort and companionship are concerned, i must say that your experience must have been rather "tough," if it was worse than mine. now, don't misunderstand me, i have plenty to eat, such as it is, i have a fairly good bed, in a fairly good room. my companions are, as you know, cowboys. that they are rough and all that, goes without saying, but let me tell you, my dear friend, i have received better treatment and more consideration from these wild, half-civilized cowboys, upon whom i have no earthly claim, than i ever received from some from whom i had a right to expect, if not fair treatment, at least some consideration. the people one meets out here are always willing to give a fellow a "white man's chance." when you write, tell me something about the dear old mission and its workers. what has become of davidson, peck, booker and all of the boys? i would be extremely sorry to hear that any of them had forsaken the narrow for the broad way. the dear old mission! what a train of happy memories is connected with it. i almost forgot to inquire about clay price. tell me about all of them. i am about to change my quarters. don't know where i will go. you had better wait until you hear from me again before answering. with much love to yourself and family, i am, as ever, your friend, ---- ---- ----. * * * * * december , . _my dear steve:_ your letter, or rather note, of november th, reached me in due course. you advise me to keep up a brave heart. steve, old fellow, my heart is broken. i know you will smile and shake your head; but i honestly believe that if there is such a thing as a broken heart, mine is broken. haven't i suffered enough? well, how is the mission getting along? i noticed in the _courier-journal_ the other day that george kerr had been reclaimed. well, well, who would have thought it? i know him well. he is a fellow of some parts. if he can only keep sober, he is abundantly qualified to do well. write me something about the boys. i would be mighty glad to hear good reports of them. have you seen the ----s lately. give them my regards when you see them; and remind them for me, that they are in debt to me a letter. they and you, old fellow, are about all the friends i have left. what a sad commentary upon human nature is the mutability of so-called friendship! when i was prosperous, i had all the friends i wanted, and more, too. now, i can count them upon the fingers of one hand. ah, well, i suppose it has been the same time out of mind; i am not an exception. now, steve, write me a long letter, and tell me all the news. very truly your friend, ---- ----. * * * * * from a convert. kansas city, mo., may , . _rev. steve p. holcombe, louisville, ky.:_ yours received. would have written sooner but i have been away and busy. i have been at fulton, mo., since the tenth instant. brother jones left monday morning. i tell you i just had a glorious time. steve, i love the work! and god is blessing me wonderfully; everything is prosperous; business is getting better; my health is getting better. in short, everything is just glorious. of course, i feel gloomy sometimes; but, blessed be god, he will not allow us to be tempted above that we are able to bear; and, with every temptation there is a way of escape. i feel just that way. every time temptation comes to me, i flee to god for help, and i never yet failed. i have gone into this for life; and, god helping me, i will stick. i have not tasted drink of any kind since about january th, and i tell you i was a slave to it. i never think of drinking now; my thought is all in a different channel; bless god for it. our little mission is gradually growing, and we hope for grand things from it. pray for us. brother morris wishes to be remembered to yourself and family. i am a member of his church, and i love him. he is a grand man. i am going to chillicothe, missouri, the th of june--brother jones will be there for ten days. give my regards to all who know me; and tell them i am trusting jesus for everything. may god bless you in your good work. i shall never forget you. write as soon as convenient. your friend and brother, harry chapman. * * * * * from a convert. chicago, july , . _my dear brother steve:_ your kind postal of the st to hand this p. m. i must really beg your pardon for having neglected your cards; but i have no excuse to offer. it has been nothing but carelessness. i was absent from chicago a week with my friend d., and had a very pleasant time. it is probable that he will start into business in chicago. he will know in the next few weeks. the lord has taken wonderfully good care of me since i have been here, although on one or two occasions i have had to do with only one meal a day. he has blessed me all the time. he has kept me cheerful through all, and i feel to-day that i am nearer to him than i have ever been. i have put myself into his hands unreservedly, and i feel that he is taking care of me. yesterday i got a letter from my brother. he asked me to pray for him, and i shall certainly continue to do so as long as i live. whenever you see him, speak to him about the salvation of his soul. i have written to him about it, and he wants to try and become a christian. pray for him. sunday i saw dr. s. he is better dressed than i ever saw him. i notice he wears the murphy ribbon in his button-hole. i am glad he is looking so well. this was the first time i had seen him for weeks. steve, there is only one thing lacking to make my happiness complete, and that is to have my mother think more favorably of my reformation. i have written to her twice, and she has not even deigned to answer. i feel, however, that the lord will bring this about all right. as to my getting into a situation, it will be some time yet, as business hardly ever starts up here until about september. then the lord will put me into something permanent, i know. the captain is indeed happy with his family reunited with him. he ought to shout god's praises from morning till night; but he is not the only one that can shout--_my_ heart is forever full. neither hard times, nor anything else, can keep me down as long as i have jesus with me. i must close; it is time to go to convert's meeting. my prayers are for you and the mission. i humbly ask you, as well as all the good christians there, to pray for me. may god bless you and yours. your brother in christ, fred ropke. remember me to mrs. holcombe and the rest of the family, as well as to all inquiring friends. * * * * * from the same. chicago, august , . _dear steve:_ your kind letter to hand. i feel ashamed of myself for not answering your letters more promptly. it does my heart good to think that you at last have confidence in me, and that my going to chicago must not necessarily round up in my going to hell. it seems to me, although i have not been in the service of our glorious master as long as you have, yet i have, or rather had, more faith in his power to keep me than you had; but your remark has often been recalled to my mind. do you remember saying "that if i went to chicago, i was certainly bound for hell?" was this charity or placing much faith in god's word? well, let the matter drop. i have just come home from a glorious meeting. oh, how i thank god this morning for a lightness of heart and a buoyancy of spirit that lift me above surrounding trials and troubles! i am poor in purse; but, bless his holy name, i am rich in promises and faith. my temporal affairs are not in a very prosperous condition, but notwithstanding all this, i have the confidence he will take care of me. he has done this in a wonderful manner to this time, and he certainly has not changed since i have become one of his. captain davidson keeps me pretty well posted as to your meetings. i am glad they are well attended. the lord willing, i will be with you on a visit this coming winter, and i will bring a friend. you will then see in what style they conduct their meetings here in chicago. i have as yet received no answer to my long letter to h., but i praise god that my humble words have set him to thinking. my prayers ascend to heaven daily that he may be saved. your friend, frank jones, is here in chicago. i saw him once on clark street, but had no chance to talk to him. this has been some two weeks ago. remember me in christian love to the millers, captain denny, dalton, ben harney, tom watts--in fact, all; but especially give my regards to mrs. holcombe. don't forget mulligan, and my prayers are that god may bless you as abundantly as he is blessing your brother in christ, fred ropke. * * * * * from a convert. louisville, ky., september , . _rev, s. p. holcombe, new york city:_ my dear old friend: you do not know the pleasure your letter gave me, i have wanted to write you ever since my return, but did not know where a letter would reach you, nor do i know where to direct this, but suppose i can get your address from will. i was at the mission last night, and missed you sadly. we all missed you in many ways. your good, hard, common horse sense is sadly needed. it is the same old story; we never appreciate a man until it is too late. i used to think i could pick many flaws in your management of the mission work, but i have now come to the conclusion that you can't be downed in that line, and hereafter i shall not even think a thought against your management. last night we had some ignoramus to preach, and his grammar and ways of expressing himself were (to say the least) tiresome; but we had testimonies afterward, and i said to myself, "well, brother steve is away, and i have been on the quiet lay for a long time; i think, for the sake of christ and old steve, i will give a red-hot testimony right from the shoulder," and i did. i was followed by hocker in a like strain, and others chiming in, we made the welkin ring from turret to foundation-stone. but the banner-bearer was not there; so the good intended to be done fell short. only one stood up for prayer. but never mind, we will have our old veteran leader with us soon, when we will unfurl our battle-flag anew and carry terror and dismay into old beelzebub's camp. i think if our winter campaign is well organized, there will be no "indians on the warpath next spring." i miss you and want to see you so bad, that you may give me a hundred lectures and i won't shirk. your true blues are all holding fast. your old guard is a true and tried one. i think they all can be depended on both on dress parade and under fire. your family are all well. may our heavenly father bless you, my dear friend, both here and hereafter. your sins have been great; but oh, what would i not give to know that, after life's fitful fever is over, i would be permitted to occupy a seat in the beautiful land of the blest alongside of you. truly your faith has made you whole. good-bye, and once more, god bless you. your sincere friend, p. b. * * * * * from a convert. atlanta, ga., february , . _dear brother holcombe:_ your letter of december th was received in due time. your postal card was also received a few days ago. i have no lawful excuse to offer but pure procrastination, from time to time, for not answering. you are not forgotten by me or my wife and daughter. we often speak of you, and the question is often asked, "will he come and see us this year and hold another mission meeting?" you did so much good in atlanta. the meetings were kept up until the bad weather broke us up; they were well attended nearly every night, and the good seed you sowed germinated; and, by brother barclay's good tilling and the assistance and the goodness of god, has brought forth much fruit of repentance; and, thank god, we all bless the day he sent you to us. if your mission managers could see the great good you accomplished while with us, i do not think they would say no to your making atlanta another visit; and we look forward to the day as not being far distant when you will do so. i am trying my best to live right. i know i am changed; i feel very different from what i did before you visited us. you have known me fifteen years; and you know how bad and sinful i was, and how dissipated. i have not even wanted a drink of anything since your visit. you know i told you i had put my foot on the serpent and i intended to keep it there. i do not go with any of my old associates who drink or who visit bar rooms. i select good company; i keep up the family altar, and we are a happy little family now. can you appreciate that you saved one of your old lost friends by your good work? when i met you and saw and heard of the great blessing god had bestowed upon you and your dear family, i set about obtaining the like blessing for myself; and i feel in my heart that i have received it. god has been very merciful to me and blesses all my undertakings and i am so thankful for all of his kind mercies. brother barclay told me he wrote you a few days ago, and i suppose he gave you all the news. i have not been to the mission sunday-school for some time on account of the bad weather, and you know i live a long way off. but, god willing, i shall go next sunday. my wife and daughter join in much love to you and your family, and wish you a happy and successful year in the master's cause. yours truly, ---- ----. * * * * * from an offended gentleman. louisville, ky., january , . _my dear sir:_ your letter surprises me. you came to me unintroduced; i was glad to see you, and, i hope, treated you with the consideration which i think your merit demands. you again approached me to-day. tonight i received a letter from you which is to me offensive and impolite. i am not coming to your place, and i will thank you to abate your interest in my behalf. i believe in your work, and wish you success; but i hope you will let me alone. my self-constituted friends have done me more injury than _even_ my own indiscretions. very truly, to rev. steve p. holcombe. ----- -----. * * * * * from a gambler. february , . _mr. steve holcombe, esq., lewisville, ky.:_ dear friend: i take my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, as i haven't heard of you for a long time, i learnt from a friend, of your whereabouts, and that you had forever retired from gambling, i want to accumulate a few hundred dollars and retire from the business in the future, and as we have long been friends, i hope you will not refuse giving me your sure system of winning at the game of poker. from your friend, david w. miller, _ridgeville, randolph co., ind._ * * * * * seventh st., louisville, may , . _rev. steve holcombe:_ dear sir: i have a large family bible, which has been in my family a number of years. you will do me a personal favor by accepting it as a souvenir of my late son, charles a. gill. it was through your christian instrumentality and kindness that my dear son embraced his saviour and died a christian. hoping that god will add many stars to your crown, i am your sincere friend, hannah gill. two more bibles will be given you by the same hand for distribution. h. g. * * * * * from a christian brother. memphis, tenn., may , . _my dear friend and brother holcombe:_ your card well received, but i have been so busy that i have waited for a time to write to you. i am in good health and have a good situation, thank god. am always alone. my children in switzerland are well. when i passed through louisville, as i wrote you from new york, i wished i had been able to stop for twenty-four hours, but had a through sleeper to memphis, and could not stay over. i heard of your great trial lately. hope god did sustain you, and that good will come out of it for your soul. the more i live, the more i am separated from this world. my body is in it, but my mind and spirit are longing for a better state, where evil shall not be present, within or without. the bible becomes clearer to my soul every day, and with the grace of god i hope to come to the end a faithful and obedient child of the almighty father in heaven. i suffer very much mentally; it is a constant agony. i am absolutely, completely broken down in my own will; have given up entirely all worldly pleasures; have no pleasure except in doing the will of god the best i can. my old enemy, myself, with my passions and self-indulgence, i pay no more attention to. may god use me according to his good will, and make me so as to be worthy of his service. everything of this world has been taken away from me; "vanity of vanities, all is vanity" is my daily bread. i often wish to be in louisville. maybe i shall return there later, to have some christian friends around me. i have here $ . a month, and the finest situation that can be wished in my line of business. what are you doing? i suppose always the same--taking care of the lost and neglected. your reward shall be great, as you come nearer fulfilling the master's teaching than brilliant preachers who do not touch the burdens of poor sinners. how is your family, especially your sweet little daughter? i hope you are all well. this world is nothing but a tremendous deception to all who are attached to it; everything is corrupt, and has the sting of death and sin. it is a constant warfare with evil and evil forces around you. it is only worth living for the good we can do to others. i can not understand at all the joy that some find in it, except in doing entirely, to the best of your ability, the will of god. there is surely no other source of life in the universe. i am writing now to dear brother a. a few months ago he wrote to me. he, also, has had great sorrows. it is very strange that alone pain and suffering can make us wise and pure in heart. how antagonistic are the ways of god and those of men? absolutely opposed in all things. oh, let us be true to god, even unto death, cutting mercilessly all that is worldly and carnal, so as to live for the spirit and not lose eternal life. my dear brother, please do pray for your lonely brother, that god may bring his presence into my worried soul and help me in the battle. the enemy is very powerful, and shows no mercy. his mission is to destroy and to lie, and he knows how to do it. may god bless you and keep you forever. your true friend, ---- ----. * * * * * from sam p. jones. chicago, ill., march , . _rev. steve holcombe, louisville, ky.:_ dear brother holcombe: yours of march th received. i thought you were wise enough to know, when you wanted to plant yourself in permanent quarters, that the devil would do his best to prevent it. the devil don't like you anyway; but keep your equilibrium--god is with you; and he is more than all that can be against you. i have just passed through the most terrific storm of criticism almost of my life; and thank god i have witnessed in chicago, within the last twenty-four hours, the grandest triumph of the gospel i ever saw. i wish you could be here a few days and see the power of god, and rejoice with us in the work. i enclose an article, which you can take to the _courier-journal_ if you like. kindest regards to your loved ones and all the brethren, and may god's blessing be upon your work. fraternally yours, sam p. jones. * * * * * from the same. gibson house, cincinnati, ohio, june , . _my dear brother holcombe:_ i received your message sent by brother cleveland. i would like you to come over about the middle of next week. i think we will have some of the slain of the lord for you to look after by that time. our meeting moves off gloriously. i have never seen a better start anywhere. thank god for the prospect of a glorious victory in this wicked city. the house is packed day and night, and the preachers and people stand shoulder to shoulder with me. love to your family. affectionately, sam p. jones. * * * * * from rev. dr. willits (warren memorial church). _mr. steve holcombe:_ dear sir: the bearer, ch. h., is a stranger to me; but he will tell you his story. it is the old story of fight with appetite, and you will be better able to advise him than myself. truly yours, a. a. willits. * * * * * from dr. john a. broadus. march , . _dear brother holcombe_: the bearer is mr. b., once a merchant in richmond, va., fallen by drinking habits, separated from wife and children, _lost_. he spoke to me after sermon yesterday morning, and came to my house this morning. he does not ask immediate relief, having some money; but wants to find employment, and thinks he can stop drinking. he is evidently an intelligent man, and earnestly desirous of regaining himself. he used to be an episcopal communicant. now, if you can in any way help mr. b., i shall be exceedingly glad. your friend and brother, john a. broadus. * * * * * the following letter is from one of the converts whose testimony is given elsewhere, but it is interesting as an independent account given soon after his conversion. louisville, ky., january , . _rev. g. alexander_: dear sir and brother: the few brotherly words you spoke to me during our short acquaintance, and your kindness toward me, a poor drunken outcast at the time, will ever be remembered. often i make inquiries of brother holcombe regarding you and your health. at his suggestion, i write you and give a brief history of my life, in hope it may encourage some poor fellow whom you are seeking to save for a better life, and give him renewed courage to battle against sin; and for the glory of our saviour jesus christ. my father, as a wealthy man, determined to give his children the benefit of a good education. with this end in view, he left my younger brother and myself in germany in , after a visit there with the family. we stayed until , when we returned to louisville, i to enter the banking house of theodore schwartz & co. with them i stayed until , when my father became bondsman for the sheriff, captain john a. martin. out of courtesy, captain martin made me, although only nineteen years of age, one of his deputies. from that time i date my downfall. money flowed in freely; and, being young and inexperienced, i spent it just as freely, if not more so. in two years, at the age of twenty-one, i was considered about as reckless a young man as there was in the city. my father was always proud of his oldest son, and indulged me in almost everything. the habit of intemperance was gaining a sure hold; and when he died, in , i was considered by some a confirmed drunkard. gradually i sank lower and lower, until i became what i was when you first saw me eight months ago--a poor miserable outcast from society, and a burden to myself and friends. i was forsaken and despised by all. i shudder to think that my life should ever flow in the same channel again. during all these years of dissipation i wandered all over this country--from canada to the gulf of mexico, and from the atlantic almost to the pacific. i drifted aimlessly with no other object in view but to gratify a terrible longing for strong drink. i had been in the city but a short while when i heard of brother holcombe's efforts to redeem the fallen. having known him before his conversion, curiosity led me to listen to him. during all this time i knew and felt that a day of reckoning would come, but whenever such thoughts entered my mind, i dismissed them, as they made me tremble at the very idea of having to give an account of the misdeeds of a wasted life. on the th of last june i was passing up jefferson street, and heard singing in the basement at no. . my first impulse was to turn and go away, as i was in no suitable dress to go into a place of worship. then the thought came into my mind, "this is steve holcombe's place; i'll go in and see what it looks like." thank god, i did go in. the songs of those sunday-school children awakened chords in my heart which i thought had died long ago. tears came into my eyes, and then and there i vowed, if by god's help salvation was possible for me, i certainly would make the trial. glorious have been the results. that evening i heard brother holcombe once more; introduced myself to him and promised him i would attend evening service, which i did. from that day to this i have been growing in grace. the lord has blessed me wonderfully. my worldly affairs have prospered; and, what is worth more than all the world to me, i am continually happy. nothing disturbs my peace, and i allow nothing to interfere with it. my trust is in my saviour; he has promised to care for those who trust him, and i have implicit faith in that promise. my old appetite and desires are all taken away and i find pleasure and joy in things that in former years i considered ridiculous. very truly yours, fred ropke. testimonials. captain egbert j. martin. i was born in louisville in ; was educated in new york and virginia; served in general lee's army during the war on the staff of my uncle, general edward johnson. the only commission i received was received on the third day of july, , at the battle of gettysburg. my first drinking commenced in georgia, where i was planting rice with general gordon. that was in . i did not drink during the war at all except that i might have taken a drink occasionally when i met with friends. my uncle would not permit liquor about his headquarters. on leaving georgia, i went to new york, and went into business. i acquired quite a reputation there, and had a good income. my periodical drinking continued, however, and each year became greater and greater. nothing was said about it for seven years and a half. i would not drink around my place of business. when i felt the spell coming on me, i would quit and go off, and be gone seven or eight days, and be back to business again when i had straightened up, and nothing was said about it; but the thing will increase on a man, and, of course, with each succeeding year the habit became stronger, and the intervals shorter. i conceived the idea that a change of climate would do me good. visits to the mountains seemed to benefit me, and i thought i would go west, and the change would effect a cure. i went to colorado, made friends there, went into business, and was successful. i was married to my wife in denver, colorado. i believed as my wife did, that my drinking was a matter under my control. i had been leading an aimless life, with no family ties; and after i was married, i thought a strong effort on my part would stop it. i wanted to get back to salt water again, and have everything in my favor; and the next morning after we were married, i started for california. i was very successful there. i was in a short time made special agent of the california electric light company, at a salary of three thousand dollars a year. they wanted to make a contract with me for five years, giving me three thousand dollars a year, if i would bind myself not to drink during the five years. i found it was not such an easy thing to quit drinking. i consulted physicians there. there was a doctor in oakland who said he had a specific for drunkenness; and he gave it to me. the result was that when i wanted a drink, i threw the medicine away and got the drink. what i always wanted, and tried to get, was something to take away the appetite for drink. there were times when i had no more desire for drink than you or any other man; but when it seized me, it seized me in an uncontrollable way, and i would drink for the deliberate purpose of making myself sick and getting over it as quick as possible. i knew it had to be gone through with, and i drank until i made myself sick. i never attended to business when i drank liquor. i never mixed up my business affairs with my drinking. everybody i had anything to do with knew i was thoroughly reliable. i never lied about being drunk. i never said i was sick or had the cholera infantum or anything of that sort. everybody who employed me knew as much about it as i did. when my little boy was born, i felt a sacred duty was imposed upon me; and i tried to encourage my ideas of morality. i had always been a moral man, and, although an infidel, had never sought to break down the religious opinions of any one, because i had nothing to give them instead. my rationalism satisfied me. it was a belief, an opinion, with which i was willing to face my maker, because i believed i was right. i believed in the existence of a supreme being, but i did not believe that the great ruler of the universe thought enough of us insignificant human beings to interest himself in our affairs. i did not believe in the christians' god. there in virginia i had been surrounded by members of the church. everybody was either a baptist, a methodist, or a member of some other denomination; drunkards and saloon-keepers and all belonged to the church. they could do wrong and afterward go straight to church. that kind of religion disgusted me, and that kind of religion confirmed my skepticism. i wanted to get away and i even planned to go to australia. after my little boy was born, i stayed sober for six months, and then i commenced drinking again. i did not conceal the truth from myself. i said, "you are false to everything that is manly; you are a disgrace to yourself." i decided to go back to virginia (my wife had never been there) and settle up a lawsuit i had pending in the courts. but after a short stay in virginia i had an offer to return to new york and go to work, and went to new york; and after i had been there a month, i received a dispatch stating that a compromise had been agreed upon without consulting me at all. i went back to richmond and rejected the compromise. a decision was made in my favor, but the case was taken to the court of appeals. i had used up everything i had in litigation; and when, at last, i got a telegram that the court of appeals had reversed the case, and we had lost everything, it just broke me down. it took me more than a month to realize that it was a fact--i could not get it into my head; and it broke me down completely. i loved my wife and i loved my child, and was troubled about them, and for the two years i was fighting these virginia gentlemen i was in a state of high excitement. i had nothing to do except to worry, and i drank more than ever in my life. i said, "my god! it is awful. i have lost everything. i know i am a drunkard; it is no use denying it, because the appetite is on me all the time." and many a time i threw myself down in the woods and sobbed aloud if fate would have mercy on me. i had given up all hope. i thought the good fortune which had followed me all my life would never return. i had sent my wife off; so i had lost her, too. she went to her sister's, in ohio; and i arranged that my mother should remain at the old place. i wrote to a cousin of mine whom i had not met since the war. he used, frequently, to come to our home, a delightful and healthful place, thirteen miles from richmond. i thought i would write him that i desired to get out of virginia, and had not the means, and would make louisville my objective point. so i wrote him, but received no reply. i wrote to another man, stating the circumstances--that i wanted to get out of virginia and go to work; but i received no answer from him; and i came to the conclusion if i wanted to get out of virginia i would have to walk. i had secured my wife and child, and as for myself it little mattered what befell me or how i fared. i was walking through the woods one day and saw a man getting out railroad ties. he told me of a place near by, called the "lost land." a year before that, my uncle's executor gave me a deed that was taken from the old house at my oldest uncle's death. it was for a little slip of land--an avenue--that my grandfather had bought in . well, i thought nothing of it. i told the old negro woman that when everything was settled up, i was going to give her that land; and i put the deed away with other papers and forgot all about it. when i was worrying about the means, and making efforts to get the means to get out of virginia, this man, who was hewing in the woods, told me about the little piece of woodland that had so much sill timber on it, and he spoke of it as the "lost land," and his speaking of the "lost land" reminded me of this deed, and i hurried home, found the deed, and saw that it located the land at about where he mentioned. i went to the county surveyor, who had succeeded his father and grandfather in the office, and we found that the property of which this formed a part had been sold in large lots, and it was there between the lines of the other property, unclaimed by any one, and for seventy-three years had escaped taxation, because the deed conveying it had never been recorded in the county books, and it was supposed by the county officials that all of the original tract had been divided off in the larger subdivisions. we found it, ran the lines around it, and i sold ten acres for one hundred dollars--enough to pay a grocery bill, buy me a suit of clothes and land me in louisville. i had loved the old place--loved it all my life, because i had spent many days there when a happy, careless boy. my mother was born there, my grandmother and my great-grandfather lie buried there. it was bought in by my great-grandfather, who was not only a gentleman but a scholar. he graduated at the college of physicians and surgeons at edinburgh, and afterward spent seven years in europe. i was very much attached to the old place, and on leaving it i drank to deaden the pain. i came here to louisville, and i drank after i got here to keep from thinking. i tell you things looked blue, and i tell you the fact, the liquor i drank every day made me feel worse and worse, and my brain was affected from the excitement i had passed through. i found myself in a second or third-class hotel which stood nearly on the spot where i was born. i lay in my room for three days. i came to the conclusion there was no use kicking; the end was at hand. fate had brought me back here, where i was born, to die. i even said it to myself, "destiny has brought you back here, to the city where you were born, to die; and to die by your own hands. you have no respect for yourself, nor have others respect for you. you know by living you will bring further disgrace upon the wife and child you love so well. if you will commit suicide people will say, 'he was an unfortunate man, but a brave one; his only fault was his drinking.'" i tried to shut out all thoughts of my wife and child, but i could not. i said to myself, "i was born here; i have not outraged the law; i have done nothing dishonorable; nothing why any man related to me should shun me. but i have lost everything; i am accursed; i am alone here. my wife's people know i am here, but do not communicate with me. and they tell me there is a god." a man came to my room in the hotel and said they wanted the room. "you say you have no money and no friends, so we can not keep you here any longer. you must give us the room." under these circumstances i was coming nearer and nearer the final determination to commit suicide when a man, a stranger, came into my room who was himself a drunkard. i told him my condition and my determination. he said, "wait till i send that man holcombe down to see you. maybe he can help you." mr. holcombe dropped everything and came to me at once. i did not know who he was. he said, "my name is holcombe: i am from the mission." well, sir, if he had commenced at me as most preachers would have done, and told me in a sort of mechanical way that i had brought it all on myself, i would have said, "i am much obliged to you for your politeness and your well-meant efforts, but it does me no good, and i am very much distressed and would much prefer to be alone." he said, "there is no use trusting in yourself; you can not save yourself." that struck me at once as a correct diagnosis of my case, and i said, "that is just the conclusion i have come to myself." then he told me what had been done for him, and he got down on his knees and prayed. and when he prayed for me and my wife and child, that is what reached my heart. i said "there is _something_ in that man's religion at any rate. i do not believe in this stuff i have seen in the churches; but there is something in that sort of religion. it is the last straw i have to catch at. i will try it." i got up out of bed where i had been for three wretched days, and came up to the mission. there i came in contact with some influence i had never felt before. i came to the conclusion that there was truth in the christian religion, and i said, "that is all right, but that is not what i want. i want that inward consciousness that i am not going to drink." i might get up and say, "i am ready to confess i am wrong; i believe religion is right; i have seen evidences of it; i believe you are right and i am wrong. but i had no inward consciousness of any change in me, and i did not feel secure or in any way protected against the habit of drinking." i knew if there was anything in religion, there must be something a man would be conscious of. i said, "there is something in this religion, but i have not got the hang of it." it occurred to me that perhaps after all, my chief motive and desire in all this was the welfare of my wife and child and the recovery of our domestic happiness. and lying on that bed i said, "i am willing to do anything. there is nothing that i am not willing to do, if i can only get rid of this appetite. i will get up and state that i was a drunkard; i will acknowledge every tramp as my brother; and, although i have no desire to do it, i will go out and preach. just let me know that i am free from this thing and that i can go on in life;" and all at once--i could not connect the thought and result together--there came upon me a perfect sense of relief. i was just as conscious then of divine interposition as i ever was afterward; and i said to myself, "this is what they call regeneration," and turned over and went to sleep. from that time i commenced a new sober life; and i never have wanted liquor; i never have had a desire for it since, and it is now going on two years. i think many men are called, but few are chosen. there are a great many men who get far enough in the surrender to feel good and change their opinions; but they do not get down to the bed-rock of regeneration. i do not believe in any change, or in any doctrine that says there is regeneration through anything except a complete surrender. men are ready to believe that christ was the son of god, but go straight home and continue their old way of life. they must say, "i will not only quit serving the devil, but i will commence serving god." "thou shall love the lord thy god with all thy heart, with all thy soul and with all thy strength." i do not let theological opinions disturb me now. my simple faith and theology is this: that i have the peace of god and he keeps me. i have knowledge of god's power and mercy, and feel that god keeps me. my wife and child have come back and are now with me, and are as happy as they can be; and there is not a man in this country with less money and more happiness than i. i am happier than i ever was in my life. note.--captain martin is now engaged in business in the house of bayless bros. & co., louisville. r. n. denny. i was born in in the state of illinois. at that time, before there were many railroads, it was a comparatively backwoods country where i was raised. our nearest market was st. louis, sixty miles from where we lived. my father kept a country store there, and hauled his produce to st. louis. my father was a professed christian, so also was my grandfather, yet each of them kept a demijohn of whisky in the house. they would prepare roots and whisky, and herbs and whisky, which was used for all kinds of medical purposes and for all kinds of ills that flesh is heir to; and i believe at that time i got the appetite for whisky, if i did not inherit it. i have drunk whisky as far back as i can remember. i had a great many relatives who were christians; but i gloried in my obstinacy and would have nothing to do with christianity. in my seventeenth year i went into the army. of course, being among the romans, i had to be a roman, too; and consequently, the drinking habit grew upon me; and i acquired also a passion for gambling. after the war i did not do much good. i drifted about from place to place for something over a year, and then joined the regular army. i belonged to the seventh regular cavalry, custer's command, which was massacred on the little big horn. at that time i did not belong to the command, as my time had expired some time before. i came to louisville in , and commenced working as a restaurant and hotel cook. i was very apt at the business, and was soon able to command the best situations to be had, having been _chef_ at the galt house. during all this time i had been a drunkard in different stages. i was what is called a "periodical drunkard." i often braced up and went without a drink for six months or a year--something like that length of time--and always had work when i was not drinking; but i became so unreliable, that i could get no employment when another man could be had. it was said of me everywhere, "denny is a good man, but he drinks." about i got married, and up to i had four children. of course, my drinking, and everything of that kind, brought my family to want--in fact, to beggary. for a long time i always took my wages home on pay-day, and my wife, in her good-heartedness, always offered me money; would often ask me of a morning if i did not feel bad, and would give me fifteen cents or a quarter, not knowing that she was giving me money for my own damnation, until the year of the first exposition here-- . i had a position there at twelve dollars a week. i stayed there ten weeks; and i do not believe i got home with five dollars in the whole ten weeks. the man with whom i worked had a bar attachment to his restaurant, and i could get what credit i wanted there; and on saturday night when i found my wages were short, i would get drunk, and conclude to try and win something at gambling, but i invariably lost. at the close of the exposition, it was on the verge of winter, and times were very dull. i was behind with my rent and in debt to everybody i could get in debt to, my family were without decent clothing, had no fire, and i was almost naked myself, with no prospects of a situation. a short time afterward i got a position on a steamboat, which paid me fairly well, and which i believe i kept two, maybe three, weeks, and got drunk as usual. i failed to take my money home, and, of course, told my wife some lie. i had to say something. sometimes my wife believed me, and sometimes she did not. at that time it was winter, it must have been in december, and very cold. my children were barefooted, and i was just about to be set out on the street because i had not paid my rent. i woke up one very cold morning very early, and we had not a morsel of food in the house or coal to make a fire with. i walked down toward the river and met the same man i had been working with a few weeks before. he stopped and asked me if i did not want to go back on the boat. i told him i would be glad to go back. he asked me how long before i would get drunk; and i said, as i had said a thousand times before, "i will never drink again." i made one trip, which was three days, and got drunk. it was on the second day of january, , that i shipped, and i came back on the fifth, which was the coldest day i ever saw in louisville. the thermometer was twenty-six degrees below zero between new albany and the mouth of salt river. there were during these dark days a few charitable people that used to give my family some of the necessaries of life--and but for that i can not see how they would have kept from starvation. i appreciated my situation nearly all the time, knew how wrong i was doing, would admit it to myself but would not admit it to anybody else. if a man had called me a drunkard, i would have called him a liar. in the providence of god the fifth and walnut-street church established the holcombe mission near where i lived, and among other waifs picked up on the street and taken to the sunday-school were my children. while i had always been pretty bad myself, i had always tried to teach my children better. i shuddered at the thought of my boys going on in the way that i was going. when they went to sunday-school and learned the songs there and came home and sang them, it broke me all to pieces. i had nothing left to do but to go and get drunk in self-defense. the sunday-school teacher (mrs. j. r. clarke), who taught my children, had been trying to find me for a long time. she must have thought from seeing my children at sunday-school that there was some good in me; and after awhile she sent me a bible with a great many passages marked in it. she was looking for me and had sent for me to come and see her, and i had been trying to keep out of her way for a long time. finally she found me at home one day, and would take no excuse, but insisted that i must come to holcombe's mission; and, of course, i promised to go, because i could not help myself. i could not get out of it; and if i had a redeeming trait in the world, it was that i would not break a positive promise. i promised her to come, and that day i did go. they were holding noon-day meetings at the time. i do not remember just now that i was very deeply impressed. i was of a skeptical turn of mind and very critical. i well remember i criticised all the testimonies given there; but the thing was so strange to me, so different from anything that i was used to, that i was very considerably impressed in a strange kind of way, which is unaccountable to me even now. i had taken a seat near the door, so that i might get out very quick; but brother holcombe headed me off, and caught me before i got to the door. i did not know him personally at that time, but had known of him for a long time. of course, i could not get out of the mission without promising to come again. after having come two or three times, i was asked to say something, but did not feel like saying anything. finally i stood up one day, perhaps the third or fourth day i was there. it was not a time when they were asking people if they wanted an interest in their prayers. i got up and said i wanted an interest in their prayers that i might be saved from myself. i had known for a long time that i was helpless, so far as delivering myself from drink was concerned. i knew nothing about christianity, in fact, i did not care much about it, because i had not studied on the subject, and would not study on the subject. for many years i had not dared to stop and think seriously about such a subject, but when i heard that the gospel of christ was able to deliver such a man as i, i heard it gladly, because i had found there was no earthly power that could deliver such a man as i was. in the meantime, i had been reading my bible, and had committed some of it to memory; and there was a good deal of mystery attached to the whole thing--things that i could not understand. when they asked me to speak, i quoted a passage from the bible. one day i quoted the passage about a man having put his hand to the plow and looking back, not being worthy of the kingdom of god. brother messick, pastor of the church which i afterward joined, prayed directly afterward, and in his prayer he quoted this passage of scripture, and prayed in such an encouraging and helpful way, that i rose from my knees satisfied in my heart that i was changed. well, from that time until now i have never drunk anything. that was in january or february, . i have never had a desire for liquor but once since. last summer i went to crab orchard. i was _chef_ down there, and i had to handle very choice wines and liquors in my business, and i handled one brand of wine that i was particularly fond of in old times. i was tempted that time to drink wine. it seemed the tempter said to me: "you are way down here where nobody knows anything about you. it is good, and you know it won't hurt you. it don't cost you anything and it is nothing but wine, and you need not take too much." at that time i could get all the liquor i wanted. if i wanted it, i could order a hogshead of it just by a scratch of the pen. with that single exception, i have never had a temptation to drink. i don't know that i had an appetite to drink then. it was a clear cut temptation from without, and not from within. i have had no trouble about getting positions since my conversion and deliverance from the appetite for drink. my family are well housed, well clothed and well fed, and have everything they need, and have had since the time i became a christian man. they themselves are the greatest evidences in the world of what christianity can do for a man. a short time ago--six months ago--i established myself in business, and have been doing a thriving, prosperous business from that time until now. i might say something about my going to the work-house: two years ago, or a little over, i was asked to go to the work-house one sunday evening. i was very much impressed with the necessity for working for the poor men there. i was at that time identified with the mission work, and the services at the work-house were all under the auspices of the y. m. c. a. i continued going to the work-house for some length of time--three or four months. the y. m. c. a. very kindly divided time with me and other mission workers. after having gone to the work-house three or four months, i stopped going. the chairman of the devotional committee of the y. m. c. a. sent for me and gave me charge of the work-house and jail, which, of course, i accepted in the name of the mission; and from that time until now both of them have been under mission workers. i was very anxious to return to the work-house, but our head decided that i should take the jail, where i have continued to go for a year and a half--i suppose about that length of time--every sunday when i was in the city, with possibly one or two exceptions. note.--mr. denny is at present the joint-proprietor, with mr. ropke, of a thriving restaurant on third street, between jefferson and green, louisville. [illustration: b. f. davidson.] b. f. davidson. twenty years ago i resided in the city of cincinnati; was president of a boatman's insurance company, proprietor of a ship chandlery, and interested largely in some twenty odd steamboats; and also interested largely in other insurance companies, and was rated as worth half a million of dollars. through depreciation in property, bad debts, and indorsing for other parties largely, in four years i had lost all my money. to retrieve my fortune, i then started west, not being willing, of course, to accept a position where i had been a proprietor. while there, associating with the miners and western people generally, i contracted the habit of drinking. this grew upon me and was continued, with short intermissions of soberness, up to four years ago--about last january. i was brought very low as a consequence of my dissipation, and i have traveled as a tramp from the atlantic to the pacific, and from the lakes to the gulf, spending my time in alternately fighting and yielding to the demon of drink. for five years previous to my coming to louisville, i had given up all hope of ever being able to make anything of myself, as i had tried, in vain, every known remedy to cure me of the appetite. my pride was effectually humbled, and i was in despair. from the time that i went west--which was in --until my arrival in , my children, a daughter and son, knew not whether i was dead or alive--knew nothing of me whatever. after i took to drink, i lost all interest in them and everything else. as soon as i got off the ferry-boat in louisville, in as sad a plight as any wretched man was ever in, i met an old friend, who had known me in years previous, and who handed me two dollars, requesting me to call at his office the next morning, when he would give me such assistance as i needed. the two dollars i spent that day for whisky. that night i begged a quarter to pay for my lodging. the next day, by begging, i filled up pretty well on whisky again. toward evening i went into a main-street house and asked a gentleman for a quarter to pay for a night's lodging, i had lost all pride, all self-respect, and could beg with a brazen face. the gentleman handed me a card of holcombe's mission. as i did not know or care anything about missions or churches, i merely stuck the card in my pocket and went on my way. after walking around for some time i heard the remark: "there goes that old man now." upon looking up i recognized the gentleman whom i last asked for a quarter to pay for a night's lodging, and another man, engaged in conversation. the other gentleman, who proved to be the rev. steve holcombe, of holcombe's mission, took me by the hand and invited me up to the mission rooms, where i told him my story. he asked me if i ever had asked god through jesus christ to assist me in my endeavors to become a sober man. i told him i had not, as i had made up my mind years ago that god had no use for me. i felt as though i had sinned beyond redemption. i had left home very early in life. my mother was the best christian woman i had ever seen. she was a methodist, but she never could preach christianity to me--i fell back on my own righteousness. i did not drink, i did not smoke, i did not chew, i did not swear, i did not run after women, i did not loaf around saloons like other young men. when my mother was after me to join the church, i told her that would not make me any better: "look at your church members; is that man any better than i am?" my sister, along toward the last, having joined the episcopal church, i took two pews in that church; was a lay member, but i did not attend it. that was in newport--st. paul's episcopal church, newport. when the minister insisted on my going to church, i told him that while he would be preaching sermons i would be building steamboats, so his sermons would not do me any good. after i got to drinking, my poor daughter did not see me. i did not go to my children at all. i never got but one letter from them during that time, from to , and that was a letter that went to cincinnati, and they held it there, i believe, for two years. i was at cincinnati a good many times; but they could never get me to stay there long enough to get my children down to see me. as soon as i had an idea that they were manoeuvring for anything of that kind, i would get out of town at once, and they would not know where i had gone. during my life as a tramp, there is no kind of work that can be thought of that i did not work at more or less, and the money i earned--sometimes i earned as much as eight dollars a day--eventually went to the barkeepers; i could not even buy my clothes. after a long talk with brother holcombe, i told him that, having tried everything else, i was perfectly willing to try god. that night i went to church, and went up to be prayed for. there was no regular meeting at the mission then, from the fact that the church that was running the mission had a revival. so, with brother holcombe, i went around to the revival meeting at the fifth and walnut-street church. when the invitation was given for those who wanted to be prayed for to come forward, i was among the first to accept it, and went up clothed in all my rags. after prayer i felt much better than i had for many years. that night i went back and lay on the floor in the mission, having refused an invitation from brother holcombe to go to a boarding-house, telling him if god, in his mercy, would take from me the appetite for strong drink, i had still strength and will enough left to make my own living. the next morning i asked brother holcombe to go with me to the paper-mill of bremaker-moore company, where they were building a dam to prevent an overflow from stopping the engines in the paper-mill. i secured a position there, at a dollar and a quarter a day, to shovel mud. as soon as the river commenced to fall that occupation was gone; but the superintendent of the mill, becoming in the meantime somewhat acquainted with my history, offered me a situation inside, which i held for three weeks, when i was sent for to see the business manager of the _post_. i accepted a position on the _post_ as advertising solicitor at fifteen dollars a week, which was afterward increased to twenty-five. i was then made business manager, at thirty dollars, which position i now hold. i can say this: that while i had an abundance of means to find happiness, pleasure and contentment, and had sought it in every possible way that a man could, i failed to find it until i accepted christ as my saviour, and gave myself into his hands. since then i have had a happiness i never knew before. my life has been one of constant peace and uninterrupted prosperity. my children are both happily married, and i have married myself. though i was before so proud that i could not accept my mother's teaching, i was at a point where i would have accepted anything. they would tell me that doctor so-and-so would cure me; which was no kindness to me, because it kept me from asking god's help. but nothing would do me any good. so i said, "god, here i am; accept me. if there is any good in me, bring it out. i am down, down, down; i can not help myself." brother holcombe had told me what god had done for him. i had confidence in him from the start, from the fact of his having told me he was a gambler so long; and when he told me god had redeemed him from the desire for gambling, i thought he might take away the appetite for drink from me; and he has done so, i am very thankful to say. i expect i was the worst-looking sight you ever saw, but i do not take a back seat now for any one--i look as well as anybody. as i told a man last week: "with the lord on my side, i do not fear anything!" i had had charge of men, and had succeeded in managing them. i did not accept religion because i was a weak-minded man. as evidence of that, i have proved it since as i had proved it before. i proved that when i was trying to be a good man in my own way. i have proved since that i was not a weak-minded man from the responsible positions i have held and do hold. but, as i was going to say, i had not shaved for two years, and had not had my hair cut, i am satisfied, for one year. my hair was hanging down on my shoulders; my face, of course, not very clean; my clothes were rags. my shoes were simply tops, and the gentleman who gave me these two dollars, told me: "captain, you are the hardest-looking man i ever saw in my life. i do not know how i recognized you." i said: "this is the condition i am in, and drinking has brought me to it." i have been asked by several prominent men how it is i get up night after night and tell people how bad i have been. i told them it was like this; if they had been sick nigh unto death and were going to die, and a physician came and gave them some medicine and made whole men out of them, would they not be going around the streets telling people about that physician? i said that is the reason i get up every night and tell people about it. christ was the physician that healed me. that is the remedy i have for all evil now--the blood of jesus christ. it was utterly impossible for a man to exist and be in a worse condition than i was. i was physically and mentally a wreck; and now by accepting christ--becoming a christian--i am physically, morally, mentally and spiritually restored and well. that is the reason why i do not hesitate to tell anybody--even people coming into my office. an editor of a paper said to me: "is it possible you were a tramp?" i told him it was; and he was talking something about attacking me through his paper, about what i had been. i said, "blaze away; it won't hurt me. i do not deny having been a tramp and a drunkard--everything that was mean. but what am i now?" i do not care what they bring back of my past record; they can not hurt me, for i do not deny it. it is what i am now. i think now that i was as bad and mean as a man could possibly be. but i am no longer what i was, by the grace of him who called me out of the former darkness into his light. [illustration: h. c. price.] h. clay price. i used to know brother holcombe in those days; knew him to be a gambler. he was considered one of the best of gamblers, but i always looked upon him as being an honorable gambler, so far as i have heard. i knew him even before he was a gambler. well, my father and mother were very pious, my mother especially. she was a praying woman, and everybody knew her by the name of "aunt kittie," and my father as "uncle billy." my father did not think it was any harm to play cards in the parlor every night. when i was young he loved to play whist. i had a sister older than i, sixteen or seventeen years old, and she used to invite young men, and father used to invite them, to come there and play cards; and the moment they commenced to fix the table, my father beckoned his head to me, and i knew what that meant--to get out. we had a young negro that used to wait on the ladies in the parlor, and he told me one time, "you steal a deck of cards and i will show you how to play cards." and i stole a deck of cards from the house and we went back in the stable; and that is the way i came to learn how to play cards. i was twelve or fifteen years old at that time--not any older than that--and i commenced playing cards for money, and i kept on playing cards for money with the boys; for money or for anything. i was sent off to school--to st. mary's college, and we got to playing cards there for money, and we were caught, and the oldest one was expelled from school, and i promised never to do it any more, and the other boys promised not to do it any more, and they did not. but i kept on and i was caught playing cards, and i was expelled from school. after that my father sent me to st. joseph's college in ohio. i ran off from that school and came home, and i was appointed a deputy marshal by my brother-in-law, w. s. d. mcgowen; and i got to gambling then sure enough and running after women; and about that time the war came on, and i went off with my brother-in-law into the army, and i gambled all through the army--everywhere i could get five cents to play with. all i had i gambled away. i came back home and i gambled here; played in the faro banks all the time. and a proprietor of a gambling house by the name of jo. croxton came to me and said, "you are too good a man to be gambling around. i will give you an interest, and you can take charge of my house." i did not know much about gambling, but i knew how to take care of his house. he gave me the bank roll; and i went on down and down. i was married then and had a faithful, gentle and devoted wife, but i thought i was smarter than anybody about gambling, and i thought i could make big money, and so i would leave my wife, devoted and dependent as she was, and i kept traveling on around the country, going to different towns. i went to nashville; from there i went to new orleans. i came back to nashville. i left nashville and went to huntsville, ala.; came back here and went to st. louis; then to chicago and lexington. after that i went back to nashville again. i made a good deal of money if i could have kept it; but the lord would not let me have it. i averaged here for years and years $ a month. sometimes i made more--made as much as $ , a month, and once i went up as high as $ , a month--made big winnings. as fast as i got this money i could not keep it--threw it away on women all the time and gambling against the bank and poker; would spit at a mark for money. i have lost hundreds and hundreds of dollars without getting off of my seat, with men i knew were robbing me all the time. it was a passion i had to gamble and i'd not stop. in one game of poker that i was in i bet and lost $ on one hand, and i have never played at poker since that time. when the gambling-houses were broken up here in louisville, i concluded i would go off to chicago. i had some money and i went to chicago; and as soon as i got there, i got broke, lost all the money i had. i was among strangers and i was dead broke. finally i got another situation, and worked there for some time. i then got hold of some money again, and i came home and remained some time. my wife was begging me all the time not to go away--did not think i ought to go away; she said that i could stay here and get some work to do, and make an honest living. but i thought i had better go back to chicago and make some money; and i made some money as soon as i got there by playing faro bank; and i did very well at that time, made a good deal of money; and you know how a man feels when he has five hundred dollars in his pocket; and yet all that time i did not send my wife anything. i thought i would get about one thousand dollars and open some kind of a bar-room or cigar shop, or something of the kind. but the day before christmas i got to playing against the faro bank, and got broke; and i was the most miserable man in the world, to think that i had lost the last chance i had. the day before christmas my wife wrote me, "why don't you come home? i had rather see you home than there again making money," i said, "yesterday i got broke--i played to win. i had nothing to eat all day." but accidentally i found a twenty-five cent piece in my pocket; and i got up and went and bought a ten-cent dinner, and paid fifteen cents for a cigar. i have done that many times, i suppose, bought a quarter dinner and given the other quarter for a cigar. i just got to studying about it, studying about what i was to do. i said, "if i come back to louisville, i will starve. i am not competent to keep a set of books, or clerk anywhere; but," i said, "i will go back if i do starve." so i wrote to my patient wife: "i have lost every cent i had in the world, i have got to work one week longer to make enough money to come home on, and i am coming. you may look for me the first of next week." as soon as they paid me off that evening i jumped on the cars and came home, having just the money to pay my fare. before this brother holcombe had met me time and again after he had been converted. he used to come after me; and every time he would see me, may be i would be looking at something in the street--he would hit me on the shoulder and say, "how do you do, old boy?" and then he would talk to me about my salvation, and about jesus christ. i used to hide from him; but it looked like every time he came around he would nail me, and talk to me about jesus. that was when i was gambling here and prosperous. he told me about my mother and told me i ought to quit gambling. i said, "brother holcombe, what shall i do if i quit gambling? i have no way to make a living." he said, "look to god, and he will help you." i went away about that time; and as soon as i came back, every time he would see me he would nail me again. after awhile i got interested in him. i would look for him and when i would catch him, i would say, "you can not get away from me now." that was after i came from chicago. i had nowhere to go except to visit bar-rooms. so i began to go down around the old mission every night. i heard the singing and praying down there. one night i said, "i am going to see brother holcombe." the clock struck eight, and i said "i am not going in to-night, it is too late. i will go to-morrow;" and to-morrow night came and i went down there and went in very early, before they commenced singing; and they sang and prayed and brother holcombe preached, and the next night i went, and the next night i went, and i went every night. and then they moved up here on jefferson street and after they moved up here, i stayed away a week, and then i commenced coming again; and here i am now, thank god. i think god has been my friend all the way through. to think he has let me go as far as he could, and at last brought me home. i tell you it is a great thing for a man that has been living the life i have, to get up and say that he is now a child of god. it came gradually, a little bit of it at a time, but when i was down in the mission that night, god came to me in full power, i felt that i did not care what happened to me. i was willing to go if god called on me. whatever he said i was willing to do. after my conversion i got a place where i was making a dollar a day, at robinson's, on ninth, between broadway and york streets, and i worked there until i went up on a new railroad. they promised to give me forty-five dollars a month. i thought at the time, and so did brother holcombe, i would get forty-five dollars a month. he said, "you will get forty-five dollars a month, and it is so much easier than the work you are doing." i thought they would pay all my expenses and i worked up there at forty-five dollars and i had to pay all my own expenses; and all i received was not a cent more or less than thirteen dollars a month. but i was happier a thousand times--i will say a hundred thousand times--than i was with six or seven hundred dollars a month. you may think gamblers are happy, and it looks like it; but they are not--they are miserable. just to look back in our lives and think what we have done with all the money! it is nothing to be compared with the life of a christian. if i could go back to-morrow and make a million dollars gambling, i would not do it. i would say, "take your million of dollars. i will stay where i am." my wife is the best woman in the world. i leave her at home and she is reading the bible. you can not go in there any time, when she is not at work, that she is not either singing or reading the bible. she was raised a catholic. she is now trying to help me along. she has joined the methodist church; she is with me. i do not think she was a christian before we came in contact with brother holcombe. it was just her interest in me, and her patient, long-suffering love. she never went to church nor prayed nor knelt down. she prayed after she went to bed like i did, for i said prayers every day even then. i always said, "if i forget, god will forget me." every day of my life i prayed; and if i forgot it, i asked the lord to forgive me; but i never would kneel down. i prayed after i went to bed; but now i get down on my knees and pray. do you know how we do at night? we get down on our knees and say the lord's prayer; and after we get through, i pray; and after i get through, the old lady prays. you see the old lady was raising our little girl up to be a catholic; and i said to her, after we were converted--maybe a month afterward--"i don't know whether i am right or wrong--i want you to say--do you not think it is right to teach kittie to do the way we do in our prayers? i think it would be a sin to try to teach her any other way. now, let us set her an example, and she will come over gradually and gradually until she will be one of us." she has asked her mother about jesus. she said to her mother one day, "i can't pray like you all can." the old lady said to her, "you will learn after awhile." last night i was out late, and when i came home she said, "we will all kneel down and pray." we started off, "our father, who art in heaven," and kittie went along with us, repeating it. she knows all that, you know. after we were done saying that, i prayed; and after i got through the old lady prayed; and after we had prayed i said, "kittie, you must say your prayer." she said, "i can not pray like you do." but she did the best she could. if you ask me how i came to change my life, it was this way: i knew that brother holcombe was a good man, and knew that he was reformed and i had so much faith in him, and i studied about that so much that i just thought if he could be such a good man, why could not i be a good man; and that is the way it came. i tell you, backwardness is a fault with a good many preachers. if i was a preacher and i saw a man on the street that i saw was going wrong, i would go right up to him and touch him on the shoulder. i do it now--i never let him get away; i never let a friend of mine get away, i do not care who he is. i go to him and tell him what god has done for me. i say, "why don't you come up to the mission? don't you know brother holcombe?" if he says "no; i don't live here," i say, "if you come up there, we will be pleased to see you. you don't know what good it might do your soul." i do wish i had an education. i reckon there has been more money spent on me than on all the rest of my family. i went to three colleges; was expelled from one and ran away from the other two. i was the worst boy on earth; there is no use talking. i would rather fight that eat; but no more fighting for me; i am done. you know that i have been trying to get work to do, and at last i have found a place. i am earnestly praying every day more and more--i _can_ pray now. a man asked me the other day--i don't know whether i answered him right or not--he asked me, "do you ever expect to go back to gambling?" i said, "i would starve to death before i would gamble any more." he said, "what about your wife--if you knew your wife was going to starve, would you gamble?" i said, "before i would let my wife and child starve, i would gamble--i would gamble to get them something to eat; but," i said, "there is no danger of their starving. but you put that question to me so strong." i said, "i know that god would not censure me for that, but there is no danger of it." i wish i could say more. i know i mean what i have said, god knows i do, and it is all true as near as i can remember. note.--mr. price is a brother of the late hon. j. hop price, for many years a well-known lawyer and judge in louisville. he is now engaged as night watchman on main street. miles turpin. i had the example of christian parents, and, of course, i had the benefit of a christian education; but, like all young men, i was rather inclined to be wild; and after i had served four years in the confederate army, my habits were formed rather for the worse. after i had returned home, being without avocation, i naturally resorted to what all idle men do; that was the beginning. i contracted the habit of frolicing, gambling and drinking, in that early period of my life, which has followed me through all these years, up to march , , when, after considerable journeying through north america and portions of mexico, i happened in cincinnati, and heard a great many times about steve holcombe's conversion. having known steve in his gambling days, it occurred to me, like all persons in pursuit of happiness, going from place to place and not finding it, that if there was such a change and improvement in steve as the newspapers described, i would come to louisville and see for myself concluding that if religion had done so much for him, it might do something for me. i was a dissipated man--dissipated in the extreme. i had contracted this habit of drinking, and was rarely ever sober. i have some capacity, as a business man, and i have had a great many positions, but i had to give them up from this habit of drinking. while a man would express his deep friendship for me, he would say his business would not tolerate my drinking; consequently, i have been frequently but politely dismissed. i had lived in i don't know how many places in the united states, i had lived in new orleans, savannah, ga., charleston, s. c., birmingham, montgomery, selma, vidalia, la., cincinnati, louisville, ky., macon, ga., pensacola, fla., fernandina, fla., throughout the length and breadth of western mexico, lower california and the pacific coast, and through the state of texas, end to end. in all these tortuous windings i was searching for happiness; but a man who is more or less full of whisky and without the religion of jesus christ is of necessity unhappy, in himself, and, in consequence, shunned by his fellowmen. no man can wander around the world in that condition without feeling a void which human wisdom can not fill; and i was forced to this conclusion by a careful survey of my past career. the desperation of the case was such, that i resolved if i could not find employment, and if i could not find happiness, which i then knew nothing about, i would destroy myself. i have contemplated suicide many times with the utmost seriousness; and i certainly in my sinful life was not afraid of death. but then it was because i was in despair. i was in cincinnati; had previously held a political position there, which paid me quite a handsome sum; but in the change of politics my pecuniary condition changed, and i found myself alone, poor and full of rum and corruption; as vile a sinner as ever lived. it was at that time that i heard of steve. i was in a deplorable condition; i knew not where to turn for comfort, and it occurred to me that if i could go to louisville and have these assertions verified about steve's regeneration and if i could see and satisfy myself. i would do so, as vile as i was, and ask god to have mercy upon me. of course, i was an infidel (at least, i imagined myself an infidel), an atheist, if you please, and my chief delight was deriding all christian work, and ridiculing the bible; and to more thoroughly uphold my atheistical notions i went so far as to defame the saviour of mankind, not in vulgar language or profane, but by a mode of expression that was plain and unmistakable. _now_, i do not see how a man can be an infidel. when a man says he is an atheist, i believe he is a liar. a man must be insane who does not recognize a supreme power and the master-hand that made the world, and who does not rely upon and give obedience to that higher power. i do not believe that any atheist is honest in the announcement that he does not believe in god or a creator. i believe now, since my conversion, that no man is in his right mind unless he has the habit of prayer. all nature points to the existence of a creator--every action of life, every hair of the head shows an unseen hand. if it is a mistake, it is a mistake man can never fathom; but if not and if, as we are told by the word of faith, you believe, you shall be saved. if you cast your burden upon him, and there is a possibility of a hereafter, you lose nothing in this world. a man is wiser, purer, more companionable, more affectionate and more charitable. there must be immortality of the soul; there must be a future reward. reflection upon these great facts induced me to become a christian man. as i had served the devil so long as one of his allies, and had been treated so badly by him. i deserted him and put my faith in god, where i intend to remain the remainder of my life. i got to louisville a little over a year ago, the th of march, and went immediately to find mr. holcombe. he was sitting by the fire. he knew me at once. i shook hands with him and sat down by the fire, and had a conversation with him. he immediately entered upon the subject of religion, and i told him my condition. i told him what i wanted to do--i wanted to see for myself if it was possible for a man like him to become regenerated--if it was possible for such a great scoundrel as i knew him to be to become a christian man. i wanted to see for myself if it were possible to make, out of so vile a creature, such a good man as he was said to be. as i said last night, i came, like the conqueror of old, and saw, but, unlike the conqueror of old, i was conquered. i made up my mind that i was done with the old life. steve's appearance convinced me that he was cured, and i confessed then and there that i was convinced. that was the starting point. there was only one thing i have never been thoroughly satisfied about; i find that the christian influence grows gradually on me, and becomes stronger and stronger the longer i live. i confess myself, when i first became a christian man, with the exception of drinking whisky, i was like i was before; but, encouraged by my experiences in the beginning, i gradually began to see that it was a better life. a man was purer, and there was some hope a man could be changed through and through, and take his place among men; and from that time forward i was continually growing in grace. from the very moment i resolved to quit, i did not drink any more. after i saw steve, i did not take a drop, though i had tried before to quit it many a time. i had oftentimes joined temperance societies, and made resolutions, which were of no avail. a man in that case was bound by no tie except his assertion--by his word: and might break it just as a man allows a note to be protested in bank. the moment i determined to change my life, this appetite for whisky left me. it was because my ideas were changed. i used to think that no drunken man could become a christian; but now i hope, by the grace of god, i am a christian, i could not explain it; i do not believe any man can explain it. he may attempt it, but he can not do it. a man who lives a christian life can hardly calculate the advantages; it is a matter of impossibility. in the first place, his associates put an entirely different estimate on him. his ambitions are entirely changed, and certainly his hope is. it makes him a more charitable man, a more forbearing man with the faults of his neighbors, makes him a more tolerant man, makes him a better citizen; and if he were a politician--though it is scarcely within the bounds of possibility--it would make him an honest politician. i have had no trouble to get along in business since my conversion. just as soon as i tried to get business, when i was once really in earnest about it, i had a number of offers. i have still a number of offers. when i became a christian man i determined, in my own mind, i would live up to christianity so far as i could in every particular, humbly and conscientiously. the opinions of man have no weight with me now. all i am i hold by the grace of god, through jesus christ. fred ropke. i think it was on the th of june, , i was stopping at fifth and jefferson. previous to that time i had been tramping the country for about eight years, from until the middle of . my father was a louisville man. he gave me all the advantages that wealth could command. he sent me to germany in , where i remained three years at school. in or , i went into the sheriff's office here in louisville. previous to that time i had been with theodore schwartz & co. i went from theodore schwartz & co. into the sheriff's office. i got that position from courtesy of the sheriff to my father, who was his bondsman. i contracted the habit of drinking right there, through the associations. and, being ashamed to remain among my friends as a drunkard, i went then from pillar to post all over the country. i left home just after my father's death, in , not knowing whither i was going. i dragged around the country from that time until the summer of --eleven years; and if there ever was a man sick and tired, it was i. i beat my way through texas, louisiana, mississippi, tennessee, arkansas, kansas, colorado, iowa, michigan, wisconsin, illinois, indiana, ohio, pennsylvania and new york. the box car was my home the greater part of the time. of course, during those years, i came home off and on; but nothing could stop me in my downward course. as soon as i lost self-control i persuaded myself there was no hereafter, no god and no devil. i took to that idea to console myself for what i was doing more than for anything else; and i had a perfect indifference as to what became of me, except at times when i was alone and sober and thoughtful. but i never had any aim; no ambition at all; in fact, i had given up all hope. i do not know what i wandered for. i would come home and stay for a month or so, and i would get drunk and get ashamed of myself and go away. i would walk all night to get out of louisville. i had been brought up by religious parents. my father was a very religious man. he was considered by people as a fanatic because he was making money in the whisky business, and sold out rather than continue it. he lost money by selling out during the war. he saw what it was drifting to, and sold out. after that there was not a drop of whisky handled in his house on main street until after his death. my mother also was a very religious woman, so that i had a careful religious training. but i had read a good deal of ingersoll and tom paine. i heard ingersoll lecture on one or two occasions; i wanted to get all the proof i could to sustain me. i wanted some consolation; i knew where i was drifting; there was a consciousness all this time that i was wrong; and i trembled at the thought of one day giving an account for the misdeeds of a wasted life; but i could not possibly help myself. from the mental anxiety i went through it is a wonder my hair is not gray to-day. it was terrible. i had two attacks of delirium tremens. what brought me to realize my condition more than anything else, took place just before the time i first met brother holcombe. i was out on second street mending umbrellas; for that was the way i made my living. i had become thoroughly hardened. i would have cut my throat, only cowardice kept me from it. well, i was mending umbrellas out on second street, and mrs. werne heard me as i was calling out, and knowing that henry, her husband, and i had been to school together--had been boys together, she called me and said, "fred, i want you to come in." she insisted on my coming to their house to dinner the next day. "fix up," she said, "and come to dinner with us;" but i do not believe i had a stitch of clothes except what was on my back. she insisted however, on my coming; some of my friends would be there. that brought me to realize to what depths i had fallen. the next week i went to new albany; and i was told to leave the town, and i left the town under the escort of two policemen. to such abject wretchedness was i reduced, i could not endure to stay among friends, and i was in such a plight strangers could not endure me among them. but once i was coming down the street, and heard the singing in the holcombe mission; and i was considerably touched to think that i had come through the religious training of a christian home and of church and sunday-school; and that is all it amounted to. i went that evening to the courthouse steps, and heard mr. holcombe preach there; and from that day to this i have not drank a single drop; and it is only through god's grace that i realize that i am able to resist temptation. i felt that i was not worth anything; i felt that there was no power in myself. my skepticism all melted away. the view i took of it was that if god could help holcombe, he could and would help such a one as i. i knew mr. holcombe very well. when i was deputy sheriff, i had a warrant for his arrest one time from franklin county, and went there armed, knowing his dangerous reputation. i thought if holcombe could be saved, there certainly was some hope for me, and under the inspiration of that hope i turned to god. it was my last and only hope. but it was not disappointed, for he has saved me. i remember the first time i went up to be prayed for; i felt that i would from that time have strength--i had no doubt that i would have it from that time on. it was in the back room of the old mission. i felt--i don't know why it was--i felt then and there that, by god's help, i would make a man of myself; and i went out with that feeling, although i had been under the influence of liquor for months before. i can not say that i had no appetite for it, but i had strength to resist it. that was the th of june, . i would do anything for whisky when i wandered around. i did not gamble, but i was licentious. i lived for nothing else; i had no other aim in life but to gratify my passions, and i would adopt any extreme to do it, and did do it. i left nothing untouched--i would sell my coat to gratify my passions. if i wanted a drink of whisky and my hat would pay for it, i would let it go. once, on coming back from new orleans, my mother gave me a suit of clothes; and i did not keep that suit of clothes three days. all of the time i was tramping around, my mother was living in louisville, worth seventy-five thousand dollars. she was willing to do anything for me, and suffered much because of my wicked ways. i remember on one occasion, when i left her to go to denver, colorado, she begged me to stay at home, and reminded me how she would suffer from anxiety about me, day and night, till i should return. but i had just been released from jail for drunkenness and i did not want to stay in louisville. so i left my mother in sorrow and despair. one thing i am thankful for to-day; that after my conversion i did not get into anything right away; that i made a bare living with my umbrellas; and that continued two years before i got into a permanent situation. i believe those were the two happiest years of my life. i had a tough time to get something to eat sometimes, but that was good for me. i pegged away at an old umbrella for twenty-five or thirty cents down in the old mission; and i was thankful to get them to fix. it seemed to me it was sweeter; i enjoyed it more. there is no comparison between the new life and the old. i thought at one time that i was enjoying myself; but i have had to suffer in my new life for all the enjoyment that i had in the old--i have to suffer physically--even yet. i am an old man before my time. even to-day on my coming in contact with it the influence of the old association will crop out. sometimes my passions worry me considerably. the only relief i find is by keeping close to god. i realize that from day to day if i do not do that--pay strict attention to my religious duties--i will fall. i know that if i neglect them for one week, i get away off. i am happy in being placed where i am. my place is a kind of rendezvous for religious people; and their society and conversation help to strengthen me. since my conversion, i was offered a position in a liquor house, but i would not take it, because i was afraid of it, and the very next day i obtained a situation with the finzer brothers. i went to a minister and made it the subject of prayer as to whether i should accept the situation; and finally decided to decline it, and the next day i got a situation that i had filled in years gone by, with finzer brothers in this city. it is now the height of my ambition to have the opportunity to convince the people who were and are my friends in louisville that there is something in me, and by the grace of god i am no longer the failure i was. [illustration: j. t. hocker.] james thompson hocker. i was born in shelby county, kentucky, in , and no man had better advantages for being a christian or becoming one than i had. i had a pious mother and father, and all the influences of my home were of that character. my father and mother were both members of the baptist church, and i recollect that they used to have me go to sunday-school, but i think now i went there because they asked me to go. thinking over my condition, i did not have any other incentive at that time than to obey my mother's request. at about the age of fifteen i left my home, and it seems to me now when i did do so i left behind me all good impulses and all good feeling, and any religious inclination i might have had seemed to leave me when i stepped over the threshold; and i think the devil joined me then and told me he would keep me company all the rest of my life, and he did do it pretty closely for thirty years. i do not suppose that he had a better servant, or one who did his behests more faithfully than i. whether i inherited the appetite for drink has been a question with me. on both sides of my house--the old virginia stock--i had several relatives who drank to excess; and it seems to me that the appetite must have passed through our family to me. i remember the first drink i ever took in my life; it was whisky, and i liked it. most people don't like the first drink. when i came to this city i went into business as a clerk. the devil and i dropped into company as hail fellows well met. he persuaded me to think it was proper for young men to take a drink before calling on their lady friends. he prompted me to go in with the boys. "this is the right way for you to do," he would say, "i am your friend." i had the usual compunctions of conscience that the young man feels when he goes into bar-rooms. i took wine at first, but the devil said: "that is not the thing; whisky is better." i obeyed him; i took whisky, until whisky pretty nearly took me forever. along in --march, --i was working at a clothing house, and i married a lady who was thoroughly conversant with all my habits; who knew that the habit for drink had fastened itself on me; but who, with a woman's faithful, trusting heart, married me, hoping, as they generally do, that her influence might reform me. perhaps for a year or so the devil and i rather separated, but he had me in sight all the while. this continued for six or seven months, until, on one occasion, i went out to a fishing party. we carried two or three gallons of whisky, and two or three pounds of solid food. i went fishing with two or three personal acquaintances, who prevailed on me to indulge with them in drinking, and from this time forward, until about one year ago, i was as fully devoted to my old ways as ever. the appetite for drink was on me, and dragged me down day by day, deeper and deeper into the mire; and still, through all this, my wife's loyal heart never faltered, unwavering as she was in her trust in me, that i would yet reform. she still, when others failed me, remained my faithful friend. my wife was forced, however, by my conduct, to return to her mother's home, because, instead of supporting her, i was spending all my earnings for whisky and in debauchery of other kinds. i shall have to go back a little in my story. about eight years ago i was working in a clothing house at the corner of third and market streets. i noticed across the street, one morning, a man whom i knew setting out on the sidewalk a lot of vegetables, apples, etc. i looked at him, and recognized him as steve holcombe, a man who had recently reformed his way of living, and abandoned his old life. in the meantime, i had become an infidel, i had begun to doubt the divinity of christ, and even doubted that there was a god. i read all of ingersoll's books, and went back and read paine's essay on reason and common sense. i was thoroughly fortified with all the infidel batteries that i could bring to bear on christian people. as soon as i laid eyes on brother holcombe i started across the street and opened on him; and i kept this up for months. i fortified myself with a couple of drinks, so as to be very brave, and went over and tackled him regularly every morning. at last, i stood and watched him one morning. i reasoned this way: "there is a man i have known for twenty-five years. i know of no man who was more thoroughly steeped in wickedness, who was a more persistent sinner, and i have tried to batter him down with my infidel batteries for months, and he is as solid as a stone wall;" and all this led me to think that there was something in the religion of jesus christ; and, thinking this way, i rather refrained from my attacks upon him and his position; but i often thought of him afterward, and the thought occurred to me, there must be something in this thing, for no power living, or anything that i know of, could sustain that man in his position. it must be something beyond human. the th day of last april i was on a protracted debauch; had been for three weeks. my brain was thoroughly stunned with the effects of the liquor i had drunk. i was sitting in a bar-room at seven o'clock in the evening, as far as my memory now serves me, and i appeared to see the face of my wife and child; and then one of my boon companions said, "join us in a drink." just then i could no more have taken that drink than i could have transformed myself into an angel of light. at that moment i thought some impending calamity that neither i nor any human power could avert was about to crush me. the next thing that came into my mind was that i must see mr. holcombe; and i went out of that saloon into the night, scarcely knowing what i did, feeling that some terrible accident was going to happen; but still this impulse moved me to go to the man i had fought so long and so persistently. i happened to find him before the old mission, on jefferson street, near fifth. he seemed to think that i had now some other object in view than to attack him as formerly, because, the first time in all my career, he was the only man who did reach out his hand and said, "god bless you, my brother." i said: "i want to talk to you; i want you to pray for me." he said, "god bless you, i am the happiest man to meet you that i know of." he asked me to walk down to the mission. the services were about to commence. i stayed with him that evening. in the morning he made a special prayer for me; and during all my wanderings, i had felt that, perhaps, the prayers of my mother and father would, in the end, reach the throne of grace; and i had never lost my faith in the efficacy of prayer. when he prayed for me, i felt my mother's hand on my head and heard her saying, "god bless and keep my boy." when i left him he said, "won't you go to your room to-night and pray?" i had no room. he loaned me the money to get a room. i went to the hotel and procured lodging. he said to me, "say any prayer you think of." the only prayer i could recall was one i had heard in my childhood, "lord, have mercy upon me, a sinner!" when i made that prayer before the christian's god, i did it with fear and trembling, for it seemed profanity for a wretch like me, who had defied god's laws, to prostrate himself at his feet and ask the christian's god to have mercy on him; but i kept up that prayer in my weak, broken way. and to-day, having tried this life one year, you don't know of a man happier than i am. my wife, no longer broken-hearted as in those years of darkness and sorrow, now daily bids me welcome to our happy home. and we recognize together that nothing but this religion of jesus christ could have brought this about. i know, from the experiences i have had, that god has forgiven me, the sinner. i had from a child been the most inveterate swearer. since my conversion i have not sworn an oath; i never have taken a drop of beer or anything that might intoxicate me, and i have never had a return of the appetite. and i hope, by god's mercy, that when the last call shall come i shall be found fighting for god; and i feel i want to fall with "my back to the field and my feet to the foe." immediately after my conversion i attached myself to the fifth and walnut-street church; and if you inquire of those who know me, they will tell you that, since i stepped out of the old life into this, i have walked consistently. i have told you a true story. i can think of no more to say. i may add, however, that since i have come into this new life, under god's mercy, i have been the humble instrument of bringing into the light three of my acquaintances, of whose conversion i know personally. i was the only wandering, wayward, prodigal son in my father's family; and there is probably not now a happier household in the state. note.--mr. hocker is at present engaged in business in one of the large clothing houses of louisville. [illustration: s. p. dalton.] samuel p. dalton. i was born in shelbyville, tenn., january , , and am, therefore, thirty-nine years of age. my father and mother were both members of the church; and they tried to bring me up as a christian. i went to sunday-school and church almost all my life. my father has been dead twenty odd years. my mother is still living. as i say, i was brought up a christian, and i was converted when i was about seventeen years of age, while a boy clerking in a brickyard alone. i was licensed soon afterward to exhort in the methodist church. after that i married; i removed to paducah, ky., and i was a member of the church there for several years. after that i lost my wife, broke up housekeeping and went to traveling. i traveled awhile, and then moved to louisville. i lived here seven years. in the meantime, i became indifferent to christianity and formed the habit of moderate drinking; i was a moderate drinker for a couple of years, and gradually i drifted farther and farther away till at last i came to believe in ingersoll's teachings. i formed this idea, that the world was made to enjoy, and that we had a right to enjoy it in any way we wished. i never would go to church and i would avoid meeting any of my church friends as much as possible. i became very unhappy and miserable in my irreligious life, and found that serving the devil was hard. one day while in this unhappy condition my attention was called to a crowd of people on jefferson street, near the courthouse. going over to satisfy my curiosity, i found they were a christian band from the holcombe mission preaching the gospel. of course, i would not go to church, and when i went over there to see what they were doing, i looked upon them as so many cranks; but there was one prayer that touched my heart. it was this: "oh lord, if there are any persons in this audience who are miserable or unhappy on account of their sins, i pray thee to give them no peace until they give their hearts to god." and god answered the prayer in my case. i had no peace until i gave my heart to god and renewed my vows to the church. after hearing this prayer i went home very miserable and unhappy, and fought the feeling for six months afterward--tried to drive it away by drinking; but could not do so. finally one night about midnight, in my room, i gave my heart to god and made new vows. i was again brought back to god on the th of october, . then i went to see brother morris, pastor of the fifth and walnut-street methodist church, and told him what i had done. of course, he met me with open arms, and invited me to the church, and on the following sunday i joined the methodist church. directly afterward mr. morris introduced me to brother holcombe. he said: "brother dalton, here is a man you ought to know and be with. his mission is the place for you to do christian work." he saw, i suppose, that i ought to be doing some good, and he wanted me right there. i went, then, to brother holcombe's mission, and remained with him for about two years, working there almost every night for these two years, keeping door, and doing, to the best of my ability, all the good i could. i can say that my connection with the mission, i have no doubt, has had all to do with strengthening me in the christian life and leading me into usefulness, giving me strength and energy to engage in saving others, and confirming myself in christian character. i have witnessed some of the most remarkable conversions at holcombe's mission that i think ever were known anywhere, and i regard holcombe as one of the most remarkable men on earth for mission work. it seems that he can use more means to put men to thinking than any other man that i know of. i was always fond of going to the theater. after i had become a christian, i had an idea that i could still continue going to theaters, and so stated to brother holcombe and brother alexander. they simply said this: "brother dalton, if you get the love of god in your heart you will find a great deal more pleasure in god's service than you will in attending theaters;" and from my own experience i have found it true. i have no desire to go to theaters; my own pleasure is in christian work; and i do not think a man can make a practice of attending theaters regularly and exert the same influence for the salvation of others as if he did not attend. i believe as firmly as i do anything, that when i was a boy, god called me to some kind of christian work; and i was the most miserable man in the world when i lost my religion. after meeting with brother holcombe, he seemed to be a great wall of protection to me--and he does yet. he has infused into my life more christian zeal than i ever had before. i am of a temperament that is easily led off--easily influenced; and i feel that god, in his wisdom, leads me into christian work in order to save my own soul as well as others. since i have been away from louisville, in cleveland, ohio, in business, i think there has not been a day or night but what i have thought of brother holcombe and the mission. it seems to have such an everlasting effect on me, that at all times i feel a restraining influence which comes out from that mission. if at any time i am tempted to become discouraged, the remembrance of him and the mission work that he is engaged in, seems to be a protection, something that upholds me in my christian faith; and i have learned to love brother holcombe as i never loved any man on earth who was no kin to me. he is a man whom i have watched very closely, and understand thoroughly; and believe he is one of the most honest, earnest and upright christian men that i ever met in all my life, and one who will do more, and endure more, to lead a man to christ than any one i ever knew. the result of that christian experience which i had while associated with brother holcombe has been the means of my seeking an opportunity for christian work in the city of cleveland, ohio, where i am now residing. i joined the franklin-avenue methodist church, of cleveland, a grand body of christians, too, about members; and it seemed that the lord had opened the way into this church to harness me into christian work there. being a man from the south, i hardly expected them to receive me as cordially as they did; but it seemed that, after watching me, and knowing me, when i was not expecting it, i was elected one of the stewards of that church a very short time after joining it; and i have been put on different committees, and have been treated as well as a christian gentleman could possibly desire to be treated, and i have learned to love them. my aim and object in life now is to do all the good i possibly can in this new field of labor. the lord has been very good to me since i reentered his service, and i have found complete happiness and contentment in this christian life, and no man on earth is happier than i when i am doing christian work, and i am quite unhappy when i am not, being fully convinced that the lord has a christian work of some kind for me to engage in, and always being blest in the least effort i make for the salvation of others. god has prospered me in business, too. i have been very successful in my business life, not getting rich, but making a good, honest living, having the confidence and respect of my employers, and the full confidence of those who work for me. i have endeavored, to the best of my ability, to use every means within my power to exert as good an influence over the men in my employ as i possibly can under the circumstances. i correspond with brother holcombe regularly, and have for the last three years, and i very often use his letters in endeavoring to bring others to christ; and frequently in my talks and christian work i take a great pride in referring to the mission in louisville, and believe there has been some good done in simply telling of these remarkable conversions that i have witnessed there, convincing me that the mission is not only exerting a good influence in the city of louisville, but is being felt all over this country. after being away a little over three years, i returned to kentucky on a visit to my mother and family in paducah, and also to brother holcombe and my friends in louisville, and stopped with brother holcombe. of course, he received me with open arms and a hearty welcome, and i had the pleasure of meeting many of those men whom i had known when they were in their sinful lives, bound by the power of strong drink, and it did my heart good to look into their happy, shining faces, sober as they are, and active in business, and engaged in christian work, thereby receiving new strength and stronger faith in the blessed gospel of christ. i am fully persuaded there is no other power under heaven that would save men from these terrible habits except the religion of the lord jesus christ. coming into the presence of brother holcombe seemed to have a peculiar effect upon me. it seemed that i received a new baptism of the holy ghost. i do not know what it is; i know that god's blessing is just as rich and precious in cleveland as it is in louisville, but having been associated with brother holcombe in this christian work, and witnessing such wonderful conversions, and god's blessings having been bestowed upon us so richly, it seems that the place is precious to my soul, and the remembrance of those things so cheers my heart that it gives me new strength and new zeal, and i never could, under any circumstances, in my future life, doubt the reality of the christian religion. colonel moses gibson. my birthplace was bowling green, rappahannock county, virginia. i was born may , . my ancestors were quakers, and my grandfather a hicksite quaker. he married a methodist, and was, consequently, turned out of the church. the family originally came from the north of ireland, opposite glasgow; non-conformists. they came to this country about the time penn did, and got over into loudon county, virginia. on my mother's side i am descended from nathaniel pendleton, who is a brother of edmund pendleton, and aid-de-camp of general green during the revolutionary war. on both sides a considerable number of the men were in both legal and literary pursuits. my mother was raised in the presbyterian church--joined the presbyterian church. i was baptized by the rev. dr. foot, one of the corner-stones of the old school church. my father was never a member of any church until very late in life. my mother had me baptized by the rev. dr. foot when i was six years old. i was always, as a boy, religiously inclined; and never cared for those enjoyments and pleasures that boys indulge in so much, like playing ball, hunting and fishing, tobogganing, coasting and all such kind of sport. i was more of a house boy. i liked to stay at home and read, and was very affectionate in my disposition. very early in life i started out in the world, and when i was fourteen years old i was a store boy; and even with all that, my early training, to a certain extent, kept me out of bad company, although i slept in the store, and was really under no restraint from the time i was about fourteen. i generally, when i found i was too far gone, pulled up stakes and went somewhere else; and in that way i grew up. i very rarely failed to go to church twice every sunday; and i looked upon religion more as a pleasure and a matter of pride for the respectability of it. i liked the church, even after i grew up to be a man. but during the latter part of the war, i became impressed. i believe it was in october, , i professed religion in a little church in new market, virginia; and after the war, i went to baltimore, and united myself there with the episcopal church. i never was confirmed, however, until some time in , here in calvary church in louisville. but i always considered myself a member of the church, went to sunday-school, and attended to my duties very particularly. i never drank anything, and never kept bad company. my association was always the most refined, principally that of ladies. i was fond of society, parties, theaters and things of that kind, which our church never objected to very particularly, but i kept myself in bounds. it was only about or that i became associated with some gentlemen here who were very learned, and who were very earnest men; and we got into the study of the bible in search of truth. we got all the books of modern thought on the subject that we could. we conversed together and talked together a great deal. we got all the modern authors, and studied them very thoroughly; and studied so much, that we finally studied ourselves into infidelity. we studied draper, max muller, ledyard, bishop colenzo and judge strange. judge strange's was the most powerful book, to me, of any. it was a reference to the old testament legends and the miracles of the new. i gradually by the association, and by reading these modern treatises on theology, etc., drifted into that thoughtful infidelity, which is the worst sort in the world, because i had a great respect for religion, but did not believe it. i believed in a god, but could not consistently believe that he was the god of the bible, or that the bible itself could be an inspired book, because so much of it was inconsistent with demands of human reason. following these convictions, i gradually drifted into the most complete infidelity that a man ever did on earth. i did not believe anything, still i did not attempt in any way to have my associates and friends believe that i was an infidel. i never boasted of it, i never made light of religion. i continued to go to church, continued to keep in the church; and when ingersoll was here i would not go to hear him. i was satisfied that ingersoll's teachings were, to a great extent, what i believed; but i did not like to hear a man get up and ridicule my mother's god; and my answer to those who wanted me to go was that i would not listen to any man who tried to ridicule the religion of my mother. about i commenced drinking. i was then about forty-one years old. i got to taking a drink here and there, but do not suppose i took over a hundred drinks during the year. in i got to drinking a little more. in i got to drinking pretty hard. during the year i took rarely less than three, and very often six to eight drinks, a day, and in i was a confirmed, genteel tippler. i rarely took less than three or more than i could stand, but in a genteel way and in a genteel saloon. i sold out my business and traveled seven or eight months for pleasure, and kept up the same thing everywhere. i seldom gambled. i played poker for twenty-five cents ante, and bet on horse races. i never was a profane man except when i was intoxicated; then i would be a little profane. i always remembered more than anything else the early teachings of my mother; they clung to me. i had respect not only for the church but respect for the ministry and respect for christian people. after i commenced drinking i would have given anything in the world if i could have stopped. i would get up in the morning and i would feel a lassitude--feel debilitated. i would not care to eat anything--a biscuit and a cup of coffee--and by eleven o'clock that was all emptied, and my stomach would crave something. probably if i had sat down at a restaurant and made a good dinner it would have helped me; but it was so much easier to get a toddy, and that toddy did away with the craving, and probably in an hour and a half i would want the same thing, and, instead of going to dinner, i would take another drink, and about three o'clock i would want this toning of the stomach again. in the fall of i thought i would call a halt. i quit drinking in october, , of my own will, and i did not drink a drop of anything until july, ; and then i got at it in the same old way. i got to taking a toddy a day, and then i got to taking two, and for two months i was taking a toddy before every meal; and then my stomach got so i did not care to eat--i took the toddy without the dinner; and in the course of the year--probably by the first of october--i had got to drinking all the way from six drinks a day to about a dozen. i kept that up until i got to being genteelly intoxicated--always genteel, but always going to bed being pretty well intoxicated. when i got to bed, i would lie down and sleep; and when i got up in the morning i would have a toddy. about october we sold out our business here. the winter was beginning, and i had no money. i began to be a little reckless; and i commenced drinking the first of october, and i was full until the first of january. i do not think from the first of october, , until the first of january, , there was a day that i did not take six drinks, and generally ten or twelve--pretty stiff drinks, too. i generally drank about two ounces of whisky. it never affected my health at all. it stimulated my mind; it made me bright--exceedingly so--so much so that if there was anybody about the bar-room i was the center of attraction. i could discourse upon any subject; but i was very bright and vivacious. i never was afraid of anything on the face of the earth; i guess there never was a man more fearless than i was when under the influence of whisky; otherwise, i was very timid. i kept that thing up, and on the first of january i was walking down the street. i had gone to bed pretty sober on the night before; and i got up on the morning of the first of january and dressed myself up nicely, intending to go to church. i met a friend of mine, who said he was going around to the office, and asked me to go with him. i said i would. on the way around there he suggested we should have a pint of whisky. i said, "i believe i will quit; i am getting tired of whisky." "well," he said, "let us have a bottle anyway; it is the first of january." "yes," i said, "as it is the first of january." we sat there and drank that, and sent out and got another pint and drank that. after that, i went down to louis roderer's and sat there, and some gentlemen came in and they got to throwing dice for the drinks, and i was invited to join them, and i did; and i took six drinks there with them. the weather was cold; the pavement covered with ice. as long as i stayed in the house, the liquor did not affect me, but as soon as i got out of the door, the cold coming right into contact with it, seemed to throw all the undigested alcohol into my brain. i went back to this friend of mine. he was not there. i walked up market street, and went to my room and went to bed. it was there, i suppose, i mashed my nose and cut my face badly. the servant girl came up stairs and found me lying on the floor. she went down and got help, and they bathed my face, and they both together put me to bed. i had been unconscious from the moment i left the bar-room and was so up to five o'clock the next morning. they put me to bed, and i was totally unconscious until i woke up the next morning at five o'clock. it occurred to me that something was the matter; i felt the wound on my face. i got up and lighted the candle and looked into the glass, and saw that my face was all bruised and bloody. i said, "i suppose i ran against something and mashed my face last night." the next morning i heard this servant girl in the next room. i heard her saying, "poor man, poor man." pretty soon she came in and said, "what in the world is the matter with you? how did you hurt your face?" she then told me the condition they had found me in; and if they had not found me i would have frozen to death. i said, "if this thing is going to work that way on me, i must call a halt." i could not eat anything but some milk. i lay in bed all day. i could not pray. i had got into that frame of mind i could not pray. i did not believe in the efficacy of prayer. i had lost sight of christ as god, but i had great respect for christ as a teacher. i lay there all that day, monday. i was then thoroughly sober; and i said, "i will just see if there is any efficacy in religion, anyhow. i believe i will try it." i had gotten up and dressed myself. i had not eaten any breakfast. i drank some coffee. not having taken anything to eat, i felt pretty weak, and i said, "i believe i will take a drink." i went around to a friend of mine on first street, and he was not there. then i walked around to a saloon on third street. several gentlemen were there that i used to drink with. i stood around there for awhile, hoping that some one would ask me to take a drink, but nobody asked me. finally i came up here to mr. holcombe's and found him here, and we got to talking the matter over. i told him that i was tired of this kind of life. i wanted to take a pledge. "i do not give pledges to anybody to stop drinking." he said there was but one remedy--reliance upon christ; that christ was all--christ and the love of god. if i determined to live up to the teachings of the bible, if i was willing about it, that he believed i would be cured. well, i told him that i thought that my mind was sufficiently prepared; that i had made up my mind to quit if i possibly could; that if the lord wanted to take me the way i was, i had made up my mind to believe; that i had not believed anything for a long time, and that if i did believe i would have to take it by faith, and not by reason. finally, after talking it over, mr. holcombe prayed, and after prayer i said i had better go down to my boarding-house. "no," he said, "you stay with me awhile." i said i could not do that; i had to go down to my boarding-house. he said, "no!" he thought i had better stay awhile; that i could stay with him just the same, as i was around there; that i might get out and get to drinking; that i was not strong enough. i concluded i would stay with him, and i stayed with him for three weeks. i went down stairs to the mission meeting that night, and stood up for prayer. after the prayer, i felt a great deal better--in fact, i felt as much converted as i am now. since then, i have had no trouble. i never had made a prayer in public in my life; i never had talked religion in my life, and i got up a week afterward and preached a sermon an hour long. the second or third night i made a prayer. before that night i had never prayed in public. the only prayer i would say was, "our father who art in heaven." i have never taken a drink since then, and i do not now chew tobacco. i had either a cigar or a chew of tobacco in my mouth all the time during the last year. from the time i was fifteen years old, i used to smoke from three to a dozen cigars a day. my general average of cigars was six a day. i have not chewed tobacco, i have not smoked a cigar, i have not taken a drink of liquor since january. a man talking to me the other day said: "you have the strongest will power on earth. if i had the will power you have, i could do anything i wanted." i said, "i do not think so. i do not believe i ever would have stopped smoking and chewing without the change which has been produced in me through faith and prayer." i will tell you what broke me of chewing tobacco. it was monday that i came here to the mission, the d of january, and on tuesday night i professed conversion. wednesday morning i went out to see mr. minnegerode, and had my name again placed on the church record as a member of calvary church. the first sunday in the month was our communion, and i was very anxious that i should perform all the obligations necessary to fill out the measure of my conversion, and to do it as soon as possible; and i happened to be down in cyrus young's office, and he told me that they were going to have communion. they had quarterly meeting at the broadway methodist church. dr. brewer preached, and there i took my first communion. from there i went over to the house of a friend of mine, who has since died, named lewis. i took dinner with him, and stayed there until half-past three o'clock. well, i took a chew of tobacco going down the street, and when i had just commenced chewing it, i said: "you are a pretty kind of a christian. you have got your mouth full of that stuff that a hog would not eat, and immediately after taking the bread and wine commemorative of the death of christ. it is not right for a christian to take that after having partaken of these emblems." and i spit it out of my mouth. for two or three days it bothered me a great deal--much more than drinking. i never had a desire to take a drink since that monday, although i have been asked repeatedly. i was down at a hotel with two or three gentlemen the other day, and somebody got up and suggested taking a drink. i said, "no; i have joined the church; i am a christian, and i do not believe in christians or church members drinking." shortly after that they offered me a cigar, which i refused. i have now charge of a chapel, and have preached two sermons up there this week, one sunday night and one thursday night. i preached on the prodigal son the other night. i have held seven or eight services up there. i hold forth here at the mission one night in the week--that is tuesday night. i never killed anybody; have never won a thousand dollars at cards; and i never was in the gutter. i was a refined tippler. i was a leader of society all these years, as everybody who knows me is aware. i was prominent in social life and prominent in church life before i was an infidel, previous to , and a member of the vestry of advent church here. i kept up my acquaintances. all the drinking i did was with the tony men, at the high-typed, tony saloons. i am now a communicant of calvary church. i am a lay reader, and, for the present, have charge of campbell-street chapel. i go up there two nights a week. i was going up to campbell street, the other evening, to hold service and i met bishop dudley, who was going up to trinity to confirm a class, and he asked me where i was going. i told him i was going over to campbell street to hold service. he asked me who did my singing. i said i did all the preaching and singing myself. the sum of it is, i felt that mine was a bad case; i had been struggling for two years and a half to rid myself of this appetite, by making to myself all kinds of promises day after day, but was unable to do it; i said to myself, "mine is a bad case--an aggravated case--and it needs heroic treatment. i can say i will quit drinking. i can go and kneel down and feel very well about it; but the question is, whether i would not go back to the same old way of living; and i reflected that i might be renewed or regenerated--if the lord created me, he could re-create me--to the man he had made and created in his own image, if he believed, he could give back his manhood; would re-create him and give him a new birth." i felt that, and felt that i must make a public confession. mine was a bad case, and there was only one way to cure me--a public confession before god and the world, and a prayer for strength to make me live up to that profession--and when i made that profession, i felt relieved. i have had more strength since then. i have not had the least desire for liquor. last night was the first time i ever dreamed about drinking since; and then i dreamed that i wanted a lemonade very badly and went to the saloon to get it; and my conscience pricked me even in my sleep for the desire for a lemonade and going into a saloon to get it. before, i used to dream about going into drinking saloons. instead of having a desire for a drink of whisky, i give you my word and honor, it was nauseating to me. that was not a qualm of conscience, but a physical sensation. it came when i picked up a glass that had had whisky in it. i smelled it, and set it down. and, by the grace of god, i am determined that i have drunk my last drop of intoxicating liquor. [illustration: captain n. b. peck.] captain ben peck. i have had rather an eventful life; but i don't know that it would be interesting to the public. i certainly had less reason to be a bad boy, and worse man, than almost anybody ever had. i was surrounded by the very best christian influences. my father was a prominent minister of the baptist denomination in this state. he died, though, when i was quite young. my mother's people had been christian people very far back. the male members on my father's side were baptist ministers as far as i could trace it. i lost my father when i was about eight years old. my mother tried to raise me right--taught me right; but we were living out here in a little town--hodgensville--and i was wild from the start. i was not worse than any other boys, but i was in all sorts of mischief. i was looked upon as a bad boy, and regarded as no exception to the general rule, that preacher's boys are worse than other boys. when about twelve years old, i joined the church at a revival. i believe i was truly converted, and for a short while i lived up to the duties of my church; but i soon neglected going to church--first i neglected going to prayer-meeting--and i got back so far that i would not be picked out as a christian by any means. the war came up when i was fourteen years old, and i went into it; and the first night out i got to drinking and playing cards; and i suppose i was known as the leader in all the mischief got up in the brigade. i was notorious throughout the command as a reckless, bad boy from the beginning. my mother had been opposed to my going into the army at all; but, if i was going, she would have preferred my serving on the other side. i never shall forget one thing she said to me at starting. when the time came to go, i would not have hesitated to back out if she had given me any encouragement at all. she said, "my son, you have determined; you have cast your lot with the south. i had rather you would do your duty and be a brave soldier." but she continued to pray for me. after the war i came back home, and found that our property was all gone. my mother had sent me to georgetown college before the war, and my idea was to educate myself for a lawyer. when i came home the property was dissipated, and i did not have enough to finish my education; and the question was, what would be the best for me to do. i came here to louisville and went to drumming; met with phenomenal success from the start; went up and up; was hail fellow, well met, with everybody; situations offered me on every side. but i continued to drink and play cards as i did in the army, and gambled all the time, although not a professional gambler. i played against holcombe's bank many a time. i went from bad to worse. i continued to dissipate and gamble; and eleven years ago my health was very much shattered from my excesses, and i became soured with myself and everybody. i was as miserable as a man could be, in that condition, as a matter of course; and a gentleman who had been a comrade in the army with me, and had taken a great deal of interest in me, captain cross, in a conversation with me, insisted that i should go with him to texas, where he was doing a flourishing business. i had tried, time and again, to reform, always in my own strength, and got further away from god all the time. i tried to believe that christ was not the son of god; that he was not inspired; i denied the divinity of christ, although i never denied that there was a supreme ruler. captain cross wanted me to go to texas, thinking that if i got away from the surroundings here, it would help me. accordingly, i went to texas with him, where i made plenty of money. but i soon fell into the old ways, and found gambling houses as numerous there as they are here; i found dance-houses more accessible than the churches. i led a reckless life; and frequently did not hear from my family and friends for months at a time. finally i drank until i drank myself into delirium tremens; tried to kill myself; went and bought morphine. but fortunately for me, they were watching me. that was in paris, texas. i was in bed for two or three weeks; and when i got up from that, i felt like i did not want to stay in texas any longer. i went to st. louis and went into business there; had success as a salesman; had a big trade; and i went there with a determination not to drink any more whisky; but i was there only a few days before i was drinking and playing cards--my old life, in fact. finally i got into a difficulty with a man, shot him and got shot myself. i got into a great deal of trouble on account of it. it cost me a great deal of money and my mother a great deal of sorrow. one time i went to mexico to get out of the way, where i led a reckless life; went into the army; played cards and drank whisky. i neglected business for whisky a great deal of the time. then i came here to louisville, and kept up the same practice; went to cincinnati and did the same thing there. i let up for a little while when i went to new places. when i got back from st. louis, i met steve holcombe and shook hands with him. the first thing he said to me was, "i have changed my life." i had not heard anything of it. i asked him what he was doing. he said he was serving the lord instead of the devil; that he had a little mission somewhere. i did not pay any attention to it. but one sunday i was passing down jefferson street, and there was a crowd on the courthouse steps, and i saw steve talking to them. i listened to him, and after the crowd went away i asked him how he was getting along and he told me. i kept on drinking, however. sometimes i had a situation and sometimes i did not. people did not want me; they did not know when i would be sober. if i got a situation, it was in the busy season. after the busy season was over, they would reduce my salary and give me to understand they wanted me to get a new place. one time i was drunk for a week or ten days, and as i passed i heard them singing in the mission down stairs and went in. i thought that would be a good place to rest. i went back a night or two; and one night mr. holcombe delivered a powerful testimony and mentioned some circumstances that had occurred in his life, at some of which i had been present--i don't know that he had particular reference to me. i went back the next night and went up for prayer. i went again sober; but i did not see my way clear. i went back and took "a nip," as he said. i sank lower and lower; but i still went to that mission. something impelled me, i know now what it was. i got a situation, and was traveling; but whenever i got off a trip the spirit of the lord impelled me to go to that mission. i talked with steve frequently, and promised him that i was going to try and reform; but i did not, and toward the last, in fact, i had almost quit going to the mission. i said, "it is not for me, it is for these other men. i have gone too far." i went in there in november. i was going away on a trip, and the next day i started. i met a friend on the street, and he asked me for a quarter. he wanted to get a drink and lunch. i told him it was about my time to get a drink, too, and we would go and get one together before i left. i was telling him about going to the mission, and he hooted at the idea of a man of my sense going to the mission. about two o'clock in the afternoon i was going down the street to take the boat, and i met another friend, and he certainly was the worst looking case i ever saw. i did not think he would live two weeks. he was a physical wreck, and almost a total mental wreck. after talking to him for a few minutes he asked me where i was going. i told him. and i told him, too, i did not care whether i ever got back or not. i told him it would be a relief to me if i never got back off of that trip. i had a family, saw them occasionally, and sent them money when i could; but i never lived with them. after talking with him a little while, i said my time was up, and asked him if he would not go and take a parting drink with me. we went into the opera house down there and took a drink. i never expected to see my friend alive again, even if i got back from that trip myself. that was the th day of november. i got back here the th day of december. the most of the night of the th i spent down here at the grand central--"made a night of it." the next morning, when i got up, the very first man i saw asked me if i had seen a certain friend of mine. i told him, "no." he said: "you would not know him." i said: "what is the matter with him?" he said: "he is reformed; he is a christian, and he looks twenty years younger than you ever saw him." i said: "you are a liar." he said: "i am not a liar. you won't know him. he looks like a gentleman." i said: "it is pretty funny if he can look like a gentleman in this short time." i had not gone another square before some one asked me if i had seen another friend of mine. i said: "no." "well," he said, "you ought to see him. he has quit drinking, and looks like he used to look." i said "what is the matter with him?" he said: "he has joined the church." i took a drink, and thought about this thing; went down to the store, and knocked around there all day long, thinking about those two men. but here i was, drunk and wretched and trying to get sober, but could not. somebody met me about four o'clock in the evening, and asked: "where are you going?" i said: "i am going around here to get a drink." he said: "how are you going to drink when your partners have quit drinking?" i asked him where they could be found; that i wanted to take a look at them. he told me that i could find them at the mission. i concluded i would come up to the mission, and did so, pretty full; and, honestly, i would not have known either of these men on the street. i never saw such a transformation as in them. after the services were over they came up and shook hands with me, and treated me as kindly as they used to do when we were drinking together. and i made up my mind if christ could save them, i wanted some of it for myself. i came to the mission, and stood up for prayers all the time, but came half drunk for four or five nights, but still with the determination to have salvation if it was to be found; but the more i came the darker the way grew. i think (on the th of december) mrs. clark came and talked to me, and mr. atmore came and talked to me, i was sober--comparatively so. i told them that i had given up all hope; that i had sinned away my day of grace, and there was no hope for me. they cheered me, and i promised them i would pray that night. i went out of the mission and got blind, staving drunk; was hardly able to get up stairs to my bed at eleven o'clock, at night. i did it out of despair. the doctors had told me before that unless i quit drinking whisky i would go dead. i was tired of life, but afraid to commit suicide. i concluded that the sooner i died, the better. i got up at three o'clock in the morning to come down stairs and get a drink. the barkeeper was absent from his bar, and i concluded that i would wash myself before i took a drink. i said to myself while i was washing: "you promised yourself you would not drink, and the very first night you get drunk, and get up in the morning to take another drink, and if you take it you will be drunk before night." i concluded i would stop. i took a seat by the stove, and very soon the barkeeper came back. he looked at me and said: "are you broke this morning, or too stingy to drink, or what is the matter?" he added: "come on. if you are too stingy to take a drink yourself, take one with me." i was just dying for a drink. i was shaking--suffering physically and mentally. i got up two or three times to go to that bar to take a drink, but i argued to myself: "if you can not keep from taking a drink, you had better go up stairs and kill yourself." after awhile the boys commenced dropping in, and, as was the custom, said: "come on, peck, and take a drink." i told them, "no; i have quit." i went around to the mission that night, and went up to the front. i had a talk with some christian people there about the matter, and talked with one of my converted friends. he said there was only one way to do--to give myself to god. i went to bed immediately after i left. i could not sleep. i continued to pray until somewhere along about three o'clock in the morning of the d of january; and the way was made clear for me. i don't know that there was any particular vision. i made up my mind that i would go and make my arrangements to join the church, and ask god's direction from that time on, and to lead another life--lead a christian life as much as it is possible for a sinful mortal like me to do. i came up to the mission that night, and told sister clark and brother holcombe that i was as happy as i could be; i had found what i was seeking for, and i felt that i could trust god. the next wednesday night i went down to the fourth and walnut-street baptist church, and put myself under the care of the church. since that time i have been leading a different life. i am in perfect peace and rest. everything, of course, has not gone to suit me exactly; but i always have been able to say: "i know it is for the best." my faith grows stronger and my future brighter day by day. i think these people who have been moral and religious all of their lives can not enjoy religion like a hard customer, as i was--if they do, they do not show it. friends and relatives who had forsaken and avoided me came to me at once and upheld and encouraged me. business came to me without seeking it. i was encouraged on every hand. people that i thought despised me, i found did not. i had every encouragement, so far as this life is concerned, and i am, to-day, in a better fix, a long ways, than i have been for years. my appetite for whisky has troubled me three or four times since i came to christ, but all i have to do is to get down on my knees, and ask for strength to resist it. and before i get through praying i forget about it. i have confidence that god will keep me to the end, and my confidence grows stronger every day. things that were a great trial to me at first are no longer so. a very remarkable thing in my case is, that the thing that i expected to give me the most trouble has given me the least. i was certainly one of the most profane men that ever lived, and i was always afraid that the sin that i would have to guard against most would be profanity. but, if i have ever sworn an oath, it has been unconsciously, and i do not have to think about it--i do not have to guard against it; it horrifies me to hear a man swear now. i thought i could fight whisky easier than i could that. strange to say, it has not bothered me in the least, but whisky has, on three or four occasions. a craving came on me yesterday. it was a terrible, miserable, bleak, rainy day. i was sitting in my room, writing, and all at once i concluded that i must have a stimulant. i have not recovered, and will not for months, from the effects of whisky. i said: "it is a cold, damp, miserable day. go up there to the drug-store and get some port wine as a medicine. do not go into a bar-room. there will be no harm in going there to get a little port wine. bring it into your room. it will be the best thing you can do." i got up and put on my overcoat and my overshoes, and it struck me that it would not be the best thing for me; and i got down on my knees and prayed to god, and before i got through praying i forgot all about it. the devil had tempted me previously, but he put it that day in the shape of the port wine. just about ten days after i joined the church, i was in the phoenix hotel. a friend of mine, a man that i had gambled and drunk with all my life, or at least, for a number of years, said to me, "you are not drinking much from the way you look." i said, "no, i am not." he said he thought he would beckon me out, because he did not like to make that statement before the crowd, and had i been drinking as i did the last time he saw me, he would not have asked me. he wanted me to come in and take a drink with him. i said whisky had once got the upper hand of me, and he must excuse me. he said he knew i was a man, and could take a drink without getting drunk, and he wanted me to take it socially. i told him that might all be true. i might take the drink without getting drunk, and i might take it without its being a sin in his sight, or in the sight of other people; but that i had promised god that i would follow him all my life, and walk in the way he wanted me to go; that i had joined the church, and our church rules forbade drinking. he then begged my pardon, with tears in his eyes, for having asked me, and bade me god speed. [illustration: j. c. wilson.] james c. wilson. i started out in gambling during the war--about . that was in new york state. i was born and raised there. i will be forty-five years of age the next eighth of july. i started out in new york in . my father kept a shoe store there then. he was pretty well to do. having money, i cared nothing about getting any kind of business. i got in with a man by the name of captain brown, who was one of the principal gamblers there; and i began to be expert in short cards at first. from there i went into the army during the war, and stayed there until , and then went to texas. at austin, texas, i got into trouble in , on account of my gambling. i believe it was about the th of january. myself and a man by the name of ryan had been playing together, and i had beaten him, which made him mad. he called me very insulting names. he slapped me and hit me, and i drew my pistol on him. i first struck him once and then shot him, and killed him instantly. i was put in jail. i had not been there long and was a stranger. the thing occurred down near the colorado river. a mob assembled, and came down with ropes to hang me. but the sheriff and his posse, in order to save me, carried me out of the city, and ran me up to san antonio. i stayed in jail six months and was tried; but there was nothing done with me--the witnesses testified that i was justified in doing what i did. after that i went to rochester, new york, and from there to toronto, canada. i made my living by gambling; and, of course, gambled in all these places. i got broke very often, but always managed to get hold of a stake. i went from canada back to new york city; and used to play on the falls steamers--fisk's boats. i stayed there until i came to louisville in , when i went into the army again. i was here in the taylor barracks with general custer. i went out west with him, and was there discharged from the army, and went to gambling at bismarck, dakota. when i had got out of the army, i had made about six thousand dollars, and went to st. paul, and from there to chicago. i gambled there for awhile, and was unsuccessful; and from there i came to louisville again. i have been here since , i believe. shortly after i commenced gambling here, the gambling houses were closed, but were re-opened in again, and i commenced gambling again, opening at the richmond, the house on the south-west corner of fifth and market streets. brother holcombe before that, i think, was interested in the richmond. that was the last house i dealt in, or worked in, until i opened for myself, which was at " " fifth street, between main and market. i was very unsuccessful there; had men working for me who did not attend to their business. during all this time i had a wife and family, whom i really loved but whom i neglected and allowed to suffer greatly through my passion for gambling, the uncertainty of making a living and my wanderings from place to place. about this time i used to think of holcombe; and we gamblers used to remark among ourselves how it was that he had become religious. i used to get to studying to myself how he got along, and ask myself how a man could be a christian who had been a gambler so long as he had. about this time i met dr. jno. b. richardson and mr. samuel b. richardson. they talked with me in regard to swearing and gambling and the life i was leading. they influenced me as best they could and advised me to see brother holcombe, and together with brother holcombe they watched over my spiritual condition for a couple of years. i had become disgusted with the life i was leading; and came to brother holcombe for advice. i had quit " " and was broke. i had some money when i quit, and bought the house which i am living in yet. i said to brother holcombe: "i am getting tired of this infernal gambling. how can i quit it? show me something to do. how can i get out of this life?" he said, "brother wilson, come up stairs." he talked with me and prayed with me. he said, "do not be discouraged. take my advice. the first thing you do, commit yourself; take a stand and after that every night, and during the day, ask god for strength and help, and come to this mission and," he said, "i will help you to get something to do in every way i can." i never will forget the first night i got down on my knees and prayed. i laughed at myself, which showed how the devil was after me to lead me back to my old life. i actually laughed to think i was trying to pray in earnest. i came to the mission and told steve. brother holcombe said, "keep on in that way, anyhow. pray to god and ask for strength all the time. keep away from gamblers and bad company, and do not mix with them," and i did so--i took his advice, and i began to get strength from almighty god; he was helping me; he opened a way for me, though everything was new to me for awhile. when i least expected it, i got a situation with the louisville city railway company, which i still hold. i am happy and my family are happy, and all my surroundings are good; and i know, with the help of god, i will never touch a card again. if we trust in god, i know we are kept from all temptation. when any temptation comes to me, i always look to god for help; and the help comes as naturally as my pay does when pay-day comes. i feel that the number of friends i have made, and everything i have, i owe to our saviour, the lord jesus christ, and brother holcombe; and i trust i may be kept and continue in the life i am leading. i am happy and contented and all my surroundings are happy; and i hope all good people will pray for me that i may continue the life i am now leading. i belong to the first presbyterian church, dr. witherspoon's church, and i am sorry i can not attend more regularly. my business occupies me so constantly that i can not get away. i get only a dollar and a half a day. when i was a gambler, some months i would make three or four thousand dollars, and sometimes five thousand dollars; and some months i believe i have made more than that, so far as that is concerned; but a gambler, you know, has his ups and downs, i have been so hard up that i have been tempted to commit murder for money. in texas i looked for a man to kill him for his money, but when i found him i did not have the heart to do it. it seemed as if i could not use my hands. it would take me from now until to-morrow morning to tell all of my experiences. i have been in europe, california, old and new mexico, and i believe that god was with me even when i was wicked. i have a bad temper to this day, but, by god's grace, i can control it. my parents were church members--presbyterians, and i was raised in the church. my father died when i was fifteen years old, and my mother died when i was eight years old. if i had been put to hard work, and had had something to do, it might have been different with me; but my father was well-to-do, and i had too much money to spend. my parents tried to give me a good education, and i went to school; but when i got to gambling i could not get anything in my head but cards. i did not care for anything else. but, thank god, it is now just the reverse; it just gives me the chills to think of playing cards. three years ago, if a man had told me that i would quit gambling, i would have told him that he was crazy. i thank god and brother holcombe for what has been done for me. i am truly thankful there was such a man. i know if it had not been for him i would have been right in hell to-day. if i had not been helped and lifted up, just like a little child in the new life, i think i would to-day be in hell. i never will forget brother holcombe. i drank liquor, but was not a regular drunkard, because it made me too sick. i used to drink and get drunk, but i would get so sick i could not stand it. the habit was there, but the constitution could not endure it. i have no trouble now; i am perfectly happy; i do not know what trouble is any more. of course, we all have ups and downs; we can not have everything our own way; but i praise god and brother holcombe that i am able to bear them. you must show that you are willing for the lord to help you before he will do so. it is like a man teaching his children; if the child keeps shoving him off, the parent can not help the child, and so it is with god. but when a man has seen and felt the effects of sin, and his pride is broken down so that he is willing, then god will help him and save him, no matter how far he has gone in wickedness. note.--mr. wilson is employed by the louisville city railway company, at the corner of eighteenth and chestnut streets, where, day after day, for years, he has faithfully discharged his duties, and he has the respect and esteem of his employers and of all who know him. [illustration: wm. bierly.] william bierly. i am thirty-two years of age. i was born at louisville in . my father was a catholic then, but he is not now. my mother died when i was so small that i don't know what she was. i will tell you how it was: my mother died when i was quite young, my father went into the war, and i was kicked and cuffed about from one place to another, here and there, till i had no respect for myself, and felt that i was nobody. i was with my father in the soldiers' hospital for a long time. he was nurse in the soldiers' hospital. at this time i would drink whisky whenever i could get it, which appetite did not leave me until i was about eighteen years old. when i was about eleven years old i got to being bad--got to stealing. my father was a strictly honest man himself, and my pilfering was abhorrent to him; so he had me put in the house of refuge when i was eleven years old. i was to remain in the house of refuge until i was twenty-one years old, but i got out before i was twenty-one. when i was nineteen i got to be a guard there. but i got to misbehaving, and got discharged from there before i was twenty-one. when i came out of the house of refuge i boarded around at different places, first at one place and then another; and sometimes i had no place to board at all, and sometimes i could almost lie down on the ground and eat grass. i did not go to my father's, but knocked about from one place to another. i got to stealing again, and i kept that up all the time. i never had a desire to do anything else wrong, but i always had the desire to steal; and while a boy i would steal anything i came across. i would go down to the river and steal a bag of peanuts, or burst in the head of a barrel of apples and take apples out--many a time have i done that. i worked in a tobacco shop for awhile, and would steal tobacco--i would steal anything. i never was arrested when i was a boy. the first time i ever was arrested i was sent to the work-house, and mr. steve holcombe got me out. after i got out of the work-house i attended the mission, and there was a good religious impression made on me. that was the first time i ever had any religious impression. i lived pretty straight for awhile, and after awhile my old desire to steal came back on me. thank the lord it does not bother me any more now, i was watching at the louisville exposition during the first year of the exposition, , and i was boarding where there were some street car drivers boarding, and they had all their money boxes there at the boarding house. i was tempted to take a few of their boxes, and i did take two of them. i was arrested for it, tried, convicted and sentenced to six years in the penitentiary. while i was in the penitentiary it seemed that everything turned around the other way with me; it seemed like i had got enough of it. i saw so many bad men there, i got disgusted. it seemed to me if ever i got out and got my liberty any more, i would try to do right if it took my head off. during the time--two years--that i was in the penitentiary, i kept up a correspondence all the time with mr. holcombe; and mr. holcombe's christian letters touched my heart, and i made up my mind by the grace of god i would lead a christian life in the future. at the expiration of about two years, mr. holcombe, to my great surprise and delight, brought me a pardon from governor knott. since i have been out of the penitentiary i have been leading a christian life, and have had no inclination to steal. i have been at work for hegan brothers, as engineer and fireman, for some time, have got married to a sweet girl, and am now living happily in the lord; and i shall never cease to be grateful to god and mr. holcombe. i never go to sleep at night without thanking the lord--and my wife joins me in it. [illustration: mac. pittman.] captain mac pittman. i was born in baltimore in . my ancestors were driven away from arcadia by the english, on account of their roman catholic proclivities. i was educated at two catholic colleges, st. mary's, at baltimore; and st. mary's at wilmington, delaware. at eighteen years of age, on account of the tyranny of my father, i ran away from home, and shipped in the united states navy as a common sailor. i went around to san francisco, and there joined "the gray-eyed man of destiny," general walker. i joined his expedition in september, , and arrived in nicaragua in october, the following month--the third day of october. there was a civil war then in progress in nicaragua; and the pretense of this expedition was that we were hired by one of the parties to take part in it. walker was to furnish three hundred americans, who were to get one hundred dollars a month and five hundred acres of land, and their clothes and rations, of course. when i first arrived there, we were to escort specie trains across the isthmus--there are but twelve miles of land from water to water--from san juan del sur to virgin bay. i was one of the guard over the celebrated state prisoners, general coral and the secretary of war, whose name i forget, who were both executed. i was inside of the seventieth man who joined this expedition; when i joined him, walker had but sixty men. the re-enforcements that came over made just one hundred men. he had sixty men, i think, and we numbered forty. with this one hundred men we took the city of grenada, which had a population of twelve thousand, on the morning of october , . a small division of men was sent to the town of leon on the pacific coast. the natives of that section of the country were all in favor of walker; that part--the western part--is the democratic part of the country. on our return to grenada, on the th day of april, , we went into the battle of rivas, after marching sixty-five miles. we fought from eight o'clock in the morning until two the next morning, by the flash of guns. i lost my arm that morning; and was promoted from the rank of sergeant to that of first lieutenant for taking a cannon in advance of the army. i returned to grenada, and lay there for several months, and then returned to america. i went back with the re-enforcements from new york in the following august. in october, , i resigned, and came back to america. at the breaking out of the civil war, on the first call for troops, i refused a commission in the federal army, and joined the confederate forces. in we formed the first maryland regiment. the last six months of the war i spent as a prisoner in fort delaware, charged with the murder of the eleven men who were killed in baltimore during the riot, on the th of april, . i was court-martialed in washington city, in the latter part of , and was sent in irons to fort delaware, and remained there until may, , when i was released. from fort delaware i went to new york, and from there went to virginia, where i married the great granddaughter of the illustrious patriot, patrick henry, at danville. in january, , i migrated to texas, where i spent the little patrimony my grandfather had given me. when i left there, i took the position of commercial and marine editor of the savannah _news_. i never had given a thought to religion or my hereafter before this time. to illustrate this: when they amputated my arm, they asked me distinctly if i had any religion. they told me afterward they expected me to die. i said: "yes, i have been raised a catholic." they wanted to send for a priest. i said: "no, i do not want you to send for a priest." they asked me why? "well," i said, "as i have lived, thus will i die; i don't have much faith in the hereafter business." i did not have much faith in hell, i meant. i was interested, directly and indirectly, in several gambling establishments, and my proclivities were in that direction. the passion of gambling controlled me to such an extent that i was capable of all sins and crimes to indulge in it. it was one day up, one day down; one day with plenty, another day without a cent. i continued in this wild, reckless career, until fate turned my footsteps toward the city of louisville. for it was fate, sure enough, or i don't know what it was. i was sitting one sunday in front of the old willard hotel, steve holcombe was preaching that sunday on the courthouse steps. his remarks were such as to elicit my closest attention; so impressive were they that he seemed to picture before me a panorama of my whole life, in referring to his own career. when he got through with his sermon, i walked up to him, and said: "mr. holcombe, you are the first man that i ever heard in my life who impressed me with the importance of preparing for death and meeting god." i then commenced attending the mission, on jefferson street, near fifth, daily. i was there nearly every day. i then went south, to new orleans, and fell from grace again--commenced going through the same old routine--gambling, drinking, spreeing. in fact, i was a fearful periodical spreer; if i took one drink, i had to keep drinking for a month. as long as i kept away from it i was all right. i was very abusive when i was drinking; i would knock a man down with a club. i have been arrested, i guess, fifty times for fighting and drunken brawls. from new orleans i again came back to louisville, the th of august a year ago, still going on in the same reckless manner, getting drunk, and being drunk, as usual, a week at a time--sometimes a month; in fact, i lived in bar-rooms here. one night, while mr. murphy was here--i do not recollect the night, but at one of mr. murphy's meetings--he appealed to us all to try and reform and be sober men. i met mr. werne and miles turpin there, and while there, mr. werne asked me if i did not intend to reform, or something like that--that was the substance of the conversation of himself and his wife with me--and he told me that miles turpin had reformed. i said: "if miles turpin has reformed, i can, too. from this day henceforth i will be a sober man." and i signed the murphy pledge a short time afterward, and i have not taken anything intoxicating from that day to this. mr. werne then asked me to come up to the mission, and i have not missed attending this mission but three nights since, and the benefits that i have derived--the satisfaction, the happiness of mind, the contentment of spirit--i would not exchange for my old life for anything in the world. i mean i would not exchange my present life for the old one for any earthly consideration. i attribute this reformation to the strong personal interest that mr. holcombe has taken in my welfare, and if he does not save but one soul, as he says, it would pay him for all the trouble he has gone through within the last ten years or more. the two following letters, though in the nature of testimonies, are from men of high standing in the community, who preferred, on account of others, not to give their testimonies in the form in which the foregoing are given: louisville, ky., july , . _rev. gross alexander_: my dear brother--yours of st is just received. i can not see how a sketch of my life can do "the life of brother holcombe" any good. as i understand it, you are writing the life and conversion of steve holcombe and not of others. my past history is sufficiently sad and regretful without having it paraded before the public in book form. i am far from being proud of it. i am exceedingly anxious it should sink into the shades of forgetfulness. having marked out a new and brighter life, i am only too glad to let "the dead past bury its dead." most sincerely, ---- ----. * * * * * louisville, ky., august , . _dear brother alexander_: your kind letter was received several days ago, but i have delayed answering, in the expectation of seeing you here in person. i am now anxious for the successful issue of the book, on account of the great moral influence it will have upon all classes of the community. but i can not consent to what you propose. i am endeavoring every day to blot out and forget the dark and cloudy past of my life, keeping always a bright future in view. there are dark and painful episodes in the life of every man and though _he_ may be willing to expose them to the eyes of the public, there are those who are bound to him by the ties of blood and relationship, who would blush at the recital. this is the position i occupy. i hope to see you here soon. yours truly, ---- ----. [illustration: a night meeting--mr. holcombe preaching.] sermons. mark : . "the kingdom of god is at hand. repent and believe the gospel." verse says, the lord jesus came into galilee preaching; and this was the announcement which he made, namely, that the kingdom of god was at hand and they were to enter it by repentance and faith. the kingdom was brought to them; they did not have to go and search for it. it was brought to them, opened for them and they were _urged_ to go in and become members of it. and so it is now. god's messengers are sent everywhere to find sinners, and when they are found, to say to them: "ho! everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters and drink, come buy and eat without money and without price" (isaiah ), and to cry, "all things are now ready; come ye, therefore, to the feast." and so it is to-day, god sends the same message of good news, of glad tidings to you--even to you. the kingdom of god is _here--here to-day and now_; and if you _will_, you may enter it and be saved. but what are men told to do in order that they may enter? how are they to enter? . they are to _repent_. and what is it to repent? some think that great sorrow of heart is a necessary part of repentance; and that tears and groans of agony must be a part of every repentance that is genuine, and they think that unless we feel deeply and keenly the baseness of our ingratitude to god we are not truly penitent. now, it is true that some people have _all these_ marks of repentance, and it is very well to have them, but some men can not have them and never can get them. so that if all men are commanded to repent and can repent, these things are not an essential part of true repentance. to repent, then, is to turn unto god with the feeling that sin is wrong, and that, if we do not get rid of it, it will ruin us; and with the resolution and hope, by the help of god, to keep from sin and to live for him during the rest of our lives. and if our repentance is genuine, we _will_ leave off sin and practice righteousness. it will show itself by its _fruits_. pretending or professing to repent without turning away from our sins and abandoning them is, as some one has said, like trying to pump the water out of a boat without stopping the leaks. if you have sorrow and regrets and tears, they are all right; but the _main thing_ is to have such a feeling concerning sin as to turn _forever_ away from it to god and to a life of righteousness. and if your repentance is genuine, you will not wait until you are converted before you begin to leave off all sin and to do all the good of every kind in your power. no; you will begin _at once and keep it up_, and the longer you keep at it the more you will feel that you must go on with it. . but there is another thing to be done. the lord says: "repent and _believe_ the gospel." so you are to _believe_. you are to believe that god _does_ accept you now through jesus christ _just because he says_ he accepts and saves those who believe in his son. you may not receive the evidence of acceptance _at once_ and so you are to hold on by faith till he does give you the evidence of your acceptance, even the witness of his spirit that your sins are forgiven and you made a child of god. you must not let the difficulty of believing without feeling keep you back from believing and you must not let the remembrance of your great sins keep you from believing. poor, unhappy men, you who are bruised and sore on account of your sins, i beg you cease from your evil ways. why will you die? "what fearful thing is there in heaven which makes you flee from that world? what fascinating object in hell, that excites such frenzied exertion to break every band, and overleap every bound, and force your way downward to the chambers of death?" stop, i beseech you, and repent, and jesus christ shall blot out your sins, and remember your transgressions no more. stop, and the host who follow your steps shall turn, and take hold on the path of life. stop, and the wide waste of sin shall cease, and the song of the angels shall be heard again, "glory to god in the highest; on earth, peace, good will to men." stop, and instead of wailing with the lost, you shall join the multitude which no man can number, in the ascription of blessing and honor, and glory, and power, to him that sitteth on the throne, and to the lamb forever and forever. the kingdom of god is here to-night. will you come in? "come humble sinner in whose breast," etc. come, angels invite you, we invite you, and, best of all, christ invites you. o, do not, by your own actions, bar this door forever against your immortal soul. what a fearful thing it will be to wake up in eternity to find this door, which to-day hangs wide open, barred against you and hung with crape. o, how fearful will be those words, too late! too late! all is lost. "just as i am, without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me, and that thou bid'st me come to thee, o! lamb of god i come. "just as i am, tho' tossed about, with many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without, o! lamb of god i come." john iii: "for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." many of the glorious truths of the gospel are both above the conception of man and altogether contrary to what his unrenewed nature would desire to publish. heathen writers could tell of the cruelty and vengeful wrath of their imaginary gods. they could tell of deeds of daring, the exploits of hercules, hector, �neas and others; but it was foreign to their nature to write: "god so loved the world as to give his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." . the gospel is glad tidings. it is the news that god is reconciled and wants to be at peace with man. is this not good news? have you never heard good news that made your heart leap for joy? well, this is better news than any you have ever heard. god, not angry with you, but loving you, so as, at a great sacrifice, to make a way for the salvation of the world. . what was that sacrifice? it was the gift of his own son. think of it, oh sinner! god consenteth to give up his son, to leave his glory and come as a stranger into the world, and to be born in great poverty, and with all the conditions of us poor mortals. think of god looking down on jesus, his son, living this poor earthly life, here among strangers who did not recognize his divinity--nay, who became jealous of him, and persecuted him trying to kill him; and at last, after unheard-of tortures inflicted upon him, did kill him. now, think of god giving up his son to endure all this, and watching all this lonely and misunderstood and persecuted life of his only begotten son, watching it and enduring it for thirty-three years, and then ask yourself how much god sacrificed to show his love for us sinners. have you a son? if you have, don't you know how it stings you deeper for a man to mistreat or strike him than yourself? if a man should beat my little pearl it would be harder for me to bear than anything, and yet this is what god endured for long years to show his love for you and me. think of the arrest of jesus, his being tied, handcuffed, beaten more than once with fearful lashes, knocked in the face, spit on, and then nailed with spikes to a cross with thieves, and think of god looking at all this while it was going on, and you have some idea of what it means when it says god _gave_ his only begotten son. . and the way to get this friendship of god and profit by this love is merely to _believe_ with all your heart on jesus. it is hard to believe that god loves, really loves, such sinners as you are, and yet i am a living witness that he does; for i was as bad as any of you, and if god did not love me and take hold of me and save me, then i don't know what has happened to me, certain. so you must _believe_ it, even if it is hard to believe it. . but this glad tidings is for you and you and you--for _every one of you_. it is for _whosoever_, and that means everybody--everybody. a certain believing man in england said, "i rather it would _be whosoever_ than to have my name there. for if my name was there, i could say there might be another man of my name in the world, but when it says _whosoever, i know it includes me_." . it is to save us from _perishing_. oh, what an awful word is that, and what an awful thing it must be to perish. you have a taste of it now in your sins, and their saddening, darkening, hardening effect on you. you once had tender consciences. you once loved things and people that were pure and good and true, and you loved a christian mother, wife, father or sister; but sin has so hardened you, that you care for none of these things now. is it not so? well, this is a little taste of what it is to finally and forever _perish_. but christ was given that you might _not perish_. what, can christ save me from my hardness of heart, from my black sins, from my uncleanness and debauchery, and from my awful darkness of mind and conscience? yes; he can, glory to his name. i am a living witness. he has saved me. he can save others like me from all these awful effects of sin, even after they have lived in it for scores of years, as i did. yes, and he saves from that awful _perishing_ which comes after this little, short life is over, whatever it is. yes; jesus can shut and bar the door of hell, and no soul can enter there who believes in him and lives for him. . but he not only saves from perishing, he gives them eternal _life_, what does that mean? oh, i know not--only i know it means life forever without death or decay or sickness or pain or sorrow or weakness or tiredness or parting or fear or anxiety. but what else it means i know not. this eternal life, this life forever in heaven, i expect--i fully expect--to get, though i was a poor gambler and swearer and adulterer, and all that i could be that was sinful, for forty years. yes; i expect to get it. i know i am on my way thither, though i am not perfect. won't you come and go with us? oh, won't you come? titus ii: . "who gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works." this verse contains a comprehensive statement of the gospel in few words. let us ask god that his holy spirit may give us wisdom and insight to understand and profit by what we are here told. in the first place, we are told that the ground of our salvation is through the self-surrender of himself by jesus, the son of god. we saw, in a passage of scripture a week or two ago, how great the condescension of jesus christ was. though he was equal with god, yet he took upon himself the form of a servant; and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto death--the death of the cross. our text now teaches us what this was for. "he gave himself _for us_." now, i will ask you, could god show his concern for us in a more striking and convincing way than in the _giving_ of his son to ignominy and death? could jesus, the son of god, show his love for men in any more convincing way than in _giving himself_ for their recovery and salvation? then, surely we ought to lay aside our habitual way of thinking of god as our enemy, and think of him as our best friend. for no human friend ever did for us what god has done for us. and if we judge of one's love for us by the sacrifices he makes for us, then must we give the crown to jesus, who was god manifest in the flesh. he bore our sins; he would bear our burdens, if we would throw them on him; he would fill us with his spirit, and with power, if we would trust him and believe his promise. but did he give himself for us that we might remain _in sin_, and yet not be punished? this is what the universalists say. but no! he gave himself for us that he might redeem us _from_ iniquity, and from _all_ iniquity at that. he was manifested to deliver us from the _guilt_ of our past sins; and, second, to deliver us from the dominion and power of sin, that being free from sin, we might live unto god. and that man who thinks he has been pardoned for past sins is mistaken, unless he also has been saved from the _power_ of sin, so as no longer to be led captive by the devil. let not what i say discourage anybody. if you have not been saved from the power of evil and of evil habits, you may be saved, and that here and now. the fact is, many of us are so selfish, we just want to be delivered from the danger, but not from the practice, of sin. some of us enjoy sin. if some who are here could have _all_ desire for liquor utterly taken away by raising a hand, they would, perhaps, not raise a hand, because they love liquor too well. if some could be utterly and forever freed from lust by bowing their heads, they would not be willing to bow their heads, because they find so much pleasure in lust and in lewd thoughts, feelings and acts, that they do not _desire_ to be freed from that which gives them this low, animal pleasure. and yet these same men will profess to have great desires to be cleansed from their sins. but, if you are willing, christ is ready and able to deliver you from all these base and beastly passions and habits. what do you say? do you want to be redeemed from all iniquity to-night? and when thus delivered from all iniquity, your soul being pure will desire nothing but to do good, and to bring other poor soiled and enslaved souls into the same liberty and purity. since my conversion i have had no other desire and no other care but to do good and save others. and that is what the text says: "zealous of good works." now, you who have been saved here, i want to ask you: what are you doing for others? if you do _not_ abound in good works, and do not try to save others, it will be difficult or _impossible_ to keep yourself saved. jesus said: "every branch that beareth not fruit he taketh away."--john xv: . and you will find your supply of grace running short and your faith growing weak and tottering, if you do not make it a point and business to do good to others--to their bodies and their souls. what do you say? has anybody else heard from your lips of your great blessing and salvation? do you tell your family and your friends about it? do you tell others of their sins and their danger? do you pray for others? do you give your time (part of it at least) and your money in doing good to others? if you do, you will find your own cup gets fuller, your own faith stronger, your own heart more joyful. it is god's law and god's plan that you should give out to others. in so doing he will increase your own supply. do you feel your weakness? it is right you should do so. but do the work, speak the word, and leave it to god who giveth the increase, and it shall abound to the salvation of others, the joy of your heart, and the glory of his blessed name. isaiah lv: - . "seek ye the lord while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near. let the wicked man forsake his way and let him return unto the lord and he will abundantly pardon." if a father were to write a letter to a dissipated and rebellious son, far away from home, to persuade him to return, and to assure him of a cordial welcome, he could hardly fill it fuller of expressions of tenderness and love, expressions to inspire confidence, than the bible is of such expressions from the great god. this chapter contains an invitation to seek god, and a precious promise of forgiveness to any who will do so. . _seek_ ye the lord. now, you know what it means when it says _seek_. you know what it means when a man says he is seeking employment. he goes from place to place, from man to man, and he does this from day to day, and from week to week if he does not succeed; and the reason is, there is a _necessity_ upon him. he _must_ have employment, or himself and family are without bread, without clothing, without shelter. so when we talk about a man seeking the lord, we mean that he searches diligently for him, and from day to day, and from week to week, because there is something worse than starvation to suffer if he does not find god. i tell you when a man has soul-hunger, it is worse than body-hunger if he does not find god. when a man is sick of sin and feels his loneliness and orphanage, and that he is without god and without hope in the world, and that he dare not go into eternity in his condition of guilt and uncleanness, it is more fearful than hunger of the body, and it will make him seek for god with all his soul. _how_ am i to seek god? you say. well, seek him by prayer. "call upon him," as the text says. "ask and it shall be given you." go off to yourself. shut out everybody. be entirely alone. then get down upon your knees and call upon god. plead his promises. tell him you have heard that he receives and saves sinners, and that you are a sinner, and that you do not mean to let him go until he blesses you. seek him by reading good, religious books and papers, and especially the bible; and don't read any other sort of reading unless it is necessary till you find him. keep your mind on god all the time. seek him by going with good, christian people, pious, godly men and women who walk with god, no matter what their name or denomination may be. if you say you don't know where to find such, come to our mission rooms, to the walnut-street church, to all our meetings, preaching, prayer-meeting, sunday-school, class-meetings, ask us questions, use us in any way we can help you to find god. seeking him by putting out of the way those things which are _hindrances_. the text refers to this. it says, "let the wicked forsake his ways and the unrighteous man his thoughts and thus let him return unto god." the forsaking of sin is the main feature of what we call _repentance_. you can not come to god unless you come giving up your sins entirely or crying to god for help to give them up. you can, by god's grace, give up all your sins and all your sinful and slavish habits. a proof of this is my own deliverance from evil habits, as whisky, tobacco and evil passions, as lewdness, licentiousness. . you must give up sin. you can not expect to retain it and please god or serve god. do not question this. you must give up sin. there is no escape. turn away from it with all your heart and soul. . you must give up _all_ sin, your besetting sin, the sin that has the most power over you. . give up all sin _now_. do not wait. god will help you. you know not that you will be living to-morrow or next sunday; and if you are, it will not be any easier then than it is to-day. now is the day of salvation. . give up all sin, give it up _now_, and give it up _forever_. you can not give it up for awhile and then turn to it again. that will do you no good. you might as well not give it up at all as to turn back to it again. and look to god for help, for present help, for all-sufficient strength. tell him by his help you mean to be his, no matter what it costs; and believe on jesus christ, his son, as the bearer of your past sins and the giver of the holy spirit, and very soon you will be happier than the men who own these hotels and business houses and broadway palaces and hundreds of thousands of dollars. yes; you will. i know from my experience and that of others. my text says, god will have mercy on you and will _abundantly_ pardon you. the parable of the sower. luke viii: - . jesus may have seen a farmer sowing seed, and, directing the attention of the people to him, uttered this parable. he took the commonest and most familiar facts and occurrences and made them the means of expressing the great truths of his kingdom. so his ministers should try to do now--teach the truth of god in language easily understood by the men addressed. he divides the hearers of the word into four classes: be ready then to decide in which class _you_ are, for you are certainly in one. . the seed which fell on the hard beaten path is the word preached to men who do not receive any impression at all from hearing it. they have forgotten it by the time the sound of the preacher's voice has died away. it does not enter their minds and produce any _thought_; nor their hearts, and produce any _feeling_. are there not thousands of people who go to church, who hear preaching constantly, and yet it produces no effect? they are no better, and _they do not try to be_. but in the twelfth verse we find who is the cause of this astonishing indifference and hardness--it is the _devil_ who causes them at once and forever to forget all that is said "lest they should _believe_ and _be saved_." there is an unseen adversary, then, who keeps us from thinking about religion all he can. if you do not think about it much, that is a proof that you are under his influence. . the next class consists of those who from impulse become religious without counting the cost. they do not stop to reflect that to be godly requires self-denial, humility, patience, crucifying the flesh with all its lusts. and so, when temptation comes or trial, they give up in disgust. they are like pliable in bunyan's pilgrims' progress--easily persuaded to start on the way to heaven, but just as easily discouraged and disgusted. there are lots of such people now. they lack stability. . the next class are those who hear, believe, receive and practice the word of god--who run well for a season, maybe for a _long season_, but are little by little, and in an unperceived way, drawn away from their first love, and then on to perdition. three things are here mentioned as drawing them gradually away from their devotion to christ: (_a_) _cares._ they have so much to attend to, they do not _have_ time or _take_ time for their religious duties, as prayer, going to meetings, etc., and missing these, they soon grow cold, and they are so occupied and worried with the multitude of things to be attended to, they have no _disposition_ for religion. all this care may be about things that are lawful, as making a living, for example. (_b_) _riches._ oh, how deceitful riches are. we think we don't love them, but let us be asked to part with them, as christ asked the young man, and _we see_. john wesley said, "as wealth increases, religion decreases," and he was right. (_c._) _pleasure._ the pleasure of fine, rich living, fashionable life, fine dress, theater-going, balls, parties, flirtations, the admiration and praise of others etc., etc. . the last class are those who _count the cost_, go in with their eyes open, who _won't_ let cares, riches or pleasures draw them off, but who work, and serve, and pray with _patience_ even unto the end. ii. corinthians, ii: . "lest satan should get an advantage of us; for we are not ignorant of his devices." the new testament everywhere teaches that there is a personal evil spirit of wonderful cunning and deep malignity toward god and the human race. hence, our conflict is not with flesh and blood; not against our own inclinations to evil, nor against sin in the abstract, but it is against the god of this world, the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience. therefore, yielding to sin is no small matter, for it is yielding to an enemy of unfathomable hatred toward us, and of the deepest cunning, who, in everything, has for his purpose our ruin and god's disappointment, and who, however lightly he may let his chains lie upon us while we are led captive by him, at his will, always draws them so tight, when we attempt to escape from him, that only almighty god can break them off and set us free. it makes a vast difference whether sin is only the indulgence of a passion which can have no intelligent design to damage and to ruin us, and which passes away when it is gratified, to trouble us no more, or whether it is the means adopted by an invisible but awfully real and hellish foe to lure us to an unforeseen ruin. yes, sin is not a mere pleasure whose effects are ended when the enjoyment is over, but it is the bait that hides the cruel hook thrown out for us by the artful fisherman of hell. and he is all the more dangerous because we can not see him and realize always his ultimate purpose. the skillful fisherman keeps himself out of sight and lets the fish see only the tempting bait, and so the poor, deceived creature is lured by a harmless looking pleasure on to agony and death. and satan not only controls the world, but he continually tempts christians; those who have just recently escaped out of his snares and are on their way to heaven. and now, what are some of his devices? . he makes a grand effort to persuade young christians that they have never been converted. he almost invariably attacks them with this temptation. he sometimes pursues them for years with this fear, that they have never really experienced a change of heart. and, if he succeeds in persuading them of this, he has gained a grand point toward their fall. for to find that one is mistaken in the belief that he has passed from death unto life, is the most discouraging, disheartening thing he could experience. i have known old ministers of the gospel say that the first thing satan ever tempted them with was this suggestion, that they were mistaken in believing that they had passed through that wonderful change which makes a sinner an heir of god, and fits him for heaven. so, my brother, you are in the line of god's true servants if the enemy has troubled you with this temptation. don't, therefore, let it discourage you. and do not, by any means, give up to it. say to your tempter that your lord says he is a liar from the beginning, and that you can not believe him, but you prefer to believe god. and the very fact that you are strongly tempted to believe you are not converted is one proof that you are. for if you were really _not_ converted, but still in the flesh, the devil would tempt you to believe you _were_ converted, in order to make you rest satisfied and deceived with your unsaved condition. as he _does_ tempt many worldly-minded church members to believe they are changed enough to be safe, and so they rest satisfied in their unsaved condition, and perish. so, there are many church members who become irreconcilably offended if you dare to suggest to them that you don't believe they are really children of god. their temptation then is to believe the falsehood, that they are really converted and in a safe condition. and if a man's temptation is to believe he is _not_ converted, it is one proof that he _is_ converted. besides, if the devil tempts you to believe you are not converted, you can cut the matter short by saying: "well, then, i can be in a moment. for whosoever believeth on the lord jesus christ hath everlasting life, and i do here and now believe on him, and will hold on to him by faith in spite of earth and hell." old brother bottomly, a preacher in the louisville conference, was tempted to doubt his conversion the night after it occurred, as he was lying on his bed. he recognized satan at once as the author of his temptation, and he said: "well, satan, if i have not been converted, as you say, i will be." and he got out of his bed, and down on his knees, and he gave himself to god, and he believed on jesus, and prayed, and soon he was rejoicing in full assurance, and the devil fled away out of hearing with his harassing temptation. . he tries to make them believe and feel, after the glow of the first love has subsided a little, that the service of god is hard and trying, and that it has nothing in it to satisfy the heart and to compensate for the pleasure of sin, which they have given up. and if you begin to yield and to slacken your earnestness or zeal, he gets a great advantage and you lose the joy of religion by letting yourself lag away at a doubting distance from christ, and then it does seem like the devil is telling the truth, because you don't keep close enough to christ and put soul and will enough into his service to get the joy of it. christ says: "my yoke is easy and my burden is light." and if your heart or your enemy says the contrary, tell them that they are false. but don't allow yourself to be tempted to try if you can not find an easy way to heaven. it will get sweet and easy by a patient and whole-souled perseverance in it, but _not_ by slackening your carefulness and experimenting with worldly pleasure to see how far you can go therein. . but his grand scheme for ruining young christians, and the one he generally succeeds with, is the suggestion that there is no need of being so particular and so regular in everything and so rigid in the performance of duty and in the avoiding of all appearances of evil. in other words, a sort of reaction comes, and a dangerous thing it often proves to be. now, the temptation is to give up the regular and rigid performance of duty because you don't _feel_ as much like doing it as you did at first, or because some of your well-meaning, but unrenewed, friends say they can't see the need of being so particular and strict. there's no use of going to prayer-meeting every time, no use going to church twice every sunday, no use having prayer at home every day, etc. but if you miss any duty once it will be much easier to miss it the second time and you will be much more likely to neglect it again. and you can't afford to take such a dangerous risk in so important a matter. and then we begin to think that there is no use being so particular about abstaining from the very beginnings of evil, or else we persuade ourselves that we have grown so strong and have been so changed we can be men now and enjoy things in moderation which formerly we could not use without going to excess. ah, brother, you are walking right into one of satan's unseen traps. o, beware! for your happiness' sake, beware! for your family's sake, beware! satan says, "it's no harm to take a dram if you don't get drunk; no harm to go to the race track if you don't bet; no harm to go to the ball-room if you don't dance," etc. but we know that even in case of a youth who has never been in the habit of indulging in sins, they have a growing charm and power over him if he yields once or twice; how much greater the danger for one who has been the slave of these sins and has only recently broken off from them! i heard a recently converted man say to a friend who was starting away on a trip, "dunc, don't let the devil say to you 'now, just take one drink and then stop.' for i tell you, if you take one drink you are gone." now, this man understood the case and the danger. there is no possibility of compromise. no possible middle ground in these things, especially for us who were once the slaves of our evil passions. i have heard of a man who _for years_ had abstained from drinking and his father, thinking he was safe, invited him to drink toddies with him. the son did so, and he went back to his old habit of drunkenness, had delirium tremens, forced his wife to get a divorce and brought distress and disgrace and anguish on his family as well as himself. that was a mr. d., who has several times been to our mission. so, my brother, though you may think you would be safe to trifle with sin, and try to practice moderation, it is such an awful, awful risk you had better not make the experiment. remember, it is only the bait of satan to lure you to certain ruin. for your sake, for your father's sake, for your mother's sake, for your wife's sake, for your children's sake, for christ's sake, don't do it. comparison of the righteous and wicked. psalm i: - . all scripture is given by inspiration of god, and hence it is profitable for instruction and assistance to those who will attentively consider it. this psalm is a part of the scripture, and we may expect to find it instructive and helpful. it contains a description of the righteous man. . it tells what he does _not_ do. he does not walk in the counsel of the ungodly. this is the beginning of an evil life--to go among those who are ungodly and to listen to their opinions and views and counsels. there is no sin, our evil hearts suggest to us, in merely going with worldly people, if we do not pattern after their ways and do as they do. we can go with them and yet not do as they do. but the history, the sad history, of many a struggling soul, shows that this is a great mistake. we can't go with bad associates and not be harmed by them. the very fact that we want to go with wicked people shows that there is in us an inclination toward sin which is dangerous, and which ought to be severely watched and kept down rather than encouraged. more men have been ruined by their associations than by any other one cause. and let me say by way of warning that if any of you, my friends, are purposing and trying to lead a new life, you will have to give up the associations of your old life and choose new ones, as i had to do, and did do. but did you observe the word _walk_ here in this verse? that word is intended to show that in the first part of a sinful life there is restlessness and uneasiness. the man who is just beginning to sin against light and conscience and god is uneasy about it. he can not be still. it is something new and strange, and his conscience rises up against his conduct; and till he goes on to the deadening of his conscience, it gives him distress and anxiety. but it says, the good man does not "stand in the way of sinners." this is the second stage. when a man passes through the first stage and gets to this second one, then he not only listens to the conversation and counsel of those who are ungodly--that is, who make no professions of religion--but he goes now with open _sinners, in the way_ with evil doers, violators of law, criminals against god and man. and now observe he takes a "_stand_." it is no longer "walk," for the restlessness and uneasiness have about passed away, and he takes a deliberate _stand_ among wicked men, who do not fear to commit any sort of crime. and, my young friend, this is always the way with sin. it grows upon a man; and before he is aware of it, he has grown fond of it, sees no evil or danger in it, and deliberately chooses it as his course of life. beware, then, of _beginning_ in the way of evil. but it says, in the third place, that he does not "sit in the seat of the scornful." ah, here we have the third stage of the downward course of sin. first, there was a restlessness in even associating with ungodly people; second, a deliberate stand among sinners, evil doers, as one of their number; and now it is _sitting down_ in the seat of the _scornful_. when men have silenced the voice of conscience, and spent years in the practice of evil, they come at last to lose faith in everything--in god, in man, in virtue, in goodness; and they become cold and sneering scorners of everything that is called good. have you not known men who have gone through this downward road? nay, do you not know now some who are traveling this ruinous pathway? i have known young men to go among gamblers just to _look on_. they would have _feared_ to touch the implements of sin, but they became familiarized with the sight, and then took part; and from bad to worse, have gone on and on, till it makes me shudder to know what they are to-day. i tell you, my friends, the course of sin is down, down, down. you may as soon expect to get in a boat on the current of niagara above the falls and stand still, as to expect that you can launch yourself on the current of sin and not go down toward swift and certain ruin. beware then! hear the voice of warning before you have gone too far ever to return. . in the next place, this psalm tells what a _good_ man does. his delight is in the law of the lord. he is satisfied that in sin there is only ruin; and turning with fear and dread away from sin, he yearns to find god, who alone can deliver him from sin and keep him from it and furnish him a satisfying portion instead of it. but where can we find god, and how? not in nature; for there is nothing clear enough in nature to teach anything about god or how to come to his presence. but he can expect to find god in that revelation which god has made of himself in his word. so he goes to that, and he finds there encouragement and instruction and tender invitations and promises of mercy and help; and the more he seeks the more he finds to draw him on, to satisfy his yearning heart and to charm his poor soul away from the love of sin. as he practices what he finds in god's word, he realizes the blessedness of it. it brings peace, purity, deliverance from darkness, uncertainty and fear; and so he longs to know more and more of it and he studies into it. do you know that to one whose heart is changed the word of god is like a whole california of gold mines? he is _always_ finding treasures there. every time he reads it there is something new and rich and blessed. the deepest and most devout students of god's word say that there is no end to its wealth of instruction and consolation. if you want to know god and his salvation, you ought to set apart a certain time _every day_ to prayerfully read and study into his word, always asking his guidance and help. and it will soon come to pass that, as the text says, you will "_delight_ in the law of god." do you ever deliberately, carefully, studiously, humbly and prayerfully read the bible? you say, "no." then how can you expect to know anything of god? how can a physician know anything of the nature of the human body unless he studies into it? and how can you know anything of god and his wonderful mercy unless you go and search where god has revealed this for man? there are some men who will not read the bible because they can't understand it. of course they can't understand it all, but, if they can understand one verse in a chapter, let them take that and study on it and believe it, and keep reading, and soon more and more will open out to their understanding, and it will be a constant surprise and delight to find the undreamed-of beauties and comforts of the word of god. promise god now that you will _patiently_ read some every day. you will then find your desire for sin and sinful associations leaving you. psalm i: - . we propose to-day a continuance of the study of the first psalm, which we begun sunday last. then we saw the downward course of sin and of the sinner, and of the great transformation of the nature of men when they are converted or become righteous. and now the inspired writer goes on to speak of the fruitfulness of such men. "he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water that bringeth forth its fruit in its season." you know a tree planted by a river draws moisture from below, and does not depend on the uncertain rains that may or may not come. and so in time of drought it shall bear its fruit at its proper season. so the man who is born of god, whose nature is transformed and made holy, is fruitful in good deeds, in benevolent works. having himself been translated from the kingdom of darkness into the light, he has a desire, a strong desire, an unquenchable desire, that all others should know the same happiness, and he works by all means to persuade them, to get their good will and their confidence. he will feed and clothe them, take them up out of filth and rags and reclothe them and befriend them (as we are trying to do at the mission) in order to get their good will and direct them to christ. not only so, but when a man has truly the spirit of god, he has an inexpressible pity for his poor brother mortals, and a tender sympathy for their sufferings and sorrows. his heart is a fountain of compassion for those who are in distress; and this leads him to labor that he may in some way, and in all possible ways, bring them relief and comfort. and, as the tree on the river is supplied with moisture from an unseen source, and without the showers, so the man whose heart is in communion with god never suffers a drought. when the benevolence of worldly men fails, his goes on and never fails. men wonder that he does not get tired or grow weary or disappointed and discouraged. but no! he never does. his zeal not depending on changing influences from without, but supplied from an unseen and never-failing source--that is, god--never gives out. so he is always bearing fruit. other men may be cold and selfish, and panics and famines may shut up their feelings of sympathy, but the man of god goes on working and bearing fruit in panics and famines, in cold and hot, in wet and dry, in plenty or in poverty, always and ever. "_the ungodly are not so._" no; the ungodly greedily devour all they can get, and crave all they can't get. they want selfish pleasure no matter what sacrifice or pain it may cost others. they want the property of other people, though it leave a widow in poverty and orphans in want. they want honor and promotion and fame, if it be built on the downfall of their neighbors and fellows. they want the passing animal pleasure of licentiousness, if it blight the life and ruin the soul of an innocent being and turn a happy home into a very hell of anguish. self! self! self! always and ever! and if there be some semblance of benevolence, it is for the higher selfishness of getting the honor that men bestow on charity, or to appease an angry and tormenting conscience, that lashes them with fury for their misdeeds done in secret. "the ungodly are like the chaff." they have no stability, no steadfastness, no fixed purpose or plan in life--nothing to tie to; and so they are the victims of circumstances and changes and moods and tempers, and are driven hither and thither by every passing breeze. how i do pity the poor man who does not know or care what he is living for, and just pursues every day what _happens_ to take his mind for that day. and because the ungodly are not steadfast and fixed in their devotion to god, neither shall they be able to _stand_ in the _judgment_. then, there is a judgment coming, is there? oh, yes! all these things that men are doing are not done and then put away forever and forgotten. no! no! no! they are all to be brought into review again and exposed before god and all men assembled in judgment. all the midnight meanness you have done will then be brought to light. where were you last night? what were you doing? how would you like for me to tell right here before all this crowd all the mean and filthy things you have done in the last week and kept them hidden from father, mother, wife, children and every other mortal except the accomplices of your guilt and shame? ah! you could not _stand_; no, you could not _stand_. then, how do you expect to stand when god is reciting to you all the misdoings of all the midnights of your whole lives before your father, mother, sisters, wife, neighbors and all the world? god's love for sinners. romans v: . "but god commendeth his love for us in that while we were yet sinners, christ died for us." there are many of us who _feel_ that we are _sinners_, who know it, and who do not want any proof of it; but we can't be persuaded to believe that god has any love for us or interest in us. we have gotten to be such wicked sinners that maybe our friends have forsaken us, and we can not believe that god has any feeling of tenderness for us. we are willing to admit that god loves good people, those who are obedient, and that if _we_ were good, he would _then_ love us; but as it is, he can not love us, and there is no reason why he should love us. and then we go back and try to call up all our sins; all the times when we rejected christ and the truth, and we find plenty of arguments to prove that god does not love us. but stop! you are judging the great god by yourself. you know you would not love one who would have treated you as you have treated god, and so you conclude he does not love you. you find it _exceedingly_ hard to believe in the love of god. this is one of the sad effects of sin. it darkens our hearts and separates us far, far from god, so that when we come to feel our need of him we have no confidence that he will accept us or help us. besides, by your long service of sin, you have put yourself in the power of an enemy who makes it as difficult as possible for you to _believe_ in god's love for you. but i come to you to-day with a declaration and assurance from god's own word, that though you have been a sinner all your life, and still feel that you are the greatest of sinners, the great god loves you with a true, deep, warm and yearning love. the great proof of it is the life and death of jesus christ, his son. have you read about it in the gospel? ah, if you had, and had seen him delighting to be with the poor and the outcast, eating with them, choosing them for his friends, speaking words of heavenly cheer to them, pronouncing their sins forgiven and promising them heaven, then you would be moved and attracted and convinced. and then if you had read the pathetic story of his awful sufferings and death, and had reflected that "he was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; all we like sheep have gone astray, and the lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us _all_," then hope would begin to dawn in your breast, and faith in his love would not be so difficult. but you have neglected to read and reflect about it, and so i am come to bring the glad tidings to you where you are, and to beg you to believe it for your own sake. and now, here are some of the ways god has taken to tell you of his love: psalm ciii., ; isaiah xlix., ; luke xi., ; luke xviii., , ; luke xv., , ; prodigal son; luke vii., to end. "i came not to call the righteous but _sinners_ to repentance." why does god, in so many ways, express his love for sinners? because he wants to touch their hearts and melt them by tenderness. a father whose son had gone away to california, and was a gambler in san francisco, sent him word by a friend: "your father loves you still." and it made him ashamed; it broke his heart; he repented, returned home and was saved. so god sends me to-day to say to you: "your father loves you still." will you not believe it and come to him for safety? he will not abuse you for your sins; he will save you from your sins, and make you as happy as you were when you were little children at your mother's knee. you know it is true that parents are more troubled about a wandering boy, and take more pains with him than with the good boys, and think more about him and pray more for him, because he is in danger and must be rescued or perish. so it is with god. because you are lost, away from him, on the road to ruin, he sends after you and he begs you to be reconciled. godliness profitable for this life. i. timothy iv: . "but godliness is profitable unto all things having the promise of the life that now is and of that which is to come." there are not many who think this. nearly everybody admits that religion is a good thing to have when he is about to die and to enter upon the future life; and all men, however hardened in vice, wickedness and crime, have a sure expectation and firm intention of making some preparation for death and what may follow death. they fully intend to make amends to conscience for the violations of it, of which they have been guilty. there are men here to-day who know that this is true of themselves, who feel that the coffin and the grave and the unknown future beyond are the most fearful of realities, and who are firmly persuaded that a day of reckoning is coming, maybe slowly, but surely, and they do mean to make peace in some way with conscience before that time draws near. and so i say all men agree that religion is good for death and what is to follow; but how it can be an advantage to one in _this life_, they can not see. . but godliness is a help to a man in making a living. if a man is honest, industrious, faithful and conscientious, he will be in demand. such men are always in demand; and, when they are known, can get employment and can keep employment; but a man who is a true christian, _is_ honest, industrious, careful, temperate, trustworthy and conscientious, because he works and lives not to please men but god. hence, such a one is always wanted. employers, rather than give up such men, will increase their salaries and offer them extra inducements. a main-street merchant found he could not do without willie holcombe conveniently, so he raised his salary twenty dollars a month rather than lose him. and, even if they are among strangers, and not known, yet god will turn the hearts of strangers toward them, as he turned the heart of the prison-keeper in egypt toward joseph. and when they have a chance to _try_ and to show their value, their employers will not give them up. but then if a man is in business for himself, he will get a large custom if people find out that he does business as a christian--that is, he does not charge an unjust and exorbitant price, his goods are only what he says they are, he gives full and honest measure, his word can be trusted, he will correct mistakes and take back an article if it is found not to be good. show people such a man and they will all want to patronize him. william kendrick was such a man here in louisville. the christian man has the _promise of god_ that he shall be provided for--matthew vi.: , --while the godless man has no such assurances at all. . but religion keeps a man from those vices which destroy the health--as dissipation, debauchery, intemperance, etc.--and health is one of the chief elements in human happiness. . religion keeps men also from those crimes which bring men into ruin and disgrace and bitter remorse. many a man has come to the jail or penitentiary or gallows who would have escaped it all if he had had religion to protect and shield and restrain and assist him. and many a good and happy man there is who might have been a guilty criminal and a wretched convict but for the grace of god and the lessons and blessings of true religion. he might gradually have been led off and on and on till he would have become capable of committing any crime. i might have been a drunkard or a murderer still, if god had not changed my heart and helped me mightily and constantly by his grace. . but religion takes away the fear of death and the dread of the future and gives inward and constant peace--a heart happiness which poverty and disappointment and trials can not destroy. and nothing else can do this but true religion. . religion can release a man from the power of those evil habits which make a man's life miserable--from acquired appetites, as drinking, opium eating, debauchery, licentiousness, swearing, gambling and even from tobacco. . religion makes a good father, a good mother, a good husband, a good wife, good children, it makes the family happy, and the home bright, cheerful, joyous. . it makes a man a good citizen. so he can get along in peace with his neighbors and even become a peace-maker among them when they quarrel. thus have i tried to show you that, regardless of the future, godliness is profitable for this life. but if this were not so, if the life of a christian were an uninterrupted experience of pains and disappointments and sorrows, yet, in view of the interests of the soul, and the possibilities of the future, and the length of eternity, it would be the highest wisdom to cheerfully accept all these and endure them to the bitter end, in order to depart out of this world with a peaceful and unaccusing conscience and a sure preparation for heaven. o man, what will you do with eternity, _eternity_, if you go thither unprepared? did you ever try to think of eternity? as john wesley says, "if a bird were to come once in a million of years and take away one grain of the earth, when it had taken the whole earth away, that would not be eternity, nor the beginning of eternity." and it is certain that eternity is the period of the desolation and confusion and remorse and suffering of the lost. . but even if we had to live in misery all this life, it would be better to do it and have religion; for it alone fits us for happiness in the life to come. take away property, comforts, friends, family, reputation, health, but give me religion, and i shall have a passport into the kingdom of heaven and an eternity of rest and blessedness. o then, come to jesus christ and have all these things and heaven beside. proverbs xii: . "the way of transgressors is hard." our friend's career affords a striking example of the truth of the text. most people do not think the text is true. but the bible reverses nearly all of our notions about things, and when, in the light of experience and honest thought, we come to examine the bible, we find it contains the truth on all subjects. the natural effects of a life of sin are injurious and destructive in every particular. . in the first place, vice destroys health. if a man indulges in gluttony, he brings on dyspepsia with its accompanying pains and distress and torture. all this is increased by a life of idleness, laziness and inactivity. if he indulges in intemperance, he soon becomes a wretched slave, and is consumed by inward fires till delirium tremens ends the miserable career. if he indulges in sensuality, he is likely to contract loathsome and painful diseases--diseases which make life a burden that can hardly be borne; diseases which poison the blood and can not, by any art or remedy, be expelled from the system, but which are transmitted to the innocent offspring, if there be any. . it brings disgrace and drives away friends who would otherwise rally around and help. this poor man spent two terms in the penitentiary, lost all his friends, and had to go to a _hospital_ to die! . in destroying one's good name and alienating one's friends, it becomes the cause of poverty and want. . it destroys the happiness of families, and in this way adds to the wretchedness of the one who does all this mischief and damage. . it often produces insanity. . it produces remorse, uneasiness of mind, shame, hatred of self. . it is what makes men shudder and shiver like convicts under the gallows, when they think of death and come near death. my own fear of death was something terrible. "the sting of death is sin." . but this fear of death, this awful lashing of conscience on the verge of the grave, is but the intimation and the beginning of those awful experiences in the future world which the bible describes in words of such dark and fearful import. but there is a remedy for sin, there is a fountain opened in the house of king david for sin and uncleanness. yes "there is a fountain filled with blood drawn from immanuel's veins, and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. "the dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day, and there may _you_, though vile as he, wash all your sins away." and beside that, when he gives salvation from the guilt of sin, he sends, also, the power to keep you from sin in the future. it is a full salvation and a _free_ salvation. how much better to accept christ while you are in health and let your life of holiness and purity and devotion _prove_ that the work is a genuine work and that you really have been saved. i have almost _no_ faith in death-bed repentances and conversions. hardly one in a hundred is genuine. and then there is no way of testing the genuineness of it; but if you turn to christ _now_ you can have time and opportunity to exemplify and manifest the fruits of regeneration in your life. christ has power to forgive sins, to give peace and to keep from sin and sinful habits. an experience of five years on my part enables me to speak boldly and confidently on this point. god grant some of you may turn to him to-day. note.--this was delivered at the funeral of some man who died unsaved in a hospital. mr. holcombe is frequently called on to officiate at the funeral of such men, and of gamblers, and of strangers and unknown persons.--ed. romans xiv: . "the kingdom of heaven is not meat and drink, but righteousness and peace and joy in the holy ghost." we heard some time ago of the coming of the kingdom of heaven. christ, at his coming, brought it near and proclaimed it to the people. at the time when our text was written, the kingdom had been set up, established among men, and many, very many, had entered into it. and now, st. paul, finding that some of these had fallen into wrong notions as to what constituted citizenship in that kingdom, corrects these wrong notions, and sets before them the right and proper notions about the matter. . in the first place, he tells them that religion does _not_ consist in certain things. they had gotten into the notion that they must, as a matter of great importance, attend to certain outward things. but it is not so. they thought, as the jews, from whose nation jesus, the founder of the kingdom, arose, observed certain customs as to eating and drinking and keeping certain seasons and days, they also had to do the same; and gradually they allowed these outward things to become more important to them than the inward spiritual life. so now we (or some of us) have fallen into the notion that religion consists in certain outward things. there are those who believe that it consists in connecting one's self with some certain church, and that the sanctity and virtue of that church will be imparted to them as members, and they will be saved. but this is not true. again, there are some who believe that some outward ceremony, and especially that of baptism by the proper authorities and in the proper mode, will procure salvation, and that it constitutes a man a member of the kingdom of heaven. again, some think their own morality and effort to do and live justly will give them a place among those who are in the pale of the kingdom, forgetting that god, himself, says that the righteousness of us miserable sinners is but as filthy rags in his sight. and there are many, very many, who think that if they are decent in their outward lives and attend the services of the house of god and contribute to the support of his church, they do all any man can require of them, and that, therefore, they may claim that they are also fellow-citizens of the saints and of the household of faith. but no, none of these outward things can make a man a new creature. he may comply with any one or all of these, and yet be really a bad man at heart, a rebel against god and his government. and the fact that there are many such in the church calling themselves christians and performing the outward duties of religion, while those who see them every day and know their private walk see that they are not really better than many outsiders, is a great stumbling-block to serious and honest inquirers outside of the church. we admit it, and we are sorry for it, though, of course, it is no valid excuse for them, and will not stand in the trying hour of death or the ordeal of the judgment. but i want to say to you to-day, no matter who it is, if they have no more than a performance of outward duties, ceremonies and services, they _are not_ members of the kingdom of god. . but, in the second place, the apostle does tell us what true religion consists in, in the latter part of the text. "it is righteousness and joy and peace in the holy ghost." and, first, it is _righteousness_. in another place it is said that, "the wisdom that cometh from above is first _pure_." the object and aim of the christian religion is to make men holy. that is _first_. the righteousness mentioned in the text is put first--before the joy and peace. and this is what the world demands of people who profess to be christians, no less than god's law demands it. the world has no use or respect for christians who are not righteous or for a christianity that does not make men righteous. when god comes into a human heart, he comes with power, with the power of god, and that is greater than all other power, and before it all opposing forces fall. the sins of men, such as avarice, or love of money; the lust of the flesh, such as gluttony, licentiousness, the hatred of fellowmen and the hatred of god, all these are broken and driven out when the spirit and power of god come in. there is not only this demand of god, then, for righteousness, but also ample supply of strength to meet it, and to meet it fully. come, then, to god, you who are in bondage to evil habits, and who have striven in vain to deliver yourselves. you can not retain your evil practices and be a child of god. his first demand, his imperative demand, is righteousness, and if you have the _will_ he gives the _grace_ to attain it. but this is not all. when you believe with your heart in christ, the holy ghost is given you, and he brings, with the righteousness and holiness which god requires, also joy and peace. yes, when you surrender to christ, he makes you happy. matthew xi: . "come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and i will give you rest." . the cry of all hearts is for rest, for contentment. not only does the heart of humanity cry out for rest, rest, rest; their busy and tired hands and feet _toil_ for it day and night, year in and year out. it is for this that men labor through the days and weeks of summer's heat and expose themselves to the severities of winter's cold. it is for this that they plow and sow and reap and gather into barns. it is for this that they blow the bellows and swing the heavy hammers from morn until night. it is for this they buy and sell and buy again to sell again. it is for this that men will spend years of toil in schools and colleges, burning the midnight lamp till the eye is heavy and the brain is tired. it is for this that they will leave wife and children to try their fortunes in some distant california or australia. it is for this they will abandon their homes in time of war to brave the dangers of the battle-field. it is for this that they will worry away the hours of night in games to get each other's money. it is for this they will devise schemes and lay plans to entrap their fellows, some times going to the length of committing murder. it is for this that women will toil with the needle and bend over the sewing machine. it is for this they will stand for weary hours behind counters measuring off goods or waiting for customers to buy. it is for this that they work over the hot stove or wear out their hands in the wash-tub. yes, it is for this that some of them, weary of work-life, will venture on the slippery paths of pleasure, turn their thoughts toward the gilded chambers of licentiousness, sell virtue and abandon home and family to go in the ways that in the end take hold on death and hell. we are a race of _toilers_. all over the world it is the same. we see it here in louisville, it is work, work, work, go, go, go. and are we happy? have we rest? but not only are we toiling, some in one way, some in another; some by innocent means, some by wicked means; some by what does no harm to ourselves or our neighbor, and some by what does harm to both, in order to obtain rest and happiness; it is also true that most of us are heavy laden, oppressed and saddened beneath burdens that we can not shake off, can not get rid of. some of us are bowed down under our poverty. no good house to live in, no comfortable home to turn into after the battles and toils of outside life, no comfortable shelter for our families. no assurance as to where we are to get to-morrow's bread. no comfortable and respectable clothes to wear, and, of course, no friends. for when a poor fellow gets poor and shabby, his friends drop off and pass by on the other side. no friends, none of that sympathy and communion of friendship which all human hearts so crave and which they find to be the best part of what this life can give. yes; some of us have this burden to bear. and then some of us are bowed down beneath some great sorrow, which may be one thing in one case and another in another. in some cases it is domestic trouble, continual jars and broils in the family, no peace, no quiet, no love. ah, if we could see into all the homes in this city, i fear we should find in many of them family trouble of some sort. or it may be some dear one of yours is given to drink or to gambling and is wearing out his life as fast as vice can eat it away, with no hope beyond the grave. ah, yes; no doubt some of _you_ are yourselves the slaves of evil habits which you hate and would do anything to break off. you have tried by resolving and promising and all to no purpose; you have felt ashamed and degraded because you had no power to do what you felt you ought to do and what you knew would be infinitely better for you. do you not know men who would willingly give a right arm for deliverance from some degrading and ruinous habit? but giving a right arm avails nothing, nor any human effort or means. then, again, some of you are bowed down by the recollection of your past life and its dissipation and crimes. you may have mistreated father, mother, sister, and may have broken hearts by your cruelty that would gladly have bled for you. you may have crushed a loving and faithful wife by your selfishness and your brutality and heartlessness. you may have driven your children to desperation and crime by your coldness and hardness to them. and may be some life, innocent until you came upon it with your hellish art, has been corrupted and embittered and darkened by your base passions and lusts. may be your hands have gone to that last extreme of human crime and have deprived a fellowman of life. and, oh, if any of these things be true, what must be the burden of remorse, remorse, remorse, that weighs upon your heart. but you are the very ones whom jesus addresses and invites in this tender appeal. do you believe it? . in the second place, consider who it is that offers you rest. it is one who knows you and who knows what you need and one who has all power in heaven and in earth to give what you need. . lastly, consider what this rest means which jesus offers to you burdened and toiling ones. . it is rest from sin, both its guilt and power. . it is rest from all care. for he has said, we should cast all our care upon him because he cares for us. matthew v: . "blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." these words, as you know, are the beginning of the sermon on the mount as it is called. this sermon on the mount is the full exposition of the character of those who are members of christ's kingdom. it is one of the most important parts of the bible. at the time of christ there were in the world many teachers and many schools of philosophy all trying to find what was best for men; or, thinking they had found it, were teaching their views to others. but, of course, none of them knew the truth and nearly every one taught a different thing from the others. there was no certainty. it all seemed like guess-work, and while the philosophers were guessing at what was best for men or trying to prove the views of each other to be false, the poor people were perishing in uncertainty and ignorance. but into this age of uncertainty and darkness and hunger, there came a teacher from god himself, who knew all things and who could without arguing or guessing tell with authority the simple and certain truth. what then does the teacher say? he does not say that blessedness consists in any certain kind or degree of _knowledge_ but in the _disposition_ of the _mind and heart_. listen then and hear and be prepared to believe and accept with all your heart what this instructor from god says. remember he makes no mistakes. he knows the end from the beginning. he knows eternity as well as time. he knows the future as well as the past and present. he knows god as well as he knows man. he has been all through eternity and knows the nature and purposes of god. he then is competent to say what is good for man, what is best for man. will you hear it? and, having heard it, will you believe it? "blessed"--ah, what a sweet word to begin with! "blessed." but who are blessed? it may be blessed are the great or the powerful or the good and some of us are sadly conscious that we are not great or good. but no, troubled heart, poor fearing heart, it is for you. "blessed are the poor in spirit." that is what the divine teacher says. he brings it right down and home to your poor heart and leaves blessedness at your very door. and what is it to be poor in spirit? no doubt some of you poor sinners are ready to say "i know what it is, for i am so wretchedly poor that i feel unworthy to set my polluted foot down anywhere in god's universe." yes, that is it--you are dissatisfied with yourself, disgusted with yourself, weary of yourself; and you know you can not make your condition any better, for you have tried it and failed till you are heart-sick and hopeless. you are satisfied that neither your education, nor your wisdom, nor your shrewdness, nor your money, if you have any, nor your family, nor your friends, nor your strength, nor your will, nor all these put together and multiplied a thousand times can deliver you from soul-bondage and soul-darkness and satisfy your aching and breaking heart. is that your feeling, my brother? then you are the one i am talking to; nay, you are the one my divine master is talking to. but god said the same thing in other words away back yonder one thousand years before jesus came to earth. read it in psalm xxxiv: : "the lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit." have your sins broken your heart? does the recollection of them cast down your spirit? you are not far from the kingdom of god then. only believe on jesus christ who was not only divine teacher but also sin-bearer, and see god's willingness to save sinners, in the scene enacted on calvary's trembling summit. what did jesus suffer for if not for you and your sins? say, what for, if not for you and all sinners? answer that question. do not turn it away or put it off but _answer_ it. did i say you were not far from the kingdom of heaven? my text says, if you have the spirit i have described that "yours is, _is now_, the kingdom of heaven." read it again. will you believe it? oh, are you afraid to venture? is it too good to be true? well, i tell you i ventured and that with forty-two years of sin and crime on my heart to press me down and keep me back. yes; i ventured and i found _such a welcome_ that i was constrained in the joy of my heart to give up all other employment and spend my whole time and energy in telling of it to others who are in the condition i was in. but if there are any here who are satisfied with themselves, who do not feel their need of help and cleansing and deliverance, then this message of comfort is not for you. if you think you know enough about eternity to risk going into it as you are, if you think you know enough about god to meet him as you are, then we have no message of consolation for you. it is not because we do not want you to have a message of consolation and salvation, but because _you_ do not want it. it is said in one place that the "word of god is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." and now i am sure this text of ours has to-night found you out and shown you to yourself. where do you stand? and even if you are persuaded, the suggestion to put it off till to-morrow or next week will knock it all in the head. matthew v: - . " . blessed _are_ they that mourn; for they shall be comforted." " . blessed _are_ the meek; for they shall inherit the earth." our talk to-night follows right along in the line of the one preceding. we shall continue to speak of that wonderful address of jesus which is called the sermon on the mount and which we began to speak of before. we were speaking of those who are poor in spirit and tried to describe such. now we go on and we find the next words of jesus, the divine teacher, just suited to those who are poor in spirit, who are dissatisfied with themselves and their condition, and who are wretched because they have not the grace and favor of god, and who, as the psalm says, have a "broken heart and a contrite spirit." (psalm xxxiv., .) and what are these comforting words of jesus? "blessed are they that _mourn_, for they shall be _comforted_." of course, those who are poor in spirit and broken in heart _will mourn_. they are comfortless and they will mourn for comfort. they are in darkness and they will mourn for light. they are in sin and under condemnation and they will mourn till the power of sin is destroyed and they are set free and until the voice of forgiving love assures them that there is henceforth nothing against them. ah, yes, when a man is under conviction for sin he is, above all men, a mourner. there is hardly any sorrow that strikes deeper or any suspense that is more intense or awful. but is there no one here who knows all about this, not because they have heard me describe it, but because they have felt it and groaned under it or, may be, _are_ doing so now? well, let me assure you, on the authority of jesus, there is comfort for you as surely as jesus will not lie. does he say "cursed are they who mourn?" or "to be pitied are they that mourn?" no, he says, "_blessed_ are they." there, now, you are already comforted a little bit, are you not? but what is the rest of this sentence of jesus? "for they _shall_ be comforted." and, indeed, the fact that you _mourn_ for a better condition and a better life and for god, is itself a ground for you to surely expect comfort. for only god's spirit could make you dissatisfied with yourself, tired of your sins and eager to find god. and if he began the work he will carry it on to completion, assuredly, if you do not hinder him by your turning back to sin or going with the vicious or refusing to have faith in jesus as saviour. and the next verse comes right along to fill out the one we are considering. "blessed are the _meek_." if a man is truly poor in spirit, mourning because of his sins and his ignorance of god and his insecurity in view of death, then he will not be egotistic and ambitious and greedy of praise and pompous and self-sufficient and disposed to stand on _his honor_ and his rights. but he will have the opposite feelings exactly. he feels his unworthiness so deeply and keenly that he is willing to give up his own rights and to prefer others before himself. and jesus adds, "the meek shall inherit the earth." a man who has this spirit of humility, deep consciousness of his unworthiness and a disposition to bear all things rather than be contentious, will win everybody and they will want to give up to him. you have perhaps read of the man who went to his neighbor to claim a piece of ground in his possession, and, contrary to his expectation, that neighbor said, "well, then, if it is yours, i will not have a strife about it. i will move in my fence and let you have it." this gentle answer and this meek spirit made the other man so ashamed and so completely melted and won him that he said he would not take the land, and he went back home leaving it as it was. and so if you have this meek and yielding spirit, and this patient and forgiving spirit, you will make even your enemies to be at peace with you. but this meekness of spirit includes, also, cheerful submission to all the hard and disappointing and trying experiences of life, and perfect contentment with one's lot. a man who is always sour and bitter because things don't go to suit him is the opposite of a _meek_ man. and one of the loveliest and most attractive and winning qualities of human character is this unfailing resignation, this _cheerful_ acceptance of all that comes upon us. if the church were full of people of this description, they would soon win the world, and, as jesus said, they would "inherit the earth." now, let me ask, have we all who profess to be christians this meek spirit and character? are we gentle and cheerful at home and abroad, when we are disappointed as well as when we are gratified, when we are treated with ingratitude and injury as well as when we are treated with kindness, consideration and honor? or are we crabbed and cross and discontented and complaining against those who cross our wills and against the lot that god has given to us in life? if we are of this last sort we shall not draw many to jesus and to the acceptance of our religion. you can't catch flies with vinegar. how disposed are we to lay our crossness and roughness to the charge of our health, our dyspepsia or neuralgia or nervousness. but it would be all the _more convincing_ to men if, _in the midst_ of bad health and nervousness, we should have a meek, quiet, patient, bright and cheerful spirit. and if you haven't it, the way to get it is to be filled with god's spirit, and the way to do that is to pray, to commune with god in secret, to patiently wait for him, as david did (psalms xl, ), and to be with him so much that he shall become more real to you than the objects of sight and sound and feeling that surround you. matthew v: . "ye are the salt of the earth, but if the salt hath lost its savor wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing but to be cast out and to be trodden under foot of men." jesus takes the most familiar facts and objects to convey the truths and doctrines which he wished to communicate. here he uses for illustration an object, with the properties and uses of which everybody is familiar--namely, salt. it is good to prevent corruption and to preserve life. without it life could not continue. i have heard of a party of travelers whose supply of salt almost gave out; and not having enough for themselves and their horses, the horses grew weak, would stagger, and finally fall and die, though they had food for them. yet the lack of salt could not be supplied by any amount of food. so it is with christianity. it prevents corruption, moral corruption, in the individual, and so prevents social corruption, political corruption, national corruption, and is the means of purification in all these respects. but it not only prevents corruption, it imparts spiritual life and vigor and sends its possessors on their way filled with an energy that goes out after others. christianity is suited to be the salt of the earth. it demands a perfect morality, a perfect righteousness, and offers the highest motives to men to attain this. it teaches, with assurance, that there is a righteous god who demands holiness on our part, and, at the same time, it encourages men and inspires them with hope because it declares that this god loves men, as sinners, and so it gets hold of men by the heart. if man will only compare those nations that are christian with those that are not, he will find out what a difference there is. but the text refers to the holy lives of christians as being the salt of the earth. the savor of christians is an unction from the spirit of god that produces purity, humility, patience, long-suffering, self-denial, tenderness, sympathy and unselfish love. and when men see a person whose daily life presents all these beauties, they are forced to pause and regard it. it is such an unnatural and such an unearthly thing that they can not help it. and it is far more convincing and eloquent than all logic and rhetoric put together. there is no way of getting around it. men know that a gifted orator can dress things up so as to make any cause seem a fair and plausible one, but men know also that neither a gifted orator nor any one less than god can make men humble, pure, patient, gentle, long-suffering, unselfish and glad to spend and be spent for others than themselves. when men see such a life, they seek to know how it is realized, and finding that christianity has done it, that faith in jesus has done it, they are constrained to say: "we know that christianity is from god. for nothing could do such wonderful miracles except god be in it," as nicodemus said to jesus. there are so many men who are anxiously inquiring about spiritual things and about god and a future life. and they say: "show us something that christianity can do." and if we are living such lives, they find what they are seeking for and are satisfied. but there are many men who _won't_ search the bible to find out if it is true--and many who don't do so for want of time and of opportunity--and some who _can't_ do so because they can't read or reason, and we _force_ christianity upon their attention by the beauty and unearthliness of holy christian lives. instead of waiting for them to come inquire and into christianity, which they might never do, we carry it before their eyes in its loveliest and most attractive and powerful form when we live holy lives before them. and when men see many people living thus, it turns the tide of their feelings, reverses the current of their thoughts, and makes it easy instead of difficult to believe. oh, that we had more of these entirely consecrated lives! they would do far more good than the preaching. when people see these consecrated women doing the work they do for the poor neglected children, they say: "ah, now, that looks like something, sure enough, and we believe in that sort of religion." john wesley said: "give me one hundred men who love nothing but god, and who fear nothing but sin, and we will soon lay england at jesus' feet." how can we get and keep this savour, this divine unction which produces such a life? only by much communion with god. david knew no fear when he went to meet goliath because he had communed so much with god in the sheep pastures that god was more of a reality to him than goliath was. so it must be with us, my dear brothers, or we _lose this savour_. and that is what the text says. let us read it again. you may retain outward forms of religion and perform outward duties, but the unction and zeal and power will be gone and men will find it out and see it and say that you are no better than they are. so the text says, "good for nothing but to be cast out and trodden under foot of men." and sad it is that more harm is done to the cause of christianity by hypocritical or wicked or inconsistent professors of it than by all the ingersolls in the world. men look at the church to see what christianity can do; and seeing it does nothing extraordinary in the way of making men better, they say it must be false. so it is the wicked and worldly professors of religion that make more infidels than anything else. oh, let us be sure that we are not the darkness of the world. for if we are not its light, we become darkness. the light in the lighthouse may be burning, but if the lights along the shore are not burning, too, the poor sailors may be lost. "brightly beams our father's mercy from _his_ lighthouse evermore, but to _us_ he gives the keeping of the lights along the shore." the prodigal son, his sin, his wretchedness and his recovery. luke xv: - . . this younger son thought he was wiser than his father and wanted to manage his own affairs. so it is with men who think they can manage their own affairs without god. and as this young man wanted to get as far from his father's presence as possible (see verse , "into a far country") so the sinner, when he determines to give himself up to pleasure and sin, wants to get as far from god as possible. he does not want to hear about him or even think about him. was not this so with _you_? . the father did not _compel_ the son to stay at home. he allowed him to choose what he preferred. so it is with god. he does not compel us to obedience. for my part i wish he did. but he lets us go and pursue sin with all our hearts, if we choose that above the innocence and joy of dwelling with him. . "he _wasted_ his substance with riotous living," verse , and so it is with the sinner--in the service of sin and satan he wastes and destroys his property, his health, his reputation, his intellect, his conscience--all. "_and he began to be in want._" that is what sin brings a man to--want, want, want and wretchedness, wretchedness, wretchedness. has not sin done this for _you_? . and it was this very wretchedness which brought him to his senses--"he came to himself" (verse ). and when he does come to himself he can think of only one place where he can hope to find relief and he bravely determines to go straight to the very father he had so shamefully abandoned and to make a full confession of his sin and throw himself on that father's mercy with the hope of being taken back as a hired servant. he is willing to take the _humblest_ and _meanest_ place, if he can only get back to that home he was, a short time before, so eager to leave. nor does he offer _any excuse_, he calls his sin by the right name and confesses it without trying to excuse it or justify it. . and how did his father receive him? why, he did not wait till his poor, ragged, worn and wasted boy got in and made his confession but he saw him a great way off (verse ) and he knew what had passed in the poor boy's heart and life, and, moved with compassion toward him, he ran and fell on his neck and kissed him a glad welcome back to his heart and his home. but the son goes on to make his confession and his offer to be a hired servant anyhow, and yet the father says, "no! no! bring forth the _best_ robe and put it on him." so, though we may go to god expecting to _work as servants_ for him and for his favor, he gives us far more than we ask and he makes us his own _sons_. and, poor wretched sinners, i come now with this message for _you_, bruised and sore and despairing and wretched as you are on account of your sins. may god help you believe it. ii. peter i: - . " . and besides this, giving all diligence, add to your faith virtue; and to virtue, knowledge; " . and to knowledge, temperance; and to temperance, patience; and to patience, godliness." i want to say something to you to-night about how to _grow_ in the christian life, and how to secure yourself from falling. and now, let me begin by saying what you, no doubt, have heard before, that there is no such thing as standing still in the christian life. if you are not going forward, you are losing ground. see the apostle here speaks of giving all diligence, to be adding something all the time. and why not exercise diligence in making sure of the salvation of your souls? men use astonishing diligence in the affairs and pursuits of this life. the men of all professions and occupations use diligence and industry and toil and self-denial in order to make a little money or to gain a little honor. why, you know there are thousands of men in this city who get up early in wet weather or dry, in summer's heat or winter's cold, and go hurrying up and down these streets to be at their places at the prescribed hour for beginning their day's toil; and they work, work, work, sometimes with tired hands and feet and weary hearts, till the sun goes down, because they know they must do it in order to get bread and meat and clothing for themselves and their families. they do not stop to think how they _feel_. no, no; feelings and preferences and all must be overlooked and forgotten; for they know that work must be done that bread may be won. and we do not hear many complaining of this. they accept it as a matter of course. why, i know how the gamblers will sit up late and do without sleep, and rack their brains, in order to devise some means of finding a poor victim and getting his money. then why should not christians, who are striving to avoid the danger and sorrow of sin and to gain eternal rest and reward--why should not they exercise diligence and self-denial and watchfulness also? and we are told in the text how to succeed in this. we are to _make up our minds_ by god's grace to live a life of consecration and activity. you have begun with faith, have you not? if any man here has been truly converted, he knows what faith is. he came to christ as a hell-deserving sinner, and believed in christ's mercy for forgiveness and salvation. so faith is the first step; faith is the foundation. and let me stop to say to any one here who is not yet saved, that, if he wants to be, he must throw himself as a sinner on the mercy of god in christ; and god will save him at once, if he will do so. but, having exercised faith and received forgiveness and strength, you must add virtue, which means courage or boldness. it is sometimes very hard for a man who has lived a sinner and taken pride in it, to come out before the world, and especially before his old companions, and let them know that henceforth and forever he is a humble follower of jesus christ. but it is necessary. no middle ground is safe at all. if you try to meet the world as a reformed man, concealing the fact that you are a christian, you will weaken, and give the devil a great advantage, and probably fall. i told gamblers in denver i was a christian, and they let me alone. but, not only that, you must be bold enough to try to persuade others to become christians. there are some poor cowards who are not ashamed to let their friends and the world know that they have _reformed_; but they are too chicken-hearted to say that they have humbled themselves, surrendered their pride and become _christians_. i know more than one of that sort. and, again, there are some men who are content to be saved themselves, but are afraid of being called fanatics if they are bold enough to go to talking and trying to persuade others to be so. boldness in going out after others strengthened me and kept me from many a temptation. but, having this godly boldness, you must go on striving to get knowledge--knowledge of your own deceitful heart, knowledge of human nature, knowledge of the fullness of the gospel way of salvation. when a man is first converted, he is almost like a baby. everything is new, and he hardly knows anything. so it was with me, but i trust i have grown in knowledge of myself and others and of the word of god and of the plan of salvation. your knowledge will increase of itself if you are in earnest and if you will use all the means of growing better and stronger. conversation with older christians, when you get into a tight place, will help you. earnest prayer to god will result in increase of knowledge. reading his precious word, and studying short portions of it at a time, with prayer for guidance, will wonderfully enlighten you and increase your knowledge. you will gain knowledge also by reading good books--the lives of very pious people, and the sermons of such men as wesley, spurgeon, etc. why not have some good books to read? could you invest your money to better advantage? in this way, having your mind always occupied with the subject of religion, you will have neither time nor temptation for sin or thoughts of sin. there are some selfish men who, when they find themselves delivered from their evil appetites and raised up again to respectability and their right mind, begin to think of reading all sorts of worldly and profane literature, and want to cultivate their "literary taste" and prepare to shine in society. such men forget the pit from which they were taken, and in their selfishness and worldliness and pride become blind to the awful peril to which they expose themselves in neglecting to keep their minds occupied with religious thoughts and subjects as far as is practicable. some of our converts have fallen in this way. but what is the next thing, to be added? it is _temperance_. this means entire self-control in things that are, in themselves, innocent and lawful. of course, men understand that in things that are wrong and dangerous nothing is right or safe but an utter abstinence from them and abhorrence of them, (read romans xii., , second clause: "abhor that which is evil.") temperance means here what we spoke about when we considered paul's saying that he kept his body under, and brought it into subjection, lest he should be a castaway ( corinthians, ix: ). and as you grow in experience and in knowledge of yourself you will find it absolutely necessary to keep down your body by denying it, and by asserting your entire mastery of it, through god's grace. oh, be careful and be prayerful, and be self-denying, or some day, when you think all is secure, some sudden temptation will come and find you self-indulgent and careless, and, like david, you will fall before you are aware of it, and then, maybe, have not the heart and hope to ever try to be a christian again. men who have been addicted to bad habits before are especially in danger if they do not practice the strictest self-control in all things. but, with all this, you will often be provoked, and find your temper very troublesome. it troubled me long after conversion and troubles me now more than anything else. so it is necessary to bear all things, however unreasonable and provoking they may be; and this is exactly the next thing the apostle puts down--namely, _patience_. oh, how i tremble for some of these men who are converted here. they do not know how necessary it is to keep right down in the dust, and not only to give diligence, but to _make it their chief business_ for some time to watch and guard their thoughts and ways, and to pray always, and by all the means we have spoken of try to keep away--far, far away from temptation. i beg you to make up your minds to bear anything and everything. always be ready for a disappointment, and determine not to let your contentment and happiness depend upon anything or anybody in this world. then it won't make any difference what happens to you; it will come like water on a duck's back, and won't hurt you. remember how humble you had to get before you could get forgiveness and strength to resist your appetites. and did it kill you or did it damage you in any way? no! it killed your wretched sins, but not you. it robbed you of your bondage and darkness and despair and wretchedness. but it did not rob you of any good, did it? then it won't hurt you to keep humble and in that same state of mind till you die. and you can afford to do so. how would you like to get back into bondage and darkness where you were? you say: "not for the world!" but, if you knew you could, by diligence and watchfulness, gain the world, you would be diligent and watchful. and yet, by this diligence, you not only keep yourself secure from falling back, you make your family happy, you bless many others--and, best of all, you make _sure_ of everlasting life, and escape the hell which we all fear more than all things else combined. "since i must fight if i would reign, increase my courage, lord; i'll bear the toil, endure the pain, supported by thy word." ecclesiastes xii: . "let us bear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear god and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man." the book of ecclesiastes contains the experience of a man who had tried every phase of life, who had tasted every kind of pleasure, and who, also, had experience in the service of god, with its consolations and its sacrifices; and he had also made a study of the great questions that come up in considering the affairs of the world about him. and after his long and thorough experience, and his deep and life-long study of the facts of human life and history, he at last reaches a conclusion concerning it all, and this conclusion he has recorded in the text i have read, "fear god and keep his commandments," etc. . fear god. the fear of god is natural to man until, by false teaching and evil association, it is destroyed. the severe things we see in nature about us lead us to have a dread of him who is the author of all these things. and, then, death is an awful and a fear-inspiring thing, and the thought of what is to come after death, in that unknown country from which no traveler has ever returned to tell us of it, fills us with awe and sobers us whenever it comes to us. and most men even that are in their lives wicked, and seemingly have no thought of god or fear of him, are often troubled with the fear of death and what is to come after death. this was my own experience. . but merely to have this fear of god is not sufficient, and will do no good if it does not lead a man to obey god and keep his commandments, as the text says. for example, i knew a fireman in an engine-house here who had this fear of god; but he lived a swearing, drinking man, and, of course, he was not at all benefited by his fear of god. no doubt this fear of god was created in the human mind in order to lead men to keep god's commandments. but how are we to know his commandments? why, my brothers, they are given with great plainness in his holy word--so plain that the wayfaring man, though he be a fool, need not miss them if only he is willing to know them and to do them. and, as st. john says, "his commandments are not grievous." they only require of us what is most just and reasonably due to him who is the giver, the free and bountiful giver, of all the good things of this life, and the gracious promiser of perfect blessedness in the life to come. and, on the human side, his commandments require of us only that we keep from doing to others what they ought not do to us, and that we do for others that which they ought to do for us. in other words, the commandments of god are all embraced in two sentences, "love god with all your heart, because he first loved you," and "love your fellowmen, because they are commanded to love you," and when you submit to god's spirit, and become renewed in mind and heart, born again, made a new creature, you will see the reasonableness of keeping god's commandments, and the desirableness of it, in such a light that you will go on in his ways with delight, desiring to know more and more of him. . and we are told that to do this is the _whole purpose_ of man's existence, and when he does this he has fully answered the end of his existence, met all that is required of him and is secure amid the problems of life and the possibilities of the unknown future. this, also, brings rest to the human heart, a rest to be found nowhere else. i am in a position to speak with some confidence and positiveness on this point; for, like the man who uttered the text, i have tried life in all its phases. i have had all the kinds of pleasure, and i have tested them to the bottom. i have found out all there is in them. for forty years i gave myself to seeking and enjoying worldly pleasure, and i ought to know what it can do for a human soul. but i have another advantage, too; i have tried the doctrine of my text. i have surrendered myself, my life, my prospects, my all, to god, and live only to keep his commandments and to please him. my mind has been renewed, transformed, my life entirely turned around. i have passed through the struggle and the sacrifice that were involved in becoming a christian, and i have been passing through those that belong to the life of a christian. but you may say i speak thus because it is a novelty to me. no, sir; it is no longer a novelty. i have been trying it now for ten years--surely a long enough time to know pretty well how it compares with the old life; and my testimony, from forty years' experience of the old life and ten years of the new life, is that of the writer of my text, "fear god and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man." hebrews xii: , . " . wherefore, seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. " . looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of god." the apostle here speaks of a great number of witnesses, who, having tried god and his ways, are competent to testify as to what god can do for those who trust him and serve him. in the chapter just preceding he has spoken of abraham and joseph and moses, and many others, and they, having lived the life of faith, were prepared to say whether it was a disappointment or not to trust god and to walk in his ways. and they were not disappointed. they obtained a good report, held fast to their faith in god, and were content to endure all sorts of trials and sufferings for the comfort and compensation of their religion. and so now there are witnesses, not a few, who have tested this matter, and tested it under circumstances the most adverse and trying, and they give no uncertain testimony as to the desirableness of religion. there are people who have none of the good things of this world; none of its honors; none of its pleasures; none of its wealth, and not many of its comforts, and yet they are contented, and even happy. yes, far happier than many who have the best that this world can give. i am one of this class myself. then the apostle goes on to exhort them to hold fast, and to go on, because others having tried it were conquerors. he exhorts to three things: . to lay aside every weight, and especially every besetting sin that might have especial attraction and special power. and it is impossible to serve god and have peace of conscience and to overcome sin while the mind is divided and undecided. a man can not expect to win a race if he ties heavy weights upon his person; be must be unencumbered and free. so, in running the christian race, we must free ourselves from everything we find to be a hindrance, no matter how desirable or how dear it may be to the flesh. so jesus himself says: "if anything so dear as a right arm or a right eye becomes a hindrance to to us, it must be given up." there are men who say they want to serve god, and expect to do so, but then they enjoy certain things they know to be wrong and hurtful, and they will indulge in them just a little, not enough to cause them to get clear away from god. i know and you know men who think they can enjoy sin just a little, or once in awhile. in the first place, this is ungrateful and mean. it is the same as to say: "i want to be just religious enough to escape hell, and yet i want to enjoy all the pleasure i can from sin, too." such a feeling dishonors god. and, in the second place, it is exceedingly dangerous. it shows that the heart is not right. while you are trifling thus with sin, you may become so fascinated by it and led away as to be enslaved before you know it, and lose all your taste for heavenly things. besides, god will not long bear with a man who has no better heart and no more self-sacrificing spirit than that. for myself, i should tremble and shudder if i were so far gone as to feel that i could go and deliberately indulge in some pleasant sin for awhile and then come back to resume the service of god when i had satiated my evil desires. be assured, you can not serve god and sin. they are as opposite as light and darkness; you must give up one or the other. "but," you say, "how can i give up sin?" if you are _willing_ to do so, god will see that you have the _power_ to do it. give it up if it gives you pain--yes, if it breaks your heart! god himself will pour in the oil of comfort and joy, and heal all your wounds. . the apostle exhorts to run with patience the race set before us. it is easy to do well for awhile; to abstain from sin while the excitement of novelty in the religious life is upon us; and how many there are who began well and did well for awhile, but when the novelty wore away, and the excitement of the change was gone, they grew weary and sought the old pleasures of sin again. some have thus done in connection with our work here in this mission. make up your mind before hand that when the time of temptation and loneliness comes, you will endure it and go through with it patiently, waiting for the removal of the temptation and the return of joy. and when temptation does come, pray, oh pray. go alone and ask god to restore to you the joy of his salvation and trust him until he does it. go work for others; go mingle with christian people, whether you feel like it or not, and you will soon find how to meet the enemy, and how to defeat his plans and purposes. . but his last exhortation is to look to jesus. he bore our sins on the cross, and therefore we are released from them, if we trust him and accept him as our sin-bearer. he is alive forevermore; and when earnestly asked, he gives spiritual life and joy and strength by sending the holy spirit into our hearts. then again, his life is the pattern of patience in loneliness and trials, which you and i are to follow; and can we desire or aspire to be or to do any better than did he? "would you lose your load of sin? fix your eyes upon jesus. would you have god's peace within? fix your eyes upon jesus." acts ii: . "then peter said unto them, repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of jesus christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost." we may not be able to understand how it is, but these inspired scriptures represent the work of salvation as applied to human hearts by the holy spirit. we do not hear enough of the holy spirit. we do not know him and speak of him and pray for his help and guidance and power, as the scriptures teach us to do. these scriptures are our guide; what they say we do not question, nor can we subtract from them or add to them. let us see, then, what they teach us as to the holy spirit. in the th, th and th chapters of st. john's gospel jesus distinctly promises his disciples that upon his departure he would send to them and to the world a divine agent whom he calls the spirit of truth, the comforter, etc., and he tells them what that divine agent would do. let us, then, fix our minds now intently on what he says, and be prepared to believe it. he said that this spirit of truth should "convince men of sin." well, the fact is, we do see men convinced of sin as sin, and not merely because it is damaging and ruinous. but we see this only in connection with the christian religion. so it must be by means of some power that belongs to the christian religion. and if any of you here to-night see your sins and feel them to be, not only damaging and destructive, but mean and hateful and crimes against the good father who has borne with you and blessed you through all these years of sin, then you may know that it is god's holy spirit that has produced that feeling in you; and especially so if you feel that your ingratitude to god, who has provided for you a way of salvation at such great cost, and your cold and heartless neglect of jesus christ through all these years of sin are the most aggravated part of your guilt. and you may be sure if god is willing to begin a good work in you he is willing to carry it on to completion, and will do so if you do not hinder him. "work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is god that worketh in you." and since it is he who has begun this work, beware that you do not hinder it or stop it by your coldness, carelessness or sin. but, in the second place, jesus says the holy spirit should reveal him to sinners as their sin-bearer and life-giver. so the promise is to you. hold on in prayer and patient expectation. you can not be disappointed, for god can not lie. i was ignorant of christ to an astonishing and shameful degree; but i was told to pray and i did so. i shut myself up in my back room one evening and told god i was going to stay there until he blessed me, and i was blessed, and the only three words i uttered were "jesus of nazareth." by some power i was so illuminated and changed that i saw jesus as the dearest and loveliest being i ever thought of. was not this a fulfillment to me of the promise made in john xvi.: ? and having received grace from my god, i continue to this day witnessing to small and to great the things i have experienced since becoming a christian. now, let us inquire what else this gracious divine agent working in man is to do. he it is who produces that change in men which we call conversion or regeneration or new birth. you remember in john ( d chapter) the expression, "born of the spirit," and again in titus iii.: , it is said we are saved by the "renewing of the holy ghost." when we know, then, that these changes are the immediate effect of the inworking of this divine agent, we need not be surprised that they are so sudden and so thorough as we see them to be in some cases that we know of. let me say to those who have not yet experienced this wonderful deliverance from the power and love of sin and this inner revolution, that many of us have tested this matter who were in the deepest depths of sin and darkness, and god will do to depend on. go ahead, go ahead; keep on praying and keep on hoping and trust yourself to jesus, and you shall receive the gift of the holy ghost. but, after we have experienced this change which we call conversion, god's spirit abides with us and keeps on doing great things for us when we are converted. we are not made angels or gods, but are still human, and, though delivered from the guilt and power of sin, we are hampered by ignorance and depressed by sorrow and encompassed with temptations. but just anticipating these needs of ours, the holy spirit is to be our teacher and to guide us into the truth. so we need not fear if we are only humble and honest and teachable; we shall not go dangerously astray, for god himself will thus open to our minds the wonderful things of scripture, and cause us to understand as much of it as we need. but he, the holy spirit, is to be the comforter of god's people in their loneliness and trials and conflicts in this world of exile. i have been sustained by unseen power in my trials as a christian. but he enables them to overcome, and be more than conquerors, when they are assailed by temptation to sin. "he strengthens with might in the inner man" (ephesians iii.: ), and gives joy and peace; so that the soul, being content with these, does not need or desire the poor pleasures of sin. this has been my experience. he sanctifies god's people; he makes them holier and holier; he produces the fruit of love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, meekness, temperance, faith; and he gives power to reach, by our poor words, the hearts and consciences of others, though they be dead in sin. jesus says, "ye shall receive power after the holy ghost is come upon you." (acts .: .) there are some men who have this power to reach and awaken and interest sinners in the salvation of their souls. and they do have power to bring sinners into this new life of peace and purity and joy. and you and i might have this power, and far more of it than we do, if, like the apostle, we would wait before god in patient, believing prayer till the holy spirit should come in fullness and power. pentecost was a display of this power, and we may have another pentecost when we are willing to wait for it and pray for it as did the little company in the upper room at jerusalem. luke v: . "i came not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance." these words of jesus were spoken to the scribes and pharisees, and combine in themselves a defense of his own course in mingling with sinners, and a keen rebuke of the spirit of those who brought against him an accusation of associating with sinners, as well as the declaration of the object of his mission into this poor darkened world. and does it not seem strange that a man should be required to defend himself for going to spend and be spent for the good of those who are most sorely in need of help and relief? but it has always been so. men are so selfish, so utterly without concern for the interests of others that they want to monopolize and swallow up everything that is good. so when jesus of nazareth was revealed to the jewish people, and made himself conspicuous and famous by the daily performance of astonishing miracles, the scribes and pharisees, who thought that everything ought to be subservient to their own personal interests and aggrandizement, fell out with jesus because he did not fall in with notions of what he ought to be and do. they did not care a baubee for the people, the rabble, the mob, the human cattle. indeed they utterly despised them, and would have nothing to do with them. they might perish and rot so far as the scribes and pharisees were concerned, provided these latter could hold the places of honor and gain. and so utterly possessed were they by this feeling of all-consuming selfishness, that when they saw this jesus of nazareth going with sinners, talking with sinners and eating with sinners, they set it down as a conclusion they would never give up that he was not, and could not be, and should not be, their messiah. so that jesus was thus forced to reason with them, and to make his defense before these self-constituted judges of his, and tell them why it was that he pursued the course he did. so it was in the time of john wesley in england. he went among sinners, talked with them, taught them, and drew them by the magic force of his great love to follow him wherever he went to preach; and they so crowded the churches to hear the words of grace and tenderness that fell from his lips, that the doors were shut upon him, and he had to go out on the commons and into the fields beneath the sky of that god and father whose words he was preaching, and whose lost children he was trying to save. this has been the experience of other zealous and earnest ministers of christ. and they, too, have had to defend themselves for such a course. our dear brother morris felt himself pressed to say why he went to the courthouse steps to try to lift up the fallen and save the wretched and the lost. but the words of jesus contain also a scathing rebuke of the self-righteous spirit of those hard-headed, hard-hearted scribes and pharisees. it was the same as saying, "you claim that you are the righteous of the world. you are not willing to be classed with sinners, or to be called sinners, or to believe yourselves sinners. therefore you have no need of me, and i have nothing for you; for i came not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance." let us beware then, my dear friends and brethren, of thinking or feeling that we are better than others, or that we are not sinners. now, need i stop here to prove that any of you are sinners? does any one here need to have arguments worked out and laid before him to prove to him that he is a poor, miserable, blind sinner? if there is any one here who thinks and feels that he is not, then he has no business here, he has no business with christ, and we have nothing to tell him or give him here. we bid him farewell, and turn away from him, to work for and to talk to others. if i were to go to see a sick man concerned about his soul, and he were to begin to tell about his good deeds and his freedom from sins and vices, i would get my hat and tell him good-bye; that i knew nothing about salvation for anybody but sinners. but for sinners i have and hold up a saviour, a divine saviour, who, blessed be god, is able to save to the uttermost all who come to him, and to save them here and now. if you want to see a specimen of christ's interest in sinners and feeling for sinners, look at his life. in the beginning of his ministry he chooses matthew, one of the despised class of publicans, to be one of his disciples--nay, one of his apostles. then he went to matthew's house to dinner. it was as if some leading minister of the gospel here to-day would be seen walking down the street with some leading gambler, on his way to take dinner and spend the afternoon with him. it was as if mr. moody should come to louisville to conduct one of his great meetings, and, instead of stopping with mr. carley or mr. carter or judge bullock, should stop with john young or harry johnson, and be his willing guest. so jesus went to the house of another big gambler, so to speak, in his day. it was the publican zaccheus (luke xix., - ), and jesus not only went there to dinner, but took salvation with him to zaccheus' house. so by his tenderness and grace, jesus drew to him the poor outcast women of his day. one wretched sinner of this class was so won by his concern for sinners, that she pressed her way into a rich man's house where jesus was dining, and going to him washed his feet with her tears, and anointed them with costly perfume, jesus not only not forbidding her, but defending her for it (luke ). and jesus spoke the parables of the lost sheep, the lost piece of silver, the lost prodigal son, and said--oh, hear it--"there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth." james i: , . " . but whoso looketh into the perfect law of liberty, and continueth therein, he being not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work, this man shall be blessed in his deed. " . if any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man's religion is vain." james, the writer of this language, is that inspired servant of god, who gets impatient with mere professions of piety, and who wants to see action, action! not mere words, not dead faith, but also action. he speaks, in the text, of "forgetful hearers of the word." now, do you not know all about what that means? have you not, many a time, read the bible, or heard a sermon from it that, like a mirror, held up to your heart, showed you yourself even better than you knew yourself? and have you not said: "well, i will change; that picture is true, and it is too dark to be endured any longer?" but, instead of carrying out your purpose and doing what you say, you went away and forgot all about it, and soon you were as dead as ever. and, instead of continuing to read the bible and see yourself there; and instead of continuing to go where faithful ministers would uncover your poor, wicked heart and life to your eyes, you went on your accustomed ways of business or pleasure, and became a "forgetful hearer of the word," and it did you no good. how, then, in the name of god, can a man keep himself from forgetting the things he reads or hears from the bible? why, it is very simple--to go to _doing_ at once, without waiting even till to-morrow. "do what?" you say. why, go to praying. cut yourself off from retreat by coming out on the side of christ and taking your place among those who are seeking his mercy and salvation, till you can take your place among those who have that salvation. but i want to say a very solemn word to those who profess to have already obtained salvation. are _you doing_, as well as _hearing_ the word of god? does your life exemplify "holiness to the lord," and does it abound in good works and good words? do you abstain from evil and keep yourself from evil associations? do you turn away from dangerous and suspicious places and people? do you obey readily and heartily what you find to be commanded in god's word? if you do not do the things you hear, then you, too, will soon become "forgetful hearers," and little by little the world will re-assert its power over you, and the flesh will get the upper hand, and at the last you may wind up as our poor friend eicheler did. doing is as important a part of the gospel as hearing. read the last part of the sermon on the mount (matthew vii., - ). notice that jesus says the man who does his sayings is like one who buildeth on a solid and enduring foundation that can stand storms and temptations. now, do you not find that if you do what you find in the bible, then the bible becomes sweeter and sweeter to you? you do not shut it up then and shove it aside for fear of finding yourself condemned, for when you do its biddings it will not condemn you, but commend you, and that makes you love it and keeps you from forgetting it. and thus you grow stronger and stronger, and sin will grow weaker and weaker, and you will surely find that you have built on a strong foundation. but, in the last part of the text is a subject i want to talk about. read verse . it is the tongue. if any man seems to be religious, and fails to control his tongue, then he is mistaken. oh, have you not found your tongue to be one of the most troublesome things you have to contend with? if you want to see james' idea of the tongue, read chapter iii., - . do you watch your conversation? do you guard the door of your lips? do you? i am in earnest. do you ever indulge in the least obscenity? some so-called christians do, and it is sickening and disgusting to others; and while it shows what their thoughts dwell on, it does themselves great harm, for it keeps temptation before their minds, and makes it a great deal more difficult to resist temptations when they come in their lives. do you mean it only as innocent fun? it is not innocent. for if you are so hardened as to unclean thoughts, that they don't hurt _you_, they, will hurt others. what about swearing? if the devil can get you to swear a few times, then he will say: "oh, you might as well confess that you are no christian, and give up this hypocritical business." there is one of the ten commandments forbidding to take god's name in vain; the sermon on the mount forbids it still more strongly, and james, in chapter v., , condemns it in the strongest language. and yet there are some church members who practice it, especially when they get mad. that man's heart is not right, and he is treading on very dangerous ground who is not changed enough to avoid swearing. and if a man, by god's grace, will turn away from it and from the thought of it, he will soon become so that it will make him shudder to hear others swear. i know this from my own experience. if you do not watch yourself in conversation, you will tell things that are not true; and so, in trying to be polite, you will have to watch or your tongue will tell a falsehood, and you will recollect it with shame and lose strength of faith in god. and then that tongue often indulges in gossip about your acquaintances that does them great harm. and have you not, in moments of temper and passion, said cruel and, perhaps, false things to your dear ones; to those who have worked for you, and maybe would die for you? it cut them to the heart, and you have not made acknowledgment of your sin to them. james i: . "a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." one of the commonest and greatest faults and weaknesses of men is this that i am going to speak about to you to-night, and that is indecision. it is not only a weakness and a fault and a great hindrance in regard to religion, but in any and all the affairs of life. do you not know men of competent ability and of good advantages and education who amount to very little in the world? and when you ask yourself why it is, is it not because they have not enough decision of character to keep at any one thing long enough to master the difficulties with which it is beset and to win success in spite of obstacles? some of them are confused by the great number of ways that seem to open before them and are not decided as to which one they will pursue. and after embarking in one pursuit and continuing in it for awhile, they conclude they could do better at something else; and before they have studied and labored long enough to obtain success in this second enterprise, they conclude they could do better by changing for a third or going back to the first. and so, because study and time and labor are necessary to success in any occupation or profession and they do not bestow these, they do not succeed, and, in the nature of the case, can not succeed. or, if they are not embarrassed by the number of openings before them, they are divided in their minds between a life of ease, indulgence and pleasure and a life of labor and self-denial, and, though they would be something and are not without ambition, yet a life of indolence and rest offers so many inducements that they prefer it to a life of hard work and of discouragements and battles and anxieties, or, at least, if they do not positively prefer such a life, yet they hanker after it; and in their effort to have ease and pleasure and, at the same time, to pursue some honorable and profitable calling, _they miss both_, and have no satisfaction, but only a consciousness of their own weakness and uselessness and a contempt for themselves. but maybe i need not ask you if you know persons of this sort. you who listen to me to-night may be of just that kind. possibly--nay, probably--there are men here to-night whose lives have been failures just because of the miserable weakness i have been trying to describe. but if this weakness of character is the cause of many failures and the utter disappointment that many lives have ended in, in worldly matters, how much more so is it in religious concerns and interests. if concentration of thought and fixedness of purpose and firmness of will are necessary to overcome obstacles and to master success in business or in the learned professions, they are more so in the matter of religion. if indecision and dividedness of mind and wavering of purpose cause men to fail in worldly matters, much more so will they cause men to fail in religion. some men are forever wavering between accepting and rejecting christianity. to-day they are satisfied that christianity is true, and to-morrow they say they have found proof that christianity is false. then, again, they get into trouble and find that nothing can help them but christianity, and they believe it until some man comes along and argues against it, and away they go off after him. so they never believe in christianity long enough at any time to get any good from it, and they will not utterly and finally reject it so as to be no longer troubled by it. but the trouble with most of the people who are in this wretched state of indecision is that they believe in christianity, and are persuaded that it is far better to be a christian and safer, but they love the world and the ways of the world and the honors of the world and the pleasures of the world; and it is impossible to love the world and partake of the pleasures of the world and at the same time to serve god with your whole heart. "ye can not serve two masters," and yet you see people who are trying to do it. so they do not make good christians, for their hearts are in the world, and their lives and influence are not for christianity, but for the world. nor do they get the good and pleasure of a worldly life, for they are restrained and harassed by their fear of conscience, god and hell. and jesus, in the sermon on the mount, says, "ye can not serve two masters." many have tried it. some whose histories are given in the bible tried it. saul, the first king of israel, tried it. when god sent him to destroy the amalekites, he obeyed the command in part, but not altogether. (i. samuel xv., - .) but god is not mocked, and because saul trifled with him he rejected saul, and saul went from bad to worse, until at last, in his abandonment to the power of evil, he committed murder after murder and finally died a suicide. the rich young man in the new testament was another case of divided mind. he saw the desirableness of being good, and the safety of being at peace with god, and showed a zeal in trying to be good; but when jesus told him to sell all he had and give it to the poor, he refused. he wanted to do both, obey god and inherit the kingdom of heaven and have a fortune for selfish enjoyment or for miserable greed at the same time. but he could not do both. king agrippa said "he was almost persuaded" to be a christian. his mind was divided; he could not do both. he chose to keep his worldly possessions, and, of course, could not be a christian (acts xxvi., ). but, on the other hand, those men who were decided and positive in their rejection of the pleasures of the world found no great trouble in serving god. moses was a man of this sort (hebrews xi., - ). he deliberately chose to suffer afflictions with the people of god rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season. paul was another man of this positive character. when jesus revealed himself to paul his surrender was immediate and complete. he said, "what wilt thou have me do?" and to the end of a long and laborious life, amid persecutions and sufferings and disgraces and loneliness and bonds, he continually cried, "none of these things move me." and his christian life was victorious and glorious. ii. timothy iii: . "having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof; from such turn away." this text is a description of certain false teachers who had arisen in the midst of the church, or who would arise and assume the name of disciples of christ, as well as authority to teach. they would assume the outward form of christianity and adopt its expressions and conform to its usage in outward respects, but would deny that there was any supernatural power or divine unction in it. and there are such men to-day. but if christianity be not attended by any supernatural agency and energy present in it and with it, then it is no better than any other of the so-called religions of the world. if it has only form and body, without a living and life-giving soul and divinity in it, it is on a level with the heathen religions, for they all have these. and, indeed, all men have a form of religion, and many of them are so devoted to it that they will suffer and some of them die before they will give it up. the ancient jews held to the forms of their religion, and fought for it in bloody and bitter wars. and the pharisees at the time of christ were the most careful and scrupulous observers of all the forms of their religion, and yet jesus denounced them as the wickedest sinners of his time. there are men of this kind in the christian churches of to-day, men who go through the forms of religion, who perform the outward duties of religion, and who would not give these up for any consideration; and yet they not only do not experience anything of the power of inward religion, but they go so far as to deny that there is any such inward power, and call those who claim to have it fanatical. but read the following passages, and see if we have not scripture warrant for this power of religion: i. corinthians ii., ; i. thessalonians i., ; ii. timothy i., ; ephesians iii., ; and our text, ii. timothy iii., . . the power of christianity is shown in the conviction for sin. it is impossible to get men to see and realize the sinfulness and hatefulness of sin. it is impossible for any power of men's eloquence to pierce through the deep native depravity of the heart--through the selfish motives, desires, ambitions and interests, and get men to see and feel the nature and danger of sin. oh, the impossibility of making men feel guilt and danger by any human means while they are dead in sin! but under the power of this force, or, rather, this agent, who works in and through christianity, the poor sinner sees and feels all this. he sees that, of all bitter and perilous things, sin is the most bitter and perilous and dreadful. he feels smitten with remorse. he feels that there is no beauty in the world, or in anything, because of the blackness and ugliness and foulness of his own evil heart and life. and he feels that, above all things, he must get rid of sin, and at whatever cost, and speedily at that, for the agony is unendurable. everything seems as nothing compared with salvation from sin. "he will go and sell all he has to buy it," as jesus says. this sense of sin and danger produces an earthquake in the spiritual nature that upheaves the hidden depths of the soul. like the pilgrim in bunyan's pilgrims progress, he puts his fingers in his ears and flees from the city of destruction. like the murderers of jesus when convicted by this power, he cries out, "what must i do to be saved?" . it is shown in what we call conversion. but this power which belongs to christianity, not only produces this awful sense of the guilt and danger of sin, it also delivers from the guilt and power of sin, and makes the man a new creature. the awful sense of condemnation and the fear of a just and endless retribution are taken away. he may not know how or just why, but he knows it is so, and he rejoices with joy unspeakable and full of glory. but, not only so, he finds to his amazement and joy that his whole inner nature is reversed, re-created, and he no longer is a slave of sinful habits and passions, but he is delivered from these, and now loves holiness and holy people and holy things and holy thoughts. the whole current of his nature is changed. "old things are passed away, and behold all things are become new," and, instead of the old defilement and darkness and devilishness, there flows out and on a life of purity, consecration, self-forgetfulness and holiness. now, do you not call that a power which can bring to pass such effects as this? do you know of any other power that can do anything like it? and now, my brother, you who profess to be a follower of jesus, have you experienced this power, or have you only the form of godliness without the power? that is what is the matter with most of the church members of this day. they have a form of godliness, but in too many cases only a form. they do not know anything of the power of which i have been speaking. but let no one be discouraged who has not experienced this blessed deliverance from the power of the enemy, provided you are seeking for it. you shall not seek long in vain, if you seek it in earnest. may god reveal himself to us all now and here. i. corinthians ix: , . "i therefore so run not as uncertainly; so fight i, not as one that beateth the air: "but i keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when i have preached to others, i myself should be a castaway." this is the language of st. paul, the apostle. as we have already remarked of jesus, that he took the most familiar facts and experiences of every-day life by which to teach his doctrines, so we may say of his great apostle, paul. the grecian games, consisting of running matches and boxing matches, were well known among the people of st. paul's day, and especially so at corinth, and these furnished him the illustrations which he frequently used in his letters. in another place he speaks of laying aside all weights and running with patience the race set before us. in this place he speaks both of running and boxing. his object is to show that, as in these games the utmost attention and energy and self-denial were necessary to success, and that these would insure success, so it is in the christian race and the christian fight. he says: "i, for my part, run not as uncertainly," that is, i run no risk, i indulge in nothing that would make it in the least degree uncertain as to my gaining the desired object; i know what is required of me, and i know that if i do not fully observe all that is commanded me and required of me, i, to that extent, render my success uncertain, and this i am determined, by the grace of god, not to do. then he says: "i fight not as one that beateth the air." the boxers would frequently take exercise by striking into the air, as we see men practicing gymnastics now; but paul meant to say that he was not taking exercise--he was facing an earnest and dangerous foe, and it was a life and death matter to him to know just what that foe was, and to know just how to attack it so as to conquer it. and what was that foe? hear it, you who think you are safe and can just go smoothly to heaven as if you were sliding down hill. hear what paul's greatest foe was: it was his body--yes, his body, with its appetites and passions, its constant craving for gratification and pleasure. what! do you mean to say that paul, the great apostle, was in danger of being led away by the appetites of the body? well, that is what he himself says. he was not in danger of falling because of doubt, for he had had such a wonderful conversion, and such an actual vision of christ, that he could never, never doubt that, nor does he any where, in any of his epistles, show the slightest wavering in this respect, but he does show that he knew and felt there was danger of being, in some unguarded moment, misled and brought into sin by the appetites of an unmastered body. so, he says in the next verse: "i keep under my body and bring it into subjection, lest that when i have preached to others, i myself should be lost." he still keeps up the figure of the boxing matches in the games, and says: "the foe i have to contend with is my body," and as the winner in the fist fight of the games beats his foe black, till he cries "enough!" so do i deny my body till it ceases to have any desire or disposition toward the objects of unholy passions, till it meekly gives up, and i feel that i am perfect master, and it is under my feet as it were. when the body is fed and gratified and pampered, its animal appetites and passions are nursed and become strong. so men who live high and eat to gluttony and drink wines and liquors are usually in a perfect strut of sensual passion. i guess that is why the lord keeps me so poor, and why i have so little to live on and so little to feed on. it is that, by this necessary self-denial, i may keep my poor body down, out of danger of betraying me into sin. david was as great a man in some respects as paul, he communed with god in the solitudes of bethlehem's sheep pastures, till he became strong enough to overcome a giant and to put a whole army to flight. he composed most of the psalms, the most spiritual songs in the world. he withstood all the temptations of honor, and endured, with matchless meekness, the hatred and persecution of saul, the king (i. samuel xxiv). but his poor body, with its sensual passions, got the better of him, and he committed the awful sin of adultery. doubtless, when he had become king, he forgot the self-denial which he practiced when he was a shepherd, and when he was a persecuted and hunted fugitive, and instead of that he lived high, fed high, drank high, and so he fell, and fell very low. solomon was a wise man. he knew all the secrets of the human heart. he wrote proverbs and ecclesiastes, books full of profound knowledge, as well as of deepest piety. yet solomon was led away from god by indulging in sensuality. and if david and solomon, with all their faith and wisdom and power and piety, found that their bodies, because not kept down, led them into sin, we need not wonder that paul saw and shunned this danger. but how is a man to keep his body under? by totally abstaining from everything that heats the blood and inflames passion, as drinking, etc., and high living; by fleeing from evil conversation, evil books, evil thoughts; by fasting and abstinence, frequently practiced. moses fasted; elijah, david, nehemiah, jeremiah, daniel, jesus, paul, the early church and wesley and the early methodists--all these eminent servants of god fasted, and there must be something good and profitable in it. i am satisfied it is one of the ways of keeping the body under, and bringing it into subjection. and may god help us to use all the means in our power for securing ourselves from our greatest enemy. acts xx: . "testifying both to the jews, and also the greeks, repentance toward god, and faith toward our lord jesus christ." this verse is a part of st. paul's account of his own ministry at the city of ephesus in asia. he revisits them after having spent three years of labor among them, and in his address to them he reminds them of his manner of life among them, and recounts the substance of his preaching among them; and the burden of his preaching was as is stated in the text: "repentance toward god, and faith toward our lord jesus christ." and the first point to be noticed is that st. paul made no difference among men; he was no respecter of persons or classes. you all know the jews were the church people of that day. they not only claimed to be the pious of that day, but they claimed to be the only pious people, and the only ones qualified to teach others. but paul, finding their religion was altogether outward and formal, as is the religion of many of the church people to-day, preached to them just as he did to the vilest of the heathens around them, the necessity of repentance, of turning from their sins and passions to god, with self-abhorrence and hope of mercy and pardon. and in this he has only followed the example of his divine master; for christ said to nicodemus, a ruler of the jews, a sort of reverend doctor of divinity, "except ye be born again, ye can not enter into the kingdom of god." (john iii., .) and so now it makes no difference if you belong to the catholic church or the episcopal church or the methodist church, or any or all others, it will do you absolutely no good at all if you have not repented of your sins and evil doings and turned to god in prayer and hope for grace to enable you to live above the power of sin. but, in the next place, paul said he preached "repentance toward god." it is god, then, whom you have offended by your sins. as david says in the fifty-first psalm, "against thee, thee only, have i sinned, and done this evil in thy sight." and because you have sinned against god, you must repent toward god, and as in the sight of him who sees and knows all, even the secret thoughts and passions and purposes of the heart. god is judge, and god is a consuming fire. but what is it to repent? ordinarily, when we hear persons speak of repentance, we think at once about being sorry and of feeling a deep grief because we have done wrong; and some of us think it means to weep and moan and to be afflicted with an awful bitterness of soul because of our sins, when we hear any one speak of repentance in a religious sense. and, indeed, this may be the kind of repentance which many people have, and doubtless do have. but there _may_ be true repentance without this extreme sorrow for sin, provided there is enough sorrow for sin and hatred of sin and dread of sin to turn away from it, and to at once and forever forsake it. nor must you wait for this extreme sorrow, which you may have heard others speak of, but if you are convinced of the evil of sin and the baseness of sin and the ruinousness of sin, then cease to follow it, cease to practice it, and cease at once, however much it may cost you to do so. the old prophet, speaking to the jews who came with sighs and groans and tears to god's altar, but without mending their ways, says, "cease to do evil, learn to do right, put away the evil from you." and john the baptist says, "bring forth fruits worthy of repentance," that is, such fruit as will show that you have indeed and in heart turned away from evil and from sin. meanwhile, ask god to help you repent, tell him you are nothing but sin and that you look to him for grace to repent right and to turn away from all sin. and as long as you cleave to one sin, you need not expect to get any relief. many give up one thing and another, but think they can hold on to one sin--one darling sin, one idolized sin--and that god will excuse this one, if they give up all others. "but be not deceived; god is not mocked," nor can you trifle with him. having thus let go your hold of sin, of your secret darling sins, and turned away from them with hope of mercy from god, you can trust in jesus christ, his son crucified for your sins, and in your stead, and you will surely have peace, and that quickly. observe, paul says he preached faith, not in god the father, but faith in the lord jesus christ. it is in jesus that god reconciles the world unto himself, and if you do not accept jesus and trust in god's mercy, as shown in jesus, you will get no relief and no peace. god has promised nothing outside of jesus. but he has promised everything to him who accepts jesus christ's suffering and sacrifice as the sufficient and satisfactory penalty due to his own sins, and believes that jesus bore his sins in his body on the cross. if jesus satisfied paul, he ought to satisfy you, and be worthy of your confidence and trust and worship. turn from sin, then, with humility and shame that you have so long grieved god, and trust in jesus, and jesus alone, and keep doing so for days if necessary, and you can not, and shall not, fail to obtain salvation. on self-denial. luke ix: . "and he said unto them all, if any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me." religion depends on this more than on any other one thing. if we are willing to give up all our own preferences and to deny all our desires and inclinations, we shall not have much trouble at any other point. the greatest hindrance to getting religion or _keeping_ religion is our own desire for ease, comfort and self-gratification, and our aversion to enduring any hardship or privation or suffering. the reason why self-denial is necessary is that our very nature is corrupted and diseased and we are blinded by sin. once the will of man was the same as the will of god; but, since the fall, the will of man and that of god are directly opposed; and if we live according to god's will, we must go directly against our own. self-denial is necessary in avoiding sin to which we are inclined and which we find give us pleasure. but it is necessary also, when no sin or temptation is present, to preserve that frame of mind which keeps us in readiness for temptation and enables us to resist it when it does come. a constant habit of self-denial is necessary to make us proof against the gradual and unperceived approach of sin either in the form of coldness and distaste for religion, or sloth, or a desire to gratify the flesh. so paul (i. cor. ix., ) said he kept his body under and brought it into subjection, lest _even he_, through the deceitfulness of sin, should become a castaway. it follows that self-denial is absolutely necessary to growing in grace. we are mistaken if we imagine we are growing in grace, when we are practicing no self-denial. jesus said (luke ix., ): "if any man will come after me let him deny himself and take up his cross _daily_." now what does that word "daily" mean in this connection? indeed growth in piety is a growing out of self so that self is _crucified_, as paul says he was. self-denial must be practiced then. . in abstaining from sins of all kinds. . in performing all our duties of religion, however hard and unpleasant they may be, as attending all church services, ordinances, etc., and giving according to your ability. . in practicing private prayer however hard and distasteful it may be at first. some men have prayed three hours a day in secret, as, for example, luther. . in abstinence from food, _i.e._, fasting; and sometimes from sleep when it is necessary to have time to pray, etc. get the upper hand of your animal nature and keep it by _daily_ self-denial and you will mount up with wings as eagles, you will run and not be weary, you will walk and not faint. i. john iii: . "and ye know that he was manifested to take away our sins; and in him is no sin." these are christmas days. this is the period of the year that is celebrated as the anniversary of the birth of jesus. i fear that if some stranger from a foreign land, who knew nothing of the character of jesus and his history and nothing of christianity, were to happen in our midst during this christmas time, he would think, from the character of our festivities and the kind of our demonstrations, that we were either, by our bonfires and guns and rockets and fireworks, celebrating some warlike hero who, in the midst of belching cannon and blazing musketry, had delivered his country from peril, or else that we were, by our revelry and dissipation and debauchery and riot, celebrating some heathen god of pleasure like bacchus, the roman god of the wine cup. and it is strange--unaccountably strange--that men should so pervert the sacred christmas time into a season of unusual and disgraceful indulgence in sin. what does our text say? "he was manifested to take away our sins." "he was manifested;" what does that mean? oh, it means more than you and i will give ourselves time to fully take in. it is said that the angels desire to look into the wonderful fact of the condescension of jesus christ, the prince of princes, in becoming man in order to save sinners. but though _angels_ thus desire, very few of _us_, for whom this wonderful humiliation was suffered, give enough time or attention to it to either understand it or care much about it. we are too much occupied with these lower things to take any special interest in things infinitely higher. paul, in the second chapter of the philippians, tells us how jesus humbled himself. let us see verse : "who being in the form of god, thought it not robbery to be equal with god, but made _himself_ of _no reputation_ and took on him the form of a servant, and humbled himself and became obedient unto _death_, yea even unto the death of the cross." christ, then, was the equal of god, the father, worshipped by angels; and yet he consented to become man, and so be made "a little lower than the angels." but he not only became man, he became a servant among men. so his life was one of lowly service and unremitting toil for others. he once girded himself with a towel and washed the feet of his disciples. but he not only became man and servant to man, he went to a deeper depth of humiliation than any other ever descended to: he suffered as an evil-doer, though in fact he was the only good and pure man that ever lived. "he was numbered among the transgressors," though he was guilty of no transgression, and he descended down to the bottom floor of disgrace--he was nailed on a cross and left there to die as you hang the worst criminals by the neck till they are dead. yes, he was born poor; he lived in toil and sorrow and died in shame: the prince of glory did all this. but, stop and ask, why did he endure all this when he might and could have avoided it? let god answer: "surely he hath borne _our_ griefs and carried _our_ sorrows. he was wounded for _our_ transgressions. he was bruised for _our_ iniquities; all we like sheep had gone astray, and the lord laid on _him_ the iniquity of us all." (isaiah lviii., , .) yes, "he was manifested to take away our transgressions" in the sense that he suffered in our stead for those transgressions that are past. but what good would it do to forgive sinners if they were not changed and renewed, so that they could have the power in the future to abstain from sin? what good would it do for god to say to a drunkard, "your sins are forgiven" if he did not at the same time so change that drunkard as to make him able to keep from drinking in the future? what good to forgive the past sins of a debauchee or a liar or a gambler or a thief or a murderer if, at the same time, their hearts were not so changed that they would and could keep from sinning again? it would do no good, for they would go straight into the sins they had been practicing. well, does jesus make provision for this? yes, he does. he was manifested not only to take away the guilt of our transgressions, but also their _power_ over us. do we not read in the scripture that if the son shall make us free we shall be free indeed? jesus promised a mighty agent which should work in the hearts of men and renew their natures. i, myself, am as different a man as if i had been blotted out of existence and born again a new creature. and these are the very expressions the scripture uses for describing the wonderful change. this, then, is what jesus was born in poverty, lived in sorrow and died in shame for, and at this time of remembrance and rejoicing he makes appeal to you: "i gave my life for thee, my precious blood i shed that thou mightest ransomed be, and quickened from the dead. my father's house of light, my glory-circled throne, i left, for earthly night, far wanderings, sad and lone. i've borne it all for thee; what hast thou borne for me?" new year's sermon. deuteronomy viii: - . the people of israel had journeyed long and wearily since leaving egypt. for forty years they had wandered and now at last had come to the borders of the promised land. only the narrow jordan was between them and the canaan of their hopes. they were encamped upon the eastern bank of this river and were only awaiting orders to pass over and possess the goodly land which lay before them. and moses, who was not to cross over with them, but to be buried in the land of moab, gives this parting address to them. they were just passing from one stage of their journey to another and they need to be reminded of the _past_ and instructed and warned as to the _future_. so he says: "thou shalt _remember_ all the way which the lord hath led thee these forty years." . they were to remember the trials and temptations they had. the object of these, he says (verse ), was to _humble_ them and to _prove_ them that they might know what was in their hearts. and so, my brother, if during the past year, or during your past life, you have had trials and temptations, it was that you might learn your own weakness, a hard lesson for proud mortals to learn, and so be humbled to distrust yourself and seek help from god. and if you have had sorrow or bereavement it was for the same purpose, that you might learn to give up seeking perfect happiness in anything or any creature on earth and seek it in god. and have not some of you learned this lesson or are you not beginning to learn it at last? have not the sins and the sorrows of your past life humbled you and at last brought you to feel your _need of god_? but another object of these past experiences of trial was to prove what was in your heart. a man does not know what there is in his heart till temptation brings it out. he does not know how bad it is. i thought i was patient; but when temptation came, i found my heart had much impatience in it. i thought i was humble and did not think highly of myself till people began to praise me and i found i enjoyed it and loved it and i was not humble. . but they were to remember god's goodness to them also (see verses and ). he had fed them himself with manna and kept their clothes from wearing out and their feet from swelling. and so _you_ are to remember the goodness of god to you during the past year and during your past life. remember how he has spared you in the midst of your wickedness as he spared me in my neglect of him _for forty years_, and how he has furnished you many blessings and would have given you more, but you would not. and if he has allowed your wickedness to bring you into trouble and distress, it is to cause you to _stop_ and _reflect_ upon your ways and turn from them unto him for deliverance and true happiness. thus you are to recall, from the past year and from your past life, your sins and sorrows, and god's manifold mercies to you. ii. but, just entering upon this new year, you are to look ahead also, even as the israelites were to look ahead to the goodly land into which the lord was going to bring them (see verses , and ). . god _promises_ you much, my brother, on condition that you follow him and obey him. he promises to bless you temporally and spiritually, and to give you happiness--a goodly possession--if you, for your part, give yourself up, _unreservedly_ to his directions. he has done much for _me_, since i began to follow and obey him years ago. . moses ends his discourse with a solemn warning (verse ). _beware_ that you forget not the lord your god, and go at any time to trusting to yourself or any earthly help. on affliction and suffering. lamentations, iii: - . " . but though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. " . for he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men." there is a vast deal of suffering and of sorrow in the world, and the most of it, if not all, is due directly or indirectly to _sin_ as the cause. sin is followed by suffering, as for example, intemperance ruins the health and brings on a slavery worse in some cases than death; and sensuality is often followed by loathsome and painful diseases. thus god declares his feeling towards sin in these sufferings that result from it. he has set up a barrier to keep men from the practice of it. but we will consider how afflictions and sufferings may all be overruled to the good of the sufferer and his deliverance from the evil of _sin_. . sufferings which are the direct effect of sin have a tendency to make us turn away from sin. for example, the poverty and distress of the prodigal son were the cause of his returning to his father. so it was with jack harrington and others whom we know. . but sufferings and misfortunes which are not the direct effect of sin stir up the memory to a recollection of past sins, and excite a remorse for them. for example, a lady who is the wife of a whisky dealer told her husband she believed that their losses and misfortunes were judgments sent on them for being in that business. . sometimes it takes the greatest and most prolonged suffering to conquer man's stubbornness and independence of god. but suffering humbles him, and, his pride being out of the way, he has no more trouble. . sorrow that is too great for any earthly consolation leads the sorrowing one to seek comfort in god. one of the greatest and best preachers of germany was thus led to god by the loss of his young wife. so parents are brought to god by the death of children and children by the death of parents. . sometimes suffering is necessary to wean us from some idol which we would not otherwise be willing to give up. . sometimes when we forget god and become absorbed in the world, nothing but some affliction will make us come to ourselves and turn again to god with repentance and consecration. read psalm cxix., - . the case of sister p----, at portland, was one of this kind. she was a backslider and put off her return to god and kept putting it off. but she had a great sorrow. her son left home under a cloud, her son's wife lost her mind and then died, and her son was put in prison. to this was added her own bad health. these things broke the spell of the world, woke her up from her apathy and made her seek god with all her heart and she found him again, and died in great peace and triumph. . then suffering purifies us and develops us and prepares us for work we could not otherwise do. "tribulation worketh _patience_." what _excellent training_ i got when i rubbed the engine for a dollar and a half a day. it brought patience and resignation and a better preparation for the work i am doing than any other sort of experience, perhaps, could have given me. revelations xxi: . "and i heard a great voice out of heaven saying, behold, the tabernacle of god is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and god himself shall be with them, and be their god." the subject suggested by the text is, the future and final conquest of the world by the church of christ, and the rest and reward of that church in heaven. and the scriptures do teach that, in time, all nations shall learn righteousness. the time is coming when neighbor shall not say to neighbor, "know ye the lord," but when all shall know him, from the least to the greatest; and the knowledge of god shall cover the earth, as the waters cover the deep. when this blessed time is to be, and what are to be the signs of its approach, are not questions for us to attempt to discuss here to-day, though we may be allowed to say that the gospel is being preached to more people to-day that at any former period in the history of the church. there is a missionary zeal in the church to-day that has not been paralleled in all her history. there is not only a readiness among heathen people to hear the gospel, but there seems to be a positive hunger for it, and within the last few years the gospel has penetrated to the interior of nations and continents that were previously inaccessible. certainly the church is more aggressive and bold in her plans and operations to-day than ever before. and if it be a prophecy of the not distant conquest of the world to the reign of christ, we take courage, and say: "god speed the day!" it is well for us to pause now, and to reflect upon the reward promised to us in the end of our course. we do not give enough attention to this. to study about it; to learn what we do not know concerning it; to realize the unspeakable blessedness of that state would make us more patient in waiting, more cheerful in suffering, more earnest and active and untiring in our efforts to help others to the attainment and enjoyment of it. heaven, then, is represented in the bible as a place of _perfect beauty, perfect security, perfect rest and perfect joy_. it is so represented as to appeal to the desires and longings of all classes of people. to the inhabitant of the city, what could be more pleasing than the freedom and freshness and beauty of the country? so heaven is described as having its landscapes, with its fruit-bearing trees, its crystal rivers and gurgling fountains. but for the rustic peasant, it is said to be a resplendent city, with walls of sapphire and gates of pearl and streets of gold. but in some respects we are all alike. we want to be free from sin and danger. to a christian heart, sin is the most abhorred and dreadful of all things. it gives more pain and causes more darkness than any other cause; and the fear of it causes more suspense than the fear of all bodily suffering. but in heaven we shall be free from sin, and free from all fear of sin and all liability to sin. for nothing that defileth or maketh a lie can ever enter there; and they who are so happy as to gain heaven shall go out no more forever. we all dread sorrow and grief and pain. and truly we all have our share of it in this life. "man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward." "man is of few days and full of trouble," but we leave it all behind when we go in at the gate of the city of god. "and there shall be no more sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away." christians in this world feel that they are pilgrims and strangers in a foreign land, away from their home and their father's house. their hearts have been so changed, and they have tasted of the powers of the world to come, and have come into communion with god, so that neither the pleasures of the world nor the friendships of earth can content them--their hearts are not here, but away in heaven. i heard a christian man say, not long ago (though he has a sweet family and many friends), that he felt that day an unutterable loneliness, as if he were an exile. his heart had such a longing for his father and his kindred and his home beyond the skies. oh, the sympathy and love and tenderness we know we shall get at home! it makes us all feel a thrill that responds to the poet's immortal lines: "be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." and all the sympathy and tenderness of father, mother, brother and sister are transcended by the sympathy and tenderness of god, for marvelous to tell it is said that "god _himself_ shall wipe away all tears from our eyes." and how we thirst for _knowledge_ here. we know nothing now. we are surrounded on all sides by things we do not understand. if we undertake to investigate, we soon reach the limit of our capacity and have to stop before we have learned anything. "but then we shall know as also we are known." what it means, when it says we shall "sit down at the marriage supper of the lamb" we know not, nor what it implies when it says we are to "enter into the joy of our lord;" nor do we understand that wonderful saying, "thou hast been faithful over a few things, i will make thee ruler over many things." no, no; now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face, and "it doth not yet appear what we shall be." but we know that "if we suffer with him, we shall reign with him." the suffering comes first, the humiliation first, the toil and weariness, the _cross_ first, and then the crown. peter the great, of russia, during one of his wars, was separated from his army and lost, and, to escape detection, took off his royal apparel and dressed in common garb. in his wanderings he came to a humble cottage, and was kindly received and ministered unto by the peasant woman, who knew not who he was. she gave him a home until danger was passed, and then helped him to get back to his capital. when the war was ended, peter sent for this poor peasant woman, brought her to his splendid court, and, marrying her, made her the partner of his throne and his empire. she who had ministered to him in his sufferings now reigned with him as queen catherine, of russia. so, my brethren, see that you serve christ, suffer for him; spend and be spent for his cause, and _then_, oh, then, how sweet to rest and reign forevermore. ecclesiastes xii: . let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter; fear god, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man. now, boys, here is a piece of advice given by the wisest of men. can any of you tell me who was the wisest man? (solomon.) well this solomon was the son of a king. can any of you tell me whose son solomon was? (david's.) and, of course, solomon had all that money could buy from his childhood up; and when his father died, he became king in his place. he lived to be an old man and he had a wide experience of life. in other words he tried everything that he thought he could get happiness from and his experience is given in the book of ecclesiastes. he tried all sorts of pleasures and he tried them fully, because there was nothing to hinder or to check him. he denied himself nothing that his heart desired. he knew fully the effects of all sorts of enjoyment and when he had passed through it all he wrote it down as the lesson of his experience for all boys and young men to read. and what was it? does he say "young man, you have a long life before you. now you must enjoy the pleasures of life while you are young?" does he say you must run off from your father's house and presence like the prodigal son did, so you can have a good time in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the world and then in your after life, when you get more settled, you can think about your creator and death and heaven and hell and eternity? was that the lesson which his long and extended experience taught him? ah, no. it was a far different one. he would say this: "young men, boys, i have been all over the road you are traveling now. i have had your feelings, your hopes, your ambitions, your passions, your temptations. and in one part of my life i concluded i would give myself up to the enjoyment of pleasure of every kind and i did so. and i know all about it and this is what i would say to you all just starting out. remember _now_ your creator in the days of your _youth_ and give your hearts _and lives_ to him, if you want to be happy." . in the first place by so doing you will avoid wretched poverty. for a man whose heart and life are given to god can not be a spendthrift. but just look at some young men how they spend their money or that of their fathers. however large a fortune they may have, they soon come to _poverty_. and a man whose life is given to god is industrious and loves to work. he can not bear to be idle, for he knows and _feels_ it to be a great sin. besides all this god promises to see that those who live for him shall not want what is best for them. jesus in the sermon on the mount declares that if god provides for sparrows and clothes lilies, he will be sure to see to the needs of his own children. so the way to get the best assurance that you will be blessed with things needful in this life is to give yourself up to god to be his, through thick and thin. . if you give your heart to god _now_, you will be kept from the sins which bring men into _disgrace_. "a good name is rather to be chosen than riches." ah! you know not into what awful sins your passions will plunge you, if you do not get the control of yourself, which only religion can give. you may be led along little by little, almost without knowing it, till you may wake up to find that you can not, _can not_, break off from your sins--your hated and ruinous sins. but if you give god your heart to be changed, renewed, purified _now_, you will avoid all these awful dangers. . but this verse says "the years will draw nigh in which thou shalt take no pleasure in these things that relate to god." my dear young friend, that is terribly true. the longer you live away from god the less and less will be your care for him and for your soul. how few old men ever turn to god! yes, very few, forty years of age and over, ever do so. i heard dr. munhall ask once, in a large congregation, that all who were converted after seventy years of age would stand up. not one stood up. then he asked that all who had been converted after they were sixty years of age would stand up. not one stood up. then he asked all who were converted after fifty years to stand up. only one, i believe, did so. when he asked all who were converted after forty years to stand up, only three or four did so. when he asked all converted after thirty years to stand up, perhaps eight or ten did so. a few more had been converted after twenty years of age; but when he asked all who were converted _under_ twenty years to stand, most of the congregation arose. true, i was converted after i was forty years of age, but it was a bare chance. and oh, how hard it was for me. and if i had not had the most patient of friends to sympathize with me, encourage me and guide me, i should never have gotten along. i beg you do not follow my example in putting off your return to god. look at the men _whom you know_. how little interest they take in religion and their interest grows less and less all the time. the years have already come when they have no pleasure in the things of god. they have encouraged all their feelings, desires and ambitions but this, and this has almost died out. they have devoted all their thought and affections to making money and enjoying it, to seeking pleasure and enjoying it, to acquiring fame and enjoying it, and so their hearts are completely hardened and insensible to the religion which they cast aside ten, twenty or thirty years ago. and they will probably _never_ feel the all-absorbing interest in religion which is necessary to obtain it. hence, they will go on blinder and blinder, colder and colder, more and more hardened down to old age and to the grave and to a hopeless eternity. i beg you, my young friends, all who hear me to put off your return to god not one day longer. note.--the address, of which this is the outline, was delivered on a sunday-school occasion and is a specimen of mr. holcombe's talks to young people.--ed. mark ii: . "and it came to pass, that, as jesus sat at meat in his house, many publicans and sinners sat also together with jesus and his disciples; for there were many, and they followed him." . this class of persons _feel_ that they are outcast, and not recognized by those who are esteemed the good. hence, they feel backward, and will not make advances toward the good for fear of being slighted. . if those who are looked upon and honored as good and pious and pure, will show that they _want_ to be friendly and sociable, it will take these persons by surprise, and will win their feelings--and this is nearly half the battle. . besides, if the good, instead of waiting for these sinners to make advances, which they will not do, will take pains to show their interest in the welfare of these, their unfortunate brothers, it will make them believe that the pious are sincere, and not hypocritical, and that religion is a reality and not a mere profession. this is a great step toward gaining them. most of this class believe in the gospel in some vague sense, but it is too vague to amount to anything. but when they see the grand principle of the gospel--_love_--embodied in the christian, and coming after them in their lost condition, it makes an impression, and it moves them to _action_. you can not drive men, nor can you convince them by abusing them and by shutting them out as too vile to be your associates. this only drives them further away. but all men have a chord in their natures that can be touched by love and kindness. it was this gentleness and sympathy that drew the thousands around john wesley. it was this wonderful tenderness that made the publicans and sinners and harlots, the outcast and the low and the vile seek the company of the loving jesus and press into his presence, even when he was the guest of the great and noble of his day. they knew jesus would never repulse them--they knew he would love them, help them, save them. "down in the human heart crushed by the tempter, feelings lie buried that grace can restore; touched by a loving hand, wakened by kindness, chords that were broken will vibrate once more." . there has to be such an interest felt for those of this class as will make you cease to care for what people will say about your going among them and working with them. this was the sort of interest jesus had for them. . imagine your own dear son to be one of this number, and see what feelings you would have, what earnestness and what planning. these are some of the ways and means of getting at this class of persons. for we have to use means and reason in all things. . but the _agent_, the only one who can accomplish anything is _god's holy spirit_, and the holy spirit comes _only_ in answer to prayer and trust. prayer is to be first and second and third and everywhere and always, and then we may hope that our plans will succeed. preparation for winning souls. i am sure, my dear brethren, that in the discussion of this topic we are to be allowed some liberty and some latitude; and, if i shall speak in a general way, i trust i shall not be counted out of order. and, not to detain you with preliminaries, i say that, to be a winner of souls, a man must have the anointing of the holy one, reproducing the mind that was in christ, who "though he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might become rich," and who "being in the form of god, thought it not a usurpation to be equal with god, but he emptied himself and took upon him the form of a servant; and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient as far as unto death, even death on a cross." a sympathy that arises from any other motive, or comes from any other source, than his divine and supernatural anointing, will fall short of the mark, and will be found too shallow and weak to bear with the hardheartedness, the perversity and the ingratitude of sinful men. this anointing, on the other hand, brings with it a yearning love and a profound sympathy for those who are in the blindness and bondage of sin, which impels one to _seek out_ the lost, to be at patient pains to save them, and to bear with all their dullness, slothfulness, selfishness, perverseness and thanklessness, while they are under training, so to speak. it makes a man as ready and anxious to save the soul of a solitary sinner, however humble and degraded he may be, as to preach with power to the great congregations. it was this that made john wesley as willing and careful and patient in talking to a negro servant girl as to a multitude. and it was this which lead a greater than john wesley to lead with patient love along, the poor samaritan adulteress whom he met at the well of jacob. but what is more important and imperative for the immediate work of getting a dead soul to a living saviour, this divine anointing imparts that peculiar and energetic pungency which pierces to the heart and conscience of a sinner, rouses his fears, and prepares him for the reception of christ. not only so, this unction from the holy one is accompanied with a practical wisdom and _insight_ which discerns, if not all things, yet, at least, _many practical things_. it enables a man to see that the first thing to be done in the way of saving a sinner is to convict him of sin. to get him to admit theoretically that he is a sinner, is equal to zero, amounts to nothing. but, in a way not to repel him, he must be made to _feel_ that he is sinful, and so, wretched. it is wonderful what tact some men have in this respect. here lies, undoubtedly, the secret of sam jones' power. he turns all classes of men, pharisees in the church and sinners out of it, inside out, and makes them see, in spite of all spiritual apathy and all self-deception, what they are. he shows them secrets which they thought nobody knew but themselves. but a greater than he did the same thing--jesus touched the _sore spot_ in the conscience of the samaritan woman and compelled her to say: "he told me all things that i have done." this revealing the secrets of the heart is a thing that fascinates and attracts and wins a sinner; and he feels, if you know so well without being told, all the particulars of his inner life and all the desperate trouble of his case, you surely can not make a mistake in pointing out the way of escape. just as a patient yields immediate and unquestioning confidence to the physician who can tell him all his symptoms and describe his feelings better than he himself can do it. if preaching the love of christ without convicting of sin would have saved people, then most people in the united states would have been saved long ago, for the love of christ has been told and retold and preached and re-preached, and it does not bring sinners to repentance. to be sure there are some sinners who have found, by bitter experience, the ripe fruits of sin, and these may be already prepared to accept a deliverer and a deliverance as soon as offered to them. the possession of this unction presupposes that a man is correct, upright, holy in his life; for god would not give it to one who was not so. i believe mr. moody was right when he said: "if a man's life is not above reproach, the less he says the better." a friend of mine says he knows a minister who, though no doubt a good man and a fine talker, will _lie_ now and then. of course, he would not call it lying, nor would his admirers call it lying, but lying it is; and so he has no power. his preaching is like a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal. there are some men who have some little success in soul-saving, but who would have much more success, if their lives were thoroughly holy, and christlike. and indeed some men would not have the success they do have, if the public knew their secret life. for example, there are some men who indulge evil thoughts (if they do not go further) and who are not chaste in their associations with women; and there are others who are ill-tempered, cross, fault-finding, sour and bitter in their home life. if these things were publicly and generally known, they would lose what power they have with the people. brethren, we can hardly be too careful of these things. but a full and constant anointing of the holy one would correct all these evils at the _source_, namely, in the heart. it makes a sober christian man tremble to know how little some of the preachers and evangelists of the day _pray_. it would be no wonder if under stress of some sudden and strong temptation, they should fall into scandalous sin and disgrace themselves and the cause they represent. there is an old and true saying that "when a man's life is lightning, his words will be thunderbolts." we are advised to make ourselves familiar with the scriptures, to equip ourselves with weapons from the armory of god's word; and excellent advice it is. no man can maintain a spiritual life who does not habitually and diligently study god's holy word. no man is prepared to understand the wants of souls or to deal with them who is not familiar with the scriptures. it is a marked characteristic of our honored brother, d. l. moody, that he can, not only discern the deeper, inner spiritual sense of all the scriptures, both of the old testament and the new, but he can handle and apply them with a skill, effectiveness and power that are truly wonderful. and, what is more, he is peculiarly apt in selecting just the right passages for any particular case or occasion. he is truly a masterly handler of the sword of the spirit, and his success is largely due to this fact. but there is a class of workers who seem to think that it is sufficient to know by heart some scriptures, or to have a certain facility in referring to different passages, and they rely upon this, congratulating themselves that they are doing well. but it is all perfunctory and lifeless and dead. there is no charm, no warmth, no power in it. a man must be more than a mechanical text-peddler in order to impress, arouse, comfort and save the souls of men. you may pitch cold lead at a man all day long and never break his skin; but let a full charge of ignited gunpowder drive it out of a well-aimed rifle, and the effect is terrific. so these text-mongers may throw scripture at people all day long, and they laugh at it. but let the same missile be hurled forth with the energy of a soul on fire of the holy ghost, and the slain of the lord will be many. so, my brother, there is absolutely no substitute for this unction of the holy spirit. and this unction is given in answer to self-denying and daily prayer. if we would know the secret of power with men, we _must_ spend much time in secret communion with god. note.--this address is one of two delivered by mr. holcombe before the convention of christian workers of united states and canada in the broadway tabernacle, new york, september - , .--ed. the mission--past, present and future. i. the past. two years ago i was working in the fire department of the city, because i could get nothing else to do. the close and slavish confinement, the necessity of being always at my place, both of nights and sundays, and the consequent lack of opportunity to do anything for the cause of my master, made it almost intolerable for me, and several times i made up my mind i would give up the place, even though i had nothing else to fall back on for a living for myself and family. but through the advice of friends and the help of god, i was kept from that rash step. however, i determined i must do something for my lord and for the men of my acquaintance and former occupation who would not, i knew, go inside of a church. so, though i was getting under sixty dollars a month, and had a large family to support, i determined to rent a room at my own expense in the central part of the city for holding gospel meetings, and to hire a substitute to take my place in the fire department when i was absent and engaged in the work of my lord. i made known my plans to my former pastor, and he became interested and promised to help me. he was living in the country, and hardly ever attended the preachers' meeting here on mondays; but it happened on the next monday after i told him of my purpose that he was at the preachers' meeting, and, on my name being mentioned by some one present, he took occasion to speak at length of my conversion, trials, poverty; my intense yearning to engage entirely in the work of god, and my immediate purpose to commence gospel meetings in entire dependence on god alone for help. he went so far as to ask the preachers present to speak of the matter to their members and make an effort to get assistance from them for the expenses of my proposed work. but one of the preachers present, though saying very little at the time, was moved to lay before his official board a proposition not to _assist_ in paying the expenses of such a plan of work, but to take me from the fire department and pay me a regular salary and defray all the other necessary expenses of such a mission work as my heart was set on doing. and his official members were _also moved_ to agree to his proposition, and when he came to me and told me of what had taken place, i was constrained to say: "this is god's doing, and it is marvelous in my eyes." so the very thing i desired above all other things; the very thing i should have chosen if i could have had my wish, was brought to pass. and i saw that by waiting god's time, he rewarded me in granting me the desire of my heart, and meanwhile i had learned lessons of patience and preparation that i could not have learned so well anywhere else. (mr. holcombe went on to speak of the beginning of his work in the tyler block, with the assistance and co-operation of rev. mr. morris; of the results accomplished during that first period; of the removal of the mission to jefferson street, between fourth and fifth streets, and the results accomplished there, and, lastly, of the removal to the present building, etc. see his life.) ii. the present. at present we have the house on jefferson street. we have a sunday-school of scholars who do not attend any other school, and would not. it is supplied with able and devoted teachers, such as brother atmore and others. the devotion of brother atmore is shown by his refusing to leave his class one sunday to go to the masonic temple during sam jones' meetings. the children show a wonderful improvement since they have been coming to the sunday-school. brother atmore's boys were almost unmanageable at first, but they are now so changed that it is very noticeable. this sunday-school feature of the work is one of the most important and promising parts of it, and we believe the results to be accomplished by it _alone_ will amply repay all the outlay of labor, time and means that has been made in the enterprise. we have also a reading-room in connection with the mission-room, where we have papers, magazines, books, etc. the words of invitation and welcome painted on the door have drawn in some who, but for the reception, sympathy and help which they found there, might have gone on in their wretchedness to suicide. while we furnish lodging, food, etc., to those who are destitute, yet it is with a view to their spiritual welfare and ultimate salvation. and so soon as we find a man is availing himself of our charity with no intention or effort to become a christian, we let him go. iii. the future. in looking at the past, we find there are several plain and striking results of the work. the most apparent is the radical and astonishing change for the better that has taken place in the cases of many unhappy men and their families. two years ago these men "sat in darkness and in the shadow of death," being bound in affliction and iron, because they rebelled against the laws of god. therefore he brought down their hearts. they fell down and there was none to help. and none but themselves and god knew the bitterness of their bondage and the depth of their dark and unrelieved despair. but they were brought into contact with a new force and a new agency by means of the efforts and sympathy and instructions of those engaged in this work, and to-day their old life with its bitterness and bondage and darkness is left behind from one to two years in a path that, it is hoped, is not to be retraced forever, and now these men are happy again, and some of them prosperous in business. and what shall be said of their families--their wives and children, innocent sufferers from the vices of husbands and fathers? husband is husband again, father is father again, and the long dark night of hopeless sorrow and bitter tears has ended--ended at last, and ended, let us hope and pray, forever. but if it be also true, as he said, who spake as never man spake, that it profits nothing to gain the whole world and lose one's own soul; if there is for the unsaved an undying worm and an unquenchable fire, and for the saved an inheritance of joy that is incorruptible and a glory that fadeth never more away, then where or how shall we _begin_ to compute the result of this mission work? it is recorded in eternity, and only the unfolding of eternity can unfold the good that has thus far been done. but aside from these direct results, there is another one which can not be estimated, namely the demonstration of the power of the gospel to do for helpless, enslaved, lost men what nothing else in the universe can do. there is naturally in the hearts of men a doubt as to the divinity of that religion which fails to do what it proposes to do, and so in times of religious deadness, men lose faith, and unbelief grows stronger and more stubborn in proportion as they see no actual instances of the power of the gospel to save bad men. but when bad men have been reached and quickened and convicted and made holy by the gospel, then the tide turns and faith becomes natural and easy and contagious, not to say necessary. many of my old companions were brought to believe in the gospel when i was changed by it; and now when scores of the worst cases in louisville have been reached and saved, and have _stayed saved_ so long, men are brought back from unbelief to faith, and naturally turn to the gospel with increasing hope. but this return of faith has not only been noticeable in the case of the unsaved classes, the churches have seen this work, and have had their faith in the divine power of the gospel to save all men increased, and a corresponding activity is witnessed among many of the churches in the city. they have learned also that to save lost men we must, like jesus, not wait for them to come to us, but we must go to them and after them, just as has been done in this work. there is a passage in malachi which says, "bring all the tithes into my storehouse and prove me herewith if i will not open the windows of heaven and pour you out such a blessing there shall not be room enough to receive it." this walnut-street church, led by its devoted pastor, was willing to accept god's challenge, and they brought the tithes, they laid down their money, they made the venture, and god has given them a great blessing. but this is only the pledge of far greater blessings yet to be given them, if they will continue to honor god, by the faith that lays upon his altar, sacrifices that cost something and amount to something. let us not stop to congratulate ourselves upon what has been done and rest satisfied with that, but accept it only as an indication of what he will do for us if we have faith to claim a deep wide-spread and continuous revival. note.--the foregoing is the substance of an address delivered by request of the directors of the mission on the occasion of a reunion of the converts and mass-meeting of the christian people of louisville, in the walnut-street methodist church, in april, .--ed. christian workers. from september st to th, the second convention of christian workers in the united states and canada was held in broadway tabernacle, new york city. from the published report of the proceedings, this speech of the rev. s. p. holcombe is taken: it would be presumptuous in me to stand up here and say how you should conduct a "gospel meeting." i do not propose to do that; but will simply tell you how, for six years, i have conducted one at louisville, kentucky, and with some success. i say some success, for we have succeeded in gaining the confidence and respect of all classes--preachers, christians, gamblers, drunkards and infidels. not only have we succeeded in reaching the hearts of the people, but also their pocket-books. beginning in a basement room, at a rent of twenty dollars per month, we now own a building of thirty rooms. as an instance of the respect all classes have for our work, while we were negotiating for this property a german singing society also wanted it. this kept the price up above our figures. i called on the president of the club, who is an infidel, told him i wanted that property for my mission work. said he: "mr. holcombe, i am not a christian, neither do i believe in the churches, but i do believe in the kind of work that you are doing. i shall withdraw until the holcombe mission is done." we soon had the property. since my conversion i have tried to be a man, just as much as before. as dr. pentecost said the other day: "when i put off the old man, i did not put on the old woman," and by this i mean no disrespect to the dear old women, for many of them have more manhood in them than some of us men, and my wife is one of them. what i mean is, that since i have become a christian i have not lost any of my manhood. when i was a gambler, i had gambling houses all over the country. the object was to get other people's money without giving them any equivalent, in order to gratify my base passion. i could not, of course, call on the police for protection, as my business was not legitimate. hence, i had to protect myself, which i did at all hazards. so, when i opened a house for the lord, to win souls for him, i determined i would take care of it at any cost. i think some who are engaged in christian work are too stilted, others are too lax. i have tried to be both stiff and limber; when it was a matter of no consequence, to bend like the willow; when it was something vital to my master's cause, to be as stiff as steel. in other words i have tried to be "all things to all men" that i might win some. i think all missions ought to have a leader. ours has one. i am the leader of the meetings. not that i do all the talking, but i look out for the details. i have a time for opening and a time for closing the meeting, and i always close at the time. if my opening time is : , i begin the meeting if there is no one there but myself, which, however, has never occurred; and if my closing hour is at o'clock, i close at --not : or . we have in louisville a class of poor people who attend the mission and who work every day. they must be at their places of labor at an early hour in the morning. they love to be at the meeting, and when they know that they will be dismissed promptly, they will come. i feel that if i were to keep these men and women up till , or o'clock, and let them get up at and go to a hard day's work, while i lie in bed until or , that i would be a robber. now, i do not say that i go home at o'clock; for if there is a single one anxious enough about his soul's eternal salvation to stay till the dawning of the morning, i will remain with him. i simply say that i have a time for opening and a time for closing, and i keep promptly to it. i have no set way of conducting the meetings. i try to take advantage of the situation and do the best i can under the circumstances. we always have a scripture lesson read and a few remarks by the leader. if i ask him to speak twenty minutes, i mean twenty minutes; and, if he is a bishop, i will stop him when his time is up. i don't ask you to agree that this is right--i am only telling you how i conduct a gospel meeting. after this we have christians to give their experience, never allowing more than three minutes, and i make it my business to know what kind of lives those who testify are living. if one gets up and begins to talk about the love of jesus, who i know has that day been drinking, or in a house of prostitution, i stop him right there. i do not allow him to talk, and injure the cause, and then tell him afterward. i say, "brother, we don't want to hear from you to-night," and so i stop him at once. i am very careful as to who testifies in my meetings and what they say. if a man who is not a christian undertakes to exhort others to become christians, i stop him, because he is trying to talk about something of which he knows nothing, and this is one of the hardest things in the world to do. where everybody is invited to take part in a meeting, we are apt to have cranks to deal with. they must be checked and kept down rather than encouraged. by cranks i mean those who have eccentric and unsound views, and think that nobody else can know as well about these things as themselves. i was holding a series of gospel meetings in atlanta, ga., on one occasion, and had been talking from acts ii., , "and ye shall receive the gift of the holy ghost." in the address i undertook, as best i could, to show that he, the holy ghost, convinces men of sin, and that he reveals jesus to poor sinners as their sin bearer and life giver, and that it is he that produces that change in men which we call conversion or regeneration or the new birth; and that he, the holy ghost, is the comforter of god's people, in their loneliness and trials and conflicts here in this world of exile, as well as our teacher to guide us into the truth. when i had gotten through, i said, "now we will have short talks from others, and no one will talk more than three minutes." up jumped a street preacher, who began saying that i had been talking about the holy ghost, but i did not know what i was talking about. he knew all about him, and would tell them about him. (this was pretty trying, but i kept mum, however.) he then began a harangue. when his time was up, i stopped him. "you are going to limit the holy ghost, are you? you are going to take the responsibility of stopping him, are you?" "no, but i am going to stop you, and that at once." and at once he stopped. i never allow those who testify to abuse others. some will begin to talk about the gambling hells. i stop them and say: "no man will go farther to stop these things than i, but this is not the place for that kind of talk." others, as soon as they are converted, begin to find fault with the churches, and abuse the ministers. i do not approve of this, and i discourage it. i am sorry to know that many who are conducting gospel meetings are inclined to find fault with christians, magnifying themselves and their work and underrating the churches and the work of their faithful pastors. some of these mission workers have spent the best part of their lives in sin, never looking into the bible--have been converted only a short time; have had a little success; got the big-head, and think they know better how to do god's work than those dear men who have been good all their lives and made a study of god's word. my dear brethren, in the mission work, we must remember that all who have ever done any mighty work for god have been trained for it, and trained slowly. moses, you remember, when he was going to his work down in egypt, commenced killing people. he was the great chieftain, and was going to deliver his brethren by killing his enemies. this was not the way god wanted it done. god saw that there was good material in moses, and that he could use him, but he must be trained. so he sent him away to the solitudes of horeb and sinai, and kept him there forty years. then when god called him to go down and bring his people out, he had learned the lesson god wanted him to learn, had gotten down in the dust, was humbled, and he said: "who am i, lord?" moses had gotten more of the holy ghost. the more we get of the holy ghost the closer we get to god. the more we see of him, and the more we see of god, the less we think of ourselves; the more insignificant we become in our own eyes. the twelve had a grand work to do, but they were slowly trained for it. so, then, let us young converts, whose work god has honored and blessed, be very careful how we magnify ourselves, and underrate the regular ministry. these men are doing a noble work in their respective fields, and they are just as ready and willing to take hold of the poor outcast as we mission workers are. there are preachers who are occupying pulpits, where they are getting twenty-five hundred or three thousand dollars a year, and they are doing just as much to save poor drunkards as we ignorant, humble mission workers are. you who were at the chicago convention last year remember what dr. lawrence told us about taking one of these poor, wretched drunkards to his beautiful home; how, notwithstanding he was full of vermin, he had him take a bath, burned his clothes, put clean ones on him, gave him a bed and took care of him as a brother. i tell you, my friends, i was touched by that story as well as taught a valuable lesson. i know of many instances of the same kind that i might tell. you remember dr. john a. broadus, a well-known baptist minister in louisville. i know him well. he has been one of my best friends. not very long before i left home, a drunkard came to the mission and showed me a note from dr. broadus, saying: "this man has called on me for help. i do not like to give him any money, as he is under the influence of liquor. give him whatever you think best, and i will settle the bill." i asked the man, as i knew him well: "how did you happen to go to dr. broadus?" "because i had heard so many say that he had helped them." i gave him nothing. my friends, we must not underrate the willingness of the preachers to help the poor outcast, for they are much interested in their very welfare. i love the missions and the mission work. just at this present time, the missions have got a boom over the country, but if we are not very careful how we talk and act, the missions will suffer. and the only reason some of them have not quit already is because those who support them, for want of time to hunt up real results, have had to take printed reports. it is easy for us to find fault with christians, rich christians, and say they are cold and indifferent about the souls of men, but the history of the church proves that this is a great mistake. these missions have to be supported by rich christians, and when you find a man that has got much money, you will find that he is not a fool. he is generally a man with a long head and farsightedness. he wants to see where his money is going, and what is being done with it. if you use it properly, he will give it liberally. if he finds that you are one of those fellows that want to give his money to every beggar that comes along, he will stop his subscription at once. these are simple facts. if we want this mission work to succeed we have got to be very careful. i never allow any begging in my mission, i don't care how pitiable the object may be. when tramps want food, i send them to the wood yard to work for it. if men will not work, neither shall they eat of the money intrusted to me for spiritual work. i have no indiscriminate praying. when i want a prayer, i want to know something about the man or woman who is to make it. i ask some one who, i have good reason to believe, is a true christian, that is, who walks and talks with god. i do not care about their name or denomination. i feel that there is a great responsibility in going to god for these poor sinners, and i want the best man or woman that i can get to talk to god for them. i say: "i am going to call on some one to pray. i don't want you to pray for africans, chinese or any other of the heathen nations here. when you go home, you can pray for them all night if you want to, but now we want you to pray for this special work." i believe in good singing, and try to have it. i would like to have a hundred in the choir. i seldom have over two persons. i suppose the reason is that i will not allow any one to sit on my platform and sing these sweet hymns unless i have good reason to believe they are living pure, holy, consistent christian lives. i think the man or woman who sits in the choir ought to be as good as he who stands in the pulpit. some will come to me and say: "so-and-so is a fine singer; has such a fine voice." "what church does he or she belong to?" "oh, they are not members." "well, then, excuse me, if you please." "but that might save them!" "i shall not try the experiment." i have polite ushers to welcome the people, and to shake hands with them as they come in and also as they go out, and invite them back. they are also supplied with tracts for distribution, tracts that have passed under my observation, as i allow nobody to distribute tracts unless i know what they are. i try to keep the run of the converts; in fact, i try to know all about them. i try to get them into some church of their choice, that one which they will feel the most at home in and where they will get the right sort of care. it is a very easy thing to get one of these poor drunkards, who hasn't got any place to sleep or anything to eat, to say, "i am going to try and be a better man and follow christ!" it is a very easy thing, i say, and the poor fellows mean it. but, oh! my friends, how hard it is to get them up to the sticking point. they want to be watched over and given the very best nursing. if i had not had the very best care and nursing of one of the most godly of ministers, i do not think i should be standing before you to-day a christian man. i try to follow them up and help the pastors to nurse them. in order to keep track of them we use a book, something like a bank check-book. when they want to unite with some church, we give them a certificate of introduction. in it i ask the pastor to let me know when it is presented. on the stub i take the man's name, age, residence, where from, to whom introduced, with space for remarks as to future career, etc. if he has a home, we visit him at his home, and if he has not, i invite him to visit me at my home at any time, day or night, which is in the same building over the mission, and we talk together and pray together. question. "will you please state whether you ever recommend fasting as a means of keeping the body under?" answer. "i think it is a good idea. i think fasting a good thing to keep the body under. owing to my poverty, since i have become a christian, i have had little to feed on. this necessary self-denial has enabled me to keep my poor body down, and from betraying me into sin. no man was ever a greater slave to his passions than i. my passion for gambling was so great i would have committed murder to gratify it. i was very licentious. i just gave loose reins to my passions; but to-day, i thank god, i can stand up before you and say that i am complete master of myself. i know it is a help to live a plain life." q. "how many meetings a week do you hold?" a. "we have them every night." q. "do the men go to the churches when you send them? do you prepare them?" a. "i do not hurry them into the churches. and yet i don't say they must be converted before they go in. when a man is sick of sin, willing to give it up, i think he is about as ready for the church as we can get him." q. "do you have much or little bible reading in the services?" a. "we do not have much bible reading. i know that it is the power of god unto salvation; but the class of men who attend missions, as a rule, are in no condition to be profited by a long bible reading. the mission of the missions is to stop these men in their downward course, put them to thinking, get them into churches; then have the bible read and explained to them by those who are more competent than i am." q. "how long do you hold service?" a. "exactly one hour and a half; never more, sometimes a little less. the first half hour is taken up in prayer and singing, the other hour in exhortation and testimonies and prayers for the inquirers. after dismissing, we remain with any anxious ones." q. "when do you have your converts' meeting?" a. "every sunday morning, beginning at : o'clock and closing at : , in time for them to get to church." q. "do the churches take good care of the converts?" a. "as a rule, yes. some better than others." q. "do the converts come to your mission after they have joined the church?" a. "oh, yes, sir. they feel more at home in the mission than they do in church, because it was there they entered upon the christian life. many of our christian workers make a great mistake. they find fault with the churches because they don't receive these tramps--i must call them tramps--in their filthy condition and give them the best seats, etc. i want to say right here that a clean church, where clean people go, is no place for a body of tramps. we must remember, my friends, that people who are clean, who have good clothes and clean homes, also have some rights to be considered. i say it is not right to take these people into a fine church, and put them side by side with the clean ones until they themselves are thoroughly clean. i took fifty or sixty of them into a church once, but afterward i was aware that i had made a great mistake. the mission is the place to clean them up, and then send them to a clean church, and they will feel better themselves, and be warmly welcomed by the members. i don't like dirt any better than other folks, but some one has to do this work, and i am perfectly willing to do it." from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions. the hallam succession by amelia e. barr author of "jan vedder's wife," "the bow of orange ribbon," "friend olivia," etc., etc. contents. americans in yorkshire. martha craven's trouble. richard and elizabeth. wesley and methodism. antony's plans. god clears ben craven. christmas. renewal of the covenant. separation. at home again. john millard. the passionate shot. texas and liberty. richard at hallam. may. a. d. . antony and his bride. the squire's death. antony's sin. elizabeth's resolve. evelyn. elizabeth's trial. love comforted. antony's fate. santa fe expedition. elizabeth in texas. the sunset of life. to my dear friend, sam. earnshaw wilson, esq., this tale is, with affectionate esteem, inscribed. the hallam succession. chapter i. "the changing guests, each in a different mood, sit at the road-side table and arise: and every life among them in likewise is a soul's board set daily with new food. "may not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell in separate living souls for joy or pain? nay, all its corners may be painted plain where heaven shows pictures of some life well-spent." yorkshire is the epitome of england. whatever is excellent in the whole land is found there. the men are sturdy, shrewd, and stalwart; hard-headed and hard-fisted, and have notably done their work in every era of english history. they are also a handsome race, the finest specimens extant of the pure anglo-saxon, and they still preserve the imposing stature and the bright blonde characteristics of the race. yorkshire abounds in what is the typical english home--fine old halls and granges, set in wooded parks, and surrounded by sweet, shady gardens. one of the fairest of these homes is hallam-croft. there may be larger halls in the west riding, but none that combines so finely all the charms of antiquity, with every modern grace and comfort. its walls are of gray stone, covered with ivy, or crusted with golden lichens; its front, long and low, is picturesquely diversified with oriel windows, gable ends, and shadowy angles. behind is a steep, craggy range of woody hills; in front, a terraced garden of great extent; full of old-fashioned bowers, and labyrinth-like walks, and sloping down to a noble park, whose oaks and beeches are of wonderful beauty, and whose turf is soft as velvet and greener than any artist ever dreamed of. fifty years ago the owner of this lovely spot was squire henry hallam. he was about sixty years of age, stout and fair and dressed in fine drab broad-cloth, with a white vest, and a white cambric kerchief tied loosely round his neck. his hat, drab also, was low-crowned and broad-brimmed, and, as a general rule, he kept it on. in the holy precincts of a church, or if the national anthem was played, he indeed always bared his head; but, in the first case, it was his expression of a religious sentiment, in the second he saluted his country, and, in a measure, himself. one evening in the early spring he was sitting upon a low sofa in the room that was specially his own, mending some fishing tackle. a couple of setter puppies were worrying each other on the sofa beside him, and a splendid fox-hound leaned her muzzle on one of his broad knees, and looked up into her master's face with sad reproachful eyes. she was evidently jealous, and watching anxiously for some look or word of favor. she had not long to wait. the puppies became troublesome; he chided them, and put the bit of leather they were quarreling about in his pocket. then he patted the hound, and said: "there's a deal o' difference between them and thee, fanny, and it's a' in thy favor, lass;" and fanny understood the compliment, for she whimpered happily, and thrust her handsome head up against her master's breast. at that moment his daughter, elizabeth, entered the room. she had an open letter in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleased upon her face. "father," she said, "there is a letter from america; richard and phyllis are coming; and i am afraid i shall not know how to make them happy." "don't thee meet troubles half 'way; they arn't worth th' compliment. what is ta feared for, dearie?" "their life is so different from ours--and, father, i do believe they are methodists." the squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout "fly" he was making, before he answered. "surely to goodness, they'll nivver be that! sibbald hallam, my uncle, was a varry thick churchman when he went to th' carolinas--but he married a foreigner; she had plenty o' brass, and acres o' land, but i never heard tell owt o' her religion. they had four lads and lasses, but only one o' them lived to wed, and that was my cousin, matilda hallam--t' mother o' these two youngsters that are speaking o' coming here." "who did she marry, father?" "nay, i knowt o' th' man she married. he was a colonel fontaine. i was thinking a deal more o' my own wedding than o' hers at that time. it's like enough he were a methodist. t' carolinas hed rebelled against english government, and it's nobbut reasonable to suppose t' english church would be as little to their liking. but they're hallams, whativer else they be, elizabeth, and t' best i hev is for them." he had risen as he spoke; the puppies were barking and gamboling at his feet, and fanny watching his face with dignified eagerness. they knew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. "be still wi' you, rattle and tory!--yes, yes, fanny!--and elizabeth, open up t' varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. where's antony?" "somewhere in the house." "hedn't ta better ask him what to do? he knows ivery thing." there was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but elizabeth was too much occupied to notice it; and as the squire and his dogs took the road to the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, and went thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her brother. there was no deeper motive in her thought than what was apparent; her cares were simply those of hospitality. but when a life has been bounded by household hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, and since her mother's death, two years previously, there had been no company at hallam. this was to be elizabeth's first effort of active hospitality. she found antony in the library reading "the gentleman's magazine," or, perhaps, using it for a sedative; for he was either half asleep, or lost in thought. he moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke. one saw at a glance that he had inherited his father's fine physique and presence, but not his father's calm, clear nature. his eyes were restless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. neither was his voice quite pleasant. there are human instruments, which always seem to have a false note, and antony's had this peculiarity. "antony, i have a letter from richard and phyllis fontaine. they are going to visit us this summer." "i am delighted. life is dreadfully dull here, with nothing to do." "come to the parlor, and i will give you a cup of tea, and read you cousin phyllis's letter." the squire had never thought of asking elizabeth why she supposed her cousins to be methodists. antony seized at once upon the point in the letter which regarded it. "they are sailing with bishop elliott, and will remain until september, in order to allow the bishop to attend conference; what does that mean, elizabeth?" "i suppose it means they are methodists." the young man was silent a moment, and then he replied, emphatically, "i am very glad of it." "how can you say so, antony? and there is the rector, and the elthams--" "i was thinking of the hallams. after a thousand years of stagnation one ought to welcome a ripple of life. a methodist isn't asleep. i have often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as i passed it. i wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once!" "antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. some people might imagine you meant what you said. you know very well that the thousand years of 'stagnation,' as you call it, of the hallams, is a most respectable thing." "very respectable indeed! that is all women think about--born conservatives every one of them--'dyed in the wool,' as a bradford man would say." "why do you quote what bradford men say? i cannot imagine what makes you go among a crowd of weavers, when you might be at eltham castle with gentlemen." "i will tell you why. at eltham we yawn and stagnate together. the weavers prick and pinch me in a thousand places. they make me dream of living." "drink your tea, antony and don't be foolish." he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. upon the whole, he rather liked the look of astonishment in his sister's gray eyes, and the air of puzzled disapproval in her manner. he regarded ignorance on a great many matters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood. "it is very good tea, elizabeth, and i like this american news. i shall not go to the tyrol now. two new specimens of humanity to study are better than glaciers." "antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins--'two new specimens of humanity'--they are hallams at the root." "i meant no disrespect; but i am naturally a little excited at the idea of american hallams--americans in hallam-croft! i only hope the shades of hengist and horsa wont haunt the old rooms out of simple curiosity. when are they to be here?" "they will be in liverpool about the end of may. you have two weeks to prepare yourself, antony." antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousin phyllis fontaine might be he had no idea. people could not in those days buy their pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so that antony's imagination, in this direction, had the field entirely to itself. his fancy painted her in many charming forms, and yet he was never able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits than those with which he was familiar--the brilliant blonde beauty and resplendent health of his countrywomen. therefore, when the real phyllis fontaine met his vision she was a revelation to him. it was in the afternoon of the last day of may, and hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for the occasion. the sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden so sweet and balmy. heart's-ease were every-where, honeysuckles filled the air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and the chaffinches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chattering. the squire, with his son and daughter, was waiting at the great open door of the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped he cried out, cheerily, "welcome to hallam!" then there was a few minutes of pleasant confusion, and in them phyllis had made a distinct picture on every mind. "she's a dainty little woman," said the squire to himself, as he sat calmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; "not much like a hallam, but t' eye as isn't charmed wi' her 'ell hev no white in it, that's a' about it." antony was much interested, and soon sought his sister. "if that is cousin phyllis, she is beautiful. don't you think so, elizabeth?" "yes; how perfectly she was dressed." "that is a woman's criticism. did you see her soft, dark eyes, her small bow-shaped mouth--a beauty one rarely finds in english women--her exquisite complexion, her little feet?" "that is a man's criticism. how could you see all that in a moment or two of such confusion?" "easily; how was she dressed?" "in a plain dress of gray cloth. the fit was perfect, the linen collar and cuffs spotless, the gray bonnet, with its drooping, gray feather bewitching. she wore gray gloves and a traveling cloak of the same color, which hung like a princess's mantle." "how could you see all that in a moment or two of such confusion?" "do not be too clever, antony. you forget i went with her to her rooms." "did you notice richard?" "a little; he resembles his sister. their foreign look as they stood beside you and father was very remarkable. neither of them are like hallams." "i am so glad of it; a new element coming into life is like a fresh wind 'blowing through breathless woods.'" but elizabeth sighed. this dissatisfaction with the old, and craving for the new, was one of the points upon which antony and his father were unable to understand each other. nothing permanent pleased antony, and no one could ever predicate of him what course he would pursue, or what side he would take. as a general rule, however, he preferred the opposition in all things. now, the squire's principles and opinions were as clear to his own mind as his own existence was. he believed firmly in his bible, in the english constitution, and in himself. he admitted no faults in the first two; his own shortcomings toward heaven he willingly acknowledged; but he regarded his attitude toward his fellow-man as without fault. all his motives and actions proceeded from well-understood truths, and they moved in consistent and admirable grooves. antony had fallen upon different times, and been brought under more uncertain influences. oxford, "the most loyal," had been in a religious ferment during his stay there. the spirit of pusey and newman was shaking the church of england like a great wind; and though antony had been but little touched by the spiritual aspect of the movement, the temporal accusations of corruption and desertion of duty were good lances to tilt against the church with. it gave him a curiously mixed pleasure to provoke the squire to do battle for her; partly from contradiction, partly that he might show off his array of second-hand learning and logic; and partly, also, for the delight of asserting his own opinions and his own individuality. any other dispute the squire would have settled by a positive assertion, or a positive denial; but even the most dogmatic of men are a little conscientious about religious scruples. he had, therefore, allowed his son to discuss "the church" with him, but in some subtle way the older man divined that his ideas were conviction; while antony's were only drifting thoughts. therefore, the moral strength of the argument was with him, and he had a kind of contempt for a hallam who could be moved by every will-o'-the-wisp of religious or political opinions. but elizabeth was greatly impressed by her brother's accomplishments, and she loved him, and believed in him with all her heart. the hallams hitherto had no reputation for mental ability. in times of need england had found them good soldiers and ready givers; but poets and scholars they had never been. antony affected the latter character. he spoke several languages, he read science and german philosophy, and he talked such radical politics to the old gardener, that the man privately declared himself "fair cap't wi' t' young squire." yet after all, his dominant passion was a love of power, and of money as the means by which to grasp power. below all his speculations and affectations this was the underlying thought. true, he was heir of hallam, and as the heir had an allowance quite equal to his position. but he constantly reflected that his father might live many years, and that in the probable order of things he must wait until he was a middle-aged man for his inheritance; and for a young man who felt himself quite competent to turn the axle of the universe, it seemed a contemptible lot to grind in his own little mill at hallam. he had not as yet voiced these thoughts, but they lay in his heart, and communicated unknown to himself an atmosphere of unrest and unreliability to all his words and actions. it was soon evident that there would be little sympathy between richard and antony. richard fontaine was calm, dignified, reticent; never tempted to give his confidence to any one; and averse to receive the confidences of others; therefore, though he listened with polite attention to antony's aspirations and aims, they made very little impression upon him. both he and phyllis glided without effort into the life which must have been so new to them; and in less than a week, hallam had settled happily down to its fresh conditions. but nothing had been just as antony expected. phyllis was very lovely, but not lovely specially for him, which was disappointing; and he could not help soon seeing that, though richard was attentive, he was also unresponsive. there is one charming thing about english hospitality, it leaves its guests perfect freedom. in a very few days phyllis found this out; and she wandered, unnoticed and undisturbed, through the long galleries, and examined, with particular interest, the upper rooms, into which from generation to generation unwelcomed pictures and unfashionable furniture had been placed. there was one room in the eastern turret that attracted her specially. it contained an old spinet, and above it the picture of a young girl; a face of melancholy, tender beauty, with that far-off look, which the french call _predestinee_, in the solemn eyes. it is folly to say that furniture has no expression; the small couch, the faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twisted attenuated legs, had an unspeakable air of sadness. one day she cautiously touched the notes of the instrument. how weak and thin and hollow they were! and yet they blended perfectly with something in her own heart. she played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemed as if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the conditions for their reproduction. when she went back to her own room the influence of the one she had left followed her like a shadow. "how can i bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and she flung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pink chintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. there was a tap at the door, and elizabeth entered. "i have brought you a cup of tea, phyllis. shall i drink mine beside you?" "i shall enjoy both your company and the tea. i think i have been in an unhappy room and caught some of its spirit--the room with the old spinet in it." "aunt lucy's room. yes, she was very unhappy. she loved, and the man was utterly unworthy of her love! she died slowly in that room--a wasted life." "ah, no, elizabeth! no life is waste in the great worker's hands. if human love wounds and wrongs us, are we not circled by angels as the stars by heaven? our soul relatives sorrow in our sorrow; and out of the apparent loss bring golden gain. i think she would know this before she died." "she died as the good die, blessing and hoping." elizabeth looked steadily at phyllis. she thought she had never seen any face so lovely. from her eyes, still dewy with tears, the holy soul looked upward; and her lips kept the expression of the prayer that was in her heart. she did not wonder at the words that had fallen from them. after a moment's silence, she said: "my mother loved aunt lucy very dearly. her death made a deal of difference in mother's life." "death is always a great sorrow to those who love us; but for ourselves, it is only to bow our heads at going out, and to enter straightway another golden chamber of the king's, lovelier than the one we leave." elizabeth scarce knew how to answer. she had never been used to discuss sacred subjects with girls her own age; in fact, she had a vague idea that such subjects were not to be discussed out of church, or, at least, without a clergyman to direct the conversation. and phyllis's childish figure, glowing face, and sublime confidence affected her with a sense of something strange and remote. yet the conversation interested her greatly. people are very foolish who restrain spiritual confidences; no topic is so universally and permanently interesting as religious experience. elizabeth felt its charm at once. she loved god, but loved him, as it were, afar off; she almost feared to speak to him. she had never dared to speak of him. "do you really think, phyllis, that angels care about our earthly loves?" "yes, i do. love is the rock upon which our lives are generally built or wrecked. elizabeth, if i did not believe that the love of god embraced every worthy earthly love, i should be very miserable." "because?" "because, dear, i love, and am beloved again." "but how shall we know if the love be worthy?" "once in class-meeting i asked this question. that was when i first became aware that i loved john millard. i am not likely to forget the answer my leader gave me." "what was it?" "sister phyllis," he said, "ask yourself what will your love be to you a thousand ages hence. ask yourself if it will pass the rolling together of the heavens like a scroll, and the melting of the elements with fervent heat. ask if it will pass the judgment-day, when the secret thoughts of all hearts will be revealed. dare to love only one whom you can love forever." "i have never thought of loving throughout all eternity the one whom i love in time." "ah! but it is our privilege to cherish the immortal in the man we love. where i go i wish my beloved to go also. the thought of our love severed on the threshold of paradise makes me weep. i cannot understand an affection which must look forward to an irrevocable separation. nay, i ask more than this; i desire that my love, even there assuming his own proper place, should be still in advance of me--my guide, my support, my master every-where." "if you love john millard in this way, he and you must be very happy." "we are, and yet what earthly light has not its shadow?" "what is the shadow, phyllis?" "richard dislikes him so bitterly; and richard is very, very near and dear to me. i dare say you think he is very cool and calm and quiet. it is the restraint which he puts upon himself; really richard has a constant fight with a temper, which, if it should take possession of him, would be uncontrollable. he knows that." "you spoke as if you are a wesleyan, yet you went to church last sunday, phyllis." "why not? methodists are not bigots; and just as england is my mother-country, episcopacy is my mother-church. if episcopacy should ever die, elizabeth, methodism is next of kin, and would be heir to all her churches." "and wesleyans and methodists are the same?" "yes; but i like the old name best. it came from the pen of the golden-mouthed chrysostom, so you see it has quite an apostolic halo about it." "i never heard that, phyllis." "it is hardly likely you would. it was used at first as a word of reproach; but how many such words have been adopted and made glorious emblems of victory. it was thus in ancient antioch the first followers of christ were called 'christians.'" "but how came chrysostom to find a name for john wesley's followers?" "richard told me it was used first in a pamphlet against whitefield. i do not remember the author, but he quoted from the pages of chrysostom these words, 'to be a methodist is to be beguiled.' of course, chrysostom's 'methodist' is not our methodist. the writer knew he was unjust and meant it for a term of reproach, but the word took the popular fancy, and, as such words do, clung to the people at whom it was thrown. they might have thrown it back again; they did better; they accepted it, and have covered it with glory." "why, phyllis, what a little enthusiast you are!" and elizabeth looked again with admiration at the small figure reclining in the deep chair beside her. its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite paleness of phyllis's complexion--that clear, warm paleness of the south--and contrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. her dark, soft eyes glowed, her small hands had involuntarily clasped themselves upon her breast. "what a little enthusiast you are!" then she stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for elizabeth was not emotional. her feelings were as a still lake, whose depths were only known to those who sounded them. the conversation was not continued. fine souls have an instinctive knowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day the limit of spiritual confidence had been reached. but it was phyllis's quicker nature which provided the natural return to the material life. "i know i am enthusiastic, about many things, elizabeth. the world is so full of what is good and beautiful! look at those roses! could flowers be more sweet and perfect? i always dream of happy things among roses." "but you must not dream now, dear. it is very near dinner-time. we have had a very pleasant hour. i shall think of all you have said." but the thing she thought most persistently of was richard fontaine's temper. was it possible that the equable charm and serenity of his mood was only an assumed one? as she went to the dining-room she saw him standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. in the same moment he raised his head and stood watching her approach. it seemed to him as if he had never seen her before. she advanced slowly toward him through the level rays of the westering sun, which projected themselves in a golden haze all around her. those were not the days of flutings and bows and rufflings innumerable. elizabeth's dress was a long, perfectly plain one, of white india mull. a narrow black belt confined it at the waist, a collar of rich lace and a brooch of gold at the throat. her fair hair was dressed in a large loose bow on the crown, and lay in soft light curls upon her brow. her feet were sandaled, her large white hands unjeweled and ungloved, and with one she lifted slightly her flowing dress. resplendent with youth, beauty, and sunshine, she affected richard as no woman had ever done before. she was the typical saxon woman, the woman who had ruled the hearts and homes of his ancestors for centuries, and she now stirred his to its sweetest depths. he did not go to meet her. he would not lose a step of her progress. he felt that at last jove was coming to visit him. it was a joy almost solemn in its intensity and expectation. he held out his hand, and elizabeth took it. in that moment they saw each other's hearts as clearly as two drops of rain meeting in air might look into each other if they had life. yet they spoke only of the most trivial things--the dogs, and the weather, and richard's ride to leeds, and the stumbling of antony's horse. "we left the squire in the village," said richard. "a woman who was apparently in very great trouble called him." "a woman who lives in a cottage covered with clematis?" "i think so." "it must have been martha craven. i wonder what is the matter!" and they walked together to the open door. the squire had just alighted from his horse, and was talking earnestly to his favorite servant. he seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep either sorrow of joy to himself. "elizabeth! my word, but i'm bothered! here's jonathan clough murdered, and ben craven under lock and key for it!" "why, father! ben would never do a thing like that!" "not he! i'd be as like to do it mysen. thou must go thy ways and see martha as soon as iver t' dinner is eat. i s'all stand by martha and ben to t' varry last. ben craven murder any-body! hee! i crack't out laughing when i heard tell o' such nonsense." in fact, the squire had been touched in a very tender spot. martha craven's mother had been his nurse, and martha herself, for many years, his wife's maid and confidential servant. he felt the imputation as a personal slander. the cravens had been faithful servants of the hallams for generations, and clough was comparatively a new-comer. right or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand by an old friend, but he had not a doubt of ben's innocence. "what have you done about it?" asked antony. "i've been to see israel potter, and i've bound him to stand up for ben. what israel doesn't know 'bout law, and what israel can't do with t' law, isn't worth t' knowing or t' doing. then i went for t' wesleyan minister to talk a bit wi' martha, poor body? she seemed to want something o' t' kind; and i'm bound to say i found him a varry gentlemanly, sensible fellow. he didn't think owt wrong o' ben, no more than i did." "people would wonder to see you at the wesleyan's door." "may be they'll be more cap't yet, son antony. i'll ask neither cat nor christian what door to knock at. i wish i may nivver stand at a worse door than mr. north's, that's a'. what say you to that, then?" "i say you are quite right, father." "i'm nivver far wrong, my lad; nobody is that lets a kind heart lead them, and it would be against nature if i didn't stand up for any craven that's i' trouble." phyllis, who was sitting beside him, laid her hand upon his a moment, and he lifted his eyes and met hers. there was such a light and look of sympathy and admiration in them, that she had no need to say a word. he felt that he had done the right thing, and was pleased with himself for doing it. in a good man there is still a deal of the divinity from which he has fallen, and in his times of trial his heart throbs upward. dinner was insensibly hurried, and when elizabeth rose phyllis followed her. "i must go with you dear; if martha is a methodist she is my sister, and she has a right to my sympathy and my purse, if it is necessary to her." "i shall be glad. it is only a pleasant walk through the park, and antony and richard can meet us at the park gates. i think you will like martha." few words were spoken by the two girls as they went in the amber twilight across the green, green turf of the park. martha saw them coming and was at her door when they stepped inside the fragrant patch which she called her garden. she was a woman very pleasant to look at, tall and straight, with a strong ruddy face--and blue eyes, a little dim with weeping. her cotton dress of indigo blue, covered with golden-colored moons, was pinned well up at the back, displaying her home-knit stockings and low shoes fastened with brass latchets. she had on her head a cap of white linen, stiffly starched, and a checkered kerchief was pinned over her ample bosom. even in her deep sorrow and anxiety her broad sweet mouth could not forget its trick of smiling. "come this ways in, joy," she said to elizabeth, at the same moment dropping a courtesy to phyllis, an old-fashioned token of respect, which had no particle of servility in it. "this is my cousin, miss fontaine, from america, martha." "well, i'm sure i'm right suited at meeting her. mother used to talk above a bit about sibbald hallam as crossed t' seas. she looked for him to come back again. but he nivver came." "i am his granddaughter. i am very sorry, sister martha, to hear of your trouble." "why-a! is ta a methodist, dearie?" phyllis nodded brightly and took her hand. "well i nivver! but i'm fain and glad! and as for trouble, i'll not fear it. why should i, wi' t' love o' god and t' love o' man to help me?" "when did it happen, martha?" "last night, miss hallam. my ben and jonathan clough wern't as good friends as might be. there's a lass at t' bottom o' t' trouble; there's allays that. she's a good lass enough, but good 'uns mak' as much trouble as t' bad 'uns sometimes, i think. it's jonathan's daughter, mary. she's ta'en ben's fancy, and she's ta'en bill laycock's fancy, too. t' lass likes my ben, and clough he liked laycock; for laycock is t' blacksmith now, and owns t' forge, and t' house behind it. my ben is nobbut clough's overlooker." "it is a pity he stopped at clough's mill, if there was ill-feeling between them." "t' lad's none to blame for that. clough is makkin' some new kind o' figured goods, and t' men are all hired by t' twelvemonth, and bound over to keep a quiet tongue i' their mouths about t' new looms as does t' work. two days ago clough found out that tim bingley hed told t' secret to booth; and clough wer' neither to hold nor bind. he put bingley out o' t' mill, and wouldn't pay him t' balance o' t' year, and somehow he took t' notion that ben was in t' affair. ben's none so mean as that, i'm sure." "but bingley is a very bad man. my father sent him to the tread-mill last year for a brutal assault. he is quite capable of murder. has no one looked for him?" "bingley says he saw my ben shoot clough, and clough says it was ben." "then clough is still alive?" "ay, but he'll die ere morning. t' magistrates hev been wi' him, and he swears positive that ben craven shot him." "where was ben last night?" "he came from t' mill at six o'clock, and hed a cup o' tea wi' me. he said he'd go to t' chapel wi' me at eight o'clock; and after i hed washed up t' dishes, i went to sit wi' sarah fisher, who's bad off wi' t' fever; and when i came back ben was standing at t' door, and folks wer' running here, and running there, and all t' village was fair beside itseln. we wer' just reading a bit in t' bible, when constables knocked at t' door and said they wanted ben. my heart sank into my shoes, miss hallam, and i said, 'that's a varry unlikely thing, lads; you're just talking for talking's sake.' and jerry oddy said, 'nay, we bean't, dame; jonathan clough is dying, and he says ben craven shot him.' then i said, 'he'll die wi' t' lie on his lips if he says that, thou tell him so.' and jerry oddy said, 'not i, dame, keep a still tongue i' thy mouth, it'll mebbe be better for thee.'" "martha! how could you bear it?" "i didn't think what i wer' bearing at t' time, miss hallam; i wer' just angry enough for any thing; and i wer' kind o' angry wi' ben takkin' it so quiet like. 'speak up for thysen, lad,' i said; 'hesn't ta got a tongue i' thy head to-neet?'" "poor ben! what did he say?" "he said, 'thou be still, mother, and talk to none but god. i'm as innocent o' this sin as thou art;' and i said, 'i believe thee, my lad, and god go wi' thee, ben.' there's one thing troubles me, miss hallam, and it bothered t' squire, too. ben was in his sunday clothes--that wasn't odd, for he was going to t' chapel wi' me--but jerry noticed it, and he asked ben where his overlooker's brat and cap was, and ben said they wer' i' t' room; but they wern't there, miss hallam, and they hevn't found 'em either." "that is strange." "ay, its varry queer, and t' constables seemed to think so. jerry nivver liked ben, and he said to me, 'well, dame, it's a great pity that last o' t' cravens should swing himsen to death on t' gallows.' but i told him, 'don't thee be so sure that ben's t' last o' t' cravens: thou's makkin' thy count without providence, jerry;' and i'm none feared," she added, with a burst of confidence; "i'll trust in god yet! i can't see him, but i can feel him." "and you can hold fast to his hand, sister martha; and the darker it gets, you can cling the closer, until the daylight breaks and the shadows flee away." "that i can, and that i will! look there, my dearies!" and she pointed to a little blue and white tea-pot on the high mantle-shelf, above the hearth on which they were sitting. "last night, when they'd taken ben away, and i couldn't finish t' psalm and i couldn't do much more praying than a little bairn thet's flayed and troubled in t' dark night, i lifted my eyes to thet tea-pot, and i knew t' words thet was on it, and they wer' like an order and a promise a' in one; and i said, 'there! thet's enough, lord!' and i went to my bed and slept, for i knew there 'ud be a deal to do to-day, and nothing weakens me like missing my sleep." "and did you sleep, martha?" "ay, i slept. it wasn't hard wi' t' promise i'd got." then phyllis took a chair and stood upon it, and carefully lifted down the tea-pot. it was of coarse blue and white pottery, and had been made in staffordshire, when the art was emerging from its rudeness, and when the people were half barbarous and wholly irreligious--one of half a dozen that are now worth more than if made of the rarest china, the blue wesley tea-pot; rude little objects, yet formed by loving, reverential hands, to commemorate the apostolic labors of john wesley in that almost savage district. his likeness was on one side, and on the other the words, so often in his mouth, "_in god we trust._" phyllis looked at it reverently; even in that poor portraiture recognizing the leader of men, the dignity, the intelligence, and the serenity of a great soul. she put it slowly back, touching it with a kind of tender respect; and then the two girls went home. in the green aisles of the park the nightingales were singing, and the sweet strength of the stars and the magic of the moon touched each heart with a thoughtful melancholy. richard and antony joined them, and they talked softly of the tragedy, with eloquent pauses of silence between. on the lowest terrace they found the squire--fanny walking with quiet dignity beside him. he joined elizabeth and richard, and discussed with them the plans he had been forming for the unraveling of the mystery. he had thought of every thing, even to the amount of money necessary. "have they no relations?" asked richard, a little curiously. it seemed to him that the squire's kindness was a trifle officious. however lowly families might be, he believed that in trouble a noble independence would make them draw together, just as birds that scatter wide in the sunshine nestle up to each other in storm and cold. so he asked, "have they no relatives?" "she has two brothers ilkley way," said the squire, with a dubious smile. "i nivver reckoned much on them." "don't you think she ought to send for them?" "nay, i don't. you're young, richard, lad, and you'll know more some day; but i'll tell you beforehand, if you iver hev a favor to ask, ask it of any body but a relation--you may go to fifty, and not find one at hes owt o' sort about 'em." they talked for half an hour longer in a desultory fashion, as those talk who are full of thoughts they do not share; and when they parted richard asked elizabeth for a rose she had gathered as they walked home together. he asked it distinctly, the beaming glance of his dark eyes giving to the request a meaning she could not, and did not, mistake. yet she laid it in his hand, and as their eyes met, he knew that as "there is a budding morrow in the midnight," so also there was a budding love in the rose-gift. chapter ii. "i am with thee, and no man shall set on thee to hurt thee." acts xviii, . "there i will meet with thee, and i will commune with thee from above the mercy-seat." exod. xxv, . no man liveth unto himself. in that green, flowery eden, with the soft winds blowing in at the open doors and windows, and the white sunshine glorifying every thing, there was the whisper of sorrow as well as the whisper of love. the homely life of the village, with its absorbing tragedy, touched all hearts; for men and women belie their nature when they do not weep with those that weep. at the close of the london season the elthams returned to their country home, and there was much visiting and good-will. one evening they were sitting in eltham drawing-room after dinner. the squire had been discussing the clough tragedy with great warmth; for lord eltham had not unnaturally judged ben craven upon the apparent evidence, and was inclined to think his position, whether he was innocent or guilty, one of great danger. hallam would not see things in any such light. he had lived only in the morally healthy atmosphere of the woods and fields, and the sinful tragedies of life had not been actual to him. true, he had read of them in his weekly paper, but it was a different thing when they came to his own door, and called for his active sympathy. "right is right, eltham," he said, with the emphasis of one closed hand striking the other; "and it 'ud be a varry queer thing if right should turn out to be wrong. it'll do nowt o' t' sort, not it." "but, hallam, it seems to me that you hev made up your mind that craven is right--right or wrong--and lawyer swale told me t' evidence was all against him." "swale!" replied the squire, snapping his fingers disdainfully. "why-a! swale nivver told t' truth i' all his life, if he nobbut hed t' time to make up a lie. as for bingley, i wish i hed sent him over t' seas when i hed t' chance to do it--he's none fit to breathe t' air in a decent country." "but swale says that bill laycock has acknowledged that he also saw craven in his working clothes running over t' moor just about t' time clough was shot, and bill and craven were at one time all but brothers." "ay, ay; but there's a lass between 'em now--what do you make o' that?" "as far as i can think it out, it's against craven." "then think twice about it, eltham, and be sure to change thy mind t' second time; for i tell thee, craven is as innocent as thee or me; and though t' devil and t' lawyers hev all t' evidence on their side, i'll lay thee twenty sovereigns that right'll win. what dost ta say, phyllis, dearie?" and phyllis, who had been watching his large, kindly face with the greatest admiration, smiled confidently back to him, and answered, "i think as you do uncle hallam, "'for right is right, since god is god; and right the day must win; to doubt would be disloyalty, to falter would be sin.'" hallam looked proudly at her, and then at his opponent, who, with glistening eyes, bowed, and answered: "my dear young lady, that settles the question, here. i wish with a' my heart it did so in ivery court in t' kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o' this world, i'm feared." "what by that? i don't want to know. as far as i can judge, t' knowledge of t' world is only an acquaintance wi' all sorts o' evil and unjust things. but come thy ways, eltham, and let's hev a bit of a walk through t' park. i hear t' cuckoos telling their names to ivery tree, and ivery bird in them, and there's few sounds i like better, if it bean't a nightingale singing." it was getting late, and the squire's proposition was generally indorsed. the whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and the carriage and antony's saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there. it was a delightful evening, full of an indescribable tranquillity--a tranquillity not at all disturbed by the _craik_ of the rail in the clover, or the plaintive minor of the cuckoo in the thick groves. eltham and the squire talked earnestly of the coming election. phyllis, leaning on antony's arm, was full of thought, and richard and elizabeth fell gradually a little behind them. in that soft light her white garments and her fair loveliness had a peculiar charm. she reminded richard of some greek goddess full of grace and large serenity. he had resolved not to tell her how dear she was to him until he had better prepared the way for such a declaration; but when the time comes the full heart must speak, though it be only to call the beloved one's name. and this was at first all richard could say: "elizabeth! dear elizabeth!" she recognized the voice. it was as if her soul had been waiting for it. from the sweetest depths of her consciousness she whispered "richard," and with the word made over her full heart to him. they stood one wonderful moment looking at each other, then he drew her to his breast and kissed her. the sweetest strongest words of love were never written. they are not translatable in earthly language. richard was dumb with happiness, and elizabeth understood the silence. as they rode home and sauntered up the terraces, antony said, "what a dull evening we have had;" but phyllis was of the initiated, and knew better. she looked at elizabeth and smiled brightly, while richard clasped tighter the dear hand he was holding. about an hour later phyllis went to elizabeth's room. it was a large chamber open to the east and south, with polished oaken floors, and hung with white dimity. she sat at one of the open southern windows, and the wind, which gently moved the snowy curtains, brought in with it the scent of bleaching clover. there was no light but that shadow of twilight which, in english summers, lingers until it is lost in the dawning. but it was quite sufficient. she turned her face to meet phyllis, and phyllis kissed her, and said, "i know, elizabeth; and i am so glad." "richard told you?" "no, indeed! richard is too much astonished at his own happiness to speak of it to-night. but when one loves, one understands naturally. it has made me very happy. why, elizabeth, you are weeping!" "i am strangely sorrowful, phyllis. a shadow which i cannot account for chills me. you know that i am neither imaginative nor sentimental; but i am weeping to-night for grief which i apprehend, but which does not exist." "why do that? the ills that never come are just the ills that give us the sorest and most useless sorrow. they are not provided for--no grace is promised for them." "that may be, phyllis, but these intangible griefs are very real ones while they haunt us." "i once knew a methodist preacher who, whenever he felt himself haunted by prospective cares and griefs, took a piece of paper and reduced them, to writing, and so 'faced the squadron of his doubts.' he told me that they usually vanished as he mustered them. elizabeth, there are more than sixty admonitions against fear or unnecessary anxiety in the bible, and these are so various, and so positive, that a christian has not actually a legitimate subject for worry left. come, let us face your trouble. is it because in marrying richard you will have to give up this beautiful home?" "that possibility faces me every day, phyllis. when antony marries, he will, of course, bring his wife here, and she will be mistress. i might, for father's sake, take a lower place, but it would be hard. father did not marry until his three sisters were settled, but antony lives in another generation. i can hardly hope he will be so thoughtful." "do you fear that uncle will object to your marriage with richard?" "no; he is very fond of richard, and very proud of him. yesterday he made me notice now strongly richard resembled colonel alfred hallam, who was the cavalier hero of our family. and the likeness is wonderful." "has money any thing to do with it?" "nothing." "parting with richard?" "i think so--the feeling is one of a fear of long or final separation--a shadow like an abyss which neither my love nor my hope can cross. i find that i cannot follow out any dream or plan which includes richard; my soul stumbles in all such efforts as if it was blind. now is there any promise for an uncertain condition like this?" "yes, dear, there is a promise with a blessing added to it. 'i will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; i will lead them in paths that they have not known: i will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.'" isa. xlii, . "dear phyllis, what a little comforter you are! i will be happy. indeed, i have reason, for i never dreamed of a lover like richard--and he says it was the merest accident that brought you to europe this summer." "did richard say 'accident?' do you know, elizabeth, i think what men call 'accident' is really god's own part--his special arrangement or interposition. we were going to saratoga, and then one night bishop elliott called, and said he was going to europe, and as he spoke we received a letter saying the rooms which we had always occupied were not to be had, and the bishop said, 'go with me to europe,' and so, in five minutes we had decided to do so. richard will dislike to return to america without you; have you thought of the many changes you must face? and some deprivations also, elizabeth. we are not rich. our home, beautiful in its way, is very different from hallam hall; our life altogether is unlike yours." "i fear nothing of all that, phyllis. but my marriage until antony marries is out of the question. i could not leave father until he has another daughter. that is a thing not to be contemplated." "ah, elizabeth, in my selfishness i had forgotten that! i was only thinking that when richard had you, he could better spare me, and that john and i might have a hope also. but, of course, uncle hallam comes first." "yes; as long as my father needs me, my first duty is to him." "even if it be to the end of his life?" "that is an event i never dare to call to mind. my soul shrinks back from the thought. a good parent is immortal to a good child, i think." she said it very calmly, but no one would have thought of disputing her position. the still assured face partially uplifted, and the large white hands firmly clasped upon her knee, were a kind of silent amen to it. then phyllis said "good-night" and went away; but dim as the light was, she took with her a certain sense of warmth and color. the long pink dressing-gown she had worn and the pink rose in her hair had made a kind of glow in the corner of the wide window where she had sat. "how beautiful she is!" the words sprang spontaneously to elizabeth's lips; and she added to them in her thoughts, "few girls are so lovely, so graceful, and so clever, and yet she is as pure and unspoiled by the world as if god had just made her." the formal ratification of the engagement was very quietly done. the squire had a conversation with richard, and after it went for a long walk in the park. when he next met his daughter he looked at her steadily with eyes full of tears, and she went to him, and put her arms around his neck, and whispered some assurance to him, which he repaid with a hearty "god bless thee, elizabeth!" antony was the least pleased. he had long had a friendship with george eltham, lord eltham's younger son; and among many projects which the young men had discussed, one related to the marriage of elizabeth. she had, indeed, no knowledge of their intentions, which were on a mercenary basis, but this did not prevent antony from feeling that richard had in some degree frustrated his plans. but he allowed himself no evidences of this feeling; he gave richard his congratulations, and in a merry way "supposed that the kindest thing he could now do for all parties was to choose a wife also." but very soon he ordered his horse and rode thoughtfully over to eltham. the hon. george was in his apartments reading "blackwood," though there was a riding party gathering on the lawn. "are you not going with them?" asked antony, indicating the laughing group outside with a motion of his hand. "not i. i hope to do something more with my life than be my elder brother's lieutenant. last night i spoke to lord eltham concerning our intentions. he thinks well of them, antony, and promises all the help he can give us." "i am sorry to tell you, george, that elizabeth is to marry cousin fontaine. the engagement is formally made and sanctioned." "i am very sorry. it is a great disappointment to me." "you were too dilatory. i advised you to speak to elizabeth some months ago." "i tried to do so, but it was impossible to say pretty things to her. i felt abashed if i tried to compliment her, and she always appeared so unconscious of a fellow, that it was depressing." "well, it is too late now." "how do you know that? when mr. fontaine has gone--" "it will not make a particle of difference, george; let me tell you that. elizabeth will be true to him, if she never sees him again. i know her, you do not." "what is to be done, then?" "i was thinking of selina digby." "o you know she is not pretty at all!" "we agreed not to let such things as that influence us." "and she is older than i am." "she has l , , that is more than double elizabeth's fortune. a man can't have every thing. it is entirely at her own disposal also. your brother-in-law is far too much absorbed in politics to interfere--the ground there is clear for you." "if i succeed?" "i will promise to find capital equal to yours. what did my lord say concerning our plan?" "he said we must have some instruction, and that he would speak to sir thomas harrington. my father secured his seat in parliament, and he is sure to allow us to enter his house. we shall have every facility there for acquiring a rapid practical knowledge of banking and finance. i told father it was that or the colonies. i have no idea of being 'only lord francis's brother.'" "money is the axle on which the world turns, george. when you and i have it we can buy titles--if we want them." the fever of fortune-making had seized both young men. they were ambitious in the most personal sense of the word. george's position as younger son constantly mortified him. he had had dreams of obtaining honor both as a scholar and a soldier, but he had satisfied himself that for one career he had not the mental ability, and for the other neither the physical courage nor endurance necessary. of mere rank he was not envious. he had lived among noble men, and familiarity had bred its usual consequence. but he did want money. he fully recognized that gold entered every earthly gate, and he felt within himself the capacity for its acquirement. he had also precedents for this determination which seemed to justify it. the duke of norham's younger son had a share in an immense brewery and wielded a power far beyond that of his elder brother, who was simply waiting for a dukedom. lord egremont, a younger son of the earl of soho, controlled large amounts of railway stock, and it was said held a mortgage on the family castle. to prove to his father and mother that no law of primogeniture could disinherit him, appeared to george eltham an object worth striving for. with these thoughts simmering in his heart he met antony hallam at oxford. they speedily became friends. antony wanted money also. but in him the craving arose from a more domineering ambition. he wished to rule men, to be first every-where. he despised the simple provincial title to which he was born, and the hall, with all its sweet gray antiquity, was only a dull prison. he compared its mediaeval strength, its long narrow lattices, its low rambling rooms, its saxon simplicity, with the grand mansions of modern date in which he visited. it must be remembered that it is only recently old houses and old furniture and early english have become fashionable. antony's dream of a home was not of hallam, but of a grander eltham castle, whose rooms should be twice as large and lofty and splendid. he would control men through their idol, gold; he would buy some old earldom, and have orders and honors thrust upon him. his long, honorable descent would be a good foundation to build upon. he told himself that the hallams ought to have built upon it generations ago. he almost despised his ancestors for the simple lives they had led. he could not endure to think of himself sitting down as squire hallam and ruling a few cottagers and tilling a few hundred acres. in george eltham he found a kindred spirit. they might work for different motives, but gold was the aim of both. many plans had been entertained and discussed, but they had finally settled upon a co-partnership in finance. they would discount bills, make advances, and secure government contracts. the latter was the special aim of antony's desires. but they were not foolish enough to think they could succeed without some preliminary initiation, and this they proposed to acquire in the great banking house of sir thomas harrington. m.p. lord eltham had approved the plan. it now remained to secure the squire's agreement and co-operation. as for the money necessary, george eltham proposed to acquire it by marriage. antony had his own plan; he was only waiting until the fontaines' visit was over, and "that contemptible craven affair settled." for he saw plainly that for the time the squire's mind was full of outside interests, and when antony discussed a subject so vital to himself, he was resolved his father should be in a position to feel its importance, and give it his undivided attention. personally he had no ill-feeling toward ben craven, but he was annoyed at the intrusion of so vulgar an object of sympathy into his home. the squire's advocacy at eltham had irritated him. he was quietly angry at elizabeth and phyllis daily visiting the dame. and when the methodist preacher had been twice to hallam to see the squire on the subject, he could not treat the affair with his usual tolerant indifference. "i have changed my mind," he said, one evening, with that smiling positiveness which is so aggravating: "i am very much inclined to believe that ben craven did kill clough." the squire looked at him, first with amazement, then with anger, and asked, "when did ta lose thy good sense, and thy good-will, son antony?" "i had a talk with swale to-day, and in his judgment--" "thou knows what i think o' swale. was there ever a bigger old cheat than he is? i'll put my heart afore swale's judgment, ben craven's all right." "he will have strong evidence and a clever lawyer against him. he is sure to be convicted." "don't thee reckon to know so much. ben's got a clever lawyer, too; but if he'd nobbut god and his mother to plead for him, his cause 'ud be in varry good hands, thou may be sure o' that." "i am only saying, father, what swale says every-where." "i'll warrant he'll talk. there's no tax on lying. my word, if there was, swale'd hev to keep his mouth shut." "i cannot imagine, father, what makes you trouble yourself so much about the cravens." "thou can't, can't ta? then thou canst imagine gratitude for faithful service given cheerfully for three hundred years. why-a lad, 'twas a craven saved alfred hallam's life at worcester fight." "i suppose he paid him for the service. any how the debt is not ours." "ay, is it. it's my debt, and it's thine, too. ben may live to do thee a service for aught thou knows." antony smiled contemptuously, and the squire continued, almost angrily, "there's things more unlikely; look here, my lad, nivver spit in any well: thou may hev to drink of t' water." when the words were said the squire was sorry for them. they had come from his lips in that forceful prophetic way some speeches take, and they made an unpleasant impression on both father and son; just such an impression as a bad dream leaves, which yet seems to be wholly irrelevant and unaccountable. craven was in leeds jail, and the trial was fixed for the summer term. all things may be better borne than suspense, and all were glad when ben could have a fair hearing. but every thing was against him, and at the end of the second day's trial, the squire came home in sincere trouble; ben had been found guilty, but a conviction of his innocence, in spite of the evidence, seemed also to have possessed the jury, for they had strongly recommended him to her majesty's mercy. elizabeth and phyllis went with sick, sorrowful heart to see the dame. the strain had told upon her before the trial, and she had lost her cheerfulness somewhat. but she had come to a place now where anger and sense of wrong and impatience were past. "lost confidence, sister phyllis," she said; "not i; i hev only stopped reckoning on any man or woman now, be 't queen's sen; and i hev put my whole trust i' god. such like goings on as we've hed! paper and ink and varry little justice; but god'll sort ivery thing afore long." "the case is to come before the queen." "that's well enough. miss hallam, but i'll tak' it mysen into god's council-chamber--there's no key on that door, and there's no fee to pay either. he'll put ivery thing right, see if he doesn't!" "and besides, sister martha, things may not be as far wrong as we think they are--may not be wrong at all. god moves in a mysterious way." "and he needs to, sister phyllis. there's many a soul 'ud run away from him, even when he was coming to help 'em, if they knew it was him." "i understand what you mean, martha--'as a thief in the night.' he breaks all bars and bursts all doors closed against him when he visits either a soul or a cause. i heard you were at leeds. do you mind telling us how things went? the squire will not talk to any one." "i nivver was one to shut my grief up i' my heart, and let it poison my life; not i, indeed. it seemed to me, though, as varry little fight were made for ben clough afore he died; he'd signed a paper, declaring positive as it were ben who shot him; and t' case were half done when that were said. then bingley were sworn, and he said, as he were coming ovver t' moor, about half past six, he heard a shot, and saw ben craven come from behind a whin bush, and run toward t' village; and a minute after bill laycock came in sight; and ben, he said, ran past him, also; and laycock looked after ben, and said to bingley--'that's ben craven; he's in a bit of a hurry, i think.'" "was laycock coming from the moor also?" "nay, he was coming from t' village, and was going across t' moor to a knur match on eltham common." "did laycock swear to that?" "ay, he did. he were varry loth to do it; for ben and him hed laked together when they were lads, and been thick as thack iver since, till mary clough came between 'em. but i noticed one thing, and i think the jury saw it, too--when laycock were asked, 'if he were sure it was ben that passed him,' he turned white to the varry lips, and could scarce make out to whisper, _'ay, he were sure.'_ then ben looked at him, and i'll nivver forget that look, no, nor any body else that saw it, and least of a' t' man hes got it." "you think laycock swore to a lie?" "i know he swore to a lie." "it is a pity that ben's working-suit has never been found." "it'll come to light; see if it doesn't." "who spoke for ben?" "i did. i told t' truth, and there's none that knows me hes a doubt o' that. i said that ben came home a bit early. he hed his cup o' tea wi' me, and i told him how bad off sarah fisher was; and i said, 'i'll wash up t' tea things, lad, and go bide wi' her till it's chapel time; and so thou be ready to go wi' me.' before i went out i looked into ben's room, and he'd dressed himsen up i' his sunday clothes, and were sitting studying i' a book called 'mechanics;' and i said, 'why, ben! whatever hes ta put thy best clothes on for?' i knew right well it was for mary clough, but i wasn't too well pleased wi' mary, and so i couldn't help letting him see as he weren't deceiving me; and ben said, 'nivver thee mind, mother, what clothes i've on, and don't be too late for t' chapel.'" "and yet bingley and laycock swore that ben had his working-clothes on?" "ay, they sware that." "you are come into deep waters, martha." "ay, i am; but there's one on t' water wi' me. i hev his hand, and he's none going to let me sink. and good-night to you, dearies, now; for i want to be alone wi' him. he isn't far off; you can tak' t' word of a sorrowful woman that he lets himsen be found, if nobbut you're i' earnest seeking him." she turned from them, and seated herself before her lonely hearthstone, and phyllis saw her glance upward at the four words, that even in the darkest night was clear to her--_"in god we trust."_ "martha used to be so curious, so gossippy, so well acquainted with all her neighbors, so anxious for their good opinion, that it strikes me as singular," said elizabeth, "that she seems to have forgotten the whole village, and to be careless as to its verdict. does sorrow make us indifferent, i wonder?" "no, i think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level--the earth-level; the sorrowful look up." not far from martha's garden gate they met the methodist preacher. he was going to see martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he turned and walked with phyllis and elizabeth toward the park. he was a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. people came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them. "well i nivver!" said old peggy howarth, nodding her head wisely, "what does ta think o' that, jane sykes?" "it beats ivery thing! there's ezra dixon. he's on his way to a class-meeting, i'll lay thee owt ta likes; ezra!" "well, woman! what does ta want?" "does ta see miss hallam and that american lass wi' t' preacher?" "for sure i do. they're in varry good company." "they'll hev been at martha cravens, depend on't. they say martha taks it varry quiet like." "ay, she's none o' them as whimpers and whines. now if it wer' thee, peggy, thou'd worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer' thy trade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. martha's none like that. is ta going to thy class to-night?" "nay, then, i'm not going." "i'd go if i was thee, peggy. thou'lt hev thysen to talk about there, and thou'lt not be tempted to say things about t' cravens thou wont be able to stand up to." "i'd hev some human nature in me, ezra dixon, if i was thee. to think o' this being t' first murder as iver was i' hallam! and thou talking as if i ought to buckle up my tongue about it." "thou ought; but 'oughts' stand for nothing. to be sure thou'll talk about it; but go and talk i' thy class-meeting wi' josiah banks looking i' thy face, and then thou'll talk wi' a kind heart. do as i tell thee." "nay, i'll not do it." "thou nivver will disappoint t' devil, peggy." peggy did not answer; she was too much interested in the rector's proceedings. he was actually crossing the road and joining the ladies and the preacher. "now, then! dost ta see that, ezra? whativer's coming to folk? why-a! they're a' going on together!" "why not? t' rector's a varry good man. it 'ud be strange if he didn't feel for poor martha as well as ivery other kind heart. her trouble hes made a' maks o' christians feel together." "if martha was nobbut a church o' england woman." "dost ta really think that t' rector is cut on that sort o' a pattern? not he. a man may be a christian, peggy, even if he isn't a wesleyan methody. them's my principles, and i'm not a bit 'shamed o' them." it was quite true; the rector had joined the girls and the preacher, and they walked on together as far as the park gates, talking of martha and her great sorrow and great faith. then the preacher turned back, carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that comes from real christian sympathy and communion. "what clear prophetic eyes that mr. north has," said the rector, as they walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms. "he lives very near to the other world," said phyllis; "i think his eyes have got that clear far-off look with habitually gazing into eternity. it is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feels that he is just from the presence of god." "i have heard that you are a dissenter, miss fontaine." "o no, i am not. i am a methodist." "that is what i meant." "but the two are not the same. i am quite sure that the line between dissent and methodism has been well defined from the beginning." the rector smiled tolerantly down at phyllis's bright thoughtful face, and said: "do young ladies in america study theological history?" "i think most of them like to understand the foundation upon which their spiritual faith is built. i have found every side study of methodism very interesting. methodism is a more charitable and a more spiritual thing than dissent." "are you sure of that?" "yes. dissenters began every-where with showing how fallen was the church, how unworthy were her ministers; but methodism began every-where with showing her hearers how fallen they themselves were, and how utterly unworthy. dissent was convinced that episcopacy was wrong; methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. dissent discussed schemes of church government, as if the salvation of the world depended upon certain forms; methodism had one object, to save souls and inculcate personal holiness. dissent boldly separated herself from the church; methodism clung with loving affection to her mother. her separation was gradual, and accompanied with fond regrets." "i like that reasoning, miss fontaine." "do not give me credit for it; it comes from those who have authority to speak upon such matters. but ought not a young lady to know as much about the origin and constitution of her church as of her country?" "i suppose she ought. what do you say, miss hallam?" "that i will begin and study the history of my church. i am ashamed to say i know nothing about it." "and i say that i will look into methodism a little. john wesley, as a man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. it was a pity he left the church." "but he never did leave it. just as st. peter and st. paul and st. john went up to the temple at jerusalem to pray, so wesley, until the very last, frequented the church ordinances. i think he was really a very high-churchman. he was even prejudiced against presbyterians; and a very careless reader of his works must see that he was deeply impressed with the importance of episcopacy, and that he regarded it as an apostolic institution. if he were to return to this world again, he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the american methodist episcopal church." "but remember how he countenanced field-preaching and religious services without forms." "do you think it a sin to save souls out of church? don't you think the sermon on the mount a very fair precedent in favor of field-preaching?" "miss fontaine, you argue like a woman. that question is not in logical sequence. here come mr. fontaine and the squire. i hope some other time you will allow me to resume this conversation." the squire's face brightened when he saw the rector. "a 'good-evening,' parson. thou thought i'd be in a bit o' trouble to-night, didn't ta?" "i knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for martha and ben craven to-night." "ay, to be sure." he had clasped phyllis's hand in one of his own, and turned round with the party; as he did so, drawing the rector's attention by a significant glance to elizabeth, who had fallen behind with richard. "i am very glad if that is the case, squire." "ay, it pleases me, too. but about poor martha, hev you seen her?" "she wishes to be alone." "and no wonder. i'm sure i don't know whativer must be done." "perhaps the queen will have mercy." "mercy! he'll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. hanging isn't any better than its called, i'll be bound; but if i was ben, i'd a-deal rather be hung, and done wi' it. that i would!" "i think ben craven will yet be proved innocent. his mother is sure of it, uncle." "that's t' way wi' a mother. you can't make 'em understand--they will hang on." "yes," said the rector. "mother-love almost sees miracles." "mother-love _does_ see miracles," answered phyllis. "the mother of moses would 'hang on,' as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracle of salvation. so did the shunammite mother, and the syro-phoenician mother, and millions of mothers before and since. just as long as martha hopes, i shall hope; and just as long as martha prays, she will hope." "does ta think martha can pray against t' english constitution?" "i heard the rector praying against the atmospheric laws last sunday, and you said every word after him, uncle. when you prayed for fine weather to get the hay in, did you expect it in spite of all the conditions against it--falling barometer, gathering clouds? if you did, you were expecting a miracle." "ay, i told t' beadle, mysen, that there wasn't a bit o' good praying for fine weather as long as t' wind kept i' such a contrary quarter; and it's like enough to rain to-night again, and heigh, for sure! its begun mizzling. we'll hev to step clever, or we'll be wet before we reach t' hall." the rector smiled at the squire's unconscious statement of his own position; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, before they reached shelter the ladies' dresses were wet through, and there was so many evidences of a storm that the rector determined to stay all night with his friends. when elizabeth and phyllis came down in dry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, and a servant laying the table for supper. "elizabeth, let's hev that round o' spiced beef, and some cold chicken, and a bit o' raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there's owt o' t' sort in t' buttery. there's nothing like a bit o' good eating, if there's owt wrong wi' you." the rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of the ample hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay pipe in their mouth. the serenity of their faces, and their air of thorough comfort was a delightful picture to phyllis. she placed herself close to her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. the two men were talking in easy, far-apart sentences of "tithes," and, as the subject did not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room, noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, and its heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-colored rugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on the high sideboard, and the gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. the table, covered with snowy damask, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and phyllis thought she had never seen elizabeth look so grandly fair and home-like as she did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles. she did not wonder that richard heard nothing of the conversation, and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife. the squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared as if his advice was very good medicine. happiness, hope, and a sense of gratitude was in each heart. the old room grew wonderfully cozy and bright; the faces that gathered round the table and the fire were full of love, and sweet, reasonable contentment. when supper was over richard and elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, where there was always a little fire burning. they had their own hopes and joys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle, and this was fully recognized. phyllis only gave them a bright smile as they withdrew. the squire ignored their absence; antony was at eltham; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortals may be. the rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked fitfully about "tithes." it seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortably to the pauses in a long pipe. but when he had finished his "thimbleful" of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes carefully, he looked at phyllis with a face full of renewed interest, and said, "squire, do you know that your niece thinks john wesley was a high-churchman?" "what i meant, sir, was this: wesley had very decided views in favor of the episcopacy. he would suffer none to lay unconsecrated hands upon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, i think he was as ascetic as any monk." "do you think, then, that if he had lived before the reformation he might have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like la trappe?" "no, indeed, sir! he might have founded an order, and it would, doubtless, have been a rigorous one; but it would not have been one shut up behind walls. it would have been a preaching order, severely disciplined, perhaps, but burning with all the zeal of the redemptionist fathers on a mission." the squire patted the little hand, which was upon his knee, and proudly asked, "now, then, parson, what does ta say to that?" "i say it would be a very good description of 'the people called methodists' when they began their crusade in england." "it is always a good description of them when they have missionary work to do. we have had brave soldiers among the fontaines, and wise statesmen, also; but braver than all, wiser than all, was my grandfather fontaine, who went into the wilderness of tennessee an apostle of methodism, with the bible in his heart and his life in his hand. if i was a man, i would do as richard always does, lift my hat whenever his name is mentioned." "such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes, miss fontaine; men, of whom the world is not worthy." "ah, do not say that! it was worthy of christ. it is worthy of them. they are not extinct. they are still preaching--on the savannas of the southwest--on all the border-lands of civilization--among the savages of the pacific isles, and the barbarians of asia and africa; voices crying in the wilderness, 'god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son' for its salvation. a methodist preacher is necessarily an evangelist. did you ever happen to read, or to hear wesley's 'charge' to his preachers?" "no, i never heard it, miss fontaine." "if ta knows it, phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. i'se warrant it'll fit his office very well." "yes, i know it; i have heard it many a time from my grandfather's lips. in his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he never said any thing else to them. 'observe,' charged wesley, 'it is not your business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can.'" "now, then, that's enough. phyllis, dearie, lift t' candle and both o' you come wi' me; i've got summat to say mysen happen." he had that happy look on his face which people wear who are conscious of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. he led them to a large room above those in the east wing which were specially his own. it was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used. "look 'ee here, now;" and he lifted the candle toward a picture over the fire place. "who do you mak' that out to be?" "john wesley," said phyllis. "for sure; it's john wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals for thirty years. my great grandfather, squire gregory hallam, was a methodist--one o' t' first o' them--and so you see, phyllis, my lass, you hev come varry naturally by your way o' thinking." the rector was examining the face with great interest. "it is a wonderful countenance," he said; "take a look at it, miss fontaine, and see if it does not bear out what i accidentally said about la trappe." "no, indeed, it does not! i allow that it is the face of a refined, thorough-bred ecclesiastic. he was the son of the church." "yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of levi." "it is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face--the face of a scholar and a gentleman." "a little of the fanatic in it--admit that. i have seen pictures of grand inquisitors, by velasquez, which resemble it." "you must not say such things, my dear rector. look again. i admit that it is a clever face, and i have seen it compared to that of richelieu and loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other; but i see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity which comes from an assurance of the love of god." "god love thee, phyllis! thou'lt be makkin' a methodist o' me, whether i will or no. i hed no idea afore there was a' that in t' picture. i wont stay here any longer. thanks be! it's sleeping-time, missee." "i should like to sleep in this room, squire." "why, then, rector, thou shall. a bit o' fire and some aired bed-clothes is a' it wants. thou's sure to sleep well in it, and thou'lt hev t' sunrise to wake thee up." and phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept some of the sunshine in his face. he was walking up and down the terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change like opals with every movement. the roofs and lintels and the soft earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air was full of a thousand scents. "how beautiful all is, and how happy you look," and phyllis put her hand in the rector's, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine. "did you sleep well in wesley's chamber?" "i slept very well; and this morning the pleasantest thing happened. upon a little table i saw a bible lying, and i read the morning lesson, which was a very happy one; then i lifted another book upon the stand. it was 'the pilgrim's progress;' and this was the passage i lighted upon: 'the pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber facing the sunrising. the name of the chamber was peace.' there was a pencil-mark against the passage, and i fancy john wesley put it there. it was a little thing, but it has made me very happy." "i can understand." "god bless you, child! i am sure you can." chapter iii. "he shall call upon me, and i will answer him: i will be with him in trouble; i will deliver him, and honor him." psa. xci, . "alas for hourly change! alas for all the loves that from his hand proud youth lets fall, even as the beads of a told rosary!" that very day richard received a letter from bishop elliott. he was going to the holy land and wished richard to join him in rome, and then accompany him to palestine. richard preferred to remain at hallam, but both elizabeth and phyllis thought he ought to respond to the bishop's desire. he was an aged man among strangers, and, apart from inclination, it seemed to be a duty to accede to his request. so rather reluctantly richard left hallam, half-inclined to complain that elizabeth was not sorry enough to part with him. in truth she was conscious of feeling that it would be pleasant to be a little while alone with the great joy that had come to her; to consider it quietly, to brood over it, and to ask some questions of her soul which it must answer very truthfully. people of self-contained natures weary even of happiness, if happiness makes a constant demand upon them. she loved richard with the first love of her heart, she loved him very truly and fondly, but she was also very happy through the long summer days sitting alone, or with phyllis, and sewing pure, loving thoughts into wonderful pieces of fine linen and cambric and embroidery. sometimes phyllis helped her, and they talked together in a sweet confidence of the lovers so dear to them, and made little plans for the future full of true unselfishness. in the cool of the day they walked through the garden and the park to see martha; though every day it became a more perplexing and painful duty. the poor woman, as time went by, grew silent and even stern. she heeded not any words of pity, she kept apart from the world, and from all her neighbors, and with heart unwaveringly fixed upon god, waited with a grand and pathetic patience the answer to her prayers. for some reason which her soul approved she remained in the little chapel with her petition, and the preacher going in one day, unexpectedly, found her prostrate before the communion table, pleading as mothers only can plead. he knelt down beside her, and took her hand, and prayed with her and for her. quite exhausted, she sat down beside him afterward and said, amid heart-breaking sobs, "it isn't ben's life i'm asking, sir. god gave him, and he's a fair right to tak' him, when and how he will. i hev given up asking for t' dear lad's life. but o if he'd nobbut clear his good name o' the shameful deed! i know he's innocent, and god knows it; but even if they hang ben first, i'll give my maker no peace till he brings the guilty to justice, and sets t' innocent in t' leet o' his countenance." "'the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence,' martha, 'and the violent take it by force.' don't get weary. christ had a mother, and he loved her. does he not love her still?" "thank you, sir, for that word. i'll be sure and remind him o' her. i'd forget that there was iver any mother but me; or any son but my son." "say a word for all other weeping mothers. think of them, martha, all over the world, rich and poor, christian and heathen. how many mothers' hearts are breaking to-day. you are not alone, martha. a great company are waiting and weeping with you. don't be afraid to ask for them, too. there is no limit to god's love and power." "i'll pray for ivery one o' them, sir." "do, martha, and you'll get under a higher sky. it's a good thing to pray for ourselves; it's a far grander thing to pray for others. god bless you, sister, and give you an answer of peace." very shortly after this conversation one of those singular changes in public opinion, which cannot be accounted for, began to manifest itself. after clough's positive dying declaration, it was hardly to be expected that his daughter mary could show any kindness to her old lover, ben craven. but week after week went by, and people saw that she positively refused to speak to bill laycock, and that she shrank even from his passing shadow, and they began to look queerly at the man. it amounted at first to nothing more than that; but as a mist creeps over the landscape, and gradually possesses it altogether, so this chill, adverse atmosphere enfolded him. he noticed that old acquaintances dropped away from him; men went three miles farther off to get a shoe put on a horse. no one could have given a clear reason for doing so, and one man did not ask another man "why?" but the fact needed no reasoning about. it was there. at the harvest festivals the men drew away from him, and the girls would not have him for a partner in any rural game. he was asked to resign his place in the knur club, and if he joined any cricket eleven, the match fell to the ground. one september evening elizabeth and phyllis went to the village to leave a little basket of dainties in martha's cottage. they now seldom saw her, she was usually in the chapel; but they knew she was grateful for the food, and it had become all they could do for her in the hard struggle she was having. the trees were growing bare; the flowers were few and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy, and twittered and complained, while the swallows were restless, like those going a long journey. singing time was over, life burning down, it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little. they left the basket on martha's table and went quietly up the street. in a few minutes they met the preacher, but he also seemed strangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. at the chapel gates there were five or six people standing. "we are going to have a prayer-meeting," he said, "will you come in?" "it will soon be dark," answered elizabeth, "we must reach home as quickly as possible." just then martha craven came out of the chapel. a sorrow nobly borne confers a kind of moral rank. her neighbors, with respect and pity, stood aside silently. she appeared to be quite unconscious of them. at phyllis and elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shook her head mournfully. to the preacher she said, "it's t' eleventh hour, sir, and no answer yet!" "go thy ways, martha craven. it will come! it is impossible thy prayers should fail! as the lord liveth no harm shall come to thee or to thine!" the plain little man was transfigured. no ancient prophet at the height of his vision ever spoke with more authority. martha bowed her head and went her way without a word; and elizabeth and phyllis, full of a solemn awe, stood gazing at the man whose rapt soul and clear, prophetic eyes looked into the unseen and received its assurance. he seemed to have forgotten their presence, and walked with uplifted face into the chapel. elizabeth was the first to speak. "what did he mean?" "he has had some assurance from god. _he knows."_ "do you mean to say, phyllis, that god speaks to men?" "most surely god speaks to those who will hear. why should you doubt it? he changeth not. when god talked with enoch, and abraham spoke with god, no one was astonished. when hagar wandered in the desert, and saw an angel descend from heaven with succor, she was not surprised. in those days, elizabeth, men whose feet were in the dust breathed the air of eternity. they spoke to god, and he answered them." "does methodism believe that this intercourse is still possible?" "methodism knows it is possible. the doctrine of assurance is either a direct divine interposition or it is a self-deception. it is out of the province of all human reason and philosophy. but it is impossible that it can be self-deception. millions of good men and women of every shade of mental and physical temperament have witnessed to its truth." "and you, phyllis?" "i know it." how wonderfully certain moods of nature seem to frame certain states of mind. elizabeth never forgot the still serenity of that september evening; the rustling of the falling leaves under their feet, the gleaming of the blue and white asters through the misty haze gathering over the fields and park. they had expected to meet the squire at the gates, but they were nearly at home ere they saw him. he was evidently in deep trouble; even fanny divined it, and, with singular canine delicacy, walked a little behind him, and forebore all her usual demonstrations. antony was sitting at the hall fire. his handsome person was faultlessly dressed, and, with a newspaper laid over his knee, he was apparently lost in the contemplation of the singular effects made by the firelight among the antlers and armor that adorned the wall. he roused himself when the girls entered, and apologized for not having come to meet them; but there was an evident constraint and unhappiness in the home atmosphere. even the "bit o' good eating," which was the squire's panacea, failed in his own case. antony, indeed, sat and laughed and chatted with an easy indifference, which finally appeared to be unbearable to his father, for he left the table before the meal was finished. then a shadow settled over the party. elizabeth had a troubled look. she was sure there had been some very unusual difference between antony and his father. they soon separated for the night, elizabeth going with phyllis to her for room a final chat. there was a little fire there, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room, and deepened all its pretty rose tints. this was to the girls their time of sweetest confidence. they might be together all the day, but they grew closest of all at this good-night hour. they spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all elizabeth's suppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. in fact, the squire had received one of those blows which none but a living hand can deal, for there are worse things between the cradle and the grave than death--the blow, too, had fallen without the slightest warning. it was not the thing that he had feared which had happened to him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. he had been walking up and down the terrace with fanny, smoking his pipe, and admiring the great beds of many-colored asters, when he saw antony coming toward him. he waited for his son's approach, and met him with a smile. antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortness of the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his whole heart. "father, george eltham and i are thinking of going into business together." "whatever is ta saying? business? what business?" "banking." "now, then, be quiet, will ta? such nonsense!" "i am in dead earnest, father. i cannot waste my life any longer." "who asks thee to waste thy life? hev i iver grudged thee any thing to make it happy? thou hes hed t' best o' educations. if ta wants to travel, there's letters o' credit waiting for thee. if ta wants work, i've told thee there's acres and acres o' wheat on the hallam marshes, if they were only drained. i'll find ta money, if ta wants work." "father, i could not put gold in a marsh, and then sit down and wait for the wheat to grow; and all the wheat on hallam, unless it bore golden ears, would not satisfy me. george and i are going into sir thomas harrington's for a few months. lord eltham has spoken to him. then george is to marry selina digby. she has fifty thousand pounds; and we are going to begin business." "wi' fifty thousand pounds o' miss digby's money! it's t' meanest scheme i iver heard tell on! i'm fair shamed o' thee!" "i must put into the firm fifty thousand pounds also; and i want to speak to you about it." "for sure! how does ta think to get it out o' me now?" "i could get jews to advance it on my inheritance, but i would do nothing so mean and foolish as that. i thought it would be better to break the entail. you give me fifty thousand pounds as my share of hallam, and you can have the reversion and leave the estate to whom you wish." the squire fairly staggered. break the entail! sell hallam! the young man was either mad, or he was the most wicked of sons. "does ta know what thou is talking about! hallam has been ours for a thousand years. o antony! antony!" "we have had it so long, father, that we have grown to it like vegetables." "has ta no love for t' old place? look at it. is there a bonnier spot in t' wide world? why-a! there's an old saying, "'when a' t' world is up aloft, god's share will be fair hallam-croft.' "look at ta dear old home, and t' sweet old gardens, and t' great park full o' oaks that hev sheltered saxons, danes, normans--ivery race that has gone to make up t' englishman o' to-day." "there are plenty of fairer spots than hallam. i will build a house far larger and more splendid than this. there shall be a lord hallam, an earl hallam, perhaps. gold will buy any thing that is in the market." "get thee out o' my sight! and i'll tell lord eltham varry plainly what i think o' his meddling in my affairs. in order to set up his youngest son i must give up t' bond on t' home that was my fathers when his fathers were driving swine, the born thralls of the kerdics of kerdic forest. thou art no hallam. no son o' mine. get out o' my sight wi' thee!" antony went without anger and without hurry. he had expected even a worse scene. he sat down by the hall fire to think, and he was by no means hopeless as to his demand. but the squire had received a shock from which he never recovered himself. it was as if some evil thing had taken all the sweetest and dearest props of love, and struck him across the heart with them. he had a real well-defined heart-ache, for the mental shock had had bodily sympathies which would have prostrated a man of less finely balanced _physique_. all night long he sat in his chair, or walked up and down his room. the anger which comes from wronged love and slighted advantages and false friendship alternately possessed him. the rooms he occupied in the east wing had been for generations the private rooms of the masters of hallam, and its walls were covered with their pictures--fair, large men, who had for the most part lived simple, kindly lives, doing their duty faithfully in the station to which it had pleased god to call them. he found some comfort in their pictured presence. he stood long before his father, and tried to understand what he would have done in his position. toward daylight he fell into a chill, uneasy sleep, and dreamed wearily and sadly of the old home. it was only a dream, but dreams are the hieroglyphics of the other world if we had the key to them; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are real enough. "poor martha!" was the squire's first thought on rousing himself. "i know now what t' heart-ache she spoke of is like. i'm feared i heven't been as sorry as i might hev been for her." yet that very night, while the squire was suffering from the first shock of wounded, indignant amazement, god had taken martha's case in his own hand. the turn in ben's trouble began just when the preacher spoke to martha. at that hour bill laycock entered the village ale-house and called for a pot of porter. three men, whom he knew well, were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. to one of them bill said, "it's a fine night," and after a sulky pause the man answered, "it ails nowt." then he looked at his mates, put down his pot, and walked out. in a few minutes the others followed. laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. there was no use fighting popular ill-will any longer. mary would not walk on the same side of the street with him. it was the evident intention of the whole village to drive him away. he remembered that swale had told him there was "a feeling against him," and advised him to leave. but swale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value, and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice. "and it's swale's doing, i know," he muttered; "he's been a-fighting for it iver since. well, i'll tak t' l he offers, wi' t' l i hev in t' house, i can make shift to reach t' other side o' t' world, and one side is happen as good as t' other side. i'll go and see swale this varry hour." he was arrested by a peculiar sound in the cellar beneath his feet, a sound that made him turn pale to the very lips. in a few moments the door opened, and tim bingley stepped into the room. "thou scoundrel! what does ta want here?" "thou get me summat to eat and drink, and then i'll tell thee what i want." his tone was not to be disputed. he was a desperate man, and laycock obeyed him. "thou told me thou would go abroad." "i meant to go abroad, but i didn't. i got drunk and lost my brass. thou'll hev to give me some more. i'll go clean off this time." "i've got none to give thee." "varry well, then i'll hev to be took up; and if i'm sent to york castle, thou'lt hev lodgings varry close to me. mak' up thy mind to that, bill laycock." "i didn't kill clough, and thou can't say i did." bingley did not answer. he sat munching his bread and casting evil glances every now and then at his wretched entertainer. "what does ta want?" "thou hed better give me a fresh suit o' clothes; these are fair worn out--and l . i'll be i' hull early to-morrow, and i'll tak' t' varry first ship i can get." "how do i know thou will?" "thou'lt hev to trust my word--it's about as good as thine, i reckon." o but the way of the transgressor is hard! there was nothing else to be done. hatefully, scornfully, he tossed him a suit of his own clothes, and gave him l of his savings. then he opened the door and looked carefully all around. it was near midnight, and all was so still that a bird moving in the branches could have been heard. but laycock was singularly uneasy. he put on his hat and walked one hundred yards or more each way. "don't be a fool," said bingley, angrily; "when did ta iver know any body about at this time o' night, save and it might be at hallam or crossley feasts?" "but where was ta a' day, bingley? is ta sure nobody saw thee? and when did ta come into my cellar?" "i'll tell thee, if ta is bad off to know. i got into hallam at three o'clock this morning, and i hid mysen in clough's shut-up mill a' day. thou knows nobody cares to go nigh it, since--" "thou shot him." "shut up! thou'd better let that subject drop. i knew i were safe there. when it was dark and quiet, i came to thee. now, if ta'll let me pass thee, i'll tak' hull road." "thou is sure nobody has seen thee?" "ay, i'm sure o' that. let be now. i hevn't any time to waste." laycock watched him up the hull road till he slipped away like a shadow into shade. then he sat down to wait for morning. he would not stay in hallam another day. he blamed himself for staying so long. he would take any offer swale made him in the morning. there would be neither peace nor safety for him, if tim bingley took it into his will to return to hallam whenever he wanted money. at daylight dolly ives, an old woman who cleaned his house and cooked his meals, came. she had left the evening before at six o'clock, and if any thing was known of bingley's visit to hallam, she would likely have heard of it. she wasn't a pleasant old woman, and she had not a very good reputation, but her husband had worked with laycock's father, and he had been kind to her on several occasions when she had been in trouble. so she had "stuck up for bill laycock," and her partisanship had become warmer from opposition. it was at best a rude kind of liking, for she never failed to tell any unkind thing she heard about him. she had, however, nothing fresh to say, and bill felt relieved. he ate his breakfast and went to his forge until ten o'clock. then he called at swale's. he fancied the lawyer was "a bit offish," but he promised him the money that night, and with this promise bill had to be content. business had long been slack; his forge was cold when he got back, and he had no heart to rekindle it. frightened and miserable, he was standing in the door tying on his leather apron, when he saw dolly coming as fast as she could toward him. he did not wait, but went to meet her. "whativer is ta coming here for?" "thou knows. get away as fast as ta can. there hev been men searching t' house, and they hev takken away t' varry suit bingley wore at ben craven's trial. now, will ta go? here's a shilling, it's a' i hev." terrified and hurried, he did the worst possible thing for his own case--he fled, as dolly advised, and was almost immediately followed and taken prisoner. in fact, he had been under surveillance, even before bingley left his house at midnight. suspicion had been aroused by a very simple incident. mary clough had noticed that a stone jar, which had stood in one of the windows of the mill ever since it had been closed, was removed. in that listless way which apparently trivial things have of arresting the attention, this jar had attracted mary until it had become a part of the closed mill to her. it was in its usual place when she looked out in the morning; at noon it had disappeared. some one, then, was in the mill. a strong conviction took possession of her. she watched as the sparrow-hawk watches its prey. just at dusk she saw bingley leave the mill and steal away among the alders that lined the stream. she suspected where he was going, and, by a shorter route, reached a field opposite laycock's house, and, from behind the hedge, saw bingley push aside the cellar window and crawl in. he had tried the door first, but it was just at this hour laycock was in the ale-house. the rector was a magistrate; and she went to him with her tale, and he saw at once the importance of her information. he posted the men who watched laycock's house; they saw bingley leave it, and when he was about a mile from hallam they arrested him, and took him to leeds. laycock's arrest had followed as early as a warrant could be obtained. he sent at once for mr. north, and frankly confessed to him his share in the tragedy. "it was a moment's temptation, sir," he said, with bitter sorrow, "and i hev been as miserable as any devil out o' hell could be iver since. t' night as clough were shot, i had passed his house, and seen mary clough at t' garden gate, and she hed been varry scornful, and told me she'd marry ben craven, or stay unmarried; and i were feeling bad about it. i thought i'd walk across t' moor and meet clough, and tell him what mary said, and as i went along i heard a shot, and saw a man running. as he came near i knew it was bingley i' ben craven's working clothes. he looked i' my face, and said, 'clough thinks ben craven fired t' shot. if ta helps me away, thou'lt get mary. can i go to thy cottage?' and i said, 'there's a cellar underneath.' that was all. he had stole ben's overworker's brat and cap from t' room while ben was drinking his tea, and ben nivver missed it till jerry oddy asked where it was. at night i let him burn them i' my forge. i hev wanted to tell t' truth often; and i were sick as could be wi' swearing away ben's life; indeed i were!" before noon the village was in an uproar of excitement. laycock followed bingley to leeds, and both were committed for trial to york castle. both also received the reward of their evil deed: bingley forfeited his life, and laycock went to norfolk island to serve out a life sentence. the day of ben's release was a great holiday. troubled as the squire was, he flung open the large barn at hallam, and set a feast for the whole village. after it there was a meeting at the chapel, and ben told how god had strengthened and comforted him, and made his prison cell a very gate of heaven. and martha, who had so little to say to any human being for weeks, spoke wondrously. her heart was burning with love and gratitude; the happy tears streamed down her face; she stood with clasped hands, telling how god had dealt with her, and trying in vain to express her love and praise until she broke into a happy song, and friends and neighbors lifted it with her, and the rafters rang to "hallelujah to the lamb, who has purchased our pardon! we will praise him again when we pass over jordan." if we talk of heaven on earth, surely they talk of earth in heaven; and if the angels are glad when a sinner repents, they must also feel joy in the joy and justification of the righteous. and though martha and ben's friends and neighbors were rough and illiterate, they sang the songs of zion, and spoke the language of the redeemed, and they gathered round the happy son and mother with the unselfish sympathy of the sons and daughters of god. truly, as the rector said, when speaking of the meeting, "there is something very humanizing in methodism." "and something varry civilizing, too, parson," answered the squire; "if they hedn't been in t' methodist chapel, singing and praising god, they 'ud hev been in t' ale-house, drinking and dancing, and varry like quarreling. there's no need to send t' constable to a methodist rejoicing. i reckon mary clough'll hev to marry ben craven in t' long run, now." "i think so. ben is to open the mill again, and to have charge of it for mary. it seems a likely match." "yes. i'm varry glad. things looked black for ben at one time." "only we don't know what is bad and what good." "it's a great pity we don't. it 'ud be a varry comfortable thing when affairs seemed a' wrong if some angel would give us a call, and tell us we were a bit mistaken. there's no sense i' letting folks be unhappy, when they might be taking life wi' a bit o' comfort." "but, then, our faith would not be exercised." "i don't much mind about that. i'd far rather hev things settled. i don't like being worritted and unsettled i' my mind." the squire spoke with a touching irritability, and every one looked sadly at him. the day after antony's frank statement of his plans, the squire rode early into bradford and went straight to the house of old simon whaley. for three generations the whaleys had been the legal advisers of the hallams, and simon had touched the lives or memory of all three. he was a very old man, with a thin, cute face, and many wrinkles on his brow; and though he seldom left his house, age had not dimmed his intellect, or dulled his good-will toward the family with whom he had been so frequently associated. "why-a! hallam! come in, squire; come in, and welcome. sit thee down, old friend. i'm fain and glad to see thee. what cheer? and whativer brings thee to bradford so early?" "i'm in real trouble, whaley." "about some wedding, i'll be bound." "no; neither love nor women folk hev owt to do wi' it. antony hallam wants me to break t' entail and give him l , ." "save us a'! is t' lad gone by his senses?" then the squire repeated, as nearly as possible, all that antony had said to him; after which both men sat quite still; the lawyer thinking, the squire watching the lawyer. "i'll tell thee what, hallam, thou hed better give him what he asks. if thou doesn't, he'll get hallam into bad hands. he has thought o' them, or he would nivver hev spoke o' them; and he'll go to them, rather than not hev his own way. even if he didn't, just as soon as he was squire, he'd manage it. the norfolk hallams, who are next to him, are a poor shiftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. now dost thou want to keep hallam i' thy own flesh and blood? if ta does, i'll tell thee what to do." "that is the dearest, strongest wish i hev; and thou knows it, whaley." "then go thy ways home and tell antony hallam he can hev l , , if he gives up to thee every possible claim on hallam, and every possible assistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave as thou wishes." "he'll do that fast enough." "then thou choose a proper husband for thy daughter and settle it upon her. her husband must take the name o' hallam; and thy grandchildren by elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by antony." "elizabeth has chosen her husband. he is a son of my aunt, martha hallam; the daughter of sibbald hallam." "what does ta want better? that's famous!" "but he's an american." "then we must mak' an englishman o' him. t' hallams must be kept up. what's his name?" "fontaine." "it's a varry frenchified name. i should think he'd be glad to get rid o' it. where is he now? at hallam?" "he is in t' holy land somewhere." "is he a parson?" "no, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too." "whativer does he want in t' holy land, then?" "he's wi' a bishop." "ay? then he's pious?" "for sure; he's a methodist." "that's not bad. squire gregory was a methodist. he saved more 'an a bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built main part o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. there nivver was a better or thriftier holder o' hallam. ay, ay, there's a kind o' fellowship between methodism and money. this mr. fontaine will do uncommon well for hallam, squire, i should think." "if i got antony to come to thee, whaley, could ta do owt wi' him, thinks ta?" "i wouldn't try it, squire. it would be breath thrown away. soon or later thy son antony will take his own way, no matter where it leads him. thou hes t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settle this thing while thou hes. it's a deep wound, but it's a clean wound yet; cut off t' limb afore it begins to fester and poison t' whole body. and don't thee quarrel wi' him. he's a man now, and there hes to be a' mak's o' men to do t' world's work. let antony be; he'll mebbe be a credit to thee yet." "i don't believe, whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is to me." "don't i? i've got a heart yet, hallam, though thou'd happen think i've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but i'll tell thee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou hes, just tak' a look at them thou hesn't. i nivver gave thee a bit o' advice better worth seven-and-sixpence than that is." "what does ta mean?" "i'll tell thee. thou's fretting because antony wants to go into business, and to get hold o' as much gold and honor as iver he can put his hands on. now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he could get hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fields and gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' month o' hell. wouldn't that be worse?" "ay, it would." "and they who hanker after an earldom'll be varry like to pick up some good things on t' road to it. when ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee, turn round and sail wi' t' wind." "thou sees, whaley, i hev saved a good bit o' money, and i gave antony t' best education oxford could hand over for it; and i reckoned on him getting into parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir there, and building up t' old name wi' a deal o' honor." "varry good; but _strike t' nail that'll go!_ what is t' use o' hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get mebbe t' weight o' t' blow on thy own finger-ends. go thee home and talk reasonably to thy son. he's gotten a will o' his own--that's a way wi' t' hallams--and he'll tak' it. mak' up thy mind to that." "but children ought to obey their fathers." "ought hesn't been t' fashion since iver i remember; and t' young people o' these days hev crossed out fifth commandment--happen that's t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that i asked for wi' the keeping o' it." the squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family, and really suffering very keenly. but toward evening he sent for his son. as antony entered his room he looked at him with a more conscious and critical regard than he had ever done before. he was forced to admit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting their physical peculiarities. they were mostly splendid animals, with faces radiant with courage and high spirits and high health. antony's face was clearer and more refined, more complex, more suggestive. his form, equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, not so aggressively erect. one felt that the older hallams would have walked straight up to the object of their ambition and demanded it, or, if necessary, fought for it. one was equally sure that antony had the ability to stoop, to bow, to slide past obstacles, to attain his object by the pleasantest road possible. he met his father with marked respect and a conciliating manner; standing, with one hand leaning on the central table, until told to sit down. "thou can hev what ta wants on thy own terms, son antony." "thank you, sir." "nay, i want no thanks. i hev only made t' best o' a bad job." "i hope you may live to see that it is not a bad job, sir. i intend no dishonor to our name. i am as proud of it as you are. i only desire to make it a power and an influence, and to give it the honor it deserves." "ay, ay; thou's going to light thy torch at t' sun, no doubt. i hev heard young men talk afore thee. there is squire cawthorpe--he was at college wi' me--what a grand poem he was going to write! he's master o' bagley fox hounds now, and he nivver wrote a line as i heard tell o'. there's parson leveret! he was going to hand in t' millennium, and now he cares for nowt i' t' world but his tithes and a bottle o' good port. howiver, there's no use talking. whaley will manage t' business, and when thou art needed he'll go up to london to see thee. as long as thou art young squire hallam i shall continue thy allowance; when thou hest signed away thy birthright thou wilt hev l , , and nivver another penny-piece from hallam." "that is just and right." "and sooner thou leaves hallam, and better it will be for both o' us, i'm sure. it hurts me to my heart to see thee; that it does,"--and he got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears that forced themselves into his eyes. "shake hands with me, father." "nay, i'd rather not." he had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept them there, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his large blue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. antony watched him a moment, and then approached him. "forget, sir, what i am going to do. before i leave hallam give me your hand, father, as you would give it to your son antony." the squire was not able to resist this appeal. he sunk into his chair and covered his face, saying mournfully: "o, antony! antony! thou hes broken my heart." but when antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement of dissent. in another minute the door closed softly, and he was alone--as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave. antony's adieu to phyllis was easily made, but his parting with his sister hurt him in his deepest affections. whatever of unselfish love he felt belonged to elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. they had a long conference, from which antony came away pale and sick with emotion, leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. it is always a painful thing to witness grief from which we are shut out, and phyllis was unhappy without being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. but it is one blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the duties and courtesies of life. the dinner table was set, and the squire washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by the change. and elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought for her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable. and the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide of unhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been some smiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, had whispered to both father and sister, "keep a good heart! things may be better than they appear to be." as the squire rose from the table, he said: "now, elizabeth, i hev something varry particular to say to thee. phyllis will bide by herself an hour, and then we'll hev no more secrets, and we'll try to be as happy as things will let us be." elizabeth was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say; but she was placed in a very unhappy position. she did what was kindest and wisest under the circumstances, accepted without remonstrance the part assigned her. the young are usually romantic, and their first impulses are generously impracticable ones. elizabeth was not wiser than her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. for the first few minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thing to refuse to stand in her brother's place. but her good heart and good sense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit. yet she was quite aware that her succession would be regarded by the tenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. they would look upon richard and herself as supplanters; richard's foreign birth would be a constant offense; her clear mind took in all the consequences, and she felt hurt at antony for forcing them upon her. she sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainly trying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position. "thou must know what thou art doing, elizabeth," he said, "and must take the charge wi' thy eyes open to a' it asks of thee." then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand the value of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and young plantation of wood. "it's a grand property, and antony was a born fool to part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' finer ones in t' bush. does ta understand its value?" "i am sure i do." "and thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land?" "i love every rood of it." "then listen to me. thy mother gave thee l , . it was put out at interest on thy first birthday, and i hev added a l now and then, as i could see my way clear to do so. thou hes now l , o' thy own--a varry tidy fortune. if ta takes hallam thou must pay down a' of this to antony. i'll hev to find t' other l , by a mortgage. then i shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o' hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. that will take time to do wisely, and it will be work enough for me for t' balance or my life. but i'll leave thee hallam clear if god spare me five years longer, and then there'll be few women i' england thou need envy." "whatever i have is yours, father. do as you think best. i will try to learn all about the estate, and i promise you most faithfully to hold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me." "give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. i don't say as a lass can iver be to hallam what antony should hev been; but thou'rt bound to do thy best." "and, father, antony is very clever. who can tell what he may do? if a man wants to go up, the door is open to wit and skill and industry. antony has all these." "fair words! fair words, elizabeth! but we wont sell t' wheat till we have reaped t' field; and antony's wheat isn't sown yet. he's gotten more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. i don't like such ways!" "if antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own interest. he knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure." "nay, then, i'm not sure. i'll always suspect that a dark road is a bad road until i'm safe off it." "we may as well hope for the best. antony appeared to understand what he was doing." "antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. but we're nobbut talking for talking's sake. let us go to phyllis. she'll hev been more 'an a bit lonely, i'm feared." a servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. the rector was sitting in the fire-light, and phyllis softly playing and singing at the piano. she looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finished her hymn. the four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious father and sister: "judge not the lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace; behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face." "sing them words again, phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless chambers with confidence and peace. chapter iv. "stir the deep wells of life that flow within you, touched by god's genial hand; and let the chastened sure ambition win you to serve his high command. "and mighty love embracing all things human in one all-fathering name, stamping god's seal on trivial things and common, with consecrated aim." as the weeks went on the squire's confidence insensibly grew. he met lord eltham one day when he was out riding, and they did not quarrel. on the contrary, eltham was so conciliating, so patient, and so confidently hopeful, that it was almost impossible for hallam not to be in some measure influenced by him. "i'm quite sure t' young fellows will succeed," he said, "and if there's more 'an one son i' a family thou may take my word for it it's a varry comfortable thing to hev more 'an one living for 'em." "and if they spoil t' horn instead o' making t' spoon, what then, eltham?" "they'll hev hed t' experience, and they'll be more ready to settle down to what is made for 'em, and to be content wi' it." "that's varry fine i' thy case, for t' experience'll cost thee nothing. thou is giving thy younger son a chance out o' t' digby's and hallam's money." eltham only laughed. "ivery experiment comes out o' somebody's pocket, hallam--it'll be my turn next happen. will ta come t' hunt dinner at eltham on thursday?" "nay, i wont. i'll not bite nor sup at thy table again till we see what we shall see. if i want to say what i think about thee, i'm none going to tie my tongue aforehand." "we'll be fast friends yet. see, if we bean't! good-bye to thee, hallam. thou'lt be going through t' park, i expect?" "ay; i'll like enough find company there." it was about three o'clock, gray and chill. there had been a good deal of snow, and, except where it was brushed away from the foot-path, it lay white and unbroken, the black trunks of the trees among it looking like pillars of ebony in the ivory-paved courts of a temple. up in the sky winter was passing with all his somber train, the clouds flying rapidly in great grotesque masses, and seeming to touch the tops of the trees like a gloomy, floating veil. phyllis and elizabeth, wrapped in woolens and furs, walked cheerily on, phyllis leaning upon the arm of elizabeth. they were very happy, and their low laughter and snatches of christmas carols made a distinct sound in the silent park, for the birds were all quiet and preoccupied, and flitted about the hawthorns with anxious little ways that were almost human in their care and melancholy. the girls had some crumbs of bread and ears of wheat in a basket, and they scattered them here and there in sheltered nooks. "i'm so glad you remembered it, phyllis. i shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it before." "it is only bare justice to our winged sisters. god made the berries for their winter store, and we have taken them to adorn our houses and churches. unless we provide a good substitute there is an odor of cruel sacrifice about our festal decorations. and if the poor little robins and wrens die of hunger, do you think he, who sees them fall, will hold us innocent?" "look how with bright black eyes they watch us scattering the food! i hope it will not snow until all of them have had a good supper." elizabeth was unusually gay. she had had a delightful letter from richard, and he was to return to hallam about the new-year. there had also been one from antony, beginning "honored sir," and ending with the "affectionate duty" of antony hallam; and, though the squire had handed it over to elizabeth without a word, she understood well the brighter light in his face and the cheerful ring in his voice. they went into martha's laughing, and found her standing upon a table hanging up christmas boughs. the little tea-pot was in a bower of holly leaves, and held a posy of the scarlet hawthorn berries mixed with the white, waxy ones of the mistletoe. "you wont forget the birds, martha? you have been stealing from their larder, i see." "i'm none o' that sort, miss phyllis. look 'ee there;" and she pointed to the broad lintel of her window, which had been scattered over with crumbs; where, busily picking them up, were two robin redbreasts, who chirruped thankfully, and watched martha with bright curious eyes. "mary clough's coming to dinner to-morrow, and her and ben are going to t' chapel together. ben's getten himsen a new suit o' broadcloth, and my word! they'll be a handsome couple!" "you'll have a happy christmas, martha." "nobody in a' england hes more reason to keep a joyful christmas, miss hallam." "no two christmases are exactly alike; are they, martha? last year your daughter was with you. now she is married and gone far away. last christmas my brother was at home. he is not coming this year." "i found that out long ago, miss hallam. first we missed father, then mother; then it was a brother or a sister, or a child more or less; then my husband went, and last year, sarah ann." "will you and ben come to the hall to-night?" "why--mebbe we will." "ben has quite got over his trouble?" "ah, mary helped him a deal." "mary will get a good husband." "she will that. ben craven is good at home. you may measure a man by his home conduct, it's t' right place to draw t' line, you may depend upon it. tak' a bit o' christmas loaf, and go your ways back now, dearies, for we'll be heving a storm varry soon." they went merrily out, and about fifty yards away met mr. north. he also looked very happy, and his lips were moving, as if he was silently singing. in fact, he was very happy; he had been giving gifts to the poor, and the blessing of many "ready to perish" was upon him. he thanked phyllis and elizabeth for the christmas offerings sent to his chapel; and told them of a special service that was to be held on the first sunday of the new year. "i should like you to be there, miss fontaine," he said, "for i think this peculiar service of methodism is not held in america." his happiness had conquered his timidity. he looked almost handsome, as he gave them at parting "god's blessing," and the wish for a "merry christmas." "i wish you would ask him to dinner, elizabeth?" "certainly, i will. i should like to do it." they hurried after him, and overtook him, with his hand upon a cottage gate. "will you come and dine with us, mr. north? it is a gala night at the hall, and many of your people will be there. they will like to see you, and you will add to our pleasure also." "thank you, miss hallam. it will be very pleasant to me. my duty will be finished in half an hour, then i will follow you." his face was as happy and as candid as a child's, as he lifted his hat, and entered the cottage garden. elizabeth involuntarily watched him. "he seems to tread upon air. i don't believe he remembers he is still in the body. he looks like a gentleman to-day." "he is always a gentleman, elizabeth. i am told he has about l a year. who but a gentleman could live upon that and look as he does? ben craven has double it, but who would call ben a gentleman?" "there is a singular thing about the appearance of methodist preachers, phyllis; they all look alike. if you see a dozen of them together, the monotony is tiresome. the best of them are only larger specimens of the same type--are related to the others as a crown piece is related to a shilling. you know a methodist minister as soon as you see him." "that is just as it ought to be. they are the methodist coin, and they bear its image and its superscription. the disciples had evidently the same kind of 'monotony.' people who were not nazarenes 'took knowledge of them, that they had been with jesus.' but if this is a fault, surely the english clergy have it in a remarkable degree. i know an episcopal clergyman just as soon and just as far as i can see him." "their cloth--" "o, it is not only their 'cloth.' that long surtout, and nicely adjusted white tie, and general smoothness and trimness, is all very distinctive and proper; but i refer quite as much to that peculiar self-containedness of aspect and that air of propriety and polish which surrounds them like an atmosphere." "now we are quits, phyllis, and i think we had better walk faster. see what large flakes of snow are beginning to fall!" the squire had reached home first, and was standing at the door to meet them, his large rosy face all smiles. there was a roaring, leaping fire in the hall, and its trophies of chase and war were wreathed and crowned with fir and box and holly. branches of mistletoe hung above the doors and the hearth-stone; and all the rooms were equally bright. the servants tripped about in their best clothes, the men with bits of hawthorn berries and box on their breast, the women with sprigs of mistletoe. there was the happiest sense of good humor and good-will, the far-away echo of laughter, the tinkling of glass and china and silver, the faint delicious aroma, through opening doors, of plentiful good cheer. "whativer kept you so long, dearies? run away and don yourselves, and make yourselves gay and fine. christmas comes but once a year. and don't keep dinner waiting; mind that now! t' rector's here, and if there's any thing that puts him about, it's waiting for his dinner." "we asked mr. north, father; he will be here soon." "i'm uncommon glad you asked him. go your ways and get your best frocks on. i'll go to t' door to meet him." in about an hour the girls came down together, phyllis in a pale gray satin, with delicate edgings of fine lace. it fitted her small form to perfection, close to the throat, close to the wrists, and it had about it a slight but charming touch of puritanism. there was a white japonica in her hair, and a flame-colored one at her throat, and these were her only ornaments. elizabeth wore a plain robe of dark blue velvet, cut, as was the fashion in those days, to show the stately throat and shoulders. splendid bracelets were on her arms, and one row of large white pearls encircled her throat. she looked like a queen, and phyllis wished richard could have seen her. "she'll be a varry proper mistress o' hallam-croft," thought the squire, with a passing sigh. but--his eyes dwelt with delight upon phyllis. "eh!" he said, "but thou art a bonny lass! t' flowers that bloom for thee to wear are t' happiest flowers that blow, i'll warrant thee." after dinner the squire and his daughter went to the servants' hall to drink "loving cup" at their table, and to give their christmas gifts. the rector, in the big chair he loved, sat smoking his long pipe. mr. north, with a face full of the sweetest serenity and pleasure, sat opposite, his thin white hands touching each other at all their finger tips, and his clear eyes sometimes resting on the blazing fire, and sometimes drifting away to the face of phyllis, or to that of the rector. "you have been making people happy all day, mr. north?" "yes; it has been a good day to me. i had twelve pounds to give away. they made twelve homes very happy. i don't often have such a pleasure." "i have noticed, mr. north," said the rector, "that you do very little pastoral visiting." "that is not my duty." "i think it a very important part of my duty." "you are right. it is. you are a pastor." "and you?" "i am a preacher. my duty is to preach christ and him crucified. to save souls. there are others whose work it is to serve tables, and comfort and advise in trouble and perplexity." "but you must lose all the personal and social influence of a pastor." "if i had desired personal and social influence, i should hardly have chosen the office of a methodist preacher. 'out of breath pursuing souls,' was said of john wesley and his pretorian band of helpers. i follow, as best i can, in their footsteps. but though i have no time for visiting, it is not neglected." "yes?" said the rector, inquiringly. "our class-leaders do that. john dawson and jacob hargraves and hannah sarum are the class-leaders in hallam and west croft. you know them?" "yes." "they are well read in the scriptures. they have sorrowed and suffered. they understand the people. they have their local prejudices and feelings. they have been in the same straits. they speak the same tongue. it is their duty to give counsel and comfort, and material help if it is needed; to watch over young converts; to seek those that are backsliding; to use their influence in every way for such of the flock as are under their charge. john dawson has twenty-two men and jacob hargraves nineteen men under their care. hannah sarum has a very large class. no one pastor could do as regards meat and money matters what these three can do. besides, the wealthy, the educated, and the prosperous cannot so perfectly enter into the joys and sorrows of the poor. if a woman has a drunken husband, or a disobedient child, she will more readily go to hannah for comfort and advice than to me; and when james baker was out of work, it was john dawson who loaned him five pounds, and who finally got him a job in bowling's mill. i could have done neither of these things for him, however willing i might have been." "i have never understood the office, then. it is a wonderful arrangement for mutual help." "it gives to all our societies a family feeling. we are what we call ourselves--brothers and sisters;" and, with a smile, he stretched out his hand to take the one which phyllis, by some sympathetic understanding, offered him. "there was something like it in the apostolic church?" "yes; our class-leader is the apostolic diaconate. the apostles were preachers, evangelists, hasting here and there to save souls. the deacons were the pastors of the infant churches. i preach seven times a week. i walk to all the places i preach at. it is of more importance to me that men are going to eternal destruction, than that they are needing a dinner or a coat." "but if you settled down in one place you would soon become familiar with the people's needs; you would only have to preach two sermons a week, and you could do your own pastoral duty." "true; but then i would not be any longer a methodist preacher. a methodist pastor is a solecism; methodism is a moving evangelism. when it settles down for a life pastorate it will need a new name." "however, mr. north, it seems to me, that a preacher should bring every possible adjunct to aid him. the advantages of a reputation for piety, wisdom, and social sympathy are quite denied to a man who is only a preacher." "he has the cross of christ. it needs no aid of wealth, or wisdom, or social sympathy. it is enough for salvation. the banner of the methodist preacher is that mighty angel flying over land and sea, and having the everlasting gospel to preach!" his enthusiasm had carried him away. he sighed, and continued, "but i judge no man. there must be pastors as well as preachers. i was sent to preach." for a moment there was silence, then the fine instinct of phyllis perceived that the conversation had reached exactly that point when it demanded relief in order to effect its best ends. she went to the piano and began to sing softly some tender little romance of home and home joys. in the midst of it the squire and elizabeth entered, and the conversation turned upon christmas observances. so, it fell out naturally enough that phyllis should speak of her southern home, and describe the long rows of white cabins among the live oaks, and the kind-hearted dusky dwellers in them; and, finally, as she became almost tearful over her memories, she began to sing one of the "spirituals," then so totally unknown beyond plantation life, singing it _sotto voce_, swaying her body gently to the melody, and softly clapping her small hands as an accompaniment: "my soul! massa jesus! my soul! my soul! dar's a little thing lays in my heart, an' de more i dig him, de better he spring: my soul! dar's a little thing lays in my heart, an' he set my soul on fire: my soul! massa jesus! my soul! my soul!" then changing the time and tune, she continued: "de water deep, de water cold, nobody here to help me! o de water rise! de water roll! nobody here to help me! dear lord, nobody here to help me!" she had to sing them and many others over and over. mr. north's eyes were full of tears, and the rector hid his face in his hands. as for the squire, he sat looking at her with wonder and delight. "why did ta nivver sing them songs afore, phyllis? i nivver heard such music." "it never has been written down, uncle." "who made it up for 'em?" "it was never made. it sprung from their sorrows and their captivity. the slave's heart was the slave's lyre." they talked until a deputation came from the servant's hall and asked for mr. north. they belonged to the christmas waits, and if he was going back to the village they wished to accompany him home; an offer he readily accepted. "i have had a happy evening, squire;" and his smile included every one in the blessing he left behind. they all followed him to the door, and watched the little crowd take their way through the white park. the snow had quite ceased, the moon rode full and clear in mid-heaven, and near by her there was one bright, bold, steady star. in a short time elizabeth went with phyllis to her room, and they laid aside their dresses and ornaments, and, sitting down before the fire, began to talk of richard and antony, of rome and america, and of those innocent, happy hopes which are the joy of youth. how bright their faces were! how prettily the fire-light glinted in their white robes and loosened hair! how sweetly their low voices and rippling laughter broke the drowsy silence of the large, handsome room! suddenly the great clock in the tower struck twelve. they counted off the strokes on their white fingers, looking into each other's faces with a bright expectancy; and after a moment's pause, out clashed the christmas bells, answering each other from hill to hill through the moonlit midnight. phyllis was in an ecstasy of delight. she threw open her window and stood listening, "o, i know what they say, elizabeth. glory be to god on high! and hark! there is singing!" "it is the waits, phyllis." a company of about fifty men and women were coming through the park, filling the air as they came with music, till all the hills and valleys re-echoed the "in excelsis gloria" of the sweet old carol: "when christ was born of mary free, in bethlehem that fair citie, the angels sang in holy glee, 'in excelsis gloria!'" they finished the last verses under the hall windows, and then, after a greeting from the rector and the squire, they turned happily back to the village, singing herrick's most perfect star song: "tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue, where is the babe that lately sprung? lies he the lily-banks among?" phyllis was weeping unrestrainedly; elizabeth, more calm and self-contained, held her against her breast, and smiled down at the happy tears. blessed are they who have wept for joy! they have known a rapture far beyond the power of laughter to express. the next week was full of visiting and visitors. the squire kept open house. the butler stood at the sideboard all day long, and there was besides one large party which included all the families within a few miles of hallam that had any acquaintance with the squire. it was, perhaps, a little trial at this time for phyllis to explain to elizabeth that she could not dance. "but father is expecting to open the ball with you. he will be very much disappointed." "i am sorry to disappoint him; but, indeed, i cannot." "i will teach you the step and figure in half an hour." "i do not wish to learn. i have both conscientious and womanly scruples against dancing." "i forgot. the methodists do not sanction dancing, i suppose; but you must admit, phyllis, that very good people are mentioned in the bible as dancing." "true, elizabeth; but the religious dances of judea were triumphant adoration. you will hardly claim so much for the polka or waltz. all ancient dances were symbolical, and meant something. every motion was a thought, every attitude a sentiment. if the daughter of herodias had danced a modern cotillion, do you think that john the baptist's head would have fallen at her feet?" "don't associate modern dancing with such unpleasant things. we do not want it to mean any thing but pleasure." "but how can you find rational pleasure in spinning round like a teetotum in a room of eighty degrees temperature?" "all people do not waltz; i do not myself." "the square dances, then? what are they but slouching mathematical dawdling, and 'promiscuous' bobbing around?" "but people must do something to pass the time." "i do not see that, elizabeth. we are told not 'to pass the time,' but to 'redeem' it. i think dancing a foolish thing, and folly and sin are very close kin." "you said 'unwomanly' also?" "yes; i think dancing is unwomanly in public. if you waltz with lord francis eltham, you permit him to take a liberty with you in public you would not allow under any other circumstances. and then just look at dancers! how heated, flushed, damp, and untidy they look after the exercise! did you ever watch a lot of men and women dancing when you could not hear the music, but could only see them bobbing up and down the room? i assure you they look just like a party of lunatics." elizabeth laughed; but phyllis kept her resolution. and after the ball was over, elizabeth said, frankly, "you had the best of it, phyllis, every way. you looked so cool and sweet and calm in the midst of the confusion and heat. i declare every one was glad to sit down beside you, and look at you. and how cheerfully you sang and played! you did not dance, but, nevertheless, you were the belle of the ball." on the first sabbath of the new year phyllis was left at the little methodist chapel. her profession had always been free from that obtrusive demonstration of religious opinion which is seldom united with true piety. while she dwelt under her uncle's roof it had seemed generally the wisest and kindest thing to worship with his family. it involved nothing that hurt her conscience, and it prevented many disputes which would probably have begun in some small household disarrangement, and bred only dislike and religious offense. her methodism had neither been cowardly nor demonstrative, but had been made most conscious to all by her sweet complaisance and charitable concessions. so, when she said to the squire, "uncle, mr. north tells me there is to be a very solemn methodist service to-morrow, and one which i never saw in america; i should like you to leave me at the chapel," he answered: "to be sure, phyllis. we would go with thee, but there's none but members admitted. i know what service thou means well enough." she found in the chapel about two hundred men and women, for they had come to hallam from the smaller societies around. they were mostly from what is often called "the lower orders," men and women whose hands were hard with toil, and whose forms were bowed with labor. but what a still solemnity there was in the place! no organ, no dim religious light, no vergers, or beadles, or robed choristers, or priest in sacred vestments. the winter light fell pale and cold through the plain windows on bare white-washed walls, on a raised wooden pulpit, and on pews unpainted and uncushioned. some of the congregation were very old; some, just in the flush of manhood and womanhood. all were in the _immediate_ presence of god, and were intensely conscious of it. there was a solemn hymn sung and a short prayer; then mr. north's gaze wandered over the congregation until it rested upon a man in the center--a very old man--with hair as white as wool. "stephen langside, can you stand up before god and man to-day?" the old man rose, and, supported by two young farmers, lifted-up a face full of light and confidence. "they tell me that you are ninety-eight years old, and that this is the seventy-first time that you will renew your covenant with the eternal father. bear witness this day of him." "his word is sure as t' everlasting hills! i hev been young, and now i'm old, and i hev hed a deal to do wi' him, and he hes hed a deal to do for me; and he nivver hes deceived me, and he hes nivver failed me, and he has nivver turned t' cold shoulder to me; ay, and he hes stuck up to his promises, when i was none ready to keep mine. there's many good masters, but he is t' best master of a'! there's many true friends, but he is the truest of a'! many a kind father, but no father so kind as him! i _know_ whom i hev believed, and i can trust him even unto death!" "brothers and sisters, this is the master, the friend, the father, whom i ask you to enter into covenant with to-day--a holy solemn covenant, which you shall kneel down and make upon your knees, and stand up and ratify in the sight of angels and of men." not ignorantly did phyllis enter into this covenant with her maker. she had read it carefully over, and considered well its awful solemnity. slowly the grand abnegation, the solemn engagement, was formed; every sentence recited without haste, and with full consciousness of all its obligations. then mr. north, after a short pause for mental examination, said: "remember now that you are in the actual presence of the almighty god. he is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and feet. he besets you before and behind. he lays his hand upon you. therefore let all who, by standing up, give their soul's assent to this consecration, remember well to whom they promise." slowly, one by one, the congregation arose; and so they remained standing, until every face was lifted. then the silence was broken by the joyful singing of doddridge's fine hymn, "o happy day that fixed my choice," and the service closed with the administration of the holy communion. "thou looks very happy, phyllis," said the squire to her, as they both sat by the fire that night. "i am very happy, uncle." "thou beats me! i told t' rector where ta had gone to-day, and he said it were a varry singular thing that thou should take such an obligation on thee. he said t' terms of it would do for t' varry strictest o' roman catholic orders." "do you not think, uncle, that protestants should be as strict regarding personal holiness as catholics?" "nay, i know nowt about it, dearie. i wish women were a' like thee, though. they'd be a deal better to live wi'. i like religion in a woman, it's a varry reliable thing. i wish antony hed hed his senses about him, and got thee to wed him. eh! but i would have been a happy father!" "uncle, dear--you see--i love somebody else." "well i nivver! thee! why thou's too young! when did ta begin to think o' loving any body?" "when i was a little girl john millard and i loved each other. i don't know when i began to love him, i always loved him." "what is ta talking about? such nonsense!" "love is not nonsense, uncle. you remember the old english song you like so much: "'o 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round'" "now be quiet wi' thee. it's nowt o' t' sort. songs and real life are varry different things. if ta comes o real life, it's money, and not love; t' world would varry soon stick without a bit o' money." about the middle of january richard returned to hallam. the bishop was with friends in liverpool, but he wished to sail immediately, and richard thought it best to sail with him. phyllis was willing to go. she had had a charming visit, but she had many duties and friends on the other side, and her heart, also, was there. as for danger or discomfort in a winter passage, she did not think it worth consideration. some discomfort there must be; and if storm, or even death came, she was as near to heaven by sea as by land. the squire had not written to richard about his plans for the succession of hallam. he had felt more uncertainty on the subject than he would admit even to his own heart. he thought he would prefer to explain matters to him in person. so, one morning, as they were together, he said "look 'ee here, richard!" and he led him to the portrait of colonel alfred hallam. "thou can see where ta comes from. thou is t' varry marrow o' that hallam!" richard was much pleased at the incident, and he traced with pleasure the resemblances between them. "richard, i am going to leave hallam to thee." it was not in the squire's nature to "introduce" a subject. he could never half say a thing. his bald statement made richard look curiously at him. he never for a moment believed him to mean what the words implied. so he only smiled and bowed. "nay, thou needn't laugh! it's no laughing matter. i'll tell thee all about it." in the squire's way of telling, the tale was a very short one. the facts were stated in a few sentences, without comment. they amazed richard, and left him for a moment speechless. "well, what does ta say?" "i will be as frank as you have been, uncle. i cannot possibly accept your offer." "thou'lt hev a reason?" "more than one. first, i would not change my name. i should feel as if i had slandered the fontaines. my father was a brave soldier; my grandfather was a missionary, whose praise is in all our churches. i need go no farther back. if i had been born 'hallam' i would have stood by the name just as firmly." "then, thou wilt hev to give up elizabeth. succession must go in her children and in her name." "miss hallam and you accepted me as richard fontaine. have i not the right to expect that both she and you will keep your word with me?" "thou forgets, richard. her duty to her father and to her ancestors stands before thee. if thy duty to thine will not let thee give up thy name, hers may well be due to home and lands that hold her by a tenure o' a thousand years. but neither miss hallam nor hallam hall need go a-begging, lad. i ask thy pardon for offering thee owt so worthless." "dear uncle, do not be angry with me." "ay, ay; it's 'dear uncle,' and 'dear father,' but it's also, 'i'll tak' my own way', wi' both antony and thee. i'm a varry unhappy old man. i am that!" he walked angrily off, leaving richard standing before the picture which so much resembled him. he turned quickly, and went in search of elizabeth. she was sitting with phyllis in the breakfast parlor. phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thoughtfulness, was so inclined at that hour, and she was answering elizabeth's remarks, far more curious of some mental vision than of the calm-browed woman, sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. richard came in like a small tempest, and for once elizabeth's quiet, inquiring regard seemed to irritate him. "elizabeth;" and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on the table. "my dear love! does phyllis know?" "what, richard?" "about antony and the hallam estate?" "no; i thought it best to let you tell her." "because you were sure i would refuse it?--phyllis!" "yes, richard." "your uncle is going to disinherit antony; and he wishes me to become his heir and take his name." "but that is impossible. you could not take antony's place. you could not give up your name--not for a kingdom." "then," said elizabeth, a little proudly, "he must give me up. i cannot disobey my father." phyllis quietly rose and went out. she could not interfere with the lovers, but she felt sorry enough for them. richard's compliance was forbidden by every sentiment of honor. elizabeth was little likely to give way. richard held her to her promise, and pleaded for its fulfillment. he wanted no fortune. he was quite content that her fortune should go to free hallam. but he did not see that her life and happiness, and his, also, should be sacrificed to antony's insane ambition. "he will marry, doubtless," he urged. "he may have a large family; cannot one of them, in such case, be selected as heir?" this was the only hope elizabeth would admit. in her way she was as immovable as richard. she had made up her mind as to what was her duty in the premises, and her lover could not move her from this position. and, as the unhappy can seldom persuade themselves that "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," each heart was heavy with the probable sorrows that were to flow from this complication of affairs. phyllis, musing thoughtfully at her own room window, saw the squire walking on the terrace. her first impulse was to go to him, but she sat down to consider the inclination. her class-leader, a shrewd, pious old scotchman, had once said to her--"nine impulses oot o' ten, sister phyllis, come fra the de'il. just put an impulse through its catechism before ye go the gate it sends ye." so she sat down to think. "what right have i to interfere? ought i to solicit a confidence? can i do good? might i not do harm? a good word spoken out of season is often a bad word; and i am not sure what is the good word in this case. i had better be still and wait." her patience had in some measure its reward. toward afternoon elizabeth came to her room. her eyes were red with weeping, but she said, "father and richard have shaken hands, phyllis; there is to be no ill-will about the disappointment." "i am very glad. but is it to be a disappointment--to you, i mean, elizabeth?" "i fear so; i must stand by father's side as regards hallam. i can wait and love on. but i will not bind richard. he is free." "i am quite sure he is not free. richard will never be free while there remains a hope of eventually winning you." "he says that nothing but my marriage to some other person shall make him lose hope; but men say these things and forget." "richard means what he says. he will not forget; and time gives with both hands to the patient and the truthful. is the squire satisfied?" "i don't think he blames richard. the shadow i felt on the night of our betrothal has begun to creep toward me, phyllis. i am in its chill and gloom. it will darken all our remaining hours together, and they are few now." "make the most of them, dear. get all the sunshine you can; stay with richard. i am going to the village to bid martha good-bye." "richard says you are to sail wednesday?" "yes; what is the use of drawing out a parting? we have had a happy holiday. let us go ere its spirit is over. there must be times and seasons, elizabeth; it is the part of love and wisdom never to force them. besides, uncle has a very sore place in his heart, and richard can hardly avoid rubbing against it. it is best for us to go." martha was a little dull, and phyllis was struck with her explanation: "i'm a bit selfish to-day; and t' heart that isn't loving isn't cheerful. ben and me hev been so much to each other, that it comes a bit hard to hev to step aside for a lass as one doesn't care much for." she put her checked apron to her eyes, and wiped away a few tears. "but ben can never forget what you did for him." "it was mary after a' that saved him. i nobbut prayed night and day. she brought the magistrate and t' constable. men don't count much on prayer." "dear martha, god sends by whom he will send. if he had thought it best, you would have got the order. god looks afar off--for the years that are to come--when you may be where all tears are wiped away." "i know, i know." "don't let ben think you grudge him the fullest measure of his happiness and deliverance. mothers must have a deal to bear. the best of children are blind, i think." martha was crying quietly. "he was t' last left me. i hev carried him i' my heart for months, till my heart is fair empty without him. i wanted him a little bit to mysen. she's a good girl, is mary, and i'm trying hard to love her; but i've got a weight on me that's bad to bide." "if it's a bitter cup, drink it, martha." "my lass, i'll do that. there'll be a blessing in t' bottom o' it, never fear. i'm nobbut standing as a bairn does wi' a cup o' medicine; and when a thing is hard to take, its nobbut human nature to say it's none nice." "i am come to say 'good-bye' martha; i don't want to leave you in tears." "nay then is ta! surely to goodness thou isn't going in t' dead o' winter?" "yes. we leave hallam to-morrow." "then bide a bit. i'll mak' a cup o' tea in t' little wesley tea-pot; and i'll toast thee a yorkshire cake, and we'll eat a mouthful together in this world before we part. we'll be none like to meet again." she wiped away every trace of tears, and drew the little table to the hearth-stone, and set out her humble service. and she quite put away her own trouble and spoke cheerfully, and served phyllis with busy hospitality. "for, you see," she said, as she knelt before the fire toasting the cake, "i feel as if you were a pilgrim, sister phyllis, that had come across my little cottage on your way to the kingdom. and if i didn't mak' you welcome, and say a hearty, loving 'godspeed' to you, i'd happen miss a bit o' my own welcome when i enter the gates o' the kingdom. so, eat and drink, dearie; and may the bread strengthen you, and the cup be full o' blessing." "i shall never forget you, martha. i think we shall know each other when we meet again." "for sure we will. it will be in 'jerusalem the golden' i don't doubt. farewell, sister!" and she took the sweet young face between her large hands and kissed it. her smile was bright, her words cheerful, but phyllis went down the street with a heavy heart. she stopped at the house where mr. north lodged and asked to see him. he came down to her with a smile; but when she said, "it is a good-bye, mr. north," his face grew pale, his eyes full of trouble; he was unable to answer her. the silence became painful, and phyllis rose. "let me walk a little way with you. pardon me, i was not prepared for this--blow." then phyllis knew that he loved her. then he knew it himself. a great pity was in her heart. she was silent and constrained, and they walked together as two who are walking toward a grave. "it is very hard for me to say 'good-bye,' miss fontaine. i shall never, never forget you." "there are many hard things in life, mr. north; we can but bear them." "is that all?" "that is all." "god help me!" he lifted her gloved hand and touched it with his lips. no knight could have expressed in the act more respect, more hopeless tenderness. then he turned silently away. phyllis's lips parted, but no words would come. she was full of sorrow for the noble, suffering, humble heart. she longed to say a kind word, and yet felt that it would be unkind; and she stood still watching him as he went farther and farther away. at a bend in the road he turned and saw her standing. the level rays of the sun set her in a clear amber light. he gazed at her steadily for a moment, raised his hand slowly, and passed forever from her sight. there was something so pathetic and yet so lofty in the slight, vanishing figure, with the hand lifted heavenward, that she felt strangely affected, and could scarcely restrain her tears. when people come to the end of a pleasure, so many little things show it. the first enthusiasms are gone, there is a little weariness in joy, the heart begins to turn to those fundamental affections and those homely ties which are the main reliance of life. it seemed to phyllis that, for the first time, she was homesick. the low, white, rambling wooden house, spreading itself under moss-covered trees, began to grow very fair in her memory. the mocking-birds were calling her across the sea. she remembered the tangles of the yellow jasmine, the merry darkies chatting and singing and laughing, and her soul turned westward with an indescribable longing. and she thought to herself, as she stood upon the terrace and looked over the fair land she was leaving with so little regret, "when the time comes for me to go to my heavenly home, i shall be just as willing to leave the earthly one." chapter v. "i loved you alway, i will not deny it; not for three months, and not for a year; but i loved you from the first, when i was a child, and my love shall not wither, till death shall end me."--gaelic song. "our own acts are our attending angels, in whose light or shadow we walk continually." the fontaine place was a long, low, white building facing a tumbling sea, and a stretch of burnt sea-sands. it had no architectural beauty, and yet it was a wonderfully picturesque place. broad piazzas draped in vines ran all around the lower story, and the upper revealed itself only in white glimpses among dense masses of foliage. and what did it matter that outside the place there were brown sand-hills and pale-sailed ships? a high hedge of myrtles hid it in a large garden full of the scents of the sun-burnt south--a garden of fragrant beauty, where one might dream idly all day long. it was four o'clock in the afternoon of an august day, and every thing was still; only the _cicadas_ ran from hedge to hedge telling each other, in clear resonant voices, how hot it was. the house door stood open, but all the green jalousies were closed, and not a breath of air stirred the lace curtains hanging motionless before the windows. the rooms, large and lofty, were in a dusky light, their atmosphere still and warm and heavy with the scent of flowers. on the back piazza half a dozen negro children were sleeping in all sorts of picturesque attitudes, a bright mulatto women was dozing in a rocking-chair, and the cook, having "fixed" his dinner ready for the stove, had rolled himself in his blanket on the kitchen floor. silence and dusk were every-where, the dwelling might have been an enchanted one, and life in it held in a trance. in one of the upper rooms there was an occupant well calculated to carry out this idea. it was phyllis, fast asleep upon a white couch, with both hands dropped toward the floor. but the sewing which had fallen from them, and the thimble still upon her finger, was guarantee for her mortality. and in a few minutes she opened her soft, dark eyes, and smiled at her vacant hands. then she glanced at the windows; the curtains were beginning to stir, the gulf breeze had sprung up, the birds were twittering, and the house awakening. but it was pleasant to be quiet and think in such an indolent mood; and phyllis had some reasons for finding the "thinking" engrossing. first, she had had a letter from elizabeth, and it was in a very hopeful tone. antony and george eltham were doing very well, and, as lord eltham had become quietly interested in the firm, the squire felt more easy as to its final success. second, mr. north was leaving hallam, his term there had expired, and the conference, which would determine his next movement, was then sitting. her thoughts were drifting on these two topics when a woman softly entered the room. she looked at phyllis's closed eyes, and with a smile went here and there laying out clean white muslins, and knots of pink ribbons, and all the pretty accessories of a young maiden's evening toilet. "thar now, miss phill! i'se ready--and i 'spects thar's some good news for you, honey!" phyllis opened her eyes. "i heard you, harriet. i was not asleep. as for good news, i think you are always expecting it--besides, i had some to-day." "dat's de reason,--miss phill--'whar you going good news? jest whar i'se been afore.' dat's de way. i reckon i knows 'bout it." "what makes you know this time, harriet? has the postman been, or a bird whispered it to you, or have some of waul's servants been making a call here?" "i don't 'ceive any of de waul's servants, miss phill. i'se not wanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. no, i draws my s'picions in de properest way. mass'r richard git a letter dis morning. did he tell you, miss phill?" "i have not seen him since breakfast." "i thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. i knows dat letter from mass'r john. i'se sure ob it." "did you look--at the outside of it, i mean--harriet?" "no, miss phill, i didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside; i's not dat kind; i look at mass'r richard's face. bless you, miss phill! mass'r richard kaint hide nothing. if he was in love harriet would know it, quick as a flash--" "i think not, harriet." "den i tell you something, miss phill. mass'r richard been in love eber since he come back from ober de atterlantic ocean. p'raps you don't know, but i done found him out." phyllis laughed. "i tell you how i knows it. mass'r richard allays on de lookout for de postman; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish letters wid a lady's face in de corner." "that is queen victoria's face. you don't suppose master richard is in love with queen victoria?" "miss phill, de fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and think dey pay her a compliment--dey mighty proud fambly, de fontaines; but i'se no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many cents to carry de letter. but, miss phill, who sends de letters? dat am de question." "of course, that would decide it." "den when mass'r richard gits one of dem letters, he sits so quiet-like, thinking and smiling to himself, and ef you speak to him, he answers you kind ob far-away, and gentle. i done tried him often. but he didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning. mass'r richard got powerful high temper, miss phill." "then take care and not anger him, harriet." "you see, when i bring in de letter, i bring in wid me some fresh myrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as i put dem in, and fixed up de chimley-piece, i noticed mass'r richard through de looking-glass--and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together, and he crush'd de letter up in his hand." "harriet, you have no right to watch your master. it is a very mean thing to do." "me watch mass'r richard! now, miss phill, i'se none ob dat kind! but i kaint shut my eyes, 'specially when i'se 'tending to de flower vases." "you could have left the vases just at that time." "no, miss phill, i'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. dey has to be 'tended to. you done told me ober and ober to hab a time for ebery thing, and de time for de vases was jist den." "then, the next time you see master richard through the glass, tell him so, harriet; that is only fair, you know." "go 'way, miss phill! i'se got more sense dan tell mass'r richard any sich thing." phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a decision she might be compelled to make, and the question was one which touched her very nearly on very opposite sides. she loved her brother with all her heart. their lives had been spent together, for phyllis had been left to his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him an affection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of the child, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. but john millard she loved, as women love but once. he was related by marriage to the fontaines, and had, when phyllis and richard were children, spent much of his time at the fontaine place. but even as boys richard and john had not agreed. to ask "why" is to ask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. it is easy to say that richard was jealous of his sister, and jealous of john's superiority in athletic games, and that john spoke sneeringly of richard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman ways; but there was something deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for which there seemed to be no reason, and for which there was no cure but the compelling power of a divine love. john millard had been for two years on the frontier, and there had been very meager and irregular news from him. if any one had asked richard, "are you really hoping that he has been killed in some indian fight?" richard would have indignantly denied it; and yet he knew that if such a fate had come to his cousin millard, he would not have been sorry. and now the man with the easy confidence of a soldier who is accustomed to make his own welcome, wrote to say "that he was coming to new orleans, and hoped to spend a good deal of his time with them." the information was most unwelcome to richard. he was not anxious for his sister to marry; least of all, to marry a frontier settler. he could not endure the thought of phyllis roughing life in some log-cabin on the san marino. that was at least the aspect in which he put the question to himself. he meant that he could not endure that john millard should at the last get the better of him about his own sister. and when he put his foot down passionately, and said, between his closed teeth, "he shall not do it!" it was the latter thought he answered. he felt half angry at phyllis for being so lovely when she sat down opposite him at dinner time. and there was an unusual light in her eyes and an indescribable elation in her manner which betrayed her knowledge of the coming event to him. "phyllis," he asked, suddenly, "who told you john millard was coming?" "harriet told me you had a letter from him this morning." "confound--" "richard!" "i beg your pardon, phyllis. be so good as to keep harriet out of my way. yes; i had a letter--a most impertinent one, i think. civilized human beings usually wait for an invitation." "unless they imagine themselves going to a home." "home?" "yes. i think this is, in some sense, john's home. mother always made him welcome to it. dear richard, if it is foolish to meet troubles, it is far more foolish to meet quarrels." "i do not wish to quarrel, phyllis; if john does not talk to you as he ought not to talk. he ought to have more modesty than to ask you to share such a home as he can offer you." "richard, dear, you are in a bad way. there is a trustees' meeting to-night, and they are in trouble about dollars and cents; i would go, if i were you." "and have to help the deficiency?" "yes; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, the best of all atonements is to do a good deed." "o, phyllis! phyllis!" "yes, richard; and you will see the bishop there, very likely; and you can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and i know what he will say. 'it is but fair and square, son richard, to treat a man kindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkindness.' he will say, 'son richard, if you have not the proofs upon which to blame a man, don't blame him upon likelihoods.'" "my good little sister, what do you want me to do?" "i want you to meet john, as we were met at hallam, with trusting courtesy." "if you will promise me to--" "i will promise you to do nothing secretly; to do nothing my mother would blame me for. to ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt i do not deserve. now put on your hat and go to church. they will be disappointed if you are absent." "it will cost me $ ." "a man ought to pay his debts; and it is nicer to go and pay them than to compel some one to call here and ask you to do it." "a debt?" "call it a gift, if you like. when i look over the cotton-fields, richard, and see what a grand crop you are going to have this year, somehow i feel as if you ought to have said $ ." "give me my hat, phyllis. you have won, as you always do." and he stooped and kissed her, and then went slowly through the garden to the road. she did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was very bright and cheerful "i am going to ride to greyson's timbers, phyllis," he said; "i have some business with greyson, and john will be almost sure to 'noon' there. so we shall likely come back together." she smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquire into his motives or comment upon them. it was sufficient that richard had conquered his lower self, and whether the victory had been a single-handed one, or whether the bishop had been an ally, was not of vital importance. one may enjoy the perfume of a good action without investigating the processes of its production. in the middle of the afternoon she heard their arrival. it was a pleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, and all that cheerful confusion, which as surely follows their advent as thunder follows lightning. and phyllis found it very pleasant to lie still and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two, whatever of joy or sorrow was coming to meet her; for she had not seen john for two years. he might have ceased to love her. he might be so changed that she would not dare to love him. but in the main she thought hopefully. true love, like true faith, when there seems to, be nothing at all to rest upon, "treads on the void and finds the rock beneath." few women will blame phyllis for being unusually careful about her toilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart. even when she could hear richard and john talking, she still delayed the moment she had been longing for. she walked into the dining-room, looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement of the flowers. she looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and opened the piano, and then, half ashamed of her self-consciousness, went to the front piazza, where the young men were sitting. there was a subtle likeness between richard and his english ancestors that neither intermarriage, climate, nor educational surroundings had been able to overcome; but between him and john millard there were radical dissimilarities. richard was sitting on the topmost of the broad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. with the exception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was altogether dressed in white; and this dress was a singularly becoming contrast to his black hair and glowing dark eyes. and in every attitude which he took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestive of an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic--or cottonocratic--self-sufficiency. in his best moods he was well aware of the dangerous points in his character, and kept a guard over them; otherwise they came prominently forward; and, sitting in john millard's presence, richard fontaine was very much indeed the richard fontaine of a nature distinctly overbearing and uncontrolled. john millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him. he had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. his eyes were very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snaps like lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. he was very tall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command. his dress was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no arms of any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assurance of a sudden presentiment, "the man is a soldier." richard and he were talking of frontier defense, and richard, out of pure contradiction, was opposing it. in belittling the cause he had some idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it. john was just going to reply when phyllis's approach broke the sentence in two, and he did not finish it. he stood still watching her, his whole soul in his face; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily, "o, phyllis, i am so happy to see you again! i was afraid i never would!" "what nonsense!" said richard, coldly; "a journey to europe is a trifle--no need to make a fuss about it; is there, phyllis? come, let us go to dinner. i hear the bell." before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. the mocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet, languid atmosphere, a dance full of mystery. the garden was like a land of enchantment. it was easy to sit still and let the beauty of heaven and earth sink into the heart. and for some time john was contented with it. it was enough to sit and watch the white-robed figure of phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by the green vines behind it. and richard was silent because he was trying to conquer his resentment at john finding satisfaction in the exquisite picture. perhaps few people understand how jealous a true brotherly love can be, how tenderly careful of a sister's welfare, how watchful of all that pertains to her future happiness, how proud of her beauty and her goodness, how exacting of all pretenders to her favor. his ideal husband for phyllis was not john millard. he wondered what she could see to admire in the bronzed frontier soldier. he wondered how john could dare to think of transplanting a gentlewoman like phyllis from the repose and luxury of her present home to the change and dangers and hardships of pioneer life. it would have been an uncomfortable evening if the bishop had not called. he looked at john and loved him. their souls touched each other when they clasped hands. perhaps it was because the nature of both men was militant--perhaps because both men loved frontier fighting. "i like," said the old soldier of christ, "i dearly like to follow the devil to his outposts. he has often fine fellows in them, souls well worth saving. i was the first methodist--i may say the first protestant preacher--that entered washington county, in texas. texas was one of our mission stations in . i never was as happy as when lifting the cross of christ in some camp of outlaws." "did they listen to you?" "gladly. many of them clung to it. the worst of them respected and protected me. one night i came to a lonely log-house in the brazos woods--that was 'far, far west' then. i think the eight men in it were thieves; i believe that they intended to rob, and perhaps to murder, me. but they gave me supper, and took my saddle-bags, and put up my horse. 'reckon you're from the states,' one said. 'twelve months ago.' 'any news?' 'the grandest. if you'll get your boys together i'll tell you it.'" "they gathered very quickly, lit their pipes, and sat down; and, sitting there among them, i preached the very best sermon i ever preached in my life. i was weeping before i'd done, and they were just as wretched as i like to see sinners. i laid down among them and slept soundly and safely. ten years afterward i gave the sacrament to four of these very men in bastrop methodist church. if i was a young man i would be in the rio grande district. i would carry 'the glad tidings' to the ranger camps on the chicon and the secor, and the united states forts on the mexican border. it is 'the few sheep in the wilderness' that i love to seek; yea, it is the scape-goats that, loaded with the sins of civilized communities, have been driven from among them!" richard started to his feet. "my dear father, almost you persuade me to be a missionary!" "ah, son richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one! you would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heart stir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor. a respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. i have more hope for a flagrant sinner." "i am sure," said john, "our camp on the san saba would welcome you. one night a stranger came along who had with him a child--a little chap about five years old. he had been left an orphan, and the man was taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. as we were sitting about the fire he said, 'i'm going into the wagon now. i'm going to sleep. who'll hear my prayers?' and half a dozen of the boys said, 'i will,' and he knelt down at the knee of bill burleson, and clasped his hands and said 'our father;' and i tell you, sir, there wasn't a dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'amen.' and i don't believe there was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt as if there was an angel among us." "thank you, john millard. i like to hear such incidents. it's hard to kill the divinity in any man. and you are on the san saba? tell me about it." it was impossible for richard to resist the enthusiasm of the conversation which followed. he forgot all his jealousy and pride, and listened, with flashing eyes and eager face, and felt no angry impulse, although phyllis sat between the bishop and john, and john held her hand in his. but when the two young men were left alone the reaction came to richard. he was shy and cold. john did not perceive it; he was too happy in his own thoughts. "what a tender heart your sister has, richard. did you see how interested she was when i was telling about the sufferings of the women and children on the frontier?" "no; i fancied she was rather bored." john was at once dashed, and looked into richard's face, and felt as if he had been making a bragging fool of himself. and richard was angry, and ashamed, for a gentleman never tells a lie, though it be only to his own consciousness, without feeling unspeakably mean. and by a reflex motion of accountability he was angry with john for provoking him into so contemptible a position. the "good-night" was a cooler one than the evening had promised; but richard had recollected himself before he met john in the morning; and john, for phyllis's sake, was anxious to preserve a kindly feeling. love made him wise and forbearing; and he was happy, and happiness makes good men tolerant; so that richard soon saw that john would give him no excuse for a quarrel. he hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry, and the actions and speech of one hour frequently contradicted those of the next. still there followed many days of sunshine and happy leisure, of boating and fishing, of riding upon the long stretch of hard sands, of sweet, silent games of chess in shady corners, of happy communion in song and story, and of conscious conversations wherein so few words meant so much. and perhaps the lovers in their personal joy grew a little selfish, for; one night the bishop said to phyllis, "come and see me in the morning, daughter, i have something to say to you." he was sitting waiting for her under an enormous fig-tree, a tree so large that the space it shadowed made a pretty parlor, with roof and walls of foliage so dense that not even a tropical shower could penetrate them. he sat in a large wicker-chair, and on the rustic table beside him was a cup of coffee, a couple of flaky biscuits, and a plate of great purple figs, just gathered from the branches above him. when phyllis came, he pulled a rocking-chair to his side, and touched a little hand-bell. "you shall have some coffee with me, and some bread and fruit; eating lubricates talking, dear, and i want to talk to you--very seriously." "about john, father?" "yes, about john. you know your own mind, phyllis fontaine? you are not playing with a good man's heart?" "i told you two years ago, father, that i loved john. i love him still. i have applied the test my leader gave me, and which i told you of. i am more than willing to take john for eternity; i should be miserable if i thought death could part us." "very good--so far; that is, for john and yourself. but you must think of richard. he has claims upon you, also. last night i saw how he suffered, how he struggled to subdue his temper. phyllis, any moment that temper may subdue him, and then there will be sorrow. you must come to some understanding with him. john and you may enjoy the romance of your present position, and put off, with the unreasonable selfishness of lovers, matter-of-fact details, but richard has a right to them." "am i selfish, father?" "i think you are." "what must i do?" "send john to speak plainly to richard. that will give your brother an opportunity to say what he wishes. if the young men are not likely to agree, tell john to propose my advice in the matter. you can trust me to do right, daughter?" "yes, i can." in the evening phyllis called on the bishop again. he was walking in his garden enjoying the cool breeze, and when he saw her carriage he went to meet her. a glance into her face was sufficient. he led her into the little parlor under the fig-tree. "so you are in trouble, phyllis?" "yes, father. the conversation you advised had unfortunately taken place before i got an opportunity to speak to john. there has been a quarrel." "what was said?" "i scarcely know how the conversation began; but richard told john, that people were talking about his intimacy with me; and that, as marriage was impossible between us, the intimacy must cease." "what else?" "i do not know; many hard things were said on both sides, and john went away in a passion." "go home and see your brother, and make some concessions to his claim upon your love. tell him that you will not marry john for two years; that will give john time to prepare in some measure for your comfort. promise in addition any thing that is reasonable. i fear richard's temper, but i fear john's more; for the anger of a patient man is a deep anger, and john has been patient, very. don't you be impatient, phyllis. wait for time to carry you over the stream, and don't fling yourself into the flood, and perish." "two years!" "but reflect--a quarrel becomes a duel here very readily--dare you provoke such a possibility?" "dear father, pray for me." "i will. trust god, and every rod shall blossom for you. be patient and prudent. birds build their nests before they mate, and love needs the consecration of a home. tell john to make one for you, and then to come and speak to richard again. i don't say, wait for riches; but i do say, wait for comforts. comforts keep men innocent, bind them to virtue by the strong cords of friends, families, homes, and the kindnesses of kindred." but when phyllis arrived at home richard was not there. he had gone to the plantation, and left word for his sister that he might not return until late the following day. phyllis was very wretched. she could hardly trust the message. it was possible that richard had considered flight from temptation the wisest course, and that he expected john would leave during his absence. on the other hand, it was just as likely that john would not leave, and that the quarrel would be renewed at the hotel, or upon the street, under circumstances where every influence would be against the young men. she was sure that if she had john's promise to keep peace with richard, that he would not break it; but she did not know whether he was still in the village or had gone away altogether. if the latter, she would certainly receive some message from him; and, if no message came, she must conclude that he was waiting for an opportunity to see her. harriet was sure that he was at the village 'hotel.' "dime done seen him thar," she said, positively, "and mass'r john no sich fool as go 'way widout talkin' up for himself. i was 'stonished dis afternoon, miss phill, he took mass'r richard's worryin' dat quiet-like; but i could see de bearin's ob things mighty plain." "you heard the quarrel, then, harriet?" "couldn't help hearin' ob it, miss phill, no way; 'case i right thar. i was in de dinin'-room fixin' up de clean window curtains, and de young gen'lemen were on de p'azza. cassie never do fix de curtains right; she's not got de hang ob dem, miss phill; so i jist made up my mind to do 'em myself; and while i was busy as a honey-bee 'bout dem, mass'r richard, he walk proud-like up to mass'r john, and say, 'he want to speak a few words wid him.' den i kind ob open my ears, case, miss phill, when gen'lemen want to 'say a few words,' dey're most ob de time onpleasant ones." "did master john answer?" "he looked kind ob 'up-head,' and says he, 'dat all right. i'se nothin' 'gainst you sayin' dem.' so mass'r richard he tell him dat he hear some talk down town, and dat he won't have you talked 'bout, and dat as thar was to be no marryin' 'tween you two, mass'r john better go 'way." "did master richard say 'go away,' harriet?" "dat's jist what he say--'go 'way,' and mass'r john he flash up like, and say, he sorry to be turn'd out ob de ole home, and dat he'll go as soon as he see you. den mass'r richard, he git up in one ob his white-hot still tempers, and he say, 'no gen'lemen need more 'an one word;' and mass'r john say, 'no gen'leman eber say dat one word;' and mass'r richard say, 'sir, you in my house, and you 'sume on dat position;' and mass'r john say he 'mighty soon be in some oder house, and den mass'r richard not hab sich 'cuse;' and, wid dat, he stamp his foot, and walk off like both sides ob de argument 'long to him." "then what, harriet?" "mass'r richard tear roun' to de stables, and he tole moke to saddle up prince, and whilst de poor boy doin' his best, he storm roun' at dis thing and dat thing, till prince work himself up in a fury, too, and i 'spects dey's both tired out by dis time. prince he jist reared and kicked and foamed at de mouth, and did all de debil's own horse could do to fling mass'r richard, and mass'r richard, he de whitest white man any body eber seen. ki! but de whip come down steady, miss phill." "o, harriet, how wretched you do make me." "dar isn't a bit need to worry, miss phill. prince done tried himself wid mass'r richard 'fore dis, and he allus come in de stable meek as a lamb. when mass'r richard's got dat dumb debil in him, he'd ride a ragin' lion, and bring him home like a lamb." "it's not that, harriet; it's not that. but if he meet master john there will be trouble--and o, the sin of it." "dat am true as preachin', miss phill." "if i could only see john millard." "i'll mighty soon go for him, ef you say so." "no; that will not do." for phyllis was aware that such a messenger would only make more trouble. harriet was known to be her maid, and john was known to be her lover. to do anything which would give cause for ill-natured remarks was to find richard the excuse which would permit him active interference. "i must avoid the appearance of evil," she said, anxiously. "what must i do?" "clar' i don't know, miss phill. 'pears like you'se on a bery dangerous road. i reckon you'd best pray for de grace to choose de cleanest, safest steppin'-stones." "yes; that is best, harriet." but phyllis was not one of those rash beings who rush into the presence of god without thought or solemnity. slowly bending, body and soul, she communed with her own heart and was still, until it burned within her, and the supplication came. when she rose from her knees, she was resigned in all things to god's will, no matter what self-denial it involved; and she was not unhappy. for, o believe this truth, the saddest thing under the sky is a soul incapable of sadness! most blessed are those souls who are capable of lodging so great a guest as sorrow, who know how to regret, and how to desire, and who have learned that with renunciation life begins. and phyllis foresaw that renunciation would be the price of peace. at the commencement of the inquiry with her own soul she had refused to entertain the idea. she had tried to find reasons for seeking some other human adviser than bishop elliott, because she feared that he would counsel hard things to her. ere she slept, however, she had determined to go to him very early in the morning. but while she was drinking her coffee john millard entered the room. he took her hands, and, looking sorrowfully into her face, said, "phyllis, my dearest, it was not my fault." "i believe you, john." "and you love me, phyllis?" "i shall always love you, for i believe you will always try to deserve my love. but we must part at present. i was just going to ask the bishop to tell you this. i can trust you, john, and you can trust me. he will tell you what you ought to do. and don't think hard of me if i say 'good-bye' now; for though richard went to the plantation last night, he may be back any hour, and for my sake you must avoid him." "phyllis; you are asking a very hard thing. richard has said words which i can scarcely ignore. two or three men have inquired if i was going to put up with them?" "what kind of men?" "captain lefferts and jim wade and--" "nay, you need say no more. will you sacrifice my happiness to the opinion of captain lefferts and jim wade? are you their slave? richard is not himself now; if you permit him to force a fight upon you, you will both sorrow for it all your lives." "i will go and see the bishop, and do whatever he tells me. if i need a defender from ill words--" "you may safely leave your good name in his care, john. and who would dare to dispute a word he said? dear john, i knew i could trust you. goodbye, my love!" he drew her to his breast and kissed her, and with a look of fervent, sorrowful love, was leaving the room, when richard entered by another door. he intercepted the glance, and returned it to john with one of contemptuous defiant anger. it did not help to soothe richard that john looked unusually handsome. there was a fire and persuasion in his face, a tenderness and grace in his manner, that was very irritating, and richard could neither control his hands nor his tongue. he began at once to feel for his pistol. "why is john millard here?" he asked of phyllis. "answer me that." "he is here to promise me that he will not put the name of phyllis fontaine in the month of every drunken gambler and scornful man and woman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride." "he is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fighting half-armed savages; but i propose to honor his behavior with more attention than it deserves unless he runs away." "john, dear john, do not mind what richard says now. he will be sorry for it. if you care for me, ever so little, you will not fight about me. the shame would kill me. i don't deserve it. i will never marry a man who drags my name into a quarrel. richard, for our mother's sake, be yourself. brother, you ought to protect me! i appeal to you! for god's sake, dear richard, give me that pistol!" "phyllis," said john, "i will go. i will not fight. your desire is sufficient." "coward! you shall fight me! i will call you coward wherever i meet you." "no one, who knows us both, will believe you." it was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which john gave phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control. in a moment he had struck john, and john had cocked his pistol. in the same moment phyllis was between them, looking into john's eyes, and just touching the dangerous weapon. john trembled all over and dropped it. "go your ways safely, richard fontaine. i could kill you as easy as a baby, but for phyllis's sake you are safe." "but i will make you fight, sir;" and as he uttered the threat, he attempted to push phyllis aside. ere one could have spoken, she had faced richard and fallen. her movement in some way had fired the cocked pistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. john lifted her. already the blood was staining the snowy muslin that covered her breast. but she was conscious. "kiss me, john, and go. it was an accident, an accident, dear. remember that." "stay with her, richard. i will go for a doctor, my horse is saddled at the door;" and john rode away, as men ride between life and death. richard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that tried to smile upon him, until the eyes closed in a death-like unconsciousness. chapter vi. "who redeemeth thy life from destruction." "strike--for your altars and your fires; strike--for the green graves of your sires; god, and your native land!" the hours that followed were full of suffering to the heart. john came back with the doctors he summoned, and during their investigation he walked restlessly up and down the room in which the tragedy had occurred. richard never noticed him. he sat in a chair by the open window, with his head in his hands, quite overcome by grief and remorse. it was in john's strong arms phyllis had been carried to her own room, and no one now disputed his right to watch and to wait for the doctors' verdict. he was very white; white through all the tan of wind and sun; and, as he paced the room, he wrung his hands in an agony beyond speech. terrible, indeed, to both men was the silent house, with the faint noises of hurried footsteps and closing doors up stairs! what a mockery seemed the cool, clear sunshine outside! what a strange sadness there was in the call of the crickets, and the faint blooms of the last few flowers! there are scenes and sounds which, as backgrounds to great events in life, photograph themselves in their smallest details upon the mind. in the midst of his distress john could not help noticing the pattern of the wall-paper, and the rustling of the dropping leaves and nuts in the garden. he pitied richard; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, he perceived a grief he could not touch--the anguish of a remorse which might have no end in this life. as the doctors came down stairs john went to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturing anxiety was worth going for. the foremost made a slight movement, a motion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and when he heard the words, "she may recover," he hastened back to richard, and said, "there is a hope for her, and for us. god forgive us!" richard never answered a word, and john wandered for hours upon the beach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to understand how far he had been to blame. perhaps it is in the want of pity that the real _infernal_ of satan consists; for whenever he sees us overwhelmed with sorrow, then he casts into our throbbing heart his fiercest weapons. doubt, anguish, and prostration of hope, worse than death, assailed him. he tried to pray, but felt as if his cries were uttered to an inexorable silence. as for richard, he was so mentally stunned that it was not until he had been taken to phyllis, and she had whispered, "i shall be better soon, richard," that a saving reaction could be induced. then the _abandon_ of his grief was terrible; then he felt something of that remorse for sin which needs no material fiery adjunct to make a hell for the soul. the bishop watched him with infinite pity, but for several days offered him no consolation. he thought it well he should sorrow; he wished him to know fully that humiliation which jesus exalts, that wretchedness which he consoles, that darkness which he lightens. so, when he heard him one night, muttering as he walked gloomily up and down, "o that i could forget! o that i could forget!" he answered, "not so, son richard. can you escape eternity by forgetting it? and even for this life to forget is a kind of moral forfeiture, a treason against your own soul. forget nothing, carry every thing about yourself to god--your weakness, your regrets, and your desires." "how can the infinite god heed my pitiful regrets and desires?" "because he loves men individually; he deals with them soul by soul. you, richard fontaine, you, your very self, must go to him. you are not only a sinner in the general mass, but a particular sinner under your own name and in your special person. so, then, for you he has a special pardon. he has the special help you need; the very word of grace, that your soul, and yours only, may be able to understand." "o that god would pity me!" "you belong to the god of compassions. he resists the proud, but he comes to abide with the broken in spirit." "if i was only sure phyllis would recover!" "and if not?" "then i have no hope for this life or the other." "god will do what seemeth good to him." "i do not understand--god seems so indifferent to my cries." "my son, god's indifference does not exist; and if to comprehend the cross of christ, you must suffer to extremity, i would not spare you, richard; though i love you. there are four words that you can say, which will shake the gates of heaven; which will make the father meet you, and the elder brother welcome you, and the angels sing for joy. desolate souls, full of anguish, and yet full of hope, have comprehended them: _have mercy upon me!_" but the soul is a great mystery. how often is it called, and will not answer. richard for many weeks could neither believe, nor yet ardently desire. the hour in which he heard that phyllis was out of danger was the hour of his spiritual deliverance. then a speechless, overwhelming gratitude took possession of him. he went into his room, and, amid tears and broken prayers of thankfulness, his heart melted. a wondrous revelation came to him, the revelation of a love greater than his sin. he was lost in its rapture, and arose with the sacred, secret sign of the eternal father in his soul. phyllis saw the change as soon as he knelt down by her side, for his whole countenance was altered. she drew near to him, and kissed him. it was after christmas, and the days bleak and cold; but a great fire of cedar logs burned in the grate, and phyllis had been lifted to a lounge near it. she was whiter than the pillow on which she lay, white with that pallor of death which the shadowy valley leaves. but o, what a joy it was to see her there once more, to feel that she was coming back, though as one from the grave, to life again! after half an hour's happy talk he walked to the window and looked out. it faced the garden and the beach. the trees were now bare, and through their interlacing branches he could see the waters of the gulf. as he stood watching them, a figure came in sight. he knew well the tall erect form, the rapid walk, the pause at the gate, the eager look toward the house. he had seen it day after day for weeks, and he knew that, however cold the wind or heavy the rain, it would keep its watch, until harriet went to the gate with a word of comfort. suddenly a thought came into richard's heart. he left phyllis, put on his hat, and walked rapidly down to the gate. john was about fifty yards away, and he went to meet him. john saw him coming and walked steadily forward. he expected unkind words, and was therefore amazed when richard put out his hand, and said, "john, forgive me." "with all my heart, richard." the tears were in his eyes, his brown face flushed scarlet with emotion. he held richard's hand firmly, and said, "i beg your pardon also, richard." "will you come in and see phyllis?" "do you really mean such a kindness?" "i do, indeed; if phyllis is able to see you. let us go and ask." harriet was idling about the parlor, dusting the already dusted furniture as they entered. the face was as impassive as a bronze statue. "go and ask miss phillis, harriet, if she is able to see mr. millard." in a minute she was by phyllis's side. "miss phill, honey, miss phill, dar's a miracle down stairs, nothin' at all less. mass'r richard and mass'r john sittin' together like two lambs, and mass'r richard says, 'can you see mass'r john a few minutes?'" the poetic greek said, "destiny loves surprises," and our christian forefathers called all unexpected pleasures and profits, "godsends." i think such "godsends" come often to those who ask them. at any rate, phyllis was asking this very favor, and even while the supplication was on her lips it was granted her. it was richard, too, who brought john to her side; and he clasped their hands in his, and then went away and left them together. the solemn tenderness of such a meeting needed but few words. john thought life could hardly give him again moments so holy and so sweet. o, how precious are these sudden unfoldings of loving-kindness! these godsends of infinite love! he had not dared to expect any thing for himself; he had only asked for the life of phyllis, and it had been given him with that royal compassion that adds, "grace unto favor." the happy come back to life easily; and when the snow-drops were beginning to peep above the ground, phyllis, leaning upon john and richard, stood once more under the blue of heaven, and after that her recovery was rapid and certain. the months of january and february were peculiarly happy ones, full of delightful intercourse and hopeful dreams. of course they talked of the future; they knew all its uncertainties, and faced, with happy hearts, the struggle they might have together. at the termination of john's last service he had possessed about two thousand dollars, but this sum had been already much encroached upon, and he was anxious to find a career which would enable him to make a home for phyllis. there seemed, however, but two possible ways for john: he must have military service, or he must take up land upon the frontier, stock it, and then defend it until he had won it. he had lived so long the free life of the prairie and the woods, that the crowds of cities and their occupations almost frightened him. for theology he had no vocation and no "call." medicine he had a most decided repugnance to. law seemed to him but a meddling in other people's business and predicaments. he felt that he would rather face a band of savages than a constant invasion of shoppers; rather stand behind a breastwork than behind a desk and ledger. the planter's life was too indolent, too full of small cares and anxieties; his whole crop might be ruined by an army of worms that he could not fight. but on the frontier, if there was loss or danger, he could defy it or punish it. he talked to phyllis of the healthy, happy life of the prairies; of the joy of encamping in forests, and seeing the sun rise between the leaves; of wandering without hinderance; of being satisfied with little. it was these sweet, unplanted places of earth, these grand wastes of green, unpartitioned off into squares of mine and thine, that attracted john and charmed phyllis: for her heart was with his. she thought of the little home that was to have a look southward and eastward, and which she was to make beautiful; and no grand dame, with the prospect of royal favor and court splendor, was ever half so glad in her future as phyllis in her dream of a simple and busy arcadia. it cannot be said that richard shared her enthusiasm. in his heart he thought phyllis "too good" for such a life, and to the bishop he once permitted himself a little lament on the subject. "but, son richard," was the answer, "what kind of men build up new states and lead the van of the onward march? are they not the heroes of the republic? brave men of large souls and large views, that go naturally to the front because they are too big for the ranks?" "i suppose so." "and, depend upon it, the noblest women in the country will love them and go with them. blessings upon those women who go into the untrampled lands, and serve god and suckle heroes! we forget them too often. the pilgrim mothers are as grand as the pilgrim fathers, every whit. the men, rifle in hand, take possession of the wilderness; the women make it blossom like the rose. no woman is too fair, or bright, or clever, or good to be a pioneer's wife. if john millard had been willing to measure out dry goods, or collect debts, i should have had serious doubts about marrying phyllis to him. if phyllis had been unwilling to follow john to the frontier, i should have known that she was not worthy of john." three days after this conversation john went to new orleans with the bishop. the bishop was upon church business. john had heard of the colony which had gone with stephen austin to texas, and wished to make further inquiries; for at this time there were three words upon every lip--santa anna, texas, and houston. at the beginning of john's visit there had been present in his mind an intention of going from new orleans to texas at its close. he was by no means certain that he would stay there, for he mistrusted a mexican, and was neither disposed to fight under their orders, nor to hold land upon their title. but he had heard of the wonderful beauty of the country, of its enchanting atmosphere, and of the plenty which had given it its happy name; and there had been roused in him a vague curiosity, which he was not averse to gratify, especially as the sail was short and pleasant. he left the bishop on canal street, and went to the st. charles hotel. as he approached it he saw a crowd of men upon the wide steps and the piazza. they were talking in an excited manner, and were evidently under strong emotion. one of them was standing upon a chair, reading aloud a paper. it was the noble appeal of sam houston, "in the holy names of humanity and liberty," for help. travis and his brave little band had fallen, like heroes, every soul of them at his post, in the alamo. fannin and his five hundred had just been massacred in cold blood, and in defiance of every law of warfare and humanity; and between the anglo-americans and a brutal, slaughtering army there was only houston and a few hundred desperate men. the new orleans greys and a company of young southern gentlemen from mobile had just sailed. every man's heart was on fire for this young republic of texas. her shield was scarcely one month old, and yet it had been bathed in the blood of a thousand martyrs for freedom, and riddled with the bullets of an alien foe. john caught fire as spirit catches fire. his blood boiled as he listened, his fingers were handling his weapons. he must see phyllis and go. that little band of eight hundred americans gathered round sam houston, and defying santa anna to enslave them, filled his mind. he could see them retreating across the country, always interposing themselves between their families and the foe; hasting toward the settlements on the trinity river, carrying their wounded and children as best they could. every man, women, and child called him; and he cast his lot in with theirs, never caring what woe or weal it might bring him. the bishop had promised to call at the hotel for him about four o'clock. john went no farther. he sat there all day talking over the circumstances of texas. nor could the bishop resist the enthusiasm. in fact, the condition of the texans touched him on its religious side very keenly. for the fight was quite as much a fight for religious as for political freedom. never in old spain itself had priestcraft wielded a greater power than the roman priesthood in texas. they hated and feared an emigration of americans, for they knew them to be men opposed to tyranny of all kinds, men who thought for themselves, and who would not be dictated to by monks and priests. it was, without doubt, the clerical element which had urged on the military element to the massacre at the alamo and at goliad. the bishop was with his countrymen, heart and soul. no man's eye flashed with a nobler anger than his. "god defend the brave fellows!" he said, fervently. "i shall start for texas to-morrow," said john. "i don't see how you can help it, john. i wish i could go with you." "if you hadn't been a preacher, you would have made a grand soldier, father." "john, every good preacher would make a good soldier. i have been fighting under a grand captain for forty years. and i do acknowledge that the spirit of my forefathers is in me. they fought with balfour at drumelog, and with cromwell at dunbar. i would reason with the lord's enemies, surely, john, i would reason with them; but if they would not listen to reason, and took advantage of mercy and forbearance, i would give them the sword of gideon and of cromwell, and the rifles of such men as are with houston--men born under a free government, and baptized in a free faith." richard and phyllis were standing at the garden gate, watching for their arrival; and before either of them spoke, phyllis divined that something unusual was occupying their minds. "what is the matter?" she asked; "you two look as if you had been in a fight, and won a victory." "we will take the words as a good prophecy," answered the bishop. "john is going to a noble warfare, and, i am sure, to a victorious one. give us a cup of tea, phyllis, and we will tell you all about it." john did not need to say a word. he sat at phyllis's side, and the bishop painted the struggling little republic in words that melted and thrilled every heart. "when do you go, john?" asked phyllis. "to-morrow." and she leaned toward him, and kissed him--a kiss of consecration, of love and approval and sympathy. richard's pale face was also flushed and eager, his black eyes glowing like live coals. "i will go with john," he said; "texas is my neighbor. it is a fight for protestant freedom, at my own door. i am not going to be denied." "your duty is at home, richard. you can help with your prayers and purse. you could not leave your plantation now without serious loss, and you have many to think for besides yourself." of the final success of the texans no one doubted. their cry for help had been answered from the new england hills and all down the valley of the mississippi, and along the shores of the gulf of mexico and the coasts of florida. in fact, the first settlers of texas had been young men from the oldest northern colonies. mexico had cast longing looks toward those six vigorous states which had grown into power on the cold, barren hills of new england. she believed that if she could induce some of their population to settle within mexican limits, she could win from them the secret of their success. so a band of hardy, working youths, trained in the district schools of new england and new york, accepted the pledges of gain and protection she offered them, and, with stephen f. austin at their head, went to the beautiful land of western texas. they had no thought of empire; they were cultivators of the soil; but they carried with them that intelligent love of freedom and that hatred of priestly tyranny which the spanish nature has never understood, and has always feared. very soon the rapidly-increasing number of american colonists frightened the natives, who soon began to oppress the new-comers. the roman catholic priesthood were also bitterly opposed to this new protestant element; and, by their advice, oppressive taxation of every kind was practiced, especially, the extortion of money for titles to land which had been guaranteed to the colonists by the mexican government. austin went to mexico to remonstrate. he was thrown into a filthy dungeon, where for many a month he never saw a ray of light, nor even the hand that fed him. in the meantime santa anna had made himself dictator of mexico, and one of his first acts regarding texas was to demand the surrender of all the private arms of the settlers. the order was resisted as soon as uttered. obedience to it meant certain death in one form or other. for the americans were among an alien people, in a country overrun by fourteen different tribes of indians; some of them, as the comanches, apaches, and lipans, peculiarly fierce and cruel. besides, many families were dependent upon the game and birds which they shot for daily food. to be without their rifles meant starvation. they refused to surrender them. at gonzales the people of dewitt's colony had a little four-pounder, which they used to protect themselves from the indians. colonel ugartchea, a mexican, was sent to take it away from them. every colonist hastened to its rescue. it was retaken, and the mexicans pursued to bexar. just at this time austin returned from his mexican dungeon. no hearing had been granted him. every man was now well aware that mexico intended to enslave them, and they rose for their rights and freedom. the land they were on they had bought with their labor or with their gold; and how could they be expected to lay down their rifles, surrounded by an armed hostile race, by a bitter and powerful priesthood, and by tribes of indians, some of whom were cannibals? they would hardly have been the sons of the men who defied king john, charles i., and george iii., if they had. then came an invading army with the order "to lay waste the american colonies, and slaughter all their inhabitants." and the cry from these texan colonists touched every state in the union. there were cords of household love binding them to a thousand homes in older colonies; and there was, also, in the cry that passionate protestation against injustice and slavery which noble hearts can never hear unmoved, and which makes all men brothers. this was how matters stood when john millard heard and answered the call of texas. and that night phyllis learned one of love's hardest lessons; she saw, with a pang of fear and amazement, that in a man's heart love is not the passion which swallows up all the rest. humanity, liberty, that strange sympathy which one brave man has for another, ruled john absolutely. she mingled with all these feelings, and doubtless he loved her the better for them; but she felt it, at first, a trifle hard to share her empire. of course, when she thought of the position, she acknowledged the beauty and fitness of it; but, in spite of "beauty and fitness," women suffer a little. their victory is, that they hide the suffering under smiles and brave words, that they resolutely put away all small and selfish feelings, and believe that they would not be loved so well, if honor and virtue and valor were not loved more. still it was a very happy evening. richard and john were at their best; the bishop full of a sublime enthusiasm; and they lifted phyllis with them. and o, it is good to sometimes get above our own high-water mark! to live for an hour with our best ideas! to make little of facts, to take possession of ourselves, and walk as conquerors! thus, in some blessed intervals we have been poets and philosophers. we have spread liberty, and broken the chains of sin, and seen family life elevated, and the world regenerated. thank god for such hours! for though they were spent among ideals, they belong to us henceforth, and are golden threads between this life and a higher one. "when a flash of truth hath found thee, where thy foot in darkness trod, when thick clouds dispart around thee, and them standest near to god. when a noble soul comes near thee, in whom kindred virtues dwell, that from faithless doubts can clear thee, and with strengthening love compel; o these are moments, rare fair moments; sing and shout, and use them well!" --prof. blackie. richard was the first to remember how many little matters of importance were to be attended to. the bishop sighed, and looked at the three young faces around him. perhaps the same thought was in every heart, though no one liked to utter it. a kind of chill, the natural reaction of extreme enthusiasm was about to fall upon them. phyllis rose. "let us say 'good-night,' now," she said; "it is so easy to put it off until we are too tired to say it bravely." "go to the piano, phyllis. we will say it in song;" and the bishop lifted a hymn book, opened it, and pointed out the hymn to richard and john. "come, we will have a soldier's hymn, two of as grand verses as charles wesley ever wrote: "captain of israel's host, and guide of all who seek the land above, beneath thy shadow we abide, the cloud of thy protecting love: our strength thy grace, our rule thy word, our end the glory of the lord. "by thy unerring spirit led, we shall not in the desert stray; we shall not full direction need; nor miss our providential way; as far from danger as from fear, while love, almighty love, is near." the bishop and richard went with john to new orleans in the morning. phyllis was glad to be alone. she had tried to send her lover away cheerfully; but there is always the afterward. the "afterward" to phyllis was an extreme sadness that was almost lethargy. many crushed souls have these fits of somnolent depression; and it does no good either to reproach them, or to point out that physical infirmity is the cause. they know what the sorrowful sleep of the apostles in the garden of olivet was, and pity them. phyllis wept slow, heavy tears until she fell into a deep slumber, and she did not awaken until harriet was spreading the cloth upon a small table for her lunch. "dar, miss phill! i'se gwine to bring you some fried chicken and some almond puddin', and a cup of de strongest coffee i kin make. hungry sorrow is mighty bad to bear, honey!" "has master richard come back?" "not he, miss phill. he's not a-gwine to come back till de black night drive him, ef there's any thing strange 'gwine on in de city; dat's de way wid all men--aint none of dem worth frettin' 'bout." "don't say that, harriet." "aint, miss phill; i'se bound to say it. look at mass'r john! gwine off all in a moment like; mighty cur'ous perceeding--mighty cur'ous!" "he has gone to fight in a grand cause." "dat's jist what dey all say. let any one beat a drum a thousand miles off, and dey's all on de rampage to follow it." "the bishop thought master john right to go." "bless your heart, miss phill! de bishop! de bishop! he don't know no more 'an a baby 'bout dis world! you should ha' seen de way he take up and put down mass'r john's rifle. mighty onwillin' he was to put it down--kind ob slow like. i wouldn't trust de bishop wid no rifle ef dar was any fightin' gwine on 'bout whar he was. de bishop! he's jist de same as all de rest, miss phill. dar, honey! here's de chicken and de coffee; don't you spile your appetite frettin' 'bout any of dem." "i wish master richard was home." "no wonder; for dar isn't a mite ob certainty 'bout his 'tentions. he jist as like to go off wid a lot ob soldiers as any of de boys, only he's so mighty keerful ob you, miss phill; and den he's 'spectin' a letter; for de last words he say to me was, 'take care ob de mail, harriet.' de letter come, too. moke didn't want to gib it up, but i 'sisted upon it. moke is kind ob plottin' in his temper. he thought mass'r richard would gib him a quarter, mebbe a half-dollar." "did you think so, also, harriet?" "dem's de house perquisites, miss phill. moke has nothin' 't all to do wid de house perquisites." "moke has been sick, has he not?" "had de fever, he says." "is he not one of your classmates? i think i have heard you say he was 'a powerful member' of uncle isaac's class." "'clar to gracious, miss phill, i forgot dat. brudder moke kin hab de letter and de perquisite." "i was sure you would feel that way, harriet." "i'd rather hab you look at me dat shinin' kind ob way dan hab a dollar; dat i would, miss phill." moke got the perquisite and richard got his letter, but it did not seem to give him much pleasure. phyllis noticed that after reading it he was unhappy and troubled. he took an hour's promenade on the piazza, and then sat down beside her. "phyllis," he said, "we have both been unfortunate in our love. you stooped too low, and i looked too high. john has not money enough; elizabeth has too much." "you are wronging both elizabeth and john. what has elizabeth done or said?" "there is a change in her, though i cannot define it. her letters are less frequent; they are shorter; they are full of antony and his wild, ambitious schemes. they keep the form, but they lack the spirit, of her first letters." "it is nearly two years since you parted." "yes." "go and see her. absence does not make the heart grow fonder. if it did, we should never forget the dead. those who touch us move us. go and see elizabeth again. women worth loving want wooing." "will you go with me?" "do not ask me. i doubt whether i could bear the tossing to and fro for so many days, and i want to stay where i can hear from john." there was much further talk upon the subject, but the end of it was that richard sailed for england in the early summer. he hardly expected to renew the enthusiasm of his first visit, and he was prepared for changes; and, perhaps, he felt the changes more because those to whom they had come slowly and separately were hardly conscious of them. elizabeth was a different woman, although she would have denied it. her character had matured, and was, perhaps, less winning. she had fully accepted the position of heiress of hallam, and richard could feel that it was a controlling influence in her life. physically she was much handsomer, stately as a queen, fair and radiant, and "most divinely tall." she drove into leeds to meet the stage which brought richard, and was quite as demonstrative as he had any right to expect; but he felt abashed slightly by her air of calm authority. he forgot that when he had seen her first she was in a comparatively dependent position, and that she was now prospective lady of the manor. it was quite natural that she should have taken on a little dignity, and it was not natural that she should all at once discard it for her lover. the squire, too, was changed, sadly changed; for he had had a fall in the hunting field, and had never recovered from its effects. he limped to the door to meet richard, and spoke in his old hearty way, but richard was pained to see him, so pale and broken. "thou's welcome beyond ivery thing, richard," he said, warmly. "if ta hed brought phyllis, i'd hev given thee a double welcome. i'd hev liked to hev seen her bonny face again afore i go t' way i'll nivver come back." "she was not strong enough to bear the journey." "yonder shooting was a bad bit o' work. i've nowt against a gun, but dash pistols! they're blackguardly weapons for a gentleman to carry about; 'specially where women are around." "you are quite right, uncle. that pistol-shot cost me many a day's heart-ache." "and t' poor little lass hed to suffer, too! well, well, we thought about her above a bit." elizabeth had spoken, of company, but in the joy and excitement of meeting her again, richard had asked no questions about it. it proved to be antony's intended wife, lady evelyn darragh, daughter of an irish nobleman. richard, without admiring her, watched her with interest. she was tall and pale, with a transparent aquiline nose and preternaturally large eyes. her moods were alternations of immoderate mirth and immoderate depression. "she expects too much of life," thought richard, "and if she is disappointed, she will proudly turn away and silently die." she had no fortune, but antony was ambitious for something more than mere money. for the carrying out of his financial schemes he wanted influence, rank, and the prestige of a name. the earl of darragh had a large family, and little to give them, and lady evelyn having been selected by the promising young financier, she was not permitted to decline the hand he offered her. so it happened she was stopping at hallam, and she brought a change into the atmosphere of the place. the squire was anxious, fearful of his son's undertakings, and yet partly proud of his commercial and social recognition. but the good-natured evenness of his happy temperament was quite gone. elizabeth, too, had little cares and hospitable duties; she was often busy and often pre-occupied. it was necessary to have a great deal of company, and richard perceived that among the usual visitors at hallam he had more than one rival. but in this respect he had no fault to find with elizabeth. she treated all with equal regard and to richard alone unbent the proud sufficiency of her manner. and yet he was unhappy and dissatisfied. it was not the elizabeth he had wooed and dreamed about. and he did not find that he reached any more satisfactory results than he had done by letter. elizabeth could not "see her way clear to leave her father." "if antony married?" he asked. "that would not alter affairs much. antony could not live at hallam. his business binds him to the vicinity of london." there was but one new hope, and that was but a far probability. antony had requested permission to repay, as soon as he was able, the l , , and resume his right as heir of hallam. when he was able to do this elizabeth would be freed from the duties which specially pertained to the property. as to her father's claim upon her, that could only end with his or her own life. not even if antony's wife was mistress of hallam would she leave the squire, if he wished or needed her love. and elizabeth was rather hurt that richard could not see the conditions as reasonable a service as she did. "you may trust me," she said, "for ten, for twenty years; is not that enough?" "no, it is not enough," he answered, warmly. "i want you now. if you loved me, you would leave all and come with me. that is how phyllis loves john millard." "i think you are mistaken. if you were sick, and needed phyllis for your comfort, or for your business, she would not leave you. men may leave father and mother for their wives, that is their duty; but women have a higher commandment given them. it may be an unwritten scripture, but it is in every good daughter's heart, richard." the squire did not again name to him the succession to hallam. antony's proposal had become the dearest hope of the old man's heart. he wished to live that he might see the estate honorably restored to his son. he had fully determined that it should go to elizabeth, unless antony paid the uttermost farthing of its redemption; but if he did this, then he believed that it might be safely entrusted to him. for a man may be reckless with money or land which he acquires by inheritance, but he usually prizes what he buys with money which he himself earns. therefore richard's and elizabeth's hopes hung upon antony's success; and with such consolation as he could gather from this probability, and from elizabeth's assurance of fidelity to him, he was obliged to content himself. chapter vii. "for freedom's battle, once begun, bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, though baffled alt, is ever won." "the unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame." "with freedom's soil beneath our feet, and freedom's banner streaming o'er us." "and the king hath laid his hand on the watcher's head; till the heart that was worn and sad, is quiet and comforted." it was a beautiful day at the close of may, , and new orleans was holding a jubilant holiday. the streets were full of flowers and gay with flying flags; bells were ringing and bands of music playing; and at the earliest dawn the levee was black with a dense crowd of excited men. in the shaded balconies beautiful women were watching; and on the streets there was the constant chatter of gaudily turbaned negresses, and the rollicking guffaws of the darkies, who had nothing to do but laugh and be merry. new orleans in those days took naturally to a holiday; and a very little excuse made her put on her festal garments, and this day she had the very best of reasons for her rejoicing. the hero of san jacinto was coming to be her guest, and though he was at death's door with his long-neglected wound, she was determined to meet him with songs of triumph. as he was carried in his cot through the crowded streets to the house of the physician who was to attend to his shattered bone, shouts of acclamation rent the air. men and women and little children pressed to the cotside, to touch his hand, or to look upon his noble, emaciated face. and though he had striven with things impossible, and was worn to a shadow with pain and fever, he must have felt that "welcome" an over-payment for all his toil and suffering. yet it was not alone general houston that was honored that day by the men of new orleans. he represented to them the heroes of the texan thermopylae at the alamo, the brave five hundred who had fallen in cold-blooded massacre at goliad, and the seven hundred who had stood for liberty and the inalienable rights of manhood at san jacinto. he was not only sam houston; he was the ideal in whom men honored all the noblest sentiments of humanity. a few friends accompanied him, and among them john millard. on reaching texas john had gone at once to houston's side; and in days and nights of such extremity as they shared together, friendship grows rapidly. houston, like the best of great generals, had immense personal magnetism, and drew close to him the brave and the honest-hearted. john gave him the love of a son for a father, and the homage of a soldier for a great leader. he rode by his side to victory, and he could not bear to leave him when he was in suffering and danger. phyllis expected john, and the bishop went into the city to meet him. o, how happy she was! she went from room to room re-arranging the lace curtains, and placing every chair and couch in its prettiest position. the table on such holidays is a kind of altar, and she spread it with the snowiest damask, the clearest crystal, and the brightest silver. she made it beautiful with fresh cool ferns and budding roses. outside nature had done her part. the orange-trees filled the air with subtle fragrance, and the warm south wind wafted it in waves of perfume through the open doors and windows. every vine was in its first beauty, every tree and shrub had as yet its spring grace, that luminous emerald transparency which seems to make the very atmosphere green. the garden was wearing all its lilies and pansies and sweet violets, and the birds were building, and shedding song upon every tree-top. to meet her lover, when that lover comes back from the battle-field with the light of victory on his brow, what women will not put on all her beautiful garments? phyllis's dark eyes held a wonderfully tender light, and the soft, rich pallor of her complexion took just the shadow of color from the dress of pale pink which fell in flowing lines to her small sandaled feet. a few white narcissus were at her belt and in her black hair, and a fairer picture of pure and graceful womanhood never gladdened a lover's heart. john had taken in and taken on, even in the few weeks of his absence, some of that peculiar air of independence which seems to be the spirit infusing every thing in texan land. "i can't help it," he said, with a laugh; "it's in the air; the very winds are full of freedom; they know nothing will challenge them, and they go roving over the prairies with a sound like a song." the bishop had come back with john, but the bishop was one of those old men who, while they gather the wisdom of age, can still keep their young heart. after supper was over he said: "phyllis, my daughter, let them put me a chair and a table under the live oaks by the cabins. i am going to have a class-meeting there to-night. that will give me the pleasure of making many hearts glad; and it will give john a couple of hours to tell you all the wonderful things he is going to do." and there, two hours afterward, john and phyllis went to find him. he was sitting under a great tree, with the servants in little ebony squads around him at the doors of their white cabins; and singularly white they looked, under the swaying festoons of gray moss and in the soft light; for the moon was far up in the zenith, calm and bright and worshipful. john and phyllis stood together, listening to his benediction; then they walked silently back to the house, wonderfully touched by the pathos of a little "spiritual" that an old negress started, and whose whispering minor tones seemed to pervade all the garden-- "steal away-steal away! steal away to jesus!" and in those moments, though not a word was uttered, the hearts of phyllis and john were knitted together as no sensuous pleasure of dance or song could ever have bound them. love touched the spiritual element in each soul, and received its earnest of immortality. and lovers, who have had such experiences together, need never fear that chance or change of life can separate them. "john," said the bishop, as they sat in the moonlight, "it is my turn now. i want to hear about texas and about houston. where did you meet him?" "i met him falling back from the colorado. i crossed the buffalo bayou at vance's bridge, just above san jacinto, and rode west. twenty miles away i met the women and children of the western settlements, and they told me that houston was a little farther on, interposing himself and his seven hundred men between the mexican army and them. o, how my heart bled for them! they were footsore, hungry, and exhausted. many of the women were carrying sick children. the whole country behind them had been depopulated, and their only hope was to reach the eastern settlements on the trinity before santa anna's army overtook them. i could do nothing to help them, and i hasted onward to join the defending party. i came up to it on the evening of the th of april--a desperate handful of men--chased from their homes by an overpowering foe, and quite aware that not only themselves, but their wives and children, were doomed by santa anna to an exterminating massacre." "what was your first impression of houston, john?" "that he was a born leader of men. he had the true imperial look. he was dressed in buckskin and an indian blanket, and was leaning upon his rifle, talking to some of his men. 'general,' i said, 'i am a volunteer. i bring you a true heart and a steady rifle.' "'you are welcome, sir,' he answered. 'we are sworn to win our rights, or to die free men. now, what do you say?' "'that i am with you with all my soul.' then i told him that there were two regiments on the way, and that the women of nashville were raising a company of young men, and that another company would start from natchez within a week. 'why, this is great news,' he said; and he looked me steadily in the face till both our eyes shone and our hands met--i know not how--but i loved and trusted him." "i understand, john. when soldiers are few they draw close together. forlorn hopes have their glad hours, and when men press hands beneath the fire of batteries they touch souls also. it is war that gives us our brother-in-arms. the spiritual warfare knows this also, john. "'o, these are moments, rare fair moments! sing and shout, and use them well.'" "the little band were without commissary and without transport; they were half-clad and half-armed, and in the neighborhood of a powerful enemy. they had been living three days upon ears of dried corn, but they had the will of men determined to be free and the hearts of heroes. i told them that the eyes of the whole country were on them, their sympathies with them, and that help was coming. and who do you think was with them, father? the very soul and spirit of their purpose?" "some methodist missionary, doubtless." "henry stephenson. he had been preaching and distributing bibles from san antonia to the sabine river, and neither soldier nor priest could make him afraid. he was reading the bible, with his rifle in his hand, when i first saw him--a tall, powerful man, with a head like a dome and an eye like an eagle." "well, well, john; what would you?" "'in iron times god sends with mighty power, iron apostles to make smooth his way.' what did he say to you?" "nothing specially to me; but as we were lying around resting and watching he spoke to all. 'boys!' he said, 'i have been reading the word of the living god. we are his free-born sons, and the name of our elder brother, christ, can't be mixed up with any kind of tyranny, kingly or priestly; we won't have it. we are the children of the knife-bearing men who trampled kingly and priestly tyranny beneath their feet on the rocks of new england. we are fighting for our rights and our homes, and for the everlasting freedom of our children. strike like men! the cause commends the blow!'" "and i wish i had been there to strike, john; or, at least, to strengthen and succor those who did strike." "we had no drums, or fifes, or banners in our little army; none of the pomp of war; nothing that helps and stimulates; but the preacher was worth them all." "i can believe that. when we remember how many preachers bore arms in cromwell's camps, there isn't much miracle in marston moor and worcester fight. you were very fortunate to be in time for san jacinto." "i was that. fortune may do her worst, she cannot rob me of that honor." "it was a grand battle." "it was more a slaughter than a battle. you must imagine santa anna with two thousand men behind their breastworks, and seven hundred desperate texans facing them. about noon three men took axes, and, mounting their horses, rode rapidly away. i heard, as they mounted, houston say to them, 'do your work, and come back like eagles, or you'll be behind time for the fight.' then all was quiet for an hour or two. about the middle of the afternoon; when mexicans are usually sleeping or gambling, we got the order to 'stand ready.' in a few moments the three men who had left us at noon returned. they were covered with foam and mire, and one of them was swinging an ax. as he came close to us he cried out, 'vance's bridge is cut down! now fight for your wives and your lives, and remember the alamo!' "instantly houston gave the order, 'charge!' and the whole seven hundred launched themselves on santa anna's breastworks like an avalanche. then there was three minutes of smoke and fire and blood. then a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. our men had charged the breastwork, with their rifles in their hands and their bowie-knives between their teeth. when rifles and pistols had been discharged they flung them away, rushed on the foe, and cut their path through a wall of living mexicans with their knives. 'remember the alamo!' 'remember the goliad!' were the cries passed from mouth to mouth whenever the slaughter slackened. the mexicans were panic-stricken. of one column of five hundred mexicans only thirty lived to surrender themselves as prisoners of war." "was such slaughter needful, john?" "yes, it was needful, phyllis. what do you say, father?" "i say that we who shall reap where others sowed in blood and toil, must not judge the stern, strong hands that labored for us. god knows the kind of men that are needed for the work that is to be done. peace is pledged in war, and often has the gospel path been laid o'er fields of battle. san jacinto will be no barren deed; 'one death for freedom makes millions free!'" "did you lose many men, john?" "the number of our slain is the miracle. we had seven killed and thirty wounded. it is incredible, i know; and when the report was made to houston he asked, 'is it a dream?'" "but houston himself was among the wounded, was he not?" "at the very beginning of the fight a ball crashed through his ankle, and his horse also received two balls in its chest; but neither man nor horse faltered. i saw the noble animal at the close of the engagement staggering with his master over the heaps of slain. houston, indeed, had great difficulty in arresting the carnage; far over the prairie the flying foe were followed, and at vance's bridge--to which the mexicans fled, unaware of its destruction--there was an awful scene. the bayou was choked with men and horses, and the water red as blood." "ah, john; could you not spare the flying? poor souls!" "daughter, keep your pity for the women and children who would have been butchered had these very men been able to do it! give your sympathy to the men who fell in their defense. did you see stephenson in the fight, john?" john smiled. "i saw him after it. he had torn up every shirt he had into bandages, and was busy all night long among the wounded men. in the early dawn of the next day we buried our dead. as we piled the last green sod above them the sun rose and flooded the graves with light, and stephenson turned his face to the east, and cried out, like some old hebrew prophet warrior: "'praise ye the lord for the avenging of israel, when the people willingly offered themselves.'... "'my heart is toward the governors of israel, that offered themselves willingly among the people. bless ye the lord.'... "'so let all thine enemies perish, o lord: but let them that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his might.'" "verses from a famous old battle hymn, john. how that hebrew book fits itself to all generations! if is to humanity what the sunshine is to the material world, new every day; as cheering to one generation as to another, suitable for all ages and circumstances." "i asked him where the verses were, and learned them. i want to forget nothing pertaining to that day. look here!" and john took a little box out of his pocket and, opening it, displayed one grain of indian corn. "father, phyllis, i would not part with that grain of corn for any money." "it has a story, i see, john." "i reckon it has. when santa anna, disguised as a peasant, and covered with the mud of the swamp in which he had been hiding, was brought before houston, i was there. houston, suffering very keenly from his wound, was stretched upon the ground among his officers. the mexican is no coward. he bowed with all his spanish graces and complimented houston on the bravery of his small army, declaring; 'that he had never before understood the american character.' 'i see now,' he said, laying both his hands upon his breast, 'that it is impossible to enslave them.' houston put his hand in his pocket and pulled out part of an ear of corn. 'sir,' he asked, 'do you ever expect to conquer men fighting for freedom who can march four days with an ear of corn for a ration?' young zavala looked at the corn, and his eyes filled. 'senor,' he said, 'give me, i pray you, one grain of that corn; i will plant and replant it until my fields wave with it.' we answered the request with a shout, and houston gave it away grain by grain. phyllis shall plant and watch mine. in two years one grain will give us enough to sow a decent lot, and, if we live, we shall see many a broad acre tasseled with san jacinto corn." "you must take me to see your general, john." "bishop, we will go to-morrow. you are sure to like him--though, it is wonderful, but even now he has enemies." "not at all wonderful, john. no man can be liked by every one. god himself does not please all; nay as men are, i think it may stand with divinity to say he cannot." "he will like to see you, sir. he told me himself, that nearly all the texan colonies brought not only their religion, but their preachers with them. he said it was these protestant preachers who had fanned and kept alive the spirit of resistance to spanish tyranny and to roman priest-craft." "i have not a doubt of it, john. you cannot have a free faith in an enslaved country. they knew that the way of the lord must be prepared. "'their free-bred souls went not with priests to school, to trim the tippet and the stole, and pray by printed rule. "'and they would cast the eager word from their hearts fiery core, smoking and red, as god had stirred the hebrew men of yore.'" during the next two weeks many similar conversations made the hours to all three hearts something far more than time chopped up into minutes. there was scarcely a barren moment, and faith and hope and love grew in them rapidly toward higher skies and wider horizons. then general houston was so much relieved that he insisted on going back to his post, and john returned to texas with him. but with the pleasant memories of this short, stirring visit, and frequent letters from john and richard, the summer passed rapidly to phyllis. her strength was nearly restored, and she went singing about the house full of joy and of loving-kindness to all living things. the youngest servant on the place caught her spirit, and the flowers and sunshine and warmth all seemed a part of that ampler life and happiness which had come to her. richard returned in the fall. he had remained a little later than he intended in order to be present at antony's marriage. "a very splendid affair, indeed," he said; "but i doubt if lady evelyn's heart was in it." it was rather provoking to phyllis that richard had taken entirely a masculine view of the ceremony, and had quite neglected to notice all the small details which are so important in a woman's estimate. he could not describe a single dress. "it seemed as if every one wore white, and made a vast display of jewelry. pshaw! phyllis, one wedding is just like another." "not at all, richard. who married them?" "there was a bishop, a dean; and a couple of clergymen present. i imagine the knot was very securely tied." "was the squire present?" "no. they were married from the earl's town house. the squire was unable to take the journey. he was very quiet and somber about the affair." "george eltham, i suppose, was antony's chief friend?" "he was not there at all. the elthams went to the continent shortly before the wedding. it troubled the squire." "why? what particular difference could it make?" "he said to me that it was the beginning of a change which he feared. 'george will leave t' firm next. antony ought to have married cicely eltham. i know eltham--he'll be angry at cicely having been passed by--and he'll show it, soon or later, i'm sure.'" "but antony had a right to please himself." "i fancy that he had been very attentive to miss eltham. i remember noticing something like it myself the summer you and i were first at hallam." "elizabeth says, in her last letter, that they are in paris." "probably they are back in england by this time. antony has taken a very fine mansion at richmond." "is the bride pretty?" "very--only cold and indifferent, also. i am almost inclined to say that she was sad." then they talked of john's visit, and the subject had a great fascination for richard. perhaps phyllis unconsciously described texas, and texan affairs, in the light of her own heart; it is certain that richard never wearied of hearing her talk upon the subject; and the following spring he determined to see the country of which he had heard so much. john met him with a fine horse at the buffalo bayou, and they took their course direct west to the colorado. to one coming from the old world it was like a new world that had been lying asleep for centuries. it had such a fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. the clear pure air caused a peculiar buoyancy of spirits. the sky was perfectly blue, and the earth freshly green. the sunrises had the pomp of persian mornings, the nights the soft bright glory of the texan moon. they rode for days over a prairie studded with islands of fine trees, the grass smooth as a park, and beautiful with blue salvias and columbines, with yellow coronella and small starry pinks, and near the numerous creeks the white feathery tufts of the fragrant meadow-sweet. it looked like miles and miles of green rumpled velvet, full of dainty crinklings, mottled with pale maroon, and cuir, purple, and cream-color. "how beautiful is this place!" cried richard, reverently; "surely this is one of the many mansions of our father! one would be ashamed to be caught sinning or worrying in it!" as they reached the pine sands the breeze was keener, and their spirits were still more joyous and elastic. the golden dust of the pine flower floated round in soft clouds, and sunk gently down to the ground. was it not from the flower of the pine the old gods of olympus extracted the odorous resin with which they perfumed their nectar? and then, shortly afterward, they came to the magnificent rolling prairies of the colorado, with their bottomless black soil, and their timbered creeks, and their air full of the clean dainty scent of miles of wild honeysuckle. "now, richard, drink--drink of the colorado. it has a charm to lure you back to texas, no matter how far away you stray. soon or later 'the mustang feeling' will seize you, and you'll leave every thing and come back. do you see yonder hilly roll, with the belt of timber at its foot?" "yes, i see it." "on its summit i am going to build a home--a long, low log-house, spreading out under the live oaks, and draped with honeysuckles. phyllis helped me to draw the plan of it when i saw her last. the house will be built, and the vines planted by the end of this year. then she has promised to come. i hope you will be glad, richard." "i shall be glad to see her and you happy." but although the pretty nest was built, and the vines growing luxuriantly, it was not until the close of , nearly two years and a half after san jacinto, that the lovers could venture to begin their housekeeping. the indians hung persistently about the timber of the colorado, and it was necessary to keep armed men constantly on the 'range' to protect the lives of the advance corps of anglo-american civilization. during this time john was almost constantly in the saddle, and phyllis knew that it would be folly to add to his responsibility until his service was performed. as it frequently happens, one change brings another. while the preparations were making for phyllis's marriage, a letter arrived from hallam which richard could not refuse to answer in person. "my father is dying," wrote elizabeth, "and he wishes much to see you." so the marriage was hurried forward, and took place in the last days of september. some marriages do not much affect the old home, but that of phyllis was likely to induce many changes. she would take with her to texas harriet and several of the old servants; and there was no one to fill her place as mistress of the house, or as her brother's companion. so that when she thought of the cheery rooms, closed and silent, she was glad that richard had to leave them, until the first shock of their separation was over. she went away with a pretty and cheerful eclat. a steamer had been chartered to take the party and all their household belongings from new orleans to texas, for phyllis was carrying much of her old life into her new one. the deck was crowded with boxes of every description; the cabin full of a cheerful party who had gone down to send away the bride with blessings and good wishes. it seemed all sad enough to richard. after our first youth we have lost that recklessness of change which throws off the old and welcomes the new without regret. the past had been so happy, what the future might be none could tell. he turned his face eastward without much hope. elizabeth's letter had been short and inexplicit. "she would see him soon; letters never fully explained any thing." he arrived at hallam toward the end of october, and having come by an earlier packet than had been named, he was not expected, and there was no one at the coach to meet him. it was one of those dying days of summer when there is a pale haze over the brown bare fields of the gathered harvests. elizabeth was walking on the terrace; he saw her turn and come unconsciously toward him. she was pale and worn, and an inexpressible sadness was in her face. but the surprise revealed the full beauty and tenderness of her soul. "o, richard! richard! my love! my love!" and so saying, she came forward with hands outstretched and level palms; and the rose came blushing into her cheeks, and the love-light into her eyes; and when richard kissed her, she whispered, "thank god you are come! i am so glad!" people are apt to suppose that in old countries and among the wealthy classes years come and go and leave few traces. the fact is that no family is precisely in the same circumstances after an interval of a year or two. gold cannot bar the door against sorrow, and tapestry and eider-down have no covenant with change. richard had not been many hours in hallam when he felt the influence of unusual currents and the want of customary ones. the squire's face no longer made a kind of sunshine in the big, low rooms and on the pleasant terraces. he was confined to his own apartments, and there richard went to talk to him. but he was facing death with a calm and grand simplicity. "i'd hev liked to hev lived a bit longer, richard, if it hed been _his will_; but he knows what's best. i s'all answer willingly when he calls me. he knows t' right hour to make t' change; i'd happen order it too soon or too late. now sit thee down, and tell me about this last fight for liberty. phyllis hes fair made my old heart burn and beat to t' varry name o' texas. i'm none bound by yorkshire, though i do think it's the best bit o' land on t' face o' t' world. and i like to stand up for t' weakest side--that's yorkshire! if i hed known nowt o' t' quarrel, i'd hev gone wi' t' seven hundred instead o' t' two thousand; ay, would i!" decay had not touched his mind or his heart; his eyes flashed, and he spoke out with all the fervor of his youth: "if i'd nobbut been a young man when a' this happened, i'm varry sure i'd hev pitch'd in and helped 'em. it's natural for englishmen to hate t' spaniards and papists. why, thou knows, we've hed some tussles wi' them ourselves; and americans are our children, i reckon." "then texans are your grandchildren; texas is an american colony." "they hed t' sense to choose a varry fine country, it seems. if i was young again, i'd travel and see more o' t' world. but when i was thy age folks thought t' sun rose and set i' england; that they did." he was still able, leaning upon richard's arm, to walk slowly up and down his room, and sometimes into the long, central gallery, where the likenesses of the older hallams hung. he often visited them, pausing before individuals: "i seem ta be getting nearer to them, richard," he said, one day; "i wonder if they know that i'm coming." "i remember reading of a good man who, when he was dying, said to some presence invisible to mortal eyes, 'go! and tell my dead, i come!'" "i would like to send a message to my father and mother, and to my dear wife, and my dead son, edward. it would be a varry pleasant thing to see a face you know and loved after that dark journey." "i have read that "'eyes watch us that we cannot see, lips warn us that we may not kiss, they wait for us, and starrily lean toward us, from heaven's lattices.'" "that's a varry comforting thought, richard. thou sees, as i draw near to t' other life, i think more about it; and t' things o' this life that used to worry me above a bit, hev kind of slipped away from me." it seemed to be very true that the things of this life had slipped away from him. richard expected him every day to speak about hallam and elizabeth; but week after week passed, and he did not name the estate. as christmas drew near he was, however, much excited. lady evelyn was expected, and she was to bring with her antony's son, who had been called after the squire. he longed to see the child, and at once took him to his heart. and he was a very beautiful boy, bright and bold, and never weary of lisping, "gran'pa." one night, after the nurse had taken him away, the squire, who was alone with richard, said, "i commit that little lad to thy care, richard; see he hes his rights, and do thy duty by him." "if his father dies i will do all i am permitted to do." "for sure; i forgot. what am i saying? there's antony yet. he wants hallam back. what does ta say?" "i should be glad to see him in his place." "i believe thee. thou wilt stand by elizabeth?" "until death." "i believe thee. there's a deal o' hallam in thee, richard. do thy duty by t' old place." "i will. you may trust me, uncle." "i do. that's a' that is to be said between thee and me. it's a bit o' comfort to hev heard thee speak out so straightfor'ard. god bless thee, nephew richard!" he brightened up considerably the week before christmas, and watched elizabeth and lady evelyn deck his room with box and fir and holly. the mother was quiet and very undemonstrative, but she attached herself to the dying man, and he regarded her with a pitying tenderness, for which there appeared to be no cause whatever. as she carried away her boy in her arms on christmas-eve, he looked sadly after her, and, touching elizabeth's hand, said, "be varry good to her, wilt ta?" they had all spent an hour with him in honor of the festival, and about seven o'clock he went to bed. richard knew that the ladies would be occupied for a short time with some christmas arrangements for the poor of the village, and he remained with the squire. the sick man fell into a deep sleep, and richard sat quiet, with his eyes fixed upon the glowing embers. suddenly, the squire spoke out clear and strong--"yes, father, i am coming!" in the dim chamber there was not a movement. richard glanced at the bed. his uncle's eyes were fixed upon him. he went to his side and grasped his hand. "did you hear him call me?" "i heard no one speak but you." "my father called me, richard." richard fully believed the dying man. he stooped to his face and said, cheerfully, "you will not go alone then, dear uncle; i am glad for your sake!" "ay; it's nearly time to go. it's a bit sudden at last; but i'm ready. i wish antony hed got here; tell them to come, and to bring t' little lad." there was no disputing the change in the face, the authority of the voice. gently they gathered around him, and elizabeth laid the sleeping child on a pillow by his side. richard saw him glance at the chubby little hand stretched out, and he lifted it to the squire's face. the dying man kissed it, and smilingly looked at elizabeth. then he let his eyes wander to richard and his daughter-in-law. "good-bye, all!" he whispered, faintly, and almost with the pleasant words upon his lips he went away. in a few hours the christmas waits came singing through the park, and the christmas bells filled the air with jubilant music; but squire henry hallam had passed far beyond the happy clamor. he had gone home to spend the christmas feast with the beloved who were waiting for him; with the just made perfect; with the great multitude which no man can number. chapter viii. "we are here to fight the battle of life, not to shirk it." "the last days of my life until to-day, what were they, could i see them on the street lie as they fell. would they be ears of wheat sown once for food, but trodden into clay? or golden coins squandered and still to pay?" "the only way to look bravely and prosperously forward is never to look back." antony arrived at hallam about an hour after the squire's death. he was not a man of quick affections, but he loved his father. he was grieved at his loss, and he was very anxious as to the disposition of the estate. it is true that he had sold his birthright, but yet he half expected that both his father and sister would at the last be opposed to his dispossession. the most practical of men on every other subject, he yet associated with his claim upon hallam all kinds of romantic generosities. he felt almost sure that, when the will came to be read, he would find hallam left to him, under conditions which he could either fulfill or set aside. it seemed, after all, a preposterous thing to leave a woman in control of such a property when there were already two male heirs. and hallam had lately grown steadily upon his desires. he had not found money-making either the pleasant or easy process he had imagined it would be; in fact, he had had more than one great disappointment to contend against. as the squire had foreseen, his marriage with lady evelyn had not turned out well for him in a financial way. lord eltham, within a year after it, found a lucrative position in the colonies for his son george, and advised his withdrawal from the firm of "hallam & eltham." the loss of so much capital was a great blow to the young house, and he did not find in the darragh connection any equivalent. no one could deny that antony's plans were prudent, and dictated by a far-seeing policy; but perhaps he looked too far ahead to rightly estimate the contingencies in the interval. at any rate, after the withdrawal of george eltham, it had been, in the main with him, a desperate struggle, and undoubtedly, lord eltham, by the very negation of his manner, by the raising of an eye-lash, or the movement of a shoulder, had made the struggle frequently harder than it ought to have been. yet antony was making a brave fight for his position; if he could hold on, he might compel success. people in this age have not the time to be persistently hostile. lord eltham might get into power; a score of favorable contingencies might arise; the chances for him were at least equal to those against him. just at this time his succession to the hallam estate might save him. he was fully determined if it did come into his power never to put an acre of it in danger; but it would represent so much capital in the eyes of the men with whom he had to count sovereigns. and in his suspense he was half angry with elizabeth. he thought she must divine his feelings, and might say a word which would relieve them, if she chose. he watched richard jealously. he was sure that richard would be averse to his future wife relinquishing any of her rights, and he could scarcely restrain the bitterness of his thoughts when he imagined richard master of hallam. and richard, quite innocent of any such dream, preserved a calmness of manner, which antony took to be positive proof of his satisfaction with affairs. at length the funeral was over, and the will of the late squire made known. it was an absolute and bitter disappointment to antony. "a good-will remembrance" of l , was all that was left him; excepting the clause which enjoined elizabeth to resell hallam to him for l , , "if it seem reasonable and right so to do." elizabeth was in full possession and her father had taken every precaution to secure her rights, leaving her also practically unfettered as to the final disposition of the property. but her situation was extremely painful, and many openly sympathized with antony. "to leave such a bit o' property as hallam to a lass!" was against every popular tradition and feeling. antony was regarded as a wronged man; and richard as a plotting interloper, who added to all his other faults the unpardonable one of being a foreigner, "with a name that no yorkshireman iver did hev?" this public sympathy, which he could see in every face and feel in every hand-shake, somewhat consoled antony for the indifference his wife manifested on the subject. "if you sold your right, you sold it," she said, coldly; "it was a strange thing to do, but then you turn every thing into money." but to elizabeth and richard he manifested no ill-will. "both of them might yet be of service to him;" for antony was inclined to regard every one as a tool, which, for some purpose or other, he might want in the future. he went back to london an anxious and disappointed man. there was also in the disappointment an element of humiliation. a large proportion of his london friends were unaware of his true position; and when, naturally enough, he was congratulated on his supposed accession to the hallam property, he was obliged to decline the honor. there was for a few days a deal of talk in the clubs and exchanges on the subject, and many suppositions which were not all kindly ones. such gossip in a city lasts but a week; but, unfortunately, the influence is far more abiding. people ceased to talk of the hallam succession, but they remembered it, if brought into business contact with antony, and it doubtless affected many a transaction. in country places a social scandal is more permanent and more personally bitter. richard could not remain many days ignorant of the dislike with which he was regarded. even lord eltham, in this matter, had taken antony's part. "squire hallam were always varry queer in his ways," he said; "but it beats a', to leave a property like hallam to a lass. whativer's to come o' england if t' land is put under women? i'd like to know that!" "ay; and a lass that's going to wed hersel' wi' a foreign man. i reckon nowt o' her. such like goings on don't suit my notions, eltham." just at this point in the conversation richard passed the gossiping squires. he raised his hat, but none returned the courtesy. a yorkshireman has, at least, the merit of perfect honesty in his likes and dislikes; and if richard had cared to ask what offense he had given, he would have been told his fault with the frankest distinctness. but richard understood the feeling, and could afford to regard it tolerantly. "with their education and their inherited prejudices i should act the same," he thought, "and how are they to know that i have positively refused the very position they suspect me of plotting to gain?" but he told elizabeth of the circumstance, and upon it based the conversation as to their future, which he had been anxiously desirous to have. "you must not send me away again, love, upon a general promise. i think it is my right to understand clearly what you intend about hallam, and how soon you will become my wife." she answered with a frank affection that delighted him: "we must give one year to my father's memory; then, richard, come for me as soon as you desire." "say twelve months hence." "i will be waiting for you." "you will go with me to new orleans?" "i will go with you wherever you go. your god shall be my god; your home, my home, richard." "my dear elizabeth! i am the proudest and happiest man in the world!" "and i, richard; am i not happy, also? i have chosen you freely, i love you with all my heart." "have you considered well what you give up?" "i have put you against it. my gain is incalculably greater than my loss." "what will you do about hallam?" "i shall hold hallam for antony; and if he redeem it honorably, no one will rejoice more truly than i shall. if he fail to do this, i will hold it for antony's son. i most solemnly promised my father to save hallam for hallam, if it was possible to do so wisely. he told me always to consult with whaley and with you; and he has left all to our honor and our love." "i will work with you, elizabeth. i promised your father i would." "i told antony that i only held the estate for him, or his; but he did not believe me." "when i come for you, what is to be done with it?" "whaley will take charge of it. the income will be in the meantime lawfully ours. father foresaw so many 'ifs' and contingencies, that he preferred to trust the future welfare of hallam to us. as events change or arise, we must meet them with all the wisdom that love can call forth." perhaps, considering all things, richard had, after this explanation, as sure a hope for his future as he could expect. he left hallam full of happy dreams and plans, and as soon as he reached his home began the improvements which were to make it beautiful for his wife. it had its own charm and fitness; its lofty rooms, furnished in cane and indian matting; its scented dusk, its sweet breezes, its wealth of flowers and foliage. whatever love could do to make it fair richard did; and it pleased him to think that his wife would come to it in the spring of the year, that the orange-trees would be in bloom to meet her, and the mocking-birds be pouring out their fiery little hearts in melodious welcomes. elizabeth was just as happy in her preparations; there was a kind of mystery and sacredness about them, for a thoughtful woman is still in her joy, and not inclined to laughter or frivolity. but happy is the man whose bride thus dreams of him, for she will bring into his home and life the repose of a sure affection, the cheerfulness of a well-considered purpose. their correspondence was also peculiarly pleasant. elizabeth threw aside a little of her reserve. she spoke freely to richard of all her plans and fears and hopes. she no longer was shy in admitting her affection for him, her happiness in his presence, her loneliness without him. it was easy for richard to see that she was gladly casting away every feeling that stood between them. one morning, at the end of october, elizabeth put on her mantle and bonnet and went to see martha craven. she walked slowly, as a person walks who has an uncertain purpose. her face had a shadow on it; she sighed frequently, and was altogether a different elizabeth from the one who had gone, two days before, the same road with quick, firm tread and bright, uplifted face. martha saw her coming, and hasted to open the gate; but when elizabeth perceived that ben's wife was within, she said, "nay, martha, i don't want to stay. will you walk back part of the way with me?" "ay, for sure! i'll nobbut get my shawl, miss hallam. i was turning thee over i' my mind when, i saw thee coming. is there aught wrong?" "why do you ask, martha?" "nay, i'm sure i can't tell; only i can see fine that thou ar'n't same as thou was yesterday." they were just entering the park, and elizabeth stood musing while martha closed the gates. then, after walking a few yards, she said, "martha, do you believe the dead can speak to the living?" "ay, i do. if t' living will hear, t' dead will speak. there's good men--and john wesley among 'em--who lived w' one foot i' this world, and one in t' other. i would think man or woman hed varry little o' t' next world about 'em, who hed nivver seen or heard any thing from it. them that hev sat weeping on their bedside at midnight--them that hev prayed death away from t' cradle side--them that hev wrestled a' night long, as jacob did, they know whether t' next world visits this world or not. hev you seen aught, miss hallam?" "i have seen my father, martha. indeed i have." "i don't doubt it, not a minute. he'd hev a reason for coming." "he came to remind me of a duty and to strengthen me for it. ah, martha, martha! if this cup could pass from me! if this cup could pass from me!" "honey, dear, what can martha do for thee? ivery christian some time or other comes to gethsemane. i hev found that out. let this cup pass, lord. didn't i pray that prayer mysen, night and day?" "surely, martha, about ben--and god let it pass. but he does not always let it pass when we ask him." "then he does what is happen better--if we hev t' heart to trust him--he sends an angel to strengthen us to drink it. i hev seen them as drank it wi' thanksgiving." "o martha! i am very, very sorrowful about it." "and varry often, dearie, it is god's will for us to go forward--thou knows what i mean--to make a calvary of our breaking hearts, and offer there t' sacrifice that is dearest and hardest. can ta tell me what ta fears, dearie?" "just what you say, martha, that i must pass from gethsemane to calvary, and sacrifice there what is my dearest, sweetest hope; and i shall have to bear it alone." "nay, thou wont. it isn't fair o' thee to say that; for thou knows better. my word, miss hallam, there's love above and below, and strength all round about. if thee and me didn't believe that, o what a thing it would be!" "martha, i may need help, the help of man and the help of woman. can i trust to ben and you?" "i can speak for both of us. we'll wear our last breath i' your service. neither ben nor i are made o' stuff that'll shrink in t' wetting. you can count on that, miss hallam." the next evening, just after dusk, elizabeth was standing at the dining-room window. the butler had just arranged the silver upon the sideboard, and was taking some last orders from his mistress. he was an old man with many infirmities, both of body and temper, but he had served hallam for fifty years, and was permitted many privileges. one of these was plain speech; and after a moment's consideration upon the directions given him, he said: "there's summat troubling _them_ as are dead and gone, miss hallam. if i was thee, i'd hev mr. antony come and do his duty by t' land. _they_ don't like a woman i' their shoes." "what are you talking about, jasper?" "i know right well what i'm talking about, miss hallam. what does t' bible say? t' old men shall see visions--" he had advanced toward the window to draw the blinds, but elizabeth, with a face pale as ashes, turned quickly to him and said: "leave the blinds alone, jasper." she stood between him and the window, and he was amazed at the change in her face. "she's like 'em a'," he muttered, angrily, as he went to his own sitting-room. "you may put a bridle in t' wind's mouth as easy as you'll guide a woman. if i hed been t' young squire, i'd hev brokken t' will a' to bits, that i would. 'leave t' blinds alone, jasper!' highty-tighty, she is. but i've saved a bit o' brass, and i'll none stand it, not i!" so little do we know of the motives of the soul at our side! elizabeth was very far, indeed, from either pride or anger. but she had seen in the dim garden, peering out from the shrubbery, a white face that filled her with a sick fear. then she had but one thought, to get jasper out of the room, and was quite unconscious of having spoken with unusual anger or authority. when he had gone she softly turned the key in the door, put out the candles, and went to the window. in a few minutes antony stood facing her, and by a motion, asked to be admitted. "i don't want any one to know i have been here," he said, as he stood trembling before the fire. "it is raining, i am wet through, shivering, hungry. elizabeth, why don't you speak?" "why are you here--in this way?" she could hardly get the words out. her tongue was heavy, her speech as difficult as if she had been in some terror-haunted dream. "because i am going away--far away--forever. i wanted to see you first." "antony! my brother! antony, what have you done!" "hush, hush. get me some food and dry clothes." "go to my room. you are safer there." he slipped up the familiar stair, and elizabeth soon followed him. "here is wine and sweet-bread. i cannot get into the pantry or call for food without arousing remark. antony, what is the matter?" "i am ruined. eltham and those darraghs together have done it." "thank god! i feared something worse." "there is worse. i have forged two notes. together they make nearly l , . the first falls due in three days. i have no hope of redeeming it. i am going to the other end of the world. i am glad to go, for i am sick of every thing here. i'll do well yet. you will help me, elizabeth?" she could not answer him. "for our father's sake, for our mother's sake, you must help me away. it will be transportation for life. o, sister, give me another chance. i will put the wrong all right yet." by this time she had gathered her faculties together. "yes, i'll help you, dear. lie down and rest. i will go to martha. i can trust the cravens. is it liverpool you want to reach?" "no, no; any port but liverpool." "will whitehaven do?" "the best of all places." "i will return as quickly as possible." "but it is raining heavily, and the park is so gloomy. let me go with you." "i must go alone." he looked at her with sorrow and tenderness and bitter shame. her face showed white as marble against the dead black of her dress, but there was also in it a strength and purpose to which he fully trusted. "i must ring for my maid and dismiss her, and you had better go to your own old room, antony;" and as he softly trod the corridor, lined with the faces of his forefathers, elizabeth followed him in thought, and shuddered at the mental picture she evoked. then she rang her bell, gave some trivial order, and excused her maid for the night. a quarter of an hour afterward she was hastening through the park, scarcely heeding the soaking rain, or the chill, or darkness, in the pre-occupation of her thoughts. she had flung a thick shawl over her head and shoulders, a fashion so universal as to greatly lessen her chance of being observed, and when she came to the park gates she looked up and down for some circumstance to guide her further steps. she found it in the lighted windows of the methodist chapel. there was evidently a service there, and martha would be present. if she waited patiently she would pass the gates, and she could call her. but it was a wretched hour before martha came, and elizabeth was wet and shivering and sick with many a terror. fortunately martha was alone, and the moment elizabeth spoke she understood, without surprise or explanations, that there was trouble in which she could help. "martha, where is ben?" "he stopp'd to t' leaders' meeting. he'll be along in a little bit." "can he bring a wool-comber's suit and apron, and be at the gates, here, with-his tax-cart in a couple of hours?" "yes; i know he can." "martha, can you get me some bread and meat, without any one knowing?" "ay; i can. mary'll be up stairs wi' t' baby, i'se warrant. i'll be back wi' it, i' five minutes;" and she left elizabeth walking restlessly just inside the gates. the five minutes looked an hour to her, but in reality martha returned very speedily with a small basket of cold meat and bread. "my brother, martha, my brother, will be here in two hours. see that ben is ready. he must be in whitehaven as soon as possible to-morrow. don't forget the clothes." "i'll forget nothing that's needful. ben'll be waiting. god help, you, miss hallam!" elizabeth answered with a low cry, and martha watched her a moment hastening through the rain and darkness, ere she turned back toward the chapel to wait for ben. a new terror seized elizabeth as she returned. what if jasper had locked the doors? how would it be possible for her to account for her strange absence from the house at that hour? but antony had also thought of this, and after the main doors had been closed he had softly undone a side entrance, and watched near it for his sister's return. his punishment begun when he saw her wretched condition; but there was no time then for either apologies or reproaches. "eat," she said, putting the basket before him; "and ben will be at the gates with his tax-cart. he will take you to whitehaven." "can i trust ben?" she looked at him sadly. "you must have been much wronged, antony, to doubt the cravens." "i have." "god pity and pardon you." he ate in silence, glancing furtively at his sister, who sat white and motionless opposite him. there was no light but the fire-light; and the atmosphere of the room had that singular sensitiveness that is apparent enough when the spiritual body is on the alert. it felt full of "presence;" was tremulous, as if stirred by wings; and seemed to press heavily, and to make sighing a relief. after antony had eaten he lay down upon a couch and fell into an uneasy sleep, and so continued, until elizabeth touched him, and said, softly, "it is time, my dear. ben will be waiting." then he stood up and looked at her. she took his hands, she threw her arms around his neck, she sobbed great, heavy, quiet sobs against his breast. she felt that it was a last farewell--that she would never see his face again. and antony could not restrain himself. he kissed her with despairing grief. he made passionate promises of atonement. he came back three times to kiss once more the white cold face so dear to him, and each time he kissed a prayer for his safety and pardon off her lips. at the last moment he said, "your love is great, elizabeth. my little boy! i have wronged him shamefully." "he shall be my child. he shall never know shame. i will take the most loving care of his future. you may trust him to me, antony." then he went away. elizabeth tried to see him from the window, but the night was dark, and he kept among the shrubbery. at such hours the soul apprehends and has presentiments and feelings which it obeys without analyzing them. she paced the long corridor, feeling no chill and no fear, and seeming to see clearly the pictured faces around her. she was praying; and among them she did not feel as if she was praying aloud. she remembered in that hour many things that her father had said to her about antony. she knew then the meaning of that strange cry on her mother's dying lips--"a far country! bring my son home!" for an hour or two it was only antony's danger and shame, only antony's crime, she could think of. but when the reaction came she perceived that she must work as well as pray. two questions first suggested themselves for her solution. should she go to whaley for advice, or act entirely on her own responsibility? would she be able to influence page and thorley, the bankers who held her brother's forged notes, by a personal visit? she dismissed all efforts at reasoning, she determined to let herself be guided by those impressions which we call "instinct." she could not reason, but she tried to feel. and she felt most decidedly that she would have no counselor but her own heart. she, would doubtless do what any lawyer would call "foolish things;" but that was a case where "foolishness" might be the highest wisdom. she said to herself, "my intellect is often at fault, but where antony and hallam are concerned i am sure that i can trust my heart." as to page and thorley, she knew that they had had frequently business transactions with her father. mr. thorley had once been at the hall; he would know thoroughly the value of the proposal she intended making them; and, upon the whole, it appeared to be the wisest plan to see them personally. in fact, she did not feel as if she could endure the delay and the uncertainty of a correspondence on the subject. the morning of the second day after antony's flight she was in london. in business an englishman throws over politeness. he says, "how do you do?" very much as if he was saying, "leave me alone;" and he is not inclined to answer questions, save, by "yes" or "no." elizabeth perceived at once that tears or weakness would damage her cause, and that the only way to meet antony's wrong was to repair it, and to do this in the plainest and simplest manner possible. "i am miss hallam." "take a seat, miss hallam." "you hold two notes of my brothers, one purporting to be drawn by lord eltham for l , ; the other by squire francis horton for l , ." "yes; why 'purporting?'" "they are forgeries." "my--! miss hallam, do you know what you are saying?" "i do. my brother has left england. he is ruined." "i told you, page!" said thorley, with much irritation; "but you would believe the rascal." elizabeth colored painfully, and mr. thorley said, "you must excuse me, miss hallam--" "this is not a question for politeness, but business. i will pay the bills. you know i am sole proprietor of hallam." "yes." "the case is this. if you suffer the notes to be protested, and the law to take its course, you will get nothing. you may punish mr. hallam, if you succeed in finding him; but will not the money be better for you?" "we have duties as citizens, miss hallam." "there has been no wrong done which i cannot put right. no one knows of this wrong but ourselves. i might plead mercy for so young a man, might tell you that even justice sometimes wisely passes by a fault, might remind you of my father and the unsullied honor of an old name; yes, i might say all this, and more, but i only say, will you let me assume the debt, and pay it?" "how do you propose to do this, miss hallam?" "the income from the estate is about l , a year. i will make it over to you." "how will you live?" "that is my affair." "there may be very unpleasant constructions put upon your conduct--for it will not be understood." "i am prepared for that." "will you call for our answer in three hours?" "will you promise me to take no steps against my brother in the interim?" "yes; we can do that. but if we refuse your offer, miss hallam?" "i must then ask your forbearance until i see lord eltham and squire horton. the humiliation will be very great, but they will not refuse me." she asked permission to wait in an outer office, and mr. page, passing through it an hour afterward, was so touched by the pathetic motionless figure in deep mourning, that he went back to his partner, and said, "thorley, we are going to agree to miss hallam's proposal; why keep her in suspense?" "there is no need. it is not her fault in any way." but elizabeth was obliged to remain two days in london before the necessary papers were drawn out and signed, and they were days of constant terror and anguish. she went neither to antony's house, nor to his place of business; but remained in her hotel, so anxious on this subject, that she could not force her mind to entertain any other. at length all was arranged, and it did comfort her slightly that both page and thorley were touched by her grief and unselfishness into a spontaneous expression of their sympathy with her: "you have done a good thing, miss hallam," said mr. page, "and page and thorley fully understand and appreciate your motives;" and the kind faces and firm hand-clasps of the two men brought such a look into elizabeth's sorrowful eyes, that they both turned hurriedly away from her. during her journey home she slept heavily most of the way; but when she awoke among the familiar hills and dales, it was as if she had been roused to consciousness by a surgeon's knife. a quick pang of shame and terror and a keen disappointment turned her heart sick; but with it came also a sense of renewed courage and strength, and a determination to face and conquer every trouble before her. jasper met her, and he looked suspiciously at her. for his part, he distrusted all women, and he could not understand why his mistress had found it necessary to go to london. but he was touched in his way by her white, weary face, and he busied himself in making the fire burn bright, and in setting out her dinner table with all the womanly delicacies he knew she liked. if elizabeth could only have fully trusted him, jasper would have been true as steel to her, a very sure and certain friend; but he resented trouble from which he was shut out, and he was shrewd enough to feel that it was present, though hidden from him. "has any one been here while i was, absent, jasper?" "ay, squire fairleigh and miss fairleigh called; and martha craven was here this morning. i think martha is talking wi' nancy bates now--she looked a bit i' trouble. it's like ben's wife hes hed a fuss wi' her!" "i think not, jasper. tell her i wish to see her." the two women stood looking at each other a moment, elizabeth trembling with anxiety, martha listening to the retreating steps of jasper. "it is a' as you wished, miss hallam." "is ben back?" "ay, early this morning." "did he meet any one he knew?" "he met tim hardcastle just outside hallam, _that night_. tim said, 'thou's late starting wheriver to, ben;' and ben said, 'nay, i'm early. if a man wants a bit o' good wool he's got to be after it.' this morning he came back wi' tax-cart full o' wool." "and my brother?" "he sailed from whitehaven yesterday." "to what place?" "ben asked no questions. if he doesn't know where mr. hallam went to, he can't say as he does. it's best to know nowt, if you are asked." "o martha!" "hush, dearie! thou must go and sleep now. thou's fair worn out. to-morrow'll do for crying." but sleep comes not to those who call it. elizabeth in the darkness saw clearly, in the silence felt, the stir and trouble of a stormy sea surging up to her feet. it was not sleep she needed, so much as that soul-repose which comes from a decided mind. her attitude toward her own little world and toward richard was still uncertain. she had not felt able to face either subject as yet. two days after her return the papers were full of her brother's failure and flight. many hard things were said of antony hallam; and men forgave more easily the reckless speculation which had robbed them, than the want of manly courage which had made him fly from the consequences of his wrongdoing. it was a bitter ordeal for a woman as proud as elizabeth to face alone. but she resented most of all that debt of shame which had prevented her devoting the income of hallam to the satisfaction of her brother's creditors. for them she could do nothing, and some of them were wealthy farmers and traders living in the neighborhood of hallam, and who had had a blind faith in the integrity and solvency of a house with a hallam at the head of it. these men began to grumble at their loss, and to be quite sure that "t' old squire would nivver hev let 'em lose a farthing;" and to look so pointedly at miss hallam, even on sundays, that she felt the road to and from church a way of sorrow and humiliation. nor could she wholly blame them. she knew that her father's good name had induced these men to trust their money with antony; and she knew, also, that her father would have been very likely to have done as they were constantly asserting he would--"mortgage his last acre to pay them." and she could not explain that terrible first claim to them, since she had decided to bear every personal disgrace and disappointment, rather than suffer the name of hallam to be dragged through the criminal courts, and associated with a felon. not even to whaley, not even to richard, would she tell the shameful secret; therefore she must manage her own affairs, and this would necessarily compel her to postpone, perhaps relinquish altogether, her marriage. her first sorrowful duty was to write to richard. he got the letter one lovely morning in november. he was breakfasting on the piazza and looking over some estimates for an addition to the conservatory. he was angry and astonished. what could elizabeth mean by another and an indefinite delay? he was far from regarding antony's failure as a never-to-be-wiped-out stain, and he was not much astonished at his flight. he had never regarded antony as a man of moral courage, or even of inflexible moral principles, and he failed to see how antony's affairs should have the power to overthrow his plans. but elizabeth positively forbid him to come; positively asserted that her marriage, at a time of such public shame and disapproval, would be a thing impossible to contemplate. she said that she herself had no desire for it, and that every instinct of her nature forbid her to run away from her painful position, and thus incur the charge of cowardice which had been so freely attached to antony. it was true that the positive sternness of these truths were softened by a despairing tenderness, a depth of sorrow and disappointment, and an avowal of undying love and truth which it was impossible to doubt. but this was small comfort to the young man. his first impulse was one of extreme weariness of the whole affair. he had been put off from year to year, until he felt it a humiliation to accept any further excuses. and this time his humiliation would in a measure be a public one. his preparations for marriage were widely known, for he had spoken freely to his friends of the event. he had spent a large sum of money in adding to and in decorating his home. it was altogether a climax of the most painful nature to him. elizabeth had fully released him from every obligation, but at the same time she had declared that her whole life would be consecrated to his memory. richard felt that the release was just as nominal in his own case. he knew that he never could love any woman but elizabeth hallam, and that just as long as she loved him, she held him by ties no words could annul. but he accepted her dictum; and the very fullness of his heart, and the very extremity of his disappointment, deprived him of the power to express his true feelings. his letter to elizabeth was colder and prouder than he meant it to be; and had that sorrowfully resentful air about it which a child wears who is unjustly punished and yet knows not how to defend himself. it came to elizabeth after a day of extreme humiliation--the day on which she called her household servants together and dismissed them. she had been able to give them no reason for her action, but a necessity for economy, and to soften the dismissal by no gift. adversity flatters no one, and not a soul expressed any grief at the sundering of the tie. she was even conscious, as she had frequently been since antony's failure, of an air, that deeply offended her--a familiarity that was not a friendly one--the covert presumption of the mean-hearted toward their unfortunate superiors. she did not hear the subsequent conversation in the servants' hall, and it was well she did not, for, though the insolence that vaunts itself covertly is hard to bear, it is not so hard as that which visibly hurts the eye and offends the ear. "thank goodness!" said jasper, "i've saved a bit o' brass, and miss may be as highty-tighty as she likes. this is what comes o' lettin' women out o' t' place god put 'em in." "she's gettin' that near and close," said cook, "i wouldn't stop wi' her for nowt. it's been, 'ann, be careful here,' and, 'ann, don't waste there,' till i'se fair sick o' it. she'll not get me to mak' mysen as mean as that. such like goings on, i nivver!" "and she's worst to please as iver was!" said sarah lister, miss hallam's maid. "i'm sure i don't know what's come over her lately. she used to give me many a dress and bit o' lace or ribbon. she gives nowt now. it isn't fair, you know!" "she's savin' for that foreign chap, that's what it is," said jasper. "i'll nivver believe but what t' land goes back to t' male heirs some way or t' other. it stands to reason that it should; and she's gettin' a' she can, while she holds t' keys. she'll mak' a mess o' it, see if she doesn't!" and with this feeling flavoring the household, elizabeth found the last month of the year a dismal and resentful one. in pursuance of the plans she had laid down for herself, the strictest economy was imperative; for what little she could, now save from the plenty of the old housekeeping, might have to see her through many days. at christmas she bid "good-bye" to every one of her old servants, and even this simple duty had its trial. she stood a hard ten minutes with the few sovereigns in her hand which would be requisite if she gave them their usual christmas gratuity. pride urged her to give it; prudence told her, "you will need it." she was not forgetful of the unkind things that would be said of her, but she replaced the money in her desk with this reflection, "i have paid them fully for their service; i must be just before i am generous." they left early in the day, and for a few hours elizabeth was the only soul in the old hall. but at night-fall ben craven's tax-cart brought his mother, and a few of her personal belongings, and then the village gossips understood "what miss hallam was going to do with hersen." martha took entire charge of the hall, and of all its treasures; and the lonely mistress went to her room that night with the happy consciousness that all she had was in loving and prudent keeping. it was also a great comfort to feel that she was not under the constant prying of unsympathetic eyes. elizabeth had suffered keenly from that bitterest of all oppressions, heart-constraint. she often wished to weep, but did not dare. the first servant that entered the room was her master. she owed him a calm expression of face and pleasant words, and if she failed to give them he rent her secret from her. o be certain that every sorrowful soul sighs for the night, as the watchman of judaea did for the morning. it longs for the shadows that conceal its tears; it invokes the darkness which gave it back to itself! with a sense of infinite relief elizabeth sat in the still house. it was pleasant to hear only martha's feet going to and fro; to feel that, at last, she was at liberty to speak or to be silent, to smile or to weep, to eat or to let food alone. when martha brought in her bedroom candle, and said, "good-night, miss hallam; you needn't hev a care about t' house, i'll see to ivery thing," elizabeth knew all was right, and went with an easy mind to her own room. christmas-eve! she had looked forward all the year to it. richard was to have been at hallam for christmas. she had thought of asking antony and his wife and child, of filling the old rooms with young, bright faces, and of heralding in her new life in the midst of christmas joys. she had pleased herself with the hope of telling antony all her plans about "the succession." she had dreamed many a bright dream of her bridal in the old church, and of the lovely home to which she was going soon after the new year. it was hard to give all up! still harder to suffer, in addition, misconstruction and visible dislike and contempt. "why had it been permitted?" she fell asleep with the question in her heart, and was awakened by the singing of the waits. it was a chill, windy night, with a young moon plunging wildly in and out a sea of black driving clouds. she sat by the fire listening to the dying melody, and thinking of the christmas-eve when phyllis stood by her side, and the world seemed so full of happiness and hope. she had had a letter from phyllis a few days before, a very loving, comforting, trustful letter, and she thought she would read it again. it had been laid within a book which phyllis had given her, and she brought it to the fireside. it was a volume of poetry, and elizabeth was not poetical. she could not remember having read a page in this volume, but as she lifted the letter her eyes fell upon these words: "the priests must serve each in his course, and we must stand in turn awake with sorrow, in the temple dim to bless the lord by night." the words affected her strangely; she turned the page backward, and read, "it is the night, and in the temple of the lord, not made by mortal hands, the lights are burning low before the altar. clouds of darkness fill the vastness of the sacred aisles.... ... a few short years ago and all the temple courts were thronged with those who worshiped and gave thanks before they went to take their rest. who shall bless his name at midnight? "lo! a band of pale yet joyful priests do minister around the altar, where the lights are burning low in the breathless night. each grave brow wears the crown of sorrow, and each heart is kept awake by its own restless pain: for these are they to whom the night-watch is appointed. see! they lift their hands and bless god in the night whilst we are sleeping: those to whom the king has measured out a cup of sorrow, sweet with his dear love; yet very hard to drink, are waking in his temple; and the eyes that cannot sleep for sorrow or for pain are lifted up to heaven, and sweet low songs broken by patient tears, arise to god. "the priests must serve each in his course, and we must stand in turn awake with sorrow in the temple dim, to bless the lord by night. we will not fear when we are called at midnight by some stroke of sudden pain, to rise and minister before the lord. we too will bless his name in the solemn night, and stretch out our hands to him." and she paused, and lifted a face full of joy and confidence. a new light came into her soul; and, standing up before the lord, she answered the message in the words of bunyan, "i am willing with all my heart, lord!" chapter ix. "walk boldly and wisely in that light thou hast, there is a hand above will help thee on. "i deemed thy garments, o my hope, were gray, so far i viewed thee. now the space between is passed at length; and garmented in green even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day." "bless love and hope. full many a withered year whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday; and clasped together where the brown leaves lay, we long have knelt and wept full many a tear, yet lo! one hour at last, the spring's compeer, flutes softly to us from some green by-way, those years, those tears are dead; but only they bless love and hope, true souls, for we are here." the strength that had come to elizabeth with a complete resignation to the will of god was sorely needed and tested during the following week. it had been arranged between herself and page and thorley that they should have the whole income of the hallam estate, deducting only from it the regular cost of collection. whaley brothers had hitherto had the collection, and had been accustomed to deposit all proceeds in the banking-house of their brother-in-law, josiah broadbent. elizabeth had determined to be her own collector. the fees for the duty would be of the greatest service to her in her impoverished condition; and she did not wish the broadbents and whaleys to know what disposition was made of the revenue of hallam. but the whaleys were much offended at the change. they had so long managed the business of hallam, that they said the supposition was unavoidable, that elizabeth suspected them of wronging her, as soon as there was no man to overlook matters. they declared that they had done their duty as faithfully as if she had been able to check them at every turn, and even said they would prefer to do that duty gratis, rather than relinquish a charge with which the whaleys had been identified for three generations. but elizabeth had reasons for her conduct which she could not explain; and the transfer was finally made in a spirit of anger at a supposed wrong. it grieved her very much, for she was unused to disputes, and she could not look at the affair in a merely business light. with some of the older tenants her interviews were scarcely more pleasant. they had been accustomed to meeting one of the whaleys at "the rose and crown inn," and having a good dinner and a few pints of strong ale over their own accounts. there was no prospect of "makkin' a day o' it" with miss hallam; and they had, besides, a dim idea that they rather lowered their dignity in doing business with a woman. however, elizabeth succeeded in thoroughly winning peter crag, the tenant of the home farm, and a man of considerable influence with men of his own class. he would not listen to any complaints on the subject. "she's a varry sensible lass," he said, striking his fist heavily on the table; "she's done right, to get out o' t' whaleys' hands. i've been under their thumbs mysen; and i know what it is. i'm bound to do right by squire henry's daughter, and i'd like to see them as is thinking o' doing wrong, or o' giving her any trouble--" and as his eyes traveled slowly round the company, every man gravely shook his head in emphatic denial of any such intention. still, even with peter crag to stand behind her, elizabeth did not find her self-elected office an easy one. she was quite sure that many a complaint was entered, and many a demand made, that would never have been thought of if whaley had been the judge of their justice. she had to look at her position in many lights, and chiefly in that of at least five years' poverty. at the new-year she withdrew her balance from josiah broadbent's. it was but little over l , and this sum was to be her capital upon which, in cases of extra expenditure, she must rely. for she had no idea of letting either the house or grounds fall into decay or disorder. she calculated on many days of extra hire to look after the condition of the timber in the park, the carriages and the saddlery, and the roofs and gutterings of the hall and the outhouses. she had carefully considered all necessary expenditures, and she had tried in imagination to face every annoyance in connection with her peculiar position. but facing annoyances in reality is a different thing, and elizabeth's sprang up from causes quite unforeseen, and from people whom she had never remembered. she had a calm, proud, self-reliant nature, but such natures are specially wounded by small stings; and elizabeth brought home with her from her necessary daily investigations many a sore heart, and many a throbbing, nervous headache. all the spirit of her fathers was in her. she met insult and wrong with all their keen sense of its intolerable nature, and the hand that grasped her riding whip could have used it to as good purpose as her father would have done, only, that it was restrained by considerations which would not have bound him. in her home she had, however, a shelter of great peace. her neighbors and acquaintances dropped her without ceremony. the whaleys had thought it necessary in their own defense to say some unkind things, and to suppose others still more unkind; and it was more convenient for people to assume the whaleys' position to be the right one, than to continue civilities to a woman who had violated the traditionary customs of her sex, and who was not in a position to return them. but in her home martha's influence was in every room, and it always brought rest and calm. she knew instinctively when she was needed, and when solitude was needed; when elizabeth would chose to bear her troubles in silence, and when she wanted the comfort of a sympathizing listener. thus the first nine months of her ordeal passed. she heard during them several times from phyllis, but never one line had come from richard, or from antony. poor antony! he had dropped as absolutely out of her ken as a stone dropped in mid-ocean. the silence of both richard and her brother hurt her deeply. she thought she could have trusted richard if their positions had been reversed. she was sure she would have helped and strengthened him by constant hopeful letters. for a month or two she watched anxiously for a word; then, with a keen pang, gave up the hope entirely. through phyllis she learned that he was still in new orleans, and that he had gone into partnership with a firm who did a large mexican trade. "he is making money fast," said phyllis, "but he cares little for it." it is one good thing in a regular life that habit reconciles us to what was at first very distasteful. as the months went on elizabeth's business difficulties lessened. the tenants got accustomed to her, and realized that she was neither going to impose upon them, nor yet suffer herself to be imposed upon. the women found her sympathizing and helpful in their peculiar troubles, and there began to be days when she felt some of the pleasures of authority, and of the power to confer favors. so the summer and autumn passed, and she began to look toward the end of her first year's management. so far its record had been favorable; page and thorley had had no reason to complain of the three installments sent them. she was sitting making up her accounts one evening at the end of october. it was quite dark, and very cold, and martha had just built up a fire, and was setting a little table on the hearth-rug for miss hallam's tea. suddenly the bell of the great gates rang a peal which reverberated through the silent house. there was no time for comment. the peal had been an urgent one, and it was repeated as martha, followed by elizabeth, hastened to the gates. a carriage was standing there, and a man beside it, who was evidently in anxiety or fright. "come away wi' you! don't let folks die waiting for you. here's a lady be varry near it, i do be thinking." the next moment martha was helping him to carry into the house a slight, unconscious form. as they did so, elizabeth heard a shrill cry, and saw a little face peering out of the open door of the carriage. she hastened to it, and a child put out his arms and said, "is you my aunt 'izzy?" then elizabeth knew who it was. "o my darling!" she cried, and clasped the little fellow to her breast, and carried him into the house with his arms around her neck and his cheeks against hers. evelyn lay, a shadow of her former self, upon a sofa; but in a short time she recovered her consciousness and, opening her large, sad eyes, let them rest upon elizabeth--who still held the boy to her breast. "i am come to you, elizabeth. i am come here to die. do not send me away. it will not be long." "long or short, evelyn, this is your home. you are very, very welcome to it. i am glad to have you near me." there was no more said at that time, but little by little the poor lady's sorrowful tale was told. after antony's failure she had returned to her father's house. "but i soon found myself in every one's way," she said, mournfully. "i had not done well for the family--they were disappointed. i was interfering with my younger sisters--i had no money--i was an eye-sore, a disgrace. and little harry was a trouble. the younger children mocked and teazed him. the day before i left a servant struck him, and my mother defended the servant. then i thought of you. i thought you loved the child, and would not like him to be ill-used when i can no longer love him." "i do love him, evelyn; and no one shall ill-use him while i live." "thank god! now the bitterness of death is passed. there is nothing else to leave." the boy was a lovely boy, inheriting his father's _physique_ with much of his mother's sensitive refined nature. he was a great joy in the silent, old house. he came, too, just at the time when elizabeth, having conquered the first great pangs of her sorrow, was needing some fresh interest in life. she adopted him with all her heart. he was her lost brother's only child, he was the prospective heir of hallam. in him were centered all the interests of the struggle she was making. she loved him fondly, with a wise and provident affection. it scarcely seemed to pain evelyn that he clung to elizabeth more than to herself. "he cannot reason yet," she said, "and instinct leads him to you. he feels that you are strong to love and protect him. i am too weak to do any thing but die." she was, indeed, unable to bear his presence long at a time; and his short visits to the silent, darkened chamber were full of awe and mystery to the sensitive child. in a month it became evident that the end was very near. she suffered much, and elizabeth left her as little as possible. she was quite dependent upon her love, for elizabeth had notified the dying lady's family of her dangerous condition, and no action of any kind was taken upon the information. one night evelyn seemed a little easier, and harry stayed longer with her. martha came three times for the child ere she would consent to let him go. then she took the pretty face in her hands, gave it one long gaze and kiss, and shut her eyes with a painful, pitiful gasp. elizabeth hastened to her side; but she knew what was passing in the mother's heart, and presumed not to intermeddle in her sorrow. but half an hour afterward, when she saw heavy tears steal slowly from under the closed eyelids, she said, as she wiped them, gently away, "dear evelyn, why do you weep?" "for my poor little wasted life, love; what a mistake it has been. i do not remember a single happiness in it." "your childhood, evelyn?" "i think it was saddest of all. children miss happiness most. my childhood was all books and lessons and a gloomy nursery, and servants who scolded us when we were well, and neglected us when we were sick. i remember when i had scarlet fever, they used to put a little water and jelly on a chair beside me at night, but i was too weak to reach them. what long hours of suffering! what terrors i endured from many causes!" "forget that now, dear." "i cannot. it had its influence on all the rest. then when i grew to childhood i heard but one thing: 'you must marry well.' i was ordered to make myself agreeable, to consider the good of the family, to remember my little sisters, my brothers who had no money and very few brains. it was to be my duty to sacrifice myself for them. antony saw me; he thought i should be of service to him. my father thought antony's business would provide for the younger boys. i was told to accept him, and i did. that is all about my life, elizabeth, i had my dream of love, and of being loved like all other girls, but--" "but antony was kind to you?" "yes; he was never unkind. he troubled me very little. but i was very lonely. poor antony! i can remember and understand now; he also had many sorrows. it was in those days i first began to pray, elizabeth. i found that god never got tired of hearing me complain; mother scarcely listened--she had so much to interest her--but god always listened." "poor evelyn!" "so i am watching quietly every day; whenever the sun shines brightly, i rise, and say, 'surely it is the shining of his face!' i think he will come to-night, elizabeth." "you have no fear now?" "it has gone. last night i dreamed of passing through a dreary river, and as i stumbled, blind and weak in the water, christ jesus stretched out his hand--a gentle, pierced hand, and immediately i was on the shore, and there was a great light whose glory awoke me. when the river is to cross, 'the hand' will be there." she spoke little afterward. about midnight there was a short struggle, and then a sudden solemn peace. she had touched the hand pierced for her salvation, and the weary was at rest. elizabeth had promised her that she should be laid in the church-yard at hallam. there was no opposition made to this disposition of the remains, and the funeral was very quietly performed. unfortunately, during all these changes the rector had been away. about a week before antony's flight he was compelled to go to the south of france. his health had failed in an alarming manner, and his recovery had been slow and uncertain. many a time, in her various trials, elizabeth had longed for his support. she had even thought that it might be possible to tell him the full measure of her sorrow. at evelyn's funeral she missed him very much. she remembered how tender and full of grace all his ministrations had been at her father's death. but the poor little lady's obsequies were as lonely and sad as her life. she was only the wife of an absconding debtor. she had died under the roof of a woman who had seriously offended society by not taking it into her confidence. it was a cold, rainy day; there was nothing to be gained in any respect by a wretched stand in the wet sodden grave-yard. even the curate in charge hurried over the service. the ceremony was so pitiably desolate that elizabeth wept at its remembrance for many a year; and between her and martha it was always a subject of sorrowful congratulation, that little harry had been too ill with a sore throat to go to the funeral; and had, therefore, not witnessed it. the wronged have always a hope that as time passes it will put the wrong right. but it was getting toward the close of the third year, and elizabeth's trial was no lighter. there had been variations in it. sometime during the first year an opinion had gained ground, that she was saving in order to pay her brother's debts. as there were many in the neighborhood interested in such a project, this report met with great favor; and while the hope survived elizabeth was graciously helped in her task of self-denial by a lifted hat, or a civil good-morning. but when two years had passed, and no meeting of the creditors had been called, hope in this direction turned to unreasonable anger. "she must hev saved nigh unto l , . why, then, doesn't she do t' right thing wi' it?" "she sticks to t' brass like glue; and it's none hers. i'm fair cap't wi' t' old squire. i did think he were an honest man; but i've given up that notion long sin'. he knew well enough what were coming, and so he left hallam to t' lass. it's a black shame a' through, thet it is!"--and thus does the shadow of sin stretch backward and forward; and not only wrong the living, but the dead also. in the summer after lady evelyn's death the rector returned. elizabeth did not hear of his arrival for a few days, and in those days the rector heard many things about elizabeth. he was pained and astonished; and, doubtless, his manner was influenced by his feelings, although he had no intention of allowing simple gossip to prejudice him against so old a friend as elizabeth hallam. but she felt an alien atmosphere, and it checked and chilled her. if she had had any disposition to make a confidant of the rector, after that visit it was gone. "his sickness and the influx of new lives and new elements into his life has changed him," she thought; "i will not tell him any thing." on the contrary, he expected her confidence. he called upon her several times in this expectation; but each time there was more perceptible an indefinable something which prevented it. in fact, he felt mortified by elizabeth's reticence. people had confidently expected that miss hallam would explain her conduct to him; some had even said, they were ready to resume friendly relations with her if the rector's attitude in the matter appeared to warrant it. it will easily be seen, then, that the return of her old friend, instead of dissipating the prejudice against her, deepened it. the third year was a very hard and gloomy one. it is true, she had paid more than half of page and thorley's claim, and that the estate was fully as prosperous as it had ever been in her father's time. but socially she felt herself to be almost a pariah. the rich and prosperous ignored her existence; and the poor? well, there was a change there that pained her equally. if she visited their cottages, and was pleasant and generous, they thought little of the grace. "there must be summat wrong wi' her, or all t' gentlefolks wouldn't treat her like t' dirt under their feet," said one old crone, after pocketing a shilling with a courtsey. "ay, and she wouldn't come smilin' and talkin' here, if she'd any body else to speak to. i'm a poor woman, betty tibbs, but i'm decent, and i'm none set up wi' miss' fair words--not i, indeed!" said another; and though people may not actually hear the syllables which mouth such sentiments, it seems really as if a bird of the air, or something still more subtle, did carry the matter, for the slandered person instinctively knows the slanderer. and no word of regret or of love came from antony to lighten the burden she was carrying. if she had only known that he was doing well, was endeavoring to redeem the past, it would have been some consolation. phyllis, also, wrote more seldom. she had now two children and a large number of servants to care for, and her time was filled with many sweet and engrossing interests. besides, though she fully believed in elizabeth, she did also feel for her brother. she thought richard, at any rate, ought to have been treated with full confidence, and half-feared that pride of her family and position was at the bottom of elizabeth's severance of the engagement. human nature is full of complexities, and no one probably ever acts from one pure and simple motive, however much they may believe they do. martha craven, however, was always true and gentle, and if any thing more respectful than in elizabeth's brightest days; and for this blessing she was very grateful. and the boy grew rapidly, and was very handsome and interesting; and no malignity could darken the sweet, handsome rooms or the shady flower-garden. however unpleasant her day among the tenants might have been, she could close her doors, and shut out the world, and feel sure of love and comfort within her own gates. things were in this condition in the spring of . but more than l , had been paid, and elizabeth looked with clear eyes toward this end of her task. socially, she was as far aloof as ever; perhaps more so, for during the winter she had found her courage often fail her regarding the church services. the walk was long on wet or cold days; the boy was subject to croupy sore throat; and her heart sank at the prospect of the social ordeal through which she must pass. it may be doubted whether people are really ever made better by petty slights and undeserved scorn. elizabeth had tried the discipline for three years, and every sabbath evening her face burned with the same anger, and her heart was full of the same resentment. so, it had often come to pass during the winter that she had staid at home upon inclement days, and read the service to her nephew and herself, and talked with the child about the boys of the old and new testaments. and it was noticeable, as indicating the thoughtful loving character of little harry, that of all the band he envied most the lad who had given his barley loaves to the saviour. he would listen to elizabeth's description of the green, desert place, and the weary multitudes, and the calm evening, and then begin to wonder, in his childish words, "how the saviour looked" at the boy--what he said to him--to fancy the smile of jesus and the touch of the divine hand, and following out his thought would say, softly, "how that little boy's heart must have ached when they crucified him! what would he do, aunt? does the bible say any more about him?" but sweet as such sabbaths were to both woman and child, elizabeth knew that they deepened the unfavorable opinion about her, and she was sure that they always grieved her old friend. so, one monday morning after an absence from church, she took the path through the park, determined to call upon him, and explain, as far as she was able, her reasons. it was a lovely day, and the child walked by her side, or ran hither and thither after a blue-bell, or a primrose; stopping sometimes behind, to watch a pair of building robins, or running on in advance after a rabbit. there was in elizabeth's heart a certain calm happiness, which she did not analyze, but was content to feel and enjoy. at a turn in the avenue she saw the rector approaching her, and there was something in his appearance, even in the distance, which annoyed and irritated her. "he is coming to reprove me, of course," she thought; and she mentally resolved for once, to defend herself against all assertions. "good-morning, miss hallam; i was coming to see you." "and i was going to the rectory. as the park is so pleasant, will you return with me?" "yes, i will. have you any idea why i was coming to see you?" "i have. it was to say something unjust or cruel, i suppose. no one ever comes to see me for any other purpose." "whose fault is that?" "not mine. i have done no wrong to any one." "what has your life been during the last three years?" "free from all evil. my worst enemy cannot accuse me." "why have you closed the hall? given up all the kind and hospitable ways of your ancestors? shut yourself up with one old woman?" "because my conscience and my heart approves what i have done, and do. can i not live as i choose? am i obliged to give an account of myself, and of my motives, to every man and woman in the parish? o! i have been cruelly, shamefully used!" she said, standing suddenly still and lifting her face, "god alone knows how cruelly and how unjustly!" "my dear child, people know nothing of your motives." "then they are wicked to judge without knowledge." "do you not owe society something?" "it has no right to insist that i wear my heart upon my sleeve." "i was your father's friend; i have known you from your birth, elizabeth hallam--" "yet you listened to what every one said against me, and allowed it so far to influence you that i was conscious of it, and though i called on you purposely to seek your help and advice, your manner closed my lips. you have known me from my birth. you knew and loved my father. o, sir, could you not have trusted me? if i had been your friend's son, instead of his daughter, you would have done so! you would have said to all evil speakers, 'mr. hallam has doubtless just reasons for the economy he is practicing.' but because i was a woman, i was suspected; and every thing i could not explain was necessarily wicked. o, how your doubt has wounded me! what wrong it has done me! how sorry you would be if you knew the injustice you have done the child of your old friend--the woman you baptized and confirmed, and never knew ill of!" standing still with her hand upon his arm she poured out her complaints with passionate earnestness; her face flushed and lifted, her eyes misty with unshed tears, her tall erect form quivering with emotion. and as the rector looked and listened a swift change came over his face. he laid his hand upon hers. when she ceased, he answered, promptly: "miss hallam, from this moment i believe in you with all my heart. i believe in the wisdom and purity of all you have done. whatever you may do in the future i shall trust in you. late as it is, take my sincere, my warm sympathy. if you choose to make me the sharer of your cares and sorrows, you will find me a true friend; if you think it right and best still to preserve silence, i am equally satisfied of your integrity." then he put her arm within his, and talked to her so wisely and gently that elizabeth found herself weeping soft, gracious, healing tears. she brought him once more into the squire's familiar sitting-room. she spread for him every delicacy she knew he liked. she took him all over the house and grounds, and made him see that every thing was kept in its old order. he asked no questions, and she volunteered no information. but he did not expect it at that time. it would not have been like elizabeth hallam to spill over either her joys or her sorrows at the first offer of sympathy. her nature was too self-contained for such effusiveness. but none the less the rector felt that the cloud had vanished. and he wondered that he had ever thought her capable of folly or wrong--that he had ever doubted her. after this he was every-where her champion. he was seen going to the hall with his old regularity. he took a great liking for the child, and had him frequently at the rectory. very soon people began to say that "miss hallam must hev done about t' right thing, or t' rector wouldn't iver uphold her;" and no one doubted but that all had been fully explained to him. yet it was not until the close of the year that the subject was again named between them. the day before christmas, a cold, snowy day, he was amazed to see elizabeth coming through the rectory garden, fighting her way, with bent head, against the wind and snow. at first he feared harry was ill, and he went to open the door himself in his anxiety; but one glance into her bright face dispelled his fear. "why, elizabeth, whatever has brought you through such a storm as this?" "something pleasant. i meant to have come yesterday, but did not get what i wanted to bring to you until this morning. my dear, dear, old friend! rejoice with me! i am a free woman again. i have paid a great debt and a just debt; one that, unpaid, would have stained forever the name we both love and honor. o thank god with me! the lord god of my fathers, who has strengthened my heart and my hands for the battle!" and though she said not another word, he understood, and he touched her brow reverently, and knelt down with her, and the thin, tremulous, aged voice, and the young, joyful one recited together the glad _benedictus_: "blessed be the lord god of israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his people, "and hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant david; "as he spake by the mouth of his holy prophets, which have been since the world began: "that we should be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us; "to perform the mercy promised to our fathers, and to remember his holy covenant; "the oath which he sware to our father abraham, "that he would grant unto us, that we, being delivered out of the hand of our enemies, might serve him without fear, "in holiness and righteousness before him, all the days of our life. "and thou, child, shall be called the prophet of the highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the lord to prepare his ways; "to give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of their sins, "through the tender mercy of our god; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, "to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace." and elizabeth rose up with a face radiant and peaceful; she laid upon the table l , and said, "it is for the poor. it is my thank-offering. i sold the bracelet my brother gave me at his marriage for it. i give it gladly with my whole heart. i have much to do yet, but in the rest of my work i can ask you for advice and sympathy. it will be a great help and comfort. will you come to the hall after christmas and speak with me, or shall i come here and see you?" "i will come to the hall; for i have a book for harry, and i wish to give it to him myself." the result of this interview was that the rector called upon the firm of whaley brothers, and that the elder whaley called upon elizabeth. he attempted some apology at first, but she graciously put it aside: "there has been a mistake, mr. whaley. let it pass. i wish you to communicate with all the creditors of the late firm of antony hallam. every shilling is to be paid and the income of the estate will be devoted to it, with the exception of the home farm, the rental of which i will reserve for my own necessities, and for keeping hallam in order." and to martha elizabeth said: "we are going to live a little more like the hall now, martha. you shall have two girls to help you, and peter crag shall bring a pony for harry, and we'll be as happy as never was again! we have had a bit of dark, hard road to go over, but the end of it has come. thank god!" "it's varry few as find any road through life an easy one; t' road to heaven is by weeping cross, miss hallam." "i don't know why that should be, martha. if any have reason to sing, as they go through life, they should be the children of the king." "it's t' sons o' t' king that hev t' battles to fight and t' prayers to offer, and t' sacrifices to mak' for a' t' rest o' t' world, i think. what made john wesley, and the men like him, be up early and late, be stoned by mobs, and perish'd wi' cold and hunger? not as they needed to do it for their own profit, but just because they were the sons o' t' king, they couldn't help it. christians mustn't complain of any kind o' a road that tak's 'em home." "but sometimes, martha, it seems as if the other road was so smooth and pleasant." "two roads are a bit different--t' road to babylon and t' road to jerusalem aren't t' same. you may go dancin' along t' first; the last is often varry narrow and steep." "but one can't help wondering why." "if it wasn't narrow, and varry narrow, too, miss hallam, fenced in, and watchmen set all along it, we'd be strayin' far and near, and ivery one o' us going our own way. there isn't a church i knows of--not even t' people called methodists--as mak's it narrow enough to prevent lost sheep. but it isn't all t' hill o' difficulty, miss hallam. it isn't fair to say that. there's many an arbor on t' hill-side, and many a house beautiful, and whiles we may bide a bit wi' t' shepherds on t' delectable mountains. and no soul need walk alone on it. that's t' glory and t' comfort! and many a time we're strengthened, and many a time we're carried a bit by unseen hands." "well, martha, those are pleasant thoughts to sleep on, and to-morrow--to-morrow will be another day." "and a good one, miss hallam; anyhow, them as bodes good are t' likeliest to get it. i do think that." so elizabeth went to sleep full of pleasant hopes and aims. it had always been her intention to pay every penny that antony hallam owed; and she felt a strange sense of delight and freedom in the knowledge that the duty had begun. fortunately, she had in this sense of performed duty all the reward she asked or expected, for if it had not satisfied her, she would have surely been grieved and disappointed with the way the information was generally received. no one is ever surprised at a bad action, but a good one makes human nature at once look for a bad motive for it. "she's found out that it wont pay her to hold on to other folks' money. why-a! nobody notices her, and nivver a sweetheart comes her way." "i thought we'd bring her to terms, if we nobbut made it hot enough for her. bless you, josiah! women folks can't live without their cronying and companying." "it's nobbut right she should pay ivery penny, and i tell'd her so last time i met her on hallam common." "did ta? why, thou hed gumption! whativer did she say to thee?" "she reddened up like t' old squire used to, and her eyes snapped like two pistols; and says she, 'marmaduke halcroft, you'll get every farthing o' your money when i get ready to pay it.'" "thank you, miss," says i, "all the same, i'll be bold to mention that i've waited going on five years for it." "'and you may wait five years longer, for there are others besides you,' says she, as peacocky as any thing, 'but you'll get it;' and wi' that, she laid her whip across her mare in a way as made me feel it were across my face, and went away so quick i couldn't get another word in. but women will hev t' last word, if they die for 't." "if she'll pay t' brass, she can hev as many words as she wants; i'm none flayed for any woman's tongue--not i, indeed." and these sentiments, expressed in forms more or less polite, were the prevailing ones regarding miss hallam's tardy acknowledgment of the debt of hallam to the neighborhood. many were the discussions in fashionable drawing-rooms as to the propriety of rewarding the justice of elizabeth's action, by bows, or smiles, or calls. but privately few people were really inclined, as yet, to renew civilities with her. they argued, in their own hearts, that during the many years of retrenchment she could not afford to return hospitalities on a scale of equivalent splendor; and, in fact, poverty is offensive to wealth, and they had already treated miss hallam badly, and, therefore, disliked her. it was an irritation to have the disagreeable subject forced upon their attention at all. if she had assumed her brother's debts at the time of his failure, they were quite sure they would have honored her, however poor she had left herself. but humanity has its statutes of limitation even for good deeds; every one decided that elizabeth had become honorable and honest too late. and for once the men were as hard as their wives. they had resented the fact of a woman being set among the ranks of great english squires; but having been put there, they expected from her virtues of far more illustrious character than they would have demanded from a man. "for whativer can a woman need wi' so much brass?" asked squire horton, indignantly. "she doesn't hunt, and she can't run for t' county, and what better could she hev done than clear an old yorkshire name o' its dirty trade stain. i'll lay a five-pound note as squire henry left her all for t' varry purpose. he nivver thought much o' his son antony's fine schemes." "there's them as thinks he left her hallam to prevent antony wearing it on his creditors." "there's them thet thinks evil o' god almighty himsen, thomas baxter. henry hallam was a gentleman to t' bone. he'd hev paid ivery shilling afore this if he'd been alive. yorkshire squires like their own, but they don't want what belongs to other folk; not they. squire hallam was one o' t' best of us. he was that." and though elizabeth had expected nothing better from her neighbors, their continued coldness hurt her. who of us is there that has not experienced that painful surprise that the repulsion of others awakens in our hearts? we feel kindly to them, but they draw back their hand from us; an antipathy estranges them, they pass us by. what avail is it to tell them that appearances deceive, that calumny has done us wrong? what good is it to defend ourself, when no one cares to listen? when we are condemned before we have spoken? nothing is so cruel as prejudice; she is blind and deaf; she shuts her eyes purposely, that she may stab boldly; for she knows, if she were to look honestly at her victim, she could not do it. but o, it is from these desolate places that heart-cry comes which brings god out of his sanctuary, which calls jesus to our side to walk there with us. it is in the deserts we have met angels. a great trial is almost a necessity for a true christian life; for faith needs a soil that has been deeply plowed. the seed cast upon the surface rarely finds the circumstances that are sufficient for its development. and blessed also are those souls to whom the "long watches" of sorrow are given! it is a great, soul that is capable of long-continued suffering, and that can bring to it day after day a heart at once submissive and energetic and all vibrating with hope. yet it may be fairly said that elizabeth hallam was now upon this plane. her road was still rough, but she was traveling in the daylight, strong and cheerful, and very happy in the added pleasure of her life. her five years of enforced poverty had taught her simple habits. she felt rich with the l yearly rental of the home farm. and it was such a delight to have harry ride by her side; she was so proud of the fair, bright boy. she loved him so dearly. he had just begun to study two hours every day with the curate, and to the two women at the hall it was a great event every morning to watch him away to the village on his pony, with his books in a leather strap hung at his saddle-bow. they followed him with their eyes until a turn in the road hid the white nag and the little figure in a blue velvet suit upon it from them. for it was elizabeth's pride to dress the child daintily and richly as the "young squire of hallam" ought to dress. she cut up gladly her own velvets for that purpose, and martha considered the clear-starching of his lace collars and ruffles one of her most important duties. one morning, at the close of january, elizabeth had to go to the village, and she told harry when his lessons were finished to wait at the curate's until she called for him. it was an exquisite day; cold, but clear and sunny, and there was a particular joy in rapid riding on such a morning. they took a circuitous route home, a road which led them through lonely country lanes and across some fields. the robins were singing a little, and the wrens twittering about the hawthorn berries on the bare hedges. elizabeth and harry rode rapidly, their horses' feet and their merry laughter making a cheery racket in the lanes. they reached the hall gates in a glow of spirits. martha was standing there, her round rosy face all smiles. she said little to elizabeth, but she whispered something to harry, and took him away with her. "martha! martha!" cried elizabeth, "you will spoil the boy, and make him sick. what dainty have you ready for him? cannot i share it? i am hungry enough, i can tell you!" martha laughed and shook her head, and elizabeth, after a word to the groom, went into the parlor. the angels that loved her must have followed her there. they would desire to see her joy. for there, with glowing, tender face, stood richard. she asked no questions. she spoke no word at all. she went straight to the arms outstretched to clasp her. she felt his tears, mingling with her own. she heard her name break softly in two the kisses that said what last the hour for which she had hoped and prayed so many years. and richard could hardly believe in his joy. this splendid elizabeth of twenty-eight, in all the glory and radiance of her calmed and chastened soul, and her perfected womanhood, was infinitely more charming and lovable than he had ever seen her before. he told her so in glad and happy words, and elizabeth listened, proud and well-contented with his praise. for an hour he would not suffer her to leave him; yes, it took him an hour, to tell her how well she looked in her riding-dress. neither of them spoke of the events which had separated or re-united them. it was enough that they were together. they perfectly trusted each other without explanations. those could come afterward, but this day was too fair for any memory of sorrow. when elizabeth came down to dinner she found harry standing at richard's knee, explaining to him the lessons he was studying. her eyes took in with light the picture--the thoughtful gentleness of the dark head, the rosy face of the fair-haired boy. "i have been showing the gentleman my new book, aunt;" then he bowed to richard, and, gently removing himself from his arm, went to his aunt's side. "he says he is called henry hallam." "yes, he is my brother's only child." and richard dropped his eyes; and, turning the subject, said, "i called at the rector's as i came here. he insists upon my staying with him, elizabeth. he says the hall is not prepared for visitors." "i think he is right, richard." "i brought him a likeness of phyllis and her husband. i have a similar gift for you." "no one will prize them more. when did you see phyllis?" "a month ago. she is well and happy. john is a member of the legislature this year. he seems to vibrate between the senate and the frontier. he is a fine fellow, and they are doing well." then they fell into talking of texas and of the disastrous santa fe expedition; and harry listened with blazing eyes to the tale of cruelty and wrong. then the rector came and elizabeth made tea for her guests, and after a happy evening, she watched them walk away together over the familiar road, down the terraces, and across the park. and she went to her room and sat down, silent with joy, yet thinking thoughts that were thanksgivings, and lifting up her heart in speechless gratitude and adoration. by and by martha came to her. "i couldn't frame mysen to sleep to-night, miss hallam, till i said a word to you. god gave you a glad surprise this morning; that's his way mostly. hev you noticed that great blessings come when we are nivver expecting 'em?" "no, i don't think i have; and why should they?" "i hev my own thoughts about it. mebbe it isnt allays as easy for god's angels to do _his will_ as we think for. t' devil hes angels too, princes and powers o' evil; and i shouldn't wonder if they took a deal o' pleasure in makkin good varry hard to do." "what, makes you think such a strange thing as that?" "why-a! i could tell you what looks uncommon like it out o' my own life; but you may tak' your bible and find it plain as t' alphabet can put it, miss hallam. turn up t' tenth chapter o' t' book o' t' prophet daniel, and read t' twelfth and thirteenth verses out to me." then, as martha stood watching and waiting, with a bright expectant face, elizabeth lifted the book, and read, "'fear not, daniel: for from the first day that thou didst set thine heart to understand, and to chasten thyself before thy god, thy words were heard, and i am come for thy words. but the prince of the kingdom of persia withstood me one and twenty days: but, lo, michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me.'" "yet he was an angel, miss hallam, whose face was like lightning, and his eyes like lamps o' fire, and his arms and feet like polished brass, and his voice like the voice of a multitude." "then you think, martha, that the bible teaches us that evil as well as good angels interfere in human life?" "ay, i'm sure it does, miss hallam. if god is said to open t' eyes o' our understanding, t' devil is said to blind 'em. are christians filled wi' t' spirit o' god? 'why,' said peter to ananias, 'why hath satan filled thy heart?' does god work in us to will and to do? t' devil also works in t' children o' disobedience. what do you mak' o' that now?" "i think it is a very solemn consideration. i have often thought of good angels around me; but we may well 'work out our salvation with fear and trembling,' if evil ones are waiting to hinder us at every turn." "and you see, then, how even good angels may hev to be varry prudent about t' blessings they hev on t' road to us. so they come as surprises. i don't think it's iver well, even wi' oursel's, to blow a trumpet before any thing we're going to do. after we hev got t' good thing, after we hev done t' great thing, it'll be a varry good time to talk about it. many a night i've thought o' t' words on my little wesley tea-pot, and just said 'em softly, down in my heart, 'in god we trust.' but tonight i hev put a bit o' holly all around it, and i hev filled it full o' t' freshest greens and flowers i could get, and i s'all stand boldly up before it, and say out loud--'in god we trust!'" chapter x. "when we have hoped and sought and striven and lost our aim, then the truth fronts us, beaming out of the darkness." "speaking of things remembered, and so sit speechless while things forgotten call to us." "we, who say as we go, 'strange to think by the way, whatever there is to know, that we shall know one day.'" "i would tell her every thing." it was the rector who spoke. he and richard were sitting before the study fire; they had been talking long and seriously, and the rector's eyes were dim and troubled. "yes, i would tell her every thing." then he put his pipe down, and began to walk about the floor, murmuring at intervals, "poor fellow! poor fellow! god is merciful." in accord with this advice richard went to see elizabeth. it was a painful story he had to tell, and he was half inclined to hide all but the unavoidable in his own heart; but he could not doubt the wisdom which counseled him "to tell all, and tell it as soon as possible." the opportunity occurred immediately. he found elizabeth mending, with skillful fingers, some fine old lace, which she was going to make into ruffles for harry's neck and wrists. it was a stormy morning, and the boy had not been permitted to go to the village, but he sat beside her, reading aloud that delight of boyhood, "robinson crusoe." elizabeth had never removed her mourning, but her fair hair and white linen collar and cuffs made an exquisite contrast to the soft somber folds of her dress; while harry was just a bit of brilliant color, from the tawny gold of his long curls to the rich lights of his crimson velvet suit, with its white lace and snowy hose, and low shoes tied with crimson ribbons. he was a trifle jealous of richard's interference between himself and his aunt, but far too gentlemanly a little fellow to show it; and quite shrewd enough to understand, that if he went to martha for an hour or two, he would not be much missed. they both followed him with admiring eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in the open door and touched his brow with his hand, as a parting courtesy, neither could help an expression of satisfaction. "what a handsome lad!" said richard. "he is. if he live to take his father's or my place here, he will be a noble squire of hallam." "then he is to be your successor?" "failing anthony." "then, elizabeth dear, he is squire of hallam already, for anthony is dead." "dead! without a word! without sign of any kind--o, richard, is it really--death?" richard bowed his head, and elizabeth sat gazing out of the window with vacant introspective vision, trying to call up from the past the dear form that would come no more. she put down her sewing, and richard drew closer to her side, and comforted her with assurances that he believed, "all was well with the dead." "i was with him during the last weeks of his sad life," he said; "i did all that love could suggest to soothe his sufferings. he sleeps well; believe me." "i never heard from him after our sorrowful farewell. i looked and hoped for a little until my heart failed me; and i thought he perished at sea." "no; god's mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of all earthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. when he awoke, i have no doubt that 'he was satisfied.'" "where did he die? tell me all, richard, for there may be words and events that seem trivial to you that will be full of meaning to me." "last march i went to mexico on business of importance, and passing one morning through the grand plaza, i thought a figure slowly sauntering before me was a familiar one. it went into a small office for the exchange of foreign money, and, as i wanted some exchange, i followed. to my surprise the man seemed to be the proprietor; he went behind the counter into a room, but on my touching a bell reappeared. it was antony. the moment our eyes met, we recognized each other, and after a slight hesitation, i am sure that he was thankful and delighted to see me. i was shocked at his appearance. he looked fifty years of age, and had lost all his color, and was extremely emaciated. we were soon interrupted, and he promised to come to my hotel and dine with me at six o'clock. "i noticed at dinner that he ate very little, and that he had a distressing and nearly constant cough, and afterward, as we sat on the piazza, i said, 'let us go inside, antony; there is a cold wind, and you have a very bad cough.' "'o, it is nothing,' he answered fretfully. 'the only wonder is that i am alive, after all i have been made to suffer. stronger men than i ever was fell and died at my side. you are too polite, richard, to ask me where i have been; but if you wish to hear, i should like to tell you.' "i answered, 'you are my friend and my brother, antony; and whatever touches you for good or for evil touches me also. i should like to hear all you wish to tell me.' "'it is all evil, richard. you would hear from elizabeth that i was obliged to leave england?' "'yes, she told me.' "'how long have you been married?' he asked me, sharply; and when i said, 'we are not married; elizabeth wrote and said she had a duty to perform which might bind her for many years to it, and it alone,' your brother seemed to be greatly troubled; and asked, angrily, 'and you took her at her word, and left her in her sorrow alone? richard, i did not think you would have been so cruel!' and, my darling, it was the first time i had thought of our separation in that light. i attempted no excuses to antony, and, after a moment's reflection, he went on: "'i left whitehaven in a ship bound for havana, and i remained in that city until the spring of . but i never liked the place, and i removed to new orleans at that time. i had some idea of seeing you, and opening my whole heart to you; but i lingered day after day unable to make up my mind. at the hotel were i stayed there were a number of texans coming and going, and i was delighted with their bold, frank ways, and with the air of conquest and freedom and adventure that clung to them. one day i passed you upon canal street. you looked so miserable, and were speaking to the man with whom you were in conversation so sternly, that i could not make up my mind to address you. i walked a block and returned. you were just saying, "if i did right, i would send you to the penitentiary, sir;" and i had a sudden fear of you, and, returning to the hotel, i packed my valise and took the next steamer for galveston.' "i answered, 'i remember the morning, antony; the man had stolen from me a large sum of money. i was angry with him, and i had a right to be angry.' "antony frowned, and for some minutes did not resume his story. he looked so faint, also, that i pushed a little wine and water toward him, and he wet his lips, and went on: "'yes, you had a perfect right; but your manner checked me. i did not know either how matters stood between you and my sister; so, instead of speaking to you, i went to texas. i found houston--i mean the little town of that name--in a state of the greatest excitement. the tradesmen were working night and day, shoeing horses, or mending rifles and pistols; and the saddlers' shops were besieged for leathern pouches and saddlery of all kinds. the streets were like a fair. of course, i caught the enthusiasm. it was the santa fe expedition, and i threw myself into it heart and soul. i was going as a trader, and i hastened forward, with others similarly disposed, to austin, loaded two wagons with merchandise of every description, and left with the expedition in june. "'you know what a disastrous failure it was. we fell into the hands of the mexicans by the blackest villainy; through the treachery of a companion in whom we all put perfect trust, and who had pledged us his masonic faith that if we gave up our arms we should be allowed eight days to trade, and then have them returned, with permission to go back to austin in peace. but once disarmed, our wagons and goods were seized, we were stripped of every thing, tied six or eight in a lariat, and sent, with a strong military escort to mexico. "'try to imagine, richard, what we felt in prospect of this walk of two thousand miles, through deserts, and over mountains, driven, like cattle, with a pint of meal each night for food, and a single blanket to cover us in the bitterest cold. strong men fell down dead at my side, or, being too exhausted to move, were shot and left to the wolves and carrion; our guard merely cutting off the poor fellows' ears, as evidence that they had not escaped. the horrors of that march were unspeakable.' "you said i was to tell you all--shall i go on, elizabeth?" she lifted her eyes, and whispered, "go on; i must hear all, or how can i feel all? o antony! antony!" "i shall never forget his face, elizabeth. anger, pity, suffering, chased each other over it, till his eyes filled and his lips quivered. i did not speak. every word i could think of seemed so poor and commonplace; but i bent forward and took his hands, and he saw in my face what i could not say, and for a minute or two he lost control of himself, and wept like a child. "'not for myself, richard;' he said, 'no, i was thinking of that awful march across the "dead man's journey," a savage, thorny desert of ninety miles, destitute of water. we were driven through it without food and without sleep. my companion was a young man of twenty, the son of a wealthy alabamian planter. i met him in austin, so bright and bold, so full of eager, loving life, so daring, and so hopeful; but his strength had been failing for two days ere he came to the desert. his feet were in a pitiable condition. he was sleeping as he walked. then he became delirious, and talked constantly of his father and mother and sisters. he had been too ill to fill his canteen before starting; his thirst soon became intolerable; i gave him all my water, i begged from others a few spoonfuls of their store, i held him up as long as i was able; but at last, at last, he dropped. richard! richard! they shot him before my eyes, shot him with the cry of 'christ' upon his lips. i think my anger supported me, i don't know else how i bore it, but i was mad with horror and rage at the brutal cowards. "'when i reached the end of my journey i was imprisoned with some of my comrades, first in a lazaretto, among lepers, in every stage of their loathsome disease; and afterward removed to santiago, where, hampered with heavy chains, we were set to work upon the public roads.' "i asked him why he did not apply to the british consul, and he said, 'i had a reason for not doing so, richard. i may tell you the reason sometime, but not to-night. i knew that there was diplomatic correspondence going on about our relief, and that, soon or later, those who survived their brutal treatment would be set free. i was one that lived to have my chains knocked off; but i was many weeks sick afterward, and, indeed, i have not recovered yet.' "so you began the exchange business here?" "'yes; i had saved through all my troubles a little store of gold in a belt around my waist. it was not much, but i have more than doubled it; and as soon as i can, i intend leaving mexico, and beginning life again among civilized human beings.'" elizabeth was weeping bitterly, but she said, "i am glad you have told me this, richard. ah, my brave brother! you showed in your extremity the race from which you sprung! sydney's deed was no greater than yours! that 'dead man's journey,' richard, redeems all to me. i am proud of antony at last. i freely forgive him every hour of sorrow he has caused me. his picture shall be hung next his father's, and i will have all else forgotten but this one deed. he gave his last drink of water to the boy perishing at his side; he begged for him when his own store failed, he supported him when he could scarcely walk himself, and had tears and righteous anger for the wrongs of others; but for his own sufferings no word of complaint! after this, richard, i do not fear what else you have to tell me. did he die in mexico?" "no; he was very unhappy in the country, and he longed to leave it. as the weather grew warmer his weakness and suffering increased; but it was a hard thing for him to admit that he was seriously ill. at last he was unable to attend to his business, and i persuaded him to close his office. i shall never forget his face as he turned the key in it; i think he felt then that life for him was over. i had remained in mexico for some weeks entirely on his account, and i now suggested, as he had no business cares, a journey home by way of texas. i really believed that the rare, fine air of the prairies would do him good; and i was sure if we could reach phyllis, he would at least die among friends. when i made the proposal he was eager as a child for it. he did not want to delay an hour. he remembered the ethereal, vivifying airs of western texas, and was quite sure if he could only breathe them again he would be well in a short time. he was carried in a litter to vera cruz, and then taken by sea to brownsville. and really the journey seemed to greatly revive him, and i could not help joining in his belief that phyllis and western texas would save him. "but when we reached the basque there was a sudden change, a change there was no mistaking. he was unable to proceed, and i laid his mattress under a great live oak whose branches overshadowed space enough for our camp. i cannot tell you, elizabeth, what a singular stillness and awe settled over all of us. i have often thought and wondered about it since. there was no quarreling, no singing, nor laughing among the men, who were usually ready enough for any of them; and this 'still' feeling, i suppose, was intensified by the weather, and the peculiar atmosphere. for we had come by such slow stages, that it was indian summer, and if you can imagine an english october day, spiritualized, and wearing a veil of exquisite purply-grey and amber haze, you may have some idea of the lovely melancholy of these dying days of the year on the prairie. "we waited several days in this place, and he grew very weak, suffering much, but always suffering patiently and with a brave cheerfulness that was inexpressibly sorrowful. it was on a sunday morning that he touched me just between the dawn and the daylight, and said 'richard, i have been dreaming of hallam and of my mother. she is waiting for me. i will sleep no more in this world. it is a beautiful world!' during the day i never left him, and we talked a great deal about the future, whose mystery he was so soon to enter. soon after sunset he whispered to me the wrong he had done, and which he was quite sure you were retrieving. he acknowledged that he ought to have told me before, but pleaded his weakness and his dread of losing the only friend he had. it is needless to say i forgave him, forgave him for you and for myself; and did it so heartily, that before i was conscious of the act i had stooped and kissed him. "about midnight he said to me, 'pray, richard;' and surely i was helped to do so, for crowding into my memory came every blessed promise, every comforting hope, that could make the hour of death the hour of victory. and while i was saying, 'behold the lamb of god, who taketh away the sin of the world,' he passed away. we were quite alone. the men were sleeping around, unconscious of 'him that waited.' the moon flooded the prairie with a soft, hazy light, and all was so still that i could hear the cattle in the distance cropping the grass. i awoke no one. the last offices i could do for him i quietly performed, and then sat down to watch until daylight. all was very happy and solemn. it was as if the angel of peace had passed by. and as if to check any doubt or fear i might be tempted to indulge, suddenly, and swift and penetrating as light, these lines came to my recollection: "'down in the valley of death, a cross is standing plain; where strange and awful the shadows sleep, and the ground has a deep, red stain. "'this cross uplifted there forbids, with voice divine, our anguished hearts to break for the dead who have died and made no sign. "'as they turned away from us, dear eyes that were heavy and dim. may have met his look who was lifted there, may be sleeping safe in him.'" "where did you bury him, richard?" "under the tree. not in all the world could we have found for him so lovely and so still a grave. just at sunrise we laid him there, 'in sure and certain hope' of the resurrection. one of the mexicans cut a cross and placed it at his head, and, rude and ignorant as they all were, i believe every one said a prayer for his repose. then i took the little gold he had, divided it among them, paid them their wages, and let them return home. i waited till all the tumult of their departure was over, then i, too, silently lifted my hat in a last 'farewell.' it was quite noon then, and the grave lay in a band of sunshine--a very pleasant grave to remember, elizabeth." she was weeping unrestrainedly, and richard let her weep. such rain softens and fertilizes the soul, and leaves a harvest of blessedness behind. and when the first shock was over, elizabeth could almost rejoice for the dead; for antony's life had been set to extremes--great ambitions and great failures--and few, indeed, are the spirits so finely touched as to walk with even balance between them. therefore for the mercy that had released him from the trials and temptations of life, there was gratitude to be given, for it was due. that night, when martha brought in elizabeth's candle, she said: "martha, my brother is dead. master harry is now the young squire. you will see that this is understood by every one." "god love him! and may t' light o' _his_ countenance be forever on him!" "and if any ask about mr. antony, you may say that he died in texas." "that is where mrs. millard lives?" "yes, mrs. millard lives in texas. mr. antony died of consumption. o, martha! sit down, i must tell you all about him;" and elizabeth went over the pitiful story, and talked about it, until both women were weary with weeping. the next morning they hung antony's picture between that of his father and mother. it had been taken just after his return from college, in the very first glory of his youthful manhood, and elizabeth looked fondly at it, and linked it only with memories of their happy innocent childhood, and with the grand self-abnegation of "the dead man's journey." the news of antony's death caused a perceptible reaction in popular feeling. the young man, after a hard struggle with adverse fate, had paid the last debt, and the great debt. good men refrain from judging those who have gone to god's tribunal. even his largest creditors evinced a disposition to take, with consideration, their claim, as the estate could pay it; and some willingness to allow at last, "thet miss hallam hed done t' right thing." the fact of the whaley brothers turning her defenders rather confounded them. they had a profound respect for "t' whaleys;" and if "t' whaleys were for backin' up miss hallam's ways," the majority were sure that miss hallam's ways were such as commended themselves to "men as stood firm for t' law and t' land o' england." with any higher test they did not trouble themselves. the public recognition of young harry hallam as the future squire also gave great satisfaction. after all, no stranger and foreigner was to have rule over them; for richard they certainly regarded in that light. "he might be a hallam to start wi'," said peter crag, "but he's been that way mixed up wi' french and such, thet t' hallam in him is varry hard to find." all the tenants, upon the advent of richard, had stood squarely upon their dignity; they had told each other that they'd pay rent only to a hallam, and they had quite determined to resent any suggestion made by richard, and to disregard any order he gave. but it was quickly evident that richard did not intend to take any more interest in hallam than he did in the church glebe and tithes, and that the only thing he desired was the bride he had waited so long for. the spring was far advanced, however, before the wedding-day was fixed; for there was much to provide for, and many things to arrange, in view of the long-continued absences which would be almost certain. the whaleys, urged by a lover, certainly hurried their work to a degree which astonished all their subordinates; but yet february had passed before all the claims against antony hallam had been collected. the debt, as debt always is, was larger than had been expected; and twelve years' income would be exhausted in its liquidation. elizabeth glanced at harry and looked gravely at the papers; but richard said, "be satisfied, dear. he will have the income at the age he really needs it--when he begins his university career--until then we can surely care for him." so hallam was left, financially, in the whaleys' care. they were to collect all its revenues, and keep the house and grounds in repair, and, after paying all expenses incidental to this duty, they were to divide, in fair proportions, the balance every three years among antony's creditors. this arrangement gave perfect satisfaction, for, as marmaduke halcroft said, "if t' whaleys ar'n't to be trusted, t' world might as well stand still, and let honest men get out o' it." as to the house, it was to be left absolutely in martha's care. inside its walls her authority was to be undisputed, and elizabeth insisted that her salary should be on the most liberal basis. in fact, martha's position made her a person of importance--a woman who could afford to do handsomely toward her chapel, and who might still have put by a large sum every year. the wedding was a very pretty one, and elizabeth, in her robe of white satin and lace, with pearls around her throat and arms, was a most lovely bride. twelve young girls, daughters of her tenants, dressed in white, and carrying handfuls of lilies-of-the-valley, went with her to the altar; and richard had for his attendant the handsome little squire. the rector took the place of elizabeth's father, and a neighboring clergyman performed the ceremony. most of the surrounding families were present in the church, and with this courtesy elizabeth was quite satisfied. immediately after the marriage they left for liverpool, and when they arrived at richard's home it was in the time of orange blooms and building birds, as he had desired it should be, six years before. but one welcome which they would gladly have heard was wanting. bishop elliott had removed, and no other preacher had taken his place in richard's home. this was caused, however, by the want of some womanly influence as a conductor. it was phyllis who had brought the kindred souls together, and made pleasant places for them to walk and talk in. phyllis had desired very much to meet elizabeth, on her advent into her american life, but the time had been most uncertain, and so many other duties held the wife and mother and mistress, that it had been thought better to defer the pleasure till it could be more definitely arranged. and then, after all, it was elizabeth that went to see phyllis. one day richard came home in a hurry. "elizabeth! i am going to texas--to austin. suppose you and harry go with me. we will give phyllis a surprise." "but housekeepers don't like surprises, richard." "then we will write before leaving, but i doubt if the letter will be in advance of us." it was not. john millard's home was a couple of miles distant from austin, and the mail was not gone for with any regularity. besides, at this time, john was attending to his duties in the legislature, and phyllis relied upon his visits to the post-office. it was a pleasant afternoon in june when the stage deposited them in the beautiful city, and after some refreshment richard got a buggy and determined to drive out to the millard place. half a mile distant from it they met a boy about seven years old on a mustang, and richard asked him if he could direct him to captain millard's house. "i reckon so," said the little chap, with a laugh. "i generally stop there, if i'm not on horseback." "o, indeed! what is your name?" "my name is richard millard. what's your name, sir?" "my name is richard fontaine; and i shouldn't wonder if you are my nephew." "i'm about certain you are my uncle. and is that my english aunt? wont ma be glad? say, wont you hurry up? i was going into the city. my pa's going to speak to-night. did you ever hear my pa speak?" "no; but i should like to do so." "i should think you would. see! there's ma. that is lulu hanging on to her, and that is sam houston in her arms. my pony is called 'san jacinto.' say! who is that with you and aunt, uncle richard? i mean _you_;" and he nodded and smiled at harry. "that is harry hallam--a relation of yours." "i'm glad of that. would he like to ride my pony?" "yes," answered harry, promptly. but richard declined to make exchanges just there, especially as they could see phyllis curiously watching their approach. in another moment she had given sam houston to a negro nurse, flung a sunbonnet on her head, and was tripping to the gate to meet them. "o how glad i am, elizabeth! i knew you the minute i saw the tip of your hat, richard! and this is harry hallam! come in, come in; come with ten thousand welcomes!" what a merry household it was! what a joyous, plentiful, almost out-of-doors meal was ready in half an hour! and then, as soon as the sun set, phyllis said, "now, if you are not tired, we will go and surprise john. he is to speak to-night, and i make a point of listening to him, in the capitol." richard and elizabeth were pleased with the proposal; but harry desired to stay with young millard. the boys had fraternized at once,--what good boys do not? especially when there are ponies and rabbits and puppies and pigeons to exhibit, and talk about. phyllis had matured into a very beautiful woman, and richard was proud of both his sister and his wife, when he entered the texas capitol with them. it was a stirring scene he saw, and certainly a gathering of manhood of a very exceptional character. the lobbies were full of lovely, brilliant women; and scattered among them;--chatting, listening, love-making--was many a well-known hero, on whose sun-browned face the history of texas was written. the matter in dispute did not much interest elizabeth, but she listened with amusement to a conversation between phyllis and pretty betty lubbock about the latter's approaching wedding, and her trip to the "states." in the middle of a description of the bridal dress, there fell upon her ears these words: "a bill for the relief of the millard rangers." she looked eagerly to see who would rise. it was only a prosy old man who opposed the measure, on the ground that the state could not afford to protect such a far-outlying frontier. "perish the state that cannot protect her citizens!" cried a vehement voice from another seat, and, forthwith leaped to his feet captain john millard. elizabeth had never seen him, but she knew, from phyllis's sudden silence, and the proud light in her face, who it was. he talked as he fought, with all his soul, a very rupert in debate, as he was in battle. in three minutes all whispering had ceased; women listened with full eyes, men with glowing cheeks; and when he sat down the bill was virtually passed by acclamation. phyllis was silently weeping, and not, perhaps, altogether for the slaughtered women and children on the frontier; there were a few proud, happy tears for interests nearer home. then came john's surprise, and the happy ride home, and many and many a joyful day after it--a month of complete happiness, of days devoid of care, and filled with perfect love and health and friendship, and made beautiful with the sunshine and airs of an earthly paradise. phyllis's home was a roomy wooden house, spreading wide, as every thing does in texas, with doors and windows standing open, and deep piazzas on every side. behind it was a grove of the kingly magnolia, in front the vast shadows of the grand pecans. greenest turf was under them; and there was, besides, a multitude of flowers, and vines which trailed up the lattices of the piazzas, and over the walls and roofs, and even dropped in at the chamber windows. there was there, also, the constant stir of happy servants, laughing and singing at their work, of playing children, of trampling horses, of the coming and going of guests; for captain millard's house was near a great highway, and was known far and wide for its hospitality. the stranger fastened his horse at the fence, and asked undoubtingly for a cup of coffee, or a glass of milk, and phyllis had a pleasant word and a cheerful meal for every caller; so that john rarely wanted company when he sat in the cool and silence of the evening. it might be a ranger from the pecos, or a trader from the rio grande, or a land speculator from the states, or an english gentleman on his travels, or a methodist missionary doing his circuit; yea, sometimes half a dozen travelers and sojourners met together there, and then they talked and argued and described until the "night turned," and the cocks were crowing for the dawning. richard thoroughly enjoyed the life, and elizabeth's nature expanded in it, as a flower in sunshine. what gallops she had on the prairies! what rambles with phyllis by the creek sides in search of strange flowers! what sweet confidences! what new experiences! what a revelation altogether of a real, fresh, natural life it was! and she saw with her own eyes, and with a kind of wonder, the men who had dared to be free, and to found a republic of free men in the face of nine million mexicans--men of iron wills, who under rude felt hats had the finest heads, and under buckskin vests the warmest hearts. phyllis was always delighted to point them out, to tell over again their exploits, and to watch the kindling of the heroic fire in elizabeth's eyes. it was, indeed, a wonderful month, and the last day of it was marked by a meeting that made a deep impression upon elizabeth. she was dressing in the afternoon when she heard a more than usually noisy arrival. looking out of the window she saw a man unsaddling his horse, and a crowd of negroes running to meet him. it seemed, also, as if every one of john's forty-two dogs was equally delighted at the visit. such a barking! such a chorus of welcome! such exclamations of satisfaction it is impossible to describe. the new-comer was a man of immense stature, evidently more used to riding than to walking. for his gait was slouching, his limbs seemed to dangle about him, and he had a lazy, listless stoop, as he came up the garden with his saddle over his arm listening to a score of voices, patting the dogs that leaped around and upon him, stopping to lift up a little negro baby that had toddled between his big legs and fallen, and, finally, standing to shake hands with uncle isaac, the patriarch of the quarters. and as uncle isaac never--except after long absences--paid even "master john" the honor of coming to meet him, elizabeth wondered who the guest could be. coming down stairs she met harriet in her very gayest head-kerchief and her white-embroidered apron, and her best-company manner: "de minister am come, miss lizzie--de rev. mr. rollins am 'rived; and de camp-meetin' will be 'ranged 'bout now. i'se powerful sorry you kaint stay, ma'am." "where does mr. rollins come from?" "de lord knows whar. he's at de rio grande, and den 'fore you can calc'late he's at de colorado." "he appears to be a great favorite." "he's done got de hearts ob ebery one in his right hand; and de dogs! dey whimper after him for a week; and de little children! he draw dem to him from dar mammy's breast. nobody's never seed sich a man!" he was talking to john when elizabeth went on the gallery, and harry was standing between his knees, and dick millard leaning on his shoulder. half a dozen of the more favored dogs were lying around him, and at least a dozen negro children were crawling up the piazza steps, or peeping through the railings. he was dressed in buckskin and blue flannel, and at first sight had a most unclerical look. but the moment he lifted, his face elizabeth saw what a clear, noble soul looked out from the small twinkling orbs beneath his large brows. and as he grew excited in the evening's conversation, his muscles nerved, his body straightened, and he became the wiry, knotted embodiment of calm power and determination. "we expected you two weeks ago," said john to him. "there was work laid out for me i hadn't calculated on, john. bowie's men were hard up for fresh meat, and i lent them my rifle a few days. then the indians bothered me. they were hanging around saledo settlement in a way i didn't like, so i watched them until i was about sure of their next dirty trick. it happened to be a thieving one on the zavala ranche, so i let zavala know, and then rode on to tell granger he'd better send a few boys to keep them red-handed comanche from picking and stealing and murdering." "it was just like you. you probably saved many lives." "saving life is often saving souls, john. next time i go that way every man at zavala's ranche and every man in granger's camp will listen to me. i shall then have a greater danger than red men to tell them of. but they know both my rifle and my words are true, and when i say to them, 'boys, there's hell and heaven right in your path, and your next step may plunge you into the fiery gulf, or open to you the golden gates,' they'll listen to me, and they'll believe me. john, it takes a soldier to preach to soldiers, and a saved sinner to know how to save other sinners." "and if report is not unjust," said richard, "you will find plenty of great sinners in such circuits as you take." "sir, you'll find sinners, great sinners, everywhere. i acknowledge that texas has been made a kind of receptacle for men too wicked to live among their fellows. i often come upon these wild, carrion jail-birds. i know them a hundred yards off. it is a great thing, every way, that they come here. god be thanked! texas has nothing to fear from them. in the first place, though the atmosphere of crime is polluting in a large city, it infects nobody here. i tell you, sir, the murderer on a texas prairie is miserable. there is nothing so terrible to him as this freedom and loneliness, in which he is always in the company of his outraged conscience, which drives him hither and thither, and gives him no rest. for i tell you, that murderers don't willingly meet together, not even over the whisky bottle. they know each other, and shun each other. well, sir, this subject touches me warmly at present, for i am just come from the death-bed of such a man. i have been with him three days. you remember bob black, john?" "yes. a man who seldom spoke, and whom no one liked. a good soldier, though. i don't believe he knew the meaning of fear." "didn't he? i have seen him sweat with terror. he has come to me more dead than alive, clung to my arms like a child, begged me to stand between him and the shapes that followed him." "drunk?" "no, sir. i don't think he ever tasted liquor; but he was a haunted man! he had been a sixfold murderer, and his victims made life a terror to him." "how do you account for that?" "we have a spiritual body, and we have a natural body. when it pleases the almighty, he opens the eyes and ears of our spiritual body, either for comfort, or advice, or punishment. this criminal saw things and heard words no mortal eyes have perceived, nor mortal ears understood. the man was haunted: i cannot doubt it." "i believe what you say," said elizabeth, solemnly, "for i have heard, and i have seen." "and so have i," said the preacher, in a kind of rapture. "when i lay sleeping on the st. mark's one night, i felt the thrill of a mighty touch, and i heard, with my spiritual ears, words which no mortal lips uttered; and i rose swiftly, and saved my life from the comanche by the skin of my teeth. and another night, as i rode over the maverick prairie, when it was knee-deep in grass and flowers, and the stars were gathering one by one with a holy air into the house of god, i could not restrain myself, and i sang aloud for joy! then, suddenly, there seemed to be all around me a happy company, and my spiritual ears were opened, and i heard a melody beyond the voices of earth, and i was not ashamed in it of my little human note of praise. i tell you, death only sets us face to face with him who is not very far from us at any time." "and bob is dead?" "yes; and i believe he is saved." no one spoke; and the preacher, after a minute's silence, asked, "who doubts?" "a sixfold murderer, you said?" "nay, nay, john; are you going to limit the grace of god? do you know the height and depth of his mercy? have you measured the length and breadth of the cross? i brought the cross of christ to that fiend-haunted bed, and the wretched soul clasped it, clung to it, yes, climbed up by it into heaven!" "it was peace at last, then?" said phyllis. "it was triumph! the devil lost all power to torture him; for, with the sweet assurance of his forgiveness came the peace that passeth understanding. what is there for great criminals? only the cross of christ? o the miracle of love, that found out for us such an escape!" "and you think that the man really believed himself to be forgiven by god?" "i am sure that he knew he was forgiven." "it is wonderful. why, then, do not all christians have this knowledge?" "it is their privilege to have it; but how few of us have that royal nature which claims all our rights! the cross of christ! there are still jewish minds to whom it is a stumbling-block; and still more minds of the greek type to whom it is foolishness." "but is not this doctrine specially a methodist one?" "if st. paul was a methodist, and st. augustine, and martin luther, and the millions of saved men, to whom god has counted 'faith' in his word and mercy 'for righteousness,' then it is specially methodist. what says the lord? 'therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with god, through our lord jesus christ.' i do not say but what there are many good men without this assurance; but i do say, that it is the privilege of all who love and believe god. john wesley himself did not experience this joy until he heard the moravian, peter bohler, preach. 'before that,' he says, 'i was a servant of god, accepted and safe, but now i _knew it_.'" elizabeth did not again reply. she sat very still, her hand clasped in that of phyllis, whose head was leaning upon her breast. and very frequently she glanced down at the pale, spiritual face with its luminous dark eyes and sweet mouth. for phyllis had to perfection that lovely, womanly charm, which puts itself _en rapport_ with every mood, and yet only offers the sympathy of a sensitive silence and an answering face. as the women sat musing the moon rose, and then up sprang the night breeze, laden with the perfume of bleaching grass, and all the hot, sweet scents of the south. "how beautiful is this land!" said richard, in an enthusiasm. "what a pity the rabble of other lands cannot be kept out of it!" the preacher lifted his head with a quick belligerent motion: "there is no such thing, as rabble, sir. for the meanest soul christ paid down his precious blood. what you call 'rabble' are the builders of kingdoms and nationalities." "yes," said john, "i dare say if we could see the fine fellows who fought at hastings, and those who afterward forced magna charta from king john without the poetic veil of seven hundred years, we should be very apt to call them 'rabble' also. give the founders of texas the same time, and they may also have a halo round their heads. was not rome founded by robbers, and great britain by pirates?" "there is work for every man, and men for every work. these 'rabble,' under proper leaders, were used by the almighty for a grand purpose--the redemption of this fair land, and his handful of people in it, from the thrall of the priests of rome. would such men as the livingstons, the carrolls, the renselaers, or the wealthy citizens of philadelphia or washington have come here and fought indians and mexicans; and been driven about from pillar to post, living on potatoes and dry corn? good respectable people suffer a great deal of tyranny ere they put their property in danger. but when texas, in her desperation, rose, she was glad of the men with a brand on their body and a rope round their neck, and who did not value their lives more than an empty nut-shell. they did good service. many of them won back fair names and men's respect and god's love. i call no man 'rabble.' i know that many of these outcasts thanked god for an opportunity to offer their lives for the general good," and, he added dropping his voice almost to a whisper, "i know of instances where the sacrifice was accepted, and assurance of that acceptance granted." "the fight for freedom seems to be a never-ending one." "because," said the preacher, "man was created free. freedom is his birthright, even though he be born in a prison, and in chains. hence, the noblest men are not satisfied with physical and political freedom; they must also be free men in christ jesus; for let me tell you, if men are slaves to sin and the devil, not all the magna chartas, nor all the swords in the world, can make them truly free." and thus they talked until the moon set and the last light was out in the cabins, and the 'after midnight' feeling became plainly evident. then phyllis brought out a dish that looked very like walnut shells, but which all welcomed. they were preserved bears' paws. "eat," she said, "for though it is the last hour we may meet in this life, we must sleep now." and the texan luxury was eaten with many a pleasant word, and then, with kind and solemn 'farewells,' the little party separated, never in all the years of earth to sit together again; for just at daylight, john and phyllis stood at their gates, watching the carriage which carried richard and elizabeth pass over the hill, and into the timber, and out of sight. chapter xi. "the evening of life brings with it its lamp."--toubert. "and there arrives a lull in the hot race: and an unwonted calm pervades the breast. and then he thinks he knows the hills where his life rose, and the sea, where it goes."--arnold "she has passed to where, beyond these voices, there is peace." it is the greatest folly to think that the only time worth writing about is youth. it is an equal folly to imagine that love is the only passion universally interesting. elizabeth's years were no less vivid, no less full of feeling and of changes, after her marriage than before it. indeed, she never quite lost the interests of her maiden life. hallam demanded an oversight she did not fail to give it. three times during the twelve years of its confiscation to antony's creditors she visited it. in these visits she was accompanied by richard, and harry, and her own children. then the whaleys' accounts were carefully gone over, and found always to be perfectly honorable and satisfactory. and it is needless to say how happy martha was at such times. gradually all ill-feeling passed away. the young squire, though educated abroad, had just such a training as made him popular. for he passed part of every year in texas with dick millard, and all that could be known about horses and hunting and woodcraft, harry hallam knew. he had also taken on very easily the texan manner, frank, yet rather proud and phlegmatic: "evidently a young man who knows what he wants, and will be apt to get it," said whaley. "nine yorkshire jockeys knocked into one couldn't blind him on a horse," said young horton. "and i'll lay a guinea he'll lead in every hunting field." "and they do say, he's a first-rate scholar besides." such conversations regarding him were indefinitely repeated, and varied. when he was in his eighteenth year the estate was absolutely free of every claim, and in a condition which reflected the greatest credit upon those in whose care it had been placed. it was at this time that richard and elizabeth took the young man into his grandfather's room, and laid before him the title deeds of his patrimony and the schedule of its various incomes. then, also, they told him, with infinite kindness and forbearance, the story of his father's efforts and failures, and the manner in which the estate had been handled, so that it might be made over to him free of all debt and stain. harry said very little. his adopted parents liked him the better for that. but he was profoundly amazed and grateful. then he went to cambridge, and for three years elizabeth did not see him. it had been arranged, however, that the whole family should meet at hallam on the anniversary of his majority, and the occurrence was celebrated with every public festivity that had always attended that event in the hallam family. there was nothing to dim the occasion. every one, far and near, took the opportunity to show that ill-thoughts and ill-feelings were forever buried, and elizabeth and richard were feted with especial honor. "few women would hev done so well by t' land and t' family," admitted even lord eltham, "and if i wasn't so old and feeble, i'd go and tell her so; and to be foreign-born, that mr. fontaine has been varry square, that he hes. he shows t' english blood in him." "ay, it's hard to wear yorkshire out. it bears a deal o' waterin', and is still strong and straight-for'ard," answered whaley. "now he'll hev to wed and settle down." "he'll do that. i've seen a deal o' him, and i've noticed that he has neither eyes nor ears but for our little lass, a varry bonny lass she is!" "it'll be alice horton, happen?" "nay, it isn't. it's his cousin, bessie fontaine. she's but a girl yet, but she's t' varry image o' her mother, just what elizabeth hallam was at sixteen--happen only a bit slighter and more delicate-looking." "and no wonder, whaley. to be brought up i' a place like that new orleans. why-a! they do say that t' winter weather there is like our haymakin' time! poor thing! she'll get a bit o' color here, i'se warrant." the yorkshire lawyer had seen even into a love affair, with clear eyes. bessie and harry had already confided their affection to elizabeth, but she was quite determined that there should be no engagement until after harry returned from a three-years' travel in europe and asia. "then, harry," she said, "you will have seen the women of many lands. and bessie will also have seen something of the world, and of the society around her. she must choose you from among all others, and not simply because habit and contiguity and family relations have thrown you together." still it pleased her, that from every part of the world came regularly and constantly letters and tokens of harry's love for her daughter. she would not force, she would not even desire, such a consummation; but yet, if a true and tried affection should unite the cousins, it would be a wonderful settlement of that succession which had so troubled and perplexed her father, and which at last he had humbly left to the wisdom and direction of a higher power. therefore, when harry, in his twenty-fourth year, browned and bearded with much travel, came back to new orleans, to ask the hand of the only woman he had ever loved, elizabeth was very happy. her daughter was going back to her old home, going to be the mistress of its fair sunny rooms, and renew in her young life the hopes and memories of a by-gone generation. and to the happy bridal came john and phyllis, and all their handsome sons and daughters, and never was there a more sweetly, solemn marriage-feast. for many wise thoughts had come to elizabeth as her children grew up at her side, and one of them was a conviction that marriage is too sacred a thing to be entered into amid laughter and dancing and thoughtless feasting. "if jesus was asked to the marriage, as he was in cana of galilee, there would be fewer unhappy marriages," she said. so the young bride was sent away with smiles and kisses and loving joyful wishes, but not in a whirl of dancing and champagne gayety and noisy selfish merriment. and the years came and went, and none of them were alike. in one, it was the marriage of her eldest son, richard, to lulu millard; in another, the death of a baby girl very dear to her. she had her daily crosses and her daily blessings, and her daily portion of duties. but in the main, it may be said, for richard and elizabeth fontaine, that they had "borne the yoke in their youth," and learned the great lessons of life, before the days came in which their strength began to fail them. the last year of any life may generally be taken as the verdict upon that life. elizabeth's was a very happy one. she was one of those women on whom time lays a consecrating hand. her beauty, in one sense, had gone; in another sense, she was fairer than ever. her noble face had lost its bloom and its fine contour, but her mouth was sweeter and stronger, and her eyes full of the light of a soul standing in the promise of heaven. she had much of her old energy and activity. in the spring of the year she went to texas to see a son and daughter who had settled there; and, with one of her grandchildren, rode thoughtfully, but not unhappily, over all the pleasant places she had been with richard that first happy year of their marriage. richard had been six years dead, but she had never mourned him as those mourn who part hands in mid-life, when the way is still long before the lonely heart. in a short time they would meet again, for "as the pale waste widens around us, and the banks fade dimmer away, as the stars come out, the night wind brings up the stream murmurs and scents of the infinite sea." yet there had been a very solemn parting between her and phyllis; and when phyllis stooped twice to the face in the departing carriage, and the two women kissed each other so silently, john was somehow touched into an unusual thoughtfulness; and for the first time realized that his sweet phyllis was fading away. he could not talk in his usual cheery manner, and when he said, "farewell, elizabeth," and held her hand, he involuntarily glanced at his wife, and walked away with his eyes full of tears. but as the brain grows by knowledge, so the heart is made larger by loving; and elizabeth was rich and happy in the treasures she had garnered. the past no prayer could bring back; the future she counted not; but she enjoyed in every hour the blessing they brought her. the voyage across the ocean was delightful; she found young hearts to counsel, and aged ones to change experiences with. every one desired to talk to her, and counted it a favor to sit or to walk by her side. so beautiful is true piety; so lovely is the soul that comes into daily life fresh from the presence of the deity. she had left texas in may; she arrived at hallam in june. and how beautiful the dear old place was! but martha had gone to her reward two years previously, and elizabeth missed her. she had lived to be eighty-eight years old, and had not so much died as fallen asleep. she had never left the hall, but, as long as she was able, had taken charge of all its treasures and of every thing concerning the children. even when confined to her room, they had come to her with their troubles and their joys, and her fingers were busy for them unto the last day. yet no one missed martha as elizabeth missed her. with martha she talked on subjects she mentioned to no one else. they had confidences no others could share. it seemed as if the last link which bound her to her youth was broken. but one morning, as her daughter was slowly driving her through hallam village, she saw an old man who had been very pleasantly linked with the by-gone years, and she said, "that is a very dear friend, i must speak to him, bessie." he was a slight old man, with thin hair white as wool falling on his shoulders, and a face full of calm contemplation. "mr. north," said elizabeth, tremulously, "do you remember me?" he removed his hat, and looked attentively in the face bending toward him. then, with a smile, "ah, yes, i remember miss hallam. god is good to let me see you again. i am very glad, indeed." "you must come to the hall with me, if you can; i have a great deal to say to you." and thus it happened that after this meeting bessie frequently stopped for him in the village, and that gradually he spent more and more time at the hall. there he always occupied the large room called the "chamber of peace," hallowed by the memory of the apostle of his faith. one hot august day he had gone to its cool, calm shelter, after spending an hour with elizabeth. their conversation had been in heaven, and specially of the early dead and blessed, who went in the serenity of the morning; whose love for god had known no treachery, and who took the hand of jesus and followed him with all their heart. "i think theirs will be the radiant habitations, and the swift obedience of the seraphim. they will know and love and work, as do the angels." "in middle life," said elizabeth, "heaven seems farther away from us." "true, my sister. at midday the workman may think of the evening, but it is his work that chiefly i engrosses him. not that the christian ever forgets god in his labor, but he needs to be on the alert, and to keep every faculty busy. but when the shades of evening gather, he begins to think of going home, and of the result of his labor." "in middle life, too, death amazes us. in the moment of hearing of such a death i always found my heart protest against it. but as i grow older i can feel that all the cords binding to life grow slack. how will it be at the end?" "i think as soon as heaven is seen, we shall tend toward it. we will not go away in sadness, dear sister; we shall depart in the joy of his salvation. if i was by your side, i should not say, "farewell;" i should speak of our meeting again." then he went away, and elizabeth, with a happy face, drew her chair to the open window of her room and lifted her work. it was a piece of silken patch-work, made of dresses and scarfs and sashes, that each had a history in her memory. there were circles from phyllis's and her own wedding dresses, one from a baby sash of her son charles. charles hung his sword from a captain's belt then, but she kept the blue ribbon of his babyhood. there was a bit from jack's first cravat, and dick's flag, and her dear husband's wedding vest, and from the small silken shoes of the little maya--dear little maya, who "from the nursery door, climbed up with clay cold feet unto the golden floor." any wife and mother can imagine the thousand silken strips that would gather in a life of love. she had often said that in her old age she would sew together these memorials of her sorrow and her joy; and bessie frequently stood beside her, listening to events which this or that piece called forth, and watching, the gay beautiful squares, as they grew in the summer sunshine and by the glinting winter firelight. after mr. north left her she lifted her work and sat sewing and singing. it was an unusually hot day; the perfume from the august lilies and the lavender and the rich carnations almost made the heart faint. all the birds were still; but the bees were busy, and far off there was the soft tinkling of the water falling into the two fountains on the terrace. harry came in, and said, "i am going into hallam, mother, so i kiss you before i go;" and she rose up and kissed the handsome fellow, and watched him away, and when he turned and lifted his hat to her, she blessed him, and thanked god that he had let her live to see antony's son so good and worthy an inheritor of the old name and place. by and by her thoughts drifted westward to her son charles, with his regiment on the colorado plains, to her son richard in his texan home, to phyllis and john, to her daughter netta, to the graves of richard and the little maya. it seemed to her as if all her work was finished. how wonderfully the wrong had been put right! how worthy harry was! how happy her own dear bessie! if her father could see the home he had left with anxious fears, she thought he would be satisfied. "i shall be glad to see him," she said, softly; "he will say to me, 'thou did right, elizabeth!' i think that his praise will be sweet, even after the master's." at this point in her reflections bessie came into her room. she had her arms full of myrtles and glowing dahlias, of every color; and she stooped and kissed her mother, and praised the beauty of her work, and then began to arrange the flowers in the large vases which stood upon the hearth and upon the table. "it is a most beautiful day, mother! a most beautiful world! i wonder why god says he will make a new world! how can a new one be fairer?" "his tabernacle will be in it, bessie. think of that, my child. an intimate happiness with him. no more sin. all tears wiped away. bessie, there may be grander worlds among the countless stars, but o earth! fair happy earth, that has such hope of heaven!" and she began to sing to the sweet old tune of "immanuel." "there is a land of pure delight, where saints--" there was a sudden pause, and bessie lifted the strain, but ere the verse was finished, turned suddenly and looked at her mother. the next moment she was at her side. with the needle in her fingers, with the song upon her lips, elizabeth had gone to "immanuel's land," without even a parting sigh. it seemed almost wrong to weep for such a death. bessie knelt praying by her mother's side, holding her hands, and gazing into the dear face, fast settling into those solemn curves which death makes firm and sharp-cut, as if they were to endure for ages, until the transition was quite complete. then she called in the old servants who most loved her mother, and they dressed her for her burial, and laid her upon the small, snowy bed which had been hers from her girlhood. and the children gathered the white odorous everlastings and the white flowers in all the garden, and with soft steps and tender hands spread them over the still breast, and the pure drapery. and when mr. north came in with harry, though harry wept, the preacher could not. with a face full of triumph, he looked at her, and said only, "go in peace; soul beautiful and blessed!" it had been well known for more than a year that elizabeth's life was held at a moment's tenure. it was a little singular that phyllis was suffering, also, from a complaint almost analogous; and when they had bid each other a farewell in the spring, they had understood it to be the last of earth. indeed, phyllis had whispered to elizabeth in that parting moment, "i give you a rendezvous in heaven, my darling!" often also during the summer bessie had heard her mother softly singing to herself: "i look unto the gates of his high place, beyond the sea; for i know he is coming shortly, to summon me. and when a shadow falls across the window, of my room, where i am working my appointed task, i lift my head to watch the door, and ask if he is come? and the angel answers sweetly, in my home, only a few more shadows, and he will come." she was laid with her fathers in the old churchyard at hallam. and o, how sweet is the sleep of those whom the king causeth to rest! neither lands nor houses nor gold, nor yet the joy of a fond and faithful lover, tempted elizabeth hallam to leave the path of honor and rectitude; but when her trial was finished, bear witness how god blessed her! giving her abundantly of all good things in this life, and an inheritance, incorruptible, undefiled, and which shall never pass away from her. the end. john wesley, jr. the story of an experiment by dan b. brummitt to thomas kane, "layman," whose long life of noble service is bearing fruit in a new christian conscience towards the support of the work of christ's kingdom in all the world an introduction to the educational, missionary and benevolent work of the church contents chapter the genesis of the experiment i. an institute panorama ii. john wesley, jr.'s bringing up iii. campus days iv. exploring main street v. here the alien; there the little brown church vi. "is he not a man and a brother?" vii. the first american civilization viii. christ and the east this experiment teacheth--? illustrations the cartwright institute the wesley foundation social center (this one is at illinois university) main street the tenements of many delafields one of the high lights of main street one of the cannery colony there's hope for the negro in a school like this the mexican's home in the southwest the mexican's church in the southwest dr. joe carbrook does such work as this in china the genesis of the experiment after years of waiting for time and place and person, the rev. walter drury, an average methodist preacher, was ready to begin his experiment. the process of getting adjusted to its conditions was ended. he believed that, if he had health and nothing happened to his mind, he might count on at least eight years more at first church, delafield--a ten-year pastorate is nothing wonderful in to-day's methodism. the right preacher makes his own time limit. he would not think himself too good for delafield, but neither did he rate himself too low. he just felt that he was reasonably secure against promotion, and that he need not be afraid of "demotion." there are such men. they are a boon to bishops. the unforeseen was to be reckoned with, of course, the possible shattering of all his plans by some unimagined misfortune. but the man who waits until he is secure against the unknown never discovers anything, not even himself. walter drury had at last found his man, or, rather, his boy, here in delafield. it was necessary to the experiment that its subject should be a decent young fellow, not particularly keen on formal religion, but well set-up in body and mind; clean, straight, and able to use the brains he had when need arose. john wesley, jr., was such a boy. would the result be worth what he was putting into the venture? that would depend on one's standards. the church doesn't doubt that the more than twice ten years' experiment of helms in the south end of boston has been worth the price. and helms has for company a few pioneers in other fields who will tell you they have drawn good pay, in the outcomes of their patience. still, walter drury was a new sort of specialist. the thing he had in mind to do had been almost tried a thousand times; a thousand times it had been begun. but so far as he knew no one preacher had thought to focus every possible influence on a single life through a full cycle of change. he meant his work to be intensive: not in degree only, but in duration. at the end of ten years! if, then, he had not shown, in results beyond question, the direction of the church's next great advance, at least he would have had the measureless joy of the effort. no seeming failure could rob him of his reward. now, do not image this preacher as a dreaming scattergood; he would do as much as any man should, that is to say, his utmost, in his pulpit and his parish. the experiment should be no robbing of collective peter to pay individual paul. but every man has his avocation, his recreation, you know--golf, roses, coins, first editions, travel. walter drury, being a confirmed bachelor, missed both the joys and the demands of home life. no recluse, but, rather, a companionable man, he cared little for what most people call amusement, but he cared tremendously for the human scene in which he lived and worked. he would be happy in the experiment for its sheer human fascinations. that it held a deeper interest, that if it succeeded it would reveal an untapped reservoir of resources available for the church and the kingdom of god, did but make him the more eager to be at it in hard earnest. the church to whose work he had joyfully given himself from his youth had grown to be a mighty and a highly complex machine. some thought it was more machinery than life, more organization than organism. but walter drury knew better. it _was_ a wonderful machine, wheels within wheels, but there was within the wheels the living spirit of the prophet's vision. partly because the church was so vast and its work of such infinite variety, very few of its members knew what it did, or how, or why. it was all over the land, and in the ends of the earth, for people joined it; and they lived their lives in the cheerful and congenial circle of its fellowship. but the planetary sweep of its program and its enterprises was to most of them not even as a tale that is told. they were content to be busy with their own affairs, and had small curiosity to know what meanings and mysteries might be discovered out in places they had never explored, even though just 'round the corner from the week-by-week activities of the familiar home congregation. walter drury, at the end of one reasonably successful pastorate, had stood bewildered and baffled as he looked back over his five years of effort against this persistent and amiable passivity. it was not a deliberate sin, or he might have denounced it; nor a temporary numbness, or he might have waited for it to disappear. all the more it dismayed him. at the beginning of his ministry he had set this goal before him, that every soul under his care might see as he saw, and see with him more clearly year by year, the church's great work; its true and total business. he had not failed, as the annual conference reckons failure. but he knew he had been less than successful. the people of his successive appointments were receptive people as church folk go. then who was to blame, that sermons and books and advocates and pictures and high officials and frequent great assemblies, always accomplishing something, always left behind them the untouched, unmoved majority of the people called methodists? it was all this and more of the same sort, which at last took shape in drury's thought and fixed the manner and matter of the experiment. this boy he had found, with a name that might be either prophecy or mockery, he would study like a book. he would brood over his life. mind you, he would take no advantage, use no influence unfairly. he would neither dictate nor drive. he would not trespass even so far as to the outer edges of the boy's free personality. for the most part he would stay in the background. but he would watch the boy, as for lesser outcomes darwin watched the creatures of wood and field. without revealing all his purpose he would set before this boy good and evil; the lesser good and the greater. he would use for high and holy ends the method which the tempter never tires of using for confusion. he would show this boy the kingdoms of the children of god, and the glories of them, and would promise them to him, not for a moment's shame but for a life's devotion. as to the particular form in which the result of the experiment might appear he cared little. he had a certain curiosity on the subject naturally, but he knew well enough that the experiment would be useless if he laid interfering hands on its inner processes. that would be like trimming a whitethorn tree in a formal garden, to make it resemble a pyramid. he was not making a thorn pyramid in an italian garden; he wanted an oak, to grow by the common road of all men's life. and oaks must grow oak-fashion, or not at all. * * * * * four years of the ten had passed. that part of the history of john wesley, jr., which is told in the following pages, is the story of the other six years. chapter i an institute panorama "if anybody expects me to stay away from institute this year, he has got a surprise coming, that's all." the meeting was just breaking up, after a speech whose closing words had been a shade less tactful than the occasion called for. but the last two sentences of that speech made all the difference in the world to john wesley, jr. the epworth league of first church, delafield, was giving one of its fairly frequent socials. the program had gone at top speed for more than an hour. all that noise could do, re-enforced by that peculiar emanation by youth termed "pep," had been drawn upon to glorify a certain forthcoming event with whose name everybody seemed to be familiar, for all called it simply "the institute." pennants, posters, and photographs supplied a sort of pictorial noise, the better to advertise this evidently remarkable event, which, one might gather, was a yearly affair held during the summer vacation at the seat of cartwright college. the yells and songs, the cheers and games and reminiscences, re-enforced the noisy decorations. at the last, in one of those intense moments of quiet which young people can produce as by magic, came a neat little speech whose purpose was highly praiseworthy. but, to john wesley, jr., it ended on the wrong note. another listener took mental exception to it, though his anxiety proved to be groundless. it was a recruiting speech, directed at anybody and everybody who had not yet decided to attend the institute. the speaker was, if anything, a trifle more cautious than canny when he came to his "in conclusion," and his zeal touched the words with anti-climax. "of course," he said, "since ten, or at most twelve, is our quota, we are not quite free to encourage the attendance of everybody, particularly of our younger members. they have hardly reached the age where the institute could be a benefit to them, and their natural inclination to make the week a period of good times and mere pleasure would seriously interfere with the interests of others more mature and serious minded." now, the pastor of the church, the rev. walter drury, would have put that differently, he said to himself. if it produced any bad effects it would need to be corrected, certainly. just then, amid the inevitable applause, and the dismissal of the brief formal assembly for the social half-hour, something snapped inside of john wesley, jr., and it was the feeling of it which prompted him to say, "if anybody expects me to stay away from institute this year, he has got a surprise coming, that's all." you see, john wesley, jr., had just been graduated from high school, and his family expected him to go to college in the fall, though he faced that expectation without much enthusiasm. he felt his new freedom. he addressed his rebellious remark to the league president, marcia dayne, a sensible girl whom he had known as long as he had known anybody in the church. "last year everybody said i was too young. they all talked the way he did just now. but they can't say i am too young now," and with that easy skill which is one of the secrets of youth, he managed to contemplate himself, serenely conscious that he was personable and "right." the girl turned to him with a gesture of surprise. "but i thought your father had agreed to let you take that trip to chicago you have been saving up for. will he let you go to the institute too?" "chicago can wait," said john wesley, jr., grandly. "dad did say i could go to chicago to see my cousins, or i could go anywhere else that i wanted. well, i am going to the institute. it's my money, and, besides, i am tired of being told i am too young. a fellow's got to grow up some time." "that's all right," said marcia, "but what's your special interest in the institute? do you truly want to go? how do you know what an institute is like?" her voice carried further than marcia thought, and a man who seemed a little too mature to be one of the young people, turned toward her. he was smiling, and any time these four years the town would have told you there wasn't a friendlier smile inside the city limits. he was in business dress, and suggested anything but the parson in his bearing, but through and through he looked the good minister that he was. marcia moved toward him with an unspoken appeal. she wanted help. he was waiting for that signal, for he depended a good deal on marcia. and he was still worried about that unlucky speech. "well, marcia, are you telling j.w. what the institute really is?" he asked. "no, mr. drury, i'm not. i'm too much surprised at finding that he's about decided to go. you're just in time to tell him for me. i want him to get it right, and straight." "well," the pastor responded, "i'm glad of that. if he's really going, he'll find out that definitions are not descriptions. now, our saint sheridan used to say that an institute was a combination of college, circus, and camp meeting. i would venture a different putting of it. an institute is a bit of young democracy in action. its people play together, for play's sake and for finding their honest human level. they study together, to become decently intelligent about some of the real business of the kingdom of god, and how the church proposes to transact that business. they wait for new vision together, the institute being a good time and a good place for seeing life clear and seeing it whole." "yes," said marcia, "that's exactly it, only i never could have found quite the right words. do you think j.w. will find it too poky and preachy?" "tell him to try it and see, as you did last year," said pastor drury. "i'll risk that," said john wesley, jr., in his newly resolute mood. he knew when to stop, this preacher. particularly concerned as he was about john wesley, jr., he saw that this was one of the many times when that young man would need to work things out for himself. marcia would give what help might be called for at the moment. the boy was turning toward the institute; so far so good. to-night was nearly four years from the beginning of his interest in this young fellow with the methodist name. he was a special friend of the family, though no more so than of every family in the town which gave him the slightest encouragement. to a degree which no one suspected he shared this family's secret hopes for its son and heir; and he cherished hopes which even the farwells could not suspect. unless he was much mistaken he had found the subject for his experiment. that mention of the farwells needs to be explained. of course "john wesley, jr.," was only part of the boy's name. in full he was john wesley farwell, jr., son of john wesley farwell, sr., of the j.w. farwell hardware co. as a little fellow he had no chance to escape "junior," since he was named for his father. there were many jacks and johns and johnnies about. his mother, good methodist that she was, secretly enjoyed calling him "john wesley, jr.," and before long the neighbors and the neighborhood children followed her example. a little later he might have been teased out of it, but at the impossible age when boys discover that queer names and red hair and cross-eyes make convenient excuses for mutual torture, it happened that he had attained to the leadership of his gang. for some reason he took pride in his two methodist names, and made short work of those who ventured to take liberties with them. in all other respects he played without reserve boyhood's immemorial game of give and take; but as to his name or any part thereof he would tolerate no foolishness and no back talk. when he reached the high school period, however, most of his intimates rarely called him by his full name, having, like all high school people, no time for long names, though possessed of infinite leisure for long dreams. straightway they shortened his name to "j.w.," which to this day is all that his friends find necessary. very well, then; this is j.w. at eighteen; a young fellow worth knowing. take a look at him; impulsive, generous, not what you would call handsome, but possessed of a genial eye and a ready tongue, a stubby nose and a few scattered freckles. a fair student, he is yet far from bookishness, and he makes friends easily. of late he has been paying furtive but detailed attention to his hair and his neckties and the hang of his clothes, though still in small danger of being mistaken for a tailor's model. with such a name you will understand that he's a methodist by first intention; born so. he is a pretty sturdy young christian, showing it in a boy's modest but direct fashion, which even his teammates of the high-school football squad found it no trouble to tolerate, because they knew him for a human, healthy boy, and not a morbid, self-inspecting religious prig. pastor drury, you may be sure, had taken note of all that, for he and j.w. had been fast friends since the day he had received the boy into the church. the morning after the institute social j.w. announced at breakfast his sudden change of plan. "if you don't mind, dad, i've about decided to go to the institute instead of chicago. there is a bunch of us going, and mr. drury will be there. uncle henry's folks might not want to be bothered with me now, and anyway i don't know them very well. but i can go to the institute with the church crowd; and there will be tennis and swimming and plenty of other fun besides the big program." which was quite a speech for j. w. john wesley, sr., didn't know much about the institute, but he had an endless regard for his pastor, and the mother was characteristically willing to postpone her boy's introduction to the unknown and, in her thought, therefore, the menacing city. so, after the brief but unhurried devotions at the breakfast table, which had come to serve in place of the old-time family prayers, parental approval was forthcoming. and thus it befell that j.w. selected for himself a future whose every experience was to be affected by so slight a matter as his impulsive choice of a week's holiday. that choice expressed to him the new freedom of his years, for he had not even been conscious of the quiet influence which had made it easier than he knew to decide as he had done. * * * * * it was a mixed and lively company that found itself crowded around the registrar's table at the institute one monday evening in july, with j. w. and his own particular chum, martin luther shenk, better known as "marty," right in the middle of it. j.w. wondered where so many epworthians could have come from. did they really hanker after the institute, or had they come for reasons as trivial as his own? he put the question to martin luther shenk. "marty, do you reckon these are all here for real epworth league work, or does the institute want anybody and everybody?" marty had been scouting a little, and he answered: "no, to both questions, i should say. some have come just to be coming, and others seem to be here for business. but i saw joe carbrook just now, and if he is an epworth leaguer i am the prince of puget sound. you know how he stands at home. wonder what he came for." just then joe carbrook himself came up. he was from delafield too, member of the same league chapter as the two chums, but he had rarely condescended to league affairs. having had two rather variegated years at college, he felt he must show his sophistication by holding himself above some of those simple old observances. "s'pose you are here for solemn and serious work, you two," he remarked mockingly, as he saw the boys. "i just met marcia dayne, and she told me you were registering. well, i'm here too--drove up in my car--but you don't catch me tying myself down to all that study stuff. i'm looking for fun, not work." "nothing new for you in that, joe," said marty. "but i should think you might try the study stuff, if only for a change, after you have spent good money on gas and tires. and you have to pay for your meals, you know." "well, i studied hard enough last month in college cramming for the final exams, so i could get within gunshot of enough sophomore credits, and i'm through; with study for a while. if i find a few live ones in this crowd, i guess we can enjoy ourselves without interfering with any of you grinds, if you must study," and joe carbrook went off in search of his live ones. j.w. and marty were in no hurry to register. the crowd milling around in the office was interesting, and j.w. was still wondering how many of them, himself included, would get enough institute long before the week was over. besides, it was yet an hour before supper. "think of it, marty. all these people come from epworth leagues just like ours, from springfield, and wolf prairie and madison and all over this part of the state. what for, i'd like to know? will you look at those pennants? wish we had brought one or two of ours; we could add to the display, anyway." "i have two in my suitcase," said marty. "we'll have them out this evening at the introduction meeting. and maybe you'll find out 'what for' by that time." the introduction meeting in the chapel after supper was for the most part informal. yells and songs and the waving of pennants punctuated the proceedings, as is quite the proper thing in an epworth league gathering. some people, who see only what is on the surface, cannot wholly understand the exuberance of an epworth league crowd. but it has roots in something very real. the dean of the institute managed, amid the roystering and the intervals of attention, to set things up for the week. a few regulations would need to be laid down; and these would be fixed, not by the faculty or by the dean, but by the student council. would each district group please get together at once, and select some one to represent the group on this council? this request being obeyed amid considerable confusion, with marcia dayne appointed from the fort adams district, and the council excused to draft the basic laws for the week, the faculty was introduced, one by one. each teacher was given the opportunity to describe his or her course, so that out of the eight or nine courses offered every delegate might select two besides the two which were required of all students, and so qualify for an institute diploma. j.w. found himself enjoying all this hugely. it appealed to his growing sense of freedom from schoolboy restraint. if he did go to any of the classes, it appeared that he could pick the ones he liked. up to now he had entertained no thought of any serious work, but the faculty talks about these courses made him think there might be worse ways of spending the week than qualifying for an institute diploma. the whole thing seemed to be so easy and so friendly. of course he could see that the study would not be much, even if he signed up for it, being just for a week, but it might not be bad fun. morning watch was an experience to j.w. he was surprised to find himself staying awake in a before-breakfast religious meeting, and was even more surprised to be enjoying it. something about this big crowd of young people stirred all his pulses, and the religion they heard about and talked about seemed to j.w. something very real and desirable. he thought of himself as a christian, but he wondered if his christian life might not become more confident and productive. in this atmosphere one almost felt that anything was possible. meal times turned out to be times of orderly disorder. j.w. and his friends were at a table with other groups from the fort adams district, and he quickly mastered the raucous roar which served the district for a yell. before the end of the second day his alert good nature made him cheer leader, and thereafter he rarely had time to eat all that was set before him, though possessed of a boy's healthy appetite. it was simply that the other possibilities of the hour seemed more alluring than mere food. from the first day of the class work j.w. found himself keen for all that was going on. there was variety enough so that he felt no weariness, and the range of new interests opened up each day kept him at constant and pleasurable attention. without knowing just how, he was catching the institute spirit. he walked away from the dining hall one noon with his pastor-friend, and he talked. he had to talk to somebody, and walter drury contrived to know of his need. "why, mr. drury," he said, eagerly, "i'm just finding out how little i know about the church and real christian work. i thought i was something of an average methodist boy, but if the people at home are no better than i am, i can see how being a preacher to such a bunch is a man's job." "correct, j.w." said the minister. "i find that out many a time, to my humbling. but honestly, now, are you learning things you never knew before?" "ye-es, i am," j.w. answered, "and then, again, i'm not. it seems to me as if i had always known a lot of what we are getting in these classes, though there is plenty of new stuff too. but until now i didn't get much out of what i knew. i've always liked to hear you, but you're different. as for most of the things i've heard, i just thought of it as religious talk, church stuff, you know. it didn't seem to matter, but here it is beginning to matter in all sorts of ways, and i can see that it matters to me." "how, for instance?" well, take the class in home missions; americanization, they call it. maybe you noticed that the first thing the teacher did was to divide the class right down the middle, and tell those on the left hand--yes, i'm one of the goats--that for the rest of the week they were to consider themselves aliens. the others were to play native-born americans. and so the study started, but believe me, we aliens have already begun to make it interesting for those natives. some of 'em want to come over on our side already, but they can't. a few of us have found some immigration dope in the college library, and it is pretty strong. we'll show up those pilgrim fathers before the week is out. they think they have done everything an alien could ask when they let him into the country, and then they work him twelve hours a day, seven days a week, or else let him hunt the country over for any sort of a job. they rob him by making him pay higher prices than other people for all he has to buy. they force him to live in places not fit for rats, and on top of everything else they call him names, so that their kids stick up their noses at his children in the school grounds. after all that they expect he'll become a good citizen just by hearing 'the star-spangled banner' at the movies and watching the flag go by when there's a parade. "say, mr. drury, it makes me sick, and, if i feel that way just to be pretending i'm a 'wop' for a week, how do you suppose the real aliens feel? excuse me for talking like this, but honestly, something like that is going on in all these classes; i wish we could take up such things in the league at home." and he forced an embarrassed little laugh. pastor drury laughed too, and said of course they could, as he linked arms with j.w., and they passed on down the road. the preacher talked but little, contriving merely to drop a question now and then; and j.w. talked on, half-ashamed to be so "gabby," as he put it, and yet moved by an impulse as pleasant as it was novel. "and foreign missions, mr. drury. you won't be offended, i hope, but somehow as far back as i can remember i have always connected foreign missions with collections and 'greenland's icy mountains' and little naked hottentots, and something--i don't know just what--about the river ganges. but here--why, that china class just makes me want to see china for myself and find out how much of the advantages of american life over chinese has come on account of religion." "well, why not, j.w.? maybe you will go to china some day, and have a hand in it all," suggested the pastor, to try him out. the boy shook his head. "no, i don't think so. i am certainly getting a new line on foreign missions, but i don't think there's missionary stuff in me. i'll have to go at the proposition some other way." then pastor drury set him going on another subject. "what do you think of the young folks who are here?" he asked. "well, at first i thought they were all away ahead of our bunch at home, and some of them are; but you soon find out that the majority is pretty much of the same sort as ours. i think i've spotted a few slackers, but mighty few. most of the crowd seems to be all right, and i've already made some real friends. but do you know which one of them all is the most interesting fellow i've met?" the pastor thought he did, but he merely asked, "who?" "why, that greek boy, phil khamis. he is from salonika, you know. he knows the old country like a book, and he's going back some day, maybe to be some kind of missionary to his people, in the very places where the apostle paul preached. honest, i never knew until he told me that his salonika is the town of those christians to whom paul wrote two of his letters; those to the thessalonians--'thessalonika,' you know. well, you ought to hear phil talk. he came over here seven years ago, and learned the english language from the preacher at westvale." "yes, i have heard about him," said mr. drury. "they say he lived in the parsonage and paid the preacher for his english lessons by giving him a new understanding of the greek new testament. not many of us have found out yet how to get such pay for being decent to our friends from the other side." "well, he is a thoroughbred, anyway; and do you notice how he is right up in front when there is anything doing? the only way you can tell he isn't american born is that he is so anxious to help out on all the unpleasant work. when i look at phil it makes me boil to think of fellows like him being called 'wop.'" by this time the two had swung back into the campus, and j.w. found himself drafted to hold down second base in the faculty-student ball game. but that is a story for others to tell. on the steps of the library marcia dayne and some other girls were holding an informal reception. joe carbrook, with one or two of his friends, was finding it agreeable to assume a superior air concerning the institute. the impression the boys gave was that their coming to the institute at all had been a great concession, but that they were under no illusions about the place. "all this is all right," joe was saying, "for those who need it, but what's the good of it all to us? for instance, what do you get out of it, marcia?" "what do you think i want to get out of it? if you cared for the young people's work at home, i should think you could see how 'all this,' as you call it, would help you to do better work and more of it at delafield." "as you ought to know pretty well, marcia," joe replied, "back home they think i don't care much for the young people's work. it is a little too prim and ready-to-wear for me, if you'll excuse me for saying so. no fun in it at all, though i'll admit some of the classes here have more life in them than i looked for." one of the other girls, who knew him well enough to speak with large frankness, came to the defense of them all, saying: "well, joe, i don't see that you get very far with what you call fun. it's mostly at the expense of other people, including your father, who pays the bills. besides, since you came home from college this spring, you seem to have run out of nearly all the bright ideas you started with. i wonder if it ever strikes you that being a sport, as you call it, is mostly being a nuisance to everybody? some of us long ago got over thinking you clever and original. you must be getting over it yourself, by now, surely." "many thanks, dear lady, for them kind words," joe responded, as he bowed low in mock acknowledgment; "you make yourself quite plain, miss alma wetherell." he flung back the insult jauntily, as he and his companions moved on, but at least one of the group suspected that the words had struck home. you who know the general secretary could easily forgive j.w. his delight in the class of which the program said the subject was "methods." this is the only hour in an institute which the epworth league takes for its own work. rightly enough, it is a crowded hour, with the whole institute present, and usually it is an hour of unflagging interest. j.w. and marty were enjoying their first institute too much to be late at any classes. they were merely a little earlier at this class; to miss any of it would be a distinct loss. now, what the general secretary talked about was no more than the everyday work of the league--how it meant the young people of the church and their work for and with young people for the sake of the future. but he had a way with him. he said the league was a great scheme of self, with the "ish" left off. in the league one practiced self-help, and enjoyed the twin luxuries of self-direction and self-expression, and came sooner or later to that strange new knowledge which is self-discovery. he explained how epworthians as such could live on twenty-four hours a day, the plan being an ingenious and yet simple financial arrangement for keeping the league work moving, both where you are and where you aren't, even around the world. he had innumerable stories of the devotional meeting idea, the win-my-chum idea, the stewardship idea, the institute idea, the life service idea, the recreation idea, the study-class idea, and every other league idea so far invented. but all this is merely a hint of what the general secretary meant to the institute, and particularly to the delegates from delafield. even joe carbrook had been impressed. he heard the general secretary the morning after that little exchange of compliments on the library steps, and for an hour thereafter let himself enjoy the rare luxury of thinking. the results were somewhat disconcerting. "it's funny," said marty, as the four of them, the other three being joe, marcia, and j.w., sat under a tree in the afternoon, "but i believe that man could make even trigonometry interesting. i thought i'd heard all that could be said about the devotional meeting; but did you get that scheme for leaders he sprung this morning? watch me when we get back home, that's all." "you needn't suppose you are the only one who got it," said marcia. "everybody was trying to watch the general secretary and to take notes at the same time, and i don't believe you are any quicker at that than the rest of us. of course all of us will use as many of his ideas as we can remember, when we get home again." joe carbrook, with a new seriousness which sat awkwardly on him, confessed that he could not understand just what was happening. it was evident that he was ill at ease; marcia had noticed it every time she had seen him since that encounter with alma wetherell. "i guess you folks know i am not easily caught; but i'm ready to admit that man has hold of something. yes, and i'm half convinced that this institute has hold of something. i wish i knew what it is. if i could really believe that all i hear and see at this place is part of being young and part of being a christian, i might be thinking before long about getting into the game myself. the trouble is you three and the other leaguers i've watched at home are just you three and the others, and that's all. i know, and you know, what you can do. you'll take all these ideas of league work and use them, maybe; but what i can't see is how you will pick up the big idea of this place and get back home without losing it." "we can't," said marcia, "not without all sorts of help, visible and invisible. you, for instance; if you would really get into the game, as you say, nobody could guess how much it would mean to our league. and it might mean more to you." "marcia's right about that," said j.w. "the big idea of this place, that you speak of, is a lot too big for us to take home alone. maybe you'll think i'm preaching, but i don't care, if i say that for god to handle alone, it is not big enough. he makes the stars, and gives us his son, without any help from us. nobody else can do that. but he won't make our league at home a success without us; and all of us together can't do it without him. i'm not saying i know how to do it, even then, but that's the way it looks to me. why, joe," he said with sudden intensity as he faced joe carbrook, "if you ever get hold of the big idea, and the big idea gets hold of you, something is sure to happen, something bigger than any of us can figure out now. i know you have it in you." all four showed a surprised self-consciousness over j.w.'s unexpected venture into these rather deeper conversational waters than usual, and there was more surprise when joe carbrook began to talk about himself. he laughed to hide a touch of embarrassment, but with little mirth; and then he said, "well, j.w., that's not all foolishness, though i don't see why you should pick on me. why not marty? of course, i came here for fun, and i have had some, though not just the sort i expected. and i've had several jolts too. i might as well admit that if i could just only see how you hitch all of this league and church business to real life, i would be for it with all i've got. the trouble is, while i've never been especially proud of my own record, neither have i seen much excuse yet for what you 'active members' have been busy with. i have been playing my way, and you have been playing yours; but it all seems mostly play to me. all the same, i guess i am getting tired of my kind." if joe could ever have spoken wistfully, you might have suspected him of it just then. clearly, thought marcia dayne, in the silence that followed, something big was already happening. but how to help it on she could not tell; so, with a desperate effort to do the right thing, she contrived to turn the subject it seemed to her it had become too difficult to go further just now without peril to joe's strange new interest, as well as to a very new and tremulous little hope that had begun to sing in her own heart. the shift of the talk was a true institute change, and would have been most disconcerting to anyone unfamiliar with the ways of young christians; but marcia was sure that what had been said would not be forgotten, and she knew there would be another time. it was this that made her say, "i wish you boys would suggest what sort of stunt our district should give on stunt night; you know the time is getting short." "that's a fact," exclaimed marty, sitting up. "stunt night is to-morrow, and our delegation has to fix up the stunt for the fort adams district. let's get to work on something. we've been mooning long enough." for though marty never thought as quickly as marcia, he too felt some instinct of fear lest by an unfortunate word they should break the spell of joe carbrook's interest in the "big idea," and promptly the four were deep in a study of stunts. to the uninitiated, stunt night at the institute is without rime or reason, but not to those in charge who are looking ahead to sunday. they know that the converging and cumulative psychic forces which the institute invariably produces must be tempered, along about midway of the week, by some sharp contrast in the communal life. otherwise, the group, like over-trained athletes, will grow emotionally stale before the week is done, and at the end of that is let-down and flatness. hence "stunt night." in the early institute years it was easy, as in some places it still is, for stunt night to be no more than clowning, witless and cheap; but there is a distinct tendency to exercise the imagination in producing more self-respecting efforts. cartwright, happily, is one of the forward-looking institutes, and stunt night, crowded with most excellent fooling, produced two or three creditable and thought-provoking performances. one of them deserves remembering for its own sake. besides, it is a part of this story. the home missions class furnished the inspiration for it, and called it "scum o' the earth," an impromptu immigration pageant. a boy who had memorized schauffler's poem stood off stage and recited it, while group after group of "immigrants" in the motley of the steerage passed slowly through the improvised ellis island sifting process. it was all make-believe, of course, all but one tense moment. then phil khamis stepped on the platform, incarnating in his own proper person the poet's apostrophised greek boy: "stay, are we doing you wrong, young fellow from socrates' land? you, like a hermes so lissome and strong, fresh from the master praxiteles' hand? so you're of spartan birth? descended, perhaps, from one of the band-- deathless in story and song-- who combed their long hair at thermopylae's pass? ah, i forget the straits, alas! more tragic than theirs, more compassion-worth, that have doomed you to march in our 'immigrant class' where you're nothing but 'scum o' the earth!'" the audience was caught unaware. it had been vastly interested in the spectacle, as a spectacle, the more because the unusual americanization class which produced it had attracted general attention. but, phil khamis, everybody's friend, standing there, an immigrant of the immigrants, smiling his wistful friendly smile, was a picture as dramatic as it was unexpected. first there were ejaculations of astonishment and surprise. then came the moment of understanding, and a shining-eyed stillness fell on all. then, what a shout! j.w. led off, the unashamed tears falling from his brimming eyes. on saturday morning j.w. was sitting beside phil khamis at morning watch. the leader had asked for answers to the question "why did i come to the institute?" getting several responses of the conventional sort. suddenly phil nudged j.w. and whispered, "shall i tell why i came?" and j.w. with the memory of stunt night's thrill not yet dulled, said promptly, "sure, go ahead." when phil got up an attentive silence fell upon them all. the greek boy had made many friends, as much by his engaging frankness and anxiety to learn as by his perpetual eagerness to have a hand in every bit of hard work that turned up. since the stunt night incident he was everybody's favorite. "friends," he said, in his rather careful, precise way, "i am here for a different reason than any. when i was in america but a little time a methodist preacher made himself my friend. i could not speak english, only a few words. he took me to his home. he taught me to talk the american way. he find me other friends, though i could do nothing at all for them to pay them back. now i am christian--real, not only baptized. the young people of the church take me in to whatever they do. they call me 'phil' and never care that i am a foreigner, so when i heard about this institute i say to myself, 'it is something strange to me, but i hear that many people like those in my church will be there.' i cannot quite believe that, but it sounded good, and i wanted to come and see. and now i know that many people are young people like those i first knew. they treat me just the same. it makes me love america much more; and if i could tell my people in the old country that all this good has come to me from the church, they could not believe it. still, it is true. everything i have to-day has come to me by goodness of christian people." there were some half-embarrassed "amens," and more than one hitherto unsuspected cold required considerable attention. all the way to breakfast phil held embarrassed court, while his hand was shaken and his shoulder was thumped and he was told, solo and chorus, by all who could get near him, that "he's all right!"--"who's all right?" "phil khamis!" but j.w. was walking slowly toward the dining hall, alone. as he had listened to phil, at first he thought, "good old scout, he's putting it over," but by the time the greek's simple words were ended, j.w. was looking himself straight in the eye. "young fellow," he was saying, "you have come mighty near feeling glad that you have had so many more advantages than this stranger, and yet can't you see that what he says about himself is almost as true about you? all you have to-day--this institute, your religion, your church, your friends, the kind of a home you have and are so proud of--everything has come to you by what phil calls the goodness of christian people." and then it was breakfast time, with an imperative call on j.w. from the fort adams table for "that new yell we fixed up last night," and the minutes in which he had talked with himself were for the time forgotten. but the memory of them came back in the days after the institute was itself a memory. * * * * * the saturday night camp fire at this institute, contrary to the usual custom, was not co-ed. the boys went down to the lake shore and sat around a big fire on the sand. the girls had their fire on the slope of a hill at the other edge of the campus. nor does this institute care for too much praise of itself. its traditional spirit is to work more for outcomes than for the devices which produce complacency. it stages only a few opportunities of telling "why i like this institute." so, at the camp fires a man talked to the boys and a woman to the girls, not about the institute, but about life. these speakers knew the strange effect an institute week has on impressionable and romantic youth; they knew that by this time scores of the students were either saying to themselves, "i've got to do something big before this thing's over," or were vainly trying to put the conviction away. the woman who talked to the girls happened to be a preacher's wife. this gave her a certain advantage when she told the listening girls that the greatest of all occupations for them was not some special vocation, but what ida tarbell has called "the business of being a woman." it was good preparation for the next day's program, with its specific and glamorous appeal, for it put first the great claim, so that special vocations could be seen in clear air and could be fairly measured. pastor drury, who talked to the boys, was talking to them all, as j.w. very well knew, but every word seemed for him; as, indeed, it was, in a sense that he did not suspect. he was not surprised that his pastor should present the christian life as effectively livable by bricklayers and business men as surely as by missionaries. he had heard that before. but to j.w. the old message had a new setting, a new force. and never before had he been so ready to receive it. the songs had sung themselves out, as the fire changed from roaring flame and flying sparks to a great bed of living coals. from the world's beginning a glowing hearth has been perfect focus for straight thought and plain speech. the boys found it so this night. the minister began so simply that it seemed almost as if his voice were only the musings of many, just become audible. "i know," said he, "that to-morrow some of you will find yourselves, and will eagerly offer your lives for religious callings. we shall all be proud of you and glad to see it. but most of you cannot do that. you are already sure that you must be content to live 'ordinary christian lives,' it is possible that to-morrow you may feel a little out of the picture. and those who are hearing a special call might regard you, quite unconsciously, of course, as not exactly on their level." "now, suppose we get this thing straight to-night. there is no great nor small, no high nor low, in real service. the differences are only in the forms of work you do. the quality may be just as fine in one place as in another. the boy who goes into the ministry, or who becomes a medical missionary, will have peculiar chances for usefulness. so also will the boy who goes into business or farming or teaching, or any other so-called secular occupation. just because he is not called to religious work as a daily business he dare not think that he has no call. god's calling is not for the few, but for the many. and just now the man who puts his whole soul into being an out-and-out christian in his daily business and in his personal life as a responsible citizen must have the genuine missionary spirit. he must live like a prophet, that is, a messenger from god. he must know the christian meaning of all that happens in the world. and he must stand for the whole christian program. otherwise, not all the ministers and missionaries in the world can save our civilization. it is your chance of a great career. you who will make up the rank and file of the christian army in the next twenty-five years--do you know what you are? _you are the hope of the world!"_ as the group broke up in the dim light of the dying embers, j.w. stumbled into joe carbrook, and the two headed for the tents together. they had been on a much more friendly footing since thursday. "say, j.w.," said joe, abruptly, "what's the matter with me? i came to this place without knowing just why; thought i'd just have a good time, i suppose; but here i am being bumped up against something new and big every little while, until i wonder if it's the same world that i was living in before i came. do you suppose anybody else feels that way? is it the place? or the people? or what?" "i don't just know," said j.w., trying to keep from showing his surprise. "i feel a good deal that way myself. i think it's maybe that this is the first time we've ever been forced to look squarely at some of the things that seem so natural here. at home it's easy to dodge. you know that, only you've dodged one way and i've done it another." "but do you feel different, the way i do, j.w.? do you feel like saying to yourself: 'looka here, joe carbrook, quit being a fool. see what you could do if you settled down to getting ready for something real. like being a doctor, now.' do _you_ feel that way? you don't know it, but i've always thought i could be a doctor, if i could see anything in it. and then the other side of me speaks up and says: 'joe carbrook, don't kid yourself. you know you haven't got the nerve to try, even if you had the grit to stick it through.' is it that way with you, j.w.? you've paid more attention to religion and all that than i ever did. and what you said on thursday about the 'big idea' has kept me guessing ever since." "no, joe, my trouble's not like yours. i know i can't be a doctor, nor a preacher, nor a missionary. i've got nothing of that in me. but what we heard to-night at the camp fire came straight at me. as i tried to say the other day, if you get the 'big idea' of the institute, christian service looks like a great life. but me--i've no hope to be anything particular; just one of the crowd. and i never quite saw until to-night how that might be a great life too." as they were parting, j.w. ventured a bold suggestion. "say, joe, if you think you could be a doctor, _why not a missionary doctor?"_ joe's answer was a swift turning on his heel, and he strode away with never a word. "probably made him mad," thought j.w. "i wonder why i said it. joe's the last boy in the world to have any such notion. but--well, something's already begun to happen to him, that's sure--and to me too." on sunday the little world of the institute assumed a new and no less attractive aspect. everybody was dressed for sunday, as at home. classes were over; and games also; the dining room became for the first time a place of comparative quiet, with now and then the singing of a great old hymn, just to voice the institute consciousness. the morning watch talk had been a little more direct, a little more tense. and before the bishop's sermon came the love feast. now, the methodists of the older generation made much of their love feasts, but in these days, except at the annual conference, an occasional institute is almost the only place where it flourishes with something of the ancient fervor. many changes have come to methodism since the great days of the love feast; changes of custom and thought and speech. but your ardent young methodist of any period, chaplain mccabe, peter cartwright, jesse lee, captain webb, would have understood and gloried in this institute love feast. it spoke their speech. our group from delafield will never forget it. nearly all of them spoke; marcia dayne first because she was usually expected to lead in everything of the sort, then marty, then j.w., and, last of all and most astounding, joe carbrook. marty looked the soldier, and he put his confession into military terms. he spoke about his captain and waiting for orders, and a new understanding of obedience. before j.w. got his chance to speak, the leader read a night letter from an institute far away, conveying the greetings of six hundred young people to their fellow epworthians. j.w. could not bring himself to speak in terms of personal experience. he was still under the spell of last night's camp fire, and his brief encounter with joe carbrook, but without quite knowing what could possibly come of all that. and the telegram gave him an excuse to speak in another vein. you must remember that up to now he had been wholly local in his league interests. he had gone to no conventions, he was not a reader of _the epworth herald_, and to him the central office was as though it had not been. "i wonder if anybody else feels as i do," he said, "about this league of ours? until this last week i never thought much about it. but we've just heard that telegram from an institute bigger than this, a thousand miles off. and there's fifty-five or sixty institutes going on this year, besides the winter institutes, the conventions, and all the other gatherings. we seem to belong to a movement that enrolls almost a million young people, with all sorts of chances to learn how it can do all sorts of christian work by actually _doing_ it. this isn't the only thing i've found out here, but it makes me want to see the whole league become as good as it is big. i don't want to be dazzled by the size of it, because i know how many other members are just as little use as i've been. only when i get home i hope i'm going to be a different sort of an epworthian, and i can't help wishing that we all felt that way about being more good in the league. we can make it a hundred times more useful to the church and to our master." many others spoke like that, some of them because they could find nothing more intimate to say, some here and there those who, like j.w., could not quite trust themselves yet to talk of their deeper personal experiences. and then joe carbrook arose. he spoke easily, as joe always did, but it was a new joe carbrook, and only the delafield delegation understood how amazing was the change. "this institute has made me all sorts of trouble," he said. "i had nothing else to do, and without caring anything about it, except to get some new fun out of it, i came along, intending to stir up some of you if i could, and i knew i could. but i've seen what a fool i was. every day i've seen that a little more distinctly. and last night, just as i was leaving one of the boys after the camp fire he said something about what i might do with my life. i don't know how seriously he meant it. maybe he doesn't, either. i went off without answering him. there wasn't any answer, except that i knew i wasn't fit even to think about it. and then, thank god, i met a man who understood what was wrong with me. he's our pastor. i haven't been anything but trouble to him at home, but that made no difference to him. and he introduced me, down yonder by the lake, to a friend i had never known before, some one infinitely understanding, infinitely forgiving. he showed me that before i could find what i ought to be i'd have to come to terms with that friend. and i have. whatever happens to me, whatever i may find to do, i want now and here for the first time in my life to confess jesus christ as my saviour and lord!" the bishop preached a great sermon, but it is doubtful whether the delafield delegation rightly appreciated it. they were too much occupied with the incredible fact that joe carbrook had been converted, and had openly confessed it. more was to come. the afternoon meeting, long established in the institute world as the "life work service," was in the hands of a few leaders who knew both its power and peril. an invitation would be given for all to declare their purpose who felt called to special christian work. the difficulty was to encourage the most timid of those who, despite their timidity, felt sure of the inner voice, and yet prevent a stampede among those who, without any depth of desire, were in love with emotion, and would enjoy being conspicuous, if only for the brief moment of the service. for once a woman made the address--a wise woman, let it be said, who made skillful and sure distinctions between the christian life as a life and the work of the christian church as one way of living that life. it would have been a successful afternoon in any case, but three incidents helped the speaker. when she asked those to declare themselves who had decided for definite christian work, young people in all parts of the room arose, and one after another they spoke, for the most part simply and modestly, of their hope and purpose. and joe carbrook was among them! he said very little, the nub of it being that he had always thought of being a doctor, but not until a chance remark made by john wesley, jr., last night had the idea appeared to him important. just to make one more among the thousands of doctors in america was one thing, he said. it was quite another to think of being the only physician among a great, helpless population. but to be a missionary doctor a man had to be first a missionary. and how could he be a missionary if he were not a christian? well, as he had confessed at the love feast, that was settled last night, and as soon as it had been attended to be knew there was nothing else in the way. so he must work now toward being a medical missionary. joe's declaration stirred the whole assembly. and while the influence of it was still on them, j.w. saw martin luther shenk, his classmate and doubly his chum since a memorable day of the preceding october, get up and quietly announce his purpose of becoming a minister. "and i hope," said marty, "that i may find my lifework in some of the new home mission fields we have been learning about this week." at that point the leader felt more than a little anxious. these two decisions, with all their restraint, had in them something infectious, and she feared lest some young people, not holding themselves perfectly in hand, might be moved to sentimental and unreflecting declaration. if there had been any such danger, marcia dayne dispelled it. she was all aglow with a new joy of her own, whose secret none knew but herself, though one other had almost dared to hope he could guess. "may i speak?" she asked. "i have no decision to make for myself. last year i took the 'whatever, whenever, wherever' pledge, and i intend to keep it, though i am not yet sure what it will mean. but i know a boy here who will not talk unless somebody asks him, and there's a reason why i think he should be asked. please, mayn't we hear from john wesley farwell, jr., about _his_ kind of a call?" j.w., taken unawares at the mention of his name, was still at a loss when the leader seconded marcia's invitation; and the knowledge that he was expected to say something unusual did not make for self-control. but he understood marcia's purpose, and tried to pull himself together. "miss dayne is president of our home chapter, and she had a lot to do with my coming to the institute," he began. "she has heard me talk since i found out a little about the institute, and i told her this morning something of what joe carbrook and i had discussed last night after the camp fire." well, to get to the point, i think she wants me to say, and i'm saying it to myself most of all, that for nearly all of us young people, christian lifework must mean making an honest living, doing all we can to make our religion count at home, and then backing up with all we've got, by prayer and money and brains, all these others like joe carbrook and marty shenk, who are going into the hardest places to put up the biggest fight that's in them. we've just got to do it, or be quitters. as phil khamis said at morning watch yesterday, 'everything we have has come to us by the goodness of christian people.' we aren't willing to be the last links of that chain. we don't want any special recognition, but i hope the bishop and the general secretary and the dean and all the rest of the league leaders will know they can count on us just as we know they can count on these friends of ours who have just become life service volunteers. nobody knows what might have happened if some one had not spoken like that, but as the group of new volunteers stood about the platform at the close of the meeting, the other young people, instead of wandering off and feeling themselves of no significance, came crowding about them, to say to them, boy-and-girl fashion, something of what j.w.'s little speech had suggested. out of some four hundred epworthians enrolled in the institute, about forty had made definite decisions; but certainly not less than two hundred more had also faced the future, and in some sort had made a new contract with themselves and with god. the institute ended there, except for a simple vesper service after the evening meal, and on monday morning the whole company was homeward bound. the delafield delegation had separated. the larger group went home by train, but joe carbrook's insistence was not to be withstood, so j.w. and marty, marcia dayne and pastor drury were joe's passengers for the fifty-odd miles between institute and home. they sang, they cheered, they yelled the institute yells. they lived over the crowded days of the week that had so swiftly passed. but most of all they deeply resolved that so far as they could help to do it while they were at home the league chapter of delafield should be made over into something of more use to the church to which it belonged. it was marty who put their purpose into the fewest words. "we, and the others who have been to the institute, don't think we know every little league thing," said he, "and we don't think we are the whole league either. but every time anybody in our chapter starts anything good, he's going to have more and better help than he ever had before." which thing came to pass, as may one day be recorded. the rev. walter drury kept his own counsel, but he knew that more had happened than the putting of new life into the league. the experiment had progressed safely through some most difficult stages. chapter ii john wesley, jr.'s bringing up those words of phil khamis at morning watch kept popping into j.w.'s head in the days following the institute--"everything i have to-day has come to me by the goodness of christian people." "i know that must be true," he would say to himself, "but it's worth tracing back." the preacher was coming over to supper one night, as he loved to do; and j.w. made up his mind to bring phil's idea into the table talk. he was on even better terms with the preacher than he used to be. j.w.'s mother hadn't said much about the institute, though she had listened eagerly to all his talk of the crowded week, and she was vaguely ill at ease. she had hoped for something, she did not know just what, from the institute, and she was not yet sure whether she ought to feel disappointed. but she provided a fine supper, to which the menfolk paid the most practical and sincere of all compliments. and since nobody had anything else on for the evening, there was plenty of time for talk. the mother had a moment aside with the minister, and there was a touch of anxiety in her question: "do you think the institute helped my boy?" and the pastor had just time to whisper back, "it helped him much, but he gave even more help than he got you have reason to be proud of him. i am. he's growing." it was not very definite, but it brought no small comfort to the mother's heart. "this institute idea seems to be everywhere," said j.w., sr., to the pastor, "but how did it get started? i used to be in the epworth league, but we had nothing like it then." "that's not so very much of a story," said the pastor. "we have the institute idea because we had to have it. and so the league gave it form and substance." "well," j.w., jr., chimed in, "i think it's about time more people knew about it. i've wanted to ask you to explain it ever since we came back from the institute." the pastor nodded. "i know; but remember even you were not really interested until you had been at an institute. do you think our institute just happened, j.w.?" "i know it didn't," j.w. replied. "somebody did a lot of planning and scheming." "yes," returned the pastor, "but did you notice that a large part of its work touched subjects familiar to you, the local league activities, for instance--the devotional meeting, and mission study, and stewardship, and the scope of the business meeting which not so long ago elected you to membership?" "yes, you're right, though i don't see anything remarkable in that. it was a league institute, wasn't it?" "certainly. but still, if there had not been any local chapter, there could have been no institute, don't you see? what i mean is that the institute came because your chapter needed it, and you needed it; not because the institute needed you. it's merely a matter of tracing things back." j.w., jr., thought of phil's words. "sure enough," he responded, "tracing things back makes a lot of difference. i've been going over what phil khamis said at the morning watch--you remember? how everything he has to-day has come to him by the goodness of christian people. at first i thought that was no more than a description of his particular case, because i knew how true it was. but when you begin to trace things back, as you say, what's true about phil is true about all of us--anyway, about me." "how is that, son?" mrs. farwell asked gently. "well, i mean," j.w. smilingly answered her, though flushing a little too, "the institute, that seemed to me something new and different, is really tied up to what you folks and the whole church have been doing for me as far back as i can remember." and so they talked, parents and pastor and j.w., quite naturally and freely, of the long chain of interest which had linked his life to the church's life, back through all the years to his babyhood. j.w. had been in the league only a year or two, but it seemed to him that he had been in the church always. and the memories of his boyhood which had the church for center, were intimately interwoven with all his other experiences. as his father said, "i guess, pastor, if you tried to take out of j.w.'s young life all that the church has meant to him, it would puzzle a professor to explain whatever might be left." j.w. had been born in the country, on a farm whose every tree and fence corner he still loved. his first recollections of the church as part of his life had to do with the sunday morning drive to the little meetinghouse, which stood where the road to town skirted a low hill. it had horse-sheds on one side, stretching back to the rear of the church lot, and some sizeable elms and maples were grouped about its front and sides. it was a one-room structure, unless you counted the space curtained off for the primary class, as j.w. always did. for back of this curtain's protecting folds he had begun his career as a sunday school pupil and had made his first friends. at that time even district school was yet a year ahead of him, with its wider democratic joys and griefs, and its larger freedom from parental oversight. when j.w. was six, going on seven, the family moved to delafield, though retaining ownership of the farm, and for years j.w. spent nearly every saturday on the old place, in free and blissful association with the shenk children, whose father was the tenant. it was here that he and martin luther shenk, already introduced as "marty," being of the same age, had sworn eternal friendship, a vow which as yet showed no sign whatever of the ravages of time. there were three other children, ben and alice and jeannette. now, jeannette was only two years younger than j.w. and marty, but through most of the years when j.w. was going every week to the farm, she was "only a girl," and far behind the two chums by all the exacting standards which to boys are more than law. but there came a time---- j.w., sr., reveling in reminiscences before so patient a listener as the preacher, though it was an old story, rehearsed how he had served for years as superintendent of the country sunday school, and how mrs. farwell was teacher of the girls' bible class. their home had always been methodist headquarters, he said, as old-time methodists usually say, and with truth. when they moved to town the change brought no loss of church interest; the farwells merely transferred it entire to delafield first church ("first" being more a title than a numeral, since there was no second). but first church had not a few progressive saints. they wanted the best that could be had, so j.w., sr., sunday school enthusiast that he was, found himself in a new place of opportunity. the board of sunday schools at chicago had been asked to help delafield get itself in line with the best ideas and methods, and j.w., sr., found the beginnings, at least, of sunday school science in active operation. at first, like a true country man, he was a little inclined to counsels of caution, but in his country sunday school work he had acquired such strong opinions about old fogies that he dreaded being thought one himself. "and that's how it happened," he said with a laugh, "that i was soon reckoned among the progressives. in that first year i helped 'em win their fight for separate departments, and before long we had the makings of a real graded sunday school. don't you remember, mother, how proud you were when young j.w. there was graduated from the primary into the junior department?" all this was before pastor drury's time, of course, but he had gone through the same experiences in other pastorates, and needed not to have anything explained. "how long have we had a teacher-training class in our sunday school?" he asked. that called out the story of the struggles to set up what many openly called a useless and foolish enterprise. the sunday school was chronically short of teachers, and yet j.w., sr., and the other reformers insisted on taking out of the regular classes the best teachers in the school, and a score of the most promising young people. this group went off by itself into a remote part of the church. it furnished no substitute teachers. it wasn't heard of at all. and loud were the complaints about its crippling the school. "but, pastor, you should have seen the difference when the first dozen real teachers came out of that class; we were able to reorganize the whole school. our john wesley got a teacher he'll never forget. and, of course, we kept the training class going; it's never stopped since. the board of sunday schools has given us the courses and helped us keep the class up to grade in its work, and you know what sort of teachers we have now." the pastor did, and was properly thankful. in some of his other pastorates it had been otherwise, to his sorrow. "speaking of the board of sunday schools," the elder farwell resumed, for this was a hobby he missed no chance to ride, "it made all the difference with us in our work for a better sunday school--gave us expert backing, you know. and i notice by its latest annual report--yes, i always get a copy, though j.w. thinks it dry reading--that it is helping sunday schools by the thousand, not in this country only, but wherever in the world our church is at work. of course you know how it starts sunday schools, and how often they grow into churches. well, it didn't quite do that here, but this church is a sight better and bigger because we began to take the board's advice when we did. it was a good thing for our boy, and many another boy and girl, that the board woke us up." "it hasn't all been easy work, though," the minister suggested. "i remember that when i came i found there was a good deal of discontent over the graded lessons." "sure there was," said j.w., sr. "we had all been brought up on the uniform lessons, and most of us thought they were just right. besides, we rather enjoyed thinking of ourselves as keeping step with the whole sunday school world--all over the wide earth everybody studying the same scripture on the same sunday. and that was a big idea to get into the minds of christians of every name everywhere." "yes, but, dad," put in j.w., "what was the good of it if the lessons didn't fit everybody? did people think that the kids in the primary and their mothers in ma's class ought to study the same lesson? or did they think they could fit the same lesson to everybody by the different notes they put into the quarterlies?" "well, son," his father replied, "i reckon we thought both ways. and i'm not so sure yet that it can't be done. but if one thing more than another reconciled me to the graded lessons, it was that they made being a sunday school teacher a good deal bigger job than it had ever been. it was harder work, because every lesson had to be studied by the teacher, and in a different way from what was thought good enough in the old days. and i'm for anything, graded lessons or whatever, that'll make people take sunday school teaching more seriously." then mrs. farwell ventured to take up the story. it was about that time, in the very beginning of the drury pastorate, that j.w. joined the church on probation; much to her surprise and humbling. "i hadn't even thought of it," she said, "though i should have been the first one. he had been getting ready in the junior league, as i very well knew, but one day, as you may remember"--brother drury did, for that day was the real beginning of this story--"you made an invitation at the end of a real simple sermon, and if j.w., jr., didn't get right up from my side and walk straight to the front!" after that there had been a probationers' class, with j.w. and perhaps twenty others meeting the pastor every week for straight religious teaching, so that at easter, when they came up for membership, what with their sunday school and junior league training, and what with the pastor's more personal instruction, they were able to pass a pretty fair examination on the great christian truths, and on the general scheme of the church's work. "for a time mother was a trifle disappointed that j.w. hadn't waited for the big revival we had the next year," said j.w., sr., "but i think she was glad afterward." "yes, i was," the mother said. "you see, i had been brought up to believe in revivals, and i do yet, but we had no such chance to get the right christian start when we were little children, as j.w. has had, if you'll let his mother say so, and that made a revival a good deal more important to us when our church did get ready for one. but the other way is all right too. i'm mother enough to be glad j.w. hasn't known some of the experiences the boys of my time went through, and the girls as well. he's no worse a christian for having been right in the church ever since i put him in short dresses, are you, son? and i will say that his father was always with me in holding to the promises we made when he was baptized. we've not done what we might, but we've never forgotten that those promises were made to be kept." j.w. felt none of his old shrinking from such talk, especially since the institute, and yet he had the healthy boy's reluctance to discuss himself in company. but this was interesting him, outside himself. he turned to the pastor. "that's what i meant when i told you what phil said. i'm all for the church, and church people and church ways; why shouldn't i be? i've never known anything else. i remember well the one thing i didn't like when it first came along; and that was the new sort of christmas celebration dad and the others planned when i was ten or eleven. you know what christmas means to such kids, and i guess we were all selfish together, because we didn't use our heads. well, the sunday school proposed that instead of us all getting something we should all give something. it looked pretty cheap to us little fellows at first, and our teacher had all he could do to hold us in line. but let me tell you, every boy was for it when the time came. we found that we could have as much fun giving things away as we could grabbing things, and, anyway, nobody really cared for those mosquito net stockings filled with nuts and candy and one orange. it was only the idea of getting something for nothing. that first 'giving christmas,' i remember, our class dressed up as delivery boys, and we came on the platform with enough groceries for a small truck load, that we had bought with our own money. the orphanage got 'em next day. and one class was dusty millers, carrying sacks of flour, and another put on a stunt of searching for captain kidd's treasure, and they found a keg of shining coins (new pennies, they were)--more than a thousand of 'em. everything went to the orphanage, or the hospital; and then when the board of sunday schools began to get us interested in other sunday schools and in missions--i remember a scheme they call a 'partnership plan' that was great; i don't know what happened to it--i got right into the game every time." "how do you happen to know so much about the board of sunday schools, j.w.?" asked mr. drury. "oh, that's easy. you know how it is in our sunday school: they don't make one or two of us young fellows serve as librarians and secretaries and such and miss all the class work: they have more help, and we all get into class for the lesson. well, two years ago dad told me you had nominated me for something at the annual sunday school meeting. it was only a sort of assistant secretary's job, but very soon i began to catch on, and i've seen a lot of the letters and leaflets that come from the board in chicago. well, let me tell you that board of sunday schools is a whale of a machine. why, it's the whole church at work to make better sunday schools, and more of 'em. they have sunday school workers in all sorts of wild places, and sunday school missionaries in foreign lands. yes, and last year i happened to meet one of their secretaries, at your house, you may remember. but you'd never think he was just a secretary, he was so keen and wide awake. he knew the boy scouts from a to z, and that got me, 'cause i'm not so old that i've forgotten my scouting. and he knew baseball, and boys' books, and all that. don't you think, brother drury, if more of the fellows knew what the real sunday school work is they would take to it like colts to a bran mash?" "they couldn't help it," said the pastor. "and you may have noticed that your father and the other people of our sunday school board are trying to get them to find out some of the things you have found out. for instance, you know what the two organized classes of high-school freshmen are doing, and the other organized classes. seems to me their members are finding out that sunday school is something big and fine." "that they are," mrs. farwell agreed, "and you mustn't forget my wonderful class of young married women, and the men's class of nearly a hundred. i think our sunday school has really begun to change the ideas of a lot of people. just think how little trouble we have now with what graded lessons we have, and how happy all our teachers are because they have the helps they need for just the sort of pupils that are in their classes." "that's so," said j.w., sr. "i don't suppose even old brother barnacle, 'sot' as he is, would vote to go back to the times when the superintendent reviewed the lesson the same way the teachers taught it, from a printed list of questions. seems as if i can hear henry j. locke yet--his farm joins ours down by the creek--when he conducted the reviewing at deep creek. he would hold his quarterly at arm's length to favor his eyes, and then look up from it to the school and shoot the question at everybody, 'and what did peter do _then_, hey?' he sure did come out strong on peter; but i'll say this for him, that he never skipped a question from start to finish." all three laughed a little over henry j. locke, and then the pastor said he mustn't stay much longer. but he did want to back up j.w.'s belief that what phil khamis had said was true of everybody--we are all debtors. "look at this young j.w. here, will you," he said to the father and mother, for once letting himself go, "with a name he's proud of, and a home life that many a fifth avenue and lake shore drive family would be glad to pay a million for, if such goods were on sale in the stores. i'm going to tell him something he already knows. young man," and there was a gleam in the pastor's eye that was not all to the credit of the work he was praising, "you owe a big debt to the sunday school. i'm not jealous for the church, or for any other part of it, but by your own admission the sunday school has had a lot to do with your education. very well; remember it is a part of what phil said, and what you are because of the sunday school you have become by the goodness of christian people. i don't think you'll forget it, seeing that you have two of that sort of people in your own home all the time." and then, with a fine naturalness the little group knelt by the chairs, and two of the four, he who was pastor of the whole flock and he who with simple dignity was priest in his own household, gave thanks to god for the manifold goodness of christian people, of which they were all partakers every day. as he went home, walter drury thought of the long days that stretched out ahead before he could see the outcomes of the great experiment, but this night had seen a good night's work done in the laboratory, and he was content. one tale of the past had been much in j.w.'s thought that night, but nothing on earth could have induced him to talk about it, especially since the happenings at the institute. only one other person knew all of its inwardness, though the preacher guessed most of the secret pretty shrewdly, and everybody was familiar with its outcome. it was the story of marty shenk's conversion. these two had been david and jonathan from their little boy days, no less friends because they were so unlike; marty, a quiet, brooding, knowledge-hungry youngster, and j.w. matter-of-fact, taking things as they came and asking few questions, but always the leader in games and mischief; each the other's champion against all comers. marty's father, tenant-farmer on the farwell farm, was steady enough and dependable, but never one to get ahead much. before the farwells moved to town he had rarely stayed on the same farm more than a year or two, but, as he said, "j.w. farwell was different, and anybody who wanted to be decent could get along with him." so, for many saturdays and vacations of boyhood years j.w. and marty had roamed the countryside, and were letter-perfect in their boy-knowledge of the old farm. marty came in to high school from the farm, and often he stayed with j.w. over the weekend. his school work was uneven--ahead in mathematics, and the sciences, and something below the average in other studies. that, however, has no place in this story. of course he and j.w. were thick as thieves. except when class work made temporary separations necessary, they lived the high-school life together. that meant also, for these two, the social life of the church, which occasionally paid special attention to the students. so you might find them at epworth league socials, sunday school class doings, in the sunday school orchestra--violin and b-flat cornet respectively--and, most significant of all in its effect on all the later years, they went through win-my-chum week together. the hand of the pastor was in that, too. marty was not a christian. j.w. had been a church member for years, and early in his course he had faced and accepted all that being a christian seemed to mean to a high-school boy. there had been hard places to get over; some of the boys and girls were merciless in their unconscious tests of his religion. some were openly scornful, and others sought by indirect and furtive means to break his influence in the school. for he had no small gift of leadership, and he cared a good deal that it should count for the decencies of high-school life. by senior year the sort of trouble that a christian boy encounters in school was almost all ended, but it had been more through his dogged resistance to opposition than because of any special zest in christian service. and then came the announcement of win-my-chum week, with j.w. confronted by two stubborn facts. he had only one real chum, and that chum was not a christian. pastor drury had let fall a remark, a month before the week, to the effect that any christian who had a chum could dodge win-my-chum week, but he couldn't dodge his chum. when the week was past, the chum would still be on hand. think as he would, there was no honest way of escape from whatever those facts might require of him, so j.w., long accustomed to go ahead and take what came, had known himself bound by the obligations of this matter also, days and days before the activities of win-my-chum week began. the two were out one saturday on the north road. they had been up to the woods on barker's hill for nuts, and with good success. the day was warm, the way was long, and there was no hurry. when they came to the roadside at the wood's edge they sat on a fallen tree and talked. at least marty did. for j.w. was not himself. it was his chance, and he knew it. but a thousand impulses leaped to life within him to make him put off what he knew he ought to say. the fear of being misunderstood--even by marty--the knowledge that marty, in the qualities by which boys judge and are judged, was quite as "good" as himself; and, above all, his sense of total unfitness to be a pattern of the christian life to anybody, filled him with an uneasiness that actually hurt. and marty soon discovered that something was amiss. willing as he was to do his full share of the talking, he became aware that except for inarticulate commonplaces he was having to do it all. "what's the matter with you all at once, j.w.?" he asked. "you're not taken suddenly sick, are you? you were all right when we were among the trees. _are_ you sick?" j.w. laughed shortly. "no, old man, i'm not sick. but i'm up against a new game, for me, and i'm not in training." "sounds interesting," said marty, "but sort of mysterious. is it anything i can do team-work on?" "it surely is, but first i've got to say something, and i want you to promise that you won't think i'm putting on, or butting in, because i'm not; nothing like it. will you?" "will i promise?" said marty, much bewildered. "course i'll promise not to think anything about you that you don't want me to think, but i must say i don't know within a thousand miles what you're driving at. out with it, and even if you're the train bandit who held up the cannonball or if you've plotted to kidnap the board of education, i'll never tell." marty's quizzical humor was not making j.w.'s enterprise any easier. he had always supposed that what the leaflets called "personal evangelism" had to be done in a spirit of solemnity. but how was he to acquire the proper frame of mind? and certainly there was nothing solemn about marty just now. yet the thing had gone too far; it was too late to retreat. he tried to think how mr. drury would do it, but saw only that if it was mr. dairy's business he would go straight to the center of it. desperately, therefore, he plunged in. "well, marty," he said, speaking now with nervous haste, "what i'm up against is this. what's the matter with your being a christian?" he will never forget the swift look of blank amazement that marty turned on him, nor the slow-mounting flush that followed the first astonished start. for marty did not answer, and turned his face away. j.w. was sure that in his blundering bluntness he had offended and probably angered his closest friend. the distress of that thought served at least to drive away all the self-consciousness which thus far had plagued him. "say, marty," he pleaded, putting his hand on the other's arm, "forget it, if i've hurt your feelings. i know as well as you do that i'm not fit to talk about such things to anybody, and, honest, i meant nothing but to say what i knew i'd got to say." then marty turned himself back slowly, and j.w. saw the troubled look in his eyes. in a voice that trembled despite his proud effort at control, he said, "old man, you needn't apologize. you did surprise me, i'll admit; i wasn't looking for anything like this. it's all right, though, and i'm certainly not mad about it. but, say, j.w., let me put something up to you. why did you never think to ask me that question before?" "why, it was this way," j.w. began, somewhat puzzled at the form of the question, and still thinking he must set himself right with marty. "you know the epworth league is planning for those special meetings soon--'win-my-chum week'--and i've been asked to lead one of the meetings. but you can see that i wouldn't be ready to lead a meeting like that unless i had put this thing of being a christian up to you, anyway. you're the only real chum i've got. mr. drury said something a little while ago that made it mighty plain." "yes," said marty, "i can see that. but why did you never say anything to me about it when there wasn't any meeting coming? haven't we always shared everything else, since away back? this is the one subject that you and i have kept away from in our talk of all we've ever thought about, and i was wondering why." "well, i don't exactly know," j.w. replied. "it may have been that it never seemed to be any of my business; that it was the preacher's business, or the sunday school teacher's, or somebody's. and you know i've always been surer of what you really are than i have of myself. i think i was always afraid you would either make fun of me or believe i was letting on to be better than you were. but when the league got into this win-my-chum plan, why, the name itself was an eye-opener. and i've seen lately that a fellow's got to be a christian, out and out, or his religion is no good. and when i heard the preacher say, not long ago, that a fellow might dodge win-my-chum week, but he couldn't forever dodge his chum, i knew i had to speak to you. but you're sure you're not offended?" "let me admit a thing to you, j.w. i've never said so before, but i've been wanting somebody to ask me to be a christian for a long time. i was a coward about it, and wouldn't let on. i've been wanting to find out what i've got to do, but i wouldn't ask. do you think i _could_ be a christian?" "i know you could be a long way better christian than i am," j.w. answered with unwonted feeling. "and if you did take jesus christ to be your master, it would be more than just your getting religion. you would be the biggest kind of stand-by for me and for other people i know of. it's the one thing you need to be a hundred per cent right. i'm a pretty poor christian, myself, marty, partly because i don't know how to think much about it, but you'd be dead in earnest to get all that there is in the christian life, and maybe i could follow along behind. you've always helped every other way, and i've always wanted you to help me be a genuine christian." marty put his hand on j.w.'s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye: "you've got me rated a lot too high," he said. "how can i help you? but we two have been pretty good chums so far, haven't we? well, there's a lot to settle before i can be sure i'm a christian, but it means everything for you to think i can be of some use. and i promise you this, j.w., i'll not let up until i am a christian, and we'll stick together all the more, when i am, us two. is that ago?" it was a go. j.w. was ready and far more than ready to call it a go. it had been easier than he had expected, but then it had all been so different from the vague and formal thing he had been afraid of. he could hardly believe, but he had one request to make. "i know you'll settle whatever has to be settled," he said, a bit unsteadily, "but when it's all done, and you tell people about it, as i know you will, please, marty, don't bring me into it. publicly, i mean. let's just have this understanding between ourselves. i can lead my meeting now, but there's no need to say anything about me. besides, i made a mess of it." "it may be the best mess anybody ever stirred up for me, j.w., but i won't say anything to worry you, if the time comes for me to say anything at all. and i believe it will." it did. marty and the pastor had two or three long interviews. from the last of them the boy came away with a new light on his face and a new spring in his step. evidently whatever needed to be settled, had been settled. he kept his promise to his chum, but that did not prevent him from choosing the night when j.w. led the meeting to stand up at the first opportunity and make his straightforward confession of love and loyalty, since god had made him a sharer in the life that is in christ. then for a moment j.w. feared marty might forget their agreement, but marty said simply, "and part of the joy that is in my heart to-night is because there is a new tie, the only other one we needed, between myself and my old-time chum, the leader of this meeting." in the back of the room walter drury, quietly looking on, sent up a silent thanksgiving. the great experiment was going well. chapter iii campus days so it was that j.w. and marty had come into the inner places of each other's lives. of all the developments of institute week, naturally the one which filled j.w.'s thoughts with a sort of awed gladness was marty's decision to offer himself for the ministry. joe carbrook's right-about-face was much more dramatic, for j.w. saw, when the decision was made, that marty could not have been meant for anything but a preacher. it was as fit as you please. as to joe, previous opinion had been pretty equally divided; one side leaning to the idea that he might make a lawyer, and the other predicting that he was more likely to be a perpetual and profitable client for some other lawyer. in the light of the institute happenings, it was to be expected that the question of college would promptly become a practical matter to four delafield people. marty was greatly troubled, for he knew if he was to be a preacher, he must go to college, and he couldn't see how. j.w. felt no great urge, though it had always been understood that he would go. marcia dayne had one year of normal school to her credit, and would take another next year, perhaps; but this year she must teach. joe carbrook spent little time in debate with himself; he let everybody know that he was going to be a missionary doctor, and that he would go to the state university for the rest of his college course. "but what about the religious influence of the university?" marcia dayne had ventured to ask him one evening as they walked slowly under the elms of monroe avenue. "i don't know about that," joe answered, "and maybe i'm making a mistake. but i don't think so. to begin with, there isn't any question about equipment at the state university. they have everything any church school has, and probably more than most church schools, for what i want. and they work in close relationship to the medical school. that's one thing. the big reason, though--i wonder if you'll understand it?" "i believe i could understand anything you might be thinking about--now, joe." and marcia's voice had in it a note which stirred that usually self-possessed young man out of all his easy composure. "i'll remember that, marcia," he said in the thrill of a swift elation. "i'll remember that, because i think you do--understand, and some day i--but i've got at least five years of plugging ahead of me, and----" "you were going to tell me about your big reason for going to the state university," marcia broke in, though she wondered afterward if her instinct had not played her false. "yes," joe said, with a little effort. "well, this is it. you know i didn't make much of a hit at college; i pulled through sophomore year, but that's about all, and i doubt if the faculty will pass resolutions of regret when i don't show up there in the fall. the religious influences of a church school didn't prevent me from being a good deal of a heathen, though i will say that was no fault of the school. maybe i ought to go back and face the music. it wouldn't be so bad, i guess. but i feel more like making a clean, new start, in a new place. the state university wouldn't be any worse for me than i should be for it, if nothing had happened to change my point of view. so, that isn't the issue. but if the state university life is able to beat me before i get to sawing bones at all, i'd make a pretty missionary doctor if i ever landed in foreign parts, wouldn't i?" marcia could find nothing to say; perhaps because her thoughts were busy with other and more personal aspects of joe's plans for the future. and as joe's people were completely oblivious to everything except the startling change that had come over him, and were abundantly able to send him to three universities at once if necessary, joe carbrook was as good as enrolled. marty and j.w. did not find the future opening up before them so easily. marty, for all he could not imagine the way opening before such as himself, was all eagerness about the nearest methodist school, which happened to be the one where the institute had been held, cartwright college. it was named, as may be supposed, in honor of peter cartwright, that pioneer methodist preacher who became famous on the same sort of schooling which sufficed for abraham lincoln, and once ran against lincoln himself for congress. j.w. was not specially eager to look for a college education anywhere. why should he be, since he was expecting to go into business? the two had many a discussion, marty arguing in favor of college for everybody, and j.w. admitting that for preachers and teachers and lawyers and doctors it was necessary, but what use could it be in business? "but say, j.w., you're not going to be one of these 'born a man, died a grocer' sort of business men," urged marty. "broad-minded--that's your future, with a knowledge of more than markets. and look at the personal side of college life. haven't you heard mr. drury say that if he hadn't anything else to show for his four years at college than the lifelong friendships he made there it would have been worth all it cost? and you have reason to know he doesn't forget the studies." "that's all right, marty," j.w. rejoined. "i don't need much convincing on that score. i can see the good times too; you know i'd try for all the athletics i could get into, and i guess i could keep my end up socially. but is all that worth my time for the next four years, studying subjects that would be no earthly good to me in business, in making a living, i mean? the other boys in hardware stores would have four years the start of me." "but don't you remember, j.w., what our commencement speaker said on that very point? he told us we had to be men and women first, no matter what occupations we got into. and he bore down hard on how it was a good deal bigger business to make a life than to make a living. in these days the most dangerous people, to themselves and to all of us, are the uneducated people." "yes, i remember," j.w. admitted. "'cultural and social values of education,' he called that, didn't he? and that's what i'm not sure of. it seems pretty foggy to me. but, old man, you're going, that's settled, and maybe i'll just let dad send me to keep you company, if i can't find any better reason." "that's all very well for you to say, j.w.," marty retorted, with the least little touch of resentment in his tone. "you'll _let_ your dad send you. my dad can't send me, though he'll do all he's able to do, and how i can earn enough, to get through is more than i can see from here." but j.w. asserted, confidently: "there's a way, just the same, and i think i know how to find out about it. i haven't been a second assistant deputy secretary in the sunday school for nothing. you reminded me of the commencement address; i'll ask you if you remember children's day? it came the very next sunday." "yes, i remember it; but what of it?" "well, my boy, we took up a collection for you!" "we did? not much we did, and anyway, do you think i'd accept that sort of help? i'm not looking for charity, yet," and marty showed the hurt he felt. "steady, martin luther! i wouldn't want you to get that collection anyway; it wasn't near big enough. but don't you know that every children's day collection in the whole church goes to the board of education, and that it has become a big fund, never to be given away but always to be loaned to students getting ready to be preachers and such? it's no charity; it's the same broad-minded business you want me to go to college for. i can see that much without getting any nearer to college than the delafield first church sunday school. you borrow the money, just as if you stepped up to a bank window, and you agree to pay it back as soon as you can after you graduate. then it goes into the fund again, and some other boy or girl borrows it, and so on. more than twenty-five thousand students have borrowed from this fund. about fifteen hundred of 'em got loans last year. ask the preacher if i'm not giving you this straight." marty had no immediate way of testing this unusual wealth of information, so he said, "well, maybe there's something in it. i'll talk to brother drury about it, anyway." that observing man was quite willing to be talked to. when marty presented himself at the study a few days later he found the pastor as well prepared as if he had been expecting some such interview, as, indeed, he had. he told marty the story of the student loan fund--how it originated in the celebration of the centenary of american methodism, in , and how it had been growing all through the years, both by the annual children's day offering and by the increasing return of loans from former students. then he explained that this fund, and many other educational affairs, were in the hands of the church's board of education. this board, marty heard, is a sort of educational clearing house for the whole church, and especially for methodist schools of higher learning. it helps young people to go to college, and it helps the colleges to take care of the young people when they go, of course always using money which has come from the churches. it has charge of a group of special schools in the south, and it sets the scholastic standards to which all the church's schools and colleges must conform. besides looking out for these interests it helps the school to provide courses in the bible and christian principles, and it furnishes workers to serve the colleges in caring for the religious life of the students. marty listened carefully, and with no lack of interest, but when the minister paused the boy's mind sprang back to his own particular concern. "but, mr. drury, can any student borrow money from that fund?" "well, no," said the preacher, "not every student. only those who are preparing for the ministry or for other careers of special service. they have to show that the loan will help them in preparing to be of some definite christian value when they graduate. that won't affect you; you can borrow, not all you could use, perhaps, but enough to be a big help. how much do you expect to need?" "why," answered marty, "i hardly know. i hadn't really thought it possible i could go. but dad says he'll let me have all he can, and they tell me a fellow can get work to do if he's not particular about easy jobs. i'm pretty sure i could manage, except for tuition and books, but----" "then you may as well consider it settled," said the pastor, "cartwright college will welcome you on those terms, or i'll know the reason why. and i think you can count on j.w. going with you." j.w. was not hard to convince. his parents were all for it. the pastor had no intention of overdoing his own part in the affair, and contented himself with a suggestion that disposed of j.w.'s main objection. j.w. had been saying to him one day, "i know i should have a good time at college, but i should be four years later getting into business than the other boys." "that depends on what 'later' means," replied mr. drury. "you would not need four years to catch up, if college does for you what i think it will. besides, you're intending to be a christian citizen, i take it, and that will be even more of a job than to be a successful hardware man. colleges have been operating these many years, to give young people the best possible preparations for a whole life. remember what john milton said: i care not how late i come, so i come fit.' you want to come to your work as fit as they make 'em, don't you?" and j.w. owned up that he did. "i don't mean to be a dub in business, and i've no right to be a dub anywhere. me for cartwright, brother drury!" another day's work in the laboratory. walter drury knew how to be patient, yet every experience like this was a tonic to his soul. and now he must be content for a time to let others carry the work through its next stages, though he would hold himself ready for any unexpected development that might arise. so it befell that j.w. and marty started to cartwright, and a week later joe carbrook went off to the state university. the day after they had matriculated, j.w. and marty were putting their room to rights--oh, yes, they thought it would be well to share the same room--and as they puttered about they reviewed the happenings of the first day. they had made a preliminary exploration of the grounds and buildings, revisiting the places which had become familiar during institute week, and living over that crowded and epochal time. marty, scouting around for something to do, had discovered that he could get work, such as it was, for ten hours a week, anyway, and maybe more, at thirty to fifty cents an hour. he had a little money left after paying his tuition, and the college registrar assured him that the loan from the board of education would be forthcoming. therefore the talk turned on money. "that tuition bill sure reduced the swelling in my pocketbook, marty," remarked j.w., as he examined his visible resources. "what do you think it did to mine?" marty observed quietly. "i'm still giddy from being relieved of so much money in one operation. and yet i can't see how they get along. look at the big faculty they have, and all these buildings to keep up and keep going. when i think of how big a dollar seems to me, the tuition looks like the national debt of mexico; but when i try to figure out how much it costs the college per student, i feel as though i were paying lunch-counter prices for a dining-car dinner. how _do_ they do it, j.w.?" "who told you i was to be looked on in the light of a world almanac, my son? i could give you the answer to that question without getting out of my chair, but for one small difficulty--i just don't know. tell you what--it's a good question--let's look in the catalogue. i'd like to find information in that volume about something besides the four centuries of study that loom before my freshman eyes." so they looked in the catalogue and discovered that cartwright college had an endowment of $ , , , producing an income of about $ , a year, and that the churches of its territory gave about $ , more. they learned also that most of the buildings had been provided by friends of the college, with the carnegie library mainly the gift of the millionaire ironmaster. they learned also that about $ , of the endowment had been raised in the last two years, under the promise of the general education board, which is a rockefeller creation, to provide the last $ , . the college property was valued at about half a million dollars. "and there you are, martin luther, my bold reformer," said j.w., cheerfully. "the people who put up the money have invested about two and a half millions on you and me, and the other five hundred students, say about $ a year per student. and we pay the rest of what it costs to give us a college career, $ to $ a year, depending on our taste in courses. i remember i felt as if the john wesley farwell family had almost gone broke when dad signed up for $ , on that last endowment campaign. i thought the money gone forever, but i see now he merely invested it. i've come to cartwright to spend the income of it, and a little more. five or six people have given a thousand dollars apiece to make a college course possible for each of us. there's some reason in college endowments, after all." and marty said, "one good i can see in this particular endowment is that anybody but a selfish idiot would be glad to match four years of his life against all the money and work that christian people have put into cartwright college." "i hope you don't mean anything personal by that remark," j.w. said, with mock solemnity, "because i'm inclined to believe you're more than half right. it reminds me again of what phil khamis said. i'm beginning to think i'll never have a chance to forget that greek's christian remark about christians." by being off at school together j.w. and marty gave each other unconfessed but very real moral support in those first days when a lone freshman would have known he was homesick. but another antidote, both pleasant and potent, was supplied by the epworth league of first church. it had allied itself with the college y.m.c.a.--and for the women students, with the y.w.c.a.--in various ways, but particularly it purposed to see that the first few sundays were safely tided over. so the two chums found themselves in one of the two highly attractive study courses which had been put on in partnership with the sunday school. it was in the early afternoon of one of the early sundays that j.w. called marty's attention to a still more alluring opportunity. "looky here, marty, it's raining, i know, but i've a feeling that you'd better not write that letter home until a little further on in the day. what's to stop us from taking a look at this league fellowship hour we're invited to, and getting a light lunch? we don't need to stay to the league meeting unless we choose, though we're members, you know." marty picked up the card of invitation which j.w. had flipped across the table to him, and read it. "well," he commented, "it reads all right. let's try it." out into the rain they went and put in two highly cheerful hours, including one in the devotional meeting, so that when marty at last sat down to write home, he produced, without quite knowing how, a letter that was vastly more heartening when it reached the farm than it would have been if he had written it before dark. joe carbrook set out for the state university in what was for him a fashion quite subdued. before his experience at the institute he would have gone, if at all, in his own car, and his arrival would have been notice to "the sporty crowd" that another candidate for initiation into that select circle had arrived. but joe was enjoying the novelty of thinking a little before he acted. though he would always be of the irrepressible sort, he was not the same joe. he had laid out a program which surprised himself somewhat, and astonished most of the people who knew him. he knew now that he would become, if he could, a doctor; a missionary doctor. no other career entered his mind. he would finish his college work at the state university, and then go to medical school. he would devote himself without ceasing to all the studies he would need. not for him any social life, any relaxation of purpose. grimly he told himself that his play days were over. they had been lively while they lasted; but they were done. of course that was foolish. if he had persisted in any such scholastic regimen, the effort would have lasted a few days, or possibly weeks; and then in a reaction of disgust he might easily have come to despair of the whole project. fortunately for joe and for a good many other people, his purpose of digging into his books and laboratory work and doggedly avoiding any other interest was tempered by the happenings of the first week. doubtless he would have made a desperate struggle, but it would have been useless. not even conversion can make new habits overnight, and in his first two years at college joe had been known to teachers and students alike as distinctly a sketchy student, wholly inexpert at concentrated effort. and so, instead of becoming first a grind and then a discouraged rebel against it all, he had the immense good fortune to be captured by an observant junior whom he had met while they were both registering for chemistry iii. "you're new here," said the junior, heatherby by name, "and i've had two years of it. maybe you'll let me show you the place. i'm the proud half-owner of a decidedly second-hand 'hooting nanny,' you know, and i rather like bumping people around town in it." that was the beginning of many things. joe liked it that heatherby made no apologies for his car, and before long he discovered that the other half-owner, barnard, was equally unaffected and friendly. it was something of a surprise, though, to learn that barnard was not a student, but the youthful-looking pastor of the university methodist church, of late known as the wesley foundation. "i'm not up on methodism as i should be," said joe to barnard, a day or two later, "and i may as well admit that i never heard before of this wesley foundation of yours. is it a church affair?" "well, rather," barnard answered. "it is just exactly that. you know, or could have guessed, that a good many of the students here are from methodist homes--about a fourth of the whole student body, as it happens. and our church has been coming to see, perhaps a bit slowly, that although the state could not provide any religious influences, and could certainly do nothing for denominational interests, there was all the more reason for the church to do it. that's the idea under the foundation, so to speak, and the work is now established in nine of the great state universities." "yes, i see," joe mused, "but just what is the foundation's duty, and how do you do it?" barnard laughed as he said, "we do pretty near everything, in this university. we have a regular methodist church, with a membership made up almost entirely of faculty and students. the town people have their own first church, over on the west side. our church has its sunday school, its epworth league chapter, and other activities. we try to come out strong on the social side, and in a little while, when our social center building is up--we're after the money for it now--we can do a good deal more. there is plenty of demand for it." "that's all church work, of course. i suppose you have no relation to the university, though," joe asked, "studies and all that?" "yes, indeed, and we're coming to more of it, but gradually. we are already offering courses in religious subjects, with teachers recognized by the university, and credit given. it's all very new yet, you know, but we're hoping and going ahead." "i should think so," said joe with emphasis. "but where does the money come from for all this? it must be methodist money, of course; who puts it up?" "oh, the usual people," said barnard. "a few well-to-do methodists have provided some of it, but the really big money has to come from the churches--collections and subscriptions and all that. this sort of work is being done in forty-odd other schools, where the wesley foundation is not organized. the money comes officially through two of the benevolent boards." "yes?" queried joe. "i've often heard of 'the benevolences,' but i never thought of them as meaning anything to me. how do they hook up to a proposition like that?" "well," said barnard, "the board of education, naturally, is interested because of the methodist students who are here. and the board of home missions and church extension is interested because at bottom this is the realest sort of home mission and church extension work." "do these boards supply all the money you need?" was joe's next question. "no, not all at once, anyway," barnard answered. "we're needing a good deal more before this thing really gets on its feet; and when our people know what work can be done in state schools, and what a glorious chance we have, i think they'll see that the money is provided. the students are there, half a hundred thousand of them, and the church must be there too." "well," joe said, "i admire the faith of you. and i want to join. you know, although i'm a mighty green hand at religious work, i've got to go at it hard. there's a reason. so please count me in on everything where i'm likely to fit at all. i didn't tell you, did i, that i'm headed for medicine?--going to be a missionary doctor, if they'll take me when i'm ready. maybe your foundation can do something with me." barnard thought it could, and the next two years justified his confidence. joe carbrook, as downright in his new purpose as he had been in his old scornful refusal to look at life seriously, quickly found a place for himself in the church and the other activities of the foundation. it saved him from his first heedless resolution to study an impossible number of hours a day, and from the certain crash which would have followed. it gave him not a few friends, and he was soon deep in the affairs of the league and the church. besides, it made possible some special friendships among the faculty, which were to be of immense value in later days. while joe carbrook was fitting himself into the life of the university and the wesley foundation, the chums at cartwright were quite as busy making themselves a part of their new world. as always, they made a good team, so much so that people began to think of them not as individuals, but as necessarily related, like a pair of shoes, or collar and tie, or pork and beans. and, though the old differences of temperament and interest had not lessened, the two had reached a fine contentment over each other's purposes. j.w. was happy in marty's preacher-plans, and marty believed implicitly in the wisdom of j.w.'s understood purpose to be a forthright christian layman. but it was not all plain sailing for j.w. nobody bothered marty; he was going into the ministry, and that settled that. among the students who went in for religious work were several who could not quite share marty's complacence over j.w.'s program. they thought it strange that so active a christian, with the right stuff in him, as everybody recognized, should not declare himself for some religious vocation. and from time to time men came to college--bishops, secretaries, specialists--to talk to the students about this very thing. there was a student volunteer band, in which were enrolled all the students looking to foreign mission work. the prospective preachers had a club of their own, and there was even a little organized group of boys and girls who thought seriously of social service in some form or another as a career. now, j.w., before the end of sophomore year, had come to know all, or nearly all, of these young enthusiasts. some of them developed into staunch and satisfying friends. if he had run with the sport crowd, which was always looking for recruits, or if he had been merely a hard student, working for phi beta kappa, he might have been let alone. but, without being able to wear an identifying label, he yet belonged with those who had come to college with a definite life purpose. just because nobody seemed to realize that being a christian in business could be as distinct a vocation as any, j.w. was at times vaguely troubled, in spite of his confident stand at the institute. he wondered a little at what he had almost come to feel was his callousness. not that he was uninterested; for marty he had vast unspoken ambitions which would have stunned that unsuspecting youth if they had ever become vocal; and he never tired of the prospects which opened up before his other friends. he kept up an intermittent correspondence with joe carbrook, and found himself thinking much about the strange chain of circumstances which promised to make a medical missionary out of joe. he more than suspected that joe and marcia dayne were vastly interested in each other's future, and he got a lot of satisfaction out of that. they would have a great missionary career. no; he was not unfeeling about all these high purposes of the boys and girls he knew; and if he could just get a final answer to the one question that was bothering him, his college life would need nothing to make it wholly satisfying. he had early forgotten all his old reluctance to put college before business. marty knew something of what was passing in j.w.'s mind, and it troubled him a little. he thought of tackling j.w. himself, and by this time there was nothing under the sun they could not discuss with each other freely. but he did not quite trust himself. at last he made up his mind to write to their pastor at home. he knew that for some reason mr. drury had a peculiar interest in j.w. and was sure he could count on it now. "i know j.w.'s bothered," he wrote, "but he doesn't talk about it. i think he has been disturbed by hearing so much about special calls to special work. we've had several lifework meetings lately, and the needs of the world have been pretty strongly stated. but the stand he took at the institute is just as right for him as mine is for me. can't you write to him, or something?" walter drury could do better than write. he turned up at cartwright that same week. it happened that three or four prospective preachers and christian workers had been in their room that afternoon, and j.w. was trying to think the thing through once more. he recalled what his pastor had said at the camp fire, and his own testimony on institute sunday in the life-service meeting, after marcia dayne had put it up to him. but he was making heavy weather of it. and just then came the pastor's knock at the door. there was a boisterous welcome from them both, with something like relief in j.w.'s heart, that he would not, could not speak. but he could get help now. for the sake of saying something he asked the usual question. "what in the world brings you to cartwright?" "oh," said pastor drury, "i like to come to cartwright. your president's an old friend. besides, why shouldn't i come to see you two, if i wish? you are still part of my flock, you know." so they talked of anything and everything. by and by marty said he must go over to the library, and pretty soon j.w. was telling his friend the pastor all that had been disturbing him. "it all began in the summer before i came to college, at the institute here, you know, when you spoke at the camp fire on saturday night." "i remember," the pastor replied. "you hadn't taken much interest in your future work before that?" "no real interest, i guess," j.w. admitted. "i'd always taken things as they came, and didn't go looking for what i couldn't see. i was enjoying every day's living, and didn't care deeply about anything else. why, though i've been a methodist all my life, you remember how i knew nothing at all about the methodist church outside of delafield, except what little i picked up about its sunday schools by serving as an assistant to our sunday school secretary. and when i began to hear, at the institute, about home missions and foreign missions, about negro education and other business that the church was doing, i saw right off that it was up to us young people to supply the new workers that were always needed. but, even so, only those who had a real fitness for it ought to offer themselves, and i thought too that something else would be needed. i wasn't any duller than lots of other church members--even the older ones didn't seem to know much more about the church outside than i did. you would take up collections for the benevolences, but if you told us what they meant, we didn't pay enough attention to get the idea clearly, so as to have any real understanding. i suppose the women's societies had more. i know my mother talks about industrial homes in the south, and schools in india--she's in both the societies, you know--but that is about all." "and it seemed when i began to find out about things, mr. drury, that if our whole church needed workers for all these places, it needed just as much to have in the local churches men and women who would know about the work in a big way, and who would care in a big way, to back up the whole work as it should be backed up. so, when you spoke at the camp fire it was just what i wanted to hear, and when i was called on, i made that sort of a declaration the next day at the life decision services." "yes i remember that too," said mr. drury, "and i remember telling joe carbrook that you had undertaken as big a career as any of them." "that's what i kind of thought too," said j.w., simply, "but rooming with marty shenk--he's going to make a great preacher too--keeps me thinking, and i know about all the students who are getting ready for special work, and lately i've been wondering----" "about some special sort of work you'd like to do?" mr. drury prompted. "no; not that at all. i'm just as sure as ever i'm not that sort. if only i can make good in business, there's where i belong. but can a fellow make good just as a christian in the same way i expect marty shenk to make good as a christian preacher?" the pastor stood up and came over to j.w.'s chair. "my boy, i know just what you are facing. it is a pretty old struggle, and there's only one way out of it. god hasn't any first place and second place for the people that let him guide them. a man may refuse his call, either to go or to stay, and then no matter what he does it will be a second best. but you--wait for your call. for my part, i think probably you've got it, and it's to a very real life. if you and those like you should fail, we should soon have no more missionaries. and if the missionaries should fail, we should soon have no more church. god has little patience with a church that always stays at home, and i doubt if he has more for a church that doesn't stand by the men and women it has sent to the outposts. it is all one job." there was much more of the same sort, and when j.w. walked with his pastor to the train the next morning, the only doubt that had ever really disturbed him in college was quieted for good. walter drury went back to delafield and his work, surer now than ever that the experiment was going forward. he knew, certainly, that all this was only the getting ready; that the real tests would come later but he was well content. * * * * * it was early football season of the junior year. the state university took on cartwright college for the first saturday's game, everybody well knowing that it was only a practice romp for the university. always a big time for cartwright, this year it was a day for remembering. joe carbrook, who had been graduated from the university in june, and was now a medical student in the city, drove down to see the game. for loyalty's sake he joined the little bunch of university rooters on the east stand. otherwise it was cartwright's crowd, as well as cartwright's day. to the surprise of everybody, neither side scored until the last quarter, and then both sides made a touchdown, cartwright first! a high tricky wind spoiled both attempts to kick goal, and time was called with a score at - . cartwright had held state to a tie, for the first time in history! joe came from the game with the chums and took supper with them. the whole town was ablaze with excitement over its team's great showing against the state, and the talk at table was all of the way cartwright's eleven could now go romping down the schedule and take every other college into camp, including, of course, barton poly, their dearest foe. the boys were happy to have joe with them, he looked so big and fine, and had the same easy, breezy bearing as of old. nor had he lost any of that frank attitude toward his own career which never failed to interest everybody he met. after supper they had an hour together in the room. "those boys in the medical school surely do amuse me," he laughed. "when i tell 'em i'm to be a missionary doctor, which i do first thing to give 'em sort of a shock they don't often get, they stand off and say, 'what, you!' as if i had told 'em i was to be a traffic cop, or a trapeze artist in the circus. some of 'em seem to think i'm queer in the head, but, boys, they are the ones with rooms to let. when the others talk about hanging out a shingle in chicago or saint louis or cleveland or some other over-doctored place, i tell 'em to watch me, when i'm the only doctor between siam and sunrise! won't i be somebody? with my own hospital--made out o' mud, i know--and a dispensary and a few native helpers who don't know what i'm going to do next, and all the sick people coming from ten days' journey away to the foreign doctor!" and then his mood changed. "that's what'll get me, though; all those helpless, ignorant humans who don't even know what i can do for their bodies, let alone having any suspicion of what somebody else can do for their souls! but it will be wonderful; next thing to being with him in galilee!" there was a pause, each boy filling it with thoughts he would not speak. "where do you expect to find that work, joe?" j.w. asked him. the answer was quick and straight: "wherever i'm sent, j.w., boy," he said. "only i've told the candidate secretary what i want. i met him last summer in chicago, and there's nothing like getting in your bid early. he's agreed to recommend me, when i'm ready, for the hardest, neediest, most neglected place that's open. if i'm going into this missionary doctor business, i want a chance to prove christianity where they won't be able to say that christianity couldn't have done it alone. it _can_!" then, with one of those quick turns which were joe carbrook's devices for concealing his feelings, he said, "and how's everything going at this methodist college of yours? your boys put up a beautiful game to-day, and they ought to have won. how's the rest of the school?" both the boys assured him everything was going in a properly satisfactory fashion, but marty had caught one word that he wanted joe to enlarge upon. "why do you say 'methodist college'? it is a methodist college; but is there anything the matter with that?" joe rose to the mild challenge. "don't think i mean to be nasty," he said, "but i can't help comparing this place with the state university, and i wonder if there's any big reason for such colleges as this. you know they all have a hard time, and the state spends dollars to the church's dimes." "yes, we know that, don't we, j.w.?" and marty appealed to his chum, remembering the frequent and half-curious talks they had on that very contrast. j.w. said "sure," but plainly meant to leave the defense of the christian college to marty, who, to tell the truth, was quite willing. "there's room for both, and need for both," said that earnest young man. "each has its work to do--the state university will probably help in attracting most of those who want special technical equipment, and the church colleges will keep on serving those who want an education for its own sake, whatever special line they may take up afterward: though each will say it welcomes both sorts of students." this suited joe; he intended marty to keep it up a while. so he said, "but why is a church college, anyway?" and he got his answer, for marty too was eager for the fray. "the church college," he retorted with the merest hint of asperity, "is at the bottom of all that people call higher education. the church was founding colleges and supporting them before the state thought even of primary schools. look at oxford and cambridge--church colleges. look at harvard and yale and princeton and the smaller new england colleges--church colleges. look at syracuse and wesleyan and northwestern and chicago. look at vanderbilt, and most of the other great schools of the south. they are church colleges, founded, most of them, before the first state university, and many before there was any public high school. the church college showed the way. if it had never done anything else, it has some rights as the pioneer of higher learning." j.w. had been getting more interested. he had never heard marty in quite this strain, and he was proud of him. "that's a pretty good answer he's given you, joe," he said with a chuckle. "now, isn't it?" "it is," admitted joe. "i reckon i knew most of what you say, marty, but i hadn't thought of it that way before. now i want to ask another question, only don't think i'm doing it for meanness; i've got a reason. and my question is this: granting all that the church schools have done, is it worth all they cost to keep them up now; in our time, i mean?" "i think it is," marty answered, quieter now. "they do provide a different sort of educational opportunity, as i said. then, they are producing most of the recruits that the churches need for their work. since the churches began to care for their members in the state universities, a rather larger number of candidates for christian service are coming out of the universities, but until the last year or two nearly all came, and the very large majority still comes, and probably for years will come, from the church colleges. and there's another reason that you state advocates ought to remember. our methodist colleges in this country have about fifty thousand students. if these colleges were to be put out of business, ten of the very greatest state universities would have to be duplicated, dollar for dollar, at public expense, to take care of the methodist students alone. when you think of all the other denominations, you would need to duplicate all the state universities now in existence if you purposed to do the work the church colleges are now doing. and if you couldn't get the money, or if the students didn't take to the change, the country would be short just that many thousand college-trained men and women. the whole methodist church, with the other churches, is doing a piece of unselfish national service that costs up into the hundreds of millions, and where's any other big money that's better spent?" when marty stopped he looked up into joe's good-natured face, and blushed, with an embarrassed self-consciousness. "you think you've been stringing me, don't you?" "now, marty," joe spoke genially, "don't you misunderstand. i said i had a reason. i have. my folks have some money they want to put into a safe place. and they like cartwright. i do too, but--you know how it is. i want to be sure. anyhow i'm glad i asked these questions. you've given me some highly important information; and, honestly, i'm grateful. you surely don't think i'm small enough to be making fun of you, or of cartwright. if i seemed to be, i apologize on the spot. believe me?" and there was no mistaking his genuine earnestness. "of course i believe you, old man," marty rejoined, just a wee bit ashamed. "forgive me too, but i've been reading up on that college thing lately, and it's a little different from what most people think. so you got me going." "i'm glad he did," said j.w. "it makes me prouder than ever of cartwright college." and, as he got up he said, as though still at the game, "the 'locomotive' now!" and gave cartwright's favorite yell as a solo, while marty and joe grinned approval and some students passing in the street answered it with the "skyrocket." * * * * * there is material for a book, all mixt of interest varying from very light comedy to unplumbed gloom, in the life of two boys at college--any two; and some day the chronicles of the delafield duo may be written; but not now. senior year, with its bright glory and its seriously borne responsibilities. it found marty a trifle less shy and reticent than when he came to cartwright, and j.w., jr., a shade more studious. marty would miss phi beta kappa, but only by the merest fraction; j.w. would rank about number twenty-seven in a graduating class of forty-five. marty had successfully represented his college twice in debate, and j.w. had played second on the nine and end in the eleven, doing each job better than well, but rarely drawing the spotlight his way. curiously enough, you had but to talk to marty, and you would learn that j.w., jr., was the finest athlete and the most popular student in school. conversely, j.w., jr., was prepared to set cartwright's debating record, as incarnated in marty, against that of any other college in the state. what was more, he cherished an unshakable confidence that the "rev. martin luther shenk" would be one of the leading ministers of his conference within five years. and so they came to commencement, with the shenk and the farwell families, pastor drury, and marcia dayne in the throng of visitors. mr. drury rarely missed commencements at cartwright, and naturally he could not stay away this year. the farwells thought marcia might like to see her old schoolmates graduate, and the boys had written her that they wanted somebody they could trot around during commencement week who might be trusted to join in the "i knew him when" chorus without being tempted to introduce devastating reminiscences. and marcia, being in love with life and youth, had been delighted to accept the combined invitation. she was not at all in love with either of the boys, nor they with her. they thought they knew where her heart had been given, and they counted joe carbrook a lucky man. "tell us, marcia," said j.w., jr., one afternoon, as the three of them were down by the lake, "how it happens you went to the training school instead of the normal school last year." "that's just like a man," said marcia. "here am i, your awed and admiring slave, brought on to adorn the crowning event of your scholastic career, and you don't even remember that i finished the normal school course in three years, and graduated a year ago!" marty rolled over on the sand in wordless glee. "aw, now, marcia, why----" j.w., jr., boggled, fairly caught, but soon recovering himself. "you must have been ashamed of it, then. i do remember something about your getting through, now you mention the fact, but why didn't i receive an invitation? answer me that, young lady!" "oh, we educators don't think commencement amounts to so much as all that. with us, you know, life is real, life is earnest, and so forth. but i'll tell you the truth, j.w. i knew you couldn't come, either of you, and i was saving up a little on commencement expenses; so i left you--and a good many others--off the list. i needed the money, that's the simple fact; and the reason you didn't see me at home last summer was because i was busy spending the money i had saved on your invitations and other expensive things." marty usually waited for j.w., but the idea which now occurred to him demanded utterance. "say, marcia, i think it's fine of you to be studying dispensary work and first aid." "how did you know?" marcia demanded. "never mind; i saw joe carbrook in chicago when we went through on our way to the buckland-cartwright debate, and i guessed a good deal more than he told me, which wasn't much." "marty," said marcia, her face aglow and her brave eyes looking into his, "there's nothing secret about it. when joe gets through medical school we shall go out together to whatever field they choose for him. the least i can do is to get ready to help." "is that why you've been going to training school?" asked j.w. they had so long been used to such complete frankness with each other that the question was "taken as meant." "yes, j.w., it is," said marcia. "joe has been doing perfectly splendid work in his medical course, and they say he will probably turn out to be a wonderful all-round doctor--everybody is surprised at his thoroughness, except me. i know what he means by it. but, of course, he has little time for training in other sorts of religious work, and so, ever since last june, i've been dividing my time between a settlement dispensary and the training school. why shouldn't i be as keen on my preparation as he is on his, when we're going out to the same work?" "you should, marcia--you should," j.w. agreed, vigorously, "and we're proud of you; aren't we, marty? i remember thinking two years ago what fine missionary pioneers you two would make. only trouble is, we'll never know anything about it, after we've once seen your pictures in _the epworth herald_ among the recruits of the year. if you were only going where a feller could hope to visit you once every two years or so!" marcia looked out across the lake, but she wasn't seeing the white sails that glided along above the rippling blue of its waters. in a moment she pulled herself together, and observed that there had been enough talk about a mere visitor. "what of you two, now that your student occupation's gone?" "tell her about yourself, marty," said j.w. "she knows what i'm going to do." and for the moment it seemed to him a very drab and unromantic prospect, in spite of his agreement with mr. drury that all service ranks alike with god. marty was always slow to talk of himself. "it isn't much," he said. "the district superintendent is asking me to fill out the year on the ellis and valencia circuit--the present pastor is going to colorado for his health. so i'm to be the young circuit-rider," and he smiled a wry little smile. he had no conceit of himself to make the appointment seem poor; rather he wondered how any circuit would consent to put up with a boy's crude preaching and awkward pastoral effort. but j.w., jr., was otherwise minded. a country circuit for marty did not accord with his views at all. marty was too good for a country church, he argued, mainly from his memories of the bare little one-room meetinghouse of his early childhood. in his periodical trips to the farm he had seen the old church grow older and more forlorn, as one family after another moved away, and the multiplying cars brought the town and its allurements almost to the front gate of every farm. so j.w. had tried to say "no," for marty, who would not say it for himself. it was one of the rare times when they did not see eye to eye. but it made no difference in their sturdy affection; nothing ever could. and marty would take the appointment. commencement over, for the first time in many years the chums went their separate ways, marty to his circuit, and j.w. home to delafield. then for a little while each had frequent dark-blue days, without quite realizing what made his world so flavorless. but that passed, and the young preacher settled down to his preaching, and the young merchant to his merchandising; and soon all things seemed as if they had been just so through the years. to j.w. came just one indication of the change that college had made. pastor drury, though he found it wise to do much of his important work in secret, thought to make use of the college-consciousness which most towns possess in june, and which is felt especially, though not confessed, by the college colony. the year's diplomas are still very new in june. so a college night was announced for the social rooms, with a college sermon to follow on the next sunday night. the league and the senior sunday school department united to send a personal invitation to every college graduate in town, and to every student home for the vacation. they responded, four score of them, to the college-night call. as j.w. moved about and greeted people he had known for years he began to realize that college has its own freemasonry. these other graduates were from all sorts of schools; two had been to harvard, and one to princeton; several were state university alumni. cartwright was represented by nine, six of them undergraduates, and the others confessed themselves as being from chicago, syracuse, de pauw, three or four sorts of "wesleyan," northwestern, knox, wabash, western reserve, and many more. not even all methodist, by any means, j.w. perceived; and yet the fellowship among these strangers was very real. they spoke each other's tongue; they had common interests and common experiences. he told himself that here was a suggestion as to the new friends he might make in delafield, without forgetting the old ones. and the prospect of life in delafield began to take on new values. on the next sunday night not so many college people were out to hear mr. drury's straight-thinking and plain-spoken sermon on "what our town asks of its college-trained youth"; and a few of those who came were inclined to resent what they called a lecture on manners and duty. but to j.w. the sermon was precisely the challenge to service he had been looking for. it made up for his feeling at commencement that he was "out of it." it completed all which mr. drury had suggested at the institute camp fire four years ago, all that he himself had tried to say at the decision service on the day after the camp fire; all that the pastor had urged two years ago when j.w., jr., confessed to him his new hesitations and uneasiness. the pastor had not preached any great thing. he had simply told the college folk in his audience that no matter where they had gone to school, many people had invested much in them, and that the investment was one which in its very nature could not be realized on by the original investors. the only possible beneficiaries were either the successive college generations or the communities in which they found their place. if they chose to take as personal and unconditional all the benefits of their education, none could forbid them that anti-social choice; but if they accepted education as a trust, a stewardship, something to be used for the common good, they would be worth more to delafield than all the new factories the chamber of commerce could coax to the town. and to those who might be interested in this view of education, pastor drury said: "young people of the colleges, you have been trained to some forms of laboratory work, in chemistry, in biology, in geology--yes, even in english. i invite you to think of your own town of delafield as your living laboratory, in which you will be at once experimenters and part of the experiment stuff. look at this town with all its good and evil, its dying powers and its new forces, its dullnesses and its enthusiasms, its folly and wisdom, its old ways and its new people, its wealth and want. do you think it is already becoming a bit of the kingdom of god? or, if you conclude that it seems to be going in ways that lead very far from the kingdom, do you think it might possess any kingdom possibilities? if you do, no matter what your occupation in delafield, delafield itself may be your true vocation, your call from god!" for john wesley farwell, jr., it was to become all of that. chapter iv exploring main street j.w., jr., found small opportunity to make himself obnoxious by becoming a civic missionary before the time. he was busy enough with his adjustment to the business life of "delafield and madison county," this being the declared commercial sphere of the john w. farwell hardware company. j.w. always had known hardware, but hitherto in a purely amateur and detached fashion. now he lived with it, from tacks to tractors, ten or twelve hours a day. he found that being the son of his father gained him no safe conduct through the shop or with the customers. he had a lot to learn, even if he was john wesley farwell, jr. that he was the heir apparent to all this array of cast iron and wrought and galvanized, of tin and wire and steel and aluminum and nickel, did not save him from aching back and skinned knuckles, nor from the various initiations staged by the three or four other employees. but he was getting his bearings, and not from the store and the warehouse only. a good hardware store in a country town is a center of democracy for town and country alike. in what other place do farmers and artisans, country women and city women meet on so nearly equal terms? not in the postoffice, nor in the bank; and certainly not in the department store. but the hardware store's customers, men and women all, are masters of the tools they work with; and whoso loves the tools of his craft is brother to every other craftsman. it was in the store, therefore, that j.w. began to absorb some of the knowledge and acquire some of the experiences that were to make his work something to his town. for one thing, he got a new view of local geography, in terms of tools. all the farmers from the bottoms of mill creek called for pretty much the same implements; the upland farms had different needs. the farmers' wives who lived along the route of the creamery wagon had one sort of troubles with tinware; the women of the fruit farms another. j.w. knew this by the exchange of experiences he listened to while he sold milk strainers and canning outfits. he found out that the people on the edge of town who "made garden" were particular about certain tools and equipment which the wheat farmer would not even look at. and the townpeople he learned to classify in the same way. he was soon on good terms with those store clerks who were handy men about the house, with women who did all their own work, with blacksmiths and carpenters, with unskilled laborers and garage mechanics. in time he could almost tell where a man lived and what he did for a living, just by the hardware he bought and the questions he asked about it. heretofore j.w. had thought he knew most of the people in delafield. but the first weeks in the store showed him that he knew only a few. up to this time "most of the people in delafield" had meant, practically, his school friends, the clerks and salespeople in certain stores--and the members of the first methodist church. that is to say, in the main, to him delafield had been the church, and the church had been delafield. but now he realized that his church was only a small part of delafield. the town had other churches. it had lodges. when the store outfitted odd fellows' hall with new window shades he learned that the odd fellows shared the place with strong lodges of the maccabees and modern woodmen. and there were other halls. j.w. farwell, sr., was a mason, but these other lodges seemed to have as many members as the masons, and one or the other of them was always getting ready for a big public display. the same condition was true of the country people. he began to hear about the farm federation, and the grange, and the farmers' elevator, and the cooperative creamery, for members of all of these groups passed in and out of the store. one day j.w. remarked to the pastor who had dropped into the store: "mr. drury, i never noticed before how this place is alive with societies and clubs and lodges and things. everybody seems to belong to three or four organizations. and they talk about 'em! but i don't hear much about our church, and nothing at all about the old church out at deep creek. yet i used to think that the church was the whole thing!" the older man nodded. "it's true, j.w.," he said, "all the churches together are only a small part of the community. they are the best, and usually the best-organized forces we have, i'm sure of that; but the church and the town have to reckon with these others." "what good are they all? they must cost a pile of money. what for?" "that's what you might call a whale of a question, j.w." john w. farwell, senior, who had been standing by, listening, essayed to answer. "and you haven't heard yet of all the organizations. look at me, for example. i belong to the chamber of commerce and the rotary club. i'm on the executive committee of the madison county horticultural society, and i've just retired from the board of directors of the civic league. then you must think of the political parties, and the county sunday school association, and the annual chautauqua, and i don't know what all." "yes, and i notice, dad, that a good many of these," said j.w., jr., "are just for the men. the women must have nearly as many. why, delafield ought to be a model town, and the country 'round here ought to be a regular paradise, with all these helpers and uplifters on the job. but it isn't. maybe they're not all on the job." "that's about it, my boy," his father agreed "i sometimes think we need just one more organization--a society that would never meet, but between the meetings of all the other societies would actually get done the things they talk about and pass resolutions about and then go off and forget until the next meeting." "well, dad, what i want to find out," j.w. said, as he started off with mr. drury to the post office, "is where the church heads in. mr. drury is sure it has a big responsibility, and maybe it has. but what is it willing to do and able to do, and what will the town let it do? it seems to me that is the question." j.w. heard his father's voice echoing after him up the street, "sure, that is the question," and mr. drury added, "three questions in one." j.w. found himself taking notice in a way he had not done before through all his years in delafield. as might be expected, he had come home from college with new ideas and new standards. the town looked rather more sordid and commonplace than was his boy's remembrance of it. of late it had taken to growing, and a large part of its development had come during his college years. so he must needs learn his own town all over again. cherishing his young college graduate's vague new enthusiasm for a better world, he had little sympathy with much that delafield opinion acclaimed as progress. the delafield daily dispatch carried at its masthead every afternoon one or more of such slogans as these: "be a delafield booster," "boost for more industries," "put delafield on the map," "double delafield in half a decade," "delafield, the darling of destiny," "watch delafield grow, but don't stop boosting to rubber." these were taken by many citizens as a sort of business gospel; any "theorist" who ventured to question the wisdom of bringing more people to town, whether the town's business could give them all a decent living or not, was told to sell his hammer and buy a horn. j.w. said nothing; he was too young and too recent a comer into the town's business life. but he could not work up any zeal for this form of town "loyalty." a big cannery had been built down near the river, where truck gardens flourished, and there was a new furniture factory at the edge of the freight yards. hereabouts a lot of supremely ugly flats had gone up, two families to each floor and three stories high; and in j.w.'s eyes the rubbish and disorder and generally slattern appearance of the region was no great addition to delafield's attractions. still more did the tumbledown shacks in the neighborhood of the cannery offend the eyes and, to be frank, the ears and nose as well. it was a forlorn-looking lot of hovels, occupied by listless, frowsy adults and noisy children. here existence seemed to be a grim caricature of life; the children, the only symbol of abundance to be seen, continued to be grotesque in their very dirt. what clothes they had were second or third-hand garments too large for them, which they seemed to be perpetually in danger of losing altogether. to j.w., delafield had always been a town of homes; but in these dismal quarters there was little to answer to the home idea. they were merely places where people contrived to camp for a time, longer or shorter; none but a gradgrind could call them homes. one of the factory foremen was a great admirer of mr. drury, who introduced him to j.w. one day when the foreman had come to the store for some tools. he had talked with j.w., and in time a rather casual friendliness developed between them. it was this same foreman angus macpherson, a scot with a name for shrewdness, who gave the boy his first glimpse of what the factory and the cannery meant to delafield--especially the factory. j.w. was down at the factory to see about some new band-saws that had been installed; and, his errand finished, he stopped for a chat with angus. "this factory wasn't here when i went off to college," he said. "what ever brought it to delafield?" at that macpherson was off to a perfect start. "ye see, my boy," he began, "delafield is so central it is a good town for a good-working plant; freights on lumber and finished stuff are not so high as in some places. and then there's labor. lots of husky fellows around here want better than farm wages, and they want a chance at town life as well. men from the big cities, with families, hope to find a quieter, cheaper place to live. so we've had no trouble getting help. skill isn't essential for most of the work. it's not much of a trick nowadays to get by in most factories--the machines do most of the thinking for you, and that's good in some ways. only the men that 'tend the machines can't work up much pride in the output. things go well enough when business is good. but when the factory begins to run short time, and lay men off, like it did last winter, there's trouble." j.w. wanted to know what sort of trouble. "oh, well," said macpherson, "strikes hurt worst at the time, but strikes are just like boils, a sign of something wrong inside. and short-time and lay-offs--well, ye can't expect the factory to go on making golden oak rockers just to store in the sheds. somebody has to buy 'em. but the boys ain't happy over four-day weeks, let alone no jobs at all." his sociology professor at cartwright, j.w. recalled, had talked a good deal about the labor question, but maybe this foreman knew something about it too. so j.w. put it up to him: "what is at the bottom of it all, macpherson? what makes the thing the papers call 'labor unrest'?" macpherson hesitated a moment. then he settled himself more comfortably on a pile of boards and proceeded to deliver his soul, or part of it. "i can tell you; but there's them that would ship me out of town if i talked too much, so i'll have to be careful. john wesley, you've got a grand name, and the church john wesley started has a good name, though it's not my church. i'm a scot, you know. but i know your preacher, and he and i are of the same mind about this, i know. well, then, if your methodist church could find a method with labor, it would get hold of the same sort of common people as the ones who heard jesus gladly. these working-men are not in the way of being saints, ye ken, but they think that somewhere there is a rotten spot in the world of factories and shops and mills. they think they learn from experience, who by the way, is the dominie of a high-priced school, that they get most of the losses and few of the profits of industry. they get a living wage when times are good. when times are bad they lose the one thing they've got to sell, and that's their day's work; when a loafing day is gone there's nothing to show for it, and no way to make it up. maybe that's as it should be, but the worker can't see it, especially if the boss can still buy gasoline and tires when the plant is idle. oh, yes, laddie, i know the working man is headstrong. i'll tell you privately, i think he's a fool, because so often he gets into a blind rage and wants to smash the very tools that earn his bite and sup. he may have reason to hate some employer, but why hate the job? it's a good job, if he makes good chairs. he goes on strike, many's the time, without caring that it hurts him and his worse than it hurts the boss. and often the boss thinks he wants nothing bigger than a few more things. maybe he _is_ wild for a phonograph and a ford and golden oak rockers of his own in the parlor, and photographs enlarged in crayon hanging on the walls--and a steady job. but, listen to me, john wesley, jr., and you'll be a credit to your namesake: these wild, unreasonable workers, with all their foolishness and sometimes wickedness, are whiles dreaming of a different world, a better world for everybody. 'twould be no harm if some bosses dreamed more about that too, me boy. your preacher--he's a fine man too, is mr. drury--he understands that, and he wants to use it for something to build on. that's why i tell folks he's a methodist preacher with a real method in his ministry. now i'll quit me fashin' and get back to the job. i doubt you'll be busy yourself this afternoon." he gripped j.w.'s hand, so that the knuckles were unable to forget him all day, but what he had said gripped harder than his handshake. if the furniture factory was a mixed blessing, what of the cannery? somewhat to his own surprise, j.w. was getting interested in his town, but if at first he was inclined to wonder how he happened to develop all this new concern, he soon ceased to think of it. so slight a matter could not stay in the front of his thinking when he really began to know something of the delafield to which he had never paid much attention. it was through joe carbrook that he got his next jolt. joe, now spending his vacations in ways that amazed people who had memories of his wild younger manner, was in and out of the farwell store a good deal. also he spent considerable time with pastor drury, though there is no record of what they talked about. "j.w., old boy," joe asked one day, coming away from the pastor's study, "have you ever by any chance observed main street?" "why, yes," j.w. answered, "seeing that two or three or four times a day i walk six blocks of it back and forth to this store door, i suppose i have." "oh, yes, that way," joe came back at him, "and you've seen me, a thousand times. but did you ever observe me? my ears, for instance," and he put his hands over them. "which one is the larger?" without in the least understanding what his friend was driving at, and stupidly wondering if he ever had noticed any difference in joe's ears, j.w. stared with inane bewilderment. "is one really larger than the other?" he asked, helplessly. joe took his hands down, and laughed. "i knew it," he said. "you've never observed my ears, and yet you think you have observed main street. as it happens, each of my ears takes the same-sized ear-muff. but you didn't know it. well, never mind ears; i'm thinking about main street. what do you know of main street?" j.w. thought he could make up for the ear question. so he said, boldly, "joe carbrook, i can name every place from here to the livery barn north, and from here to the bridge south, on both sides of the street. want me to prove it?" "no, j.w., i don't. i reckon you can. but i believe you're still as blind as i've been about main street, just the same. i know chicago pretty well and i doubt if there's as big a percentage of graft and littleness and dollar-pinching and going to the devil generally on state street or wabash avenue as there is an main street, delafield." "you're not trying to say that our business men are crooks, are you, joe?" j.w. asked, with a touch of resentment. "you know i happen to be connected with a business house on main street myself." "sure, i know it, and there's marshall field's on state street, and lyon & healy's on wabash avenue, and hart, schaffner & marx over by the chicago river; just the same as here. but i--well, of course, there's a story back of it all. mother heard a couple of weeks ago that one of our old epworth league girls was having a hard time of it--she's working at the racket store, helping to support her folks. they've had sickness, and the girl doesn't get big wages. so mother asked me to look her up. mother can't get about very easily, you know, and since i'm studying medicine she seems to think i'm the original mr. fix-it. i made a few discreet inquiries, discreet, that is, for me, and can you guess who that girl is? you can't, i know. well, she's alma wetherell, and that's the identical girl who gave me such a dressing down one day at the cartwright institute four years ago. remember? say, j.w., that day she told me so much of the deadly truth about myself that i hated her even more for knowing what to say than i did for saying it. but she had a big lot to do with waking me up, and i owe her something." j.w. had not remembered the institute incident. but he recalled that alma was at cartwright that summer, and he had seen her at church occasionally since he came home from college. she was living in town and working in some store or other he knew, but that was all. "what did you find out?" he asked joe. "i found out enough so that alma has a better job, and things are going easier at home. but that was just a starter. my brave john wesley, do you remember your college sociology and economics and civics and all the rest? never mind confessing; you don't; i didn't either. but i began to review 'em in actual business practice. first i told the right merchant what sort of a bookkeeper i had found slaving away for ten dollars a week on the dark, smelly balcony of the racket--and he's given alma a job at twenty in a sun-lighted office. then i told mr. peters of the racket what i had done, and why. he didn't like it, but it will do him good. that made me feel able to settle anything, and i'm looking around for my next joy as journeyman rescuer and expert business adjuster. honest, j.w., i've not seen near all there is to see, but i'm swamped already. you've got to come along, you and some others, and see for yourself what's the matter with main street." not all at once, but before very long, j.w. shared joe's aroused interest. pastor drury was with them, of course; and the three called into consultation a few other capable and trustworthy men and women. marcia dayne had come home for a few weeks' holiday, and at once enlisted. alma wetherell was able to give some highly significant suggestions. there was no noise of trumpets, and no publicity of any sort. mr. drury insisted that what they needed first and most was not newspaper attention, and not even organization, but exact information. so for many days a group of puzzled and increasingly astonished people set about the study of their own town's principal street, as though they had never seen it before. and, in truth, they never had. it was no different from all other small town business districts. the gem theater vied with the star and the orpheum in lavish display of gaudy posters advertising pictures that were "coming to-morrow," and in two weeks of observation the investigators learned what sort of moving pictures delafield demanded, or, at least what sort it got. they took note of the amethyst coterie's saturday night dances--"wardrobe, cents, ladies free"--and of the boys and girls who patronized the place. the various cigar and pocket-billiards combinations were quietly observed, some of the observers learning for the first time that young men are so determined to get together that they are not to be deterred by dirt or bad air or foul and brainless talk. the candy stores with soda fountains and some of the drug stores which served refreshments took on a new importance. instead of being no more than handy purveyors of sweets, of soft drinks and household remedies, they were seen to be also social centers, places for "dates" and telephone flirtations and dalliance. much of their doings was the merest silly time-killing, but generally the youthful patrons welcomed all this because it was a change from the empty dullness of homes that had missed the home secret, and from the still duller and wasting monotony of uninteresting toil. it was pastor drury who suggested the explanation for all these forms of profitless and often dangerous amusement. he was chatting with the whole group one night, and merely happened to address himself first to j.w., jr. your great namesake, j.w., was so much a part of his day that he believed with most other great religious thinkers of his time that play was a device of the devil. his belief belonged to eighteenth-century theology and psychology. but even more it grew out of the vicious diversions of the rich and the brutalizing amusements of the poor. both were bad, and there was not much middle ground. but here on main street we see people, most of them young, who feel, without always understanding why, that they simply must be amused. they feel it so strongly that they will pay any price for it if circumstances won't let them get it any other way. and main street is ready to oblige them. there could be no amusement business if people were not clamoring to be amused. and we know now why we have no right to say that all this clamor is the devil's prompting. isn't it queer that the church is only now beginning to believe in the genuineness and wholesomeness of the play instinct, though it is a proper and natural human hunger? literally everybody wants to play. "people pay more for the gratification of this hunger than they do for bread or shoes or education or religion. they take greater moral risks for it than they do for money. we have seen people who undoubtedly are going to the devil by the amusement route, unless something is done to stop them. they go wrong quicker and oftener in their play than in their work. are we going to be content with denouncing the dance hall and the poolroom and the vile pictures and the loose conduct of the soft-drink places and electric park? haven't we some sort of duty to see that every young person in delafield has a chance at first-hand, enjoyable, and decent play?" all agreed that the pastor was right, though they were not so clear about what could be done. but commercialized amusement was not all they found in their quiet voyages of discovery up and down main street. the chain stores had come to delafield--not the " and " only, but stores which specialized in groceries, tobacco, shoes, dry goods, drugs, and other commodities. alongside of them were the locally owned stores. altogether, main street had far too many stores to afford good service or reasonable prices. with all this duplication on the one hand, and absentee-control on the other, main street was a street of underlings--clerks and salespeople and delivery men. that condition produced low wages and inefficient methods, many of the workers being too young to be out of school and too dense to show any intelligence about the work they were supposed to do. cheap help was costly, and the efficient help was scarcely to be found at any price. the investigators were frankly dismayed at the extent and complexity of the situation. they had thought to find occasional cases calling for adjustment, or even for the law. but instead they had found a whole fabric of interwoven questions--amusements, wages, competition, cooperation, ignorance, vulgarity, vice, cheapness, trickery, "business is business." true, they had found more honest businesses than shady ones, more faithful clerks than shirkers, more decent people in the pleasure resorts than doubtful people. but the total of folly and evil was very great; could the church do anything to decrease it? and that question led the little company of inquisitive christians into yet wider reaches of inquiry. j.w. and joe and marcia at mr. drury's suggestion agreed to be a sort of unofficial committee to find out about the churches of delafield. he told them that this was first of all a work for laymen. the preachers might come in later. joe invited the others to the new carbrook home on the heights into which his people had lately moved. the heights was a new thing to j.w.--a rather exclusive residential quarter which had been laid out park-wise in the last four or five years; with houses in the midst of wide lawns, a heights club house and tennis courts and an exquisite little gothic church. "when our folks first talked about moving out here i thought it was all right; and i do yet, in some ways," explained joe. "but the heights is getting a little too good for me; i'm not as keen about being exclusive as i used to be. i've thought lately that exclusiveness may be just as bad for people inside the gates, as for the people outside. but here we are, as the atlantic city whale said when the ebb tide stranded it in front of the board walk. what are we up to, us three?" "we're up to finding out about the town churches," said j.w. "maybe they can help the town more than they do, but we don't know how, and so far we haven't found anybody else who knows how." and marcia said: "at least we know some things. we have the figures. about one delafield citizen in seven goes to church or sunday school on sunday. church membership is one in ten. and as many people go to the movies and the columbia vaudeville and the dance halls and poolrooms on saturday as go to church on sunday, to say nothing of the crowds that go on the other five days." joe carbrook whistled. "that's a tough nut to crack, gentle people," he said, "because you've simply got to think of those other five days. the chances are that four times as many people in delafield go to other public places as go to church and sunday school." "what can the churches do?" asked j.w. "you can't make people go to church." "no," assented marcia, "and if you could, it would be foolish. we want to make people like the churches, not hate them. one thing i believe our churches can do is to put their public services more into methods and forms that don't have to be taken for granted or just mentally dodged. half the time people don't know what a religious service really stands for." "meaning by that----?" joe queried, as much to hear marcia talk as for the sake of what she might say. "well, they have seen and heard it since they were children. when they were little they didn't understand it, and now it is so familiar that they forget they don't understand it," marcia responded, not wholly oblivious of joe's strategy, but too much in earnest to care. "i've heard of a successful preacher in the east who seems to be making them understand. he says he tries to put into each service four things--light, music, motion; that is, change--and a touch of the dramatic. why not? i think it could be done without destroying the solemnity of the worship. they did it in the temple at jerusalem, and they do it in saint peter's at rome and in westminster abbey and saint john's cathedral in new york. why shouldn't we do it here in our little churches?" "make a note of it, j.w.," ordered joe. "it's worth suggesting to some of the preachers." j.w. made his note, rather absently, and offered a conclusion of his own: "the church must take note of the town's sore spots too. i've found out that crowding people in tenements and shacks means disease and immorality. isn't that the church's affair? angus macpherson has taught me that when the jobs are gone little crimes come, followed by bigger ones; and sickness comes too, with the death rate going up. babies are born to unmarried mothers, and babies, with names or without, die off a lot faster in the river shacks and the east side tenements than they do up this way. maybe the church couldn't help all this even if it knew; but i'm for asking it to know." "i'll vote for that," joe asserted, "if you'll vote for my proposition, which is this: our churches must quit trying just to be prosperous; they must quit competing for business like rival barkers at a street fair; they must begin to find out that their only reason for existence is the service they can give to those who need it most; they've got to believe in each other and work with each other and with all the other town forces that are trying to make a better delafield." "that's right," said j.w. "i was talking to mr. drury this morning, and i asked him what he would think of our starting a suggestion list. he said it ought to be a fine thing. but he wants us to do it all ourselves. just the same, we can take our suggestions to him, and then, if he believes in them, he can talk to the other preachers about them, and, of course, about any ideas of his own. because you know, i'm pretty sure he has been thinking about all this a good deal longer than we have." it was agreed that the list should be started. marcia was not willing to keep it to themselves; she wanted to have it talked about in league and sunday school and prayer meeting, and then, when everybody had been given the chance to add to it, and to improve on it--but not to weaken it--that it be put out for general discussion among all the churches. "and then," said joe carbrook, "we might call it 'the everyday doctrines of delafield,' if we stick to the things every citizen will admit he ought to believe and do, the churches will still have all the chance they have now to preach those things which must be left to the individual conscience." that was the beginning of a document with which delafield was to become very familiar in the months which followed; never before had the town been so generally interested in one set of ideas, and to this day you can always start a conversation there by mentioning the "everyday doctrines of delafield," the methodist preacher gave them their final form, but he took no credit for the substance of them, though, secretly, he was vastly proud that the young people, and especially j.w., should have so thoroughly followed up his first suggestion of a civic creed. the everyday doctrines of delafield . every part of delafield is as much delafield as any other part we are citizens of a commonwealth, and delafield should be in fact as well as name a democratic community. . whenever two delafield citizens can better do something for the town than one could do it, they should get together. and the same holds good for twenty citizens, or a hundred, or a thousand. one of the town's mottoes should be, "delafield is not divided." . everything will help delafield if it means better people, in better homes, with better chances at giving their children the right bringing-up, but anything which merely means more people, or more money, or more business is likely to cost more than it comes to. we will boost for delafield therefore, but we will first be careful. . every part of delafield is entitled to clean streets and plenty of air, water, and sunlight. it is perhaps possible to be a christian amid ugliness and filth, but it is not easy, and it is not necessary. . every family in delafield has the right to a place that can be made into a home, at a cost that will permit of family self-respect, proper privacy, and the ordinary decencies of civilized living. every case of poverty in delafield should be considered as a reflection on the town, as being preventable and curable by remedies which any town that is careful of its good name can apply. . delafield believes that beauty pays better than ugliness. therefore she is for trees and flowers, green lawns, and clean streets, paint where it properly belongs, and everybody setting a good example by caring for his own premises and so inciting his neighbor to outdo him. . the only industries delafield needs are those which can provide for their operation without forcing workers to be idle so much of the time as to reduce apparent income, and so to cause poverty, sickness, and temptation to wrongdoing. the standard of income ought to be for the year, and not by the day; in the interest of homes rather than in the interest of lodging houses and lunch rooms. . delafield can support, or should find ways to support, the workers needed in her stores, shops, and factories, at fair pay, without making use of children, who should continue in school, and without reckoning on the desperation of those made poor by their dependence on a job. . amusements in delafield can be and ought to be clean, self-respecting, and available for everybody. this calls for playgrounds and weekday playtime, as well as plenty of recreational opportunities provided by the churches, without money-making features. . the forms of amusement provided for pay can be and should be influenced by public opinion, positively expressed, rather than by public indifference. any picture house would rather be praised for bringing a good picture to town than condemned for showing a bad one. picture people enjoy praise as much as preachers do. . delafield's many organizations should tell the whole town what they are trying to do, so that unnecessary duplication of plan and purpose may first be discovered and then done away with. . whenever a delafield church, or club, or society, proposes to engage in a work that is to benefit the town, the plan ought to be made known, and in due time the results should be published as widely as was the plan. this will help us to learn by our delafield failures as well as by our delafield successes. . the churches of delafield are delafield property, as the schools are, though paid for in a different way. neither schools nor churches exist for their own sakes, but for delafield, and then some. . every church in delafield should have a definite parish, and every well-defined section or group should have a church. the churched should lead in providing for the unchurched, and the overchurched might spare out of their abundance of workers and equipment some of the resources that are needed. . the first concern of all the churches should be to reach the unchurched and to make church friends of the church-haters. this goes for all the churches; it is more important to get the sense of god and principles of jesus into the thought of the whole town than to set protestant and roman catholic in mutually suspicious and hateful opposition; devout jew and sincere christian must realize that righteousness in delafield cannot be attended to by either without the other. . the churches of delafield believe that all matters of social concern--work, wages, housing, health, amusement, and morals--are part of every church's business. therefore they will not cease to urge their members always to deal with these matters as christian citizens, not merely as christians. . every child and young person in delafield ought to be in the day school on weekdays, and in sunday school on sunday. delafield discourages needless absence from one as much as from the other. . delafield wants the best possible teachers teaching in all her schools. she insists on trained teachers on week days, and needs them on sundays. therefore she believes that teacher-training is part of every church's duty to delafield. "there's one thing about all this that bothers me," said j.w. when they had finished the final draft of the every day doctrines, "not that it's the only one; but some of these doctrines stand small chance of being put into practice until the church people are willing to spend more money on such work. it can't be done on the present income of the churches, or by the usual money-raising methods." "that's a fact," joe carbrook agreed. "i'd already made up my mind that the carbrooks would have to dig a little deeper, and so must everybody else who cares." "yes, but how to get everybody else to care; that's the trouble," j.w. persisted. "dad's one of the stewards, you know, and they find it no easy job to collect even what the church needs now. they have a deficit to worry with every year, almost." marcia dayne was the only other member of the "let's know delafield" group who happened to be present at this last meeting. she had been waiting for a chance to speak. "i'm surprised at you two," she said. "don't you know the only really workable financial way out?" "well, not exactly," j.w. admitted. "i suppose if we could only get people to care more, they would give more. it's a matter of letting them know the need and all that, i guess. for instance--" marcia was not ready for his "for instances." "john wesley, jr.," she interrupted with mock severity, "as a thinker you have shone at times with a good deal more brilliance than that. if you had said it just the other way 'round you would have been nearer right. people _will_ give if they care, of course, but it is even more certain that they will care if they give. the thing we need is to show them how to give." joe carbrook broke into an incredulous laugh. "in other words, my fair marcia, you want christians to give before they care what it is they are giving to, or even know about it. don't you think our church will be a long time financing the every day doctrines on that system?" joe and marcia never hesitated to take opposite sides in a discussion, and always with good-humored frankness. so marcia came back promptly: "i know you think it unreasonable," she said, "but there's a condition you overlook. we became christians long before any of us thought about studying delafield's needs. and if we and all the rest of the christians of the town had accepted our financial relation to the kingdom and had acted on it from the start, there would always be money enough and to spare." "oh, yes," joe said understandingly, "i see now. you mean the tithe." marcia knew, no matter how, that joe had begun to think about tithing, and this seemed the opportune time to stress it a little more. it could help the every day doctrines, and both joe and j.w. were keen for that. so marcia admitted that she did mean the tithe. "i don't pretend to know how it began, any more than i know how real homes were established after the fall, or how keeping sunday began; i do know these began long before there was any fourth or fifth commandment, or any children of israel. and i've gone over all the whole subject with mr. drury--he has a lot of practical pamphlets on the tithe. i believe that it is the easiest, surest, fairest and cheerfulest way of doing two christian things at once--acknowledging god's ownership of all we have, and going into partnership with god in his work for the world, what the books sometimes call christian stewardship." "i'd like to see those pamphlets," said j.w. "it's queer you haven't seen them before this," said marcia. "mr. drury has distributed hundreds of them. but maybe that was when you were away at cartwright. anyway, i'll get some for you." joe was holding his thought to the main matter. "marcia," said he, "if you can make good on what you said just now, pamphlets or no pamphlets, i'll agree to become a tither. first, to start where you did, how is tithing easier than giving whenever you feel like giving?" now, though marcia expected no such challenge, she was game. "i'm not the one to prove all that, but i believe what i said, and i'll try to make good, as you put it. but please don't say 'give' when you talk about tithing, or even about any sort of financial plan for christians. the first word is 'pay,' giving comes afterward. well, then; tithing is the easiest way, because when you are a tither you always have tithing money. you begin by setting the tenth apart for these uses, and it is no more hardship to pay it out than to pay out any other money that you have been given with instructions for its use." "not bad, at all," said joe. "now tell us why it is the surest way of using a christian's money." by this time marcia was beginning to enjoy herself. "it is the surest because it almost collects itself. no begging; no schemes. you have tithing money on hand--and you have, almost always--therefore you don't need to be coaxed into thinking you can spare it. if the cause is a real claim, that's all you need to find out. and when you begin to put money into any cause you're going to get interested in that cause. besides, when all christians tithe there will be more than enough money for every good work." j.w. had not thought much of the tithe except as being one of those religious fads, and he knew that every church had a few religious faddists. but he had long cherished a vast respect for marcia's good sense, and what she was saying seemed reasonable enough. he wondered if it could be backed up by evidence. joe smilingly took up the next excellence of the tithe which marcia had named. "let me see; did you say that the tithe is the fairest of all christian financial schemes?" "not that, exactly," marcia corrected. "i said it was the fairest way of acknowledging god's ownership and of working with him in partnership. and it is. it puts definiteness in the place of whim. it is proportional to our circumstances. it is not difficult. mr. drury says that forty years' search has failed to find a tither who has suffered hardship because of paying the tithe." "well, joe," j.w. put in, "if marcia can produce the evidence on these three points, you may as well take the fourth for granted. if tithing is the easiest, surest and fairest plan of christian stewardship, seems to me it's just got to be cheerful. i'm going to look into it, and if she's right, as i shouldn't wonder, it's up to you and me to get our finances onto the ten per cent basis." joe was never a reluctant convert to anything. when he saw the new way, his instinct was for immediate action. "let's go over to mr. drury's," he proposed, "and see if we can't settle this thing to-day. i hope marcia's right," and he looked into her eyes with a glance of something more than friendly, "and if she is i'm ready to begin tithing to-day." pastor drury, always a busy man, reckoned interviews like this as urgent business always. not once nor twice, but many times in the course of a year, his quiet, indirect work resulted in similar expeditions to his study, and as a rule he knew about when to expect them. he produced the pamphlets, added a few suggestions of his own, and let the three young people do most of the talking. they stayed a long time, no one caring about that. as they were thanking the pastor, before leaving, joe said with his usual directness, "marcia _was_ right, and here's where i begin to be a systematic christian as far as my dealings with money are concerned." j.w., not in the least ashamed to follow joe's lead, said, "same here. wish i'd known it sooner. now we've got to preach it." and joe said to mr. drury, in the last moment at the door, "mr. drury, if we could all get a conscience about the tithe, and pay attention to that conscience, half the everyday doctrines would not even need to be stated. they would be self-evident. and the other half could be put into practice with a bang!" the delafield _dispatch_ got hold of a copy of the "everyday doctrines" and printed the whole of it with a not unfavorable editorial comment, under the caption "when will all this come true?" but walter drury, when he saw it, said to himself, "it has already come true in a very real sense, for john wesley, jr., and these others believe in it." and he knew it marked one more stage of the experiment, so that he could thank god and take courage. chapter v here the alien; there the little brown church it was all very well to work out the "everyday doctrines of delafield." to secure their adoption and application by all the churches of delafield was another matter. the unofficial committee scattered, for one thing. joe carbrook went back to medical school, and marcia to the settlement and the training school. marty was traveling his circuit. j. w. and the pastor and a few others continued their studies of the town. nobody had yet ventured to talk about experts, but it began to be evident that the situation would soon require thoroughgoing and skilled assistance. otherwise, all that had been learned would surely be lost. one day in the late fall a stranger dropped in at the farwell hardware store and asked for mr. j.w. farwell, jr. he had called first on pastor drury, who was expecting him; and that diplomat had said to him, "go see j.w. i think he'll help you to get something started." j.w., with two of the other clerks, was unloading a shipment of stovepipes. the marks of his task were conspicuous all over him, and he scarcely looked the part of the public-spirited young methodist. but the visitor was accustomed to know men when he saw them, under all sorts of disguises. j.w., called to the front of the store, met the visitor with a good-natured questioning gaze. "mr. farwell, i am manford conover, of philadelphia. back there we have heard something of the 'everyday doctrines of delafield,' and i've been sent to find out about them--and their authors." "sent?" j.w. repeated. "why should anybody send you all the way from philadelphia to delafield just for that?" he could not know how much pastoral and even episcopal planning was back of that afternoon call. "don't think that we reckon it to be unimportant, mr. farwell," said mr. conover, pleasantly. "you see i'm from a methodist society with a long name and a business as big as its name--the board of home missions and church extension. the thing some of you are starting here in delafield is our sort of thing. it may supply our board with new business in its line, and what we can do for you may make your local work productive of lasting results, in other places as well as here." j.w. did not quite understand, but he was willing to be instructed, for he had found out that the effort to promote the "everyday doctrines" was forever developing new possibilities and at the same time revealing new expanses of delafield ignorance and need. anybody who appeared to have intelligence and interest was the more welcome. they talked a while, and then, "i'll tell you what," proposed j.w. "how long do you expect to be in town?" mr. conover replied that as yet he had made no arrangement for leaving. "then let's get together a few people to-night after prayer meeting. our pastor, of course, and the editor of the _dispatch_--he's the right sort, if he does boost 'boosting' a good deal; and miss leigh, of the high school--she's all right every way; and mrs. whitehill, the president of the woman's association of our church--that's the women's missionary societies and the ladies' aid merged into one--she's a regular progressive; and harry field, who's just getting hold of his job in the league; and the sunday school superintendent. that's dad, you know; he's had the job for a couple of years now, and he's as keen about it as harry is over the league." they got together, and out of that first simple discussion came all sorts of new difficulties for delafield methodism to face and master. * * * * * manford conover was a preacher with a business man's training and viewpoint. he may have mentioned his official title, when he first appeared, but nobody remembered it. when people couldn't think of his name he was "the man from the board," which was all the same to him. after that first night's meeting conover gave several days to walks about delafield. j.w. had found the shacks and the tenements, and joe carbrook had introduced j.w. to main street, but it was left to conover to show him europe and africa in delafield. there's a certain town in a middle western state, far better known than delafield, rich, intelligent, highly self-content. its churches and schools and clubs are matters for complacent satisfaction. and you would be safe in saying that not one in five of its well-to-do people know that the town has a negro quarter, an italian section, a bohemian settlement, a scandinavian community, a good-sized greek colony, and some other centers of cultures and customs alien to what they assume is the town's distinctive character. they know, of course, that such people live in the town--couldn't help knowing it. their maids are scandinavian or negro. they buy vegetables and candy from the greeks. they hear of bootlegging and blind tigers among certain foreign groups. the rough work of the town is done by men who speak little or no english. but all this makes small impression. it is a commonplace of american town life. and scarcely ever does it present itself as something to be looked into, or needing to be understood. so conover found it to be with delafield. the "everyday doctrines" were well enough, but he knew a good deal of spade work must be done before they could take root and grow. he fronted a condition which has its counterpart in most american towns, each of which is two towns, one being certain well-defined and delimited areas where languages and braces live amid conditions far removed from the american notion of what is endurable, and the other the "better part of town," sometimes smugly called "the residence section," where white americans have homes. conover and pastor drury compared notes. they were of one mind as to the conditions which conover had found, conditions not surprising to the minister, who knew more about delafield than any of his own people suspected. one afternoon they met j.w. on the street, and he led them into a candy store for hot chocolate. as they sipped the chocolate they talked; j.w., as usual, saying whatever he happened to think of. "say, mr. conover," he remarked, "i notice in all your talk about the foreigner in america you haven't once referred to the idea of the melting pot. don't you think that's just what america is? all these people coming here and getting americanized and assimilated and all that?" "i'd think america was the melting pot if i could see more signs of the melting," conover answered. "but look at delafield; how much does the melting pot melt here?" then he looked across the store. "do you know the proprietor, mr. farwell?" he asked. "yes, indeed; nick and i are good friends," answered j.w. "then i wish you'd introduce me," returned conover. "oh, nick," j.w. called, "will you come over here a minute?" nick came, wiping his hands on his apron. "nick," said j.w., doing the honors, "you know mr. drury, the pastor of our church. and this is mr. conover from philadelphia, a very good friend of ours. he's been looking around town, and wants to ask you something." nick's brisk and cheerful manner was at its best, for he liked j.w., besides liking the trade he brought. "sure," said he, "i tell him anything if i know it. glad for the chance." "mr. dulas," said conover--he had taken note of the name on the window, "you know the east side pretty well, do you? then, you know that many italians live just north of linden street, and there's a block or so of polish homes between linden and the next street south?" "sure i do," said nick, confidently, "i live on other side of them myself. see 'em every day." "very well," conover went on. "what i want to know is this: how do the italians and the poles get along together?" "they don't have nothing much to do with one another," nick replied. "it's like this, the poles they talk polish, and maybe a little english. the italians, they speak italian, and some can talk english, only not much. but poles they can't talk italian at all, and italians can't talk polish. so how could they get together?" "that's just the question, mr. dulas," conover agreed. "i'm telling these gentlemen that it is harder for the different foreign-born people to know one another and to be friendly with one another than it is for them to know and associate with americans." "sure, mister," nick said, with great positiveness. "sure. before i speak english i know nobody but greeks, and when i start learning english i got no time to learn polish, or italian, or whatever it is. english i got to speak, if i run a candy store, but not those other languages." and he went off to serve a customer who had just entered. "there you have that side," said conover to the minister and j.w. "the need of english as an americanizing force, and the meed of it as a medium of communication between the different foreign groups. looks as though we've got to bear down hard on english, don't you think?" "as nick says, 'sure i do,'" mr. drury assented. "it will come out all right with the children, i hope; they're getting the english. but it makes things hard just now." "what can the church do?" j.w. put in. "should it undertake to teach english, as that preacher taught phil khamis, you remember, mr. drury; or americanization, or what?" "i think it should do something else first," said conover. "why should we americans try to make europeans understand us, unless we first try to understand them? isn't ours the first move?" "but this is the country they're going to live in," returned j.w. "they can't expect us to adjust ourselves to european ways. they've got to do the adjusting, haven't they?" "why?" conover came back. "because we were here first? but the indian was here before us. we told him he needn't do any adjusting at all, and see what we've made of him. maybe these europeans can add enriching elements to our american culture." "i guess so, but"--and j.w. was evidently at a loss--"but they've got to obey our laws, you know, and fit into our civilization. the indian was different. we couldn't make indians of ourselves, and he wouldn't become civilized." "americanized, you mean?" and conover laughed a little at the irony of it. "no, no; not that. but he wouldn't meet us half way, even," j.w. said. "i think," suggested pastor drury, "that what mr. conover means is that we'd better be a little less stiff to newcomers than the indian was to us. am i right?" "exactly right," returned conover. "europe is in a general way the mother-land of us all. but many of her children were late in getting here. the earlier ones have made their contributions; why may not the later ones also bring gifts for our common treasure?" "well, what in particular do you mean?" asked j.w., who was finding himself adrift. he had been quite willing in the institute days to be an admirer of phil khamis, and to forget that phil was of alien birth; but this was something more complicated. "particulars are not so simple," conover said. "but, for instance: some european peoples have a fine musical appreciation. some delight in oratory. some are mystical and dreamy. some are very children in their love of color. some are almost artists in their feeling for beauty in their work. some do not enjoy rough play, and others cannot endure to be quiet. some have inherited a passionate love of country, and great traditions of patriotism." "we can't value all these things in just the way they do, but at least we can believe that such interests and instincts are worth something to america. then our americanization work will be not only more intelligent but far more sympathetic." "if i may turn to the immediate business," mr. drury said with a smile of apology, "suppose you tell j.w. what your board has to suggest for us here in delafield, mr. conover?" conover turned to j.w. "i wonder if you know anything about centenary church?" he asked. "that little old brick barn over in the east bottoms? why, yes, or i used to; if was quite a church when i was a youngster, but i haven't been that way lately. i guess it's pretty much run down, with all those foreigners moving in. most of the old members have probably moved away. i know there were two methodist boys with me in high school who lived down there, but they've moved up to the heights. one of them lives next to the carbrooks." "mr. drury should take you down that way one of these days," said conover, "and you'd find that when your friends moved out of the church the foreigners who live nearby did not move in. centenary church is run down, as you say." mr. drury added, "and the few members who are left don't know which way to turn. they have a supply pastor, who isn't able to do much. he gets a pitiful salary, but they can't pay more, and there's no money at all, nor any accommodations, for any special attention to the newcomers." "well," said conover, "i'm instructed to tell you delafield methodists that the board of home missions and church extension is ready to help make a new centenary church, for the people who now live around it. we have a department that pays special attention to immigrant and alien populations. our workers know, in general, what is needed. we can put some trained people into centenary, with a pastor who knows how to direct their work. i should not be surprised to see a parish house there, and a modernized church building, and a fine array of everyday work being done there." "my, but that sounds great, mr. drury, doesn't it?" asked j.w., in a glow of enthusiasm. then he checked himself. "it sounds well enough," he said, "but all that means a lot of money. where's the money to come from?" "from you, of course," conover replied, "but not all or most from you. my board is a benevolent board--that is to say, it is the whole church at work in such enterprises as this. that's one way in which its share of the church's benevolent offerings is used" "but you don't mean to tell us," said j.w., incredulously, "that you can drop in on a place like delafield, make up your mind what is needed, and then dump a lot of money into a played-out church, just like that?" "oh, it's not so informal as all that," conover said, "the thing has to go through the official channels, of course. your district superintendent and brother drury and the bishop and several others have had a hand in it already. all concerned have agreed as to the needs and possibilities. but delafield is also a good place to put on a demonstration, an actual, operating scheme. i have been making ready for a survey of the whole east side, just a preliminary study, and before anything positive is done we must make a more thorough inquiry. we expect to find out everything that needs to be known." "there was only one anxiety i had about it," pastor drury said, "and that has been all taken away. i was keen to have this be a truly christian demonstration--not just a settlement or a parish house or night school classes, but a real demonstration of christian service among people who now know little about it. in some places these activities are being set going because church people know they ought to do something, and it is easier to give money and have gymnasiums and moving pictures than to make real proof of partnership with christ by personal service and sacrifice. take your old friend martin luther shenk, j.w.--do you know that he's working at this very difficulty? and i hear he's finding, even in the country, that some people will really give themselves, while others will give only their money and their time." j.w. thought of win-my-chum week, and how he had had to drive himself to speak to marty, so he knew the pastor was right. and he went home with all sorts of questions running through his mind, but with no very satisfying answers to make them. coming back in a wakeful night to mr. drury's casual mention of marty, the thought of his chum set him to wondering how that sturdy young itinerant was making it go on the ellis and valencia circuit, just as the pastor guessed it might. to wonder was to decide. he would take a long-desired holiday. a word or two with his father in the morning gave him the excuse for what he wanted to do. then he got valencia on the long distance, and the operator told him she would find the "reverend" shenk for him in a few minutes. he had started out that morning to visit along the state line highway, as it was part of her business to know. at the third try marty was found, and he answered j.w.'s hail with a shout. after the first exchange of noisy greetings, "say, marty, dad's asked me to run down in your part of the world and look at some new barn furniture that's been put in around ellis--ventilators and stanchions and individual drinking cups for the holsteins--not like the way we used to treat the cows on our farm, hey? well, what do you say if i turn fashionable for once and come down for the week-end--not this week, but next?" no need to ask marty a question like that. "come on down. make it friday and i'll show you the sights. we've got something doing at the ellis church, something i want you to see." then marty thought of a few books that he had left at home--"and--hello, j.w., are you listening? well, how'd you like to go out to the farm before you come down here? jeanette has gathered a bundle of my books, and i need 'em. won't you get 'em for me and bring them along?" certainly, j.w. would. the farm was home to both the boys, and j.w. was almost as welcome there as marty; to one member of the family quite so, though she had never mentioned it. on the next sunday morning j.w. drove out of town in time to get to the little old church of his childhood for morning service. then he would go home with the shenks for dinner, spend the afternoon, get the books and come home when he was ready. there was no hurry. j.w., sr., had given him two sundays' leave of absence from sunday school. the next sunday would be his and marty's, but this would be his and jeannette's. not that he needed to make any special plans for being with jeannette shenk; of late he had found the half hour drive down to the old farm the prelude to a pleasant evening. sometimes he would make the round trip twice, running out to bring jeanette into town, when something was going on, and taking her home afterward in the immemorial fashion. as j.w. turned to the church yard lane leading up to the old horseshed, he noticed that there were only two cars there besides his own--and one old-time sidebar buggy, battered and mud-bedaubed, with a decrepit and dejected-looking gray mare between the shafts. it was time for meeting, and he contrasted to-day's emptiness of the long sheds with the crowding vehicles of his childhood memories. in those days so tightly were buggies and surries and democrats, and even spring wagons and an occasional sulky wedged into the space, that it was nothing unusual for the sermon to be interrupted by an uproar in the sheds, when some peevish horse attempted to set its teeth in the neck of a neighbor, with a resultant squealing and plunging, a cramping of wheels and a rattle of harness which could neutralize the most vociferous circuit rider's eloquence. at the door, j.w. fell in with the little group of men, who, according to ancient custom, had waited in the yard for the announcement of the first hymn before ending their talk of crops and roads and stock, and joining the women and children within. inside the contrast with the older day was even more striking. the church, small as it was, seemed almost empty. the shenks were there, including jeannette, as j.w. promptly managed to observe. father foltz and his middle-aged daughter stood in their accustomed place; they had come in the venerable sidebar buggy, just as for two decades past. mother foltz hadn't been out of the house in years, and among j.w.'s earliest recollections were those of the cottage prayer meetings that he had attended with his father in mrs. foltz's speckless sickroom. then there were the four newells, and mrs. bellamy, and mr. and mrs. haggard with their two little girls, and a few people j.w. did not know--perhaps twenty-five altogether. no wonder the preacher was disheartened, and preached a flavorless sermon. where were the boys and girls of even a dozen years ago? where the children who began their sunday school career in the little recess back of the curtain? and where the whole families that once filled the place? surely, old deep creek church had fallen on evil days. it was a dismal service, with its dreary sermon and its tuneless hymns. after the benediction j.w. shook hands with the preacher, whom he knew slightly, and exchanged greetings with all the old friends. "well, john wesley," said father foltz, with glum garrulity, "this ain't the church you used to know when you was little. i mind in them times when you folks lived on the farm how we thought we'd have to enlarge the meetinghouse. but it's a good thing we never done it. there's room enough now," and the old man indulged in a mirthless, toothless grimace. the shenks didn't invite him to dinner; their understanding was finer than that. pa shenk just said, "let me drive out first, john wesley; i'll go on ahead and open the gate," and j.w. said to jeannette, "jump into my car, jean; it isn't fair to put everybody into pa shenk's ford when mine's younger and nearly empty." so that was that; all regular and comfortable and proper. if mrs. newell smiled as she watched them drive away, what of it? she was heard to say to mrs. bellamy, "i've known for three years that those two ought to wake up and fall in love with each other, and they've been slower than father foltz's old gray mare. but it looks as though they were getting their eyes open at last." at the farm mrs. shenk hurried to finish up the dinner preparations, with jeannette to help. ben and little alice contended for j.w.'s favor, until he took alice on his knee and put one arm about her and the other about her brother, standing by the chair. and pa shenk talked about the church. "i reckon i shouldn't complain, john wesley," he said, "seeing that our marty is a country preacher, and maybe he'll be having to handle a job like this some time. but i can't believe he will. his letters don't read like it." "but, pa shenk," said j.w., "don't you suppose the trouble here in deep creek is because you're so near town? nine miles is nothing these days, but when you first came to the farm there was only one automobile in the township. now everybody can go into town to church." "they can, boy," pa shenk answered, "but they don't. not all of 'em. some don't care enough to go anywhere. one-year tenants, mostly, they are. some go to town, all right enough, but not to church. a few go to church, i admit, but only a few." j.w. started to speak, hesitated, then blurted it out. "maybe dad and others like him are responsible for some of the trouble. they've pulled out and left just a few to carry the load. you're all right, of course; you really belong here. but a lot of the farmers who have moved to town have rented their places to what you call one-year tenants, and it seems to me that's a poor way to build up anything in the country, churches or anything else. tenants that are always moving don't get to know anybody or to count for anything. it's not much wonder they are no use to the church." "there's a good deal in that, john wesley," said pa shenk. "your father and me, we get along fine. we're more like partners than owner and tenant. but it isn't so with these short-term renters. the owner raises the rent as the price of land rises, and the tenant is mostly too poor to do anything much after he's paid the rent. besides, he's got no stake in the neighborhood. why should he pay to help build a new church, when he's got to move the first of march? and the church has been as careless about him as he has been about the church." "that's what bothers me," j.w. commented. "but even so, i should think something could be done to interest these folks. they've all got families to bring up." "something can be done, too," said pa shenk. "you remember when the people on upper deep creek used to come here to church, four miles or so? well, now they are going to fairfield church--owners, renters, everybody. it's surprising how fairfield church is growing. that's going away from town, not to it, and they're as near to town as we are." "then," persisted j.w., "how do you account for it?" "only one way, my boy," said pa shenk. "i'm as much to blame as any, but we've had some preachers here that didn't seem to understand, and then lately we've had preachers who stayed in town all the time except on preaching sunday, and we scarcely saw or heard of 'em all the two weeks between. they haven't held protracted meetings for several years, and i ain't blaming 'em. what's the use of holding meetings when you know nobody's coming except people that were converted before our present pastor was born?" "you say some people are going over to fairfield?" asked j.w. "why do they go there, when they could go to town about as easy?" "well, john wesley," pa shenk answered, soberly. "i think i know. but you say you're going to spend next sunday with marty. from what marty writes i've a notion it's much the same on his work as it is at fairfield, except that marty has two points. wait till next week, and then come back and tell us how you explain the difference between deep creek church and ellis." in the afternoon jeannette and j.w. took a ride around the neighborhood, whose every tree and culvert and rural mail-box they knew, without in the least being tired of seeing it. their talk was on an old, old subject, and not remarkable, yet somehow it was more to them both than any poet's rhapsody. and their occasional silences were no less eloquent. but in a more than usually prosaic moment jeannette said, "john wesley, i wonder if there's any hope to get the deep creek young people interested in church the way they used to be? i'm just hungry for the sort of good times the older boys and girls used to have when you and marty and i were nothing but children. they enjoyed themselves, and so did everybody else. what's the matter with so many country churches, nowadays?" to which question j.w. could only answer: "i don't know. i didn't realize things were so bad here. maybe i'll get some ideas about it next saturday and sunday. your father seems to think marty is getting started on the right track. and that reminds me; don't let me go away without those books he wants, will you?" this is not a record of that sunday afternoon's drive, nor of the many others which followed on other sundays and on the days between. some other time there may be opportunity for the whole story of jeannette and j.w. * * * * * as j.w. drove up to ellis corners post office late the next friday afternoon marty waylaid him and demanded to be taken aboard. "drive a half-mile further east," he said after their boisterous greetings. "that's where we eat to-night--at ambery's. then just across the road to the church. we've got something special on." "a box supper," asked j.w., "or a bean-bag party?" but he knew better. marty told him to wait and see. supper was a pleasant meal, the amberys being pleasant people, who lived in a cozy new house. but j.w. was mystified to hear marty speak of henry ambery as a retired farmer. he knew retired farmers in town, plenty of them, and some no happier for being there. but in the country? "oh," said marty, "that's easy. our church is the social hub of all this community, and i told the amberys that if they built here they would be as well off as in town. i'm right too. they bought two acres for less than the price of a town lot, and they have most of the farm comforts as well as all the modern conveniences. you didn't notice any signs of homesickness, did you?" no, j.w., hadn't, though he knew the retired-farmer sort of homesickness when he saw it. "and the amberys are worth more to the church than they ever were," marty added. "i'm thinking of a scheme to colonize two or three other retiring farmers within easy reach of this church. why not? they've got cars, and can drive to the county seat in an hour if they want to. that's better than living there all the time, with nothing to do." by this the two were at the church, a pretty frame building, l-shaped, with a community house adjoining the auditorium. people were beginning to arrive in all sorts of vehicles--cars, mostly. j.w. looked for signs of a feed, but vainly. no spread tables, no smell of cooking or rattle of dishes from the kitchen. "what is it, marty?" he asked. and marty laughed as he answered, "old-fashioned singing school, with some new-fashioned variations, that's all." certainly it was something which interested the countryside, for there was every indication of a crowded house. j.w. heard the singing and noted with high approval the variations which modernized the old order. he thought the idea plenty good enough even for delafield, which, for him, left nothing more to be said. and there _was_ a feed, after all; but it was distinctly light refreshments, such as j.w. was used to at delafield first church. on the way back to the amberys', and well into the night in marty's room, they talked about the circuit and its work. "it isn't a circuit, rightly, you know," marty said. "i preach every sunday at both places, and for the present"--j.w. grinned--"i can get across the whole parish every day if necessary. but i'm working it a little more systematically than that." "you must be. i can hardly believe even what i've seen already," j.w. replied. "when i was at deep creek last sunday i was sure it was all off with the country church, and on the way down here i passed three abandoned meetinghouses. so i made up my mind to persuade you out of it. you know i wasn't much in favor of your coming here in the first place. but maybe that's a bigger job than i thought." "you're right, john wesley, about that. i don't budge, if i can make myself big enough for the job. it's too interesting. and things are happening. there's no danger of this church being abandoned." "but what do you do, marty, to make things happen? i know they don't just happen. i'm from the country too, remember that." "what do i do? not 'i' but 'we.' well, we work with our heads first, and our hearts. then we get out and go at it. take our very first social difficulty; in delafield you have a dozen places to go to. here it's either the church or the schoolhouse--that's all the choice there is. and the schoolhouse has its limitations. so our folks have decided to make the church, both here and at valencia, the center of the community. that explains the social hall; we call it 'community house.' everything that goes on, except the barn dances over east that we can't do much with so far, goes on in the church, or starts with the church, or ends at the church. that's the first scheme we put over. it was fairly easy, you know, because all our country people are pretty much one lot. we have no rich, and no really poor. and they're not organized to death, either, as you are in delafield." "do you try to have something going on every night, and nearly every day, as brother drury does with us?" j.w. asked. "not quite," replied marty; "we can't. we're too busy growing the food for you town folks. but we keep up a pretty stiff pace, for the preacher; i have no time hanging on my hands." "i should think not," j.w. commented, "if you try to run everything. mr. drury always seems to have lots of time, just because he makes the rest of us run the works in delafield first." "oh, he does, does he?" said marty, shortly, who knew something of the older minister's strategy. "that's according to how you look at it. i'm not above learning from him, and i don't run everything, either. but i'm there, or thereabouts, most of the time." "how do you get time for your study and your sermons, then," queried j. w., "if you're on the go so much?" marty turned a quizzical look at j.w. "my beloved chum, how did you and i get time for our studies at cartwright?" he said. "besides, i'm making one hand wash the other. the social life here, for instance, used to be pretty bad, before henderson came--that's the preacher whose place i took. it was pulling away from the church; now it draws to the church. henderson started that. the people who are my main dependence in the other affairs are mostly the same people i can count on in the sunday school and league and the preaching service. the more we do the better it is for what we do sundays." "then, there's another because these people and i know one another so well, i couldn't put on airs in the pulpit if i wanted to. i've just got to preach straight, and i won't preach a thing i can't back up myself. i use country illustrations; show them their own world. it's one big white mark for the farwell farm, as you might suppose, that i know the best side of country life, though i don't advertise your real estate." "i know," said j.w. "but don't you find country people pretty hard to manage? that's our experience at the store. they are particular and critical, and think they know just what they want." "they do too," marty asserted, "why shouldn't they? i believe i can tell you one big difference between the city boy and the country. you've been both; see if i'm right. the country boy minds his folks, and his teacher. but everything else minds him. he is boss of every critter on the place, from the hens to the horses, whenever he has anything to do with them at all. so he learns to think for them, as well as for himself. in the city the boy has no chance to give orders--he's under orders, all the time; the traffic cop, the truant officer, the boss in the shop or the office, the street car conductor, the janitor--everybody bosses him and he bosses nothing, except his kid brothers and sisters. so he may come to be half cringer and half bully. the country boy is not likely to be much afraid, and he soon learns that if he tries to boss even the boys without good reason it doesn't pay. maybe that's the reason so many country boys make good when they go to the city." "and the reason why a city boy like me," suggested j.w., "would be a misfit in the country." "oh, you," scoffed marty. "you don't count. you're a half-breed. but, as i meant to say, you're right about country folks. they are a little close, maybe. they are more independent in their business than town people, but they learn how to work together; they exchange farm work, and work the roads, and they are fairly dependent on one another for all social life." "on deep creek the tenant farmers are the biggest difficulty, your dad told me last sunday," said j.w. "they go to town when they go anywhere, and not to church, either." "i know," said marty. "and i don't much blame 'em, from all i hear. but henderson changed that considerably in this community. he found out that the tenants were just as human as the others, only they had the idea that nobody cared about them, because they might be here to-day and gone to-morrow. and, what do you think? i find tenant farmers around here are beginning to take longer leases; one or two are about like dad's been with your father--more partners than anything else. every renter family in this neighborhood comes to our church, and only three or four fight shy of us at valencia." "all right," said j.w., drowsily. "go to sleep now; i've got to inspect that holstein hotel in the morning, and i know what country hours are." the next day j.w. drove off toward the big barns of his customer, and left marty deep in the mysteries of sunday's sermon. marty was yet a very young preacher, and one sermon a week was all he could manage, as several of his admirers had found out to his discomfiture, when one sunday they followed him from ellis in the morning to valencia at night. but the "twicers" professed to enjoy it. j.w.'s farmer was quite ready to talk about the new barn equipment and how it was working, and he had remarkably few complaints, these more for form's sake than anything else. that business was soon out of the way. but farmer bellamy was interested in other things besides ventilators and horse-forks. "so you're a friend of our preacher," he said, in the questioning affirmative of the deliberate country. "well, he's quite a go-ahead young fellow; you never get up early enough to find him working in a cold collar. maybe he's a mite ambitious, but i don't know." j.w., as always, came promptly to marty's defense. "he's not ambitious for himself, mr. bellamy; i'll vouch for that. but i shouldn't wonder he is ambitious about his work, and maybe that's not a bad thing for a country preacher in these days." "that's so," mr. bellamy assented. "but i doubt we keep him. he'll be getting a church in town before long." now j.w. had no instructions from marty, but he thought he might venture. and he had been introduced to a few ideas that he had never met in the days when he objected to marty's taking a country circuit. "i'll tell you something, mr. bellamy," he said. "marty is a farmer's boy who loves the country. if he has the right sort of backing, i shouldn't wonder he stayed here a good long time. he's got enough plans ahead for this circuit of his." mr. bellamy laughed. "he has that; if he waits to get 'em all going we're sure of him for a while. why, he wants to make the church the most important business in the whole neighborhood; and, what's more, he's getting some of us to see it that way too." "yes, i guess that's his dream," j.w. said. "and it's so much better than the reality up around where i used to live that i wouldn't head him off if i were you." "head him off!" mr. bellamy laughed again. "why, do you know what he did in the fall, when some of us told him we couldn't do much for missions? he phoned all over the neighborhood the day before he set out with a ton-and-a-half truck he had hired for the job. told us to put into the truck anything we could spare. and what do you think? before night he drove into hill city with a big overload, even for that truck, of wheat, corn, butter, eggs, chickens, sausage, apples, potatoes, and dear knows what. sold the lot for sixty-nine dollars. he paid nine dollars for the truck--got a rate on it--and turned in for missions sixty dollars. we've never given more than twenty, in cash." "but that wasn't all. next sunday he reported, and before any of us could say 'praise the lord!' says he, 'don't think the lord's giving any of us much credit for that stuff. we owe him a good deal more than a few eggs that we'll never miss. i just wanted to show you that when we country people really start paying our tithe to the almighty our missionary and other offerings will make that truckload look like the crumbs from our tables. i've proved that we're rich, instead of being too poor to provide for missions. and it's all our father's, you know. when we pay him our tithe we admit that in the only practical way,' funny thing was the whole business had been so queer, nobody got mad over his plain talk. some of us have begun to tithe, and to enjoy it. yes; that young feller is quite a go-ahead young feller." j.w. rather admired the tale of the truck; it was like marty, right enough, to get his tithing talk illustrated with a load of produce; but there was more than a hint of a new marty, with a new directness and confidence. so he asked, "what else is he doing that's making a difference?" and the floodgates were lifted. the bellamy gift of utterance had a congenial theme. for an hour the stream ran strong and steady, and when it would have stopped none could tell. but j.w. remembered he had promised to be back with marty for dinner, and so, in the midst of a story about marty's saturday afternoon outings with the boys, highly reminiscent of their own old-time saturdays in the deep creek timber, j.w. made his excuses and hurried away. in that hour he had heard of the observing of special days, thanksgiving and christmas particularly; of the rage for athletic equipment on every farm which had youngsters, so that the usual anaemic croquet outfit had given place to basketball practice sets, indoor-outdoor ball, volley-ball nets, and other paraphernalia. some of it not much used now, since winter had come, but under marty's leadership, a skating rink construction gang had thrown up a dirt embankment in a low spot near the creek and then cut a channel far enough upstream to flood about four acres of swamp. mr. bellamy told about the skating tournaments every afternoon of the cold weather for the school children, and saturday afternoons for the older young folks. more people went than skated too, the garrulous farmer asserted. it was just another of that young preacher's sociability schemes, and there was no end to 'em, seemed like to him. there was even more on the business side of country life: how marty had joined forces with the grange and the county agent and the cooperators of the creamery and the elevator and the school teachers. and so on, and so on. j.w. would be the last to worry about such a program; it just fitted his ideas. but it made him a little more interested in the sunday services. would marty's preaching match his community work? but before sunday morning came j.w. had other questions to ask. he put them to marty in intervals of the skating races; and again after supper, before going over to the church to meet a little group of sunday-school folk--"my teacher-partners" marty called them--who were learning with him how to adapt sunday school science and the teaching art to the conditions of the open country. all of j.w.'s questions were really one big question: "say, marty, boy, i always knew you had something in you that didn't show on the surface, but i never thought it was exactly the stuff they need to make up-to-date country preachers. how does it happen that you've blossomed out in these few months as a moses to lead a 'rural parish'--if that's the right scientific name--out of such a wilderness as i saw at deep creek last sunday?" marty made a pass at his chum in the fashion of the cartwright days, and waited for the return punch before answering. "don't you 'moses' me, john wesley. besides, this circuit was no wilderness. henderson, the preacher who was here before me, was just the man for this work. he knew the country, and believed it had the makings of even more attractive life than the town. too bad he had to quit. but he started these folks thinking the right way. and then, don't you remember i wrote last summer that i was spending two weeks at a school for rural ministers?" "oh, yes, i remember that," j.w. answered, "but that's no explanation. i spent four years at a college for town and country boys, and now look at me! two weeks is a little too short a course to produce miracles, even with such an intellect as yours, notwithstanding your name is bigger than mine, martin luther! now, if you'd said four weeks, i might almost have believed you, but two weeks--well, it just isn't done, that's all!" "make fun of it, will you!" said marty, with another short-arm jab. "now, listen to me. that thing is simple enough. first off, i'd been thinking four years about being a preacher. on top of that, i'd been a country boy for twenty-three years. i know the deep creek neighborhood better than you do, because i had to live there. you were just visiting the farm your father paid taxes on. when i came here i found that henderson had set things going. he told me what his dream was. so, when i went to that two-weeks' school i was ready to take in every word and see every picture and get a grip on every principle. maybe you don't know that it was one of many such schools set up by the rural work leaders of our home missions board, and it was a great school. they had no use for rocking-chair ruralists, so the faculty, instead of being made up of paper experts, was a bunch of men who _knew_. it was worth a year of dawdling over text-books. you see, i knew i could come back here and try everything on my own people. it was like the squeers school in 'nicholas nickleby,' 'member? when the spelling class was up, squeers says to smike, the big, helpless dunce, 'spell window,'" and smike says, 'w-i-n-d-e-r,' 'all right,' squeers says, 'now go out and wash 'em,' well, i hope i got the spelling a little nearer right, but i came home and began washing my windows. that's all. j.w. said "huh!" and that stood for understanding, and approval, and confidence. as to marty's preaching, it was a boy's preaching, naturally, but it was preaching. and the people came for it; j.w., remarked to himself the contrast between the close-parked cars around ellis church and the forlornly vacant horse-sheds he had seen at deep creek the sunday before. the hearty singing of people glad to be singing together, the contagious interest of a well-filled house, and the simple directness of the preacher were all of a piece. here was no effort to ape the forms of a cathedral, but neither was there any careless, cheap slovenliness. and assuredly there were no religious "stunts." marty preached the christian evangel, not moralized agriculture. he made the gospel invitation a social appeal, without blinking its primary message to the individual to place himself under the authority of christ's self-forgetting love. he put first things in front--"him that cometh unto me," and then with simple illustrations and words as simple he showed that they who had accepted christ's lordship were honor bound to live together under a new sort of law from that of the restless, pushing, self-centered world: "it shall not be so among you." besides, he told them they could not separate service from profit. they knew, for instance, that their farm values were a third higher because of the presence of the church and its work, but they would find that the profit motive was not big enough to keep the church going. they had to love the work, and do it for love of it. that afternoon the friends drove over to valencia, where at night marty would preach again this his one sermon of the week; and j.w. left him there, turning his car homeward for the fifty-two miles to delafield. as they parted, j.w. gripped marty's hand and said: "old man, i own up. i thought you ought not to bury yourself in the country, but i had no need to worry. i know preachers who are buried in town all right; you have a bigger field and a livelier one than they will ever find. and i'll never say another word about your two-weeks' school. if the home missions board had nothing else to do, such work as it showed you how to do would be worth all the board costs. i'm going to make trouble for mr. drury and the district superintendent and the bishop and the board and anybody else i can get hold of, until deep creek gets the same sort of chance as this circuit of yours. if only they knew where to find another martin luther shenk--that's the rub!" and with a last handclasp the chums went their separate ways. on monday j.w. called up pastor drury and gave that gentleman, who was expecting it, a five-minute summary of his day with marty. "i'm awfully glad i happened to think of going over there," he said, "not only for the sake of being with the old boy again, but because i've got some new notions about the country church, and about what we methodists are beginning to do for the places where methodism got its start." and walter drury said, "yes, i'm glad, too." so he was; he could put down a new mark on the credit side of the experiment. chapter vi "is he not a man and a brother?" the colored methodists of delafield, who called their church "saint marks," had always been on good terms with their white co-religionists. mr. drury and the pastor of saint marks found many occasions of helping each other in their work. the single way in which these two showed themselves conscious of the color line was that while the pastor of first church often "preached" in saint marks, when the pastor of saint marks appeared in the pulpit of first church, it was "to speak on some aspect of his work." j.w. knew saint marks of old. in his high-school days that church had for its preacher one of a fast-vanishing race, a man mighty in exhortation, even though narrowly circumscribed in scholastic equipment. his preaching was redolent of the camp meeting, and he counted that sermon lost which did not evoke a shout or two from the front benches. a few of first church's younger people often went to sing at saint marks on special occasions, and went all the more cheerfully because of the chance it afforded to hear brother king officer preach. where he got that name is not known, but he had no other. do not think the young people either went to scoff or remained to pray. if at times they were amused at brother officer's peculiarities, so were some members of his own flock, and brother officer was wise enough to assume that no disrespect was intended. and if the white visitors treated his fervent appeals to the unconverted and backsliders as part of the program, but having no slightest application to them, this was also the regular thing, and nobody was troubled thereat. but while j.w. was away at college a new pastor had come to saint marks, a college and seminary graduate. and he had come just in time. brother officer was getting old, but the determining factor which made the change necessary was that delafield happened to be near one of the general routes by which thousands of colored people were moving northward. "exoduses" have been before; kansas still remembers the exodus from tennessee of forty years ago; but this latest exodus had no one starting-point nor any single destination. it was a vast shifting of negro populations from below mason and dixon's line, and it swept northward toward all the great industrial centers. its cause and consequences make a remarkable story, for which there is no room in this chronicle. delafield thought it could not absorb many more negroes, but before the exodus movement subsided the stragglers who had turned aside at delafield had more than doubled the negro population of the town. a heavy burden of new responsibility was on the young pastor of saint marks. the newcomers had no such alertness and resourcefulness as his own people. they were helpless in the face of new experiences. soon they became a worry and an enigma to the town authorities; but especially and inevitably they turned to the churches of their own color, of which delafield could boast but two, a methodist and a baptist. so saint marks and its pastor found both new opportunity and new troubles. one day in the early spring mr. drury dropped in to the farwell store and asked j.w. if he would be busy that night. the road to deep creek was at its spring worst, and j.w. had nothing special on. he said as much, and answering his look of inquiry the pastor said, "there's a man speaking at saint marks to-night who's a yale graduate and a negro. he's also a methodist. does the combination interest you?" "why, yes," j.w. answered, "it might. you know i used to go with the bunch to saint marks when brother officer was pastor, but i haven't been since he left. i'd like to see what the new preacher is doing, and it ought to be worth something to hear a negro alumnus of yale." william hightower, it seemed, was the speaker's name--a strong-voiced; confident man in his thirties. as j.w., soon discovered, hightower was a distinctively modern negro. where king officer had been almost cringing, hightower's thought, however diplomatically spoken, was that of an up-standing mind; where officer accepted as part of the social order the colored man's dependence on the white, hightower spoke of something he called racial solidarity. it was plain that he meant his negro hearers to make much of the negro's capacity for self-direction. there was little bitterness and no radicalism in the speech, but to j.w. it had a queer, new note. he said as much to mr. drury, on the way home. "why, that hightower hardly ever mentioned the church, although he was speaking at a church meeting. and how independent he was!" "so you noticed that, did you?" the pastor responded. "to me it is one of the signs of a new day." "but do you think it is a good day, mr. drury?" queried j.w. "yes--perhaps; i don't know. anyhow, it is new, and some of the blame for it is on our shoulders. the way the negro thinks and feels to-day is a striking proof of the fact, often forgotten, that when you settle old questions you raise new ones." "maybe," said j.w. doubtfully, "but i didn't know we had settled the negro question." "nor i," agreed mr. drury. "what we--i mean, we methodists--settled when we began to deal with the negro right after emancipation was not the race question. it was not even a missionary question, in the old sense, but it was the question of the nature of the education we should give the young colored people. for we set out deliberately to give them schooling first, with evangelism as an accompaniment. the stress was on education, and we decided at the outset on a certain sort of education." "i should think," ventured j.w., "that any old sort of education would serve; the first teachers had to begin at the bottom, didn't they?" "yes, and lower than any beginnings you know anything about," the pastor replied. "our first workers began without equipment, without encouragement, and without everything else except a great pity for the freedman. did you notice, by the way, that the speaker to-night never said 'freedman' or mentioned slavery? it is a new day, i tell you." "i wish you'd explain just what you mean by that, mr. drury," j.w. said. "i don't seem to get it." "i mean," said mr. drury, "that as soon as our church had decided to do something for the emancipated slaves, it began to work out a scheme of negro education. that was before tuskegee, and even before hampton institute. maybe we never thought of the booker washington idea, or purely industrial education, but at any rate we went on the theory that the negro deserved and in time could take as good an education as any other american. so we started academies and colleges and even universities for him, and a medical school and a theological seminary." "i can see myself that there's a difference between that and the industrial idea," said j.w. "decidedly, there is," answered the minister; "all the difference which has helped to bring this new day i'm talking about, and to produce such negro leaders as william hightower. you see, j.w., it's this way: booker washington believed that after the negro had been taught to read and write and cipher, his next and greatest educational need was to learn to make a living." "well, what's the matter with that?" retorted j.w. "seems to me it's common sense." "possibly," mr. drury answered, dryly. "but what would you say was the first thing needed in the fight against the almost total illiteracy of the freedmen?" "why, teachers, i suppose," said j.w. "and it would sure take a lot of teachers, even to make a start." mr. drury said, "that's exactly the fact. it has called for so many that to this day there isn't anything like enough teachers, although some of our schools and those of other churches have been at work for fifty years. and, remember, that practically all of these teachers, except in a few advanced schools, must be black teachers, themselves brought up out of ignorance." "well," said j.w., "that's my point. the quicker we could teach the teachers, the sooner they would be ready to teach others." "that is to say," mr. drury interpreted, "the less we taught them, the better? seems to me i heard something of a small revolt in your time at cartwright because it seemed necessary that a young tutor should be temporarily assigned to the class in sophomore english." j.w. chuckled. "it was my class. why, that fellow was never more than two jumps ahead of the daily work. we knew he had to study his own lesson assignments before he could hear a recitation. we weren't getting anything out of it except the bare text. so some of the boys made things lively for a few days, and he asked to be relieved." "quite so. your class had every imaginable advantage over the colored boys and girls in our schools--just one teacher below par. and yet you think it would be all right to have all colored teachers no more than two jumps ahead of their pupils." "well, yes, i see," j.w. said, with a touch of thoughtfulness. "i suppose a good teacher needs more than the minimum text-book knowledge. is that the methodist theory?" "now you're talking like yourself," mr. drury told him. "yes, that's the methodist theory. for the fifty years of the old freedmen's aid society--now the board of education for negroes--it has run these schools, eighteen of them now, with five thousand seven hundred and two earnest students enrolled, on a double theory. the first part of the theory is that every child--black, white, red or yellow--ought to have all the education he can use. anything less than that would be as good as saying that america cares to develop its human resources only just so far, and not to the limit. the other part of the theory is that the last person in the world to be put off with half an education is a preacher or a teacher. the best is just good enough for all teachers, whether they teach from a desk or from a pulpit." "i guess that's so too," said j.w. "you're getting me interested. now go on and tell me some more." "the new pastor of saint marks told me," said mr. drury, irrelevantly, "that they would be wanting some new roofing for the barn they're turning into a community house. i shouldn't be surprised if you sold the church a nice little bill of goods. and while you are at it, you might talk to the pastor--driver's his name--about this thing from his side of the road. he knows more than i do." j.w. said he would. and, though he would have meant it in any case, the hint about roofing made certain that "elder" driver would have a call in the morning from a rising young hardware salesman. by this time they were at the farwell gate, and j.w. said goodnight. mr. drury walked home, but before he got ready for his beloved last hour of the day, with its easy chair and its cherished book, he called up his colored colleague, and they had a brief talk over the 'phone. now, walter drury had taken no one into his confidence about the experiment, nor did he intend to; he had the best of reasons for keeping his own counsel, through the years. so elder driver could not know the true inwardness of this telephone call; indeed, it was so casual that he did not even think to mention it to j.w. when that alert roofing specialist turned up next morning. "i heard you were going to put new roofing on that barn you are fixing up, mr. driver, and i thought i might get your order for the job. maybe you know that we do a good deal of that sort of work, and we can give you expert service; the right roofing put on to stay, and to stay put." yes, they were thinking of that roof; had to, because it leaked like a market basket, and they needed the place right now, what with the many colored methodists who had come to town and had no home--only rooms in the little houses of the colored settlement that had been too small for comfort even before the exodus. but the place would be worth a lot to their work when they got it. "about how much do you think of spending, mr. driver?" j.w. asked. knowing the limited means of saint marks, he expected to supply the cheapest roofing the farwell hardware company had in stock, but pastor driver had a surprise for him. "why," he said, "we want the best there is. that building was a barn, i'll admit, but it is strongly built, and we expect to fix it pretty thoroughly. we have a gift from the board of home missions and church extension, and we match that with as much again of our own money, enough in all to swing the building around off the alley, put it on a new foundation next to the church, and remodel it for our needs." "that's news to me," said j.w., "though of course i'm glad to hear it. but i didn't know that the board put money into such work as this. somehow i supposed you were under the board of education for negroes." "no, not for this sort of church work," the colored pastor answered. "i was 'under' the board of education for negroes, as you put it, for a long time myself, in the days when it was called the freedmen's aid society. and so was my wife. but now we're doing missionary work, and that's the other board's job." "oh, yes," j.w. assented. "i might have known that. and you mean that you were under the freedmen's aid society when you were going to school--is that it?" "that's it," said pastor driver, with a gleaming smile. "i was in two of the schools. philander smith college, at little rock, arkansas, and clark university, at atlanta, georgia. then i got my theological course at gammon, on the same campus as clark." "you say your wife was in school too?" "yes"--with an even brighter smile--"she was at clark when i met her. like me, she attended two schools on that campus. the other was thayer home, a girls' dormitory, supported by the woman's home missionary society." "a home? then how could it be a school?" j.w. asked. "that's just it, mr. farwell," the minister explained. "it was a school of home life, not only cooking and sewing and scrubbing, and what all you think of as domestic science, but a school of the home spirit--just the thing my people need. thayer was, and is, a place where the girl students of clark university learn how to make real homes. and in the college classes they learn what you might suppose any college student would learn. that's why i said mrs. driver went to two schools." j.w. recalled the hightower speech of the night before, and the discussion with mr. drury on the way home. he wanted to go into it all with this pastor, who wasn't much past his own age, and evidently had some ideas. for the first time he wondered too how it happened that in that draft of the everyday doctrines of delafield they had altogether ignored the negro. was that a symptom of something? then he remembered his errand, and the work which was waiting up at the store. so he said: "excuse me, mr. driver, for being so inquisitive. i've never thought much about our church's colored work, but what i heard at last night's meeting started me. rather curious that i should be here talking about it with you the very next morning, isn't it? but about that roofing, now. of course you'll look around and get other estimates, but anyway i'd be glad to take the measurements and give you our figures. i promise you they'll be worth considering." "i'm sure of that, mr. farwell," said the other, heartily, "and if i have any influence with the committee--and i think i have--you needn't lose any sleep over any other figures we might get. as for being inquisitive about our work here, i wish more of this town's white methodists would get inquisitive. and that reminds me: there's to be an epworth league convention here week after next, and i've been told to invite one of the league leaders in your church to make a short address on the opening night. you're a league leader, i know, and the first one i've thought about. so i'm asking you, right now. will you come over and speak for us?" now, though j.w. always said he was no speaker, he had never hesitated to accept invitations to take part in league conventions. but this was different. he made no answer for a minute. and in the pause his mind was busy with all he knew, and all he had acquired at second hand, about the relations of colored christians and white, and particularly about what might be thought and said if it should be announced that he was to speak at a negro epworth league convention. and then he had the grace to blush, realizing that this colored pastor, waiting so quietly for his answer, must infallibly have followed his thoughts. in his swift self-blame he felt that the least amends he could make for his unspoken discourtesy was a prompt acceptance of the invitation. so he looked up and said, hurriedly: "mr. driver, forgive me for not speaking sooner. i'll do the best i can"; and then, regaining his composure, "have you any idea as to the subject i'm supposed to talk about?" "yes," the colored minister replied, not without a touch of curious tenseness in his voice. "the committee wanted me to get a representative from your chapter to make a ten-minute address of welcome on behalf of the epworthians of first church!" again j.w. was forced to hesitate. here he was an epworthian, but knowing nothing at all about the work of these other young methodists. until to-day he scarcely knew they existed. and now he was asked to welcome them to town in the name of the league! but once again shame compelled him to take the bold course. with an apologetic smile he said, "well, that's the last subject i could imagine you'd give to any of us at first church. your young people and ours have hardly been aware of each other, and it seems queer that you should ask me to make an address of welcome in your church. but as i think of it, maybe this is just what somebody ought to do, and i might as well try it. trouble is, what am i going to say?" "we'll risk that, mr. farwell," said pastor driver, confidently. "just say what you think, and you'll do all right." j.w. was by no means sure of that, and the more he thought about his speech in the next few days, the more confused he became. any ordinary speech of welcome would be easy--"glad you were sensible enough to come to delafield," "make yourselves at home," "freedom of the city," "our latch strings are out," "command us for anything we can do," "congratulate you on the fine work you are doing," "know when we return this visit and come to the places you represent you will make us welcome"--and so on. but it was plainly impossible for him to talk like that. it wouldn't be true, and it would certainly not be prudent. he put the thing up to j.w., sr. "what'll i say, dad?" he asked. "you know we haven't had much to do with the people of saint marks, and maybe it wouldn't be best for us to make any sudden change as to that, even if some of us wanted to. but i've got to talk like a christian, whether i feel like one or not." "my son," his father answered him, sententiously, "it's your speech, not mine. but if an old fogy may suggest something, why not forget all about the usual sort of welcome address? why not say something of the whole program of our church as it affects our colored people? it touches the young folks more than any others. welcome them to that." "that's all very fine," j.w. objected. "everybody who's on for an address of welcome is advised by his friends to cut out the old stuff, but it means work. and you know that i don't know the first thing about what you call the whole program of our church for the colored people. that man driver knows, but i can't ask him." "of course not," assented j.w., sr., "but you can ask somebody else. i'll venture mr. drury can tell you where to find all you would want to talk about. ask him. you're never bothered by bashfulness with him, if i remember right." j.w. admitted he had already thought of that. "he and i were talking about this very thing the night before i went to see about that roofing. but here's the point--i'm not to represent the pastor, but the young people. and i'm not so sure that what mr. drury might give me, if he were willing, could be made to fit into a league speech, under the circumstances." "i'd try it anyway," said the elder farwell. "he's nearly always willing, seems to me, and a pretty safe adviser most of the time." "all right," agreed j.w., "i'll see him, but he'll probably tell me to find things out for myself. he's a good scout, is mr. drury; the best pastor i ever knew or want to know, but sometimes he has the queerest streaks; won't help a fellow a little bit, and when you're absolutely sure he could if he would. it won't be enough to see him, though; even if he is in a generous mood and gives me more dope than i can use. i'd better talk to some of the league people." and still he gravitated toward the pastor's study. it was the easiest way. the pastor was always in a more generous mood than j.w. gave him credit for. it was only that he never supplied crutches when people needed to use their legs, nor brains when they needed to use their heads, nor emotions when they needed to use their hearts. he told j.w. to rummage through the one bookshelf in the study which held his small but usable collection of books and pamphlets on the negro, and see what he might find. and, as always, they talked. "i can tell by that preacher at saint marks," said j.w., "how i had the wrong end of the argument that night we came from hightower's address. a man with a big job like his has to be a pretty big man, and he needs all the education he can get." "there's a principle in that, j.w.," suggested mr. drury; "see if this seems a reasonable way to state it: in dealing with any people, the more needy they are, the better equipped and trained their leaders should be." "yes, sir, it sounds reasonable enough," j.w. admitted. "and yet i never thought of it until now. but you said something the other night that i don't see yet." "that may be no fault of yours, my boy," said the minister, with a laugh. "what was it?" "why, you said men like hightower are inclined to overlook the work of the church, and that it was the church's own fault; something about raising new questions when you settle old ones." "oh, yes," said mr. drury, "i remember. maybe saying it's the church's own fault is not just the way to put it. say instead that you can't educate children, nor yet races that are developing, and expect them to turn out exactly according to your notions of the future. because, when their minds are growing they are developing, not according to something in you, but according to something in them. so every teacher, and i suppose every parent, has moments of wondering how it ever happens that young people learn so much that is not taught them. and it's the same way with races." "you mean," inquired j.w., "that hightower is like that?" "i mean," pastor drury replied, "that everybody is like that. if we had given the negro no education at all, we could probably have kept him contented for a good many years with just being 'free.' if we had given no negro anything but a common-school chance, the race would have been pretty slow to develop discontent. but hightower went to yale, and du bois went to harvard and germany, and pickens went to yale, and so on. thousands of colored men and women have been graduated from colleges of liberal arts. and so they are not satisfied with conditions which would have been heavenly bliss to their grandfathers and grandmothers." "i know i'm stupid," said j.w., a trifle ruefully, "but i've always supposed that education was good for everybody. now you seem to say that education makes people discontented." "of course it does," said mr. drury, "that's the reason it is good for them. would you be content to call a one-room shack home, and live as the plantation hand lives? if you would, the world's profit out of you, and your own profit out of yourself, wouldn't be much. real education does exactly mean discontent. and the people who are discontented may be uncomfortable to live with, if we think they ought to be docile, but they get us forward." "maybe you're right," j.w. conceded, "and the church is not to be blamed. still, if our work for the black man has made him troublesome, and given him ideas bigger than he can hope to realize, how does that fit in with our christianity? shouldn't the church be a peacemaker, instead of a trouble-maker?" "now, john wesley, jr.," the other said, in mock protest, "that sermon of mine on 'not peace, but a sword' must have been wasted on you. our lord most certainly came to make peace, and he spoke a great blessing on peacemakers. but he was himself the world's greatest disturber. peace while there is injustice, or ignorance, or any sort of wickedness, has nothing to do with christ's intentions. i know that the old-time slave-traders of the north, and the more persistent slave-buyers of the south, were always asking for that sort of peace. but they couldn't have it. nobody ever can have it, so long as jesus has a single follower in the world." "well, what has all this to do," asked j.w., "with our church's special work for the colored people?" "ah, yes," the pastor answered, "that's the very thing you must find out before you make that address of welcome." by this time j.w. had gathered up a pile of books, pamphlets, reports, and papers--enough, he thought, to serve as the raw material of a ph.d. thesis, and he said to mr. drury, "would you mind if i took this home? i'll bring it all back, and it's not likely i'll damage it much.". the asking was no more than a form; for years the people of first church had known themselves freely welcome to any book in the preacher's shelves. an interest in his books was passport to his special favor. his own evident love for books had been the best possible insurance that these particular borrowers would be more scrupulous than the general. this bit of pastoral work, it should be said, with the frequent book-talk that grew out of it, was not least among all the reasons why first church people thought their bachelor minister just the man for them. so off went j.w. with his armful, and for a week thereafter you might have supposed he was cramming for a final exam of some sort. early in his preparation he decided that his father's advice was wise, and he put the stress of his effort on the church's work and how negro youth had responded to it. the other matter was too delicate, he felt, for his amateur handling, and, besides, he was not altogether sure even of his own position. on the convention night saint marks was crowded with young colored people, some of whom came from places a hundred miles away. they were badged and pennanted quite in the fashion to which j.w. was accustomed. but for their color, and, to be frank, for a little more restraint and thoughtfulness in their really unusual singing, they were just young methodists at a convention, not different from caucasian methodists of the same age. when j.w.'s turn came to speak, the chairman introduced him in the fewest possible words, but with the courtesy which belongs to self-respect, saying, "mr. farwell will make the delegates welcome in the name of the first church epworthians." and he did. he had his notes, pretty full ones, to which he made frequent references, but the quality in his speech which drew the convention's cheers was its frank and natural simplicity. "i would have begged off from this duty, if i could," he began, "but i knew from the moment i was asked that i had no decent excuse. but i knew so little of what i ought to say that it was necessary for me to dig, just as i used to do at school." the result of my digging is that i know now and i want you to know that i know, why first church young people should join in welcoming you to delafield. some of them don't know yet, any more than i did ten days ago; but i intend to enlighten them the first chance i get. we first church epworthians might welcome you for many reasons, but i have decided to stick to two, because, as i have said, i have just been learning something about them. we welcome you, then, because you represent the most eager hunger for complete education that exists in america to-day, unless our new hebrew citizens can match it. no others can. the record of our church's schools for your race prove that it simply is not possible to keep the negro youth out of school. they will walk further, eat less, work harder, and stay longer to get an education than for anything else in the world. not so many days ago i ignorantly thought that the 'three r's' was all that ought to be offered, partly because the need is so great. i hope you will forgive me that thought, when i tell you that now i know what ignorance it revealed in me. the great need is the strongest argument for the highest education. because of your great numbers, and because of your ever intenser racial self-respect, the negro must educate the negro, be physician for the negro, preach to the negro, nurse the negro, lead the negro in all his upward effort. otherwise these things will be done badly, or patronizingly, or not at all. but if you are to do your own educational work, your educators must be fully equipped. it is not possible to send the whole race to college, but it is possible to send college-trained youth to the race. for this reason our church has established normal schools, colleges of liberal arts, professional schools, homes for college girls, so that the coming leaders of your people may have access to the best the world offers in science and literature, in medicine and law, in business and religion. you will not mistake my purpose, i am sure, in saying that you know better than we can guess how your people, through no fault of theirs, have been long in bondage to the unskilled hand, the unawakened mind, and the uninspired heart. but it is more and more an unwilling bondage. and our church, your church, has set up these schools and these training homes i have mentioned, as though she were saying, in the words of one of your own wonderful songs, 'let my people go!' and the results are coming. your two bishops, one in the south and one in africa, your leaders in the church's highest councils, your educators, your far-seeing business men, your great preachers, are part of the answer to your church's passion to give full freedom to all her people. for you are _her_ people, the people of the christian church; we are all god's people. it seems to me that just now god is interested in bringing to every race in the world the chance of liberty for hand and head and heart. god has greater things for us all to do than we can now understand, but all his purposes must wait on our getting free from everything that would defeat our work. our first-church young people welcome you because with all else you represent a great purpose to make religion intelligent. you know, as we do, that piety to be vital must be mixed with sound learning. you have the missionary spirit, which never thrives in an atmosphere of resistance to education. you are 'fellow christians,' fellow workers. we are sharers with you in personal devotion to our lord, and in the common purpose to make him master of all life. and, finally, let me say it bluntly, we welcome you because we believe in your pride of race, and honor it in you as we honor it in our fellow citizens of other races. they and you have some things in common, but you will not misunderstand me when i congratulate you on what is peculiar to you. you have been fully americanized for more generations than most other americans. you have no need to strive after the american spirit. i have a friend of greek birth, who thinks pridefully back to the golden age of greece, and i envy him his glorying. but your pride of race, turning away from the unhappy past, sees your golden age in the days to come, not in the dim yesterdays. you are the makers, not the inheritors, of a great destiny. "for that noble future which is to be yours in our common america, you do well to hold as above price the purity and strength of your racial life. better than we of caucasian stock, you know that only so may all the values be fully realized which are to be africa's contribution to the spiritual wealth of america and the world." there was a moment of silence, for the implications of the last sentence were not as plain as they might have been. but when the audience caught j.w.'s somewhat daring appeal to its racial self-respect it broke into such cheers as are not given to the polite phraser of conventional commonplaces. chapter vii the first american civilization the full record of j.w.'s commercial career must he left to some other chronicler, but an occasional reference to it cannot be omitted from these pages. pastor drury's brother albert, a saint louis business man who knew the old city by the mississippi from the levees to the university, was a citizen who loved his city so well that he did not need to join a boosters' club to prove it. the two drurys saw each other, as both averred, all too seldom. on the infrequent occasions when they met, as, for instance, during a certain church federation gathering which had brought the minister down to saint louis from delafield, their "visiting" was a joyous thing to see. lounging in the city club one day after lunch, with every other subject of common interest at least touched on, brother albert turned to brother walter: "and how goes the church and parish of delafield? you told me long ago that you wanted to stay there ten years; it's more than eight now. does the ten-year mark yet stand?" "yes, al., it still stands, if nothing should interfere," said walter. he had never told his brother the reason back of that ten-year mark, and he was not ready, even yet, for that. of late he had taken to wondering when and how the experiment would come to its crisis. he wanted some help just now, and here might be an opening. so he went on, "i've been working away at several special jobs, as you know i like to do, and one of them has a good deal to do with a young fellow named farwell, john wesley farwell, jr., who'll be the mainstay of the best hardware store in delafield before long if he sticks to it. everybody calls him 'j.w.,' and he's the sort of boy that has always interested me, he's so 'average,'" he paused; his thoughts busy with the experiment. "well," his brother broke in, after a moment, "what's this young john wesley methodist been doing?" "it isn't altogether what he has been doing, but it's what i'd like to see him get a chance to do," explained the preacher. "he's tied to the store and to delafield, so far, and i've reasons for wanting him to see some parts of this country he'll never see from main street in our town." "well, brother mine, maybe he could be induced to leave that particular main street. there's where we get the best citizens of this village. has he any objections to making a change--to travel, for instance?" "i don't know," said walter; "probably not. he's young, and has a pretty good education. i do know that he's ambitious to make himself the best hardware man in our section, and i believe he'll do it, in time. personally, i _want_ him to travel. but how would anybody go about getting him the chance?" albert drury laughed. "that's easy, only a preacher couldn't be expected to see it. if any country boy really knows the stuff he handles, whether it is hardware or candy or hides, he can get the chance all right. this town wants him. don't you know that the big wholesale houses recruit their sales forces by spotting just such boys as your john wesley farwell may be? but what do you mean by calling him average, if he's such a keen judge of hardware?" "oh, well, he _is_ more than average on hardware, but he's so beautifully average human; one of those chaps who do most of the real work of the world." "all right, old man; i'm not sure that i follow you; but, anyway, i may be of some use. i'll tell you what i'll do; i know the very man. peter mcdougall, who's a friend i can bank on, is sales manager of the cummings hardware corporation. nothing will come of it if peter is not impressed, but all i need to do is to tell him there's a prospective star salesman up at delafield, and his man who has that territory will be looking up your john wesley before you have time to write another sermon. by the way," he added, "what part of the country did you say you wanted young farwell to see?" "i didn't say," the preacher admitted, "but i would like him to see something of the southwest. i want to see what will happen when he bumps up against the sort of civilization that followed the spanish to america." "well, of course, you know that wholesale hardware houses don't run salesmen's excursions to help methodist preachers try out the effect of american history on their young parishioners, no matter how lofty the motive," and albert drury poked his brother in the ribs. "but supposing this boy is otherwise good stuff he'll be in the right place, if he goes with the cummings people. a big share of their business is in that end of the world." if j.w. had been told of this conversation, which he wasn't, he might not have been quite so mystified over the letter from the great peter mcdougall, which came a few weeks after the preacher's return from saint louis. mcdougall he knew well by reputation, having heard about him from every cummings man who unpacked samples in delafield. and to be invited to saint louis by the great man, with the possibility of "an opening, ultimately, in our sales force," was a surprise as interesting as it was unexpected. naturally, j.w. could not know how much careful investigation had preceded the writing of that letter. the cummings corporation did not act on impulse. but he would have accepted the invitation in any case. and that is enough for the present purpose of the story of j.w.'s first business venture away from delafield. not without some hesitation did he close with the cummings offer; but after he had talked it all over with the folks at home, and then all over again out at deep creek with jeannette shenk, who was both sorry and proud, it was settled. reaching saint louis, the canny mcdougall looked him over and thought him worth trying out; so over he went to the stock department. then followed busy weeks in the buildings of the cummings hardware corporation down by the river, learning the stock. he discovered before the end of the first day that he had never yet guessed what "hardware" meant; he wandered through the mazes of the vast warehouses until his legs ached much and his eyes ached more. at last came the day when he found himself on the road, not alone, of course, but in tow of fred finch, an old cummings salesman who had occasionally "made" delafield. the cummings people did not throw their new men overboard and let them swim if they could. they had a careful training system, of which the stockroom days were one part, and this personally conducted introduction to the road was another. albert drury had been sufficiently interested in his brother's wish to drop a hint to mcdougall, to which that hard-headed executive would have paid no attention if it had not fitted in just then with the requirements of his sales policy. but the hint sent j.w. out with finch over the longest route which the house worked for trade. on the map this route was a great kite-shaped thing, with its point at saint louis, and the whole southwest this side of the colorado river included in the sweep of its sides and top. to fred finch it was a weary journey, but j.w. gave no thought to its discomforts. he was seeing the country, as well as learning to sell hardware, and both occupations were highly absorbing. before long he found too that he was seeing a new people. storekeepers he knew, as being of his own guild; the small towns were much like delafield, when you had become used to their newer crudeness of architecture and their sprawling planlessness; and the people who used hardware were very much like his customers at home. he had no fear of failing to become a salesman, after the first few experiences under finch's watchful eye; his father had taught him a sort of salesmanship which experience could only make more effective. he knew already never to sell what he could see his customer ought not to buy, and he knew always to contrive as much as possible that the customer should do the selling to himself. the elder farwell used to say, "let your customer once see the advantage that buying is to him, and he won't care what advantage selling is to you." now, as has been said before, this is not a salesman's story. let it suffice to say that before the two got back to saint louis j.w. knew he had found his trade. he was a natural salesman, and so fred finch reported to peter mcdougall. "if it's hardware," he said, "that boy can sell it, and i don't care where you put him. he can sell to people who can't speak english, and i believe he could sell to deaf mutes or the blind. he knows the line, and they know he knows it. why, this very first trip he's sold more goods on his own say-so than on the house brand. said he knew what the stuff would do, and people took that who usually want to know about the guarantee." all of which peter mcdougall filed where he would not forget it. but to go back to the trip itself. along the railway in kansas j.w. began to see box-cars without trucks, roughly fitted up for dwellings. dark-skinned men and women and children were in occupation, and all the household functions and processes were going on, though somewhat primitively. "mexicans," said finch, as j.w. pointed out the cars. "section hands; when i first began to make this territory you never saw them except right down on the border, but they have moved a long way east and north. i saw lots of them in the yards at kansas city last time i was there." j.w. watched the box-car life with a good deal of curiosity. here and there were poor little attempts at color and adornment; flowers in window boxes and bits of lace at the windows. delafield had plenty of foreigners, but these were foreigners of another sort. they seemed to be entirely at home. "i suppose," he said to finch, "these mexicans have come to the states to get away from the robbery and ruin that mexico has had instead of government these last ten years and more." "yes," finch answered, "thousands of 'em. but not all. some of these mexicans are older americans than we are. we took 'em over when we got texas and new mexico and california from old mexico. they were here then, speaking the spanish their ancestors had learned three hundred years ago and more. but they're all the same mexicans, no matter on which side of the rio grande they were born. of course those born on this side have had some advantages that the peons never knew." "but do you mean," j.w. wanted to know, "that they are not really american citizens?" fred finch said no, he didn't mean exactly that. certainly, those born on this side were american citizens in the eyes of the law, and those who came across the rio grande could get naturalized. but that made little real difference. a mexican was a mexican, and you had to deal with him as one. j.w. was not quite satisfied with that explanation, but he preferred to wait until he had seen enough so that he could ask his questions more intelligently. so he kept relatively still, but his eyes did not cease from observing. as the trip progressed, and the jumps between towns became longer, the young salesman had time to see a good deal. in the far southwest he became aware that the increasingly numerous mexican population was no longer a matter of box-car dwellers, more or less migratory. it was a settled people. its little adobe villages, queer and quaint as they seemed to middle-western eyes, were centers of established life. and he discovered that in these villages always one building overshadowed all the rest. one day as they were headed towards el paso he ventured to mention this to his traveling companion. "seems to me," he said, "that none of these little mud villages is too poor to have a church, and mostly a pretty good church too. how do they manage it?" now finch was no student of church life, but he did know a little about the country. "that's the way it is all over this southwest, my boy, and across the line in old mexico it's a good deal more so. my guess is that the churches and the priests began by teaching the people that whatever else happened they had to put up for the church, and from what i've noticed i reckon that now nothing else matters much to the church. it has become a kind of poor relation that's got to be fed and helped, whether it amounts to anything or not. but it's a long way from being as humble and thankful as you would naturally expect a poor relation to be." during the el paso layover the two of them took a day across the international bridge. j.w. had watched the mexicans coming over, and he wanted to see the country they came from. "you'll not see much over there," a friendly spoken customs official told him. "it's a pretty poor section of desert 'round about these parts. you ought to get away down into the heart of the country." "yes, i suppose so," j.w. responded, "but there isn't time on this trip. are such people as these coming over to the united states right along?" "i should say they are," said the man of authority with emphasis. "in the last four or five years the mexican population of the united states has about doubled; three quarters of a million have crossed the rio grande somewhere, or the border further west. you people from the east make a big fuss over immigration from europe, but you hardly seem to know that a regular flood has been pouring in through these southwestern gateways. you will some day." what they saw on the mexican side of the bridge was, as the customs man had said, nothing much. but j.w. came away with a strange sense of depression. he had never before seen so much of the raw material of misery and squalor; what he had observed with wondering pity in the villages on the american side was as nothing to the unrelieved hopelessness of the south bank of the river. that night in the hotel lobby j.w. noticed a fresh-faced but rather elderly man whom he recognized as one whom he had seen over in mexico earlier in the day. with the memory of what he had seen yet fresh upon him, j.w. ventured a commonplace or two with the stranger, and found him so genial and interesting that they were still talking long after fred finch had yawned himself off to bed. "i thought i remembered seeing you over there," said the unknown, "and you didn't look like a seasoned traveler; more like the amateur i am myself, though i do get about a little." "i'm no seasoned sightseer," said j.w.; "this is my first time out. and that's maybe the reason i've developed so much curiosity about the people we saw to-day. do you know much about them?" "who? the mexicans?" the other man smiled, and then was suddenly serious. "my friend, i begin to think i'm making the mexicans my hobby. i don't know who you are, but if you are really interested in the mexicans as human beings i'd rather tell you what i know than do anything else i can think of to-night. it isn't often i find a traveling man who cares." "well, i do care," j.w. asserted, stoutly. "they're people, folks, aren't they? and it looks as though they could stand having somebody get interested in them a little." "ah, i see now what you are; you are that remarkable combination, a traveling man and a christian. am i right?" "why, i suppose so," said j.w., with a smile and a touch of the old boyish pride in his name. "my initials, as you might say, are 'john wesley,' and i'm not ashamed of them." "and that means you are not only a christian, but a methodist? my dear man, we must shake on that. i'm a methodist myself, as the stage robber said to brother van, with the romantic name of tanner. got my first interest in mexico and the mexicans when my daughter married a young methodist preacher and they went down there as missionaries. i make a trip to see them and the babies about once a year. but now i am getting interested in these people as an american and, i hope, a christian who tries to work at the business. what did you say your other name was?" j.w. hadn't said, but now he did, and the two settled to their talk. this william tanner, some sort of retired business man, certainly seemed to know his mexico. and he had that most subtle of all stimulants to-night, a curious and sympathetic hearer. by consequence he was eager to give all that j.w. would take. before long j.w. had edged in a question about the church. he said, "you know, mr. tanner, we have a pretty good roman catholic church in my home town, though father o'neill doesn't tie up much to what the other churches are trying to do, and some of his flock seem to me pretty wild, for sheep. now, these churches down here are all roman catholic too, yet they certainly don't look any kin to saint ursula's at delafield. are they?" it was the sort of question which william tanner had asked himself many a time when he first came to mexico. "this is the way of it, mr. farwell," he said. "the church came to mexico, and to all latin america, from spain and portugal. it had a few great names, we must acknowledge, in those early times. but in a little while it settled down to two activities--to make itself the sole religious authority and to get rich. it was a church of god and gold, and as a matter of course it preached that it was the supreme arbiter of life and death in matters of faith, and extended its authority into every relation of life. it brought from the lands of the inquisition the idea of priestly power, and there was none to dispute it in latin america, as there was in the colonies of our own country. it gave the people little instruction, and no responsibility or freedom. it made outward submission the test of piety and faith. and so when spain lost its grip on the western hemisphere the church found itself with nothing but its claim of power to fall back on. well, you know that would work only with the ignorant and the superstitious." "mexico, and all latin america for that matter, clear to the straits of magellan, is a land of innumerable crosses, but no christ. the church has had left to it what it wanted; that is, the priestly prerogatives; it marries, baptizes, absolves, buries, where the people can pay the fees, and the people for various reasons have not cared that this is all. if they are afraid, or want to make a show, they call in the church; if they don't care, or if they are poor, they go unbaptized, unmarried, unshriven, and do not see that it makes any difference. they have no understanding of the church as a christian institution; in fact, i think it would puzzle most of them to tell what a true church ought to be. now, all this is the church's reward for its ancient choice, which, so far as i can see, is still its choice. to the average latin american the church is, and in the nature of things must be, a demander of pay for ceremonial, and a bitterly jealous defender of all its old autocratic claims. that is of the nature of the church." "but i don't understand," interposed j.w. "if the people have no real use for the church, why do they support it? it certainly is supported." "that, mr. farwell, is the tragedy of the church in all these lands," said mr. tanner, soberly. "the church began by looking to its own interests first. it wanted great establishments and a docile people. it found the gospel hard to preach to the natives--the real gospel, i mean. the cruelties and greed of the conquest had made impossible any preaching of a ministering, merciful, and unselfish christ. in fact, the vast majority of the priests who came over from europe brought with them no such ideas. the church was ruler, not missionary. and so far as it dares it sticks stubbornly to that notion even to this day. so it has had to make practical compromise with the paganism and superstition it found here. many of its religious observances are the aboriginal pagan practices disguised in christian dress and given christian names. the church has sold its birthright for the privilege of exploiting the credulity and the fears of the people. it has made merchandise of all its functions. now, after the centuries have come and gone, both church and people through long custom are willing to have it so. the people have their great churches, with incense and lights and all the pomp of medaeival days. but they have no living christ and no thought of him. the priests have their trade in ceremonial and their perquisites, but they have no power over the hearts of men." as his new acquaintance paused for breath after this long answer to a short question, j.w., remembering something fred finch had said, brought the remark in: "the man who is showing me the ropes as a hardware man tells me that all over latin america the church is likely to be the one real building in every town and village. is that also something that the people are so used to that they don't notice it any more?" "oh, yes," mr. tanner assented. "i suppose the contrast between the church and the miserable little hovels around it never occurs to any of them. it has always been so. the church has built itself up out of the community, and for the most part it puts very little back. it conducts schools, to be sure; and yet eighty per cent of the mexican people are illiterate, it has some few institutions of help and mercy; but the whole land cries out for doctors and teachers and friendly human concern." "is that really so?" j.w. asked. "do the people really want our missionaries, or are we protestants just shoving ourselves in? i can see that something is desperately wrong, but we are mostly saxon, and they are latins. do these people want what to them must seem a queer religion and a lot of strange ideas?" "so long as they do not understand what we come for, naturally they are suspicious. when they find out, they take to mission work and missionaries with very little urging. i wish you would meet my son-in-law," mr. tanner said with positiveness. "why, the one tormenting desire of that man's life is to see more missionaries sent down into mexico; more doctors, more teachers, more workers of every sort. he writes letters to the board of foreign missions that would make your heart ache. the church at home couldn't oversupply mexico with the sort of help it desperately needs if it should turn every recruit that way, and disregard all the rest of the world's mission fields." "do you mean," asked j.w., who was seeing new questions bob up every time an earlier one was answered, "do you mean that so many missionaries could be used on productive christian work right away? or is it that we ought to have a big force to prepare for the long future of our work in mexico?" now, j.w. was not so sure that this was an intelligent question, but he had heard that in some mission fields it was necessary to wait years for real and permanent results. his companion saw nothing out of the way in the question. it was part of the whole problem. "i mean it both ways," he said. "what i've seen of our methodist work down in these parts, particularly its schools and one wonderful hospital, makes me sure we could get big harvests of interest and success right off. we're doing it already, considering our relatively small force and our limited equipment." "but all latin american work takes patience. i've made one trip down as far as santiago de chile, and what is true in mexico is, i guess, about as true in other parts. the roman catholic church has been here four hundred years, and its biggest result is that the people who don't fear it despise it. latin america is called christian, but it is a world in which what you and i call religion simply does not count. well, then, that's what makes me talk about the need of persistence and patience. the bad effects of three or four hundred years of such religion as has been taught and practiced between the rio grande and cape horn can't be got rid of in a hurry. wait till mexico has had a real chance at the christ of the new testament for three hundred years, and then see!" j.w. had yet another question to ask before he was ready to call it a day. "if all that you say is so--and i believe it is, mr. tanner--why should so many of the mexicans hate the united states? they do, for i've heard it spoken of a good deal lately, and i remember what was always said when some one proposed that we should intervene to make peace and restore order in mexico. it would take ten years and a million men, and all mexico would unite to oppose us. you talk about how much the mexicans need us and want us. but a great many of them surely don't want us at all." "i know what that means," mr. tanner admitted. and it is true. we are all influenced by the past. look at the history of our dealings with mexico. the very ideas we fought to establish as the charter of our own freedom we repudiated when we dealt with mexico three quarters of a century ago. we had every advantage, and what we wanted we took. certainly, we have done better by it than mexico might have done, but i never heard that reason given in a court of law to excuse the same sort of transaction if it touched only private individuals. then, in late years big business has gone into mexico. it has had to take big chances. it has paid better wages than the peon could earn any other way. it has a lot to its credit; but it has been much like big business in other places, and, anyway, the admitted great profits have enriched the foreigner, not the mexican. "besides, mexico is not the states. as you say, it is latin in its civilization, not saxon. it does not want our sort of culture. and some of our missionaries, both of the church and of industry, have thought that the mexican ought to be 'americanized.' that's a fatal mistake in any mission field outside the states. all in all, you can see that it isn't entirely inevitable that the mexican should understand our motives, or appreciate them when he does understand. but that's all the more reason for bearing down hard on every form of genuine missionary work. it's the only thing that we americans can do in mexico with any hope of avoiding suspicion or of our presence being acceptable to the mexicans in the long run. we've got to fight the backfire of our american commercialism, and the prejudice which is as real on the texas side of the river as it is on the other; for if the mexican thinks in terms of 'gringo,' the american of the southwest is just as likely to think in terms of 'greaser.'" when j.w. and mr. tanner parted for the night it was with the mutual promise that they would have another talk some time the next day, but the promise could not be kept. the retired business man heard from some of his business in the early morning, and had just time to say a hurried farewell. as he put it, "i thought i had retired, but unless i get back to look after this particular affair i may have to get into the harness again, and that is not a cheerful prospect at my age. so i go to business to avert the danger of going back to business." a little later the two hardware salesmen were in el paso again, after a couple of side trips. j.w. took advantage of a long train wait to hunt up the city library. he wanted to know whether mr. tanner was right in saying that the latin-american question was much the same everywhere. he wrote a letter to mr. drury that night, having thus far used picture postcards until he was ashamed. in the letter he took occasion to mention his talk with the "missionary father-in-law," and his own bit of reading up on the subject. said he: "i guess that man tanner was right. he did not speak much of the difference between the people of one country and those of another, which rather surprised me. he said nothing of the two great classes, the rulers with much european blood, and the peons, largely or altogether indian. there must be all sorts of latin americans, rich and poor, mixed blood of many strains, castilian and aztec and inca, and whatever other people were here when columbus set the fashion for american voyages. but this is where this 'missionary father-in-law' hit the heart of the trouble: latin america has all sorts and conditions of men, but everywhere it has the same church. and it is a church that can't ever make good any more. it might, at the beginning, but it can't now. it has a reputation as fixed as julius caesar's. i'm hardly ready to set up as an expert observer, being only a cub salesman on his first trip, but, mr. drury, i believe i can see already that the only chance for these people to get religion and everything else which religion ought to produce, is for us to send it to them. maybe that would stir up the church down here, and help to give it another chance at the people's confidence, though i'm not sure." our church ought to send doctors; the amount of fearful disease that flourishes among the poorer people is just frightful. if joe carbrook were not so set on going to the orient, he could do a big work here, and so could a thousand other doctors. it would be so much more than mere doctoring; it would be the biggest kind of preaching. and the church should send teachers. you know i believe in conversion; but if the mexicans i have seen are samples of latin america's common people, they need teachers who have the patience of christ a good deal more than they need flaming evangelists who make a big stir and soon pass on. because these folks have just _got_ to be made over, in their very minds. they are not ready for the preaching of the gospel until they have seen it lived. long experience has made them doubtful of living saints, though plenty of them pray to dead ones. this is the whole trouble, mr. drury, it seems to me. they've known only a church that had got off the track. any religious work that reaches them now has almost to begin all over again. it has to undo their thinking about prayer and faith and god's love and human conduct and nearly every other christian idea. they have a christian vocabulary, but it means very little. they think they can buy religion, if they want it--any kind they want. and if they can't afford it, or don't want it, they don't quite think they'll be sent to hell for that, in spite of what the priest says. they think enough to be afraid, but not enough to be sure of anything. the missionaries have to teach them a new set of religious numerals, if you get what i mean, before it is any use to teach them the arithmetic of the gospel. "i'm beginning to see that everything among the latin americans runs back to the need of christian living. the wrong notion of religion has got them all twisted. i know delafield is a long way from being christian, but the difference between delafield and such a pitiful mud village as i've seen lately has more to do with the sort of christianity each place has been taught than with anything else whatever. but i never thought of that before." as pastor drury read that letter his heart warmed within him. he said to himself, "john wesley, jr., is 'beginning to see,' he says. please god he musn't stop now until he gets his eyes wide open. the thing is working out. he's groping around for something, and some day he'll find it." chapter viii christ and the east for a first trip the southwestern expedition under fred finch's tutelage had been something of an exploit. finch's report to peter mcdougall was more than verified by the order sheets, and the observant peter, keeping track of things during the succeeding weeks, noticed with quiet satisfaction that not a single order was canceled. to himself he said, "the lad's a find, i'm thinking. from finch's talk i should say he has not only a natural knack of selling, but he sells for keeps. and that's the idea, peter. anybody can sell if the buyer means to call off the order by the next mail. this john wesley boy may go far, and i'll have to tell albert drury the next time i see him that he's done the house of cummings a real favor." the months went by. j.w. kept his wits about him, and on the road he stuck to his salesman's faith that goods are better sold by those who know exactly how they may be used and that they are never sold until they are bought. so he found favor in the sight of peter mcdougall. the proof of that is easy. peter gave him a week off before the end of his first year. delafield looked better to the homecoming salesman than it had to the boy coming back from college. and the town was glad to see him. he meant something to not a few of its people, altogether outside the interest of the farwells--and pastor drury--and jeannette! deep creek was his first port of call, after his first half-day at home. he had been welcomed with deep, quiet gladness by the home folks, and he had talked a little over the telephone with the preacher. then time was a laggard until he could head the farwell car toward deep creek and the old farm. jeannette's welcome was all that even he could ask, though, of course, just precisely what it was is none of our business. in the car, and by the fireplace in the shenk living room, and around the farm, they considered many things, some of them not so personal as others. j.w. told the story of his life in saint louis and on the road; jeannette listening like another desdemona to the recital. and once again it was not the adventure which supplied the thrill, but the adventurer. and jeannette told him the news of delafield. how joe carbrook and marcia dayne's wedding had been the most wonderful wedding ever seen in delafield, with the town as proud of its one-time scapegrace as it was of the beautiful bride. how brother marty had been finding many excuses of late for driving up from his circuit, and how he managed to see alma wetherell a good deal. how alma was now head bookkeeper and cashier of the emporium, the town's biggest store, and how she was such a dear girl. how pastor drury and marty had become great friends. how the minister was not so well as usual, and people were getting to be a little worried about him. how the delafield church had taken up tithing, and was not only doing a lot better financially, but in every other way. how deep creek was going to have a new minister, a friend whom marty had met at the summer school for rural ministers, who would try to help the deep creek people get an up-to-date church building and learn to use it. how the everyday doctrines of delafield had been first boosted and then forgotten, and now again several of them were being practiced in some quarters. and much more, though never to the wearing out of j.w.'s interest. certainly not, the news being just what he wanted to know, and the reporter thereof being just the person he wanted to tell it to him. one bit of news jeannette did not tell, for the sufficient reason that she did not know it. pastor drury and brother marty _had_ become great friends, but what jeannette could not tell was the special bond of interest which was back of the fact. marty had long been aware that for some reason the delafield pastor was peculiarly concerned about j.w. never did he guess walter drury's secret, but he knew well enough there was one. these two, the town preacher and the young circuit rider, read to each other j.w.'s letters, and talked much about him and his experiences, and made j.w. in general the theme of many discussions. "it has been good for the boy that he has had that border trip," said the pastor to marty a few days before j.w. got back. "don't you think so?" marty was, as ever, j.w.'s ardent and self-effacing chum. "i certainly do," he said. "he's growing, is j.w., and growing the right way. we need business men of just the quality that's showing in him." the pastor hesitated a moment. then he spoke: "marty, when j.w. comes home i hope something will set him thinking about the outer world that has no word of our christ. he hasn't seen it yet, not clearly; and you know that there isn't any hope for that world to get out of the depths until it gets the news of a helper. i'm counting on you to help me with j.w. if the chance comes. just between ourselves, you know." "i'll do all i can, mr. drury; you may be sure of that," said marty. and he did. j.w.'s holiday brought several young people together who had not met for a long time. marty came up again, and spent the day with j.w., all over town, from the store to the house and back again. in the evening mrs. farwell made a feast, to which, besides marty, jeannette and alma and pastor drury were bidden. mrs. farwell was much more to delafield than the best cook and the most remarkable housekeeper in the place, but her son insisted that she was these to begin with. certainly, she had not been experimenting on the two j.w.'s all these years for nothing. after dinner--talk. no need of any other game in that company at such a time. there was plenty to talk about, and all had their reasons for enjoying it. naturally, j.w. must tell about himself. letters are all very well, but they are no more than makeshifts, after all. he was modest enough about it, not having any special exploits to parade before their wondering eyes, but quite willing. his western experiences being called for, he was soon telling, not of desert and cactus and irrigation, but of the people who had so taken his attention, the mexicans. "i believe," said he, "that we can do something really big down there. and it's our business. nobody except american christians will do it; nobody else can. besides, the mexicans are christians in name, now. what they need is the reality. they are not impossible--just uncertain. all i heard and what little i saw made me believe they are suffering from bad leadership and ignorance more than from anything hopelessly wrong. they seem easy to get along with. the women are the most patient workers i ever heard of. and the poor mexicans, the 'peons,' do want an end to fighting and banditry." "well, j.w.," marty asked, "what's the first thing we ought to think about for mexico?" "i told you i don't know anything about mexico, except at second-hand. but, i should say, schools. schools are good for any land, don't you think, mr. drury? and in mexico they are such great disturbers of the old slouching indifference. they will make the right kind of discontent. schools bring other things; new ideas of health and sanitation, home improvement, social outlook, and all that. then, with the schools, i guess, the straight gospel. the mexicans won't get converted all at once, and they won't become like us, ever. but i'm about ready to say that whether missions are needed anywhere else or not, they surely are needed in mexico. and mexico is the first stepping-stone to south america; which is next on my list of the places that ought to have the whole scheme of christian teaching and life." "yes," said alma, "and you know, i suppose, that the beginning of our panama mission was an epworth league institute enterprise? well, it was. california young people assumed the support of the first missionary sent there, and later he went on down to south america, with the same young people determined to take him on as their representative, just as they did in panama." "where did you get that story?" j.w. wanted to know. "oh, i forgot," alma answered him, laughing. "you haven't had time to read the epworth herald in saint louis." "yes, i have, young lady," j.w. retorted, "but i missed that. anyway, it's on the right track. i think we've got to change the thinking of all latin america about christianity, if we can. most of the men, they say, are atheists, made so very largely by their loss of faith in the church; and many of the women substitute an almost fierce devotion to the same church for what we think of as being genuine religion." the minister spoke up just here. "i should think it would be pretty difficult to treat our united states mexicans in one way, and those across the rio grande in another. we must evangelize on both sides of the river, but only on this side can we even attempt to americanize." "that's right," j.w. affirmed. "and even on this side we can't do what we may do in delafield. the language is a big question, and it has two sides. but no matter what the difficulties, i'm for a great advance of missions and education, starting with mexico and going all the way to cape horn." "that's all very fine," interposed marty, "but what about the rest of the world, j.w.? what about the world that has not even the beginning of christian knowledge?" marty had put the question on the urge of the moment, and not until it was out did he remember that mr. drury had asked him to help raise this very issue. "well," j.w. answered, slowly, "maybe that part of the world is worse, though i don't know. but we can't tackle everything. latin america is an immense job by itself, and we have some real responsibility there; a sort of christian monroe doctrine. ought we to scatter our forces? the non-christian world has its own religions, and has had them for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. what's the hurry just now? if we could do everything, we protestant christians, i mean, in this country and britain, it might be different, but we can't. why not concentrate?" "yes," marty came back, "but not because latin america is so nearly christian. what about this atheism and superstition and ignorance; isn't it just a non-christian civilization with christian labels on some parts of it?" "one thing i've heard," put in jeannette, not that she wanted to argue, but she felt she ought to say something on j.w.'s side if she could, "that the religions of the orient, at least, are really great religions, more suited to the minds of the people than any other. 'east is east, and west is west,' you know. but, of course, the people don't live up to the high levels of their beliefs. americans don't, either." mr. drury shot an amused yet admiring glance at jeannette. what a loyal soul she was! then said he: "the religions of the east _are_ great religions, jeannette. they represent the best that men can do. the orient has a genius for religion, and it has produced far better systems than the west could have done. some of the truth that we western people get only in christianity the thinkers of asia worked out for themselves. but god was back of it all." that suited j.w.'s present mood. "all right, then; let's clean up as we go--delafield, saint louis, the southwest, mexico, latin america; that's the logical order. then the rest of the world." marty put in a protest here: "that won't do, old man. your logic's lame. you want us to go into mexico now, with all we've got. your letters have said so, and you've said it again to-night. but we're not 'cleaning up as we go.' look at delafield; the town you've moved away from. look at saint louis; the town where you make your living. are they christianized? cleaned up? yet you are ready for mexico. no; you're all wrong, j.w. i don't believe the world's going to be saved the way you break up prairie sod, a field at a time, and let the rest alone. we've got to do our missionary work the way they feed famine sufferers. they don't give any applicant all he can eat, but they try to make the supply go 'round, giving each one a little. remember, j.w., the rest of the world is as human as our western hemisphere." "i know," admitted j.w. "and i don't say i've got the right of it. i'd have to see the orient before i made up my mind. but those countries have waited a long while. a few more years wouldn't be any great matter." alma wetherell now joined the opposition. it looked as though j.w. and jeannette must stand alone, for the old people said nothing, though they listened with eager ears. said alma, "i think it would matter a lot. the more we do for one people, while ignoring all the others, the less we should care to drop a developing work to begin at the bottom somewhere else." "there's something in that," j.w. conceded. "i'm not meaning to be stubborn. but i've had just a glimpse of the size of the missionary job in one little corner of the world. even that is too big for us. we could put our whole missionary investment into mexico without being able to do what is needed." "the missionary job, as you call it, is too big, certainly, for our present resources," said the pastor. "everybody knows that." "yes," said marty, who wondered if mr. drury had forgotten their compact about j.w., "but why limit ourselves to our present resources? they are not all we could get, if the church came to believe in the bigness of her privilege. i'd like to see for myself, as j.w. says, but i can't. why don't you get a real traveling job, and go about the world looking things over for us, old man?" "me?" j.w. said, sarcastically; "yes, that's a likely prospect. just as i'm getting over being scared by a sample case. i'll do well to hold the job i've got." alma didn't know what marty's game was, but she played up to his suggestion. "why shouldn't you go?" she asked. "you've told us that cummings hardware and tools are sold all over the world. doesn't that mean salesmen? and aren't you a salesman? they have to send somebody; why shouldn't they pick on you some time?" j.w. rose to the lure, for the moment all salesman. "nothing in it, alma; no chance at all. but i would like to show the world the civilizing values of good tools, and i'd go if i got the chance." jeannette's reaction was quicker than thinking; "would you go half way around the world just for that?" she asked, with a hint of alarm. "why, yes, i would," said j.w., "that is, if you were willing." whereupon everybody laughed but jeannette, whose pale cheeks flamed into sudden rosiness. the minister came to her rescue. "it would be a good thing every way, if more laymen would see the realities of oriental life and bring back an impartial report. suppose you should be right, j.w., and we found that the orient could wait until the western hemisphere had been thoroughly christianized. think how many thousands--perhaps millions--of dollars could be directed into more productive channels. i can see what a great influence such reports would have if they came from christian laymen. we have learned to expect stories of complete failure when the ordinary traveler comes back; and maybe the missionaries have their bias too. but business men with christian ideals--that would be different." now, all this was far from unpleasant to j.w. he detested posing, but why wouldn't it be worth something to have laymen report on missionary work? of course, though, if the time ever came when the firm was willing to trust him abroad, he wouldn't have much chance to study missions. business would have to come first. it was no less a dream for being an agreeable one. "there's no danger of my going," he told them. "the cummings people are not sending cub salesmen to promote their big asiatic trade. what could they make by it?" then the talk drifted to the carbrooks. marty said, "well, we've spoiled your scheme a little, j.w., right here in delafield. joe carbrook and marcia are in china by now, and i'd like to see both of 'em as they get down to work. you can't keep all our interest on this side of the pacific so long as those two are on the other." "no," said j.w., warmly, "and i don't want to. i'll help to back up those two missionaries wherever they go." and his thoughts went back to camp fire night at cartwright institute, when he had said to joe carbrook without suspecting the consequences, "say, joe; if you think you could be a doctor, why not a missionary doctor?" then he asked the company, "just where have these missionary infants been sent?" nobody knew, exactly. they had the name of the town and the province, but the geography of china is not as yet familiar even to those who support the missions and missionaries of that vast, mysterious land. the pastor thought it was two or three hundred miles inland from foochow. "anyhow," said he, "it is a good-sized town, of about one hundred thousand people or more, and joe's hospital is the only one in the whole district. the man whose place he takes is home on furlough, and i've looked up his work in the annual report of the foreign missions board. six or eight years ago the hospital was a building of sun-dried brick, with a mud floor and accommodations for about seventy-five patients. he was running it on something like five dollars a day. but it is better now, costs more too. and there's a school attached, where marcia has already begun to make herself necessary, or i'm much mistaken." so the talk ran on, until the evening was far spent, and everybody wished there could be half a dozen such evenings before j.w. must go back to saint louis and the road. no other opportunity offered, however, and all too soon for some people j.w. was gone again from delafield. walter drury, seeing his chance, set himself to follow up the talk of that one evening. it had given him a lead as to the next phase of the experiment, and he wanted to try out the idea before anything else might happen. so he wrote to his brother albert in saint louis. "i know i'm a bother to you," the letter ran, "but you have always been generous, being your own unselfish self. it's about young farwell, 'john wesley, jr.,' you know. i judge he's a boy with a fine business future, and i've found out from his father some of the reasons why he is making good. now, i don't know much about business, but it seems to me that the very qualities which make j.w. a good salesman for a beginner would be profitable to his company if they sent him to their oriental trade. he's young enough to learn something over there. my own interest is not on that side of the affair, but i know it would be out of the question to suggest his going unless the cummings people could see a business advantage in it. if you think it is not asking too much, i wish you would talk to mr. mcdougall about it. tell him what i have written, and what i told you long ago about j.w." albert drury had unbounded confidence in his brother's sincerity and sense, so he lost no time in getting an interview with his friend mcdougall. "see here, peter," said he, "i'll be frank with you; i know you think i'd better be if i'm to get anywhere." "that's very true," said mcdougall, with assumed severity. "well, then, read my brother's letter; and then tell me if he's wanting the impossible." peter mcdougall read the letter twice. "no," he said, when he handed it back, "he's not wanting the impossible. he's given me an idea. i owe you something already, for finding this young fellow, and i'll tell you what i'm thinking of. of course the boy isn't seasoned enough yet, but he's getting there fast. a couple of long trips, a few months under my own eye here in the office, and he'll be ready. now, your brother has hinted at exactly what young farwell is good for. that boy sells goods by getting over onto the buyer's side. and he knows tools--knew 'em before we hired him. well, then, here's the idea; one big need of our foreign trade is to show our agencies what can really be done with american hardware and tools. it takes more than a salesman; and farwell has the knack. so there you are. tell your brother the boy shall have his chance." a few months later mcdougall sent for j.w. and put the whole proposal before him. "but i'm not an expert, mr. mcdougall," j.w. protested. "i haven't the experience, and i might fall down completely in a new field like that." "we're not looking for an expert," said mcdougall, shortly. "you know what every user of our stuff ought to know; you can put yourself in his place; and you'll be a sort of missionary. how about it?" at the word j.w.'s memory awoke, and he heard again what had been said in the living room at delafield when he was last at home. a missionary! and here was the very chance they had all talked about. "of course i should like to go, if you think i'll do," he said. peter looked at him more kindly than was his wont. "my boy," he said, "i know something about you outside of business, though not much. and i think you'll do. mind you, your missionary work will be tools and hardware, not the methodist church. you will have to show people who have their own ideas about tools how much more convenient our goods are; handier, lighter, more adaptable. what they need over there is modern stuff. it will help them to raise more crops and do better work and earn a better income. you've nothing to do with selling policies, finance, credits, and all that. just be a tool and hardware missionary." "where had you thought of sending me?" asked j.w., still somewhat dazed. "oh, wherever we have agencies that you can use as bases: china, the philippines, malaysia, india. you will have to figure on a year or nearly that. and you mustn't stick to the ports or the big cities. get hold of people who'll show you the country; the places where our goods are most needed and least known. study the people and their tools. work out better ways of doing things. don't try to hustle the east, but remember that the east is doing a little hustling on its own account these days. and talk turkey to our agencies--when you're sure you have something to talk about." the rest is detail. the trip determined on, preparations were hastened. a month before the date of starting j.w. had time for no more than a hurried visit to delafield, to say good-by to the home folk and to the preacher whom he had come to think of as timothy might have thought of paul. then he had something else to say to jeannette. his prospects were becoming so promising that he could ask her a very definite question, and he dared to hope for a definite answer. jeannette, troubled at the thought of his long absence in strange lands, consoled herself by her promise, which was his promise also. as soon as he came home again they would be married. brother drury should officiate, assisted by "the rev. martin luther shenk, brother of the charming bride," as j.w. put it. walter drury was not his usual alert self, j.w. thought, and it hurt him to see his much-loved friend touched even a little by the years. but the pastor brightened up, and grew visibly better as j.w. told him all his plans. "just think, mr. drury," he said with animation, "i'm to be a missionary, after all. once long ago i remember you suggested i might go to china and see for myself the difference between their religion and ours; and now i'm going to china. who knows, maybe i'll see joe carbrook at his work. and then i'm to go all over the east, to preach the gospel of better tools." then he became thoughtful. "don't you think that's almost as good as the gospel of better bodies--joe's gospel?" "surely, i do," said the pastor, "if you and joe preach in the same spirit, knowing that china won't be saved even by hospitals and modern hardware. they help. but remember our understanding; you have your chance now to see the religions of the east. going right among the people, as you will, you can find out more in a week than the average tourist ever discovers. i'll give you the names of some people who will gladly help you. and we shall want a full report when you come back. god bless you, j.w." it was a tired preacher who went to bed that night. this new adventure of his boy's; what would it mean to the experiment? he had done his best to keep that long-ago pledge to himself. not always had the project been easy; he could not control all its circumstances, but in the main it had gone well. and now j.w. was in the last stage of the experiment walter drury had contrived to shape its larger conditions, with the help of many friendly but unsuspecting conspirators. this tour in the interest of better tools was due mainly to his initiative. but he could do nothing more. the event was now out of his hands. the relaxed tension made him realize that his nerves were shaky, and he had a sense of great depression. but before he went to bed he pulled himself together long enough to write to five missionaries, including joe carbrook, whose fields were on or near the route j.w. would travel. he had told j.w. that he would let these men know of his coming, but he did more. to each one he said a word of appeal. "don't argue much with this boy of mine; i want him to see it without too many second-hand opinions. explain all you please, and let him get as near as he can to the people you are dealing with. if, as i hope, he gets a glimpse of the work's inner meaning, i shall be satisfied." * * * * * the first day which j.w. spent in shanghai was a big day for him. even amid the strangeness of the scene he felt almost at home. the people who had the cummings agency had received their instructions, and were prepared to help him every way. he could begin an up-country trip at once if he wished. then he met the first of the men to whom pastor drury had written, mark rutledge, and at once he saw that this well-groomed, alert young missionary, who used modern speech in deliberate but direct fashion, would be of immense service to him. rutledge received j.w.'s gospel of tools with almost boyish enthusiasm. "i've always said," he exclaimed, "that if the other business men of america had as much sense as the tobacco folks they would hasten the christianizing of china by many a year. not that tobacco is helping; far from it. but it's the idea of fitting their product to this particular market. and your house has evidently caught that idea. you must have a real sales manager in saint louis! of course i'll help you all i can." some of the help which mark rutledge gave him was of a sort that j.w. could not rightly estimate at the time, but he knew it was good. as long as he stayed in shanghai, and as often he came back to the city as a base, he and rutledge were pretty frequently together. the missionary kept his own counsel as to the drury letter, merely dropping a hint now and then, or a suggestion which fitted both the cummings agency's program and the pastor's desire. the inland trips for business purposes kept j.w. busy for weeks; he found himself in so utterly novel a situation that he saw he could not work out anything without careful study and expert chinese cooperation. as he came and went he saw, under rutledge's guidance, much of the inside of mission work. in shanghai he found a methodist publishing house, sending out literature all over china, as well as two monthly papers, one in chinese and one in english. many missionary boards had headquarters here. from shanghai as a business center every form of missionary work was being promoted, reaching as far as the foothills of the thibetan plateau. hospital equipment was distributed, and school equipment, and supplies of every variety. he saw that it was the financial center too, and mission finance is a special science. shanghai seemed to j.w. to be one of the great capitals of the missionary world. rutledge's own work, many sided as j.w. saw it was, had two aspects of special significance. rutledge was sending back to america all the information he could gather from the whole field. with the skill of a trained reporter he showed the missionaries how to write so as to make a genuine story seem convincing, and how to subordinate the details to the importance of making a clear and single impression. the other work of rutledge's which caught j.w.'s eye was his activity in behalf of the young people of china. until lately nothing at all had been done comparable to the specialized development of young people's work in america, but now the epworth league was beginning to be utilized and adapted to chinese ways. funds were available--not much, but a beginning. leaders were being trained. a larger measure of local, chinese help was being employed. j.w. asked mark rutledge about all this one day. "isn't it going to make a difference with the work by and by, if you get so many natives into places of responsibility? are they ready for it?" "no," said rutledge, "they're not. but we must make them ready. you haven't begun to see china yet, but already you can see that the country could never be 'evangelized,' even in the narrowest use of that word, by foreign missionaries. and it ought not to be." "you mean that we americans ought to consider our work in china as temporary?" j.w. asked. rutledge answered, "frankly, i do, if you let me put my own meaning into 'temporary,' we must start things. and much that must be done in the long run has not yet been started. we must stay here beyond my life expectation or yours. but china will be christianized by the chinese, not by foreigners. as far ahead as we can see the work will have help from outside, but i honestly want the time to come when we missionaries will be looked upon as the foreign helpers of the chinese church; not, as now, controlling the work ourselves and enlisting the services of 'native helpers.'" "then tell me another thing," j.w. persisted. "is our christianity, as the chinese get it, any advance on their own religion? or is their religion all right, if they would work it as we hope they may work the christian program?" "that's two questions," said rutledge, dryly, "but, after all, it is only one. our christianity as the chinese get it is far ahead of the best they have, in ideals, in human values, everything, even if they were more consistent in responding to its claims than christians are. the old religions--and china has several--are helpless. we are not killing off the old faiths. if we should get out to-morrow these would none the less die out in time, but then china would be left without any religion at all. instead, she's going to have the christian faith in a form that will accord with the genius of the chinese mind. that's my sure confidence, or i wouldn't be here." it was necessary that j.w. should run down the coast to foochow, the base for his next operations in the hardware adventure. "i know i'm green," he said to rutledge, "and i may be thinking of impossibilities, but do you suppose there'll be any chance for me to get up to dr. carbrook's place from foochow? i've told you about him and his wife, and i'd rather see those two than anybody else in all the east." "it's not impossible at all," rutledge assured him. "carbrook's post is not so very far from foochow, as distances go in china, and ralph bellew at the college will help you." "yes, my pastor at home told me to be sure and call on him," said j.w., and took his leave of a man he would long remember. the call of professor bellew was not delayed long after j.w. had found his bearings in foochow, and the professor's welcome was even more cordial than that of the cummings agency, though these gentlemen were, of course, the soul of courtesy. if they were not so sure as peter mcdougall that j.w. or any other american could teach them anything about selling the cummings line in china, at least they would not put anything in his way. one important interior town, yenping, they had hoped j.w. might visit, but unfortunately there was no one connected with the agency who could be sent with him. they understood that some of his missionary friends were ready to help him in the general enterprise, and perhaps they might be able to suggest something. when the difficulty was stated to professor bellew he said: "why, that's one of our stations. it is a little out of the way to go up to dr. carbrook's place on the way to yenping, but we'll see that you get to both towns." "that's certainly good of you, professor," said j.w., gratefully. "i've told you about joe carbrook, and i can hardly wait until i get to him." as a matter of fact, he had told everybody about joe carbrook. professor bellew was sympathetic. "i know," he said, "and i understand. when you come back, if we can manage the dates, you may find something here which you ought to see." the carbrook hospital--it has another name in the annual reports, but this will identify it sufficiently for our purposes--spread itself all over the compound and beyond in its welcome to j.w. joe and marcia were first, and joyfullest. the school turned out to the last scholar, and even the hospital's "walking cases" insisted on having a share in the welcome to the foreign doctor's friend. "tell us what you are up to," said the carbrooks, when they were back in the house after a sketchy inspection of the whole establishment; hospital, dispensary, school, chapel, and so forth. and, "tell me what you are doing with it, now that you have the hospital you have been dreaming about so long," said j.w. but j.w. told his story first, just to get it out of the way, as he said. then he turned to marcia and said, "how about it, 'mrs. carbrook'?" "well, j.w.," said marcia, "that name is not so strange as it was. i'm feeling as if i had been married a long time, judging by the responsibilities, that are dumped on me just because i am the doctor's wife. and this doctor man of mine hardly knows whether to be happy or miserable. he's happy, because he has found the very place he wanted. and he's miserable because he ought to be learning the language and can't get away from the work that crowds in on him." "and you yourself, marcia," j.w. asked, "are you happy or miserable, or both?" "she's as mixed up as i am, old man," joe answered for her. "talk about the language! i don't hanker after learning it, but i've got to, some time. if they would just let me be a sort of deaf-mute doctor i'd be much obliged. the work is fairly maddening. you know, it was a question of closing up this hospital or putting me in as a green hand. of course there are the nurses, and a couple of students. but i'm glad they put me in; only, look at the job! never a day without new patients. a steady stream at the out-clinic. why, j.w., i've done operations alone here that at home they'd hardly let me hold sponges for. had to do 'em." "well," j.w. commented, "isn't that what you came for?" "it is," marcia answered--these two had a queer way of speaking for each other--"and it would be a good plenty if the hospital were all. but we are putting up a new building to take the place of an adobe horror, and joe has to buy bricks and deal with workmen and give advice and dispense medicine and do operations, all with the help of a none too sure interpreter. he's the busiest man, i do believe, between here and foochow." j.w. wanted to draw dr. joe out about the work in general. what of the evangelistic work, and the educational work, and all the rest. but dr. joe would not rise to it. "i'll tell you honestly, j.w., i just don't know. haven't had time to find out. when i got here i found people standing three deep around the hospital doors, some wanting help for themselves, and some anxious to bring relatives or friends. i was at work before anything was unpacked except my instruments. and i've been at it ever since. everything else could wait, but all this human misery couldn't. and i don't know much of what the evangelistic value of it all will be. we have a bible woman and a teacher in the school who are very devoted. they read and pray every day with the patients, and as for gratitude, i never expected to be thanked for what i did as i have been thanked here. i'll tell you one thing; i didn't dream a man could be so content in the midst of such a hurricane of work. i'm done to a standstill every day; i bump into difficulties and tackle responsibilities that i hadn't even heard of in medical school, though i haven't killed anybody yet. and all the time i remember how i used to wish i might be the only doctor between siam and sunrise. i'm plenty near enough to that, in all conscience. the only doctor in this town of one hundred thousand, and a district around us so big that i'm afraid to measure it. on one side the next doctor is a good hundred miles away. now, do you know how i feel? oh, yes; insufficient until it hurts like the toothache, yet somehow as though i were carrying on here, not in place of the man who has gone home on furlough, but in place of jesus christ himself. you know i'm not irreverent; i might have been, but this has taken all of the temptation out of me. it is his work, not mine." j.w. turned to marcia again. "i thought you said this joe of yours was miserable, i've seen him when he was enjoying himself pretty well, but i never saw him like this." "i know," marcia admitted, "and i didn't mean he was really unhappy. but it is a big strain, and there's no sign of its letting up until the regular doctor gets back." the next day j.w. watched his old friend amid the press of duties which crowded the hours, and he marveled as much as the wretchedness of the patients as he did at the steady resourcefulness of the man whom he had known when he was delafield's adventurous and spendthrift idler. as he looked on, j.w. could understand something which had been a closed book to him before. no one could stand by and see this abjectness of need, this helplessness, this pathetic faith which was almost fatalistic in the foreign doctor's miraculous powers--it recalled that beseeching cry in the new testament story, "lord, if thou _wilt_ thou _canst_"--without being deeply, poignantly glad that there were such men as joe carbrook. it was all very well to talk at long range about letting china and other places wait. but on the spot nobody could talk that way. the visit might have lasted two weeks, instead of two days, and then the carbrooks would have hung on and besought him to stay a little longer. torture would not have drawn any admission from them, but back of all the joy in the work was a something that left them without words as j.w. and his little group from foochow set out for the next stopping place. just before the last silent hand-grips, j.w. told his friends about jeannette and himself, and promised joe a wedding present. "you see," he said, "i never sent you one when you were married, and i'd like to send you a double one now, for yourselves and for us. you send me word what it is you most need for the hospital, an x-ray outfit, or a sterilizer, or a thingamajig for making cultures, microscope included, and jeannette and i will see that you get it. i'm a tither, you know, and my salary's been raised, and i want to do something to show what a fool i was before i knew what sort of a business you were really in out here. so don't be modest; you can't hurt my feelings!" back at foochow in the course of the slow days which chinese travel gives to those who go aside from the beaten path, professor bellew welcomed j.w. with eager warmth. "you're back just in time, if you can stay a few days; the celebration of the fortieth anniversary of the college begins to-morrow." j.w. had at least a week's business with the cummings agents. he had found some conditions on his inland journey which called for much discussion. so he had time for sharing in a good deal of the celebration. it was something to marvel at, that a christian college had been at work in this great city for forty years. the president of the college and his wife started the proceedings with a formal reception, at which a chinese orchestra furnished music outside the house, and western musicians rendered more familiar selections in the parlors. alumni flocked to the reception, men of every variety of occupation, but all one in their devotion to their alma mater. the next afternoon was given over to athletics, and the evening to a lecture, quite in the american fashion. the third day being sunday, j.w. listened to an american missionary in the morning, who spoke boldly of the prime need for a college like this if the youth of china were to be trained for the highest service to their country. at night he sat through nearly three hours of the most amazing testimony meeting he had ever seen. it was led by a chinese who had been graduated from the college thirty years before. the eagerness, almost impatience, to confess what jesus christ and christian education had meant to these chinese leaders--for it was evident they _were_ leaders--was a thing to stir the most sluggish christian pulse. j.w.'s mind took him back to a memorable love feast at cartwright institute, when joe carbrook had made his first confession of and surrender to jesus christ, and it seemed to him that the likeness between these two so different gatherings was far more real than all their contrasts. on monday the anniversary banquet brought the american consul, a representative of the provincial governor, and many other dignitaries. and on tuesday the students put on a pageant which illustrated in gorgeousness of color and costume and accessories the history of the college. besides all this pomp and circumstance there was a wonderful industrial exhibit. the president of china sent a scroll, as did also the prime minister. former students in the cities of china, from peking to amoy, sent subscriptions amounting to twenty-five thousand dollars for new buildings, and other old students in the philippines sent a second twenty-five thousand dollars. all of which stirred j.w. to the very soul. here was a christian college older than many in america. its results could not be measured by any visible standards, yet he had seen graduates of the school and students who did not stay long enough to graduate, men of light and leading, men of wealth and station, officials, men in whom the spirit of the new china burned, christian workers; and all these bore convincing testimony that this college had been the one great mastering influence of their lives. a christian college--in china! j.w. thought of it all and said to himself: "i wonder if i am the same individual as he who not so many months ago was talking about the good sense of letting china wait indefinitely for christ? anyhow, somebody has had better sense than that every day of the last forty years!" the "tour of the tools" was teaching j.w. more than he could teach the merchants of asia. and yet he was doing no little missionary work, as evidenced both in his own reports to peter mcdougall, and still more in the reports which went to that observant gentleman after j.w. had moved on from any given place. the cummings hardware corporation may be without a soul, as corporations are known to be, but it has many eyes. these eyes followed j.w.'s progress from shanghai to foochow, to hong kong, to manila. they observed how he studied artisans and their ways with tools, and the ways of builders with house fittings, and the various devices with which in field and garden the toilers set themselves to their endless labor. as the eyes of the cummings organization saw these things, the word went back across the water to saint louis, and peter mcdougall took credit to himself for a commendable shrewdness. but the ever-watchful eyes had no instructions to report on the tool missionary's other activities, and therefore no report was made. none the less they saw, and wondered, and thought that there was something back of it all. there was more back of it than they could have guessed. for j.w. had come to a new zest for both of his quests. the business which had brought him into the east was daily becoming more fascinating in its possibilities and promise. in even greater measure the interests which belong especially to this chronicle were taking on a new importance. everywhere he went he sought out the missions and the missionaries. he plied the workers with question on question until they told him all the hopes and fears and needs and longings which often they hesitated to put into their official letters to the boards. in manila he saw, after a little more than two decades of far from complete missionary occupation, the signs that a christian civilization was rising. the schools and churches and hospitals and other organization work established in manila were proof that all through the islands the everyday humdrum of missionary service was going forward, perhaps without haste, but surely without rest. when he came to singapore, that traffic corner to which all the sea roads of the east converge, he heard the story of a miracle, and then he saw the miracle itself, the anglo-chinese college. they told him what it meant, not the missionaries only, but the chinese merchants who controlled the cummings line for all the archipelago, and sumatra planters, and british officials, and business men from malaysian trade centers whose names he had never before heard. the teacher who put himself at j.w.'s service was one of the men to whom pastor drury had written his word of appeal on j.w.'s behalf. he respected it altogether, and the more because he well knew that here was no need for mere talk. a visitor with eyes and ears could come to his own conclusions. if the college were not its own strongest argument, no words could strengthen it. the college had been started by intrepid men who had no capital but faith and an overmastering sense of duty. that was a short generation ago. now j.w. saw crowded halls and students with purposeful faces, and he heard how, at first by the hundreds and now by thousands, the product of this school was spreading a sense of christian life-values through all the vast island and ocean spaces from rangoon to new guinea, and from batavia to sulu. but it may as well be told that, even more than china, india made the deepest impress on the mind and heart of our tool-traveler. from the moment when he landed in calcutta to the moment when he watched the low coasts of the ganges delta merge into the horizon far astern, india would not let him alone. he saw poverty such as could scarcely be described, and religious rites the very telling of which might sear the tongue. if china's poor had a certain apathy which seemed like poise, even in their wretchedness, not so india's, but, rather, a slow-moving misery, a dull progress toward nothing better, with only nothingness and its empty peace at last. once in calcutta, and his business plans set going, he started out to find some of the city's christian forces. they were not easy to find. as in every oriental city, missionary work is relatively small. indeed, j. w. began to think that this third city of asia had little religion of any sort. he had been prepared in part for the first meager showing of mission work. on shipboard he had encountered the usual assortment of missionary critics; the unobservant, the profane, the superior, the loose-living, and all that tribe. the first of them he had met on the second day out from san francisco, and every boat which sailed the eastern seas appeared to carry its complement of self-appointed and all-knowing enemies of the whole missionary enterprise. while steaming up the bay of bengal, the anti-mission chorus appeared at its critical best. j.w. was told as they neared calcutta that the indian christian was servile, and slick and totally untrustworthy. never had these expert observers seen a genuine convert, but only hypocrites, liars, petty thieves, and grafters. in spite of it all, at last he found the methodist mission, and it was not so small, when once you saw the whole of it. by great good fortune his instructions from home ordered him up country as far as cawnpore. and to his delight he met a methodist bishop, one of the new ones, who was setting out with a party for the northwest. so, on the bishop's most cordial invitation, he joined himself to the company, and learned in a day or two from experts how to make the best of india's rather trying travel conditions. benares, allahabad, cawnpore, lucknow--j.w. came to these cities with a queer feeling of having been there before. long ago, in his early sunday school days, the names of these places and the wonders of them had been the theme of almost the only missionary book he had at that age cared to read. at allahabad, said his companions of the way, an all-india epworth league convention was to be held, and j.w. made up his mind that a league convention in india would be doubly worth attending. he did attend it too, but it left no such memory as another gathering in the same city; a memory which he knows will last after every other picture of the east has faded from his recollection. the party had reached allahabad at the time of the khumb mela, a vast outpouring of massed humanity too great for any but the merest guesses at its numbers. this "mela," feast, religious pilgrimage, whatever it might mean to these endless multitudes, is held here at stated times because the two sacred rivers, the jumna and the ganges, come together at allahabad, and tradition has it that a third river flows beneath the surface to meet the others. so the place is trebly sacred, its waters potent for purification, no matter how great one's sin. with the others j.w. set out for an advantageous observation point, on the wall of the fort which stands on the tongue of land between the two streams. on the way j.w. assured himself that if calcutta seemed without religion, here was more than enough of it to redress the balances. in the throng was a holy man whose upraised arm had been held aloft until it had atrophied, and would never more swing by his side. and yonder another holy one sat in the sand, with a circle of little fires burning close about him. the seeker after he knew not what who made his search while lying on a bed of spikes was here. and once a procession passed, two hundred men, all holy after the fashion of hindu holiness, all utterly naked, with camels and elephants moving in their train. as if to show how these were counted men of special sanctity, the people fell on their faces to the ground beside them as they passed, and kissed their shadows on the sand. the point of vantage reached, j.w.'s bewildered eyes could scarce make his brain believe what they saw. he was standing on a broad wall, thirty feet above the water, and perhaps a hundred feet back from it. up and down the stream was an endless solid mass of heads. j.w. looked for some break in the crowd, some thinning out of its packed bodies, but as far as he could see there was no break, no end. government officials had estimated the number of pilgrims at two millions! a signal must have been given, or an hour had come--j.w. could not tell which--but somehow the people knew that now was the opportunity to enter the water and gain cleansing from all sin. a mighty, resistless movement carried the human stream to meet the river. inevitably the weaker individuals were swept along helpless, and those who fell arose no more. horrified, j.w. stood looking down on the slow, irresistible movement of the writhing bodies, and he saw a woman drop. a british police officer, standing in an angle of the wall beneath, ordered a native policeman to get the woman out but the native, seeing the crush and unwilling to risk himself for so slight a cause, waited until his superior turned away to another point of peril, and then, snatching the red-banded police turban from his head, was lost in the general mass. the woman? trampled to death, and twenty other men and women with her, in sight of the stunned watchers on the wall, who were compelled to see these lives crushed out, powerless to help by so much as a finger's weight. what was it all for? j.w. asked his companions on the wall. and they said that the word went out at certain times and the people flocked to this mela. they came to wash in the sacred waters at the propitious moment. nothing else mattered; not the inescapable pollution of the rivers, not the weariness and hunger and many distresses of the way. it was a chance, so the wise ones declared, to be rid of sin. certainly it might not avail, but who would not venture if mayhap there might be cleansing of soul in the waters of mother ganges? on another day j.w. came to a temple, not a great towering shrine, but a third-rate sort of place, a sacred cow temple. here was a family which had journeyed four hundred miles to worship before the idols of this temple. they offered rice to one idol, flowers to another, holy water from the river to a third. no one might know what inner urge had driven them here. the priest, slow to heed them, at length deigned to dip his finger in a little paint and with it he smeared the caste mark on the foreheads of the worshipers. it was heartless, empty formality. j.w. watched the woman particularly. her face was an unrelieved sadness; she had fulfilled the prescribed rites, in the appointed place, but there was no surcease from the endless round of dull misery which she knew was her ordained lot. thought j.w.: "i suppose this is a sort of joining the church, an initiation or something of that sort. not much like what happened when i joined the church in delafield. everybody was glad there; here nobody is glad, not even the priest." at cawnpore j.w. was able to combine business with his missionary inquiries. here he found great woollen and cotton mills, not unlike those of america, except that in these mills women and children were working long hours, seven days a week, for a miserable wage. it was heathenism plus commercialism; that is to say, a double heathenism. for when business is not tempered by the christian spirit, it is as pagan as any cow temple. in these mills was a possible market for certain sorts of cummings goods, as j.w. learned in the business quarter of the city. he wanted more opportunity to see how the goods he dealt in could be used, and, having by now learned the path of least resistance, he appealed to a missionary. it was specially fortunate that he did, for the missionary introduced him to the secretary of the largest mills in the city, an indian christian with a history. now, this is a hint at the story of--well, let us call him abraham. his own is another bible name, of more humble associations, but he deserves to be called abraham. thirty years ago a missionary first evangelized and then baptized some two hundred villagers--outcasts, untouchables, social lepers. being newly become christians, they deposed their old village god. the landlord beat them and berated them, but they were done with the idol. now, that was no easy adventure of faith, and those who thus adventured could not hope for material gain. they were more despised than ever. yet inevitably they began to rise in the human scale. the missionary found one of them a young man of parts. him he took and taught to read, to write, to know the scriptures. he began to be an exhorter; then a local preacher; and at last he joined the conference as a methodist itinerant at six dollars a month. now this boy was the father of abraham. as a preacher he opened village schools, and taught the children their letters, his own boy among them. abraham learned quickly. a place was found for him in a mission boarding school. thence he moved on and up to lucknow christian college. it was this man who escorted j.w. through the great mills of which he was an executive. he had a salary of two hundred dollars a month. if his father had been an american village preacher at twelve hundred dollars a year, abraham's salary, relatively, would need to be twenty or thirty thousand dollars. abraham was the superintendent of a sunday school in cawnpore. he was giving himself to all sorts of betterment work which would lessen the misery of the poor. he had a seat in the city council. a hostel for boys was one of his enterprises. here was a man doing his utmost to christianize the industry in which thousands of his country men spent their lives; a second-generation christian, and a man who must be reckoned with, no longer spurned and despised as a casteless nobody. j.w. followed abraham about the mills with growing admiration. inside the walls, light, orderly paths, flowers, cleanliness. outside the gate, to step across the road was to walk a thousand years into the past, among the smells and the ageless noises of the bazaar, with its chaffering and cheating, its primitive crudities, and its changeless wares. certainly, a cawnpore mill is not the ideal industrial commonwealth, but without men like abraham to alleviate its grimness the coming of larger opportunities through work like this might well lay a heavier burden on men's lives than the primitive and costly toil which it has displaced. there was just time for a visit to lucknow, a city which to the british is the historic place of mutiny and siege; to american methodists a place both of history and of present-day advance. j.w. worshiped in the great hindustani methodist church, the busy home of many activities. in the congregation were many students, girls from isabella thoburn college, and boys from lucknow christian college. lifelong methodist as he was, j.w. quickly recognized, even amid these new surroundings, the familiar aspects of a methodist church on its busy day. the crowding congregations were enough to stir one's blood. a noble organ sounded out the call to worship and led the choir and people in the service of praise. there was a sunday school in full operation, and an epworth league chapter, completely organized and active. his guide confided to j.w. that this church had yet another point of resemblance to the great churches at home; it was quite accustomed to sending a committee to conference, to tell the bishop whom it wanted for preacher next year! j.w. was not quite satisfied. the days of his wanderings must soon be over, but before he left india he wanted to see the missionary in actual contact with the immemorial paganism of the villages, for he had discovered that the village is india. how was the christian message meeting all the dreary emptinesses and limitations of village life? once more he appealed to his missionary guide; this latest one, the last of the five men to whom pastor drury had written before j.w. had set out on his travels. could he show his visitor a little of missionary work in village environment? "surely. nothing easier," the district superintendent said. "we'll jump into my ford--great thing for india, the ford; and still greater for us missionaries--and we'll go a-villaging." the village of their quest once reached, the ford drew up before a neat brick house built around three sides of a courtyard, with verandas on the court side. this was no usual mud hut, but a house, and a parsonage withal. here lived the indian village preacher and his family. the preacher's wife was neatly dressed and capable; the children clean and well-mannered. the room had its table, and on the table books. that meant nothing to j.w., but the superintendent gave him to understand that a table with books in an indian village house was comparable in its rarity to a small-town american home with a pipe organ and a butler! the lunch of native food seemed delicious, if it was "hot," to j.w.'s healthy appetite, and if he had not seen over how tiny a fire it had been prepared he would have credited the smiling housewife with a lavishly equipped kitchen. people began to drop in. it was somewhat disconcerting to the visitor, to see these callers squatting on their heels, talking one to another, but watching him continually out of the corners of their eyes. one of them, the chaudrie, headman of the village, being introduced to j.w., told him, the superintendent acting as interpreter, how the boys' school flourished, and how he and other christians had gone yesterday on an evangelizing visit to another village, not yet christian, but sure to ask for a teacher soon. the preacher, in a rather precise, clipped english, asked j.w. if he cared to walk about the village. "we could go to the _mohulla_ [ward], where most of our christians live. they will be most glad to welcome you." the way led through dirty, narrow streets, or, rather, let us say, through the spaces between dwellings, to the low-caste quarter. here were people of the bottom stratum of indian life, yet it was a christian community in the making. the little school was in session--a group of fifteen or twenty boys and girls with their teacher. it was all very crude, but the children read their lessons for the visitor, and did sums on the board, and sang a hymn which the pastor had composed, and recited the lord's prayer and the twenty-third psalm. "these," said the pastor, "are the children of a people which for a thousand years has not known how to read or write. yet see how they learn." "yes," the superintendent agreed, "but that isn't the best of it, as you know. they are untouchables now, but even caste, which is stronger than death, yields to education. once these boys and girls have an education they cannot be ignored or kept down. they will find a place in the social order." "i can see that," j.w. said, thinking of abraham. "but education is not a missionary monopoly, is it? if these children were educated by hindus, would not the resulting rise in their condition come just the same?" "it would, perhaps," the missionary answered, "but your 'if' is too big. for the low caste and the out-caste people there is no education unless it is christian education. we have a monopoly, though not of our choosing. the educated hindu will not do this work under any circumstances. it has been tried, with all the prestige of the government, which is no small matter in india, and nothing comes of it. not long ago the government proposed a wonderful scheme for the education of the 'depressed classes.' the money was provided, and the equipment as well. there were plenty of hindus, that is, non-christians, who were indebted to the government for their education. they were invited to take positions in the new schools. but no; not for any money or any other inducement would these teachers go near. and there you are. i know of no way out for the great masses of india except as the gospel opens the door." "is there no attempt of any sort on the part of indians who are not christians? surely, some of them are enlightened enough to see the need, and to rise above caste." j.w. suspected he was asking a question which had but one answer. "yes, there is such an effort occasionally," the superintendent admitted. "the arya samaj movement makes an attempt once in a while, but it always fails. if a few are bold enough to disregard caste, they are never enough to do anything that counts. the effort is scarcely more than a gesture, and even so it would not have been made but for the activities of the missionaries." * * * * * and so ended j.w.'s indian studies. before many days he was retracing his way--calcutta, singapore, hongkong, shanghai, yokohama. and then on a day he found himself aboard a liner whose prow turned eastward from japan's great port, and his heart was flying a homeward-bound pennant the like of which never trailed from any masthead. this experiment teacheth--? for the first day or so out from japan j.w. behaved himself as does any ordinary american in similar case; all the sensations of the journey were swallowed up in the depths of his longings to be home. the voyage so slow; the pacific so wide! but shortly he resigned himself to the pervading restfulness of shipboard, and began to make acquaintances. of them all one only has any interest for us--miss helen morel, late of manila. her place was next to his at the table. like j.w., she was traveling alone, and before they had been on board twenty-four hours they had discovered that both were methodists; he, from delafield in the middle west, she from pennsylvania. j.w. found, altogether to his surprise, that she listened with flattering attention while he talked. for j.w. is no braggart, nor is he overmuch given to self-admiration; we know him better than that. but it was pleasant, none the less, on good days to walk up and down the long decks, and on other days to sit in comfortable deck chairs, with nothing to do but talk. miss morel, being a teacher going home after three years of steady, close work in a manila high school, was ready to talk of anything but school work. she found herself immensely interested in j.w.'s experiences. he had told her of the double life, so to say, which he had led; preaching the good news of better tools, and studying the work of other men and women, as truly salesmen as himself, who preached a more arresting and insistent gospel. "i'm glad to meet some one who knows about missions at first hand," miss morel began one morning, as they stepped out on the promenade deck for their constitutional. "you know, i think people at home don't understand at all. they are so absorbed with their little parish affairs that they can't appreciate this wonderful work that is being done so far from home." j.w. agreed, though not without mental reservations. he knew how true it was that many of the home folks did not rightly value mission work, but he was not so sure about their "little parish affairs." he watched to see if miss morel meant to expand that idea. but she evidently had thought at once of something else. said she, "sometimes i think that if the gossip about missionaries and missions which is so general in the orient gets back home, as it surely does in one way or another, it must have a certain influence on what people think about the work." "oh, that," said j.w., with no little scorn. "that stuff is always ignorant or malicious, and i doubt if it gets very far with church people. of course it may with outsiders. i've heard it, any amount of it; you can't miss it if you travel in the east and there's just enough excuse for it to make it a particularly vicious sort of slander. you could say as much about the churches at home, and a case here and there would not be lacking to furnish proof." "certainly," said the teacher. "and yet missions are so wonderful; so much more worth while than anything that is being done at home, don't you think?" there it was again. "i'm afraid i don't follow you, miss morel," j.w. said, with a puzzled air. "do you mean that the churches at home are not onto their job, if you'll excuse the phrase?" his companion laughed as she answered, "maybe not quite as strong as that. but they are doing the same old thing in the same old way. going to church and home again, to sunday school and home again, to young people's meeting and home again. but out here," and her hand swung in a half circle as though she meant to include the whole pacific basin, "out here men and women are doing such splendid pioneer work, in all sorts of fascinating ways." "true enough," j.w. assented. "i've seen that, all right. but the home church isn't so dead as you might think. just before i left delafield to go to saint louis, for instance, a new work for the foreign-speaking people of our town was being started, with the board of home missions and church extension backing up the local workers. they were planning to make a great church center for all these people, and i hear that it is getting a good start." "oh, yes, i can well believe that, mr. farwell," miss morel hastened to say. "i think work for the immigrant is so very interesting, don't you? but, of course, that's not quite what i meant. the usual dull things that churches do, you know." "well, take another instance that i happen to remember," j.w. had a touch of the sort of feeling he used to delight in at cartwright, when he was gathering his material for a debate. "my first summer after leaving college, a few of us in first church got busy studying our own town. we found two of the general church boards ready to help us with facts and methods. the home missions people gave us one sort of help, and another board, with the longest name of them all, the board of temperance, prohibition, and public morals, showed us how to go about an investigation of the town's undesirable citizens and their influence. it is in that sort of business for all of us, you know." "that must have been exciting," said miss morel. "i know i should enjoy such work. what did you find out, and what could you do about it?" that was a question not to be glibly answered, j.w. knew. but he meant to be fair about it. "we found out plenty that surprised us; a great deal," he added, "that ought to be done, and much more that needed to be changed. we even went so far as to draw up a sort of civic creed, 'the everyday doctrines of delafield,' the town paper printed it, and it was talked about for a while, but probably we were the people who got the most out of it; it showed us what we church members might mean to the town. and that was worth something." miss morel was sure it was. but she came back to her first idea about the home churches. "don't you think that much of the preaching, and all that, is pretty dull and tiresome? i came from a little country church, and it was so dreary." j.w. thought of deep creek, and said, "i know what you mean; but even the country church is improving. i must tell you some time about marty, my chum. he's a country preacher, helped in his training by the rural department of the home missions board, and his people come in crowds to his preaching. country churches are waking up, and the board people at philadelphia have had a lot to do with it." "well, i'm glad. but anyway, home missions is rather commonplace, haven't you noticed?" and miss morel looked almost as though she were asking a question of state. "i can't say i've found it so," j.w. said, stoutly, "i was some time learning, but i ran into a lot of experiences before i left home. take the work for colored people, for instance. i had to make a speech at a convention, and i found out that our church has a board of education for negroes which is doing more than any other agency to train negro preachers and teachers and home makers, and doctors and other leaders. that's not so very commonplace, would you say so?" "well, no," the young lady admitted. "it is very important work, of course; and i'd dearly love to have a share in it. i am a great believer in the colored races, you know. but you are making me begin to think i am all wrong about the church at home. i don't mean to belittle it. perhaps i appreciate it more than i realized. anyway, tell me something else that you have found out." "there isn't time," j.w. objected. "but if you won't think me a nuisance, maybe i can tell you part of it. for example, sunday school. long ago i discovered that the whole church was providing for sunday school progress through a board of sunday schools, and there isn't a modern sunday school idea anywhere that this board doesn't put into its scheme of work. i was a very small part of it myself for a while, so i know." "yes, and even i know a little about the sunday school board," confessed miss morel. "it has helped us a lot in the philippines. and so i must admit that the church does try to improve and extend sunday school work. what else?" j.w. told about his experiences on the mexican border, where home missions and foreign missions came together. then, seeing that she was really listening, he told of his and marty's college days, how marty had borrowed money from the board of education, and how the same board had a hand in the college evangelistic work. he told about the deaconesses who managed the hospital at manchester, and the training school which marcia dayne carbrook had attended when she was getting ready to go to china. that school had sent out hundreds of deaconesses and other workers. the thought of marcia made him think of joe, and he told what he knew of how the wesley foundation at the state university had helped joe when he could easily have made shipwreck of his missionary purpose. of course the story of his visit to the carbrooks in china must also be told. miss morel changed the subject again. "tell me, mr. farwell," she asked, "were you in the epworth league when you were at home?" "i surely was," said j.w. "that was where i got my first start; at the cartwright institute." and the story jumped back to those far-off days when he was just out of high school. as he paused miss morel said, "i was an epworthian, too, and in the young women's missionary societies. we had a combination society in our church, so i was a 'queen esther' and a 'standard bearer' as well. those organizations did me a world of good. you know, when i think of it, the women's missionary societies have done a wonderful work in america and everywhere." "i guess they have," said j.w. "i know my mother has always been a member of both, and she's always been the most intelligent and active missionary in the farwell family." the talk languished for a while, and then miss morel exclaimed, "i know why we've stopped talking; we're hungry. it is almost time for luncheon, and if you have an appetite like mine, you're impatient for the call." j.w. looked at his watch and saw that there was only ten minutes of the morning left. so they separated to get ready against the sounding of the dinner gong. but j.w. was not hungry. he was struggling with an old thought that to him had all the tantalizing quality of novelty. the talk of the morning had become a sort of roll-call of church boards. how did it happen that the church was busy with this and that and the other work? why a board of hospitals and homes? why a deaconess board, even though deaconess work happened to be merciful and gentle and christlike? what was the church doing with a book concern? how came it that we had that board with the long name--temperance, prohibition, and public morals? he had traveled from yokohama to lucknow and back, and everywhere he had found this same church doing all sorts of work, with no slightest suspicion but that all of it was her proper business. so picture after picture flickered before his mind's eye, as though his brain had built up a five-reel mental movie from all sorts of memory film; a hundred feet of this, two hundred of that, a thousand here, there just a flash. it had all one common mark; it was all "the church," but the hit-and-miss of it, its lightning change, bewildered him. the pictures leaped from cartwright to cawnpore, from the country church at ellis to joe carbrook's hospital in china; from new york and philadelphia and chicago and cincinnati and washington to the ends of the country and the ends of the earth; and in and through it all, swift bits of unrelated yet vivid hints of _advocates_ and _heralds_, of prayer meetings and institutes, of new churches and old colleges, of revivals and sewing societies, of league socials and annual conferences, of deaconesses visiting dreary homes, and soft-footed nurses going about in great hospitals; of beginners' departments and old people's homes; of kindergartens and clinics and preparatory classes. there seemed no end to it all, every moment some new aspect of the church's activity showed itself and then was gone. it was a most confused and confusing experience; and all through the rest of the day j.w. caught himself wondering again and again at the variety and complexity of the church's affairs. why should a church be occupied with all this medley? why should it be so distracted from its main purpose, to be a jack of all trades? why should it open its doors and train its workers and spend its money in persistent response to every imaginable human appeal? perhaps that might be it; "_human_." once a philosopher had said, "i am a man, and therefore nothing human is foreign to me." what if the church by its very nature must be like that? what if this really were its main purpose--all these varied and sometimes almost conflicting activities no more than its effort to obey the central law of its life? j.w. was in his stateroom; he paced the narrow aisle between the berths--three steps forward, three steps back, like a caged wild thing. something was coming to new reality in his soul; he was scarce conscious of the walls that shut him in. once he stopped by the open port. he looked out at the tumbling rollers of the wide pacific. and as he looked he thought of the vastness of this sea, how its waters washed the icy shores of alaska and the palm-fronded atolls of the marquesas; how they carried on their bosom the multitudinous commerce of a hundred peoples; how from santiago to shanghai and from the yukon to new zealand it was one ocean, serving all lands, and taking toll of all. in spite of all the complexities and diversities of the lands about this ocean, they had one possession which all might claim, as it claimed them--the sea. it gave them neighbors and trade, climate and their daily bread. in the sociology and geography and economics of the orient this pacific ocean was the great common denominator. _and in the geography and economics and sociology of the kingdom of god? might it not be--must it not be, the church_! not only the pacific basin, but the round world was like that, every part of it dependent on all the rest, and growing every day more and more conscious of all the rest. railways helped this process, and so did steamships and air routes and telegraph and wireless. more than that, all the world was becoming increasingly related to the life of every part. with raw material produced in brazil to make tires for the limousines of fifth avenue and the lake shore drive, what of the new kinship between the producers in brazil and the users in the states? all good was coming to be the good of all the earth; and all evil was able to affect the lives of unsuspecting folk half the earth's circumference away. in such a time, what an insistent call for the program and power of the christian faith! and the call could be answered. j.w. had seen the church applying the program as well in a chinese city and in an indian village as in his home town and on the mexican border. he was sure that the power that was in the christian message could heal all the hurts of the world, and bring all peoples into "a world-commonwealth of good will." this was what jesus meant to do; not just to save here and there a little group for heaven out of the general hopelessness, but to save and make whole the heart of mankind. the church was not, first of all, seeking its own enlargement, but extending the reach of its founder's purpose. it did all its many-sided work for a far greater reason than any increase in its own numbers and importance; in a word, for the christianizing of life, sunday and every day, in delafield as well as in the forests of the amazon and the huddled cities of china. j.w. sat on the edge of his berth. in the first glow of this new understanding his nerves had steadied to a serenity that was akin to awe. yet he knew he had made no great discovery. the thing he saw had been there all the time. then his mind set to work again on that motley procession of pictures which he had likened to a patchwork film. was it as disjointed as it seemed? could it not be so put together as to make a true continuity, consistent and complete? why not? in the events of his own life, strangely enough, he had the clue to its right arrangement. by what seemed to be accidental or incidental opportunity it had been his singular fortune to come in contact with some aspect or another of all the work his church was doing. and every element of it, from the beginners' class at delafield to the language school at nanking, from the college social in first church to the celebration at foochow--it was all new testament work. its center was always jesus christ's teaching or example, or appeal. there was in its complexity a vast simplicity; each was a part of all, and all was in each. "john wesley farwell, jr.," said that young man to himself, "this thing is not your discovery--but how does that bit of keats' go?" 'then felt i like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken; or like stout cortez, when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific--and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise-- silent, upon a peak in darien,' there you have it! but i might have known. cortez, if it _was_ cortez, could not have guessed the pacific. he had nothing to suggest it. but i might have guessed the singleness of the church's work. what is my name for, unless i can appreciate the man who said 'the world is my parish,' and who would do anything--sell books, keep a savings bank, open a dispensary--for the sake of saving souls? that's the single idea, the simple idea. it makes all these queer activities part of one great activity; and rests them all on one under-girding truth--'the church's one foundation is jesus christ her lord.' but the wonderful thing to me is that, after all this time, i should suddenly have found this out for myself! "what a story to take home to delafield! pastor drury is going to have the surprise of his life!" * * * * * three people met j.w. as his train pulled in to the station at delafield. the other two were his father and mother. after the first tearfully happy greetings, j.w. looked around the platform. "i rather thought brother drury might have come too," he said. the others exchanged meaning glances, and his father asked, "then you didn't get my second letter at san francisco?" "no," said j.w., in vague alarm, "only the one. what's wrong? is mr. drury--" "he's at home now, son," said the elder farwell, gravely. "he came home from our conference hospital at hillcrest two weeks ago. we hope he's going to gain considerable strength, but he's had some sort of a stroke, we don't rightly know what, and he's pretty hard hit. he's better than he was last week, but he can't leave his room; sits in his easy chair and doesn't say much." j.w.'s heart ached. without always realizing it, he had been counting on long talks with the pastor; there was so much to tell him. and especially so since that wonderful day out in the middle of the pacific, when he had seen what he even dared to call his 'vision' of the church. so he said, "you and mother drive on home; i'll walk up with jeannette." for lovers who had just met after a year's separation these two were strangely subdued. they had everything to say to each other, but this sudden falling of the shadow of suffering on their meeting checked the words on their lips. "will he get better?" j.w. asked jeannette. "they fear not," she answered. "the doctors say he may live for several years, but he will never preach again. he just sits there; he's been so anxious to see you. you must go to-day." "of course. and what shall i say about the wedding? if he can't leave his room----" jeannette interrupted him: "if he can't leave his room, it will make no difference. church wedding or home wedding i should have chosen, as i have told you; but you and i, john wesley, are going to be married by walter drury, wherever he is, if he's alive on our wedding day." "why, yes," said j.w., with a little break in his voice, "it wouldn't seem right any other way. we can have the dinner, or breakfast or whatever it is, just the same, but we'll be married in his room. i'm glad you feel that way about it too; though it's just like you." and it was so. j.w. went up to the study as soon as he could rid himself of the dust of the day's travel, more eager to show walter drury he loved him than to tell his story or even to arrange for the wedding. as to that ceremony, the plans had long ago been understood; nothing more was needed than to tell walter drury his study afforded a better background and setting for this particular wedding than a cathedral could provide. j.w. was prepared for a great change in pastor drury, but he noticed no such signs of breakdown as he had expected to see. he did not know that the beloved pastor was keyed up for this meeting. he could not guess that the beaming eye, the old radiant smile, the touch of color in a face usually pale, were on special if unconscious display because the pastor's heart was thanking god that he had been permitted to welcome home his son in the gospel. those had been dreary days, in the hospital, despite the ceaseless ministries of nurses and doctors and friends from delafield. this hospital was a place of noble service, one of many such places which have arisen in the methodism of the last forty years. it was a hospital through and through--the last word in equipment and competence, but not at all an "institution." it was at once a home for the sick and a training school of the christian graces, where the distressed of body and mind could be given the relief they needed--all of it given gladly, in christ's name. walter drury was not unmindful of the care and skill which the hospital staff lavished on him, though no more faithfully on him than on many an unknown or unresponsive patient. but he was in a pitifully questioning mood. the doctors had told him he could not expect to preach again. when the district superintendent had come to visit him, he carried away with him walter drury's request for retirement at the coming session of the annual conference. in his quiet moments--there were so many of them now--the broken man counted up his years of service, all too few, as it seemed to him, and lacking much of what they might have shown in outcomes for the church and the kingdom. his conference was one of the few which paid the full annuity claim of its retired preachers, but even so he had not much to look forward to. his twenty-five years in the active ranks meant that he could count on twenty-five times $ a year, $ , on which to live, when he gave up his work. perhaps he could live on this, with what little he had been able to put aside; at any rate he could be glad now that there was none but himself to think about. but was it worth all he had put into his vocation? his brother in saint louis, not remarkably successful in his business, had been able at least to make some provision for his old age. he too might have been a moderately successful business or professional man. truly it was more than the older preachers had, this conference annuity, which would keep him from actual want; so much, surely, had been gained by the church's growing sense of responsibility for its veterans. but had it really paid? was all the gentle efficiency of the hospital, and all the church's money which would come to him from the conference funds and the board of conference claimants, enough to compensate him for the long years when he had been spendthrift of all his powers for the sake of his work? he knew, of course, the answer to his questions; no one better. but he was a broken-down preacher, old before his time; and knowing the answer was not at all the same as _having_ the answer. so he had been brought home from hillcrest, mind-weary and much cast down. nor did he regain any of his old buoyancy of spirit until the day when they told him j. w, would be home next week. it was then that he told himself, "if j.w. has come back with only a story to tell"--and gloom was in his face; "but if he has come back with _the_ story to tell"--and his heart leaped within him at the thought. the pastor and j.w. were soon talking away with the old familiarity, but mostly about inconsequentials. neither was quite prepared for more intimate communion; and, of course, the returning traveler had much to do. the wedding was near at hand, and everybody but himself had been getting ready this long time. so the call was too brief to suit either of them, with the longer visits each hoped for of necessity deferred to a more convenient season. j.w. must make a hurried journey to saint louis to turn in his report to peter mcdougall, which report peter was much better prepared to receive than j.w. suspected. and a highly satisfactory arrangement was made for j.w.'s continued connection with the cummings hardware corporation. doubtless all weddings are much alike in their ceremonial aspects; short or long, solemn-spoken ancient ritual or commonplace legal form, the essence of them all is that this man and this woman say, "i will." so it was in walter drury's study. and then the little group seated itself about the pastor; marty with alma wetherell, soon to become mrs. marty; all the shenks, the elder farwells, john wesley, jr., and jeannette. the dinner would not be for an hour yet, and this was the pastor's time. pastor drury could not talk much. he had kept his chair as he read the ritual, and now he sat and smiled quietly on them all. but once and again his eye sought j.w. and the look was a question yet unanswered. "what sort of a voyage home did you have?" mrs. farwell asked her son, motherlike, using even a query about the weather to turn attention to her boy. "a good voyage, mother," said j.w. "a fine voyage. but one day--will you let me tell it here, all of you? i've hardly been any more eager for my wedding day than for a chance to say this. i won't tire you, mr. drury, will i?" "you'll never do that, my boy," said the preacher. "but don't bother about me, i've long had a feeling that what you are going to say will be better for me than all the doctors." for he had seen the eager glow on j.w.'s face, and his heart was ready to be glad. thus it was that j.w. told the story of his great moment; how he had talked with miss morel one morning of the many-sided work of the church, and how in the afternoon he had looked through the open port of his stateroom and had seen an ocean that looked like the church, and a church that seemed like the ocean. "i shall remember that day forever, i think," he said. "for the first time in my life i could put all the pieces of my life together; my home, my church, the sunday school, the league, college, the needy life of this town, your country work, marty, mexico, china, india--everything; and i could see as one wonderful, perfect picture, every bit of it necessary to all the rest. our church at work to make jesus christ lord of all life, in my home and clear to the 'roof of the world' out yonder under the snows of tibet. can you see it, folks? i think _you_ always could, mr. drury!" and he put his hand affectionately on the pastor's knee. pastor drury's face was even paler than its wont, but in his eyes glowed the light that never was on sea or land. he was hearing what sometimes he had feared he might not last long enough to hear. the experiment was justified, and he was comforted! he picked up the bible that lay near his hand, and turned to the gospel by luke. "i hope none of you will think _i_ wrest the book's words to lesser meanings," he said, "but there is only one place in it that can speak what is in my heart to-day." and he read the song of simeon in the temple: "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation," and so to the end. it was very still when his weak voice ceased; but in a moment the silence was broken by a cry from j.w. "why, mr. drury, it has been _you_, all these years!" "what do you mean, j.w.?". said marty, somewhat alarmed and thoroughly mystified. "exactly what i say, marty. can't you see it too? can't all of you see it?" and j.w. looked from one face to another around the room. "jeannette, _you_ know what i mean, don't you?" and jeannette, at once smiling and tearful, said, "yes, j.w., i've thought about it many times, and i know now it is true." marty said, "maybe so; but what?" for he was still bewildered. "why," j.w. began, with eager haste, "mr. drury planned all this--years and years ago. not our wedding, i don't mean that," and he paused long enough to find jeannette's hand and get it firmly in his own, "we managed that ourselves, didn't we, dear? but--i don't know why--this blessed minister of god began, somewhere far back yonder, to show me what god was trying to do through our church, and, later, through the other churches. he saw that i went to institute. he steered me through my sunday school work. he showed me my lifework. he made me want to go to college. he introduced me to the delafield that is outside our own church. he got me my job in saint louis--don't you dare to deny it," as the pastor raised a protesting hand. "i've talked with our sales manager; he put the idea of the far eastern trip into mr. mcdougall's mind--and, well, it has been pastor drury all these years, _and he knew what he was doing_!" pastor drury had kept his secret bravely, but there was no need to keep it longer, and now he was well content that these dear friends should have discovered it on such a day of joy. after all, it had been a beautiful experiment, and not altogether without its value. so he made no more ado, and in his heart there was a great peace. (http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/infidelstoryofgr brad the infidel a story of the great revival by m. e. braddon author of "lady audley's secret," "vixen," "london pride," etc._ london simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co. ltd. contents. chapter i. grub-street scribblers chapter ii. miss lester, of the patent theatres chapter iii. at mrs. mandalay's rooms chapter iv. a morning call chapter v. a serious family chapter vi. a woman who could say no chapter vii. pride conquers love chapter viii. the love that follows the dead chapter ix. the sands run down chapter x. a duty visit chapter xi. antonia's initiation chapter xii. "so run that ye may obtain" chapter xiii. in st. james's square chapter xiv. "one thread in life worth spinning" chapter xv. "my lady and my love" chapter xvi. death and victory chapter xvii. sword and bible chapter xviii. "as a grain of mustard seed" chapter xix. "choose of two lovers" chapter xx. "and cleave unto the best" epilogue. chapter i. grub-street scribblers. father and daughter worked together at the trade of letters in the days when george the second was king and grub street was a reality. for them literature was indeed a trade, since william thornton wrote only what the booksellers wanted, and adjusted the supply to the demand. no sudden inspirations, no freaks of a vagabond fancy ever distracted him from the question of bread and cheese; so many sides of letter-paper to produce so many pounds. he wrote everything. he contributed verse as well as prose to the _gentleman's magazine_, and had been the winner of one of those prizes which the liberal mr. cave offered for the best poem sent to him. nothing came amiss to his facile pen. in politics he was strong--on either side. he could write for or against any measure, and had condemned and applauded the same politicians in fiery articles above different aliases, anticipating by the vehemence of his phrases the coming guineas. he wrote history or natural history for the instruction of youth, not so well as goldsmith, but with a glib directness that served. he wrote philosophy for the sick-bed of old age, and romance to feed the dreams of lovers. he stole from the french, the spaniards, the italians, and turned latin epigrams into english jests. he burnt incense before any altar, and had written much that was base and unworthy when the fancy of the town set that way, and a ribald pen was at a premium. he had written for the theatres with fair success, and his manuscript sermons at a crown apiece found a ready market. yes, mr. thornton wrote sermons--he, the unfrocked priest, the audacious infidel, who believed in nothing better than this earth upon which he and his kindred worms were crawling; nothing to come after the tolling bell, no recompense for sorrows here, no reunion with the beloved dead--only the sexton and the spade, and the forgotten grave. it was eighteen years since his young wife had died and left him with an infant daughter--this very antonia, his stay and comfort now, his indefatigable helper, his mercury, tripping with light foot between his lodgings and the booksellers or the newspaper offices, to carry his copy, or to sue for a guinea or two in advance for work to be done. when his wife died he was curate-in-charge of a remote lincolnshire parish, not twenty miles from that watery region at the mouth of the humber, that epworth which john wesley's renown had glorified. here in this lonely place, after two years of widowhood, a great trouble had fallen upon him. he always recurred to it with the air of a martyr, and pitied himself profoundly, as one more sinned against than sinning. a farmer's daughter, a strapping wench of eighteen, had induced him to elope with her. this adam ever described eve as the initiator of his fall. they went to london together, meaning to sail for jersey in a trading smack, which left the docks for that fertile island twice in a month. the damsel was of years of discretion, and the elopement was no felony; but it happened awkwardly for the parson that she carried her father's cash-box with her, containing some two hundred pounds, upon which mr. thornton was to start a dairy farm. they were hotly pursued by the infuriated father, and were arrested in london as they were stepping on board the jersey smack, and thornton was caught with the cash on his person. he swore he believed it to be the girl's money; and she swore she had earned it in her father's dairy--that, for saving, 'twas she had saved every penny of it. this plea lightened the sentence, but did not acquit either prisoner. the girl was sent to bridewell for a year, and the parson was sentenced to five years' imprisonment; but by the advocacy of powerful friends, and by the help of a fine manner, an unctuous piety, and general good conduct, was restored to the world at the end of the second year--a happy escape in an age when the gifted dr. dodd died for a single slip of the pen, and when the pettiest petty larceny meant hanging. having bored himself to death by an assumed sanctimony for two years, thornton came out of the house of bondage a rank atheist, a scoffer at all things holy, a scorner of all men who called themselves christians. to him they seemed as contemptible as he had felt himself in his hypocrisy. did any of them believe? yes, the imbeciles and hysterical women, the ignorant masses who fifty years ago had believed in witchcraft and the ubiquitous devil as implicitly as they now believed in justification by faith and the new birth. but that men of brains--an intellectual giant like sam johnson, for instance--could kneel in dusty city churches sunday after sunday and search the scriptures for the promise of life immortal! pah! what could voltaire, the enlightened, think of such a time-serving hypocrisy, except that the thing paid? "it pays, sir," said thornton, when he and his little knot of friends discussed the great dictionary-maker in a tavern parlour which they called "the portico," and which they fondly hoped to make as famous as the scribbler's club, which swift founded, and where he and oxford and bolingbroke, pope, gay, and arbuthnot talked grandly of abstract things. the talk in "the portico" was ever of persons, and mostly scandalous, the gangrene of envy devouring the minds of men whose lives had been failures. the wife of thornton's advocate, who was well off and childless, had taken compassion on the sinner's three-year-old daughter, and had carried the little antonia to her cottage at windsor, where the child was well cared for by the old housekeeper who had charge of the barrister's rural retreat. it was a cottage _orné_ in a spacious garden adjoining windsor forest, and to-day, in her twentieth year, antonia looked back upon that lost paradise with a fond longing. she had often urged her father to take her to see the kind friend whose bright young face she sometimes saw in her dreams, the very colour of whose gowns she remembered; but he always put her off with an excuse. the advocate had risen to distinction; he and his wife were fine people now, and mr. thornton would not exhibit his shabby gentility in any such company. he had been grateful for so beneficent a service at the time of his captivity, and had expatiated upon his thankfulness on three sides of letter-paper, blotted with real tears; but his virtues were impulses rather than qualities of the mind, and he had soon forgotten how much he owed the k.c.'s tender-hearted wife. providence had been good to her, as to the mother of samuel, and she had sons and daughters of her own now. antonia knew that her father had been in prison. he was too self-compassionate to refrain from bewailing past sufferings, and too lazy-brained to originate and sustain any plausible fiction to account for those two years in which his child had not seen his face. but he had been consistently reticent as to the offence which he had expiated, and antonia supposed it to be of a political nature--some jacobite plot in which he had got himself entangled. from her sixth year to her seventeenth she had been her father's companion, at first his charge--and rather an onerous one, as it seemed to the hack-scribbler--a charge to be shared with, and finally shunted on to the shoulders of, any good-natured landlady who, in her own parlance, took to the child. thornton was so far considerate of parental duty that, having found an honest and kindly matron in rupert buildings, st. martin's lane, he left off shifting his tent, and established himself for life, as he told her, on her second floor, and confided the little girl almost wholly to her charge. she had one daughter five years older than antonia, who was at school all day, leaving the basement of the house silent and empty of youthful company, and mrs. potter welcomed the lovely little face as a sunny presence in her dull parlour. she taught antonia--shortened to tonia--her letters, and taught her to dust the poor little cups and ornaments of willow-pattern worcester china, and to keep the hearth trimly swept, and rub the brass fender--taught her all manner of little services which the child loved to perform. she was what people called an old-fashioned child; for, having never lived with other children, she had no loud boisterous ways, and her voice was never shrill and ear-piercing. all she had learnt or observed had been the ways of grown-up people. from the time she was ten years old she was able to be of use to her father. she had gone on errands in the immediate neighbourhood for mrs. potter. thornton sent her further afield to carry copy to a printer, or a letter to a bookseller, with many instructions as to how to ask her way at every turn, and to be careful in crossing the street. mrs. potter shuddered at these journeys to fleet street or st. paul's churchyard, and it seemed a wonder to her that the child came back alive, but she stood in too much awe of her lodger's learning and importance to question his conduct; and when antonia entered her teens she had all the discretion of a woman, and was able to take care of her father, and to copy his hurried scrawl in her own neat penmanship, when he had written against time in a kind of shorthand of his own, with contractions which antonia soon mastered. the education of his daughter was the one duty that thornton had never shirked. hack-scribbler as he was, he loved books for their own sake, and he loved imparting knowledge to a child whose quick appreciation lightened the task and made it a relaxation. he gave her of his best, thinking that he did her a service in teaching her to despise the beliefs that so many of her fellow-creatures cherished, ranking the christian religion with every hideous superstition of the dark ages, as only a little better than the delusions of man-eating savages in an unexplored africa, or the devil-dancers and fakirs of hindostan. this man was, perhaps, a natural product of that dark age which went before the great revival--the age when not to be a deist and a scoffer was to be out of the fashion. he had been an ordained clergyman of the church of england, taking up that trade as he took up the trade of letters, for bread and cheese. the younger son of a well-born yorkshire squire, he had been a profligate and a spendthrift at oxford, but was clever enough to get a degree, and to scrape through his ordination. as he had never troubled himself about spiritual questions, and knew no more theology than sufficed to satisfy an indulgent bishop, he had hardly considered the depth of his hypocrisy when he tendered himself as a shepherd of souls. he had a fluent pen, and could write a telling sermon, when it was worth his while; but original eloquence was wasted upon his bovine flock in lincolnshire, and he generally read them any old printed sermon that came to hand among the rubbish heap of his bookshelves. he migrated from one curacy to another, and from one farmhouse to another, drinking with the farmers, hunting with the squires; diversified this dull round with a year or two on the continent as bear-leader to a wealthy merchant's son and heir; brought home an italian wife, and while she lived was tolerably constant and tolerably sober. that brief span of wedded life, with a woman he fondly loved, made the one stage in his life-journey to which he might have looked back without self-reproach. he was delighted with his daughter's quick intellect and growing love for books. she began to help him almost as soon as she could write, and now in her twentieth year father and daughter seemed upon an intellectual level. "nature has been generous to her," he told his chums at "the portico." "she has her mother's beauty and my brains." "let's hope she'll never have your swallow for gin-punch, bill," was the retort, that being the favourite form of refreshment in "the portico" room at the red lion. "nay, she inherits sobriety also from her mother, whose diet was as temperate as a wood-nymph's." his eyes grew dim as he thought of the wife long dead--the confiding girl he had carried from her home among the vineyards and gardens of the sunny hillside above bellagio to the dismal lincolnshire parsonage, between grey marsh and sluggish river. he had brought her to dreariness and penury, and to a climate that killed her. nothing but gin-punch could ever drown those sorrowful memories; so 'twas no wonder thornton took more than his share of the bowl. his companions were his juniors for the most part, and his inferiors in education. he was the socrates of this vulgar academy, and his disciples looked up to him. the shabby second floor in rupert buildings was antonia's only idea of home. her own eerie was on the floor above--a roomy garret, with a casement window in the sloping roof, a window that seemed to command all london, for she could see westminster abbey, and the houses of parliament, and across the river to the more rustic-looking streets and lanes on the southern shore. she loved her garret for the sake of that window, which had a broad stone sill where she kept her garden of stocks and pansies, pinks and cowslips, maintained with the help of an occasional shilling from her father. the sitting-room was furnished with things that had once been good, for mrs. potter was one of those many hermits in the great city who had seen better days. she was above the common order of landladies, and kept her house as clean as a house in rupert buildings could be kept. tidiness was out of the question in any room inhabited by william thornton, whose books and papers accumulated upon every available table or ledge, and were never to be moved on pain of his severe displeasure. it was only by much coaxing that his daughter could secure the privilege of a writing-table to herself. he declared that the destruction of a single printer's proof might be his ruin, or even the ruin of the newspaper for which it was intended. such as her home was, antonia was content with it. such as her life was, she bore it patiently, unsustained by any hope of a happier life in a world to come--unsustained by the conviction that by her industry and cheerfulness she was pleasing god. she knew that there were homes in which life looked brighter than it could in rupert buildings. she walked with her father in the evening streets sometimes, when his empty pockets and his score at the red lion forbade the pleasures of "the portico." she knew the aspect of houses in pall mall and st. james's square, in arlington street and piccadilly; heard the sound of fiddles and french horns through open windows, light music and light laughter; caught glimpses of inner splendours through hall doors; saw coaches and chairs setting down gay company, a street crowded with link-boys and running footmen. she knew that in this london, within a quarter of a mile of her garret, there was a life to which she must ever remain a stranger--a life of luxury and pleasure, led by the high-born and the wealthy. sometimes when her father was in a sentimental mood he would tell her of his grandfather's magnificence at the family seat near york; would paint the glories of a country house with an acre and a half of roof, the stacks of silver plate, and a perpetual flow of visitors, gargantuan hunt breakfasts, hunters and coach-horses without number. he exceeded the limits of actual fact, perhaps, in these reminiscences. the magnificence had all vanished away, the land was sold, the plate was melted, not one of the immemorial oaks was left to show where the park had been; but tonia was never tired of hearing of those prosperous years, and was glad to think she came of people who were magnates in the land. chapter ii. miss lester, of the patent theatres. besides mrs. potter, to whom she was warmly attached, antonia had one friend, an actress at drury lane, who had acted in mr. thornton's comedy of _how to please her_, and who had made his daughter's acquaintance at the wings while his play was in progress. patty lester was, perhaps, hardly the kind of person a careful father would have chosen for his youthful daughter's bosom friend, for patty was of the world worldly, and had somewhat lax notions of morality, though there was nothing to be said against her personally. no nobleman's name had ever been bracketed with hers in the newspapers, nor had her character suffered from any intrigue with a brother actor. but she gave herself no airs of superiority over her less virtuous sisters, nor was she averse to the frivolous attentions and the trifling gifts of those ancient beaux and juvenile macaronis who fluttered at the side-scenes and got in the way of the stage-carpenters. thornton had not reared his daughter in arcadian ignorance of evil, and he had no fear of her being influenced by miss lester's easy views of conduct. "the girl is as honest as any woman in england, but she is not a lady," he told antonia, "and i don't want you to imitate her. but she has a warm heart, and is always good company, so i see no objection to your taking a dish of tea with her at her lodgings once in a way." this "once in a way" came to be once or twice a week, for miss lester's parlour was all that antonia knew of gaiety, and was a relief from the monotony of literary toil. dearly as she loved to assist her father's labours, there came an hour in the day when the aching hand dropped on the manuscript or the tired eyes swam above the closely printed page; and then it was pleasant to put on her hat and run to the piazza, where patty was mostly to be found at home between the morning's rehearsal and the night's performance. her lodgings were on a second floor overlooking the movement and gaiety of covent garden, where the noise of the waggons bringing asparagus from mortlake and strawberries from isleworth used to sound in her dreams, hours before the indolent actress opened her eyes upon the world of reality. she was at home this windy march afternoon, squatting on the hearthrug toasting muffins, when miss thornton knocked at her door. "come in, if you're tonia," she cried. "stay out if you're an odious man." "i doubt you expect some odious man," said tonia, as she entered, "or you wouldn't say that." "i never know when not to expect 'em, child. there are three or four of my devoted admirers audacious enough to think themselves always welcome to drop in for a dish of tea; indeed, one of 'em has a claim to my civility, for he is in the india trade, and keeps me in gunpowder and bohea. but 'tis only old general granger i expect this afternoon--him that gave me my silver canister," added patty, who never troubled about grammar. "i would rather be without the canister than plagued by that old man's company," said tonia. "oh, you are hard to please--unless 'tis some scholar with his mouth full of book talk! i find the general vastly entertaining. sure he knows everybody in london, and everything that is doing or going to be done. he keeps me _aw courrong_," concluded patty, whose french was on a par with her english. she rose from the hearth, with her muffin smoking at the end of a long tin toasting-fork. her parlour was full of incongruities--silver tea-canister, china cups and saucers glorified by sprawling red and blue dragons, an old mahogany tea-board and pewter spoons, a blue satin _négligé_ hanging over the back of a chair, an open powder-box on the side table. the furniture was fine but shabby--the sort of fine shabbiness that satisfied the landlady's clients, who were mostly from the two patent theatres. the house had a renown for being comfortable and easy to live in--no nonsense about early hours or quiet habits. "prythee make the tea while i butter the muffins," said patty. "the kettle is on the boil. but take your hat off before you set about it. ah, what glorious hair!" she said, as antonia threw off the poor little gipsy hat; "and to think that mine is fiery red!" "nay, 'tis but a bright auburn. i heard your old general call it a trap for sunbeams. 'tis far prettier than this inky black stuff of mine." antonia wore no powder, and the wavy masses of her hair were bound into a scarlet snood that set off their raven gloss. her complexion was of a marble whiteness, with no more carnation than served to show she was a woman and not a statue. her eyes, by some freak of heredity, were not black, like her mother's--whom she resembled in every other feature--but of a sapphire blue, the blue of irish eyes, luminous yet soft, changeful, capricious, capable of dazzling joyousness, of profoundest melancholy. brown-eyed, auburn-headed patty looked at her young friend with an admiration which would have been envious had she been capable of ill-nature. "how confoundedly handsome you are to-day!" she exclaimed; "and in that gown too! i think the shabbier your clothes are the lovelier you look. you'll be cutting me out with my old general." "your general has seen me a dozen times, and thinks no more of me than if i were a plaster image." "because you never open your lips before company, except to say yes or no, like a long-headed witness in the box. i wonder you don't go on the stage, tonia. if you were ever so stupid at the trade your looks would get you a hearing and a salary." "am i really handsome?" tonia asked, with calm wonder. she had been somewhat troubled of late by the too florid compliments of booksellers and their assistants, whom she saw on her father's business; but she concluded it was their way of affecting gallantry with every woman under fifty. she had a temper that repelled disagreeable attentions, and kept the boldest admirer at arm's length. "handsome? you are the beautifullest creature i ever saw, and i would chop ten years off my old age to be as handsome, though most folks calls me a pretty woman," added patty, bridling a little, and pursing up a cherry mouth. she was a pink-and-white girl, with a complexion like new milk, and cheeks like cabbage-roses. she had a supple waist, plump shoulders, and a neat foot and ankle, and was a capable actress in all secondary characters. she couldn't carry a great playhouse on her shoulders, or make a dull play seem inspired, as mrs. pritchard could; or take the town by storm as juliet, like miss bellamy. "well, i doubt my looks will never win me a fortune; but i hope i may earn money from the booksellers before long, as father does." "sure 'tis a drudging life--and you'd be happier in the theatre." "not i, patty. i should be miserable away from my books, and not to be my own mistress. i work hard, and tramp to the city sometimes when my feet are weary of the stones; but father and i are free creatures, and our evenings are our own." "precious dull evenings," said patty, with her elbows on the table and her face beaming at her friend. "have a bit more muffin. i wonder you're not _awnweed_ to death." "i do feel a little _triste_ sometimes, when the wind howls in the chimney, and every one in the house but me is in bed, and i have been alone all the evening." "which you are always." "father has to go to his club to hear the news. and 'tis his only recreation. but though i love my books, and to sit with my feet on the fender and read shakespeare, i should love just once in a way to see what people are like; the women i see through their open windows on summer nights--such handsome faces, such flashing jewels, and with snowy feathers nodding over their powdered heads----" "you should see them at ranelagh. why does not your father take you to ranelagh? he could get a ticket from one of the fine gentlemen whose speeches he writes. i saw him talking to lord kilrush in the wings t'other night." "who is lord kilrush?" "one of the finest gentlemen in town, and a favourite with all the women, though he is nearer fifty than forty." "an old man?" "_you_ would call him so," said patty, with a sigh, conscious of her nine and twenty years. "he'd give your father a ticket for ranelagh, i'll warrant." tonia looked down at her brown stuff gown, and laughed the laugh of scorn. "ranelagh, in this gown!" she said. "you should wear one of mine." "good dear, 'twould not reach my ankles!" "i grant there's overmuch of you. little david called you the anakim venus when he caught sight of you at the side scenes. 'who's that magnificent giantess?' he asked." "the people of lilliput took captain gulliver for a giant, and the brobdignagians thought him a dwarf. 'tis a question of comparison," replied tonia, huffed at the manager's criticism. "nay, don't be vexed, child. 'tis a feather in your cap for garrick to give you a second thought. well, if ranelagh won't suit, there is mrs. mandalay's dancing-room. she has a ball twice a week in the season, and a masquerade once a fortnight. you can borrow a domino from the costumier in the piazza for the outlay of half a dozen shillings." "do the women of fashion go to mrs. mandalay's?" "all the town goes there." "then i'll beg my father to take me. i am helping him with his new comedy, and i want to see what modish people are like--off the stage." "not half so witty as they are on it. is there a part for me in the new play?" patty would have asked that question of shakespeare's ghost had he returned to earth to write a new hamlet. it was her only idea in association with the drama. "indeed, patty, there is an impudent romp of quality you would act to perfection." "i love a romp," cried patty, clapping her hands. "give me a pinafore and a pair of scarlet shoes, and i am on fire with genius. i hope david will bring out your dad's play, and that 'twill run a month." "if it did he would give me a silk gown, and i might see ranelagh." "he is not a bad father, is he, tonia?" "bad! there was never a kinder father." "but he lets you work hard." "i love the work next best to him that sets me to it." "and he has been your only schoolmaster, and you are clever enough to frighten a simpleton like me." "nay, patty, you are the cleverest, for you can do things--act, sing, dance. mine is only book-learning; but such as it is, i owe it all to my father." "i hate books. 'twas as much as i could do to learn to read. but there's one matter in which your father has been unkind to you." "no, no--in nothing." "yes," said patty, shaking her head solemnly, "he has brought you up an atheist, never to go to church, not even on christmas day; and to read voltaire"--with a shudder. "do you go to church, patty? 'tis handy enough to your lodgings." "oh, i am too tired of a sunday morning, after acting six nights in a week; for if bellamy and pritchard are out of the bill and going out a-visiting, and strutting and grimacing in fine company, there's always a part for a scrub like me; and if i'm not in the play i'm in the burletta." "and do you think you're any wickeder for not going to church twice every sunday?" "i always go at christmas and at easter," protested patty, "and i feel myself a better woman for going. you've been brought up to hate religion." "no, patty, only to hate the fuss that's made about it, and the cruelties men have done to each other, ever since the world began, in its name." "i wouldn't read voltaire if i was you," said patty. "the general told me 'twas an impious, indecent book." "voltaire is the author of more than forty books, patty." "oh, is it an author? i thought 'twas the name of a novel, like 'tom jones,' only more impudent." there came a knock at the door, and this time patty knew it was her old general. "stop out, beast!" she cried. "there's nobody at home to an old fool!" upon which courteous greeting the ancient warrior entered smiling. "was there ever such a witty puss?" he exclaimed. "i kiss mrs. grimalkin's velvet paw. pray how many mice has minette crunched since breakfast?" his favourite jest was to attribute feline attributes to patty, whose appreciation of his humour rose or fell in unison with his generosity. a pair of white gloves worked with silver thread, or a handsome ribbon for her hair secured her laughter and applause. to-day patty's keen glance showed her that the general was empty-handed. he had not brought her so much as a violet posy. he saluted antonia with his stateliest bow, blinking at her curiously, but too short-sighted to be aware of her beauty in the dim light of the parlour, where evening shadows were creeping over the panelled walls. patty set the kettle on the fire and washed out the little china teapot, while she talked to her ancient admirer. he liked to watch her kitten-like movements, her trim sprightly ways, to take a cup of weak tea from her hand, and to tell her his news of the town, which was mostly wrong, but which she always believed. she thought him a foolish old person, but the pink of fashion. his talk was a diluted edition of the news we read in walpole's letters--talk of st. james's and leicester house, of the old king and his grandson, newly created prince of wales, of the widowed princess and lord bute, of a score of patrician belles whose histories were more or less scandalous, and of those two young women from dublin, the penniless gunnings, whose beauty had set the town in a blaze--sisters so equal in perfection that no two people were of a mind as to which was the handsomer. tonia had met the general often, and knew his capacity for being interesting. she rose and bade her friend good-bye. "nay, child, 'tis ill manners to leave me directly i have company. the general and i have no secrets." "my minette is a cautious puss, and will never confess to the singing-birds she has killed," said the dodderer. tonia protested that her father would be at home and wanting her. she saluted the soldier with her stateliest curtsey, and departed with the resolute _aplomb_ of a duchess. "your friend's grand manners go ill with her shabby gown," said the general. "with her fine figure she should do well on the stage." "there is too much of her, general. she is too tall by a head for an actress. 'tis delicate little women look best behind the lamps." * * * * * thornton was fond of his daughter, and had never said an unkind word to her; but he had no scruples about letting her work for him, having a fixed idea that youth has an inexhaustible fund of health and strength upon which age can never overdraw. he was proud of her mental powers, and believed that to help a hack-scribbler with his multifarious contributions to magazines and newspapers was the finest education possible for her. if they went to the playhouse together 'twas she who wrote a critique on the players next morning, while her father slept. dramatic criticism in those days was but scurvily treated by the press, and tonia was apt to expatiate beyond the limits allowed by an editor, and was mortified to see her opinions reduced to the baldest comment. she talked to her father of mrs. mandalay's dancing-rooms. he knew there was such a place, but doubted whether 'twas a reputable resort. he promised to make inquiries, and thus delayed matters, without the unkindness of a refusal. tonia was helping him with a comedy for drury lane--indeed, was writing the whole play, his part of the work consisting chiefly in running his pen across tonia's scenes, and bidding her write them again in accord with his suggestions, which she did with equal meekness and facility. he grew a little lazier every day as he discovered his daughter's talent, and encouraged her to labour for him. he praised himself for having taught her spanish, so that she had the best comedies in the world, as he thought, at her fingers' ends. it was for the sake of the comedy tonia urged her desire to see the _beau monde_. "'tis dreadful to write about people of fashion when one has never seen any," she said. "nay, child, there's no society in europe will provide you better models than you'll find in yonder duodecimos," her father would say, pointing to congreve and farquhar. "mrs. millamant is a finer lady than any duchess in london." "mrs. millamant is half a century old, and says things that would make people hate her if she was alive now." "faith, we are getting vastly genteel; and i suppose by-and-by we shall have plays as decently dull as sam richardson's novels, without a joke or an oath from start to finish," protested thornton. it was more than a month after tonia's first appeal that her father came home to dinner one afternoon in high spirits, and clapped a couple of tickets on the tablecloth by his daughter's plate. "look there, slut!" he cried. "i seized my first chance of obliging you. there is a masked ball at mrs. mandalay's to-night, and i waited upon my old friend lord kilrush on purpose to ask him for tickets; and now you have only to run to the costumier's and borrow a domino and a mask, and see that there are no holes in your stockings." "i always mend my stockings before the holes come," antonia said reproachfully. "you are an indefatigable wench! come, there's a guinea for you; perhaps you can squeeze a pair of court shoes out of it, as well as the hire of the domino." "you are a dear, dear, dearest dad! i'll ask patty to go to the costumier's with me. she will get me a good pennyworth." chapter iii. at mrs. mandalay's rooms. mrs. mandalay's rooms were crowded, for mrs. mandalay's patrons included all the varieties of london society--the noble, the rich, the clever, the dull, the openly vicious, the moderately virtuous, the audaciously disreputable, masked and unmasked; the outsiders who came from curiosity; the initiated who came from habit; dissolute youth, frivolous old age, men and boys who came because they thought this, and only this, was life: to rub shoulders with a motley mob, to move in an atmosphere of ribald jokes and foolish laughter, air charged with the electricity of potential bloodshed, since at any moment the ribald jest might lead to the insensate challenge; to drink deep of adulterated wines, fired with the alcohol that inspires evil passions and kills thought. these were the diversions that men and women sought at mrs. mandalay's; and it was into this witch's cauldron that william thornton plunged his daughter, reckless of whom she met or what she saw and heard, for it was an axiom in his blighting philosophy that the more a young woman knew of the world she lived in, the more likely she was to steer a safe course between its shoals and quicksands. antonia looked with amazement upon the tawdry spectacle--dominos, diamonds, splendour, and shabbiness, impudent faces plastered with white and red, beauty still fresh and young, boys still at the university, old men fitter for the hospital than for the drawing-room. was _this_ the dazzling scene she had longed for sometimes in the toilsome evenings, when her tired hand sank on the foolscap page, and in the pause of the squeaking quill she heard the clock ticking on the stairs and the cinders crumbling in the grate? she had longed for lighted rooms and joyous company, for the concerts, and dances, and dinners, and suppers she read about in the _daily journal_; but the scenes her imagination had conjured up were as different from this as paradise from pandemonium. dancing was difficult in such a crowd, but there was a country dance going on to the music of an orchestra of fiddles and french horns, stationed in a gallery over one end of the room. the music was a _pot-pourri_ of favourite melodies in the "beggar's opera," and the strongly marked tunes beat upon antonia's brain as she and her father stood against the wall near the entrance doors, watching the crowd. a master of the ceremonies came to ask her if she would dance. her father answered for her, somewhat curtly. no, the young lady had only looked in to see what mrs. mandalay's rooms were like. "mrs. mandalay's rooms are too good to be made a show for country cousins," the man answered impudently, after a flying glance at thornton's threadbare suit; "and miss has too pretty a figure under her domino to shirk a dance." "be good enough to leave us to ourselves, sir. our tickets have been paid for; and we have a right to consume this polluted atmosphere without having to suffer impertinence." "oh, if you come to that, sir, i carry a sword, and will swallow no insult from a beggarly parson; and there are plenty of handsome women pining for partners." he edged off as he spoke, and was safe amongst the crowd before he finished his sentence. "let's go home, sir," said antonia. "i never could have pictured such an odious place." "'tis one of the most fashionable assemblies in london, child." "then i wonder at the taste of londoners. pray, sir, let's go home. i should never have teased you to bring me here had i known 'twas like this; but you have at least cured me of the desire to come again--or to visit any place that resembles this." "you are pettish and over-fastidious. i came here for your amusement, and you may stay here for mine. i can't waste coach hire because you are capricious. i must have something for my money. do you stay here quietly, while i circulate and find a friend or two." "oh, father, don't leave me among this rabble! i shall die of disgust if any one speaks to me--like that vulgar wretch just now." "tush, tonia, there are no women-eaters here; and you have brains enough to know how to answer any impudent jackanapes in london." he was gone before she could say anything more. she had hated to be there even with her father at her side. it was agony to stand there alone, fanning herself with the trumpery spanish fan that had been sent her with the domino. she was not shy as other women are on their first appearance in an assembly. she had been trained to despise her fellow-creatures, and had an inborn pride that would have supported her anywhere. but the scene gave her a feeling of loathing that she had never known before. the people seemed to her of an unknown race. their features, their air exhaled wickedness. "the sons of belial, flown with insolence and wine." she hated herself for being there, hated her father for bringing her there. they had come very late, when the assembly was at its worst, or at its best, according to one's point of view. the modish people, who vowed they detested the rooms, and only looked in to see who was there, were elbowing their way among fat citizens and their wives from dowgate, and rich merchants from clapham common; while the more striking figures in the crowd belonged obviously to the purlieus of covent garden and the paved courts near long acre. tonia watched them till, in spite of her aversion, she began to grow interested in the masks and the faces. the faces told their own story; but the masks had a more piquant attraction, suggesting mystery. she began to notice couples who were obviously lovers, and to imagine a romance here and there. her eyes passed over the disreputable painted faces, and fixed on the young and beautiful, secure in pride of birth, the assurance of superiority. she caught furtive glances, the lingering clasp of hands, the smile that promised, the whisper that pleaded. romance and mystery enough here to fill more volumes than richardson had published. and then among the people who came in late, talked loud, and did not dance, there were such satins and brocades, velvet and lace, feathers and jewels, as neither the theatres nor her dreams had ever shown her. she was woman enough to look at these with pleasure, in spite of her masculine education. she had forgotten how long she had been standing there when her father came back, smelling of brandy, and accompanied by a man whom she had been watching some minutes before, one of the late arrivals, who looked young at a distance, but old, or at best middle-aged, when he came near her. she had seen him surrounded by a bevy of women, who hung about him with an eager appreciation which would have been an excuse for vanity in a solomon. the new-comer's suit of mouse-coloured velvet was plainer than anybody else's, but his air and figure would have given distinction to a beggar's rags, and there needed not the star and ribbon half hidden under the lapel of his coat to tell her that he was a personage. "my friend and patron, lord kilrush, desires to make your acquaintance, antonia," her father said with his grand air. she had heard of lord kilrush, an irish peer, with an immense territory on the shannon and on the atlantic which he never visited; a man of supreme distinction in a world where the cut of a coat and the pedigree of a horse count for more than any moral attributes. while he had all the dignity of a large landowner, the bulk of his fortune was derived from his mother, who was the only child of an east indian factor, "rich with the spoil of plundered provinces." antonia had been watching the modish women's manoeuvres long enough to be able to sink to the exact depth and rise with the assured grace of a fashionable curtsey. the perfect lips under the light lace of her mask relaxed in a grave smile, parting just enough to show the glitter of pearly teeth between two lines of carmine. her flashing eyes and lovely mouth gave kilrush assurance of beauty. it would have taken the nose of a socrates, or a complexion pitted with the smallpox, to mar the effect of such eyes and such lips. "pray allow me to escort you through the rooms, and to get you a cup of chocolate, madam," he said, offering his arm. "your father tells me that 'tis your first visit to this notorious scene. mrs. mandalay's chocolate is as famous as her company, and of a better quality--for it is innocent of base mixtures." "go with his lordship, tonia," said her father, answering her questioning look; "you must be sick to death of standing here." "oh, i have amused myself somehow," she said. "it is like a comedy at the theatres--i can read stories in the people's faces." she took kilrush's arm with an easy air that astonished him. "then you like the mandalay room?" he said, as he made a path through the crowd, people giving way to him almost as if to a royal personage. he was known here as he was known in all pleasure places for a leader and a master spirit. it suited him to live in a country where he had no political influence. he had never been known to interest himself about any serious question in life. early in his career, when his wife ran away with his bosom friend, his only comment was that she always came to the breakfast-table with a slovenly head, and it was best for both that they should part. he ran his rapier through his friend's left lung early one morning in the fields behind montague house; but he told his intimates that it was not because he hated the scoundrel who had relieved him of an incubus, but because it would have been ungenteel to let him live. he conducted antonia through the suite of rooms that comprised "mrs. mandalay's." there were two or three little side-rooms where people sat in corners and talked confidentially, as they do in such places to this day. the confidences may have been a shade more audacious then, an incipient intrigue more daringly conducted, but it was the same and the same--a married woman who despised her husband; a married man who detested his wife; a young lady of fashion playing high stakes for a coronet, and baulked or ruined at the game. antonia glanced from one group to the other as if she knew all about them. to be a student of voltaire is not to think too well of one's fellow-creatures. she had read fielding too, and knew that women were fools and men reprobates. she had wept over richardson's clarissa, and knew that there had once been a virtuous woman, or that a dry-as-dust printer's elderly imagination had conceived such a creature. one room was set apart for light refreshments, coffee and chocolate, negus and cakes; and here kilrush found a little table in a corner, and seated her at it. the crowd in this room was so dense that it created a solitude. they were walled in by brocaded sacques and the backs of velvet coats, and could talk to each other without fear of being overheard. this was so much pleasanter than standing against a wall staring at strange faces that antonia began to think she liked mrs. mandalay's. she took off her mask, unconscious that an adept in coquetry would have maintained the mystery of her loveliness a little longer. kilrush was content to worship her for the perfection of her mouth, the half-seen beauty of her eyes. she flung off the little velvet _loup_, and gave him the effulgence of her face, with an unconsciousness of power that dazzled him more than her beauty. "i was nearly suffocated," she said. he was silent in a transport of admiration. her face had an exotic charm. it was too brilliant for native growth. the south glowed in the lustre of her eyes and in the sheen of her raven hair. he had seen such faces in italy. the towers and cupolas, the church bells, the market women's parti-coloured stalls, the lounging boatmen and clear white light of the isola bella came back to him as he looked at her. he had spent an autumn in the borromean palaces, a visitor to the lord of those delicious isles, and he had seen faces like hers, and had worshipped them, in the heyday of youth, when he was on his grand tour. he remembered having heard that thornton had married a lovely italian girl, whom he had stolen from her home in lombardy, while he was travelling as bear-leader to an india merchant's son. antonia sipped her chocolate with a composure that startled him. women--except the most experienced--were apt to be fluttered by his lightest attentions; yet this girl, who had never seen him till to-night, accepted his homage with a supreme unconcern, or indeed seemed unconscious of it. her innocent assurance amused him. no rustic lass serving at an inn had ever received his compliments without a blush, for he had an air of always meaning more than he said. "your father told me he had reared you in seclusion, madam," he said, "and i take it this is your first glimpse of our gay world." "my first and last," she replied. "i do not love your gay world. i did wrong to tease my father to bring me here. i imagined a scene so different." "tell me what your fancy depicted." "larger rooms, fewer people, more space and air--a _fête champêtre_ by watteau within doors; dancers who danced for love of dancing, and who were all young, not old wrinkled men and fat women; not painted grimacing faces, and an atmosphere cloudy with hair-powder." "but is not this better than to sit in your lodgings and mope over books?" "i never mope over books; they are my friends and companions." "what, in the bloom of youth, when you should be dancing every night, gadding from one pleasure to another all day long? books are the friends of old age. i shall take to books myself when i grow old." tonia's dark brows elevated themselves unconsciously, and her eyes expressed wonder. was he not old enough already for books and retirement? the man of seven and forty saw the look and interpreted it. "she knows i am old enough to be her father," he thought, "and that is the reason of her _sang froid_. women of the world know that mine is the dangerous age--the age when a man who can love loves desperately, when concentration of purpose takes the place of youthful energy." they sat in silence for a few minutes while she finished her chocolate, and while he summed up the situation. then she rose hastily. "i have been keeping you from your friends," she said. "oh, i have no friends here." "why, everybody was becking and bowing to you." "i am on becking and bowing terms with everybody; but most of us hate each other. let me get you some more chocolate." "no, thank you. i must go back to my father." they had not far to go. thornton was at a table on the other side of the room, drinking punch with one of his patrons in the book trade, a junior partner who was frivolous enough to look in at mrs. mandalay's. "miss thornton is so unkind as to fleer at our solemnities," said kilrush, "and swears she will never come here again." "i told her she was a fool to wish to come," answered thornton. "your lordship has been uncommonly civil to take care of her. what the devil should a grub street hack's daughter do here? she has never had a dancing-lesson in her life." "she ought to begin to-morrow. serise would glory in such a pupil. give her but the knack of a minuet, and she would show young peeresses how to move like queens, or like a swan gliding on the current." "oh, pray, my lord, don't flatter her. she has not the art to _riposter_, and she may think you mean what you say." * * * * * kilrush went with them to the street, where his chairmen were waiting to carry him to st. james's square, or to whatever gambling-house he might prefer to the solitude of his ancestral mansion. he wanted to send antonia home in his chair, but thornton declined the favour laughingly. "your chairmen would leave your service to-morrow if you sent them to such a shabby neighbourhood," he said, taking his daughter on his arm. "we shall find a hackney coach on the stand." chapter iv. a morning call. tonia worked at the comedy, but did not find her idea of a woman of _ton_ greatly enlarged by the women she had seen at mrs. mandalay's. indeed, she began to think that her father was right, and that mrs. millamant--whose coarseness of speech disgusted her--was her best model. yet, disappointing as that tawdry assembly had been, she felt as if she had gained something by her brief encounter with lord kilrush, and her pen seemed firmer when she tried to give life and meaning to the leading character in her play, the _rôle_ intended for garrick. she had begun by making him young and foolish. she remodelled the character, and made him older and wiser, and tried to give him the grand air; evolving from her inner consciousness the personality which her brief vision of kilrush had suggested. her ardent imagination made much out of little. of the man himself she scarcely thought, and would hardly have recognized his person had they met in the street. but the ideal man she endowed with every fascinating quality, every attracting grace. her father noted the improvement in her work. "why, this fourth act is the best we have done yet," he said, "and i think 'twas a wise stroke of mine to make our hero older----" "oh, father, 'twas my notion, you'll remember." "you shall claim all the invention for your share, if you like, slut, so long as we concoct a piece that will satisfy garrick, who grows more and more finical as he gets richer and more fooled by the town. the part will suit him all the better now we've struck a deeper note. he can't wish to play schoolboys all his life." it was three weeks after the masquerade when there came a rap at the parlour door one morning, and the maid-servant announced lord kilrush. thornton was lying on a sofa in shirt-sleeves and slippers, smoking a long clay pipe, the picture of a self-indulgent sloven--that might have come straight from hogarth. tonia was writing at a table by an open window, the june sunshine gleaming in her ebon hair. her father had been dictating and suggesting, objecting and approving, as she read her dialogue. the visit was startling, for though thornton was on easy terms with his lordship, who had known him at the university, and had patronized and employed him in his decadence, kilrush had never crossed his threshold till to-day. had he come immediately after the meeting at mrs. mandalay's, antonia's father might have suspected evil; but thornton had flung that event into the rag-bag of old memories, and had no thought of connecting his patron's visit with his daughter's attractiveness. he was about as incapable of thought and memory as a thinking animal can be, having lived for the past fourteen years in the immediate present, conscious only of good days and bad days, the luck or the ill-luck of the hour, without hope in the days that were coming, or remorse for the days that were gone. kilrush knew the man to the marrow of his bones, and although he had been profoundly impressed by antonia's unlikeness to other women, he had waited a month before seeking to improve her acquaintance, and thus hoped to throw the paternal argus off his guard. tonia laid down her pen, rose straight and tall as a june lily, and made his lordship her queenly curtsey, blushing a lovely crimson at the thought of the liberties that rapid quill had taken with his character. "he is not half so handsome as my dorifleur!" she thought; "but he has the grand air that no words can express. poor little garrick! what a genius he must be, and what heels he must wear, if he is to represent such a man!" kilrush returned the curtsey with a bow as lofty, and then bent over the ink-stained fingers and kissed them, as if they had been saintly digits in a crystal _reliquaire_. "does miss thornton concoct plays, as well as her gifted parent?" he inquired, with the smile that was so exquisitely gracious, yet not without the faintest hint of mockery. "the jade has twice her father's genius," said thornton, who had risen from the sofa and laid his pipe upon the hob of the wide iron grate, where a jug of wall-flowers filled the place of a winter fire. "or, perhaps i should say, twice her father's memory, for she has a repertory of spanish and italian plays to choose from when her pegasus halts." "nay, father, i am not a thief," protested tonia. kilrush glanced at the hack-scribbler, remembering that awkward adventure with the farmer's cash-box which had brought so worthy a gentleman to the treadmill, and which might have acquainted him with jack ketch. he glanced from father to daughter, and decided that antonia was unacquainted with that scandalous episode in her parent's clerical career. after that one startled blush and conscious smile, the cause whereof he knew not, she was as unconcerned in his lordship's company to-day as she had been at mrs. mandalay's. she gave him no _minauderies_, no downcast eyelids or shy glances; but sat looking at him with a pleased interest while he talked of the day's news with her father, and answered him frankly and brightly when he discussed her own literary work. "you are very young to write plays," he said. "i wrote plays when i was five years younger," she answered, laughing, "and gave them to betty to light the fires." "and your father warmed his legs before the dramatic pyre, and never knew 'twas the flame of genius?" "she was a fool to burn her trash," said thornton. "i might have made a volume of it--'tragedies and comedies, by a young lady of fifteen.'" "i'll warrant shakespeare burnt a stack of balderdash before he wrote _the two gentlemen of verona_, poor stuff as it is," said kilrush. "is your lordship so very sure 'tis poor stuff?" asked tonia. "if it wasn't, don't you think garrick would have produced it? he loves shakespeare--a vastly respectable poet whose plays he can act without paying for them. be sure you let me know when your comedy is to be produced, madam, for i should die of vexation not to be present at the first performance." "alas! there is a great gulf between a written play and an acted one," sighed tonia. "mr. garrick may not like it. but 'tis more my father's play than mine, my lord. he finds the ideas, and i provide the words." "she has a spontaneous eloquence that takes my breath away. but for the machinery, the fabric of the piece, the arrangement of the scenes, the method, the taste, the scope of the characters, and their action upon one another, i confess myself the author," thornton said, in his grandiloquent way, having assumed his company manner, a style of conversation which he kept for persons of quality. "i doubt miss thornton is fonder of study than of pleasure, or i should have seen her at mrs. mandalay's again----" "i hate the place," interjected tonia; "and if women of fashion are all like the painted wretches i saw there----" "they all paint--white lead is the rule and a clean-washed face the exception," said kilrush; "but 'twould not be fair to judge the _beau monde_ by the herd you saw t'other night. mrs. mandalay's is an _olla podrida_ of good and bad company. your father must initiate you in the pleasures of ranelagh." "i have had enough of such pleasures. i had a curiosity--like fatima's--to see a world that was hid from me. but for pleasure i prefer the fireside, and a novel by richardson. if he would but give us a new clarissa!" "you admire clarissa?" "i adore, i revere her!" "a pious simpleton who stood in the way of her own happiness. why, in the name of all that's reasonable, did she refuse to marry lovelace, when he was willing?" tonia flashed an indignant look at him. "if she could have stooped to marry him she would have proved herself at heart a wanton!" she said, with an outspoken force that startled kilrush. hitherto he had met only two kinds of women--the strictly virtuous, who affected an arcadian innocence and whose talk was insupportably dull, and the women whose easy morals allowed the widest scope for conversation; but here was a girl of undoubted modesty, who was not afraid to argue upon a hazardous theme. "you admire clarissa for her piety, perhaps?" he said. "that is what our fine ladies pretend to appreciate, though they are most of them heathens." "i admire her for her self-respect," answered tonia. "that is her highest quality. when was there ever a temper so meek, joined with such fortitude, such heroic resolve?" "she was a proud, self-willed minx," said kilrush, entranced with the vivid expression of her face, with the fire in her speech. "'twas a woman's pride in her womanhood, a woman fighting against her arch enemy----" "the man who loved her?" "the man she loved. 'twas that made the struggle desperate. she knew she loved him." "if she had been kinder, now, and had let love conquer?" insinuated kilrush. "she would not have been clarissa; she would not have been the long-suffering angel, the martyr in virtue's cause." "prythee, my lord, do not laugh at my daughter's high-flown sentiments," said thornton. "i have done my best to educate her reason; but while there are romancers like samuel richardson to instil folly 'tis difficult to rear a sensible woman." "that warmth of sentiment is more delightful than all your cold reason, thornton; but i compliment you on the education which has made this young lady to tower above her sex." "oh, my lord, do not laugh at me. i have just learnt enough to know that i am ignorant," said tonia, with her grand air--grand because so careless, as of one who is alike indifferent to the effect of her words and the opinion of those with whom she converses. kilrush prolonged his visit into a second hour, during which the conversation flitted from books to people, from romance to politics, and never hung fire. he took leave reluctantly, apologizing for having stayed so long, and gave no hint of repeating his visit, nor was asked to do so. but he meant to come again and again, having as he thought established himself upon a footing of intimacy. a grub-street hack could have no strait-laced ideas--a man who had been in jail for something very like larceny, and who had educated his young daughter as a free-thinker. "she finds my conversation an agreeable relief after a ten years' _tête-à-tête_ with thornton," he told himself, as he picked his way through the filth of green street to leicester fields. "but 'tis easy to see she thinks i have passed the age of loving, and is as much at home with me as if i were her grandfather. yet 'twas a beautiful red that flushed her cheek when i entered the room. well, if she is pleased to converse with me 'tis something; and i must school myself to taste a platonic attachment. a lovelace of seven and forty! how she would jeer at the notion!" * * * * * lord kilrush waited a fortnight before repeating his visit, and again called at an hour when thornton was likely to be at home; but his third visit, which followed within a week of the second, happened late in the afternoon, when he found antonia alone, but in no wise discomposed at the prospect of a _tête-à-tête_. she enjoyed his conversation with as frank and easy a manner as if she had been a young man, and his equal in station; and he was careful to avoid one word or look which might have disturbed her serenity. it was unflattering, perhaps, to be treated so easily, accepted so frankly as a friend of mature years; but it afforded him the privilege of a companionship that was fast becoming a necessity of his existence. the days that he spent away from rupert buildings were dull and barren. his hours with antonia had an unfailing charm. he forgot even twinges of gout, and the burden of time--that dread of old age and death which so often troubled his luxurious solitude. she grew more enchanting as she became more familiar. she treated him with as cordial a friendship as if he had been her uncle. she would talk to him with her elbows on the table, and her long tapering fingers pushing back those masses of glossy hair which the ribbon could scarcely hold in place. stray curls would fall over the broad white brow, and she had a way of tossing those random ringlets from her eyes that he could have sworn to among a thousand women. he told her all that was worth telling of the world in which he lived and had lived. he had been a soldier till his thirtieth year; had travelled much and far; had lived in paris among the encyclopedists, and had entertained voltaire at his house in london. he had seen every dramatic troupe worth seeing in france, italy, and spain; had dabbled in necromancy, and associated with savants in every science, at home and abroad. all his experiences interested antonia. she had a way of entering into the ideas of another which he had never met with in any except the highest grade of women. "your kindness makes me an egotist," he said. "you ought to be the mistress of a political _salon_. faith, i can picture our party politicians pouring their griefs and hatreds into your ear, cheered by your sympathy, inspired by your wit. but i doubt you must find this prosing of mine plaguey tiresome." "no, no, no," she cried eagerly. "i want to know what the world is like. it is pleasant to listen to one who has seen all the places and people i long to see." "you will see them with your own young eyes, perhaps, some day," he said, smiling at her. she shook her head despondently, and waved the suggestion away as impossible. one day in an expansive mood she consented to read an act of the comedy, now finished, and waiting only thornton's final touches, and that spicing of the comic episodes on which he prided himself, and against which his daughter vainly protested. "my father urges that we have to please three distinct audiences, and that scenes which delight people of good breeding are _caviare_ to the pit, while the gallery wants even coarser fare, and must have some foolery dragged in here and there to put them in good humour. i'll not read you the gallery pages." he listened as if to inspiration. he easily recognized her own work as opposed to her father's, the womanly sentiment of her heroine's speeches, her hero's lofty views of life. he ventured a suggestion or two at that first reading, and finding her pleased with his hints, he insisted on hearing the whole play, and began seriously to help her, and so breathed into her dialogue that air of the _beau monde_ which enhances the charm of contemporary comedy. this collaboration, so delightful to him, so interesting to her, brought them nearer to each other than all their talk had done. he became the partner of her ideas, the sharer of her hopes. he taught her all that her father had left untaught--the mystery of modish manners, the laws of that society which calls itself good, and how and when to break them. "for the parvenu 'tis a code of iron; for the fine gentleman there is nothing more pliable," he told her. "i have seen chesterfield do things that would make a vulgarian shudder, yet with such benign grace that no one was offended." thornton was with them sometimes, and they sat on the play in committee. he, who professed to be the chief author, found himself overruled by the other two. they objected to most of his jokes as vulgar or stale. they would admit no hackneyed turns of speech. the comedy was to be a picture of life in high places. "begad, my lord, you'll make it too fine for the town, and 'twill be played to empty benches," remonstrated thornton. "nothing is ever too fine for the town," answered kilrush. "do you think the folks in the gallery want their own humdrum lives reflected on the stage, or to look on at banquets of whelks and twopenny porter? the mob love splendour, mr. thornton, and when they have not bajazet or richard, they like to see the finest fine gentlemen and ladies that a playwright can conceive." thornton gave way gracefully. he knew his lordship's influence at the theatres, and he had told garrick that kilrush had written a third of the play, but would not have his name mentioned. "'tis no better for that," said the manager, but in his heart liked the patrician flavour, and on reading _the man of mind_ owned 'twas the best thing thornton had written, and promised to produce it shortly. by this time kilrush and antonia seemed old friends, and she looked back and thought how dull her life must have been before she knew him. he was the only man friend she had ever had except her father. she found his company ever so much more interesting than patty lester's, so that it was only for friendship's sake she ever went to the parlour over the piazza, or bade patty to a dish of tea in rupert buildings. patty opened her great brown eyes to their widest when she heard of kilrush's visits. "you jeer at my ancient admirers," she said, "and now you have got one with a vengeance!" "he is no admirer--only an old friend of my father's who likes to sit and talk with me." "is that all? he must be very fond of you to sit in a second floor parlour. he is one of the finest gentlemen in town, and the richest. my general told me all about him." "i thought that irish peers were seldom rich," tonia said carelessly, not feeling the faintest interest in her friend's fortune or position. "this one is; and he is something more than an irish landowner. his mother was an east india merchant's only child, and one of the richest heiresses in england. those indian merchants are rank thieves, the general says--thieves and slave-traders, and they used to bring home mountains of gold. but that was fifty years ago, in the good old times." "poor souls!" said tonia, thinking of the slaves. "what a cruel world it is!" it grieved her to think that her friend's wealth had so base a source. she questioned her father on their next meal together. "is it true that lord kilrush's grandfather was a slave-trader?" she asked. "'s'death, child, what put such trash in your head? miss lavenew was the daughter of a calcutta merchant who dealt with the native princes in gold and gems, and who owned a tenth share of the richest diamond mine in the east. 'tis the west indian merchants who sometimes take a turn at the black trade, rather than let their ships lie in harbour till they ground on their own beef-bones." it was a relief to know that her friend's fortune was unstained by blood. "i do not think he would exist under the burden of such a heritage," she said to herself, meditating upon the question in the long summer afternoons, while she sat with open windows, trying not to hear street cries, as she bent over an eastern story by voltaire, which she was translating for one of the magazines. kilrush came in before her task was finished, but she laid her pen aside gladly, and rose to take his hat and stick from him with her dutiful daughterly air, just as she did for her father. "nay, i will not have you wait upon me, when 'tis i should serve you on my knees, as queens are served," he said. it was seven o'clock, and he had come from a jacobite dinner in golden square--a dinner at which the champagne and burgundy had gone round freely before it came to drinking the king's health across a bowl of water. there was an unusual brightness in his eyes, and a faint flush upon cheeks that were more often pale. "i did not expect to see your lordship to-day," tonia said, repelled by his manner, so unlike the sober politeness to which he had accustomed her. "i thought you were going to tunbridge wells." "my coach was at the door at ten o'clock this morning, the postillions in their saddles, when i sent them all to the devil. i found 'twas impossible to leave this stifling town." "a return of your gout?" she asked, looking at him wonderingly. "no, madam, 'twas not my gout, as you call it, though i never owned to more than a transient twinge. 'twas a disease more deadly, a malady more killing." he made a step towards her, wanting to clasp her to his breast in the recklessness of a long suppressed passion, but drew back at the sound of a step on the stair. she looked at him still with the same open wonder. she could scarcely believe that this was kilrush, the friend she admired and revered. her father came in while she stood silent, perplexed, and distressed at the transformation. kilrush flung himself into an armchair with a muttered oath. then looking up, he caught the expression of tonia's face, and it sobered him. he had been talking wildly; had offended her, his divinity, the woman to win whom was the fixed purpose of his mind--to win her at his own price, which was a base one. he had been tactful hitherto, had gained her friendship, and in one unlucky moment he had dropped the mask, and it might be that she would trust him no more. "too soon, too soon," he told himself. "i have made her like me. i must make her love me before i play the lover." he let thornton talk while he sat in a gloomy silence. it wounded him to the quick to discover that she still thought of him as an elderly man, whose most dreaded misfortune was a fit of the gout. 'twas to sober age she had given her confidence. thornton had been with garrick, and had come home radiant. the play was to be put in rehearsal next week, with a magnificent cast. "but i fear your lordship is indisposed," he said, when kilrush failed to congratulate him on his good fortune. "my lordship suffers from a disease common to men who are growing old. i am sick of this petty life of ours, and all it holds." "i am sorry to hear you talk like one of the oxford methodists," said thornton. "it is their trick to disparage a world they have not the spirit or the fortune to enjoy." "they have their solatium in the kingdom of saints," said kilrush. "i dare not flatter myself with the hope of an elysium where i shall again be young and handsome, and capable of winning the woman i love." "nor do you fear any place of torment where the pleasing indiscretions of a stormy youth are to be purged with fire," retorted thornton, gaily. "no, i am like you--and miss thornton--i stake my all upon the only life i know and believe in." he glanced at tonia to see how the materialist's barren creed sat on her bright youth. she gave a thoughtful sigh, and her eyes looked dreamily out to the summer clouds sailing over wren's tall steeple. she was thinking that if she could have accepted mrs. potter's creed, and believed in a shining city above the clouds and the stars, it would have been sweet to hope for reunion with the mother whose face she could not remember, but whose sweetness and beauty her father loved to praise, even now after nineteen years of widowhood. "your lordship is out of spirits," said thornton. "tonia shall give us a dish of tea." "no, i will not be so troublesome. i am out of health and out of humour. miss thornton was right, i dare swear, when she suggested the gout--my gout--an old man's chronic malady. i have been dining with a crew of boisterous asses who won't believe the stuarts are beaten, in spite of the foolish heads that are blackening on temple bar. _j'ai le vin mauvais_, and am best at home." he kissed antonia's hand, that cold hand which had never thrilled at his touch, nodded good-bye to thornton, and hurried away. "kilrush is not himself to-day," said thornton. "i'm afraid he has been taking too much wine," said antonia. "he had the strangest manner, and said the strangest things." "what things?" "oh, a kind of wild nonsense that meant nothing." she was not accustomed to see any one under the influence of liquor. her father was, by long habit, proof against all effects of the nightly punch-bowl, and however late he came from "the portico," he had always his reasoning powers, and legs steady enough to carry him up two flights of stairs without stumbling. chapter v. a serious family. lord kilrush posted to tunbridge wells the day after the jacobite dinner, and found a herd of fine people he knew parading the pantiles, or sauntering on the common, among jews and germans, pinmakers' wives from smock alley, and rural squires with red-cheeked daughters. he drank the waters, and nearly died of _ennui_. he would have liked the place better if it had been a solitude. wit no longer aroused him, not even george selwyn's; beauty had ceased to charm, except in one face, and that was two and thirty miles away. that chronic weariness which he knew for the worst symptom of advancing years increased with every hour of fashionable rusticity. the air at the wells was delicious, the inn was comfortable, his physician swore that the treatment was improving his health. he left the place at an hour's notice, to the disgust of his body-servant, and posted back to town. he preferred the gloom of his great silent house in st. james's square, where he lived a hermit's life in his library when london was empty. in years gone by he had spent the summer and autumn in a round of country visits, diversified with excursions to châteaux in the environs of paris, and a winter at florence or rome, everywhere admired and in request. scarce a season had passed without rumours of his impending marriage with some famous beauty, or still more famous fortune. but for the last five or six years he had wearied of society, and had restricted his company to a few chosen friends, men of his own age, with whom he could rail at the follies of the new generation--men who had known bolingbroke in his day of power, and had entertained voltaire at their country seats in the year ' . were tonia's violet eyes the lodestars that drew him back to town? he was singing softly to himself as he walked up shooter's hill, being ever merciful to the brute creation, and loving horses and dogs better than he loved men. "thine eyes are lodestars and thy breath sweet air," he sang, twirling his clouded cane; and the thought that he would soon see those lovely eyes made him gay. but his first visit was not to rupert buildings. he knew that he had shocked and disgusted antonia, and that he must give her time to recover her old confidence. it had been but an impetuous movement, a waft of passionate feeling, when he stretched out his arms towards her, yearning to clasp her to his breast; but her fine instinct had told her that this was the lover and not the friend. he must give her time to think she had mistaken him. he must play the comedy of indifference. he ordered his favourite hack on the day after his return from the wells, and rode by westminster bridge, only opened in the previous autumn, to clapham, past kennington common, where poor jemmy dawson had suffered for his share in the rebellion of ' , by pleasant rustic roads where the perfume of roses exhaled from prosperous citizens' gardens, surrounding honest, square-built brick houses, not to be confounded with the villa, which then meant a demi-mansion on a classic model, secluded in umbrageous grounds, and not a flimsy bay-windowed packing-case in a row of similar packing-cases. clapham was then more rustic than haslemere is now, and the common was the elysian fields of wealthy city merchants and some persons of higher quality. the shrubberied drive into which kilrush rode was kept with an exquisite propriety, and those few flowering shrubs that bloom in september were unfolding their petals under an almost smokeless sky. he dismounted before a handsome house more than half a century old, built before the revolution, a solid, red-brick house with long narrow windows, and a handsome cornice, pediment, and cupola masking the shining black tiles of the low roof. a shell-shaped canopy, richly carved, and supported by cherubic brackets, sheltered the tall doorway. the open door offered a vista of garden beyond the hall, and kilrush walked straight through to the lawn, while his groom led the horses to the stable yard, a spacious quadrangle screened by intervening shrubberies. a middle-aged woman of commanding figure was seated at a table under the spreading branches of a plane with a young man, who rose hurriedly, and went to meet the visitor. the lady was mrs. stobart, the widow of a bristol ship-owner, and the young man was her only son, late of a famous dragoon regiment. both were dressed with a gloomy severity that set his lordship's teeth on edge, but both had a certain air of distinction not to be effaced by their plain attire. "this is very kind of your lordship," said george stobart, as they shook hands. "my mother told me you were at tunbridge wells. she saw your name in the _gazette_." "your mother was right, george; but the inanity of the place wore me out in a week, and i left before i had given the waters a chance of killing or curing me!" he kissed mrs. stobart's black mitten, and dropped into a chair at her side, after vouchsafing a distant nod to a young woman who sat at a pace or two from the table, sewing the seam of a coarse linen shirt, with her head discreetly bent. she raised a pair of mild brown eyes, and blushed rosy red as she acknowledged his lordship's haughty greeting, and he noticed that stobart went over to speak to her before he resumed his seat. there were some dishes of fruit on the table, mrs. stobart's work-basket and several books--the kind of books kilrush loathed, pamphlets in grey paper covers, sermons in grey boards, the literature of that great revival which had spread a wave of piety over the united kingdom, from john o' groat's to the land's end, and across the irish channel from the liffey to the shannon. mrs. stobart was his first cousin, the daughter of his father's elder sister and of sir michael macmahon, an irish judge. good looks ran in the blood of the delafields, and only two years ago kilrush had been proud of his cousin, who until that date was a distinguished figure in the fashionable assemblies of london and bath, and whose aquiline features and fine person were set off by powder and diamonds, and the floral brocades and flowing sacques which "that hateful woman," madame de pompadour, whom everybody of _ton_ abused and imitated, had brought into fashion. the existence of such women is, of course, a disgrace to civilization; but while their wicked reign lasts, persons of quality must copy their clothes. two years ago george stobart had been one of the most promising soldiers in his majesty's army, a man who loved his profession, who had distinguished himself as a subaltern at fontenoy, and was marked by his seniors for promotion. he had been also one of the best-dressed and best-mannered young men in london society, and at the bath and the wells a star of the first magnitude. what was he now? kilrush shuddered as he marked the change. "a sanctimonious prig," thought his lordship; "a creature of moods and hallucinations, who might be expected at any hour to turn lay preacher, and jog from surrey to cornwall on one of his superannuated chargers, bawling the blasphemous familiarities of the new school to the mob on rural commons, escaping by the skin of his teeth from the savages of the manufacturing districts, casting in his itinerant lot with whitefield and the wesleys." to kilrush such a transformation meant little short of lunacy. he was indignant at his kinsman's decadence; and when he gave a curt and almost uncivil nod to the poor dependent, bending over her plain needlework yonder betwixt sun and shade, it was because he suspected that pretty piece of lowborn pink-and-white to have some part in the change that had been wrought so suddenly. two years ago, at an evening service in john wesley's chapel at the old foundery, george stobart had been "convinced of sin." swift as the descent of the dove over the waters of the jordan had been the awakening of his conscience from the long sleep of boyhood and youth. in that awful moment the depth of his iniquity had been opened to him, and he had discovered the hollowness of a life without god in the world. he had looked along the backward path of years, and had seen himself a child, drowsily enduring the familiar liturgy, sleeping through the hated sermon; a lad at eton, making a jest of holy things, scorning any assumption of religion in his schoolfellows, insolent to his masters, arrogant and uncharitable, shirking everything that did not minister to his own pleasures or his own aims, studious only in the pursuit of selfish ambitions, dreaming of future greatness to be won amidst the carnage of battles as ruthless, as unnecessary, as malplaquet. and following those early years of self-love and impiety there had come a season of darker sins, of the sins which prosperous youth calls pleasure, sins that had sat so lightly on the slumbering conscience, but which filled the awakened soul with horror. his first impulse after that spiritual regeneration was to sell out of the army. this was the one tangible and irrevocable sacrifice that lay in his power. the more he loved a soldier's career, the more ardently he had aspired to military renown, the more obvious was the duty of renunciation. the treaty of aix-la-chapelle had but just been concluded, and the troubles in america had not begun, so there seemed no chance of his regiment being sent on active service, but his conduct seemed not the less extraordinary to his commanding officer. "do you do this to please your mother?" he asked. "no, sir; i do it to please christ." the colonel rapped his forehead significantly as stobart left the room. "another victim of the oxford methodists," he said. "if they are allowed to go on, england will be peopled with hare-brained enthusiasts, and we shall have neither soldiers nor sailors." mrs. stobart was furious with her son for his abandonment of a career in which she had expected him to win distinction. for some months after his "call" she had refused to speak to him, and had left him to his solitary meditations in his own rooms at stobart lodge. in this gloomy period they had met only at meals, and it had vexed her to see that her son took no wine, and refused all the daintier dishes upon the table, all those ragouts and salmis that adorned the board in sumptuous covered dishes of georgian silver, and which were the pride of cook and dinner-giver. "i give myself a useless trouble in looking at the bill of fare every morning," mrs. stobart said angrily, as the side dishes were removed untasted, breaking in upon a melancholy silence that had lasted from the soup to the game. "god knows i need little for myself; but you used to appreciate a good dinner." "i have learnt to appreciate higher things, madam." "i might as well order a leg of mutton and a suet pudding every day in the week." "indeed, my dear mother, i desire nothing better." "with a cook at forty guineas a year!" "dismiss her, and let the kitchen wench dress our simple meals." "and make myself a laughing-stock to my friends." "to your idle acquaintances only--friends esteem us for deeper reasons. ah, madam, if you would but hearken to the voices i hear, court the friends i love, you would scorn the worldling's life as i scorn it. to the heir of a boundless estate in the kingdom of heaven 'tis idle to waste thought and toil upon a trumpery speck of earth." "oh, those oxford methodists! you have caught their jargon. i am a good churchwoman, george, and i hate cant." "you are a good woman, madam. but what is it to be a good churchwoman? to attend a morning service once a week in a church where there is neither charity nor enthusiasm, upon whose dull decorum the hungry and the naked dare not intrude--a service that takes no cognizance of sinners, save in a formula that the lips repeat while the heart remains dead; to eat a cold dinner on the sabbath in order that your servants may join in the same heartless mockery of worship; to listen to the barren dogma of a preacher whose life you know for evil, and whose intellect you despise." mother and son had many such conversations--oases in a desert of sullen silence--before mrs. stobart's conversion; but that conversion came at last, partly by the preaching of john wesley, whom her son worshipped, and partly by the influence of lady huntingdon and other ladies of birth and fortune, whose example appealed to the fashionable maria stobart as no meaner example could have done. she began to think less scornfully of the great revival when she found her equals in rank among the most ardent followers of whitefield and the wesleys: and within a year of her son's awakening she, too, became convinced of sin, the firstfruits of which conversion were shown by the dismissal of her forty-guinea cook, her second footman, the third stable servant, and the sale of a fine pair of carriage-horses. she had even contemplated dispensing with her own maid, but was prevented by a sense of her patrician incapability of getting into her clothes or out of them without help. she made, perhaps, a still greater sacrifice by changing her dressmaker from a parisienne in st. james's to a woman at kennington, who worked for the quaker families on denmark hill. after about ten minutes' conversation with this lady, of whose mental capacity he had but a poor opinion, lord kilrush invited her son to a turn in the fruit garden--a garden planned fifty years before, and maintained in all the perfection of espaliered walks and herbacious borders, masking the spacious area devoted to celery, asparagus, and the homelier vegetables. high brick walls, heavily buttressed, surmounted this garden on three sides, the fourth side being divided from lawn and parterre by a ten-foot yew hedge. at the further end, making a central point in the distance, there was a handsome red-brick orangery, flanked on either side by a hothouse, while at one angle of the wall an octagonal summer-house of two stories overlooked the whole, and afforded an extensive view of the open country across the river, from notting hill to harrow. established wealth and comfort could hardly find a better indication than in this delightful garden. "upon my soul," cried kilrush, "you have a little paradise in this _rus in urbe!_ come, george, i am glad to see you look so well in health, and i hope soon to be gratified by seeing you make an end of your crazy life, and return to a world you were created to serve and adorn. if the army will not please you, there is the political arena open to every young man of means and talent. i should like to see your name rank with the townsends and the pelhams before i die." "i have no taste for politics, sir; and for my crazy life, sure it lasted seven and twenty years, and came to a happy ending two years ago." "nine and twenty! faith, george, that's too old for foolery. john wesley was a lad at college, and whitefield was scarce out of his teens when he gave himself up to these pious hallucinations; and they were both penniless youths who must needs begin their journey without scrip or sack. but you, a man of fortune, a soldier, one of the young heroes of fontenoy, that you could be caught by the rhapsodies that carry away a london mob of shop-boys and servant-wenches, or a throng of semi-savage coal-miners at kingswood, in that contagion of enthusiasm to which crowds are subject--that _you_ could turn methodist! pah, it makes me sick to think of your folly!" "perhaps some day your lordship will come over and help us. after my mother's conversion there is no heart so stubborn that i should despair of its being changed." "your mother is a fool! well, i don't want to quarrel with you, so we'll argue no further. after all, in a young man these follies are but passing clouds. had you not taken so serious a step as to leave the army i should scarcely have vexed myself on your account. by the way, who is that seamstress person i saw sitting on the lawn, and whom i have seen here before to-day?" his eyes were on george's face, and the conscious flush he expected to see passed over the young man's cheek and brow as he spoke. "she is a girl whose conscience was awakened in the same hour that saw my redemption; she is my twin-sister in christ." "that i can understand," said kilrush, with the air of humouring a madman, "but why the devil do i find her established here?" "she is the daughter of a journeyman printer, her mother a drunkard and her father an atheist. her home was a hell upon earth. her case had been brought before mr. wesley, who was touched by her unaffected piety. i heard her history from his lips, and made it my duty to rescue her from her vile associations." "how came you by the knowledge of your spiritual twinship?" "she was seated near me in the meeting-house, and i was the witness of her agitation, of the pentecostal flame that set her spirit on fire; i saw her fall from the bench, with her forehead bent almost to the floor on which she knelt. her whole frame was convulsed with sobs which she strove with all her might to restrain. i tried to raise her from the ground, but her ice-cold hand repulsed mine, and the kneeling figure was as rigid as if it had been marble." "a cataleptic seizure, perhaps. your brotherhood of the foundery has much to answer for." "it has many to answer for," george retorted indignantly--"thousands of souls rescued from satan." "had that meek-looking young woman been one of his votaries? if so, i wonder your mother consented to harbour her. it is one thing to entertain angels unawares, but knowingly to receive devils----" "scoff as you will, sir, but do not slander a virtuous girl because she happens to be of low birth." "if she was not a sinner, why this convulsion of remorse for sin? i cannot conceive the need of self-humiliation in youth that has never gone astray." "does your lordship think it is enough to have lived what the world calls a moral life, never to have been caught in the toils of vice? the fall from virtue is a terrible thing; but there is a state of sin more deadly than mary magdalen's. there is the sin of the infidel who denies christ; there is the sin of the ignorant and the unthinking, who has lived aloof from god. it was to the conviction of such a state that lucy foreman was awakened that night." "did you enter into conversation with her after the--the remarkable experience?" asked kilrush, with a cynical devilry lighting his dark grey eyes as he watched his young kinsman's face. it was a fine frank face, with well-cut features and eyes of the same dark grey as his lordship's, a face that had well become the dragoon's roman headgear, and which had a certain poetical air to-day with the unpowdered brown hair thrown carelessly back from the broad forehead. "no, it was not till long after that night that i introduced myself to her. it was not till after my mother's conversion that i could hope to win her friendship for this recruit of christ. i had heard lucy's story in the mean-time, and i knew that she was worthy of all that our friendship could do for her." "and you persuaded your mother to take her into her service?" "she is not a servant," george said quickly. "what else?" "she is useful to my mother--works with her needle, attends to the aviary, and to the flowers in the drawing-room----" "all that sounds like a servant." "we do not treat her as a servant." "does she sit at table with you?" "no. she has her meals in the housekeeper's room. it is my mother's arrangement, not mine." "you would have her at the same table with the granddaughter of the seventeenth baron kilrush?" "i have ceased to consider petty distinctions. to me the premier duke is of no more importance than lucy foreman's infidel father--a soul to be saved or lost." "george," said kilrush, gravely, "let me tell you, as your kinsman and friend, that you are in danger of making a confounded mess of your life." "i don't follow you." "oh yes, you do. you know very well what i mean. you have played the fool badly enough already, by selling your commission. but there are lower depths of folly. when a man begins to talk as you do, and to hanker after some pretty bit of plebeian pink-and-white, one knows which way he is drifting." he paused, expecting an answer, but george walked beside him in a moody silence. "there is one mistake which neither fate nor the world ever forgives in a man," pursued kilrush, "and that is an ignoble marriage; it is an error whose consequences stick to him for the whole course of his life, and he can no more shake off the indirect disadvantages of the act than he can shake off his lowborn wife and her lowborn kin. i will go further, george, and say that if you make such a marriage i will never forgive you, never see your face again." "your lordship's threats are premature. i have not asked your permission to marry, and i have not given you the slightest ground for supposing that i contemplate marriage." "oh yes, you have. that young woman yonder is ground enough for my apprehension. you would not have intruded her upon your home if you were not _épris_. take a friendly counsel from a man of the world, george, and remember that although my title dies with me, my fortune is at my disposal, and that you are my natural heir." "oh, sir, that would be the very last consideration to influence me." "sure i know you are stubborn and hot-headed, or you would not have abandoned a soldier's career without affording me the chance to dissuade you. i came here to-day on purpose to give you this warning. 'twas my duty, and i have done it." he gave a sigh of relief, as if he had flung off a troublesome burden. as they turned to go back to the lawn, lucy foreman came to meet them--a slim figure of medium height, a pretty mouth and a _nez retroussé_, reddish brown hair with a ripple in it, the pink and white of youth in her complexion; but her feet and ankles, her hands and her ears, the "points," to which the connoisseur's eye looked, had a certain coarseness. "not even a casual strain of blue blood here," thought kilrush; "but 'tis true i have seen duchesses as coarsely moulded." she had come at her mistress's order to invite them to a dish of tea on the lawn. kilrush assented, though it was but five o'clock, and he had not dined. they walked by the damsel's side to the table under the plane, where the tea-board was set ready. having given expression to his opinion, his lordship was not disinclined to become better acquainted with this helen of the slums, so that he might better estimate his cousin's peril. she resumed her distant chair and her needlework, as kilrush and george sat down to tea, and was not invited to share that elegant refreshment. the young man's vexed glance in her direction would have been enough to betray his _penchant_ for the humble companion. mrs. stobart forgot herself so far as to question her cousin about some of the fine people whose society she had renounced. "though i no longer go to their houses i have not ceased to see them," she said. "we meet at lady huntingdon's. lady chesterfield and lady coventry are really converts; but i fear most of my former friends resort to that admirable woman's assemblies out of curiosity rather than from a searching for the truth." "her _protégé_, whitefield, has had as rapid a success as garrick or barry," said kilrush. "he is a powerful orator of a theatrical type, and not to have heard him preach is to be out of the fashion. i myself stood in the blazing sun at moorfields to hear him, when he first began to be cried up; but having heard him i am satisfied. the show was a fine show, but once is enough." "there are but too many of your stamp, kilrush. some good seed must ever fall on stony places; yet the harvest has been rich enough to reward those who toil in the vineyard--rich in promise of a day when there shall be no more railing and no more doubt." "and when the lion shall lie down with the lamb, and frederick and maria theresa shall love each other like brother and sister, and france shall be satisfied with less than half the earth," said kilrush, lightly. "you have a pretty little maid yonder," he added in a lower voice, when george had withdrawn from the tea-table, and seemed absorbed in a book. "she is not my maid, she is a brand snatched from the burning. i am keeping her till i can place her in some household where she will be safe herself, and a well-spring of refreshing grace for those with whom she lives." "and in the mean time, don't you think there may be a certain danger for your son in such close proximity with a pretty girl--of that tender age?" "my son! danger for my son in the society of a journeyman's daughter--a girl who can but just read and write? my good kilrush, i am astounded that you could entertain such a thought." "i'm glad you consider my apprehensions groundless," said his lordship, stifling a yawn as he rose to take leave. "poor silly woman," he thought. "well, i have done my duty. but it would have been wiser to omit that hint to the mother. if she should plague her son about his _penchant_, ten to one 'twill make matters worse. an affair of that kind thrives on opposition." chapter vi. a woman who could say no. lord kilrush allowed nearly a month to elapse before he reappeared in rupert buildings. he had absented himself in the hope that antonia would miss his company; and her bright smile of welcome told him that his policy had been wise. she had, indeed, forgotten the sudden gust of passion that had scared her by a suggestion of strangeness in the friend she had trusted. she had been very busy since that evening. her father's play was in rehearsal, and while thornton spent his days at drury lane and his nights at "the portico," she had to do most of his magazine work, chiefly translations of essays or tales by voltaire or diderot, and even to elaborate such scraps of news as he brought her for the _st. james's, lloyd's,_ or the _evening post,_ all which papers opened their columns to gossip about the town. "what the devil has become of kilrush?" thornton had ejaculated several times. "he used to bring me the last intelligence from white's and the cocoa tree." he had called more than once in st. james's square during the interval, but had not succeeded in seeing his friend and patron. and now kilrush reappeared, with as easy a friendliness as if there had been no break in his visits. he brought a posy of late roses for antonia, the only offering he ever made her whom he would fain have covered with jewels richer than stud the thrones of indian emperors. "'tis very long since we have seen your lordship," tonia said, as he seated himself on the opposite side of the pembroke table that was spread with her papers and books. "if my father had not called at your house and been told that you were in fairly good health we should have feared you were ill, since we know we have done nothing to offend you." her sweet simplicity of speech, the directness of her lovely gaze smote him to the heart. still--still she trusted him, still treated him as if he had been a benevolent uncle, while his heart beat high with a passion that it was a struggle to hide. yet he was not without hope, for in her confiding sweetness he saw signs of a growing regard. "and was i indeed so happy as to be missed by you?" "we missed you much--you have been so kind to my father, bringing him the news of the town; and you have been still kinder to me in helping me with your criticism of our comedy." "'twas a privilege to advise so intelligent an author. i have been much occupied since i saw you last, and concerned about a cousin of mine who is in a bad way." "i hope he is not ill of the fever that has been so common of late." "no, 'tis not a bodily sickness. his fever is the methodist rant. he has taken the new religion." "poor man!" said tonia, with good-humoured scorn. she had heard none of the new preachers; but all she had been told, or had read about them, appealed to her sense of the ridiculous. she had been so imbued with the contempt for all religious observances, that she could feel nothing but a wondering pity for people whose thoughts and lives could be influenced by a two-hours' sermon in the open air. to this young votaress of pure reason the enthusiasm of crowds seemed a fanatical possession tending towards a cell in bedlam. "unhappily, the disease is complicated by another fever, for the fellow is in love with a simpering piece of prettiness that he and his mother have picked out of a moorfields' gutter; and my apprehension is that this disciple of evangelical humility will forget that he is a gentleman and marry a housemaid." "would you be very angry with him?" "yes, miss thornton; and he would feel the consequences of my anger to his dying day--for, so far as my fortune goes, i should leave him a beggar." "has he no fortune of his own?" "i believe he has a pittance--a something in the funds left him by an uncle on his father's side. but his mother's estate is at her own disposal; she is a handsome woman still, and may cheat him by a second marriage." "do you think it so great a crime for a gentleman to marry his inferior?" "oh, i have old-fashioned notions, perhaps. i think a man of good family should marry in his own rank, if he can't marry above it. he should never have to apologize for his wife, or for her kindred. 'tis a foolish irish pride that we delafields have cherished; but up to this present hour there is not a label upon our family tree that i am ashamed to recall." "i think my father told me that your lordship's wife was a duke's daughter." "my wife was a----" he had started to his feet at tonia's speech, in angry agitation. he had never been able to forgive the wife who had disgraced him, or to think of her with common charity, though he had carried off his mortification with a well-acted indifference, and though it was ten years since that frail offender had come to the end of her wandering in a cemetery outside the walls of florence. "miss thornton, for god's sake let us talk of pleasant things, not of wives or husbands. marriage is the gate of hell." "sure, my lord, there must be happy marriages." "enough to serve as baits to hook fools. i grant you there are marriages that seem happy--nay, i will say that are happy--but 'tis not the less a fact that to chain a man and woman to each other for life is the way to make them the deadliest enemies. the marriage bond was invented to keep estates together, not to bind hearts." tonia listened with a thoughtful air, but gave no sign of assent. "surely you must agree with me," he continued--"you who have been taught to take a philosophical view of life." "i have never applied my philosophy to the subject; but my comedy ends with a happy marriage. i should be sorry to think that 'twas like a fairy tale, and that there are no lovers as noble as dorifleur, no women as happy as rosalia." "it _is_ a fairy tale, dear madam; 'tis the unlikeness to life that charms us. we go to the play on purpose to be deluded by pictures of impossible felicity--men of never-to-be-shaken valour, women of incorruptible virtue, shadows that please us in a three-hours' dream, and which have no parallels in flesh and blood." "for my own part i am disinterested, for 'tis unlikely i shall ever marry." "do not. if you would be virtuous, remain free. it is the bond that makes the dishonour." antonia looked at him with a puzzled air, slow to follow his drift. he saw that he had gone too far, and was in danger of displeasing her. "what curious creatures women are!" he thought. "here is an avowed infidel who seems inexpressibly shocked because i decry the marriage ceremony. what formalists they are at best! if they are not in fear of the day of judgment they tremble at the notion of being ill-spoken of by their neighbours. i'll warrant this sweet girl is as anxious to keep her landlady's good opinion as george whitefield is to go to heaven." he talked to her of the comedy. it was to be acted on the following monday. "i have secured a side-box, and i count upon being honoured with the company of the joint authors," he said. tonia's eyes sparkled at the thought of her triumph. to have her words spoken by david garrick--by the lovely mrs. pritchard--to sit unseen in the shadow of the curtained side-box, while her daydreams took form and substance in the light of the oil lamps! "my father and i will be proud to have such good places," she said. "we usually sit at the back of the pit when mr. garrick is kind enough to give us a pass. father has given me a silk gown from hilditch's in the city, the first i have had." "if you would suffer me to add a pearl necklace," cried kilrush, thinking of a certain string of oriental pearls which was almost an heirloom, and which he remembered on his mother's neck forty years ago. he had taken the red morocco case out of an iron coffer not long since, and had looked at the ornament, longing to clasp it round tonia's throat. the hands that held the case trembled a little as he imagined the moment when he should fasten the diamond clasp on that exquisite neck. "you are too generous, sir. i take gifts from no one but my father, except, indeed, the roses you are so kind as to bring me." "happy roses, to win acceptance where pearls are scorned! the necklace was my mother's, and has been wasting in darkness for near half a century. she died before i went to eton. would you but let me lend it to you--only to air the pearls." "no, no, no; no borrowed finery! i should hate to play the daw in peacocks' feathers." "you are a contradictory creature, madam; but you would have to be more cruel and more cutting than a north-east wind before i would quarrel with you." his lordship's visits now became more frequent than at first; and tonia received him with unvarying kindness, whether he found her alone or in her father's company. her calm assurance was so strangely in advance of her years and position that he could but think she owed it to having mixed so little with her own sex, and thus having escaped all taint of self-consciousness or coquetry. she listened to his opinions with respect, but was not afraid to argue with him. she made no secret of her pleasure in his society, and owned to finding the afternoons or evenings vastly dull on which he did not appear. "i should miss you still more if i had not my translating work," she said; "but that keeps me busy and amused." "and you find that old dry-as-dust voltaire amusing!" "i never find him dry as dust. he is my father's favourite author." the comedy was well received, and thornton was made much of by mr. garrick and all the actors. no one was informed of antonia's share in the work, or suspected that the handsome young woman in a yellow silk sacque had so much to do with the success of the evening. patty lester triumphed in her brief but effective _rôle_ of a tomboy younger sister, an improvement on the conventional confidante, and was rapturously grateful to mr. thornton, and more than ever reproachful of antonia for deserting her. "you have taken an aversion to the piazza," she said with an offended air. "on my honour, no, patty; but i have been so constantly occupied in helping my father." "i shall scold him for making a slave of you." "no, no, you must not. be sure that i love you, even if i do not go to see you." "but i am not sure. i cannot be sure. you have grown distant of late, and more of a fine lady than you was last year." antonia blushed, and promised to take tea with her friend next day. she was conscious of a certain distaste for patty's company, but still more for patty's casual visitors; but the chief influence had been kilrush's urgent objections to the young actress's society. "i aver nothing against the creature's morality," he said; "but she is a mercenary little devil, and encourages any coxcomb who will substantiate his flatteries with a present. i have watched her at the side-scenes with a swarm of such gadflies buzzing round her. on my soul, dear miss thornton, 'twould torture me to think of you the cynosure of miss lester's circle." tonia laughed off the warning, swore she was very fond of patty, and would on no account desert her. "i hope you do not think i can value fools above their merits when i have the privilege of knowing a man of sense like your lordship," she said, and the easy tone of her compliment chilled him, as all her friendly speeches did. alas! would she ever cease to trust him as a friend, and begin to fear him as a lover? "it is my age that makes my case hopeless," he thought, musing upon this love which had long since become the absorbing subject of his meditations. "if i had been twenty years younger how easily might i have won her, for 'tis so obvious she loves my company. she sparkles and revives at my coming, like a drooping flower at a sprinkle of summer rain. but, oh, how wide the difference between loving my company and loving me! shall i ever bridge the abyss? shall i ever see those glorious eyes droop under my gaze, that transcendent form agitated by a heart that passion sets beating?" again and again he found her alone among her books and manuscripts, for thornton, being now flush of money, spent most of his time abroad. he sported a new suit, finer than any his daughter had ever seen him wear, and had an air of rakish gaiety that shocked her. the comedy seemed a gold mine, for he had always a guinea at command. he no longer allowed his daughter to fetch and carry between him and his employers. she must trapes no more along the familiar strand to fleet street. he employed a messenger for this vulgar drudgery. he urged her to buy herself new hats and gowns, and to put her toilet on a handsome footing. "sure, so lovely a girl ought to set off her beauty," he said. "dear sir, i would rather see you save your money against sickness or----" she was going to say "old age," but checked herself, with a tender delicacy. "hang saving! i had never a miser's temper. davy shall take our next play. you had best stick to spanish, and find me a plot in de vega or moratin, and not plague yourself about scraping a guinea or two." 'twas heavenly fine weather and more than a year since kilrush and antonia first met at mrs. mandalay's ball; and the close friendship between the _blasé_ worldling and the inexperienced girl had become a paramount influence in the life of each. the hours antonia spent in his lordship's company were the happiest she had ever known, and the days when he did not come had a grey dulness that was a new sensation. the sound of his step on the stair put her in good spirits, and she was all smiles when he entered the room. "i swear you have the happiest disposition," he said one day; "your face radiates sunshine." "oh, but i have my dull hours." "indeed! and when be they?" "when you are not here." her bright and fearless outlook as she said the words showed him how far she was from divining a passion that had grown and strengthened in every hour of their companionship. they talked of every subject under the sun. he had travelled much, as travelling went in those days; had read much, and had learnt still more from intercourse with the brightest minds of the age. he showed her the better side of his nature, the man he might have been had he never abandoned himself to the vices that the world calls pleasures. they talked often about religion; and though he had cast in his lot with the deists before he left oxford, it shocked him to find a young and innocent woman lost to all sense of natural piety. her father had trained her to scorn all creeds, and to rank the christian faith no higher than the most revolting or the most imbecile superstitions of india or the south seas. she had read voltaire before she read the gospel; and that inexorable pen had cast a blight over the sacred pages, and infused the poison of a malignant satire into the fountain of living waters. kilrush praised her independence of spirit, and exulted in the thought that a woman who believed in nothing had nothing to lose outside the region of material advantages, and, convinced of this, felt sure that he could make her life happy. and thus, seeing himself secure of her liking, he flung the fatal die and declared his love. they were alone together in the june afternoon, as they so often were. he had met thornton at the entrance to the court, trudging off to adelphi terrace, to wait upon mr. garrick; so he thought himself secure of an hour's _tête-à-tête_. she welcomed him with unconcealed pleasure, pushed aside her papers, took the bunch of roses that he carried her with her prettiest curtsey, and then busied herself in arranging the nosegay in a willow-pattern worcester bowl, while he laid down his hat and cane, and took his accustomed seat by her writing-table. they were cabbage roses, and made a great mass of glowing pink above the dark blue of the bowl. she looked at them delightedly, handled them with delicate touch, fingers light as titania's, and then stopped in the midst of her pleasant task, surprised at his silence. "how pale your lordship looks! i hope you are not ill?" he stretched out his hand and caught hers, wet and perfumed with the roses. "antonia, my love, my divinity, this comedy of friendship must end. dear girl, do you not know that i adore you?" she tried to draw her hand from his grasp, and looked at him with unutterable astonishment, but not in anger. "you are surprised! did you think that i could come here day after day, for a year--see you and hear you, be your friend and companion--and not love you? by heaven, child, you must have thought me the dullest clay that ever held a human soul, if you could think so." she looked at him still, mute and grave, deep blushes dyeing her cheeks, and her eyes darkly serious. "indeed, your lordship, i have never thought of you but as of a friend whose kindness honoured me beyond my deserts. your rank, and the difference of our ages, prevented me from thinking of you as a suitor." he started, and dropped her hand; and his face, which had flushed as he talked to her, grew pale again. "great god!" he thought, "she takes my avowal of love for an offer of marriage." he would not have her deceived in his intentions for an instant. he had not always been fair and above-board in his dealings with women; but to this one he could not lie. "your suitor, in the vulgar sense of the word, i can never be, antonia," he said gravely. "twenty years ago, when my wife eloped with the friend i most trusted, and when i discovered that i had been a twelve-months' laughing-stock for the town--by one section supposed the complacent husband, by another the blind fool i really was--in that hateful hour i swore that i would never again give a woman the power of dishonouring my name. my heart might break from a jilt's ill-usage--but _that_, the name which belongs not to me only, but to all of my race who have borne it in the past or who will bear it in the future--that should be out of the power of woman's misconduct. and so to you whom i love with a passion more profound, more invincible than this heart ever felt for another since it began to beat, i cannot offer a legal tie; but i lay my adoring heart, my life, my fortune at your feet, and i swear to cleave to you and honour you with a constant and devoted affection which no husband upon this earth can surpass." he tried to take her hand again, but she drew herself away from him with a superb gesture of mingled surprise and scorn. "there was nothing further from my mind than that you could desire to marry me, except that you should wish to degrade me," she said in a voice graver than his own. her face was colourless, but she stood erect and firm, and had no look of swooning. "degrade you? do you call it degradation to be the idol of my life, to be the beloved companion of a man who can lavish all this world knows of luxury and pleasure upon your lot, who will carry you to the fairest spots of earth, show you all that is noblest in art and nature, all that makes the bliss of intelligent beings, who will protect your interests by the most generous settlements ever made by a lover?" "oh, my lord, stop your inventory of temptation!" exclaimed antonia. "the price you offer is extravagant, but i am not for sale. i thought you were my friend--indeed, for me you had become a dear and cherished friend. i was deceived, cruelly deceived! i shall know better another time when a man of your rank pretends to offer me the equality of friendship!" there were tears in her eyes in spite of her courage, in which roman virtue she far surpassed the average woman. "curse my rank!" he cried angrily. "it is myself i offer--myself and all that i hold of worldly advantages. what can my name matter to you--to you of all women, friendless and alone in the world, your existence unknown to more than some half-dozen people? _i_ stand on a height where the arrows of ridicule fly thick and fast. were i to marry a young woman--i who was deceived and deserted by a handsome wife before i was thirty--you cannot conceive what a storm of ridicule i should provoke, how selwyn would coruscate with wit at my expense, and horry walpole scatter his contemptuous comments on my folly over half the continent of europe. i suffered that kind of agony once--knew myself the target of all the wits and slanderers in london. i will not suffer it again!" he was pacing the room, which was too small for the fever of his mind. to be refused without an instant's hesitation, as if he had tried to make a queen his mistress! to be scorned by bill thornton's daughter--thornton, the old jail-bird whom he had helped to get out of prison--the fellow who had been sponging on him more or less for a score of years, most of all in this last year! he looked back at his conquests of the past. how triumphant, how easy they were; and what trumpery victories they seemed, as he recalled them in the bitterness of his disappointment to-day. tonia stood by the open window, listening mechanically to the roll of wheels which rose and fell in the distance with a rhythmical monotony, like the sound of a summer sea. kilrush stopped in his angry perambulation, saw her in tears, and flew to her side on the instant. "my beloved girl, those tears inspire me with hope. if you were indifferent you would not weep." "i weep for the death of our friendship," she answered sorrowfully. "you should smile at the birth of our love. great heaven! what is there to stand between us and consummate bliss?" "your own resolve, my lord. you are determined to take no second wife; and i am determined to be no man's mistress. be sure that in all our friendship i never thought of marriage, nor of courtship--i never angled for a noble husband. but when you profess yourself my lover, i must needs give you a plain answer." "tonia, surely your soul can rise above trivial prejudices! you who have boldly avowed your scorn of churchmen and their creeds, who have neither hope of heaven nor fear of hell, can you think the tie between a man and woman who love as we do--yes, dearest, i protest you love me--can you believe that bond more sacred for being mumbled by a priest, or stronger for being scrawled in a parish register? by heaven, i thought you had a spirit too lofty for vulgar superstitions!" "there is one superstition i shall ever hold by--the belief that there are honest women in the world." "pshaw, child! be but true to the man who adores you, and you will be the honestest of your sex. fidelity to her lover is honour in woman; and she is the more virtuous who is constant without being bound. nance oldfield, the honestest woman i ever knew, never wore a wedding-ring." "i think, sir," she began in a low and earnest voice that thrilled him, "there are two kinds of women--those who can suffer a life of shame, and those who cannot." "say rather, madam, that there are women with hearts and women without. you are of the latter species. under the exquisite lines of the bosom i worship nature has placed a block of ice instead of a heart." a street cry went wailing by like a dirge, "strawberries, ripe strawberries. who'll buy my strawberries?" kilrush wiped the cold dampness from his forehead, and resumed his pacing up and down, then stopped suddenly and surveyed the room, flinging up his hands in a passionate horror. "good god! that you should exist in such a hovel as this, while my great empty house waits for you, while my coach-and-six is ready to carry us on the road to an italian paradise! there is a villa at fiesole, on a hill above florence. oh, to have you there in the spring sunshine, among the spring flowers, all my own, my sweet companion, _animæ dimidium meæ,_ the dearer half of my soul. antonia, if you are obstinate and reject me, you will drive me mad!" he dropped into a chair, with his head averted from her, and hid his face in his hands. she saw his whole frame shaken by his sobs. she had never seen a man cry before, and the spectacle unnerved her. if she could have yielded--if that stubborn pride of womanhood, which was her armour against the tempter, could have given way, it would have been at the sight of his tears. for a moment her lot trembled in the balance. she longed to kneel at his feet, to promise him anything he could ask rather than to see his distress; but pride came to the rescue. choking with tears, she rushed to the door. "farewell, sir," she sobbed; "farewell for ever." she ran downstairs to the bottom of the house, and to mrs. potter's parlour behind the kitchen, empty at this hour, where she threw herself upon the narrow horsehair sofa, and sobbed heart-brokenly. yet even in the midst of her weeping she listened for the familiar step upon the stairs above, and for the opening and shutting of the street door. it was at least ten minutes before she heard kilrush leave the house, and then his footfall was so heavy that it sounded like a stranger's. chapter vii. pride conquers love. except the awful, the inexorable blank that death leaves in the heart of the mourner, there is no vacancy of mind more agonizing than that which follows the defeat of a lover and the sudden cessation of an adored companionship. to kilrush the whole world seemed of one dull grey after he had lost antonia. the town, the company of which he had long been weary, now became actually hateful, and his only desire was to rush to some remote spot of earth where the very fact of distance might help him to forget the woman he loved. a man of a softer nature would have yielded to his charmer's objections, and sacrificed his pride to his love; but with kilrush, pride--long-cherished pride of race and name--and a certain stubborn power of will prevailed over inclination. he suffered, but was resolute. he told himself that antonia was cold and calculating, and unworthy of a generous passion like his. she counted, perhaps, on conquering his resolve, and making him marry her; and he took a vindictive pleasure in the thought of her vexation as the days went by without bringing him to her feet. "farewell for ever," she had cried, yet had hoped, perhaps, to see him return to her to-morrow, like some small country squire, who thinks all england will be outraged if he marry beneath his rural importance, yet yields to an irresistible love for the miller's daughter or the village barmaid. "i have lived through too many fevers to die of this one," kilrush thought, and braced his nerves to go on living, though all the colour seemed washed out of his life. while his heart was being lacerated by anger and regret, he was surprised by the appearance of his cousin, the _ci-devant_ captain of dragoons, of whose existence he had taken no account since his afternoon visit to clapham. he was in his library, a large room at the back of the house, looking into a small garden shadowed by an old brick wall, and overlooked by the back windows of pall mall, which looked down into it as into a green well. the room was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and the favourite calf binding of those days made a monotone of sombre brown, suggestive of gloom, even on a summer day, when the scent of stocks and mignonette was blown in through the open windows. kilrush received his kinsman with cold civility. not even in the splendour of his court uniform had george stobart looked handsomer than to-day in his severely cut grey cloth coat and black silk waistcoat. there was a light in his eyes, a buoyant youthfulness in his aspect, which kilrush observed with a pang of envy. ah, had he been as young, fate and antonia might have been kinder. george put down his hat, and took the chair his cousin indicated, chilled somewhat by so distant a greeting. "i saw in _lloyd's evening post_ that your lordship intended starting for the continent," he began, "and i thought it my duty to wait upon you before you left town." "you are very good--and lloyd is very impertinent--to take so much trouble about my movements. yes, george, i am leaving england." "do you go far, sir?" "paris will be the first stage of my journey." "and afterwards?" "and afterwards? kamschatka, perhaps, or--hell! i am fixed on nothing but to leave a town i loathe." george looked inexpressibly shocked. "i fear your lordship is out of health," he faltered. "fear nothing, hope nothing about me, sir; i am inclined to detest my fellow-men. if you take that for a symptom of sickness, why then i am indeed out of health." "i am sorry i do not find you in happier spirits, sir, for i had a double motive in waiting on you." "so have most men--in all they do. well, sir?" kilrush threw himself back in his chair, and waited his cousin's communication with no more interest in his countenance or manner than if he were awaiting a petition from one of his footmen. nothing could be more marked than the contrast between the two men, though their features followed the same lines, and the hereditary mark of an ancient race was stamped indelibly on each. a life of passionate excitement, self-will, pride, had wasted the form and features of the elder, and made him look older than his actual years. yet in those attenuated features there was such exquisite refinement, in that almost colourless complexion such a high-bred delicacy, that for most women the elder face would have been the more attractive. there was a pathetic appeal in the countenance of the man who had lived his life, who had emptied the cup of earthly joys, and for whom nothing remained but decay. the young man's highest graces were his air of frankness and high courage, and his soldierly bearing, which three years among the methodists had in no wise lessened. he had, indeed, in those years been still a soldier of the church militant, and had stood by john wesley's side on more than one occasion when the missiles of a howling mob flew thick and fast around that hardy itinerant, and when riot threatened to end in murder. "well, sir, your second motive--your _arrière pensée?_" kilrush exclaimed impatiently, the young man having taken up his hat again, and being engaged in smoothing the beaver with a hand that shook ever so slightly. "you told me nearly a year ago, sir," he began, hardening himself for the encounter, "that you would never forgive me if i married my inferior--my inferior in the world's esteem, that is to say--an inferiority which i do not admit." "hang your admissions, sir! i perfectly remember what i said to you, and i hope you took warning by it, and that my aunt found another place for her housemaid." "your warning came too late. i had learnt to esteem lucy foreman at her just value. the housemaid, as your lordship is pleased to call her, is now my wife." "then, sir, since you know my ultimatum, what the devil brings you to this house?" "i desired that you should hear what i have done from my lips, not from the public press." "you are monstrous civil! well, i am not going to waste angry words upon you, but your name will come out of my will before i sleep; and from to-day we are strangers. i can hold no intercourse with a man who disgraces his name by a beggarly marriage. by heaven, sir, if i loved to distraction, if my happiness, my peace, my power to endure this wretched life, depended upon my winning the idol of my soul, i would not give my name to a woman of low birth or discreditable connections!" he struck his clenched fist upon the table in front of him with a wild vehemence that took his cousin's breath away; then, recovering his composure, he asked coldly-- "does your pious mother approve this folly, sir, and take your housemaid-wife to her heart?" "my mother has shown a most unchristian temper. she has forbidden me her house, and swears to disinherit me. to have forfeited her affection will be ever my deep regret; but i can support the loss of her fortune." "indeed! are you so vastly rich from other resources?" "i have two hundred a year in india stock--my uncle matthew's bequest, and lucy's good management promises to make this income enough for our home--a cottage near richmond, where we have a garden and all the rustic things my lucy loves." "having been reared in an alley near moorfields! i wonder how long her love of the country will endure wet days and dark nights, and remoteness from shops and market? oh, you are still in your honeymoon, sir, and your sky is all blue. you must wait a month or two before you will discover how much you are to be pitied, and that i was your true friend when i cautioned you against this madness. good day to you, mr. stobart, and be good enough to forget that we have ever called each other cousins." george rose, and bowed his farewell. the porter was in the hall ready to open the door for him. he looked round the great gloomy hall with a contemptuous smile as he passed out. "john wesley's house at the foundery is more cheerful than this," he thought. kilrush sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped above his head in a melancholy silence. "which is the madman, he or i?" he asked himself. * * * * * the preparation for his continental journey occupied lord kilrush for a fortnight, during which time he waited with a passionate longing for some sign of relenting from antonia; and in all those empty days his mind was torn by the strife between inclination and a stubborn resolve. there were moments in which he asked himself why he did not make this woman his wife; that unfrocked priest, that tippling bookseller's hack, his father-in-law? did anything in this world matter to a man so much as the joy of this present life, his instant happiness? in the hideous uncertainty of fate, were it not best to snatch the hour's gladness? "what if i married her, and she turned wanton after a year of bliss?" he mused. "at least i should have had my day." but then there came the dark suspicion that she had played him as the angler plays his fish, that she flung the glittering fly across his enraptured gaze, intent on landing a coronet; that her womanly candour, her almost childlike simplicity, were all so much play-acting. what could he expect of truth and honour from thornton's daughter? "if she had given herself to me generously, unquestioningly, i might believe she loved me," he thought. "but if i married her i must for ever suspect myself her dupe, the victim of a schemer's ambition, the sport of an artful coquette, to be betrayed at the first assault of a younger lover." no token of relenting came from antonia; but towards the end of the second week mr. thornton called to inquire about his lordship's health, and, being informed that his lordship was about to leave england for a considerable time, pressed for an interview, and was admitted to his dressing-room. "i am in despair at the prospect of your lordship's departure," he said, on being bidden to seat himself. "i know not how my daughter and i will endure our lives in the absence of so valued a friend." "i do not apprehend that _you_ will suffer much from wanting my company, thornton, since you have been generally out-of-doors during my visits. and as for your daughter, her interest in an elderly proser's conversation must have been exhausted long ago." "on my soul, no! she has delighted in your society--as how could she do otherwise? she has an intellect vastly superior to her age and sex, and she had suffered a famine of intellectual conversation. i know that she has already begun to feel the loss of your company, for she has been strangely dispirited for the last ten days, and that indefatigable pen of hers now moves without her usual gusto." "if she is ill, or drooping, i beg you to send for my physician, sir richard maningham, who will attend her on my account." "no, no--'tis no case for Æsculapius. she is out of spirits, but not ill. how far does your lordship design to extend your travels?" "oh, i have decided nothing. i shall stay at fontainebleau till the cool season, and then go by easy stages to italy. i may winter in rome, and spend next spring in florence." "a year's absence! we shall sorely miss your lordship, and i am already too deeply in your debt to dare venture----" "to ask me for a further loan," interrupted kilrush. "we will have done with loans, and notes of hand"--thornton turned pale--"i wish to help you. above all, i want to prevent your making a slave of your daughter." "a slave! my dear girl delights in literary work. she would be miserable if i refused her assistance." "well, be sure she does not drudge for you. i hate to think of her solitary hours mewed in your miserable second-floor parlour, when she ought to be enjoying the summer air in some rural garden, idle and without a care. i want to strike a bargain with you, thornton." "i am your lordship's obedient----" "instead of these petty loans which degrade you and disgust me, i am willing to give you a small income--say, a hundred pounds a quarter----" "my dear lord, this is undreamed-of munificence." "on condition that you remove with your daughter to some pretty cottage in a rural neighbourhood--fulham, barnes, hampstead, any rustic spot within reach of your booksellers and editors--and also that you provide your daughter with a suitable attendant, a woman of unblemished character, to wait upon her and accompany her in her walks--in a word, sir, that being the father of the loveliest woman i ever met, you do not ignore your responsibilities, and neglect her." "oh, sir, is this meant for a reproach, because i have suffered antonia to receive you alone? sure, 'twas the knowledge of her virtue and of your noble character that justified my confidence." "true, sir, but there may be occasions when you should exercise a paternal supervision. i shall instruct my lawyer as to the payment of this allowance, and i expect that you will study your daughter's convenience and happiness in all your future arrangements. should i hear you are neglecting that duty, your income will stop, on the instant. i must beg, also, that you keep the source of your means a secret from miss thornton, who has a haughtier spirit than yours, and might dislike being obliged by a friend. and now, as i have a hundred things to do before i leave town, i must bid you good morning." "i go, my lord, but not till i have kissed this generous hand." "pshaw!" kilrush snatched his hand away impatiently, rang for his valet, and dismissed his grateful friend with a curt nod. he left st. james's square next day after his morning chocolate, in his coach and six, bound for dover, determined not to return till he had learnt the lesson of forgetfulness and indifference. chapter viii. the love that follows the dead. on his return to rupert buildings, william thornton walked on air. an income, an assured income of a hundred pounds a quarter, was indeed an improvement upon those casual loans which he had begged of his patron from time to time, with somewhat more of boldness since kilrush had shown so marked a liking for his daughter's society. he was elated by his patron's generosity; yet across his pleasant meditations in the short distance between st. james's square and st. martin's lane, there was time for his thoughts to take a wider range, and for something of a cloud to fall across his sunshine. he was puzzled, he was even troubled, by his lordship's generosity. what were the relations between that liberal patron and antonia? till a fortnight ago his daughter's happy frankness had assured him that all was well: that she was the kind of girl who may be trusted to take care of herself without paternal interference. but there had been a marked change in her manner after kilrush's last visit. she had been languid and silent. she looked unhappy, and had been absent-minded when she talked of their literary projects--an essay for cave--a story for the _monthly review_, or the possibility of garrick's favour for an after-piece from the italian of goldoni. antonia waited upon him when he came in, helped him to change his laced coat for an old one that he wore in the house, brought him his slippers, and proceeded to prepare his tea; but there was no welcoming smile. "my dearest girl, there is something amiss," thornton said, after he had watched her for some time, while they sat opposite to each other with the tea-tray between them. "my tonia is no longer the happy girl i have known so long. what ails my love? i have been with your friend kilrush. he leaves england to-morrow. is it the loss of his company distresses you?" "no, no! it is best that he should come here no more." "why, dearest?" "because we could never more be friends. i was very happy in his friendship. i knew not how happy till we parted." "why should such a friendship end? why did you part?" she burst into tears. "i cannot--cannot--cannot tell you." "nay, love, you should have no secrets from your father--an indulgent father, if sometimes a neglectful one. when have i ever scared you by a harsh word?" "no, no; but it is very hard to tell you that the man i esteemed was unworthy of my friendship--that he came here with the vilest design--that he waited till he had won my regard--and then--and then--swore that he loved me passionately, devotedly--and offered to make me--his mistress." thornton heard her with a countenance that indicated more of thought than of horror. "it would have been no disgrace to him to make you his wife," he said, "but the delafields have ever pretended to a pride in excess of their rank. he did ill to offer you his affection upon those terms; yet i'll swear his vows of love were sincere. i have but just left him, and i never saw more distress of mind than i saw in his face to-day. when i told him that you had been drooping, he implored me to call in his own physician, at his charge." "oh, pray, sir, do not tell me how he looked or what he said!" cried tonia, with a passionate impatience, drying her tears as she spoke, which broke out afresh before she had done. "i doubt he thinks money can heal every wound. he offered to lavish his fortune upon me, and marvelled that i could prefer this shabby parlour to a handsome house and dishonour." "he did very ill," said thornton, in a soothing voice, as if he were consoling a child in some childish trouble; "yet, my dearest tonia, did you but know the world as well as i do, you would know that he made you what the world calls a handsome offer. to settle a fortune upon you--of course he would mean a _settlement:_ anything else were unworthy of a thought--would be to give you the strongest pledge of his fidelity. men who do not mean to be constant will not so engage their fortune. and if--if the foolish delafield pride--that irish pride, which counts a long line of ancestors as a sacred inheritance--stands in the way of marriage--i'll be hanged if i think you ought to have rejected him without the compliment of considering his offer and of consulting me." "father!" she sprang up to her feet, and stood before him in all the dignity of her tall figure; and her face, with the tears streaming over it, was white with anger and contempt. "my love, life is made up of compromises. sure, i have tried to keep your mind clear of foolish prejudices; and, as a student of history, you must have seen the influences that govern the world. beauty is one, and the most powerful, of those influences. aspasia--agnes sorel--madame de pompadour. need i multiply instances? but beauty mewed up in a two-pair lodging is worthless to the possessor; while, with a fine establishment, a devoted protector, my dearest girl might command the highest company in the town." "father!" she cried again, with a voice that had a sharp ring of agony, "would you have had me say yes?" "i would have had you consider your answer very seriously before you said no." "you could have suffered your daughter to stoop to such humiliation; you would have had her listen to the proposal of a man who is free to marry any one he pleases--but will not marry _her;_ who tells her in one breath that he loves her--and in the next that he will not make her his wife--oh, father, i did not think----" "that i was a man of the world? my poor child, some of the greatest matches in england have begun with unfettered love; and be sure that, were your affection to consent to such a sacrifice, kilrush would end by giving you his name." "pray, pray, sir, say no more--you are breaking my heart--i want to respect you still, if i can." "pshaw, child, after all we have read together! 'tis a shock to hear such heroics! what is the true philosophy of life but to snatch all the comfort and happiness the hour offers? what is true morality but to do all the good we can to ourselves, and no harm to our neighbours? will your fellow-creatures be any the better for your unkindness to kilrush? with his fortune to deal with, you could do an infinitude of good." "oh, cease, i implore you!" she exclaimed distractedly. "if his tears could not conquer me, do you think your philosophy can shake my resolve?" she left him, and took refuge in her garret, and sat staring blankly into space, heart-sick and disgusted with life. her father! 'twas the first time she had ever been ashamed of him. her father to be the advocate of dishonour--to urge her to accept degradation! her father, whom she had loved till this hour with a child's implicit belief in the wisdom and beneficence of a parent--was he no better than the wretches she had heard patty talk about, the complacent husbands who flourished upon a wife's infidelity, the brothers who fawned upon a sister's protector? was all the world made of the same base stuff; and did woman's virtue and man's honour live but in the dreams of genius? she had accepted her father's dictum that religion and superstition were convertible terms. her young mind had been steeped in the voltairean philosophy before she was strong enough to form her own opinions or choose her own creed. she had read over and over again of the evil that religion had done in the world, and never of the good. instead of the whole armour of righteousness, she had been shown the racks and thumb-screws of the spanish inquisition; and had been taught to associate the altar with the _auto da fé_. all she knew of piety was priestcraft; and though her heart melted with compassion for the martyrs of a mistaken belief, her mind scorned their credulity. but from her first hour of awakening reason she had never wavered in her ideas of right and wrong, honour and dishonour. as a child of twelve, newly entrusted with the expenditure of small sums, all her little dealings with mrs. potter had shown a scrupulous honesty, a delicacy and consideration, which the good woman had seldom met with in adult lodgers. the books that had made her an infidel had held before her high ideals of honour. and those other books--the books she most loved--her shakespeare, her spenser--had taught her all that is noblest in man and woman. she thought of shakespeare's isabella, who, not to save the life of a beloved brother, would stoop to sin. she recalled her instinctive contempt for claudio, who, to buy that worthless life, would have sold his sister to shame. "my father is like claudio," she thought; and then with a sudden compunction, "no, no, he is not selfish--he is only mistaken. it was of me he thought--and that if kilrush loved me, and i loved him, i might be happy." her tears flowed afresh. never till kilrush threw off the mask had she known what it was to look along the dull vista of life and see no star, to feel the days a burden, the future a blank. she missed him. oh, how she missed him! day after day in the parlour below she had sat looking at his empty chair, listening unawares for a footstep she was never likely to hear again. she recalled his conversation, his opinions, his criticism of her favourite books, their arguments, their almost quarrels about abstract things. his face haunted her: those exquisitely refined features upon which the only effect of age was an increased delicacy of line and colouring; the depth of thought in the dark grey eyes; the grave smile with its so swift transition from satire to a tender melancholy. was there ever such a man? his elegance, his dignity, his manner of entering a room or leaving it, the grace of every gesture, so careless yet so unerring--every trait of character, every charm of person, which she was unconscious of having noticed in their almost daily association, seemed now to have been burnt into her brain and to be written there for ever. in the fortnight that had passed since they had parted, she had tried in vain to occupy herself with the work which had hitherto interested her so much as to make industry only another name for amusement. her adaptation of goldoni's _villeggiatura_ lay on her table, the pages soiled by exposure, sentence after sentence obliterated. the facile pen had lost its readiness. she found herself translating the lively italian with a dull precision; she, who of old had so deftly turned every phrase into idiomatic english--who had lent so much of herself to her author. often in these sorrowful days she had pushed aside her manuscript to scribble her recollections of kilrush's conversation upon a stray sheet of foolscap. often again, in those saddest moments of all, she had recalled his words of impassioned love--his tears; and her own tears had fallen thick and fast upon the disfigured page. well, it was ended, that friendship which had been so sweet; and she had discovered the bitter truth that friendship between man and woman, when the woman is young and beautiful, is impossible. * * * * * the days, weeks, months went by; and the name of kilrush was no more spoken by thornton or his daughter. it was as if no such being had ever had any part in their lives, any influence over their fate. yet thornton was studiously obedient to his patron's wishes all the time. good mrs. potter, who was getting elderly, had for some years past groaned under the burden of the house in rupert buildings, with the double, or sometimes treble set of lodgers, who were needful to make the business remunerative. servant girls were troublesome, even when paid as much as six pounds per annum, with a pound extra for tea and sugar; lodgers were not always punctual with the weekly rent, and sometimes left in her debt. thornton paid her a low rent for his second floor and garret; but he stayed from year's end to year's end; and she valued him above the finer people who came and went in her bettermost rooms. so when he told her that he was going to remove to a rural neighbourhood, she opened her heart to him, and declared, firstly, that she was sick of london, and london husseys--otherwise domestic servants; secondly, that she could not live without antonia; thirdly, that she had long had it in her mind to remove her goods and chattels to a countrified suburb, such as highgate or edmonton, and that could she be secure of one permanent lodger she would do so without loss of time. "choose a genteel house to the south-west of london, somewhere between wandsworth and barnes, and my daughter and i will share it with you," said thornton; and mrs. potter, who had no particular leaning to north or east, agreed. after this came a pleasant period of house-hunting, in which antonia was by-and-by induced to take a languid interest, going in a hackney coach with mrs. potter and her daughter sophy, who had served an apprenticeship to a dressmaker, and was very doubtful how to dispose of her talent now she was out of her time. after several suburban drives, through suburbs that were all garden and meadow, they discovered an old half-timbered cottage at putney, whose casement windows looked across the thames to the church and episcopal palace and gardens of fulham. to antonia, who had hardly known what it was to leave london since those distant childish years in windsor forest, the white walled cottage and garden seemed a heaven upon earth. surely it must be a blissful thing to live beside that broad reach of thames, to see willows dipping and reeds waving in the mild autumn wind, and the red sailed barges drifting slowly down stream, and to hear the rooks in the great elms yonder in the bishop's gardens, their clamorous chatter softened by the intervening river. she went back to london enchanted with rosemary bank, as the roomy old cottage called itself, and told her father that she thought she could be happy there. "then potter shall take the cottage to-morrow," cried thornton, in a rapture of eagerness; "for i'll be hanged if you have looked anything but miserable for the last six weeks. just as our luck had turned too, my--my circumstances improved--and--and garrick promising to put our little italian play on the stage, and to give me a benefit if it runs twenty nights." tonia sighed, remembering the melancholy thoughts interwoven with every line of that lively two-act burletta which she had squeezed out of goldoni's five-act comedy. everybody was pleased with the neat little after-piece, most of all patty lester, who was to play the soubrette, in a short chintz petticoat, and high red heels to her shoes. the theatre seemed a source of boundless wealth, for on mrs. potter--who dropped in sometimes at tea-time for a gossip; or, coming on a business errand, was invited to sit down and talk--complaining that she did not know what to do with her dressmaking daughter, thornton offered to engage mrs. sophy as antonia's "woman." "she will have to accept a modest honorarium," he said, with his grand air, "but she will be getting her hand in to go out as waiting-woman to a lady of quality; and my tonia will treat her more as a friend than a servant." mrs. potter snapped at the offer, though she did not know the meaning of the word "honorarium." she guessed that it meant either wages or a present, and to find that idle slut of hers an occupation, and yet have her under the maternal eye, was an unspeakable advantage. antonia protested that she wanted no waiting-maid, though she loved sophy. "indeed, sir, you are not rich enough to make a fine lady of me," she said. "nature has made you a lady, my love; and you are too sensible ever to become fine. when we are living in the country--and i have to come to london, occasionally, to look after my business--you will need a companion whose time will be always at your service." and so, with no more discussion, sophia potter was engaged, at a salary of ten pounds per annum, paid quarterly. at rosemary bank the changing seasons passed in a calm monotony; and it seemed to antonia, during the second year of her life in the cottage by the thames, as if she had never lived anywhere else. the london lodging, the strand and fleet street, miss lester's rooms in the piazza, receded in the distance of half-forgotten things; for the years of youth are long, and the passing of a year makes a great gap in time. the link between tonia and london seemed as completely broken as if she were living in yorkshire or in cornwall. there was a london coach that started from the king's head at the bottom of putney high street every morning, for the golden cross, hard by rupert buildings; and this coach carried mr. thornton and his fortunes three or four times a week, and brought him home after dark. he had so much business that required his presence in the metropolis, and first and foremost the necessity of getting the latest news, which was always on tap at the portico, where half a score of gutter wits and politicians settled the affairs of the nation, reviled newcastle and the pelhams, praised pitt, canvassed the prospects of war in america or on the continent, and enlarged on the vices of the _beau monde_, every afternoon and evening. antonia accepted her father's absence as inevitable. her own life was spent in a peaceful monotony. she had her books and her literary work for interest and occupation. she acquired some elementary knowledge of horticulture from an old man who came once a week to work in the garden; and, her love of flowers aiding her, she improved upon his instructions and became an expert in the delightful art. she and sophy made the two-acre garden their pride. it was an old garden, and there was much of beauty ready to their hands; rustic arches overhung with roses and honeysuckle; espaliers of russet apples and jargonelle pears screening patches of useful vegetables; plots of old-established turf; long borders crowded with hardy perennials--a garden that had cost care and labour in days that were gone. and then there was the river-bank between putney and kew, where tonia found beauty and delight at all seasons; even in the long winter, when the snapping of thin ice rang through the still air as the barges moved slowly by, and the snow was piled in high ridges along the edge of the stream. summer or winter, spring or autumn, tonia loved that solitary shore, where the horses creeping along the towing-path were almost the only creatures that ever intruded on her privacy. she and sophy were indefatigable pedestrians. they had indeed nothing else to do with themselves, sophy told her mother, and must needs walk "to pass the time." passing the time was the great problem in sophia potter's existence. to that end she waded through "pamela" and "clarissa," sitting in the garden, on sleepy summer afternoons. to that end she toiled at a piece of tambour work; and to that end she trudged, yawning dismally now and then, by tonia's side from putney to barnes, from barnes to kew, while her young mistress's thoughts roamed in dreamland, following airy shadows, or sometimes perhaps following a distant traveller in cities and by lakes and mountains she knew not. often and often, in her peripatetic reveries, antonia's fancies followed the image of kilrush, whose continental wanderings were chronicled from time to time in _lloyd's_ or the _st. james's_. he was at rome in the winter after their farewell; he was in corsica in the following spring; he spent the summer at aix in savoy; moved to montpelier in the late autumn; wintered at florence. tonia's thoughts followed him with a strange sadness, wherever he went. youth cannot feed on regrets for ever, and the heartache of those first vacant days had been healed; but the thought that she might never see his face again hung like a cloud of sadness over the quiet of her life. and now it was summer again, and the banks were all in flower, and the blue harebells trembled above the mossy hillocks on barnes common, and the long evenings were glorious with red and gold sunsets, and it was nearly two years since she had rushed from her lover's presence with a despairing farewell. two years! only two years! it seemed half a lifetime. nothing was less likely than that they would ever meet again. nothing, nothing, nothing! yet there were daydreams, foolish dreams, in which she pictured his return--dreams that took their vividest colours on a lovely sunlit morning when the world seemed full of joy. he would appear before her suddenly at some turn of the river-bank. he would take her hand and seat himself by her side on such or such a fallen tree or rough rustic bench where she was wont to sit in her solitude. "i have come back," he would say, "come back to be your true friend, never more to wound you with words of love, but to be your friend always." the tears sprang to her eyes sometimes as imagination depicted that meeting. surely he would come back! could they, who had been such friends, be parted for ever? but the quiet days went by, and her dream was not realized. no sign or token came to her from him who had been her friend, till one july evening, when she was startled by her father's unexpected return in a coach and four, which drove to the little garden gate with a rush and a clatter, as if those steaming horses had been winged dragons and were going to carry off the cottage and its inmates in a cloud of smoke and fire. tonia ran to the gate in a sudden panic. what could have happened? was her father being carried home to her hurt in some street accident--or dead? it was so unlike his accustomed arrival, on the stroke of eleven, walking quietly home from the last coach, which left the golden cross at a quarter-past nine, was due at the king's head at half-past ten, and rarely kept its time. her father alighted from the carriage, sound of limb, but with an agitated countenance; and then she noticed for the first time that the postillions wore the kilrush livery, and that his lordship's coat of arms was on the door. "my love--my tonia," cried thornton, breathlessly, "you are to come with me, this instant--alas! there is not a moment to spare. bring her hat and cloak," he called out to sophy, who had followed at her lady's heels, and stood open-mouthed, devouring the wonder-vision of coach and postillions. "run, girl, run!" tonia stared at her father in amazement. "what has happened?" she asked. "where am i to go?" "kilrush has sent me for you, tonia. that good man--kilrush--my friend--my benefactor--he who has made our lives so happy. i shall lose the best friend i ever had. your cloak"--snatching a light cloth mantle from the breathless sophy and wrapping it round tonia. "your hat. come, get into the coach. i can tell you the rest as we drive to town." he helped her into the carriage and took his seat beside her. she was looking at him in a grave wonder. in his flurry and agitation he had let her into a secret which had been carefully guarded hitherto. "is it to lord kilrush we owe our quiet lives here? has his lordship given you money?" she asked gravely. "oh, he has helped--he has helped me, when our means ran low--as any rich friend would help a poor one. there is nothing strange in that, child," her father explained, with a deprecating air. "kilrush!" she repeated, deeply wounded. "it was his kindness changed our lives! i thought we were earning all our comforts--you and i. why are you taking me to him, sir? i don't understand." "i am taking you to his death-bed, tonia. his doctors give him only a few hours of life, and he wants to see you before he dies, to bid you farewell." the tears were rolling down thornton's cheeks, but antonia's eyes were tearless. she sat with her face turned to the village street, staring at the little rustic shops, the quaint gables and projecting beams, the dormer casements gilded by the sunset, fairfax house, with its stout red walls, and massive stone mullions, and a garden full of roses and pinks, that perfumed the warm air as they drove by. she looked at all those familiar things in a stupor of wonder and regret. "you often talk wildly," she said presently, in a toneless voice. "is he really so ill? is there no hope?" the horses had swung round a corner, and they were driving by a lane that led to wandsworth, where it joined the london road. at the rate at which they were going they would be at westminster bridge in less than half an hour. "alas, child, i have it from his doctor. 'tis a hopeless case--has been hopeless for the last six months. he has been in a consumption since the beginning of the winter, has been sent from place to place, fighting with his malady. he came to london two days ago, from geneva, as fast as he could travel--a journey that has hastened his end, the physician told me. came to put his affairs in order, and to see you," thornton concluded, after a pause. "to see me! ah, what am i that he should care?" cried tonia. to know that he was dying was to know that she had never ceased to love him. but she did not analyze her feelings. all that she knew of herself was a dull despair--the sense of a loss that engulfed everything she had ever valued in this world. "what am i that he should care?" she repeated forlornly. "you are all in all to him. he implored me to bring you--with tears, antonia--he, my benefactor, the one friend who never turned a deaf ear to my necessities," said thornton, too unhappy to control his speech. "shall we be there soon?" tonia asked by-and-by, in a voice broken by sobs. "in a quarter of an hour at the latest. god grant it may not be too late." no other word was spoken till the coach stopped at the solemn old doorway in st. james's square, a door through which mrs. arabella churchill had passed in her day of pride, when the house was hers, and that handsome young soldier, her brother jack, was a frequent visitor there. night had not fallen yet, and there were lingering splashes of red sunset upon the westward-facing windows of the square; but on this side all was shadow, and the feeble oil-lamps made dots of yellow light on the cold greyness, and enhanced the melancholy of a summer twilight. the door was opened as thornton and antonia alighted. her father led her past the hall porter, across the spacious marble-paved vestibule that looked like a vault in the dimness of a solitary lamp which a footman was lighting as they entered. huge imperials, portmanteaux and packing-cases filled one side of the hall; the bulk of his lordship's personal luggage, which no one had found time to carry upstairs, and the cases containing the pictures, porcelain, curios, which he had collected in his wanderings from city to city, and in which his interest had ceased so soon as the thing was bought. he had come home too ill for any one to give heed to these treasures. there would be time to unpack them after the funeral--that inevitable ceremony which the household had begun to discuss already. would the dying man desire to be laid with his ancestors in the family vault under limerick cathedral, within sound of the shannon? antonia followed her father up the dusky staircase, their footfall noiseless on the soft depth of an indian carpet, followed him into a dark little ante-room, where two men in sombre attire sat at a table talking together by the light of two wax candles in tall corinthian candlesticks. one of these was his lordship's family lawyer, the other his apothecary. "are we too late?" asked thornton, breathlessly, with rapid glances from the attorney to the doctor--glances which included a folded paper lying on the table beside a silver standish. "no, no; his lordship may last out the night," answered the doctor. "pray be seated, madam. if my patient is asleep, we will wait his awakening. he does not sleep long. if he is awake you shall see him. he desired that you should be taken to him without delay." he opened the door of the inner room almost noiselessly and looked in. a voice asked, "is she here?" it was the voice tonia knew of old, but weaker. her heart beat passionately. she did not wait for the doctor, but brushed past him on the threshold, and was scarce conscious of crossing the width of a larger room than she had ever seen. she had no eyes for the gloomy magnificence of the room, the high windows draped with dark red velvet, the panelled walls, the lofty bed, with its carved columns and ostrich plumes; she knew nothing, saw nothing, till she was on her knees by the bed, and the dying man was holding her hands in his. "go into the next room, both of you," he said, whereupon his valet and an elderly woman in a linen gown and apron, a piece of respectable incompetence, the best sick-nurse that his wealth and station could command, silently retired. "will you stop with me to the end, tonia?" "yes, yes! but you are not going to die. i will not believe them. you must not die!" "would you be sorry? would it make any difference?" "it would break my heart. i did not know that i loved you till you had gone away. i did not know how dearly till to-night." "and if i was to mend and be my own man again, and was to ask you the same question again, would you give me the same answer?" "yes," she answered slowly; "but you would not be so cruel." "no, tonia, no, i am wiser now; for i have come to understand that there is one woman in the world who would not forfeit her honour for love or happiness. ah, my dearest, here, here, on the brink of death, i know there is nothing on this earth that a man should set above the woman he loves--no paltry thought of rank or station, no cowardly dread that she may prove unfaithful, no fear of the world's derision. if i could have my life again i should know how to use it. but 'tis past, and the only love i can ask for now is the love that follows the dead." he paused, exhausted by the effort of speech. he spoke very slowly, and his voice was low and hoarse, but she could hear every word. she had risen from her knees, to be nearer him, and was sitting on the side of the bed, holding him in her arms. in her heart of hearts she had realized that death was near, though her soul rebelled against the inevitable. she was conscious of the coming darkness, conscious that she was holding him on the edge of an open grave. "do not talk so much, you are tiring yourself," she said gently, wiping his forehead with a cambric handkerchief that had lain among the heaped-up pillows. the odour of orange flower that it exhaled was in her mind years afterwards, associated with that bed of death. he lay resting, with his eyelids half closed, his head leaning against her shoulder, her arm supporting him. "i never thought to taste such ineffable bliss," he murmured. "you have made death euthanasia." he lapsed into a half-sleeping state, which lasted for some minutes, while she sat as still as marble. then he opened his eyes suddenly, and looked at her in an agitated way. "tonia, will you marry me?" he asked. "yes, yes, if you bid me, by-and-by, when you are well," she answered, humouring a dying man's fancy. "now, now! i have only a few hours to live. i sent for you to make you my wife. i want your love to follow me in death. i want you to bear my name--the name i refused you, the name that cost me half a lifetime of happiness. tonia, swear that you will be true--that you will belong to me when i am dead, as you might have belonged to me in life." she thought his mind was wandering. he had lifted himself from her arms, and was sitting up in bed, magnetized into new life by the intensity of his purpose. "ring that bell, dearest. yes"--as she took up the handbell on his table--"all has been arranged. death will be civil to the last baron kilrush, and will give me time for what i have to do." his valet appeared at the door. "is his lordship's chaplain there?" kilrush asked. "yes, my lord. the bishop has come with his chaplain." "the bishop! my old friend is monstrous obliging. show them in." the valet ushered in a stately personage in full canonicals, accompanied by a young man in surplice and hood. the bishop came to the bedside, saluted antonia courteously, and bent his portly form over kilrush with an affectionate air. "my dear friend, on so solemn an occasion i could not delegate my duty to another." "you are very good. we are ready for you. my lawyer is in the next room--he has the license; and this"--pointing to a thin gold hoop worn with an antique intaglio ring on his little finger--"this was my mother's wedding ring--it will serve." the bishop took the prayer-book which his chaplain had opened at the marriage service, but paused with the book in his hand, looking at antonia with a grave curiosity. kilrush followed the look, and answered it as if it had been a question. "you understand, bishop, that this marriage is not an atonement," he said. "miss antonia thornton is a lady of spotless reputation, who will do honour to the name i leave her." "that is well, kilrush. but i hope this marriage is not designed to injure any one belonging to you." "no, i injure no one, for no one has any claim to be my heir." the valet brought the candles from the further end of the room to a table near the bishop, and rearranged the pillows at his master's back. antonia had risen from her seat on the edge of the bed, and stood watching kilrush with the candlelight full upon her face. the bishop looked at her with a shrewd scrutiny. he wanted to know what manner of woman she was, and what could be his old friend's motive for this death-bed folly. they had been at eton and oxford together; and though their paths had lain asunder since those early years, the bishop knew what kind of life kilrush had led, and was disinclined to credit him with chivalrous or romantic impulses. he looked to the woman for the answer to the enigma. an artful adventuress, no doubt, who had worked upon the weaker will of a dying man. he scrutinized her with the keen glance of a man accustomed to read the secrets of the heart in the countenance, and his penetration was baffled by the tragic beauty of her face, as she gazed at kilrush, with eyes which seemed incapable of seeing anything but him. he thought that no adventuress could conjure up that look of despairing love, that unconsciousness of external things, that supreme indifference to a ceremony which was to give her wealth and station for the rest of her life, indifference even to that episcopal dignity of purple and lawn which had rarely failed in its influence upon woman. "make your ceremony as brief as you can, bishop," said kilrush. "i have something to say to my wife when 'tis over. louis, call mr. thornton and mr. pegloss." the valet opened the door, and admitted thornton and the lawyer. the apothecary followed them, took up his position by his patient's pillow, and gave him a restorative draught. the bishop began to read in his great deep voice--a voice which must have ensured a bishopric, but diminished from the thunder of his cathedral tones to a grave baritone, musical as the soughing of distant waves. the windows were open, and through the sultry air there came the cry of the watchman calling the hour, far off and at measured intervals-- "past ten o'clock, and a cloudy night." tonia stood by the bed, holding her lover's hand. "who giveth this woman, etc." thornton was ready, trembling with excitement, dazed by the wonder of it all, and scarcely able to speak; and tonia's voice was choked with tears when she made the bride's replies, slowly, stumblingly, prompted by the chaplain. the ceremony had no significance for her, except as a dying man's whim. her only thought was of him. she could see his face more distinctly now, in the nearer light of the candles, and the awful change smote her heart with a pain she had never felt before. it was death, the dreadful, the inevitable, the end of all things. what meaning could marriage have in such an hour as this? the chaplain read a final prayer. the ring had been put on. the marriage was complete. the bishop knelt by the table, and began to read the prayers for the sick, tonia standing by the bed, with kilrush's hand in hers, heedless of the solemn voice. the bishop looked up at her in a shocked astonishment. "it would be more becoming, madam, to kneel," he said in a loud whisper. she sank on her knees beside the bed, and listened to the prayer that seemed to mock her with its supplications for health and healing, while death, a palpable presence, hovered over the bed. to antonia that ineffectual prayer seemed the last sentence--the sentence of doom. "you are vastly civil, bishop," said kilrush, opening his eyelids after one of his transient slumbers. "and now let mr. pegloss bring me the paper i have to sign." the attorney came to the bedside on the instant, carrying a blotting-book which he arranged deftly, with a closely written sheet of foolscap spread upon it, in front of kilrush, who had been raised again into a sitting position by the doctor and valet. "this is my will, bishop," said kilrush, as he wrote his name. "you and your chaplain can witness it. 'twill give an odour of sanctity to my last act." "your lordship may command my services," said the bishop, taking the pen from his friend's hand. it was something of a shock to have this service asked of him. a few hours ago there had been nothing he expected less than a legacy from his old schoolfellow; but after having been asked to send his chaplain to solemnize a death-bed marriage, after being as it were appealed to on the score of early friendship, and after having so cordially responded, it seemed to his episcopal mind that among the accumulated treasures of art which poor kilrush was about to surrender, some small memento, were it but a diamond snuff-box, or an enamelled watch--should have come to him. he wrote his stately signature with a flourish; the chaplain following. kilrush sank back among his pillows, supported by the arms he loved. "bishop, you are a connoisseur," he said, in his faint voice, looking up shrewdly at his schoolfellow's ample countenance, rosy with the rich hues of the côte d'or. "that raffaelle over the chimney-piece--'tis a replica of the sposalizia at milan. some critics pronounce it the finer picture. let it be a souvenir of your obliging goodness to-night. louis, you will see the raffaelle conveyed to his lordship's house immediately. mr. pegloss will assist you to take the picture down. and now good-night to you all." "my dear kilrush, you overpower me," murmured the bishop; and then he bent over the invalid, and whispered a solemn inquiry. "no, no; i am not in a fit state of mind," kilrush answered fretfully. "and my wife is not a believer." "not a believer!" his lordship's eyebrows were elevated in unspeakable horror. he glanced with something of aversion at the lovely face hanging over the dying man with looks of all absorbing love. not a believer! he would scarcely have been more horrified had she been a disciple of wesley or whitefield. "my dear friend," he murmured, "'tis my bounden duty to urge----" "come to me to-morrow morning, bishop." "let it be so, then. at eight o'clock to-morrow morning." "_a rivederci_," said kilrush, with a mocking smile, waving an attenuated hand, as the churchman and his satellite withdrew. thornton and the lawyer followed, but only to the ante-room. the apothecary and valet remained. the physician had paid his last visit before antonia arrived. there had been a consultation of three great men in the afternoon, and it had been decided that nothing more could be done for the patient than to make him as comfortable as his malady would permit, and for that the apothecary's art was sufficient. "you can wait in the next room, davis, within call," said kilrush, as the grave elderly man, in a queer little chestnut wig, bent over him, looking anxiously in his face, and feeling his pulse. the throb of life beat stronger than davis had anticipated. a wonderful constitution that could so hold out against the ravages of disease! the breathing was laboured, but there was vigour enough left to last out the long night hours--to last for days and nights yet, the medico thought, as he left the room. the valet was moving the candles from the table by the bed, when his master stopped him. "leave them there: i want to see my wife's face," he said. the man obeyed, and followed the apothecary. husband and wife were alone. "on your knees, tonia--so, with your face towards the light," kilrush said eagerly. "so, so, love. i want to see your eyes. you are my wife, tonia, my wife for ever--in life and after life. this perishing clay will be hidden from your sight to-morrow--_this_ kilrush will cease to be--but--" striking his breast passionately, "there is something here that will live--the mind of the man who loved you--and who dies despairing--the martyr of his insensate pride." he grasped her hands in both his own, looking into her eyes with a wild intensity that touched the boundary line of madness; but she did not shrink from him. that wasted countenance, leaden with the dull shadow of death, was for her the dearest thing on earth, the only thing she was conscious of in this last hour. "tonia, do you understand?" he gasped, struggling to recover breath. "i have married you to make you mine beyond the grave. it would be the agony of hell to die and leave you to another. you are mine by this bond. i have given you all a dying lover can give--my name, my fortune. swear that you will be true to me, that you will never give yourself to another man. that you will be my wife--mine only--till the grave unites us, and that you will lie by my side when life is done, the vault by the shannon your only wedding bed. promise me never to bless another with your love." "never, never, never, upon my honour," she said, with a depth of earnestness that satisfied him. "on your honour--yes, for your honour means something. if the spirits of the dead are free, i shall be near you. if you break your promise, i shall haunt you--an angry ghost, pitiless, cruel. as you hope for peace, do not cheat me." in the unnatural strength of impassioned feeling he had exhausted that reserve of energy which the apothecary had noted, and in the rush of his passionate speech he was seized with a more violent fit of coughing than any that had attacked him since antonia's coming. she was agonized at the sight of his suffering, and hung over him with despairing love, while the attenuated frame was convulsed with the struggle for breath. the fight ended suddenly. he flung his arms round her neck, and his head fell upon her bosom, in an appalling silence. a blood-vessel had burst in that last paroxysm, and in the red stream that poured from his lips, covering tonia's gown with crimson splashes, his life ebbed away. a piercing shriek startled the watchers in the ante-room. doctor, nurse, valet, rushed to the bed-chamber, to find antonia swooning on her knees beside the bed, the dead man's arms still clasped about her neck. "very sudden!" said the apothecary, as thornton appeared at the door. "i thought his lordship would have held out longer." * * * * * when antonia recovered her senses she found herself lying on a sofa in a room she had never seen before, with the respectable-incompetent in a linen apron holding a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, and an odour of burnt feathers poisoning the atmosphere. her father was sitting by her side, holding her hand, and patting it soothingly. some one had taken off her gown, and her shoulders were wrapped in an old shawl, lent by the incompetent. the lofty room was a well of shadow, made visible by a single candle. she lay in apathetic silence for some minutes, not knowing where she was, or what had happened, wondering whether it was evening or morning, summer or winter. it was only when her father talked to her that she began to remember. "my sweet child, i implore you to compose yourself," he said. "my dear friend acted nobly. alas, was there ever so fine, so generous a nature? my tonia is one of the richest women in london, and with a name that may rank with the highest. my tonia! how splendidly she will become her exalted station." antonia heard him unheeding. "let me go back to him," she said, rising to her feet. "not yet, madam," murmured the nurse. "to-morrow morning. not to-night, dear lady. let me help your ladyship to undress. the next room has been prepared fur your ladyship." "why can't i go to him?" asked antonia, turning to her father. "i promised to stay with him till the end." "alas, love, thou wast with him till the last. his arms clasped thee in death. i doubt thou wilt never forget those moments, my poor wench. god! how he loved you! and he has made you a great lady." she turned from him in disgust. "you harp upon that," she said. "i loved him--i loved him. i loved him--and he is dead!" the nurse had crept away to assist in the last sad duties. father and daughter were alone, antonia sitting speechless, staring into vacancy, thornton babbling feebly every now and then, irrepressible in his exultation at so strange, so miraculous a turn of fortune's wheel. "kilrush's death would have beggared us, but for this," he thought. a clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. only eleven o'clock! 'twas but two hours since antonia had entered the house, and her life before she crossed that threshold seemed to her far away in the dim distance of years that were gone. he had loved her, and had repented his cruelty. there was comfort in that thought even in the despair of an eternal parting. was it to be eternal? he had spoken of an after-life, a consciousness that was to follow and watch her. she, the voltairean, who had been taught to smile at man's belief in immortality, the fairy-tale of faith, the myth of all ages and all nations--she, the unbeliever, hung upon those words of his for comfort. "if his spirit can be with me, sure he will know how fondly i love him," she said; and the first tears she shed since his death flowed at the thought. chapter ix. the sands run down. the household in st. james's square bowed themselves before the new lady kilrush, and made obeisance to her, as the wheat-sheaves bowed down to joseph in his dream. the butler remembered his master's first wife, a pretty futile creature, always gadding, following the latest craze in modish dissipations, greedy of pleasure and excitement. it had been no surprise to him when she crept through the hall door in the summer gloaming, carrying her jewels in a handbag, to join the lover who was waiting in a coach and four round the corner. it was only her husband who had been blind--blind because he was indifferent. to the household this strange marriage was a matter for profound satisfaction. "her ladyship desires to retain your services, and will make no changes except on your recommendation," mr. thornton told the late lord's house-steward and business manager, with a superb patronage; but without any authority from antonia, who sat in a stony silence when he talked about plans for the future, and of all the pomps and pleasures that were waiting for his beloved girl after a year of mourning. "oh, why do you talk of servants, and horses, and things?" she exclaimed once, with an agonized look. "can't you see--don't you understand--that i loved him?" "i do understand. yes, yes, my love. i can sympathize with your grief--your natural grief--for so noble a benefactor. but when your year of widowhood is past, my tonia will awaken to the knowledge of her power. a beauty, a fortune, a peeress, and a young widow! by heaven, you might aspire to be the bride of royalty! _and_ a temper!" muttered thornton, as his daughter rose suddenly from her chair and walked out of the room, before he had finished his harangue. it was only when there was a question of the funeral that the new lady kilrush asserted herself. "his lordship will be buried in the family vault at limerick," she said decisively. "be kind enough to make all needful arrangements, mr. goodwin. i shall travel with the funeral _cortège_." "my dearest tonia--so remote a spot, so wild and unsettled a country," pleaded thornton. "would it not be wiser to choose a nearer resting-place, among the sepulchres of the noble and distinguished; as, for instance, at st. paul's, covent garden?" antonia did not answer, or appear to have heard, the paternal suggestion. her father would scarcely let her out of his sight during these long days in the darkened house. she could only escape from him by withdrawing to her own room, where sophy was in attendance upon her; the strange and stately bed-chamber with an amber satin bed, whose curtains had shaded the guilty dreams of the runaway wife. the bishop made her a stately visit on the second day of her solitude, and tried to convert her to anglican christianity in an hour's affable conversation, addressing himself to her benighted mind in the simplest forms of speech, as if she had been an ignorant child. she heard him politely; but he could not lure her into an argument, and he knew that the good seed was falling on stony ground. when he was leaving her she gave a heart-broken sigh, and said-- "i want to believe in a life after death, for then i should hope to see him again. but i cannot--i cannot! i have been trying ever since--that night"--speaking of it as if it were a long way off--"but i cannot--i cannot!" the bishop sat down again, and quoted st. paul to her for a quarter of an hour; but those sublime words could not convince her. the cynic's blighting sneer had withered all that womanhood has of instinctive piety--of upward-looking reverence for the christian ideal. there is no fire so scathing, no poison so searching, as the light ridicule of a master-mind. the woman who had been educated by voltaire could not find hope or comfort in the great apostle's argument for immortality. was not paul himself only _trying_ to believe? "dear lady, if i send you bishop butler's 'analogy'--the most convincing argument for that future life we all long for--will you promise me to read it?" "i will read anything you please to send me, my lord; only i cannot promise to believe what i read." the funeral train left st. james's square in the cool grey of a summer dawn. it consisted of but three carriages: the hearse, with all its pompous decorations, and drawn by six post-horses, a coach and six for antonia and her father, and a second coach for the steward, the valet, louis, and mrs. sophia potter, who tried to keep her countenance composed in a becoming sadness, but could not help considering the journey a treat, and occasionally forgetting that dismal carriage which led the procession. they travelled by the great bath road, halting at hounslow for breakfast in the dust and dew of an exquisite morning; and it may be that mr. thornton, sitting at a well-furnished table by an open window overlooking all the bustle and gaiety of coaches and post-chaises arriving or departing, found it almost as hard a matter as sophy did to maintain the proper dejection in voice and aspect, and not to enjoy himself too obviously. it was not so much the unwonted luxury of his surroundings as the unwonted respect of his fellow-men that inspired him. to have innkeeper and waiters hanging about him, as if he had been a prince--he, whom mine host of the red lion had ever treated on terms of equality; or if the scale had turned either way 'twas mine host who gave himself the privilege of insolence to a customer who was often in his debt. antonia, shut in a room abovestairs with her maid, could not as yet taste the pleasures of her altered station. it was her father who derived enjoyment from her title, rolling it in his mouth with indescribable gusto-- "tell her ladyship, my daughter, that her coach is at the door. lady kilrush desires to lose no time on the road. louis, see that her ladyship's smelling-salts are in the coach-pocket, and that her ladyship's woman does not keep her waiting." louis, and mr. goodwin, the steward, had their little jests about mr. thornton; but antonia had commanded their respect from the moment when she gave her instructions about the funeral. the capacity for command was hers, a quality that is in the character of man or woman, and which neither experience nor teaching can impart. the journey to bristol occupied four days, and mr. thornton enjoyed himself more and more at the great inns on the great bath road, eating his dinner and his supper in the luxurious seclusion of a private sitting-room, _tête-à-tête_ with an obsequious landlord or a loquacious head waiter, whose conversation kept him amused; and perhaps drinking somewhat deeper on account of antonia's absence. throughout the journey she had kept herself in strict seclusion, attended only by sophy. all that the inn-servants saw of lady kilrush was a tall woman in deepest mourning who followed the head chambermaid to her room, and did not reappear till her coach was ready to start on the next stage. from bristol the dismal convoy crossed to queenstown in a government yacht, with a fair wind, and no ill-adventure. at queenstown the monotonous road-journey was resumed in hired coaches; and late on the third evening the _cortège_ drew up before kilrush house, in the city of limerick, a large red-brick house with its back to the river, hard by the bishop's palace, built before the battle of the boyne. entering this melancholy mansion, which had been left in the care of a superannuated butler and his feeble old wife for nearly thirty years, mr. thornton's spirits sank to zero. he had been indisposed during the sea-voyage, nor had the accommodation at irish inns satisfied a taste enervated by the luxuries of the great bath road; but the irish landlords had offered him cheerful society, and the irish grog had sent him merrily to his bed. but, oh! the gloom of kilrush house in the summer twilight; the horror of that closed chamber where the form of the coffin showed vaguely under the voluminous velvet of the pall; and where tall wax candles shed a pale light upon vacant walls and scanty furniture, all that there had been of beauty and value in the town house of the lords of kilrush having been removed to st. james's square when the late lord married. the funeral was solemnized on the following night, a torch-light procession, in which the lofty hearse, with its nodding plumes and pompous decoration of black velvet and silver, showed gigantic in the fitful flare of the torches, carried by a long train of horsemen who had assembled from far and near to do honour to the last lord kilrush. he had been an absentee for the greater part of his life; but the name was held in high esteem, and perhaps his countrymen had more respect for him dead than they would have felt had he appeared among them living. the news of the funeral train journeying over sea and land, and of the beautiful bride accompanying her dead bridegroom, had gone through the south of ireland, and men of rank and family had travelled long distances to assist in those last honours. it was half a century since such a funeral _cortège_ had been seen in limerick. and while the gentry came in hundreds to the ceremony, from the irish town and the english town the rabble poured in throngs that must have been reckoned by thousands, mr. thornton thought, as he gazed from the coach window at a sea of faces: young women with streaming hair, spectral faces of old crones, their grey locks bound with red cotton handkerchiefs, rags, and semi-nakedness--all seeming phantasmagoric in the flickering light of the moving torches, all dreadful of aspect to the _habitué_ of london streets. but even more terrible than those wan faces and wild hair were the voices of that strange multitude, the wailing and sobbing of the women, the keening of the men, shrieks and lamentations, soul-freezing as the cry of the screech-owl or the howling of famished wolves. thornton shrank shuddering into a corner of the mourning coach, which he shared with the chief mourner--that mute, motionless figure with shrouded face, in which he scarce recognized his daughter's familiar form. the horror of the scene deepened when they entered the church, that wild crew pressing after them, thrust back from the door with difficulty by the funeral attendants. the distance to be traversed had been short, but the coaches had moved at a foot pace, with a halt every now and then, as the crowd became impassable. to thornton the ceremony seemed to have lasted for half the night, and it surprised him to hear the church clock strike twelve as they left the vault where george frederick delafield, nineteenth baron kilrush, was laid with his ancestors. it was over. oh, the relief of it! this tedious business which had occupied nearly a fortnight was ended at last, and his daughter belonged to him again. he put his arm round her in the coach presently, and she sank weeping upon his breast. she had been tearless throughout the ceremony in the cathedral, and had maintained a statuesque composure of countenance, pale as marble against the flowing folds of a crape veil that draped her from brow to foot. "let us get back to london, love," he said. "the horrors of this place would kill us if we stopped here much longer." "i want to see the house where he was born," she said. "well, 'tis a natural desire, perhaps, for 'tis your own house now, kilrush abbey. the abbey is but a ruin, i doubt; but there is a fine stone mansion and a park--all my antonia's property--but a deucedly expensive place to keep up, i'll warrant." she did not tell him that her only interest in the irish estate was on the dead man's account. nothing she could say would check him in his jubilation at her change of fortune. it was best to let him enjoy himself in his own fashion. their ages and places seemed reversed. it was she that had the gravity of mature years, the authority of a parent; while in him there was the inconsequence of a child, and the child's delight in trivial things. she had seen the starved faces in the crowd, the grey hairs and scanty rags; and she went next day with sophy on a voyage of discovery in the squalid alleys of the english and the irish towns, scattering silver among the poverty-stricken creatures who crowded round her as she moved from door to door. what blessings, what an eloquence of grateful hearts, were poured upon her as she distributed handfuls of shillings, fat crown pieces, showers of sixpences that the children fought for in the gutters--an injudicious form of charity, perhaps, but it gave bread to the hungry, and some relief to her over-charged heart. she had never enjoyed the luxury of giving before. it was the first pleasure she had known since her marriage, the first distraction for a mind that had dwelt with agonizing intensity upon one image. mr. goodwin, the late lord's steward, was one of those highly-trained servants who can render the thinking process a sinecure in the case of an indolent master. he had found thought and money for the funeral ceremony, and he showed himself equally capable in arranging antonia's visit to the scene of her husband's birth and childhood, the cradle of her husband's race. at kilrush, as in limerick, she found a deserted mansion, maintained with some show of decency by half a dozen servants. over all there brooded that melancholy shadow which falls upon a house where the glad and moving life of a family is wanting. one spot only showed in the beauty and brightness of summer, a rose-garden in front of a small drawing-room, a garden of less than an acre, surrounded by tall ilex hedges, neatly clipped. "'tis the garden-parlour made for his lordship's mother when she came as a bride to kilrush," goodwin told antonia, "and his lordship was very strict in his orders that everything should be maintained as her ladyship left it." in those days of mourning and regret, antonia preferred the picturesque seclusion of kilrush to any home that could have been offered to her. the fine park, with its old timber and views over sea and river, pleased her. she loved the ruined abbey, dark with ages, and mantled with ivy of more than a century's growth. the spacious dwelling-house, with its long suites of rooms and shadowy corridors--a house built when ormond was ruling in ireland, and when the delafields lived half the year at their country seat, and divided the other half-year between limerick and dublin--the old-fashioned furniture, the family portraits by painters whose fame had never travelled across the irish channel, and most of all the gardens, screened by a belt of sea-blown firs, pleased their new owner, and she proposed to remain there till winter. "my dearest child, would you bury yourself alive in this desolate corner of the earth?" cried thornton, whose nerves had hardly recovered from the horrors of the funeral, and who could not sleep without a rushlight for fear of the delafield ghosts, who had indeed more than once in this shattered condition wished himself back in his two-pair chamber in rupert buildings. "was there ever so unreasonable a fancy? you to seclude yourself from humanity! you who ought to be preparing yourself to shine in the _beau monde_, and who have still to acquire the accomplishments needful to your exalted station! the solid education, which it was my pride and delight to impart, might suffice for miss thornton; but lady kilrush cannot dispense with the elegant arts of a woman of fashion--the guitar, the harpsichord, to take part in a catch or a glee, or to walk a minuet, to play at faro, to ride, to drive a pair of ponies." "oh, pray stop, sir. i shall never be that kind of woman. you have taught me to find happiness in books, and have made me independent of trivial pleasures." "books are the paradise of the neglected and the poor, the solace of the prisoner for debt, the comfort of the hopeless invalid; but the accomplishments you call trivial are the serious business of people of rank and fortune, and to be without them is the stamp of the parvenu. my love, with your fortune, you ought to winter in paris or rome, to make the grand tour, like a young nobleman. why should our sex have all the privileges of education?" the word rome acted like a spell. antonia's childish dreams--while life in the future lay before her in a romantic light--had been of italy. she had longed to see the home of her italian mother. "i should like to visit italy by-and-by, sir," she said, "if you think you could bear so long a journey." "my love, i am an old traveller. nothing on the road comes amiss to me--alps, apennines, italian inns, italian post-chaises--so long as there is cash enough to pay the innkeeper." "my dear father, i shall ever desire to do what pleases you," antonia answered gently; "and though i love the quiet life here, i am ready to go wherever you wish to take me." "for your own advantage, my beloved child, i consider foreign travel of the utmost consequence--_imprimis_, a winter in paris." "'tis italy i long for, sir." "paris for style and fashion is of more importance. we would move to italy in the spring. indeed, my love, you make no sacrifice in leaving kilrush, for goodwin assures me we should all be murdered here before christmas." "mr. goodwin hates the irish. my heart goes out to my husband's people." "you can engage your chairmen from this neighbourhood by-and-by, and even your running-footmen. there are fine-looking fellows among them that might take kindly to civilization; and they have admirable legs." having gained his point, mr. thornton did not rest till he carried his daughter back to london, where there was much to be done with the late lord's lawyers, who were surprised to discover a fine business capacity in this beautiful young woman whose marriage had so romantic a flavour. "whether she has dropped from the skies or risen from the gutter, she is the cleverest wench of her years i ever met with, as well as the handsomest," said the senior partner in the old-established firm of hanfield and bonham, conveyancers and attorneys. "the way in which she puts a question and grasps the particulars of her estate would do credit to a king's counsel." everything was settled before november, and good mrs. potter endowed with a pension which would enable her to live comfortably in the cottage at putney without the labour of letting lodgings. sophy was still to be antonia's "woman;" but mr. thornton advised his daughter while in paris to engage an accomplished parisienne for the duties of the toilet. "sophy is well enough to fetch and carry for you," he said, "and as you have known her so long 'tis like enough you relish her company; but to dress your head and look after your gowns you need the skill and experience of a trained lady's-maid." thornton was enchanted at the idea of a winter in paris. he had seen much of that gay city when he was a travelling tutor, and had loved all its works and ways. his sanguine mind had not considered the difference between twenty-five and the wrong side of fifty, and he hoped to taste all the pleasures of his youth with an unabated gusto. alas! he found after a week in the rue st. honoré that the only pleasures which retained all their flavour--which had, indeed, gained by the passage of years--were the pleasures of the table. he could still enjoy a hand at faro or lansquenet; but he could no longer sit at cards half the night and grow more excited and intent as darkness drew nearer dawn. he could still admire a slim waist and a neat ankle, a _mignonne frimousse_ under a black silk hood; but his heart beat no faster at the sight of joyous living beauty than at a picture by greuze. in a word, he discovered that there is one thing wealth cannot buy for man or woman: the freshness of youth. his daughter allowed him to draw upon her fortune with unquestioning liberality. it was a delight to her to think that he need toil no more, forgetting how much of their literary labours of late years had been performed by her, and how self-indulgent a life the easy-going bill thornton had led between putney and st. martin's lane. antonia's desire in coming to paris had been to lead a life of seclusion, seeing no one but the professors whom she might engage to complete her education; but a society in which beauty and wealth were ever potent was not likely to ignore the existence of the lovely lady kilrush, whose romantic marriage had been recorded in the _parisian gazette_, and whose establishment at a fashionable hotel in the rue st. honoré was duly announced in all the newspapers. visits and invitations crowded upon her; and although she excused herself from all large assemblies and festive gatherings on account of her mourning, she was too much interested in the great minds of the age to deny herself to the marquise du deffant, in whose salon she met d'alembert, montesquieu, and diderot, then at the summit of his renown, and an ardent admirer of english literature. with him she discussed richardson, whose consummate romances she adored, and whose friendship she hoped to cultivate on her return to london. with him she talked of voltaire, whose arcadian life at crecy had come to a tragical close by the sudden death of madame du châtelet, and who, having quarrelled with his royal admirer, frederick, was now a wanderer in germany--forbidden to return to paris, where his classic tragedies were being nightly illustrated by the genius of lekain and mdlle. clairon. to move in that refined and spiritual circle was a revelation of a new world to thornton's daughter, a world in which everybody had some touch of that charm of mind and fancy which she had loved in kilrush. the conversation of parisian wits and philosophers reminded her of those vanished hours in the second-floor parlour above st. martin's church. alas, how far away those lost hours seemed as she looked back at them, how infinitely sweeter than anything that parisian society could give her! the people whose conversation pleased her most were the men and women who had known her husband and would talk to her of him. it was this attraction which had drawn her to the clever lady whose life had been lately shadowed by the affliction of blindness, a calamity which she bore with admirable courage and resignation. antonia loved to sit at madame du deffant's feet in the wintry dusk, they two alone in the modest salon which the widowed marquise occupied in the convent of st. joseph, having given up her hotel soon after her husband's death. it pleased her to talk of the friends of her youth, and kilrush, who was of her own age, had been an especial favourite. "he was the most accomplished englishman--except my young friend walpole--that i ever knew," she said; "and although he had not all walpole's wit, he had more than walpole's charm. i look back along the vista of twenty troublesome years, and see him as if it were yesterday--a young man coming into my salon with a letter from the english ambassador. dieu! how handsome he was then! that pale complexion, those classic features, and those dark grey eyes with black lashes--irish eyes, i have heard them called! thou shouldst be proud, child, to have been loved by such a man. and is it really true, now--thou needst have no reserve with an old woman--is it true that you and he had never been more than--friends, before that tragic hour in which the bishop joined your hands?" "i am sorry, madame, that you can think it necessary to ask such a question." "but, my dear, there was nothing in the world further from my thoughts than to wound you. then i will put my question otherwise and again, between friends, in all candour. are you not sorry, now that he is gone, now nothing that you can do could bring back one touch of his hand, one sound of his voice--does it not make you repent a little that fate and you were not kinder to him?" "no, madame, i cannot be sorry for having been guided by my own conscience." there were tears in her voice, but the tone was steady. "what! you have a conscience--you who believe no more in god than that audacious atheist, diderot?" "my conscience is a part of myself. it does not live in heaven." "what a roman you are! i swear you were born two thousand years too late, and should have been contemporary with lucretia. well, thou hadst a remarkable man for thy half-hour husband, and thou didst work a miracle in bringing such a _roué_ to tie the knot; for i have heard him rail at marriage with withering cynicism, and swear that not for the greatest and loveliest princess in france would he wear matrimonial fetters." "nay, chère marquise, i pray you say no ill of him." "mon enfant, i am praising him. 'twas but natural he should hate the marriage tie, having been so unlucky in his first wife. to have been handsome, accomplished, high-born, a prince among men, and to have been abandoned for a wretch in every way his inferior----" "did you know the lady, madame?" "yes, child, i saw her often in the first year of her marriage--a she-profligate, brimming over with a sensual beauty, like an over-ripe peach; a rubens woman, white and red, and vapid and futile; conspicuous in every assembly by her gaudy dress, loud voice, and inane laughter." "how could he have chosen such a wife?" "'twas she chose him. there are several versions of the story, but there is none that would not offend my lucretia's modesty." "he had the air of a man who had been unhappy," said antonia, with a sigh. "there is a kind of restless gaiety in your _roué_ which is a sure sign of inward misery," replied the friend of philosophers. "happiness tends ever to repose." mr. thornton did not take kindly to the wits and philosophers of madame du deffant's circle. perhaps he had an inward conviction that they saw through him, and measured his vices and weaknesses by a severe standard. the taint of the unforgotten jail hung about him, a humiliating sense of inferiority; while he was unfitted for the elegancies and refinements of modish society by those happy-go-lucky years in which he had lived in a kind of shabby luxury: the luxury of late hours, shirt-sleeves, clay pipes, and gin; the luxury of bad manners and self-indulgence. after attending his daughter upon some of her early visits to the convent of st. joseph, he fell back upon a society more congenial, in the taverns and coffee-houses, where he consorted with noisy politicians and needy journalists and authors, furbished up his french, which was good, and picked up the philosophical jargon of the day, and was again a socrates among companions whose drink he was ever ready to pay for. antonia devoted the greater part of her days and nights to self-improvement, practised the harpsichord under an eminent professor, and showed a marked capacity for music, though never hoping to do more than to amuse her lonely hours with the simpler sonatinas and variations of the composers she admired. she read italian with one professor and spanish with another; attended lectures on natural science, now the rage in paris, where people raved about buffon's "théorie de la terre." her only relaxation was an occasional visit to the marquise, and to two other salons where a grave and cultured society held itself aloof from the frivolous pleasures of court and fashion; or an evening at the comédie française, where she saw lekain in most of his famous _rôles_. with the advent of spring she pleaded for the realization of her most cherished dream, and began to prepare for the journey to italy, in spite of some reluctance on her father's part, whose free indulgence in the pleasures of french cookery and french wines had impaired a constitution that had thriven on mrs. potter's homely dishes, and had seemed impervious to gin. he looked older by ten years since he had lived as a rich man. he was nervous and irritable, he whose easy temper had passed for goodness of heart, and had won his daughter's affection. he was tormented by a restless impatience to realize all that wealth can yield of pleasure and luxury. he was miserable from the too ardent desire to be happy, and shortened his life by his eagerness to live. the theatres, the puppet-shows, the gambling-houses, the taverns where they danced--at every place where amusement was promised, he had been a visitor, and almost everywhere he had found satiety and disgust. how enchanting had been that isle of calypso, this circean cavern, when he first came to paris, a tutor of five and twenty, the careless mentor of a lad of eighteen; how gross, how dull, how empty and foolish, to the man who was nearing his sixtieth birthday! he had fallen back upon the monotony of the nightly rendezvous at the café procope, seeing the same faces, hearing the same talk--an assembly differing only in detail from his friends of "the portico"--and it vexed him to discover that this was all his daughter's wealth could buy for him in the most wonderful city in the world. "i am an old man," he told himself. "money is very little use when one is past fifty. i fall asleep at the playhouse, for i hear but half the actors say. if i pay a neatly turned compliment to a handsome woman, she laughs at me. i am only fit to sit in a tavern, and rail at kings and ministers, with a pack of worn-out wretches like myself." mr. thornton and his daughter started for italy in the second week of april, with a sumptuosity that was but the customary style of persons of rank, but which delighted the grub-street hack, conscious of every detail in their altered circumstances. they travelled with a suite of six, consisting of sophy and a french maid, provided by madame du deffant, and rejoicing in the name of rodolphine. mr. thornton's personal attendant was the late lord's faithful louis, who was excellent as valet and nurse, but who, being used to the quiet magnificence of kilrush, had an ill-concealed contempt for a master who locked up his money, and was uneasy about the safety of his trinkets. with them went a young medical man whom antonia had engaged to take charge of her father's health--a needless precaution, mr. thornton protested, but which was justified by the fact that he was often ailing, and was nervous and apprehensive about himself. a courier and a footman completed the party, which filled two large carriages, and required relays of eight horses. antonia delighted in the journey through strange places and picturesque scenery, with all the adventures of the road, and the variety of inns, where every style of entertainment, from splendour to squalor, was to be met with. here for the first time she lost the aching sense of regret that had been with her ever since the death of kilrush. the only drawback was her father's discontent, which increased with every stage of the journey, albeit the stages were shortened day after day to suit his humour, and he was allowed to stay as long as he liked at any inn where he pronounced the arrangements fairly comfortable. it was a wonder to his anxious daughter to see how he, who had been cheerful and good-humoured in his shabby parlour at rupert buildings, and had rarely grumbled at mrs. potter's homely cuisine, was now as difficult to please as the most patrician sybarite on the road. she bore with all his caprices, and indulged all his whims. she had seen a look in his face of late that chilled her, like the sound of a funeral bell. the time would come--soon perhaps--when she would look back and reproach herself for not having been kind enough. they travelled by way of mont cenis and turin, and so to florence, where they arrived late in may, having spent nearly six weeks on the road. it grieved antonia to see that her father was exhausted by his travels, in spite of the care that had been taken of him. he sank into his armchair with the air of a man who had come to the end of a journey that was to be final. florence was at its loveliest season, the streets full of flowers, and carriages, and well-dressed people rejoicing in the gaiety of balls and operas before retiring to the perfumed shades of their villa gardens among the wooded hills above the city. to antonia the place was full of enchantment, but her anxiety about her father cast a shadow over the scene. her most eager desire in coming to italy had been to see her mother's country, and to see something of her mother's kindred; but thornton had hitherto evaded all her questions, putting her off with a fretful impatience. "there is time enough to talk of them when we are in their neighbourhood, tonia," he said. "your mother had very few relations, and those who survive will have forgotten her. why do you trouble yourself about them? they have never taken any trouble about you." "i want to see some one who loved my mother, some one of her country and her kin. can't you understand how i feel about her, sir, the mother whose face i cannot remember, but who loved me when i was unconscious of her love? oh, to think that she held me in her arms and kissed me, and that i cared nothing, knew nothing! and now i would give ten years of my life for one of those kisses." "alas, my romantic child! ah, tonia, she was a lovely woman, the noblest, the sweetest of her sex. and you are like her. take care of your beauty. women in this country age early." "you have never told me my mother's maiden name, or where she lived before you married her." "well, you shall visit her birthplace; 'tis a villa among the hills above the lake of como, a romantic spot. we will go there after florence. i want to see florence. 'twas a place i enjoyed almost as much as paris, when i was a young man. there were balls and assemblies every night, a regiment of handsome women, suppers and champagne. we were never abed till the morning, and never up till the afternoon." antonia returned to the subject after they had spent a fortnight in florence, and when the weather was growing too hot for a continued residence there. mr. daniels, the young doctor, and an italian physician, had agreed in consultation that the sooner mr. thornton removed to a cooler climate the better for his chance of improvement. daniels suggested vallombrosa, where the monks would accommodate them in the monastery. the physician advised the baths of lucca. the patient objected to both places. he wanted to go to leghorn, and get back to london by sea. "i am sick to death of italy; and i believe a sea voyage would make me a strong man again. no man ought to be done for at my age." antonia was ready to do anything that medical science might suggest, but found it very difficult to please a patient who was seldom of the same mind two days running. while doctors and patient debated, death threw the casting vote. florentine sunshine is sometimes the treacherous ally of searching winds--those italian winds which we know less by their poetical names than by their resemblance to a british north-easter. mr. thornton caught cold in a drive to fiesole, and passed in a few hours to that region of half consciousness, the shadow-land betwixt life and death, where he could be no longer questioned as to the things he knew on earth. he died after three days' fever, with his hand clasped in his daughter's, and he died without telling her the name of the villa where his italian wife had lived, or the name she had borne before he married her. * * * * * lady kilrush mourned her father better than many a better man has been mourned. she laid him in an english graveyard outside the city walls; and then, being in love with this divine italy whose daughter she considered herself, she retired to a convent near fiesole, where the nuns were in the habit of taking english lodgers, and did not object to a wealthy heretic. here in the shade of ancient cloisters, and in gardens older than milton, she spent the summer, leaving only in the late autumn for rome, where louis had engaged a handsome apartment for her in the corso, and where she lived in as much seclusion as she was allowed to enjoy till the following may, delighting in the city which had filled so large a place in her girlish daydreams. "never, never, never did i think to see those walls," she said, when her coach emerged from a narrow alley and she found herself in front of the colosseum. "'tis a fine large building, but 'tis a pity the roof is off," said sophy. "what, child, did you think 'twas like ranelagh, a covered place for dancing?" "i don't know what else it could be good for, unless it was a market," retorted sophy. "i never saw such a dirty town since i was born, and the stink of it is enough to poison a body." miss potter lived through a roman winter with her nose perpetually tilted in chronic disgust; but she was delighted with the carnival, and with the admiration her own neat little person evoked, as she tripped about the dirty streets, with her gown pinned high, and a petticoat short enough to show slim ankles in green silk stockings. she admitted that the churches were handsomer than any she had seen in london, but vowed they were all alike, and that she would not know st. maria marjorum from st. john latterend. in those days, when only the best and worst people travelled, and the humdrum classes had to stay at home, english society in rome was aristocratic and exclusive; but antonia's romantic story having got wind, she was called upon by several english women of rank who wished to cultivate the beautiful parvenu. here, as in paris, however, she excused herself from visiting on account of her mourning. "my dear child, do you mean to wear weeds for ever?" cried the lovely lady diana lestrange, on her honeymoon with a second husband, after being divorced from the first. "sure his lordship is dead near two years." "does your ladyship think two years very long to mourn for a friend to whom i owe all i have ever known of love and friendship?" "i think it a great deal too long for a fine woman to disguise herself in crape and bombazine, and mope alone of an evening in the pleasantest city in europe. you must be dying of _ennui_ for want of congenial society." "i am too much occupied to be dull, madam. i am trying to carry on my education, so as to be more worthy the station to which my husband raised me." "i swear you are a paragon! well, we shall meet in town next winter, perhaps, if you do not join the blue-stocking circle, the montagus and carters, or turn religious, and spend all your evenings listening to a cushion-thumping methodist at lady huntingdon's pious _soirées_. we have all sorts of diversions in town, lady kilrush, besides ranelagh and vauxhall." "your ladyship may be sure i shall prefer ranelagh to the oxford methodists. i was not educated to love cant." "oh, the creatures are sincere, some of them, i believe; sincere fanatics. and the wesleys have good blood. their mother was an annesley, lord valentia's great granddaughter. the wesleys are gentlemen; and i doubt that is why people don't rave about them as they do about whitefield, who was drawer in a gloucester tavern." * * * * * lady kilrush went back to england in may, stopping at the lake of como on her way. she spent nearly a month on the shores of that lovely lake, visiting all the little towns along the coast, and exploring the white-walled villages upon the hills. she would have given so much to know in which of those villas whose gardens sloped to the blue water, or nestled in the wooded solitudes above the lake, had been her mother's birthplace. thornton had amused his daughter in her childhood by a romantic version of his marriage, in which his wife appeared as a lovely young patrician, whom he had stolen from her stately home. his fancy had expatiated upon a moonlit elopement, the escaping lovers pursued by an infuriated father. the romance had pleased the child, and he hardly meant to lie when he invented it. he let the lambent flame of his imagination play around common facts. 'twas true that his wife was lovely, and that he had stolen her from an angry father, whose helping hand she had been from childhood. the patrician blood, the villa were but details, the airy adornment of the tutor's love-story. ignorant even of her mother's family name, it seemed hopeless for antonia to discover the place of her birth; but it pleased her to linger in that lovely scene at the loveliest season of the year, to grow familiar with the country to which she belonged by reason of that maternal tie. she peered into the churches, thinking on the threshold of each that it was in such a temple her mother had worshipped in unquestioning piety, believing all the priests bade her believe. "perhaps it is happiest to believe in fables, and never to have learnt to reason or doubt," she thought, seeing the kneeling figures in the shadowy chapels, the heads reverently bent, the lips whispering devout supplications, as the beads of the rosary slipped through the sunburnt fingers--a prayer for every bead. the house in st. james's square had been prepared for its new mistress with a retinue in accordance with the statelier habits of the days of walpole and chesterfield, when a lady of rank and fortune required six running footmen to her chair, with a black page to walk in advance of it, and a mass of overfed flesh to sit in a hooded leather sentry-box in her hall and snub plebeian visitors. antonia had instructed her steward to keep all the old servants who were worthy of her confidence, and to engage as many new ones as might be necessary; and so the household had all the air of a long-settled establishment where the servants had nothing to learn, and where the measure of their own importance was their mistress's dignity, of which they would abate no jot or tittle. it is only the hireling of yesterday, the domestic nomad, who disparages his master or mistress. jewellers, milliners, mantua-makers, shoemakers, hairdressers flocked about lady kilrush the day after her arrival from paris. all the harpies of pall mall and st. james's street had been on the watch for her coming. pictures, bronzes, porcelains, nodding mandarins, and canton screens were brought for her inspection. the hall would have been like a fair but for the high-handed porter, whose fleshy person trembled with indignation at these assaults, and who sent fashionable shopmen to the rightabout as if they had been negro slaves. thanks to his _savoir faire_, her ladyship was able to spend her morning in peace, and to see only the tradespeople who were necessary to her establishment. she gave her orders with a royal liberality, but she would have nothing forced upon her by officiousness. "i would rather not hear about your london fashions, mrs. meddlebury," she told her respectable british dressmaker. "i have come straight from paris, and know what the dauphine is wearing. you will make my _negligés_ and my sacques as i bid you; and be sure you send to ireland for a tabinet and a poplin, as i desire sometimes to wear gowns of irish manufacture." chapter x. a duty visit. antonia's appearance at leicester house was the occasion of a flight of newspaper paragraphs. the _st. james's evening post_ reminded its readers of the romantic marriage of a well-known hibernian nobleman, "which we were the first to announce to the town, and of which full particulars were given in our columns; a freak of fancy on the part of the last baron kilrush, amply justified by the dazzling beauty of the young lady who made her curtsey to the princess dowager last week, sponsored by lady margaret laroche, a connection of the late lord kilrush, and, as everybody knows, a star of the first magnitude in the _beau monde_." here followed a description of the lady's personal appearance: her gown of white tabinet with a running pattern of shamrocks worked in silver, and the famous kilrush pearls, which had not been seen for a quarter of a century. _lloyd's_ was more piquant, and had recourse to initials. "it is not generally known that the lovely young widow who was the cynosure of neighbouring eyes at st. james's on his majesty's birthday, began life in very humble circumstances. her father, mr. t----n, was bred for the church, but spent his youth as an itinerant tutor to lads of fashion, and did not prove an ornament to his sacred calling. he brought his clerical career to a hasty close by an ill-judged indulgence of the tender passion. his elopement with a buxom wench from a lincolnshire homestead would have caused him less trouble had not his natural gallantry induced him to relieve his sweetheart of the burden of her father's cash-box, for which mistaken kindness he suffered two years' seclusion among highwaymen and pickpockets. the beautiful lady k----h was educated in the classics and in modern literature by this clever but unprincipled parent; and she is said to owe an independence of all religious dogma to the parental training. there is no such uncompromising infidel as an unfrocked priest." the _daily journal_ had its scraps of information. "a little bird has told us that the new beauty, whose appearance on the birthday so fluttered their dovecotes at st. james's palace, spent her early youth in third-floor lodgings in a paved court adjoining st. martin's lane, where the young lady and her father drudged for the booksellers. 'tis confidently asserted that this lovely _bas-bleu_ had a considerable share in several comedies and burlettas produced by mr. garrick under the ostensible authorship of her father. 'tis rarely that genius, beauty, and wealth are to be found united in a widow of three and twenty summers. how rich a quarry for our fops and fortune-hunters!" the _st. james's_ held forth again on the same theme. "among the numerous motives which conjecture has put forward for the mysterious marriage in high life some two years ago--the most interesting particulars of which we alone were able to supply--the real reason has been entirely overlooked. our more intimate knowledge of the _beau monde_ enables us to hit the right nail on the head. by his deathbed union with the penniless daughter of a grub-street hack, lord k---- was able to gratify his hatred of the young gentleman who ought to have been his heir. we are credibly informed that this unfortunate youth, first cousin of the brilliant but eccentric irish peer, is now subsisting on a pittance in a labourer's cottage on a common near richmond park." this last contribution to the literature of gossip seriously affected antonia. she had read all the rest with a sublime indifference. she had been behind the scenes, and knew how such paragraphs were concocted--had, indeed, written a good deal of fashionable intelligence herself, collected by mr. thornton sometimes from the chairmen waiting at street corners, in those summer evening walks with his daughter, or in the grey autumn nights, when the town had a picturesque air in the long perspective of oil lamps that looked like strings of topazes hung upon the darkness. the grub-street hack had not thought it beneath him to converse in an affable humour with a chairman or a running footman, and so to discover how the most beautiful duchess in england was spending the evening, how much she lost at faro last night, and who it was handed her to her chair. antonia threw aside the papers with a contemptuous smile. they stabbed her to the heart when they maligned her dead father; but she was wise enough to refrain from any attempted refutation of a slander in which, alas! there might be a grain of truth. her father was at rest. the malicious paragraph could not hurt him, and for her own part she had a virile stoicism which helped her to bear such attacks. she looked back at her journalistic work, and was thankful to remember that she had never written anything ill-natured, even when her father had urged her to give more point to a paragraph, and to insinuate that a lover had paid the duchess's losses at cards, or that there had been a curious shuffling of new-born babies in the ducal mansion. her sprightliest lines had shone with a lambent flame that hurt nobody. her husband's rightful heir starving in a hovel! that was a concrete fact with which she could cope. but for the motive of that deathbed bond, she knew better than the hack scribbler; she knew that a passionate love, baulked and disappointed in life, had triumphed in the hour of death. he had bound her to himself to the end of her existence, in the sublime tyranny of that love which had not realized its strength till too late. and that he should be supposed to have been actuated by a petty spite--an old man's hatred of a youthful heir! "what reptiles these scribblers are!" she thought, "that will sell lies by the guinea's worth, and think themselves honest if they give full measure." she sent for goodwin. "you must know all about his lordship's family," she said. "can you tell me of any cousin whom he may be said to have disinherited?" "there is no one who could be rightly called his lordship's heir, my lady; but there is a young gentleman, a cousin, only son to a sister of his lordship's father, who may at one time have expected to come into some of the property, the entail having expired, and there being no direct heir in existence." "had this gentleman offended his lordship?" "yes, my lady. he behaved very badly indeed, and his lordship forbade him the house." "was he dissipated--a spendthrift?" "no, my lady. i don't think his lordship would have taken that so ill in a fine young man with a wealthy mother. it would have been only natural for him to be a man of pleasure. but mr. stobart's conduct was very bad indeed. he left the army----" "a coward?" "no, my lady, i don't think we can call him that. he was singled out for his dash and spirit in the retreat at fontenoy, where he saved the life of his superior officer at the risk of his own. but soon after his regiment came home he took up religion, left off powdering his hair, sold his commission, and gave the money to the building fund for wesley's chapel in the city road." "he must be a foolish fellow, i think," said antonia, who was not fascinated by this description. "and was his lordship seriously offended by this conduct?" "he didn't like the young gentleman turning methodist, my lady; but that was not the worst." "indeed?" "mr. stobart made a low marriage." "what? did he marry a woman of bad character?" "i don't think there was anything against the young woman's _character_, my lady; but she was very low, a servant of mrs. stobart's, i believe, and a methodist. john wesley's influence was at the bottom of it all. there's no reckoning the harm those oxford methodists have done in high families. well, there's lady huntingdon! there's no need to say more than that." "but how comes this gentleman to be in poor circumstances, as the _st. james's post_ states, if his mother is rich?" "oh, my lady, the honourable mrs. stobart was quite as angry as his lordship, and she married sir david lanigan, an irish baronet, who courted her when she was a girl at kilrush abbey. your ladyship would notice her portrait in the long drawing-room at kilrush." "yes, yes, i remember--a handsome face, with a look of his lordship. then you have reason to believe that mr. stobart is living in poverty, as a consequence of his love-match?" her cheek crimsoned as she spoke, recalling that bitterest hour of her life in which kilrush had told her that he could not marry her. that inexorable pride--the pride of the name-worshippers--had darkened this young man's existence, as it had darkened hers. but he, at least, had shaken off the fetters of caste, and had taken his own road to happiness. "thank you, goodwin; that is all i want to know," she said. an hour later she was being driven to richmond in an open carriage, with the faithful sophy seated opposite her, in the dazzling june sunshine. they stopped at putney to spend half an hour with mrs. potter, and then drove on to the village of sheen, and pulled up at a roadside inn, where antonia inquired for mr. stobart's cottage, and was agreeably surprised at finding her question promptly answered. "'tis about a mile from here, your ladyship," said the landlord, who had run out of his bar-parlour to wait upon a lady in as fine a carriage as any that passed his door on a saturday afternoon, when court and fashion drove to richmond to air themselves in the park and play cards at modish lodgings on the green. "'tis a white cottage facing the common--the first turning on the left hand will take you to it; but 'tis a bad road for carriages." they drove along the high road for about a quarter of a mile, between market gardens, where the asparagus beds showed green and feathery, and where the strawberry banks were white with blossom, under the blue sky of early june. the hedges were full of hawthorn bloom and honeysuckle, dog-roses and red campion. "sure, the country's a sweet place to come to for an afternoon," said sophy, as she sniffed the purer air; "but i'm glad we live in london." the lane was narrow and full of ruts, so antonia alighted at the turning and sent sophy and the carriage back to the inn to wait for her. sophy had a volume of a novel in her reticule, and would be able to amuse herself. the walk gave antonia time for quiet thought before she met the man who might receive her as an enemy. she was going to him with no high-flown ideas of restitution--of surrendering a fortune that she knew to be the bequest of love. she had accepted that heritage without compunction. she had given herself to the dead, and she thought it no wrong to receive the fortune that the dead had given to her. but if her husband's kinsman was in poor circumstances, it was her duty to share her riches with him. she had an instinctive dislike of all professors of religion; but she could but admire this young man for the humble marriage which had offended his cousin, and perhaps lost him a substantial part of his cousin's fortune. the lane was a long one, between untrimmed hedges that breathed the delicate perfume of wild flowers, on one side a field of clover, a strawberry garden on the other. it was a relief to have left the dust of the high road, and the burden of sophy's running commentary upon the houses and carriages and people on their way. sheen common lay before her at last, an undulating expanse carpeted with short sweet turf, where the lady's-slipper wrought a golden pattern on the greyish green, and where the yellow bloom of the gorse rose and fell over the hillocky ground in a dazzling perspective. larks were singing in the midsummer blue, and behind the park wall, built when the first charles was king, the rooks were calling amidst the darkness of forest trees. close on her left hand as she came out of the lane, antonia saw a cottage which she took for the labourer's hovel indicated in the _st. james's evening post_. it had been once a pair of cottages, with deeply sloping thatch and crow-step gables above end walls of red brick; but it was now one house in a flower-garden of about an acre, surrounded with a hedge of roses and lavender, inside a low white paling. the plastered porch, with its broad bench and little square window, was big enough for two or three people to sit in; the parlour casements were wide and low, and none of the rooms could have been above seven or eight feet high; but this humble dwelling, contemplated on the outside, had those charms of the picturesque and the rustic which are apt to make people forget that houses are meant to be lived in rather than to be looked at from over the way. the garden was prettier than her own old garden at putney, tonia thought. never had she seen so many flowers in so small a space. while she stood admiring this little paradise, out of range of the windows, she was startled by the sound of a voice close by; and then, for the first time, she became aware of a domestic group under an old crab-apple tree, which was big enough to spread a shade over a young man and woman sitting side by side on a garden bench, and a very juvenile nursemaid kneeling on the grass and supervising the movements of a crawling baby. the young man was mr. stobart, no doubt; and the girl who sat sewing diligently, with bent head, and who looked hardly eighteen years of age, must be his wife; and the baby made the natural third in the domestic trio, the embodied grace and sanction of a virtuous marriage. he was reading aloud from "paradise lost," the story of adam and eve before the coming of the tempter. he had a fine baritone voice, and gave full effect to the music of milton's verse, reading as a man who loves the thing he reads. in the restrictions which piety imposed upon the choice of books, he had been over the same ground much oftener than a more libertine student would have been; and this may have accounted for the young wife's appearance of being more interested in the hem of her baby's petticoat than in milton's eve. "a simpleton," thought tonia. "'tis not every man would forfeit wealth and station for such a wife. but she looks sweet-tempered, and as free from earthly stain as a sea-nymph." she went on to the low wooden gate, as white as if it had been painted yesterday, and rang a primitive kind of bell that hung on the gate-post. the young woman laid down her sewing, and came to open the gate with the air of doing the most natural thing in the world; but on perceiving antonia's splendour of silver-grey lute-string and plumed hat she stopped in confusion, dropping a low curtsey before she admitted the visitor. antonia thought her lovely. those velvety brown eyes set off the delicacy of her complexion, while the bright auburn of her unpowdered hair, which fell about her forehead and hung upon her neck in natural curls, gave a vivid beauty to a face that without brilliant colouring would have meant very little. she had the exquisite freshness of creatures that do not think--almost without passions, quite without mind. "i think you must be mrs. stobart," tonia said gently. "i have come to see your husband, if he will be good enough to receive me. i am lady kilrush." the timid sweetness of mrs. stobart's expression changed in a moment, and an angry red flamed over cheeks and brow. "then i'm sure i don't know what can be your ladyship's business here, unless you have come to crow over us," she said, "for i know you wasn't invited." stobart came to the gate in time to hear his wife's speech. "pray, my dear lucy, let us have no ill-nature," he said, with grave displeasure, as he opened the gate. "you see, madam, my wife has not been bred in the school that teaches us how to hide our feelings. i hope your ladyship will excuse her for being too simple to be polite." "i am sorry if she or you can think of me as an enemy," said antonia, very coldly. she had been startled out of her friendly feeling by mrs. stobart's unexpected attack. "i only knew a few hours ago, from an insolent paragraph in a newspaper, that there was any one living who could think himself the worse for my marriage." "indeed, madam, i have never blamed you or providence for that romantic incident. will your ladyship sit under our favourite tree, where my wife and i have been sitting, or would you prefer to be within doors?" "oh, the garden by all means. i adore a garden; and yours is the prettiest for its size i have ever seen, except the rose-garden at kilrush abbey, which i dare swear you know." "my aunt's garden? yes. i was just old enough to remember her leading me by the hand among her rose trees. she died before my fourth birthday, and i have never seen kilrush house since her death." "'tis vastly at your service, sir, with all it can offer of accommodation, if ever you and your lady care to occupy it for a season." they were moving slowly towards the apple tree as they talked, lucy stobart hanging her head as she crept beside her husband, ashamed of her shrewish outburst, for which she expected a lecture by-and-by, and shedding a penitential tear or two behind a corner of her muslin apron. "we shall not trespass on your ladyship's generosity. we have framed our lives upon a measure that would make kilrush house out of the question." "we are not rich enough to live in a great house," snapped lucy, sinning again in the midst of her repentance. "say rather that we have done with the things that go with wealth and station, and have discovered the happiness that can be found in what fine people call poverty." nursemaid and baby had disappeared from the little lawn. antonia took the seat mr. stobart indicated on the rustic bench; but her host and his wife remained standing, lucy puzzled as to what she ought to do, george too much troubled in mind to know what he was doing. "mrs. stobart, and you, sir, pray be seated. let us be as friendly as we can," pleaded antonia. "be sure i came here in a friendly spirit. pray be frank with me. i know nothing but what i read in the _st. james's evening post_. is it true that you were once your cousin's acknowledged heir?" "no, madam, it is not true. i was but his lordship's nearest relation." "and he would have inherited his lordship's fortune if he had not married me," said lucy, with irrepressible vehemence. "sure you know 'twas so, george! and i can never forgive myself for having cost you a great fortune. and then lord kilrush must needs make a much lower marriage--on his death-bed, to spite you, for _my_ father had never been----" her husband clapped his hand over her lips before she could finish the sentence. antonia started up from the bench, pale with indignation. "lucy, i am ashamed of you," said george. "go indoors and play with your baby. you do not know how to converse with a lady. i beg you to forgive her, madam, and to think of her as a pettish child, who will learn better behaviour in time." "i can forgive much, but not to hear it said that kilrush had any other motive than his love for me when he made me his wife. i loved him, sir--loved him too dearly to suffer that falsehood for an instant. no, mrs. stobart, don't go," as lucy began to creep away, ashamed of her misconduct. "you must hear why i came, and what i have to say to your husband. i came as a friend, and i hoped to find a friendly welcome. i came to do justice, if justice can be done, but not to apologize for a marriage which was prompted by love, and love alone." "be patient with us, madam, and you may yet find us worthy of your friendship," said stobart, gently. "but first of all be assured that we ask nothing from your generosity. we assert no claim to justice, not considering ourselves wronged." "you think differently from your wife, mr. stobart." "oh, madam, cannot you see that my wife is a wayward child, who has never learnt to reason? to-night, on her knees at the foot of the cross, she will shed penitential tears for her sins of pride and impatience." "pray, sir, do not talk of sin. 'twas natural, perhaps, that your wife should think ill of me." "oh, madam, 'twas for his sake only that i was angry," protested lucy, with streaming eyes. "satan gets the better of me when i remember that he was disinherited for marrying me; and i thought you had come here to triumph over him. but, indeed, i covet nobody's fortune, and am content with this dear cottage, where i have been happier than i ever was in my life before." "let us be friends, then, mrs. stobart," antonia said, with a graciousness that completely subjugated the contrite lucy, whose murmured reply was inaudible, and who sat gazing at the visitor in a rapture of admiration. never had lucy's eyes beheld so handsome a woman, or such a hat, with its black ostrich feathers, clasped at the side by a diamond buckle that flashed rainbow light in the sunshine. the glancing sheen of the pale grey gown, the long gloves drawn to the elbow under deep ruffles of flemish lace, the diamond cross sparkling between the folds of cyprus gauze that veiled the corsage, the _tout-ensemble_ of a fine lady's toilette, filled mrs. stobart with wonder. wholly unconscious of the impression she had made on the wife, antonia addressed herself to the husband with an earnest countenance. "i am thankful to find you do not accuse lord kilrush of injustice," she said. "but as his kinsman, you may naturally have expected to inherit some part of his wealth; and i therefore beg you to accept a fourth share of my income, which is reckoned at twenty thousand pounds. i hope that with five thousand a year your wife will be able to enjoy all the pleasures that fortune can give." "oh, georgie!" exclaimed lucy, breathless with a rapturous surprise. her husband laid his hand on hers with a caressing touch. "hush, my dearest," he said; and then in a graver tone, "your offer is as unexpected as it is generous, madam; but i will not take advantage of an impulse which you might afterwards regret, and of which the world you live in would question the wisdom. be sure i do not envy you my kinsman's fortune. if i ever stood in the place of his heir i lost that place two years before he died. he told me plainly that he meant to strike my name out of his will. i hoped for nothing, desired nothing from him." "but sure, sir, nobody loves poverty. i have tasted it, and know what it means; and since i have enjoyed all the luxuries of wealth i own that it would distress me to go back to the two-pair parlour of which the evening papers love to remind me." "true, madam; for in your world pleasure and money are inseparable ideas. when i left that world--at the call of religion--i renounced something far dearer to me than fortune. i gave up a soldier's career, and the hope to serve my country, and write my name upon her register of honourable deeds. having made that sacrifice, i have nothing to lose, except the lives of those i love--nothing to desire for them or for myself, except that our present happiness may continue." "but if i assure you that your acceptance of my offer would ease my conscience----" "nay, madam, your conscience may rest easy in the assurance that we are content----" "i do not think your wife is content, mr. stobart. she received me just now as an enemy. let me convince her that i am her friend." "you can do that in a hundred ways, madam, without making her rich, which would be to be her enemy in disguise." "sure, your ladyship, i was full of sinfulness and pride when i spoke to you so uncivilly," lucy said, in a contrite voice. "mr. stobart is a better judge of all serious matters than i am. i should never be clever if i lived to be a hundred, in spite of the pains he takes to teach me. and if he thinks we had best be poor, why, so do i; and this house is a palace compared with the hovel i lived in before he took me away from my father and mother." "you hear, lady kilrush, my wife and i are of one mind. but to prove that 'tis for no stubborn pride that i reject your generous offer, i promise to appeal to your kindness at any hour of need, and, further, to call upon you once in a way for those charitable works in which the men i most honour are engaged. there is mr. whitefield's american orphanage, for example----" "oh, command my purse, i pray you, sir. i rejoice in helping the poor--i who have known poverty. i will send you something for your orphans to-night. let me assist all your good works." "'tis very generous of your ladyship to help us; for i doubt your own religious views scarcely tally with those of my friends." "i have no religious views, mr. stobart. i have no religion except the love of my fellow-creatures." "great heaven, madam, have the undermining influences of a corrupt society so early sapped your belief in christ?" "no, sir, society has not influenced me. i have never been a believer in christianity as a creed, though i can admire jesus of nazareth as a philanthropist, and grieve for him as a martyr to the cruelty of man. i was taught to reason, where other children are taught to believe; to question and to think for myself, where other children are taught to be dumb and to stifle thought." stobart gazed at her with horror. mrs. stobart listened open-mouthed, astonished at the audacity which could give speech to such opinions. "oh, madam, 'tis sad to hear outspoken unbelief from the lips of youth. i doubt you have suffered the influence of that pernicious writer whose pen has peopled france with infidels." "if, sir, you mean voltaire, you do ill to condemn the apostle of toleration, to whom you and all other dissenters should be grateful." "i scorn the championship of an infidel. i am no more a dissenter than the wesleys or george whitefield. i have not ceased to belong to the church of england because i follow heaven-born teachers sent to startle that church from a century of torpor. _they_ have not ceased to be of the church because bishops disapprove their ardour and parish priests exclude them from their pulpits." "oh, sir, i doubt not that you and those gentlemen are honest in your convictions. 'tis my misfortune, perhaps, that i cannot think as you do." "if you would condescend to hear those inspired preachers you would not long walk in the darkness that now encompasses you; for sure, madam, god meant you to be among the children of light, one of his elect, awaiting but his appointed hour for your redemption. oh, after that new birth, how you will hate the life that lies behind! with what tears you will atone for your unbelief!" his earnestness startled her. his strong voice trembled, his dark grey eyes were clouded with tears. could any man so concern himself about the spiritual welfare of a stranger? she had grown up with a deep-rooted prejudice against professing christians. she expected nothing from religious people but harshness and injustice, self-esteem and arrogance, masked under an assumption of humility. this man talked the jargon she hated, but she could not doubt his sincerity. "alas! madam, my heart aches for you, when i consider the peril of your soul. with youth and beauty, wealth, the world's esteem--all satan's choicest lures--what safeguard, what defence have you?" "moi!" she answered, rising suddenly, and looking proud defiance at him, remembering that heroic monosyllable in corneille's "medea." "oh, sir, it is on ourselves--on the light within, not the god in the sky--we must depend in the conflict between right and wrong. do you think a creed can help a man in temptation, or that the thirty-nine articles ever saved a sinner from falling?" he was silent, lost in admiration at so much spirit and beauty, such boldness and pride. his own ideal of womanly grace was gentleness, obedience, an amiable nullity; but he must needs own the triumphant charms of this bold disputant, who was not afraid to confess an impiety that shocked him. he had known many deists among his own sex; but the wickedest women he had met in his unregenerate days had been like the devils that believe and tremble. "i have stayed over long," said antonia, resuming the easy tone of trivial conversation, "and i have my woman waiting for me at the inn. good day to you, mrs. stobart, and pray remember we are to be friends. i hope your husband will bring you to dine with me in st. james's square." "i know not if it would be wise to accept your ladyship's polite invitation," stobart answered, "though we are grateful for the kindness that inspires it. i have an inward assurance that i am safest in keeping aloof from the world i once loved too well. my life here holds all that is good for my soul--all that my heart can desire." "but is your religion but a passive piety, sir? do you follow the doctrine of the moravians, who abjure all active righteousness, and wait in stillness for the coming of faith? do you do nothing for christianity?" "indeed, madam, he works like a slave in doing good," protested lucy, eagerly. "mr. wesley has given him a mission among the poorest wretches at lambeth. he has set up a dispensary there, and schools for the children, and a night class for grown men. he toils among them for many hours three or four days a week. i tremble lest he should take some dreadful fever, and come home to me only to die. he goes to the prisons, and reads to the condemned creatures, and comes home broken-hearted at the cruelty of the law, at the sinfulness of mankind. what does he do for religion? he gives his life for it--almost as his redeemer did!" "you teach me to honour him, madam, and to honour you for so generously defending him against my impertinence. pray forgive me, and you too, mr. stobart. i have allowed myself great freedom of speech; and if you do not return my visit i shall be sure you are offended." "we shall not suffer you to think that, madam," stobart answered gravely. he insisted on escorting her to her carriage, and in the walk of nearly a mile they had time for conversation. he suffered himself for that brief span to acknowledge the existence of mundane things, and talked of handel's oratorios, richardson's novels, and even of garrick and shakespeare. he handed lady kilrush to her carriage, and saw her drive away from the inn door, a radiant vision in the afternoon light, before he went back to the cottage, and the adoring young wife, and the yearling baby, and a dish of tea, and the story of eve and the serpent. the next day's post brought him an enclosure of two bank bills for five hundred pounds each, and one line in a strong and somewhat masculine penmanship. "for your poor of lambeth, and for mr. whitefield's orphans. "antonia kilrush." chapter xi. antonia's initiation. 'twas the close of the season when antonia arrived in london, and she left st. james's square two days after her interview with the stobarts, on a visit to lady margaret laroche at bath, where that lady's drawing-rooms in pulteney street were open every evening to those worldlings who preferred whist and commerce to whitefield, and the airy gossip of the _beau monde_ to the heart-searchings of the aristocratic penitents who attended lady huntingdon's assemblies. lady margaret, familiarly known in the fashionable world as lady peggy, was one of those rare and delightful women who, without any desire to revolutionize, dare to think for themselves, and to arrange their lives in accord with their own tastes and inclinations, unshackled by the mode of the moment. her circle was the most varied and the pleasantest in london and bath, and she carried with her an atmosphere of easy gaiety which made her an element of cheerfulness in every house she visited. in a word, she had _esprit_, which, united with liberal ideas and far-reaching sympathies, made her the most delightful of companions as well as the staunchest of friends. this lady--a distant cousin of lord kilrush's--had deemed it her duty to wait upon antonia; and, finding as much intelligence as beauty, took the young widow under her wing and promised to make her the fashion. "with so fine a house and so good an income you will like to see people," she said. "you had best spend a month with me at the bath, where you will meet at least half the great world, and you will grow familiar with them there in less time than 'twould take you to be on curtseying terms in london, where the court takes up so much of everybody's attention, and politics go before friendship. at the bath we are all jack and peggy, my dear and my love. we eat badly cooked dinners in sweltering parlours, dance or gossip in a mixed mob at the rooms every night, and simmer together in a witches' cauldron every morning; at least, other people do; but for my own part i abjure all such community in ailments." at bath antonia found herself the rage in less than a fortnight, and had a crowd round her whenever she appeared among the morning dippers or at the evening dance. she was voted the most magnificent creature who had appeared since lady coventry began to go off in looks; and the men almost hustled each other for the privilege of handing her to her chair. she accepted their attentions with a lofty indifference that enhanced her charms. men talked of her "goddess air;" and in that age of _sobriquets_ she was soon known as juno and as diana. she kept them all at an equal distance, yet was polite to all. her sense of humour was tickled by the memory of those evening walks with her father in the west end streets, when she had caught stray glimpses of fashionable assemblies through open windows. "was i as perfect a creature then as the woman they pretend to worship?" she questioned; "and, if i was, how strange that of all the men who passed me in the street, there was but one now and then, and he some hateful silenus, that ever tried to pursue me. but i had not my white and silver gown then, nor the kilrush jewels, nor my coach and six." she had a supreme contempt for adulation which she ascribed to her fortune rather than to her charms; and lady margaret saw with satisfaction that her _protégée's_ head was not one of those that the first-comer can turn. "'tis inevitable you should take a second husband," she said, "but i hope you will wait for a duke." "there is no duke in england would tempt me, dear lady peggy. i shall carry my husband's name to the grave, where i hope to lie beside him." "'tis a graceful, romantic fancy you cherish, child; but be sure there will come a day when some warm living love will divert your thoughts from that icy rendezvous." "ah, madam, think how inimitable a lover i lost." "i know he was an insinuating wretch whom women found irresistible; but you are too young to hang over an urn for the rest of your days, like a marble figure in westminster abbey. there is a long life before you that you must not spend in solitude." "while i have so kind a friend as your ladyship i can never think myself alone." "alas! antonia, i am an old woman. my friendship is like the fag end of a lease." lady margaret was the widow of an admiral, with a handsome jointure, and a small neat house in spring gardens, where she was visited by all the best people in town, and by all the best-known painters, authors, and actors of the day, who were often to be found at four o'clock seated round her ladyship's dinner-table, and drinking her ladyship's admirable port and burgundy. temperate herself as a sylph, lady peggy was a judge of wines, and always gave the best. she had a clever scotchwoman for her cook, and a frenchman for her major-domo, who kept her two italian footmen in order, and did not think it beneath his dignity to compose a salmi, toss an omelet, or dress a salad on a special occasion, when a genius of the highest mark or a princess of the blood royal was to dine with his mistress. with such a guide antonia opened her house to the great world early in november, and her entertainments became at once the top of the fashion. lady margaret had instructed her in the whole science of party-giving, and especially whom to invite and whom to leave out. "'tis by the people who are _not_ asked your parties will rank highest," she said. "sure, dear madam, i should not like to slight any one." "pshaw, woman, if you never slight any one you will confess yourself a parvenu. the first art a _grande dame_ has to learn is how to be uncivil civilly. you must be gracious to every one you meet; but you cannot be too exclusive when it comes to inviting people." "but if i am to look for spotless reputations my rooms will be empty;" and antonia smiled at the thought of how small and dowdy a crew she could muster were stainless virtue the pass-word. "you will invite nobody who has been found out--no woman who has thrown her cap over the mill, no man who has been _detected_ cheating at cards. there are lots of 'em _do_ it, but that don't count." "but, dear lady margaret, among the actresses and authors you receive sure there must be some doubtful characters." "not doubtful, _chérie;_ we know all about 'em. but _their_ peccadillos don't count. we inquire no more about 'em than about the morals of a dancing bear. the creatures are there to amuse us, and we are not curious as how they behave in their garrets and back parlours. but 'twas not so much reputation i thought of when i urged you to be exclusive. 'tis the ugly and the dull you must eliminate; the empty chatterers; the corpulent bores, who block doorways and crowd supper-rooms. there's your visiting list, _douce_," concluded lady peggy, handing her a closely written sheet of bath post. "'tis the salt of the earth, and if you ever introduce an unworthy name in it out of easy good nature, you deserve to lose all hope of fashion." to be the fashion, to be one of the chosen few whom all foreigners and outsiders want to see; to be mobbed in the park, stared at in the playhouse and at the opera; to be imitated in dress, gesture, speech; to introduce the latest mispronunciation and call bristol "bristo,"--is it not the highest prize in the lottery of woman's life? to be famous as painter, poet, actor? alas! a fleeting renown. the new generation is at the door. the veteran must give way. but the empire of fashion is more enduring, and having won _that_ crown, a woman must be a simpleton if she do not wear it all her life, and bring the best people in town to gape and whisper round her death-bed. * * * * * antonia's first ball was a triumph. the lofty suites of rooms, the double staircase and surrounding gallery were thronged with rank and beauty; the clothes were finer than at the last birthday, the silver and gold brocades of dazzling splendour; the jewels, borrowed, hired, or owned, flashed prismatic colours across the softer candlelight. the newspapers expatiated on the entertainment, computed the candles by the thousand, the footmen by the score. lady kilrush was at once established as a woman of the highest _ton;_ her drawing-rooms were crowded with morning visitors, her tea-table at six o'clock served as a rendezvous for all that was choicest in the world of fashion. every day brought a series of engagements--breakfasts at strawberry hill, where horace walpole exercised his most delightful talents for the amusement of so charming a guest; great dinners where the ministers and the opposition drank their three bottles together in amity, the duke of newcastle and mr. pelham, pitt and fox, granville and pulteney,--a galaxy of ribbons and stars; parties at syon house and at osterley; excursions to hampton court and windsor, braving the wintry roads in a coach and six, and with half a dozen out-riders as a guard against the hazards of the journey. lady kilrush had become one of the most popular women in london, and the only evil thing that was said of her was that she did not return visits as quickly as people expected. was she happy in the midst of it all, she who believed only in this brief life and the pleasure or the pain that it holds? yes. she was too young, too beautiful and complete a creature not to be intoxicated by the brilliancy of her new existence, and the sense of unbounded power that wealth gave her. the novelty of the life was in itself enough for happiness. the london in which she moved to-day was as new to her as rome had been, and more splendid, if less romantic. operas, concerts, plays, auctions, picture-galleries, masquerades, ridottos, provided a series of pleasures that surpassed her dreams. handel and the italian singers offered inexhaustible delight. she might tire of all the rest--of court balls and modish drums, of bidding for china monsters, buying toys of mrs. chenevix and trinkets of jeweller deard in pall mall--but of music she could never tire, and the more she heard of handel's oratorios the better she loved them. chapter xii. "so run that ye may obtain." mrs. stobart, yawning by the neatly swept hearth in her cottage parlour, while her husband sat silent over a book, read an account of antonia's party in a semi-religious newspaper, prefaced with a pious denunciation of the worldling's extravagant luxury. she insisted on reading the description to her husband, and as she was a slow reader, bored him to extinction. "how fine it must have been!" she sighed at the end. "oh, how i should love to have been there! what a pity you put her off with an excuse when she asked us to visit her!" "my dear lucy, what an idle thought! your clothes for such a party would cost a hundred pounds; and how would you like to think that you carried on your person the money that would feed a score of orphan children for the winter?" "then is everybody wicked who gives such assemblies or goes to them? sure if they all spent their superfluous wealth upon charity, instead of fine clothes and musicians and wax candles, there need be nobody starving or homeless in england." "'tis a problem the world has not solved yet, lucy; but for my own part i think the man who squanders his fortune upon pomp and luxury can have no more appreciation of gospel truth than the heathen has who never heard of a redeemer." "then you think lady kilrush is no better than a heathen?" "alas! poor wretch, did she not confess herself so in your hearing--an infidel, blind to the light of revelation, deaf to the message of pardon? we can but pity her, lucy, and pray that god's hour may come for her as it came for you and me. she has a fine nature, and i cannot think she will be left in outer darkness." "unless she is one of those that were predestined to eternal perdition before they were born," said lucy. "you know i have never countenanced that gospel of despair, and i deplore that so fine a preacher as mr. whitefield should have taken up such gloomy views." "she might have sent us a card for her ball," murmured lucy. "'twould have been civil, even though she guessed you would not take me." the discontented sigh which followed the complaining speech showed george stobart that his wife was still among the unregenerate. his religion was of a stern temper, and he could not suffer this unchristian peevishness to pass unreproved. "do you think, madam, that a journeyman printer's daughter would be in her place among dukes and duchesses at a fashionable assembly? 'twas not for such a life i chose you." lucy, who always trembled at her husband's frown, though she never refrained from provoking his anger, replied with her accustomed argument of tears. george saw the slim shoulders shaken by suppressed sobs, flung his book aside in a rage, and began to pace the cottage parlour, whose narrow bounds he was not yet accustomed to. in mild weather the half-glass door stood ever open, and he could pass to the grass plot outside when his impatient mood was on; but with a november rain beating against the casement there was no escape, and he felt like a caged bear. finding her stifled sobs unregarded, lucy began again, in the same complaining voice-- "i thought a gentleman's wife was fit company even for dukes and duchesses; and if it comes to fathers, i have less need to be ashamed of mine, though he starved and beat me, than lady kilrush has of hers, who was in jail for running away with a farmer's cash-box. 'twas all in the evening paper when his lordship married her." "good god!" cried george, "are women by nature mean and petty? the first desire of a gentleman's wife, madam, should be to think and act like a lady, and to-day you do neither. i wish we had never seen lady kilrush, since an hour of her company has made you dissatisfied with a life for which i thought heaven designed you. to sigh for balls and drums--you, who never danced a step in your life! and do you think when i left the army--the calling i loved--i meant to hang upon the skirts of fashion, stand in doorways, or elbow and shove in supper-rooms? i renounced all such idle pleasures when i left his majesty's service and took up arms for christ, whose soldier and servant i am." lucy, now entirely repentant, looked up at him with streaming eyes, shivering at his indignation, but admiring him. "how handsome you are when you are angry!" she cried. "you are so good and noble, and i am so vile a sinner. 'tis satan tempting me. he makes me forget what a worm i am. he makes me proud and ungrateful--ungrateful to you, my dear, my honoured husband; ungrateful to god who gave me your love." she slipped from her chair to the ground, and knelt there, weeping passionately, her pretty auburn hair falling over her face and neck, whose delicate whiteness showed like ivory between loose locks of burnished gold. her husband had recovered his self-command, lifted her tenderly from the ground, and held her against his breast. how pretty she was, how artless and childlike, and how brutal it was in him to be so angry at her poor little frivolous yearnings for fine clothes and fine company, music and candlelight! he kissed her on the forehead and lips in a gentle silence, led her to her chair, and then resumed his book. "'tis i am the sinner, lucy," he said after a pause, during which her needle travelled slowly along the seam of the shirt she was making for him. "i did very ill to be so hot and impatient about a trifle. but these long empty days vex me. i hope i may be of the proper stuff for a christian; but sure i should never have done for a hermit. i want to be up and doing." "indeed, george, you work too hard as it is. a long day at home should be a rest for you." "i am not one of those who relish rest. come, i will read to you, if you choose." "i love to hear you read." "yes, and sit and dream of your baby, or your new tea-things, and scarce know whether i have been reading milton or the bible when i have done," he said gently, as he might have spoken to a child. "you have such a beautiful voice. i love your voice better than the things you read. but let it be 'pilgrim's progress,' and i will listen to every word. i always think christian is you. i can see you when i follow him with my thoughts." her husband smiled at the gentle flattery, and brought bunyan's delightful story from the modest bookcase which held but some two score of classics and pious works--william law, dr. watts, the writers loved and chosen by the followers of the new light. "dost remember where we left your christian?" he asked. "'twas when he was alone in the valley of humiliation, just before apollyon met him," she answered quickly, though had the book been "paradise lost," she would have hardly known whether 'twas before or after the fall when they left adam and eve. he read aloud till teatime, and read to himself after tea till the hour of evening prayer and scripture exposition, to which the little nursemaid and a stout maid-of-all-work were summoned; and so the long day closed at an hour when west end london, from wimpole street to whitehall, was alive with chairs and linkmen, french horns and dancing feet. in this cottage on the common there was a silence that made the chirp of the crickets a burden. * * * * * george stobart was not a quietist. religion unsupported by philanthropy would not have sufficed him for happiness. he could not spend half his life upon his knees in a rapture of self-humiliation--could not devote hours to searching his own heart. once and for all he had been convinced of sin, assured that the road he had been travelling was a road that led to the gates of hell, and that in travelling it he had carried many weaker sinners along with him, and so had been a murderer of souls. once and for all he had been assured of the free grace of god, and believed himself appointed to do good work--a brand snatched from the burning, whose duty it was to snatch other brands, to compel the lost sheep to come into the fold. he loved to be up and doing. he had the soldier's temper, and must be fighting some one or something; nor could he keep in his chamber and wrestle with impalpable devils. he could not fight, like luther, with the evil that was within him till he materialized the inward tempter, saw satan standing before him, and flung his inkpot at a visible foe. abstract piety could not satisfy george stobart. he caught himself yawning over law's "serious call," and "the imitation of christ." in the beginning of the great revival, when the oxford methodists and the moravian christians had been as one brotherhood in the meeting-house by fetter lane, an enthusiast, by name molther, had put forward a new way of salvation, which was to be "still." those who desired to find faith were to give up the public means of grace. they were not even to pray or to read the scriptures, nor to attempt to do any good works. john wesley's fine common sense had repudiated this doctrine, whereupon there had been confusion and falling away among the fetter lane society; and the great leader had withdrawn to a chapel and dwelling-house of his own creation, in a disused foundry for cannon, near finsbury square. it was here that george stobart had found faith, and it was in wesley's strong and active crusade against sin and suffering that he found satisfaction. after somewhat reluctantly entering upon his career as an itinerant preacher, when the magnitude of the work, the multitudes eager to hear the word of god, revealed themselves to him, john wesley, again reluctantly, enlisted the help of lay preachers. the church had shut her doors upon him--that anglican church of which he had ever been a true and staunch apostle--and he had to do without the church. he saw before him the people of england awakened from the torpor of a century of automatic religion, and saw that he needed more labourers in this vast vineyard than the church could give him. for the last two years george stobart had been one of wesley's favourite helpers, and had accompanied his chief in several of those itinerant journeys which made half england wesleyan. he preached at bristol, rode with wesley, preaching at every stage of the journey, from bristol to falmouth, where he stood shoulder to shoulder with him in one of the worst riots the christian hero ever faced. he was with him through the roughest encounters in lancashire, stood beside him on the market cross at bolton, when the great wild mob surged round them and stones flew thick and fast, and where, as if by a miracle, while many of the rabble were hurt, the preacher remained untouched. in all this, in the effect of his own preaching, in the hazards and adventures of those long rides across the face of a country where most things were new, stobart found unalloyed delight. he loved his mission in the streets and alleys of lambeth, his visits to the london jails, for here he had to wrestle with the devils of ignorance and blasphemy, to preach cleanliness to men and women who had been born and reared in filth, to meet the wants of a multitude with a handful of silver, to give counsel, sympathy, compassion, where he could not give bread. this was work that pleased him. here he felt himself the soldier and servant of christ. it was in the religion of the chamber that stobart fell short of the mark. he loved the word of god when god spoke by the lips of his son; but he had not that reverent affection for the old testament which wesley had urged upon him as essential to true religion. for the grandeur, the poetry of holy writ he had the highest appreciation; but there were many pages of the sacred volume in which he looked in vain for the light of inspiration. if he could have read his bible in the same inquiring spirit that samuel coleridge brought to it, he might have been better satisfied with the book and with himself; but wesley had forbidden any such liberal interpretation of the scriptures. every line, every word, every letter was to be accepted as the law of god. he was dissatisfied with himself for his coldness, for wandering thoughts, for the dying out of that sacred fire which john wesley's preaching had kindled in his soul at the time of his conversion. but he told himself that such a fire can burn but once in a lifetime. 'tis like the burning bush in which moses beheld his god. that stupendous vision comes once, and once only. it has done its purifying work, and burnt out sin. but between the starting-point of the converted penitent and the christian's crown, how long and difficult the race! george stobart had felt his footsteps flagging on the stony road. he had not lost courage. the dogged determination to win that eternal crown was still with him; but he had lost something of his first enthusiasm, that romantic temper in which it had pleased him to prove his sincerity by the sacrifice of fortune and station, and by a marriage which would have seemed impossible to him in his unregenerate days. * * * * * a week after lady kilrush had given her great entertainment there came a letter from her, addressed to mrs. stobart, and the very seal upon it was as precious in the sight of the printer's daughter as if it had been a jewel. "look, george, what a beautiful seal--a naked boy with a helmet, and two snakes twisted round his cane. who can have written to me? why, the name is signed outside, 'townshend.' sure i know nobody of that name." "'tis but the frank, child. the letter is from lady kilrush." "how can you tell that?" "i could swear to her hand among a hundred. not the penmanship of one woman in a thousand shows such strength of will." "can one's writing show one's mind? i should never have thought it. i wonder if 'tis a card for her next assembly. oh, george, don't be angry! i should like, once in my life, only once, to go to a party." her husband sighed as he patted her shoulder, with the gentle touch that only strong men have, and which always soothed her. "read your letter," he said; "'tis no card." she took her scissors from her work-basket and carefully cut round the seal--loth to spoil anything so beautiful, though her heart beat fast with expectation. george read the letter aloud over her shoulder. * * * * * "st. james's square, november th. "dear madam, "i hope that neither you nor mr. stobart have forgot your polite promise to visit me, and that you will do me the favour of dining with me at four o'clock next monday, when lady margaret laroche, the duchess of portland, mr. townshend, and some other of my most agreeable acquaintance, will be good enough to give me their company in the evening. as you live so far off, i shall venture to send my coach to fetch you before dark, and i shall be best pleased if you will spend the night in st. james's square, and return home at your leisure and convenience on tuesday. knowing mr. stobart's serious mind, i did not presume to send you a card for my ball last week, as i should be sorry for any invitation of mine to seem an empty compliment. "pray persuade your husband, and my cousin by marriage, to gratify me by bidding you write 'yes,' and believe me, with much respect, "your sincere friend and servant, "antonia kilrush." "must i say no, george?" lucy asked, with a quivering lip, ready to burst into tears. "nay, child, i made you unhappy t'other day, and was miserable for two days after at the thought i had been a brute. if it would please you to visit her ladyship----" "please me! i should feel as if i was flying over the moon." "but you could not fly over the moon in a grogram gown. you need not vie with her grace of portland, but i doubt you have no clothes fit for company, and my purse is empty." "but i have my wedding gown," she cried, clapping her hands--"the gown i bought at clapham with the pocket-money your mother gave me, a crown piece at a time, and that i saved till it was over three guineas. and i bought a pearl grey silk, and your mother's woman helped me make it, and then when i told you what i had done you were vexed at my vanity, and would not let me wear it; so i was married in my old stuff gown, and the pearl grey silk has never been worn. the duchess will not have a newer gown than mine, if you'll let me go." "'when i was a child i thought as a child,'" quoted george. "well, dearest, thou shalt have thy childish pleasure. to have seen how idle and empty a thing fine company is may make thee love our serious life better." chapter xiii. in st. james's square. on the afternoon when she was expecting mr. and mrs. stobart, lady kilrush was surprised by a visit from an old friend whom she had almost forgotten. her chair had just brought her from a round of visits, and she had not yet removed her hat and cloak, which sophy was waiting to take from her, being ever jealous of her lady's french maid, when a visitor was announced-- "mrs. granger." the room was the fourth and smallest of a suite of reception-rooms, which occupied the whole of the first floor, leaving space only for the wide central staircase, surrounded by a gallery that was a favourite resort of visitors at a crowded assembly, as a vantage-ground from which they could watch arrivals, look out for their particular friends, and criticize "clothes." the room was half in dusk, and antonia wondered who the little young lady in the cherry-coloured hood and satin petticoat of the same bright hue could be. it was not a colour favoured by people of taste at that time, and the little plump person in the high hoop had not the air of the portland set, that _recherché_ group of women among whom antonia had been received on a friendly footing, on the strength of her own charms and lady peggy's popularity. lady peggy was of all the sets, best and worst, and exercised a commanding influence over all. "my dear creature, sure you won't pretend you've forgot me?" cried the little woman, with broad, outspoken speech, after her first mincing salutation had been acknowledged by a stately curtsey and a "your humble servant, madam." "why, 'tis patty!" exclaimed antonia, holding out both her hands. "yes, 'tis patty--mrs. granger. sure you remember old general granger that you used to jeer at. i have been married to him over a year, and we have handsome lodgings in leicester square, and i keep my chair; and if he outlives his two elder brothers and three nephews, i shall be a peeress." "my dear patty, i am gladder than i can say to see your kind little face again. sit down, child. you must stop and dine with me. i have some cousins coming to dinner, and some company afterwards." "well, i'm glad you're glad. i thought you was too proud to remember me, since you didn't send me a card for your ball t'other night, though all london was there." "i did not know what had become of you. i have asked ever so many people who knew the theatres, and no one could say where miss lester had gone since her name vanished from the playbills." "the general is a strait-laced old fool!" said patty. "he doesn't like people to know i was an actress, though i flatter myself that nobody can hear me speak or see me curtsey without discovering it. there's an air of high comedy that nobody can mistake. sure 'tis in the hope of catching it that fine ladies take up kitty clive." "you mustn't call your husband a fool, patty, especially if he's kind to you." "oh, he's kind enough, but he's very troublesome with his pussy-cats, and minettes, and nonsense; though, to be sure, minette is a prettier name than martha, and genteeler than patty. and he's very close with his money. i might have my coach as well as my chair if he wasn't a miser. i sometimes think i was a simpleton to leave the stage for a husband of seventy. sure i might have been another mrs. cibber." "you had been acting seven years, patty. you gave your genius a fair chance." "pshaw, there's some that don't begin to hit the taste of the town till they've been at it three times seven. look at old colley, for instance. the managers kept him down half a lifetime. when i look at this house and think of my two parlours i feel i was a fool to marry the general. but there never was such a romance as your marriage." "my marriage was a tragedy, patty!" "ah, but you've got the comedy now. this fine house, and your hall porter--i never laid eyes on such a pompous creature--and your powdered footmen. you're a lucky devil, tonia." antonia did not reprove her, being somewhat troubled in mind at the doubt of her own wisdom in bringing this free-and-easy young person in company with george stobart and his wife. in her gladness at meeting the friend of her girlhood she had forgotten how strange such a mixture would be. "if 'tis not convenient to dine with me to-day, patty, i shall be just as pleased to see you to-morrow, or the first day that would suit you." "your ladyship--ladyship! oh, lord, ain't it droll?--your ladyship is vastly obleeging; but i came to stay if you'd have me. granger is gone to hounslow to dine with his old regiment, and i'm my own woman till ten o'clock. 'twould be civil of you if you'd bid one of your footmen tell my chairmen to fetch me at a quarter to ten, and then we can sit by the fire and talk over old times. this is mrs. potter's girl, i doubt, she that waited upon us once when i took a dish of tea with you. how d'ye do, miss?"--holding out condescending finger-tips to sophy, who had stood gazing at her since her entrance. "yes, this is miss potter, my friend and companion. you can take my hat and mrs. granger's hood, sophy, and come back when mr. and mrs. stobart are here." when sophy was gone, lady kilrush took patty's plump cheeks between two caressing hands and contemplated her with a smile. "you are as pretty as ever, child," she said, with an elder-sister air, as if she, instead of patty, had been the senior by near a decade; "and i am glad to think you have left the playhouse and all its perils for a comfortable home with an honest man who loves you. nay, i think you are prettier than you were in covent garden. the quiet life has freshened your looks. but you shouldn't wear cherry colour." "because of my red hair?" "because it is a cit's wife's colour, or a vain old woman's that wants to look young. 'tis not the mode, patty." "my petticoat cost a pound a yard," said patty, ruefully. "i thought the general would kill me when he saw the bill." "oh, 'tis pretty enough, and suits you well enough, _chérie_. i was half in jest. i have a kind friend who lectures me upon all such trifles, and so i thought i'd lecture you. and, my dearest patty, as the cousin that's to dine with us is a very serious person, i should take it kindly of you not to talk of the playhouse, nor to abuse your husband." "i hope i know how to behave in company," answered patty, slightly huffed; and on mr. and mrs. stobart being announced the next moment, she assumed a mincing stateliness which lasted the whole evening. stobart thought her an appalling personage, in spite of her reticence. her cherry satin bodice was cut very low, and her ample bosom was spread with pearls and crosses like a jeweller's show-case. she made up for a paucity of diamonds by the size of her topazes and the profusion of her amethysts, and her bristol paste buckles would have been big enough for the tallest of the prussian king's grenadiers. lucy stobart, in her pearl-grey silk, made with a quaker-like simplicity, her pure complexion, golden-brown curls and slender shape, seemed all the lovelier by the contrast of mrs. granger's florid charms; but poor patty behaved herself with an admirable reserve, and uttered no word that could offend. lucy looked at everything in a wondering rapture--the pictures, the marble busts on ebony and ormolu pedestals, the miniatures and jewels and toys scattered on tables, the glass cabinets displaying the most exquisite porcelain, the china monsters standing about the carpet, the confusion of beautiful objects which met her gaze on every side almost bewildered her. she looked about her like a child at a fair. "and does your ladyship really live in this house?" she asked innocently. "'tis not like a house to live in." "do you think it should he put under a glass case, or buried under burning ashes like herculaneum, so that it may be found perfect and undisturbed two thousand years after we are all dead?" said stobart, smiling at her. he was pleased with her fresh young prettiness, which was not disgraced even by antonia's imperial charms. "you see, madam, how foolish i have been to indulge my wife with a sight of splendours which lie so far away from our lives," he said to antonia, who accompanied them through the suite of drawing-rooms where clusters of candles had just been lighted in sconces on the walls, to show them the famous gobelins tapestries that had once belonged to madame de montespan. "i doubt, sir, mrs. stobart is too happy in her rural life ever to sigh for a large london house and its obligation to live in company," answered antonia. "i love our cottage dearly when my husband is at home, madam; but i have to spend weeks and months with no companion but my baby son, who can say but four words yet, while mr. stobart is wandering about the country with mr. wesley, and having sticks and stones aimed at him sometimes in the midst of his sermons. if your ladyship would persuade him to leave off field preaching i should be a happy woman." "nay, madam, i cannot come between a man and his conscience, however much our opinions may differ; and if mr. stobart thinks his sermons do good----" "'tis a question of living in light or darkness, madam. those who carry the lamp john wesley lighted know too well what need there is of their labours." "you go among great sinners?" "we go among the untaught savages of a civilized country, madam. if there is need of god's word anywhere upon this earth, it is needed where we go. thousands of awakened souls answer for the usefulness of our labours." "and you are content to pass your life in such work? you have not taken it up for a year or so, to abandon it when the fever of enthusiasm cools?" "i have no such fever, madam. and to what should i go back if i took my hand from the plough? i have renounced the profession i loved, and have forfeited my mother's affection. she was my only near relation. my wife and i stand alone in the world; we have no friend but god, no profession but to serve him." "i wonder you do not go into the church." "the church that has turned a cold shoulder upon wesley and whitefield is no church for me. i can do more good as a free man." the door was flung open as the clock struck four, and lady margaret laroche came fluttering in, almost before the butler could announce her. "my matchless one, will you give me some dinner?" she demanded gaily. "i have been shopping in the city, hunting for feathers for my screen, and i know your hour. but i forgot you had visitors. pray make us acquainted." "my cousin, mr. stobart, mrs. stobart, mrs. granger." lady peggy sank to the floor in a curtsey, smiled benignantly at lucy, and put up her glass to stare disapprovingly at patty's cherry-coloured bodice. dinner was announced, and they went downstairs to that spacious dining-room, which had been so gloomy an apartment when lord kilrush dined there in his later years, generally alone. the room had seen wilder feasts than any that lady kilrush was likely to give there, when her late husband was in his pride of youth and folly, the boldest rake-hell in london. the conversation at dinner was confined to lady margaret, mr. stobart, and antonia; for lucy had no more idea of talking than if she had been in church, and mrs. granger only opened her mouth when obliged by the business of the table, where two courses of eight dishes succeeded each other in the ponderous magnificence of silver and the substantiality of mock-turtle soup, turkey and chine, chicken pie, boiled rabbits, cod and oyster sauce, veal and ham, larded pheasants, with jellies and puddings, a bill of fare which, in its piling of pelion upon ossa, would be more likely to excite disgust than appetite in the modern _gourmet_. but in spite of such travelled wits as bolingbroke, walpole, chesterfield, and carteret, the antique anglo-saxon _menu_ still obtained when george ii. was king. "you are the first methodist i have ever dined with," said lady peggy, keenly interested in a new specimen of the varieties of mankind, "so i hope you will tell me all about this religious revival which has made such a stir among the lower classes, and sent lady huntingdon out of her wits." "on my honour, madam, if but half the women of fashion in london were as sane as that noble lady, society would be in a much better way than it is." "oh, i grant you we have mad women enough. nearly all the clever ones lean that way. but i doubt your religious mania is the worst; and a woman must be far gone who fills her house with a mixed rabble of crazy nobility and converted bricklayers. i am told lady huntingdon recognizes no distinctions of class among her followers." "nay, there you are wrong, lady peggy," cried antonia, "for mr. whitefield preaches to the quality in her ladyship's drawing-room, but goes down to her kitchen to convert the rabble." "lady huntingdon models her life upon the precepts of her redeemer, madam," said stobart, ignoring this interruption. "i hope you do not consider that an evidence of lunacy." "there is a way of doing things, mr. stobart. god forbid i should blame anybody for being kind and condescending to the poor." "christians never condescend, madam. they have too acute a sense of their own lowness to consider any of their fellow-creatures beneath them. they are no more capable of condescending towards each other than the worms have that crawl in the same furrow." "ah, i see these oxford methodists have got you in their net. well, sir, i admire an enthusiast, even if he is mistaken. everybody in london is so much of a pattern that there are seasons when the wretch who fired the ephesian dome would be a welcome figure in company--since any enthusiasm, right or wrong, is better than perpetual flatness." "lady margaret has so active a mind that she tires of things sooner than most of us," said antonia, smiling at the lively lady, whose hazel eyes twinkled almost as brightly as the few choice diamonds that sparkled in the folds of her brussels neckerchief. "i confess to being sick of feather-work and shell-work, and the women who can think of nothing else. and even the musical fanatics weary me with their everlasting babble about handel and the italian singers. there is not a spark of mind among the whole army of _conoscenti_. with a month's labour i'd teach the inhabitants of a parrot-house to jabber the same flummery." and then lady peggy turned to mr. stobart and made him talk about his methodists, as she called them, and listened with intelligent interest, and gave him no offence by her replies. "our cousin is a very pretty fellow, and the wife has not an ill figure," she said to antonia after dinner, in a corner of the inner drawing-room, while mrs. stobart and mrs. granger sat side by side in the great saloon, looking at a portfolio of italian prints; "but how, in the name of all that's odious, did you come by that cherry-coloured person?" "she is my old friend, an actress at drury lane, but now retired from the stage and prosperously married." "the creature has a pretty little face, but her clothes are execrable, and then the audacity of her shoulders! such nakedness can only be suffered in a woman of the highest mode. indecency with an ill-cut gown is unpardonable. don't let her cross your threshold again, child." "dear lady peggy, you are too good a friend for me to disoblige you; but i will never be uncivil to one who was kind when i was poor." "well, well, you are a fine pig-headed creature, but if you must have such a friend, pray let your dressmaker clothe her. 'twill cost you less than you will lose of credit by her appearance. remember 'tis by your women friends you will be judged. 'tis of little consequence what notorious gamblers and rakes pass in and out of your great assemblies, so long as they are men of fashion; but your women must be of the highest quality for birth, clothes, and breeding." 'twas six o'clock, and a bevy of footmen were busied in setting out a tea and coffee table with indian porcelain and silver urn, and the rooms began to be picturesquely sprinkled with elegant figures, like a canvas of watteau's. it was a prettier scene than one of her ladyship's great assemblies, for the fine furniture, the priceless china and other ornaments were undisturbed, and there was enough space and atmosphere for people to admire the rooms and each other. the duchess of portland and her chosen friend mrs. delany came sailing in, sparkling with gaiety, and tenderly embracing their matchless orinda. everybody of mark in those days had a nickname, and mrs. delany, who had a genius for finding nonsense names, had hit upon this one for lady kilrush; not because she was a poetess like the original orinda, but because the epithet "matchless" seemed appropriate to so perfect a beauty and twenty thousand a year. george stobart stood in the curtained embrasure of a window, contemplating this elegant circle amidst which antonia moved like a goddess, the loveliest where all had some claim to beauty, peerless among the _élite_ of womankind. her grace, her ease, her dignity would have become a throne, but every charm was natural, and a part of herself; not a modish demeanour acquired by an imitative faculty--the surface gloss of the low-born woman apt to mimic her betters. he could not withhold his admiration from charms that all the world admired, but the extravagance of the fashionable toilette disgusted him, and he looked with angry scorn at brocades of dazzling hues interwoven with gold and silver; court gowns of such elaborate decoration that a spitalfields weaver might have worked half a lifetime upon a fabric where trees and flowers, garlands and classic temples, lakes and mountains were depicted in their natural colours on a ground of gold. he had been living among such people a few years ago, and had never questioned their right so to squander money; or, casually reckoning the cost of a woman's gala dress, or the wax candles burnt at a ball, he had approved such expenditure as a virtue in the rich, since it must needs be good for trade. to-night as he stood aloof, watching those radiant figures, his imagination conjured up the vision of an alley in which he had spent his morning hours, going from house to house, with a famished crowd hanging on his footsteps, a scene of sordid misery he could not remember without a shudder. oh, those hungry faces, those gaunt and spectral forms, skeletons upon which the filthy rags hung loose; those faces of women that had once been fair, before vice, want, and the small-pox disfigured them; those villainous faces of men who had spent half their lives in jail, of women who had spent all their womanhood in infamy, and, mixed with these, the faces of little children still unmarked by the brand of sin, children whom he longed to gather up in his arms and carry out of that hell upon earth, had there been any refuge for such! his heart sickened as he looked at the splendour of clothes and jewels, pictures, statues, curios, and thought how many of god's creatures might be plucked from the furnace and set on the highway to heaven for the cost of all that finery. he was not altogether a stranger in that scene, for he saw several old acquaintances among the company, but he felt himself out of touch with them, and tried to escape all greetings and inquiries. and later, when the tables had been opened, and half the assembly were seated at whist or commerce, while the other half pretended to listen to a _pot-pourri_ from handel's "semele," arranged for fiddles and harpsichord, which was being performed in the saloon, he went to the inmost room where lucy was sitting solitary beside the deserted tea-table. "come, child," he said curtly, "we have had enough of this. 'tis a pleasure that leaves an ill taste in the mouth." his wife rose with alacrity. she had crept away from the music-room, dazzled by the splendour of the scene, and too shy to remain among such magnificent people, who looked at her with a bland wonder through jewelled eye-glasses. "i think there is to be a supper," she said hesitatingly. "do you wish to stay for it?" "nay, 'tis as you please." "i have no pleasure but to escape from this herd." lucy saw that something had vexed him, and went hungry to bed, having been too much embarrassed by the unaccustomed attentions of splendid beings in livery to eat a good dinner. * * * * * there was nobody in the dining-room when mr. and mrs. stobart went to breakfast at nine o'clock next morning. george, who had slept little, had been steeping himself in a grey fog in st. james's park since eight; but lucy had found it more difficult to dress herself, encumbered by the officious assistance of one of antonia's women, than unaided in her own little bedchamber at sheen. "her ladyship takes her chocolate in her dressing-room," the butler informed mr. stobart, "and desires that you and your lady will breakfast at your own hour," whereupon george and his wife seated themselves in the magnificent solitude of the dining-room, and ate moderately of a meal almost as abundant as the previous day's dinner, for what was less of substance upon the table was balanced by the cold joints, pies, and poultry of the "regalia," or sideboard display. lucy returned to her room directly after breakfast to pack her trunk, or rather to look on ruefully while her ladyship's woman packed it. happily, all her garments were neat and in good condition, although of a quaker-like plainness. george sat in the library, waiting till his wife should be ready for departure, and opened one book after another in a strange inability to fix his attention upon anything. how well he remembered that room, and his last interview with his cousin! this was the table on which kilrush had struck his clenched fist, when he swore that not to secure a life of bliss would he marry beneath his rank. the mystery of his passionate words, his violent gesture, was clear enough now. to his pride of birth, to a foolish reverence for trivial things, he had sacrificed his earthly happiness. to the man who esteemed all things small in comparison with life eternal it seemed a paltry renunciation; yet there had been a kind of grandeur in it, a roman stoicism that could suffer for an idea. and now that george stobart knew the woman his cousin had loved, her charm, her beauty, he could better understand the pangs of unsatisfied love, the conflict between passion and pride. there were hot-house flowers in a nankin bowl on the table, and a fire of coal and logs burnt merrily in the wide basket grate. the room had a far more cheerful aspect on this november morning than on that sultry summer day, four years ago. on a side table by the fireplace stobart noticed a pile of books richly bound in crimson morocco--the newest edition of voltaire. "she reads and loves that arch mocker still, cherishes a writer who would laugh away her hope of heaven, her belief in the physician of souls. beset with temptation, the cynosure of profligates, she rejects the only rock that stands firm and high, a sure refuge when the waves of passion sweep over the drowning soul." he remembered the world he lived in five years ago, a world that seemed as far away as if those years had been centuries. he knew that of the men who surrounded lady kilrush with the stately adulation courtiers offer to queens there was scarce one who was not at heart a seducer, who would not profit by the first hint of human weakness in their goddess. and she was alone, motherless, sisterless, without a friend of her own blood, alone among envious women and unprincipled men. "of all those fine gentlemen who prate of honour, and would rather commit murder than submit to a trumpery impertinence, i doubt if there is one who would scruple to act unfairly by a woman, or who would hold himself bound by the impassioned vows that cajoled her into sin," he thought. he looked into the crimson-bound octavos, tossing them aside one by one. they were not all of them deadly, but the poison was there; in those satirical romances, in those "questions sur l'encyclopédie," in those notes upon ancient history, on page after page he might have found the same deadly mockery, the same insidious war against the christian faith, _l'infâme_. the door was flung open by a footman, and antonia appeared before him, radiant in the freshness of her morning beauty, unspoilt by eighteenth-century washes and pigments. she was dressed for walking, in a sea-green lute-string and a pink gauze hat, her elbow-sleeves and the bosom of her gown ruffled with the same pale pink, and she wore long loose straw-coloured saxony gloves, wrinkled here and there from wrist to elbow. her only jewels were diamond solitaire ear-rings and a diamond brooch with a pear-shaped pearl pendant, one of the famous kilrush pearls, from the treasures of the indian merchant, the spoil of kings and rajahs. they shook hands, and she hoped he and mrs. stobart had breakfasted well. "i take my own breakfast in my dressing-room with a book," she said apologetically, "because that is the only hour i can feel sure of being alone. morning visits begin so early. i am deep in 'sir charles.' incomparable man!" "'sir charles?'" he faltered. "oh, i understand. you are reading richardson's new novel--a tedious, interminable book, i take it." "tedious! i tremble for the day when i finish it. the world will seem empty when i bid harriet and clementina farewell. but i shall return again and again to those dear creatures. i wish myself a bad memory for their sakes." "oh, madam, to be thus concerned about the flimsy creations of an old printer's idle brain!" "idle! do you call genius idle? there was never another richardson. i fear there never will be. a hundred years hence women will weep for clarissa, and men will model themselves upon grandison." "it saddens me, madam, to see you as enthusiastic about a paltry fiction as i would have you about the truths of the gospel. and i see with pain that you still cherish the works of the most notorious blasphemer in europe." "the man who stands up like little david against the goliath of intolerance; the man who has rescued the calas family from undeserved infamy, cleared the name of that unhappy victim of a persecuting priesthood, condemned, not because it was clear that he was a murderer, but because it was certain that he was a protestant." "i own, madam, that in his fight for a dead man's honour, monsieur de voltaire acted handsomely. i am sorry that he who did so much for the love of his neighbour should spurn the gospel which instils that virtue." "voltaire loved his neighbour without being taught, or say rather that he can accept all that his reason approves in the teaching of jesus of nazareth, while he rejects the traditions of the roman church." "nay, did he stop _there_ i were with him heart and soul. but he does more. he turns the gospel light to darkness. would to god, madam, that you could find a wiser guide for your footsteps through a world where satan has spread his worst snares in the fairest places." "mr. stobart," she said, looking at him gravely, her violet eyes darkened to black under the rosy shadow of her hat, "i sometimes wish i could believe in christ the saviour; but i would not if i must believe also in satan. let us argue no more upon theology; i only shock you. my coach is at the door, and i want to take mrs. stobart to an auction where i believe she will see the finest collection of nankin monsters and willow-pattern tea-things that china has sent us since last winter. 'tis the first sale of the season, and all the world will be there, and twenty who go to stare and chatter for one who means to buy." "your ladyship is vastly kind, but my wife and i must travel by the richmond coach, which leaves the golden cross at noon. i have to thank you in her name and my own for your kind hospitality." "oh, sir, don't thank me. only promise that you will come to see me again, and often. we will not talk about serious things, lest we should quarrel." "madam, if i come into this house again we must talk of serious things. can i pretend to be your friend, see you living without god in the world--i who believe in his judgments as i believe in his mercies--and not try to save a beautiful soul that i see hovering above the pit of hell? can i be your friend, and hold my peace?" "nay, sir, leave my soul to your god. if he is all you believe, he will not let me perish." "if you are obstinate and deny him he will cast you out. he has given you talents for which you have to render an account, intellect, force of will, wealth, and the power that goes with it. i will come to this house no more to see you wasting yourself upon insipid amusements, listening to idle flatteries, smiling upon sybarites and fops, moving from one to another, false alike to all, since all are your inferiors, and you can esteem none of them. your coquetries, your friendships are alike hollow, as artificial as your swooning curtsey, taught by serise, the dancing-master." "oh, sir, are all the oxford methodists as rude as you?" "forgive me, madam. i cannot stoop to that smooth lying that goes by the name of politeness. 'now, now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.' my heart yearns to snatch a sinner from doom. five years ago i should have been among your admirers, should have burnt the incense of vain adulation before you, as at the shrine of a goddess, should have been made happy with a smile, ineffably blessed by a civil word. but i have lived aloof from your _beau monde_, and i come back to discover what a sodom it is. the company i once loved fills me with disgust and loathing. i see the flames of tophet behind your galaxy of wax candles, the rags of lost sinners under your gold and silver brocade. i will come here no more." he moved towards the door, she following him, holding out both her hands. "mr. stobart, you make life a tragedy. i protest that some of my friends in gold and silver brocade are as good christians as even your kindness could desire me to be. they are more fortunate than i am in never having been taught to question the creed that satisfied their fathers and grandfathers. i sometimes wish i had less of the doubting spirit. but pray do not let theological differences part us. you and your wife are a kind of relations, for you are of my dear husband's blood; i can never forget that. come, sir, let us be reasonable," she exclaimed, seating herself at the table, and motioning him to the opposite chair. she was sitting where kilrush had sat during that last interview with his kinsman, in the same high-backed chair, the bright colouring of her face and hat shining against a background of black horsehair. "what do you want me to do? of what sins am i to repent?" she asked, smiling at him. "i try to help my fellow-creatures, to be honest and truthful and kind. what more can i do?" "sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor." "i cannot do that. i think i have a right to be happy. fate has flung riches into my lap; and i love the things that money buys--this house, foreign travel, ease and splendour, pictures, music, the friends that wealth and station have brought round me. i love to mix with the salt of the earth. and you want me to renounce all these things, and to live as jesus of nazareth lived--jesus, the son of joseph the carpenter." "jesus, the son of god, who so lived his brief life on earth to be for all mankind an example." "and are we all to be peasants?" "believe me, madam, there is only one perfect form of the christian life, and that is the imitation of christ." "you would make this a hateful world if you had your way, mr. stobart." "i would make it a christian world if i could, lady kilrush." "well, sir, let me help you with your poor. i should like to do that, though i do not mean to sell this house, or the jewels that my husband's grandfather brought from the east indies. i can spare a good deal for almsgiving, and yet sparkle at st. james's. take me to see your poor people at lambeth. bring their sorrows nearer to my heart. i know i am leading a foolish, idle life, made up of gratified vanities and futile fevers, but 'tis such a pleasant life. i had my day of drudgery and petty cares, the struggle to make one shilling go as far as five, and my heart dances for joy sometimes among the pleasures and splendours in which i move to-day. but be sure i have a heart to pity the suffering. let me go with you to lambeth. i will buy no china dragons to-day; and the money i put in my purse to waste on toys shall be given to your poor. take me to them to-day. you can go back to sheen by a later coach." he refused at first, protesting that the places to which he went were no fitting scenes for her. she would have to confront vice as well as poverty--revolting sights, hideous language, lazarus with his sores, and a blaspheming lazarus--things odious and things terrible. "i am not afraid," she answered. "if there are such things we ought to know of them. i do know that vice and sin exist. i am not an ignorant girl. i was not born in the purple." she was impetuous, resolute, insistent, and she overruled all his objections. "you will be sorry that i let you have your way," he said at last, "and i am foolish so to humour a fine lady's whim." "i am not a fine lady to-day. there is more than one side to my character." "if you mean to come with me, you had best put on a plainer gown." "i have none plainer than this. 'tis no matter if i spoil it, for i am tired of the colour. oh, here is mrs. stobart," she cried, as a servant ushered in lucy, who entered timidly, looking for her husband. "your ladyship's servant," she murmured with a curtsey. "is it time for us to go home, george?" "time for me to take you to the coach, lucy. i shall spend the day among my people." "and i am to go home alone," his wife said ruefully. "i shall be with you by tea-time, and you will have your boy and a world of household cares to engage you till then." she brightened at this, and smiled at him. "i'll warrant hannah will not have dusted the parlour," she said. "oh, madam, we have such pretty mahogany furniture, and i do love to keep it bright. there's nothing like elbow-grease for a mahogany table." "i know that by experience, child. i have used it myself," antonia answered gaily. she was pleased and excited at the idea of a plunge into the mysteries of outcast london. she had been poor herself, but had known only the shabby genteel poverty which keeps shoes to its feet and a weathertight roof over its head. with want and rags and filth she had never come in contact save in her brief glimpse of the irish and english towns at limerick; and looking back upon that experience of a brain overwrought with grief, it seemed to her like a fever-dream. to-day she would go among the abodes of misery with a mind quick to see and understand. surely, surely she could do her part in the duty that the rich owe the poor without selling all that she had, without abrogating one iota of the sumptuous surroundings so dear to her romantic temper, to her innate love of the beautiful. she kissed mrs. stobart at parting, and promised to visit her at sheen the first day she was free of engagements. george found her chariot at the door when he came back from despatching his wife in the richmond stage. "come, come," she said, "let us hasten to your poor wretches. i am dying to give them the guineas i meant for my monsters." "faith, madam, you will find monsters enough where we are going, but not such as a fine lady could display on her china cupboard." mr. stobart stopped the carriage on the south side of westminster bridge. "if you are not averse to walking some little distance, it might be well to send your carriage home," he said. "i can take you back to your house in a hackney coach;" and on this the chariot was dismissed. "you shall not go a yard out of your way on my account," she said. "i am not afraid of going about alone. the great ladies i know would swoon if they found themselves in a london street unattended; but i am not like them." he gave her his arm, and they threaded their way through a labyrinth of streets and alleys that lay between the thames and the waste spaces of lambeth marsh, a dreary region where the water lay in stagnant pools, receptacles for all unconsidered filth, exhaling putrid fever. here and there above the forest of chimneys and chance medley of roofs and gables there rose the bulk of a pottery, for this was the chosen place of the potter's art; but for the rest the desolate region between stangate and the new cut was given over to poverty and crime. fine old houses that had once stood in the midst of fair gardens had been divided into miserable tenements, and swarmed like anthills with half-starved humanity; alleys so narrow that the sunshine rarely visited them, covered and crowded the old garden ground; four-storied houses, built with a supreme neglect of such trifles as light and air, overshadowed the low hovels that had once been rustic cottages smiling across modest flower-gardens. mr. stobart came to a halt in a lane leading to the river, where a row of rickety wooden houses hung over an expanse of malodorous mud. the tide was out, and a troop of half-naked children were chasing a starved dog, with a kettle tied to his tail, through the slime and slush of the foreshore. "oh, the poor dog!" cried tonia, as they stood on a causeway at the end of the lane. "for pity's sake stop those little wretches!" george called to them, but they only looked at him, and pursued their sport. had he been alone he would have given the little demons chase, but he could not risk bespattering himself from head to foot in a lady's company. "there is but one way to stop them," he said, "and that is to teach them better. we are trying to do that in our schools, but the task needs twenty-fold more men and more money than we can command. 'twould shock you, no doubt, to see how the children of the poor amuse themselves; but i question if there is more cruelty to the brute creation among those unenlightened brats than among the children of our nobility, who are bred up to think a cock-fight or a stag-hunt the summit of earthly bliss. jim rednap," he shouted, as the chase doubled and came within earshot, "if you don't untie that kettle and let the dog go, i'll give you a flogging that will make you squall." the biggest of the boys looked up at this address, recognized a well-known figure, and called to his companions to stop. they halted, their yells ceased, and the hunted cur scrambled up the slippery stone steps, at the top of which antonia and stobart were standing. he caught the dog, took off the kettle, and flung it into the river. the boy rednap came slowly up the steps. "'twarn't me that begun it," he said sheepishly. "'twas you that should have stopped it. you're bigger and older than the others. you are twice as wicked, because you know better. what will your poor mother say when i tell her that you take pleasure in tormenting god's creatures?" he was stooping to pat the half-starved mongrel as he spoke to the boy, and perhaps that tender touch of his hand and his countenance as he looked at the beast, was a better lesson than his spoken reproof. "see," antonia said, dropping a shilling into the boy's grimy palm. "fetch me twopenn'orth of bread for the dog, and keep the change for yourself." the boy stared, clutched the coin, and ran off. "will he come back?" asked antonia. "yes; he's not as bad as he looks. his mother is one of the lost sheep that the shepherd has found. her season of repentance will be but brief, poor soul, since she is marked for death; but she leans on him who never turned the light of his countenance from the penitent sinner." "is the boy's father living?" george stobart shrugged his shoulders. "who knows? she does not, poor wretch! he is dead for her. she has three children, and has toiled to keep them from starving till she has fallen under her burden." "let me provide for them! let her know that they will be cared for when she is gone. it may make her last hours happy," said antonia, impetuously. "i will not hinder you in any work of beneficence; but among so many and in such pressing need of help it would be well to take time, and to consider how you can make your money go furthest." "i will buy no more foolish things--trumpery that i forget or sicken of a few hours after 'tis bought. i will go to no more china auctions, squander no more guineas at mrs. chenevix's. oh, mr. stobart, i know you despise me because i am like the young man in the gospel story. i am too rich not to be fond of riches. but indeed, sir, i do desire to help the poor." "i believe it, madam, and that god will bless your desires. 'tis not easy for a woman in the bloom of youth and beauty to take up the cross as lady huntingdon has done--to dedicate all she has of fortune and influence to the service of christ. 'twere cruel to reproach you for falling short of so rare a perfection." "i have been told that lady huntingdon leaves it to doubters like me to feed the hungry and clothe the naked--since the cry of the destitute appeals to all alike--and that she devotes all her means to paying preachers, and providing chapels." "that, madam, is her view of christ's service; and i doubt she is right. when all mankind believe in christ, there will be no more want and misery in this world; for the rich will remember that to refuse help to his poor is to deny him." the boy came back, breathless with running, and carrying a twopenny loaf in his grimy paw. he had gnawed off a corner crust as he ran. "dogs don't love crust," he remarked apologetically, as he knelt down in the dirt and fed the famished cur. he went with them presently to his mother's garret, where antonia sat by the woman's bed for half an hour, while stobart read or talked to her. his tenderness to the sick woman and the reasonableness of all he said impressed even the unbeliever. his words touched her heart, though they left her mind unconvinced. the room showed an exceeding poverty, but was cleaner than antonia had hoped to find it; and she could but smile upon discovering that mr. stobart had helped the three children to scrub the floor and clean the windows in the course of his last visit, and had made jim, the eldest of the family, promise to brush the hearth and dust the room every morning, and had supplied him with a broom, and soap, and other materials for cleanliness. the boy was his mother's sick nurse, and was really helpful in his rough way. the other two children attended at an infant school which stobart had set up in a room near, at a minimum cost for rent and fire. the teachers were three young women of the prosperous middle-classes, who each worked two days a week without remuneration. after this quiet visit to the dying woman, stobart led lady kilrush through crowded courts and alleys, where every object that her eyes rested on was a thing that revolted or pained her--brutal faces; famished faces; lowering viciousness; despairing want; brazen impudence that fixed her with a bold stare, and then burst into an angry laugh at her beauty, or pointed scornfully to the diamonds in her ears. insolent remarks were flung after her; children in the gutters larded their speech with curses; obscene exclamations greeted the strange apparition of a woman so unlike the native womanhood. had she been some freak of nature at a show in bartholomew fair, she could scarcely have been looked at with a more brutal curiosity. stobart held her arm fast in his, and hurried her through the filthy throng, hurried her past houses that he knew for dangerous--houses in which small-pox or jail fever had been raging, fever as terrible as that of the year ' , when half the bar at the old bailey had been stricken with death during the long hours of a famous trial for murder. jail birds were common in these rotten dens where king george's poor had their abode, and they brought small-pox and putrid fever home with them, from king george's populous prisons, where the vile and the unfortunate, the poor debtor and the notorious felon, were herded cheek by jowl in a common misery. he was careful to take her only into the cleanest houses, to steer clear of vice and violence. he showed her his best cases--cases where gospel teaching had worked for good; the people he had helped into a decent way of life; industrious mothers; pious old women toiling for orphaned grandchildren; young women, redeemed from sin, maintaining themselves in a semi-starvation, content to drudge twelve hours a day just to keep off hunger. her heart melted with pity, and glowed with generous impulses. she clasped the women's hands; she vowed she would be their friend and helper, and showered her gold among them. "teach me how to help them," she said. "oh, these martyrs of poverty! show me how to make their lives happier." "be sure i shall not be slack to engage your ladyship in good works," he answered cordially. "if you will suffer me to be your counsellor you may do a world of good, and yet keep your fine house and your indian jewels. your influence should enlist others in the crusade against misery. it needs but the superfluous wealth of all the rich to save the lives and the souls of all the poor." he was hurrying her towards a coach stand, through the deepening gloom of november. they had spent more than three hours in these haunts of wretchedness, and the brief day had closed upon them. the lights on westminster bridge and king street seemed to belong to another world as the coach drove to st. james's square. stobart insisted on accompanying antonia to her own door, and took leave of her on the threshold with much more of friendship than he had shown her hitherto. he seemed to her a changed being since they had walked through those wretched alleys together. hitherto his manner with her had been stiff and constrained, with an underlying air of disapproval. but now that she had seen him beside a sick-bed, and had seen how he loved and understood the poor, and how he was loved and understood by them, she began to realize how good and generous a heart beat under that chilling exterior. the idea of a man in the flower of his youth flinging off a profession he loved, to devote his life to charity appealed to all her best feelings. "i shall wait on your wife to-morrow morning," she said. "you will have time before i come to decide what i can do to help those poor wretches. their white faces would haunt my dreams to-night if i did not know that i could do something to make them happier." "sleep sweetly," he answered gently. "you have a heart to pity the poor." he bent over her gloved hand, touched it lightly with his lips, and vanished as she crossed her threshold, where the hall-porter and three pompous footmen gave a royal air to her entrance. chapter xiv. "one thread in life worth spinning." antonia spent the next morning, from twelve to two, in the cottage parlour at sheen, where stobart spread out his reports and calculations before her, showed her what he had done in the district john wesley had allotted to him, and how much--how infinitely more than had been done--there remained to do! "my own means are so narrow that i can give but little temporal help," he said. "i have to stand by with empty pockets and see suffering that a few shillings could relieve. i have even thought of appealing to my mother--who has not used me well--but she was married six months ago to an old admirer, sir david lanigan, an irish soldier, and a fierce high churchman, who hates the wesleys; so i doubt 'twould be wasted humiliation to ask her for aid. i have not scrupled to beg of my rich friends, and have raised money to apprentice at least fifty lads who were in the way to become thieves and reprobates. i have ministered to the two ends of life--to childhood and old age. the middle period must fight for itself." he read his notes of various hard cases. he had jotted down stern facts with a stern brevity; but the pathos in the facts themselves brought tears to antonia's eyes more than once in the course of his reading. he showed her what good might be done by a few shillings a week to this family, in which there was a bedridden son--and to another where there was a consumptive daughter; how there was a little lad starving in the gutter who could be billeted upon a hard-working honest family--how for the cost of a room with fire and candle, and sixpence a day for a nurse, he could provide a nursery where the infants of the women-toilers could be kept during the day. "i have heard of some nuns at avignon who set up such a room for the women workers in the vineyards," he said. "i think they called it a _crêche_." mrs. stobart sat by the window busy with her plain sewing, of which she had always enough to fill every leisure hour. she looked up now and then and listened, with a mild interest in her husband's work; but she was just a little tired of it, and the fervid enthusiasm of the time of her conversion seemed very far away. staffordshire tea-things and copper tea-kettle, brass fender and mahogany bureau filled so large a place in her thoughts, after her husband and son, both of whom she loved with her utmost power of loving, which was not of a high order. she crept away at one o'clock to see her baby george eat his dinner. he was old enough to sit up in his high mahogany chair and feed himself, with many skirmishing movements of his spoon, which he brandished between the slow mouthfuls as if it were a tomahawk. george and antonia were so absorbed in their work that mrs. stobart had been gone nearly an hour before either of them knew she was absent. the maid came blundering in with a tray as the clock struck two, and began to lay the cloth. antonia rose to take leave, and insisted on going at once. her carriage had been waiting half an hour in a drizzling november rain. she left quickly, but not before she had seen that mr. stobart's dinner consisted of the somewhat scrimped remains of a shoulder of mutton, and a dish of potatoes boiled in their skins. she knew some of the officers in his late regiment, and knew how they lived; and it shocked her a little to recall that squalid meal when she sat down at four o'clock, with a party of friends, at a table loaded with an extravagant profusion of the richest food her cook's inventive powers could bring together. she had seen the expensive french _chef_ standing before her with pencil and bill of fare, racking his brains to devise something novel and costly. that morning at sheen was the beginning of a close alliance in the cause of charity between mr. stobart and lady kilrush. they were partners in a business of good works; and all questions of creed were for the most part ignored between them. he would have gladly spoken words in season, but she had a way of putting him off, and she had become to him so beneficent and divine a creature that it was difficult for him to remember that she was not a christian. the five thousand a year which she had so freely offered him for his own use she now set aside for his poor. "i can spare as much," she said, "and yet be a fine lady. some day, perhaps, when i am old and withered, like the hags that haunt ranelagh, i may grow tired of finery; and then the poor shall have nearly all my money, and i will live as you do, in a cottage, at ten pounds a year, on a bone of cold mutton and a potato. but while i am young i doubt i shall go on caring for trumpery things. it is such a pleasant change, when i have been in one of your loathsome alleys, to find myself at leicester house with the princess and her party of wits and _savants_, or at carlisle house, dancing in a chain of dukes and duchesses, with a german royal highness for my partner." the responsibilities that went with the administration of so large a fund made a change in george stobart's life. his residence at sheen had long been inconvenient, the journey to and fro wasting time for which he had better uses. lucy loved her rustic home and garden in summer; but she was one of those people who love the country when the sun shines and the roses are in bloom. in the damp autumnal afternoons, when silvery mists veiled the common, her spirits sank, and she began to grow fretful at her husband's absence, and to reproach him if he were late in coming home. he wanted his wife to be happy, and he wanted to be near the scene of his labours, and within half an hour's walk of st. james's square. after a careful search he found a house on the south side of the thames, a quarter of a mile from westminster bridge, in crown place, a modest terrace facing the river. the house was roomier and more convenient than his rustic cottage; but the long strip of garden between low walls was a sad falling off from the lawn and orchard at sheen, and he feared that lucy would regret the change. lucy had no regrets. the larger rooms at lambeth, the dwarf cupboards on each side of the parlour fireplace, the convenient closets on the upper floor, the doorsteps and iron railings, and the view of the river, with the abbey and houses of parliament, and the crowded roofs and chimneys of westminster, filled her with delight. the cottage and garden had been enchanting while the glamour of newly wedded love shone upon them; but by the time her spirits had settled into a calm commonplace of domestic life lucy had discovered that she hated the country, and smelt ghosts under the sloping ceilings of those quaint cottage garrets where generations of labouring men and women had been born and died. not unseldom had she longed for the bustle of moorfields, and the din and riot of bartholomew fair, the annual treat of her childhood. she arranged her furniture in the new home with complacency, and thought her son's nursery and her best parlour the prettiest rooms in the world, much nicer to live in than her ladyship's suite of saloons, where the splendid spaciousness scared her. she had known few happier hours in her life than the february afternoon when lady kilrush and sophy potter came to tea, and were both full of compliments upon her parlour, which had been newly done up, with the panelled dado painted pink, and a wallpaper sprinkled with roses and butterflies. sophy potter, who retired into the background of antonia's life in st. james's square, was often her companion in her visits to the poor, and took very kindly to the work. as it was hardly possible to avoid the peril of small-pox in such visits, mr. stobart prevailed upon mistress and maid to submit to the ordeal of inoculation. the operation in sophy's case was succeeded by a mild form of the malady; but the virus had no effect upon antonia, and her physician argued that the vigour of a constitution which resisted the artificial infection would ensure her immunity from the disease. neither her husband's entreaties, nor the example of lady kilrush could induce mrs. stobart to brave the perils of inoculation. it was in vain that george pleaded, and set a doctor to argue with her. her horror of the small-pox made her shrink with tears and trembling from the notion of the lightest attack produced artificially. "if it kills me you will be sorry for having forced me to consent," she said, and george reluctantly submitted to her refusal. _she_ never went among his poor, and had never expressed a desire to see them. "i saw enough of such wretches round moorfields," she said. "i never want to go near them again. and i have quite enough to do to keep my house clean, and look after my little boy. you would want another servant if i went trapesing about your lanes and alleys, when i ought to be washing the tea-things and polishing the furniture." could he be angry with her for being industrious and keeping his house a pattern of neatness? he had long ago come to understand the narrow range of her thoughts and feelings; but while she was pious and gentle and his devoted wife, he had no ground for thinking he had made a mistake in choosing a lowborn helpmeet. from the hurried idleness of a fashionable life antonia stole many hours for the dwellings of the poor. in most of her visits to those haunts of misery she was attended by stobart; but she had a way of eluding his guardianship sometimes, and would set out alone, or with miss potter, on one of her visits of mercy. as time went on he grew more apprehensive of danger in her explorations; for now that she was familiar with the class among which he worked, her intrepid spirit tempted her to plunge deeper into the dark abyss of guilty and unhappy lives. the time came when he could no longer bear to think of the perils that surrounded her in the close and fetid alleys where typhus and small-pox were never wholly absent; and at the risk of offending her he assumed the voice of authority. "you told me once that i was your only family connection," he said, "and i presume upon that slender tie to forbid you running such risks as you incur when you enter such a den of fever as the house where i found you yesterday." "what, sir, _you_ forbid me?--you whose clarion call startled me from my selfish pleasure; _you_ who showed me my worthless life!" "you have done much to redeem that worthlessness, by your sacrifice of income." "sacrifice! you know, sir, that in your heart of hearts you despise such paltering with charity. in your estimation, not to give all is to give nothing!" "you paint me as a bigot, madam, and not as a christian. be sure that _he_ who praised the samaritan approves your charity, and that he who holds the seven stars in his right hand will open your eyes to the light of revelation. a soul so lofty will not be left for ever in darkness. but in the mean time there can be no good done by your presence in places where you hazard health and life. you have made me your almoner, and it is my duty to see that the uttermost good is done with the money you have entrusted to me. your own presence in those perilous places is useless. you have no gospel to carry to the sick and dying." "oh, sir, i have sympathy and compassion to give them. i doubt they get enough of the gospel, and that the company of a woman who can feel for their sufferings and soothe them in their pain is not without use. there is no sick-bed that i have sat by where i have not been entreated to return. the poor creatures like to tell me their troubles, to expatiate on their miseries, and i listen, and never let them think i am tired." "you scatter gold among them; you demoralize them by your reckless almsgiving." "no, no, no! i feed them. if there come days when the larder is empty, they have at least the memory of a feast. your gospel will not stop the pangs of hunger. that is but a hysterical devotion which goes famishing to bed to dream of the golden city with jasper walls, and the angels standing round the throne. dreams, dreams, only dreams! you stuff those suffering creatures with dreams." "i strive to make them look beyond their sufferings here to the unspeakable bliss of the life hereafter," stobart answered gravely; and then he entreated her to go no more into those alleys where he now worked every day, and from which he came to her two or three times a week to report progress. he came to her after his work, in the hour before the six o'clock tea at which she was rarely without visitors. if he was told she had company he went away without seeing her; but between five and six was the likeliest hour for finding her alone, since her drawing-rooms were crowded with morning visitors, and her evenings were seasons of gaiety at home or abroad. she received him always in the library, a room she loved, and where they had had their first serious conversation. here, if he looked tired, she would order in the urn and tea-things, and would make tea for him, while he told her the story of the day. to sit in an easy-chair beside the wood fire and to have her minister to him made an oasis of rest in the desert of toil, and he soon began to look forward to this hour as the bright spot in his life, the recompense for every sacrifice of self. the first thunder of a footman's double knock, the clatter of high heels and rustle of brocade in the hall, sent him away. he had made no second appearance among her modish visitors. "go and shine, and sparkle, and flutter your jewelled wings among other butterflies," he said. "i claim no part in your life in the world; but i am proud to know that there are hours in which you are something better than a woman of fashion." * * * * * the pleasures of the town and the assiduities of antonia's friends and admirers became more absorbing as her influence in the great world increased. her open-handed hospitality, the splendour of her house, and the success of her entertainments had placed her on a pinnacle of _ton_. she held her own among the greatest ladies in london, and was on familiar terms with all the duchesses--portland, queensberry, norfolk, bedford, hamilton--and nobody ever reminded her, by a shade of difference in their appreciation, that she had not been born in the purple. she had more admirers than she took the trouble to count, and had refused offers of marriage that most women would have found irresistible. charles townshend had followed and courted her; and in spite of all she could do to discourage his addresses by a light gaiety of manner that proclaimed her indifference, he had found her alone one morning, and flung himself on his knees to sue for her hand. deeply hurt when she rejected him, he reproached her for having fooled him by her civility. "oh, sir, would you have me distant or sullen to the most brilliant man in london? i thought i let you see that, though i loved your company, my heart was disengaged, and that i had no preference for one man over another." "i doubt, madam, you despise a plain mister, and will wait for the next marrying duke. wert not for the recent marriage act you might aspire to a prince of the blood royal. your ambition would be justified by your beauty; and i believe your pride is equal to your charms." "i shall never marry again, mr. townshend. i loved my husband; and the tragedy of our marriage made that love more sacred than the common affection of wives." "nay, madam, is there not something more potent than the memory of a departed husband, which makes you scorn my passion? i have several times met a certain grave gentleman in your hall, who seems privileged to enjoy your society when you have no other company, and who leaves you when your indifferent acquaintance are admitted." "that gentleman is my dear lord's cousin, and a married man. he can have no influence upon my resolve against a second marriage." she rang a bell, and made mr. townshend a curtsey which meant dismissal. he retired in silent displeasure, knowing that he had affronted her. "'tis deuced hard to be cut out by a sneaking methodist," he muttered as he followed the footman downstairs. he spent the evening at white's, played higher and drank deeper than usual, and was weak enough to mention the lady's name with a scornful anger which betrayed his mortification; and before the next night all the town knew that townshend had been refused. the rumour came to stobart's knowledge a week later by means of a paragraph in the _daily journal_, with the usual initials and the usual stars. "lady k., the beautiful widow, has fallen out with mr. c. t., the aspiring politician, wit and trifler, whose eminent success as a lady-killer has made him unable to endure rejection at the hands of a beauty who, after all, belongs but to the lower ranks of the peerage, and cannot boast of a genteel ancestry." stobart read this stale news in a three-days'-old paper at the shabby coffee-house in the borough, where he sometimes took a snack of bread and cheese and a glass of twopenny porter, instead of going home to dinner. "i doubt she has many such offers," he thought, "for she hangs out every bait that can tempt a lover--beauty, parts, fortune. if she has refused townshend 'tis, perhaps, only because there is some one else pleases her better. she will marry, and i shall lose her; for 'tis likely her husband will cut short her friendship for a follower of john wesley, lest the word of god should creep into his house unawares." he left london early in april in mr. wesley's company, and rode with that indefatigable man through the rural english landscape, making from forty to fifty miles a day, and halting every day at some market cross, or on some heathy knoll on the outskirts of town or village, to preach the gospel to listening throngs. their journey on this occasion took them through quiet agricultural communities and small market towns, where the ill-usage that wesley had suffered at bolton and at falmouth was undreamt of among the congregations who hung upon his words and loved his presence. he was now in middle life, hale and wiry, a small, neatly built man, with an extraordinary capacity for enduring fatigue, and a serene temper which made light of scanty fare and rough quarters. he was an untiring rider, but had never troubled himself to acquire the art of horsemanship, and as he mostly read a book during his country rides, he had fallen into a slovenly, stooping attitude over the neck of his horse. he had been often thrown, but rarely hurt, and had a spartan indifference to such disasters. he loved a good horse, but was willing to put up with any beast that would carry him to the spot where he was expected. he hated to break an appointment, and was the most punctual as well as the most polite of men. he liked george stobart, having assayed his mental and moral qualities at the beginning of their acquaintance, and having pronounced him true metal. he was a man of wide sympathies, and during this april journey through the heart of hertfordshire, and then by the wooded pastures and wide grassy margins of the warwickshire coach roads between coventry and stratford-on-avon, he discovered that something was amiss with his helper. "i hope you do not begin to tire of your work, stobart," he said. "there are some young men i have seen put their hands to the plough in a fever of faith and piety, and drive their first furrow deep and straight, and then faith grows dim, and the line straggles, and my sorrowful heart tells me that the labourer is good for nothing. but i do not think you are of that kidney." "i hope not, sir." "but i see there is trouble of some sort on your mind. we passed a vista in that oak wood yonder, with the smiling sun showing like a disk of blood-red gold at the end of the clearing; and you, who have such an eye for landscape, stared at it with a vacant gaze. i'll vouch for it you have uneasy thoughts that come between you and god's beautiful world." "i trouble myself without reason, sir, about a soul that i would fain win for christ, and cannot." "'tis of your cousin's widow, lady kilrush, you are thinking," wesley said, with a keen glance. "oh, sir, how did you divine that?" "because you told me of the lady's infidel opinions; and as i know how lavish she has been with her money in helping your work among the poor, i can understand that in sheer gratitude you would desire to bring her into the fold. i doubt you have tried, in all seriousness?" "i have tried, sir; but not hard enough. my cousin is a strange creature--generous, impetuous, charitable; but she has a commanding temper, and a light way of putting me off in an argument, which make it hard to reason with her. and then i doubt satan has ever the best of it, and that 'tis easier to argue on the evil side, easier to deny than to prove. when i am in my cousin's company, and we are both interested in the wretches she has saved from misery, i find myself forgetting that while she snatches the sick and famished from the jaws of death, her immortal soul is in danger of a worse death than the grave, and that in all the time we have been friends nothing has been done for her salvation." "mr. stobart, i doubt you have thought too much of the woman and too little of the woman's unawakened soul," wesley said, with grave reproof. "her beauty has dazzled your senses; and conscience has been lulled to sleep. as your pastor and your friend i warn you that you do ill to cherish the company of a beautiful heathen, save with the sole intent of accomplishing her salvation." "oh, sir, can you think me so weak a wretch as to entertain one unworthy thought in relation to this lady, who has ever treated me with a sisterly friendship? the fact that she is exquisitely beautiful can make no difference in my concern for her. i would give half the years of my life to save her soul; and i see her carried along the flood-tide of modish pleasures, the mark for gamesters and spendthrifts, and i dread to hear that she has been won by the most audacious and the worst of the worthless crew." "if you can keep your own conscience clear of evil, and win this woman from the toils of satan, you will do well," said wesley, "but tamper not with the truth; and if you fail in bringing her to a right way of thinking, part company with her for ever. you know that i am your friend, stobart. my heart went out to you at the beginning of our acquaintance, when you told me of your marriage with a young woman so much your inferior in worldly rank, for your attachment to a girl of the servant class recalled my own experience. the woman i loved best, before i met mrs. wesley, was a woman who had been a domestic servant, but whose intellect and character fitted her for the highest place in the esteem of all good people. circumstances prevented our union--and--i made another choice." he concluded his speech with an involuntary sigh, and george stobart knew that the great leader, who had many enthusiastic followers and helpers among the women of his flock, had not been fortunate in that one woman who ought to have been first in her sympathy with his work. stobart spent a month on the road with his chief, preaching at bristol and to the kingswood miners, and journeying from south to north with him, in company with one of wesley's earliest and best lay preachers, a man of humble birth, but greatly gifted for his work among assemblies in which more than half of his hearers were heathens, to whom the word of god was a new thing--souls dulled by the monotony of daily toil, and only to be aroused from the apathy of a brutish ignorance by an emotional preacher. those who had stood by whitefield's side when the tears rolled down the miners' blackened faces, knew how strong, how urgent, how pathetic must be the appeal, and how sure the result when that appeal is pitched in the right key. the little band bore every hardship and inconvenience of a journey on horseback through all kinds of weather, with unvarying good humour; for wesley's cheerful spirits set them so fine an example of christian contentment that they who were his juniors would have been ashamed to complain. in some of the towns on their route mr. wesley had friends who were eager to entertain the travellers, and in whose pious households they fared well. in other places they had to put up with the rough meals and hard beds of inns rarely frequented by gentlefolks; or sometimes, belated in desolate regions, had to take shelter in a roadside hovel, where they could scarce command a loaf of black bread for their supper, and a shakedown of straw for their couch. may had begun when wesley and his deacons arrived in london, after having preached to hundreds of thousands on their way. stobart had been absent more than a month, and the time seemed much longer than it really was by reason of the distances traversed and the varieties of life encountered on the way. he had received a weekly letter from his wife, who told him of all her household cares, and of georgie's daily growth in childish graces. he had answered all her letters, telling her of his adventures on the road, in which she took a keen interest, loving most of all to hear of the fine houses to which he was invited, the dishes at table, and the way they were served, the tea-things and tray, and if the urn were copper or silver, also the dress of the ladies, and whether they wore linen aprons in the morning. he knew her little weaknesses, and indulged her, and rarely returned from a journey without bringing her some trifling gift for her house, a cream-jug of some special ware, a damask table-cloth, or something he knew she loved. their union had been one of peace and a tranquil affection, which on stobart's part outlived the brief fervour of a self-sacrificing love. the romantic feeling, the glow of religious enthusiasm which had led to his marriage, belonged to the past; but he told himself that he had done well to marry the printer's daughter, and that she was the fittest helpmeet he could have chosen, since she left him free to work out his salvation, and submitted with gentle obedience to the necessities of his spiritual life. "mr. wesley would thank providence for so placid a companion," he thought, having heard of his leader's sufferings from a virago who opened and destroyed his letters, insulted his friends, and tormented him with an unreasoning jealousy that made his home life a kind of martyrdom. during that religious pilgrimage stobart had written several times to lady kilrush--letters inspired by his intercourse with wesley, and by the spiritual experiences of the day; letters written in the quiet of a sleeping household, and aflame with the ardent desire to save that one most precious soul from eternal condemnation. he had written with a vehement importunity which he had never ventured in his conversation; had wrestled with the infidel spirit as jacob wrestled with the angel; had been moved even to tears by his own eloquence, carried away by the ardour of his feelings. "since i was last in your company i have seen multitudes won from satan; have seen the roughest natures softened to penitent tears at the story of calvary--the hardest hearts melted, reprobates and vagabonds laying down their burden of sins, and taking up the cross. and i have thought of you, so gifted by nature, so rare a jewel for the crown of christ--you whose inexhaustible treasures of love and compassion i have seen poured upon the most miserable of this world's outcasts, the very scum and refuse of debased humanity. you, so kind, so pitiful, so clear of brain and steadfast of purpose, can you for ever reject those divine promises, that gift of eternal life by which alone we are better than the brutes that perish?" "alas! dear sir," antonia wrote in her reply to this last letter, "can you not be content with so many victories, so great a multitude won from satan, and leave one solitary sinner to work out her own destiny? if my mind could realize your kingdom of the saints, if i could believe that far off, in some vague region of this universe, whose vastness appals me, there is a world where i shall see the holy teacher of nazareth, hear words of ineffable wisdom from living lips, and, most precious of all, see once again in a new and better life the husband who died in my arms, i would accept your creed with ecstatic joy. but i cannot. my father taught me to reason, not to dream; and i have no power to unlearn what i learnt from him, and from the books he put into my hands. do not let us argue about spiritual things. we shall never agree. teach me to care for the poor and the wretched with a wise affection, and to use my fortune as a good woman, pagan or christian, ought to use riches, for the comfort of others, as well as for her own pleasure in the only world she believes in." * * * * * the london season, which in those days began and ended earlier than it does now, was growing more brilliant as it neared the close. when mr. stobart returned to town, ranelagh, vauxhall, the italian opera, handel's oratorios, the two patent theatres, and that little theatre in the haymarket, where the malicious genius of samuel foote revelled in mimicry and caricature, were crowded nightly with the salt of the earth; and the ruinous pleasures of the st. james's street clubs--white's, arthur's, and the cocoa tree--were still in full swing, to the apprehension and horror of fathers and mothers, sisters, wives, and sweethearts, who might wake any morning to hear that son or husband, brother or lover, had been reduced to beggary between midnight and dawn. losses at cards that ruined families, disputes that ended in blood, were the frequent tragedies that heightened the comedy of fashionable life by the zest of a poignant contrast. george stobart returned to london with wesley's counsel in his mind. he had been told his duty as a christian. he must hold no commune with a daughter of belial, save in the hope of leading her into the fold. if his most strenuous endeavours failed to convert the unbeliever he must renounce her friendship and see her no more. he must not trifle with sacred things, honour her for a compassionate and generous disposition, admire her natural gifts, and forget that she was a daughter of perdition. he recalled the hours he had spent in her company, hours in which all religious questions had been ignored while they discussed the means of feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. surely they had been about the master's work, though the master's name had not been spoken. he remembered how, instead of being instant in season and out of season, he had kept silence about spiritual things, had even encouraged her to talk of those trivial pleasures she loved too well--the court, the opera, her patrician friends, her social triumphs. he recalled those romantic legends in which some pious knight, journeying towards the holy land, meets a lovely lady in distress, succours her, pities, and even loves her, only to discover the flames of hell in those luminous eyes, the fiery breath of satan upon those alluring lips. he swore to be resolute with himself and inexorable to her, to accept no compromises, to reject even her gold, if he could not make her a christian. in his anxiety for her spiritual welfare it was a bitter disappointment to him not to find her at home when he called in st. james's square on the day after his return. he called again next day, and was told that she was dining with the duchess of portland at whitehall, and was to accompany her grace to the duchess of norfolk's ball in the evening. he felt vexed and offended at this second repulse, yet he had reason to be grateful to her for her kindness to his wife during his absence. she, the fine lady, whose every hour was allotted in the mill-round of pleasure, had taken lucy and the little boy to hyde park in her coach, and for long country drives to chiswick and kew, and had even accepted an occasional dish of tea in the parlour at crown place, had heard georgie repeat one of dr. watts's hymns, and had brought him a present of toys from mrs. chevenix's, such as no lambeth child had ever possessed. he had been full of work since his return, visiting his schools and infant nurseries, and preaching in an old brewhouse which he had converted into a chapel, where he held a nightly service, consisting of one earnest prayer, a chapter of the new testament, and a short sermon of friendly counsel, gentle reproof of evil habits and evil speech, and fervent exhortation to all sinners to lead a better life; and where he held, also, a class for adults who had never been taught to read or write, and for whom he laboured with unvarying patience and kindness. he was more out of humour than a christian should have been when, on his third visit to st. james's square, he was told that her ladyship was confined to her room by a headache, and desired not to be disturbed, as she was going to the masquerade that evening. the porter spoke of "the masquerade" with an assurance that no gentleman in london could fail to know all about so distinguished an entertainment. stobart left the door in a huff. it was six weeks since he had seen her face, and she valued his friendship so little that she cared not how many times he was sent away from her house. she would give herself no trouble to receive him. instead of going home to supper he wandered about the west end till nightfall, when streets and squares began to be alive with links and chairmen. at almost every door there was a coach or a chair, and the roll of wheels over the stones made an intermittent thunder. everybody of any importance was going to the masquerade, which was a subscription dance at ranelagh, given by a number of bachelor noblemen, and supposed to be accessible only to the choicest company; though 'twas odds that a week later it would be known that more than one notorious courtesan had stolen an entrance, and displayed her fine figure and her diamonds among the duchesses. a fretful restlessness impelled stobart to pursue his wanderings. the thought of the lambeth parlour, with the sky shut out, and the tallow candles guttering in their brass candlesticks, oppressed him with an idea of imprisonment. he walked at random, his nerves soothed by the cool night air, and presently, having turned into a main thoroughfare, found himself drifting the way the coaches and chairs were going, in a procession of lamps and torches, an undulating line of fire and light that flared and flickered with every waft of the south-west wind. all the road between st. james's and chelsea had a gala air to-night, for 'twas said the old king and the duke of cumberland would be at ranelagh. people were standing in open doorways, groups were gathered at street corners, eager voices named the occupants of chariot or sedan, mostly wrong. the duke of newcastle was greeted with mingled cheers and hisses; fox evoked a storm of applause; and young mrs. spencer's diamonds were looked at with gloating admiration by milliners' apprentices and half-starved shirt-makers. stobart went along with the coaches on the chelsea road to the entrance of ranelagh, where a mob had assembled to see the company--a mob which seemed as lively and elated as if to stand and stare at beauty and jewels, fops and politicians, afforded almost as good an entertainment as the festivity under the dome. having made his way with some elbowing to the front row, stobart had a near view of the company, who had to traverse some paces between the spot where their coaches drew up and the doric portico which opened into the rotunda, that magnificent pleasure-house which has been compared to the pantheon at rome for size and architectural dignity. the portico was ablaze with strings and festoons of many-coloured lamps, and from within there came the inspiring sounds of dance music played by an orchestra of strings and brasses--sounds that mingled with the trampling of horses' hoofs, the cracking of whips, the oaths of coachmen, and the remonstrances of link-boys and footmen, trying to keep back the crowd. "oh, oh, oh!" cried the front row at the appearance of a tall woman, masked, and wearing a long pink satin cloak, which fell back as she descended from her chariot, revealing a magnificent form attired as diana, in a white satin tunic which displayed more of a handsome leg than is often given to the public view, and a gauze drapery that made no envious screen between admiring eyes and an alabaster bust and shoulders. "i'll wager her ladyship came out in such a hurry she forgot to put on her clothes," said one spectator. "i say, sally," cried another, "if you or me was to come out such a figure, we should be in the stocks or the pillory before we went home." "sure 'tis a kindness in a great lady to show us that duchesses are made of flesh and blood like common folks, only finer." flashing eyes defied the crowd as the handsome duchess strode by, her silver buskins glittering in the rainbow light, her head held at an imperial level, admiring fops closing round her, with their hands on their sword-hilts, ready to repress or to punish insult. "sure, charley, one would suppose these wretches had never seen a handsome woman till to-night," laughed the lady. "i doubt they never have seen so much of one," answered the gentleman in a half-whisper, on which he was called "beast," and rebuked with a smart tap from diana's fan. a great many people had arrived, peeresses without number, and among them katharine, duchess of queensberry, prior's kitty, made immortal by a verse. this lovely lady appeared in a studied simplicity of white lute-string, without a jewel--a beauty unadorned that had somewhat missed fire at the last birthday, against the magnificence of her rivals. the beautiful duchess of hamilton went by with her lovely sister, lady coventry, radiant in a complexion of white-lead which was said to be killing her. starry creatures like goddesses passed in a glittering procession; the music, the babel of voices from within, made a tempest of sound; but _she_ had not yet appeared, and stobart waited to see her pass. she came in her chariot, like cinderella in the fairy tale. hammer-cloth and liveries were a blaze of gold and blue. three footmen hung behind, with powdered heads, sky-blue velvet coats, white breeches, pink stockings and gold garters--gorgeous creatures that leapt down to open the coach door and let down the steps, but were not suffered to come near her, for a bevy of her admirers had been watching for her arrival, and crowded about her carriage door, thrusting her lackeys aside. she laughed at their eagerness. "'twas vastly kind of you to wait for me, sir joseph," she said to the foremost. "i should scarce have dared to plunge into the whirlpool of company unattended. lady margaret had a couple of young things to bring, who insisted upon coming here directly the room opened, so i let her come without me. i love a _fête_ best at the flood-tide. sure your lordship must think me monstrous troublesome if i have robbed you of a dance," she added, turning to a tall man in smoke-coloured velvet and silver. "i think your ladyship knows that there is but one woman in europe i love to dance with," said lord dunkeld, gravely. he was a man of distinguished rank and fortune, distinguished merit also--a man whom stobart had known and admired in his society days. "then 'tis some woman in asia you are thinking of when i see you distrait or out of spirits," antonia said lightly, as she took his arm. "alas! fair enslaver, you know too well your power to make me happy or wretched," he murmured in her ear. "i hope everybody will be happy to-night," she said gaily, "or you subscribing gentlemen, who have taken so much trouble to please us, will be ill-paid for your pains. for my own part, i mean to think ranelagh the seventh heaven, and not to refuse a dance." she wore her velvet loup, with a filmy border of brussels that clouded the carmine of her lips. her white teeth flashed against the black lace, her smile was enchantingly gay. stobart heard her in a gloomy temper. what hope was there for such a woman--so given over to worldly pleasures, with no capacity for thought of serious things, no desire for immortality, finding her paradise in a masquerade, her happiness in the adulation of fools? "how can i ever bring her nearer to god while she lives in a perpetual intoxication of earthly pleasures, while she so exults in her beauty and her power over the hearts of men?" she wore a diamond tiara and necklace of matchless fire. her gown was white and silver, the stomacher covered with coloured jewels that flashed between the opening of her long black silk domino, an ample garment with loose sleeves. she had arrayed herself in all her splendour for this much-talked-of masquerade, wishing to do honour to the gentlemen who gave the treat. "bid my servants fetch me at one o'clock, if you please, sir joseph," she said to the cavalier on her left. "at one! impossible! 'tis nearly eleven already. i shall order them at three, and i'll wager they'll have to wait hours after that." "you make very sure of your dance pleasing folks," she said. "i doubt i shall have yawned myself half dead before three o'clock; but you'll have to find me a seat in a dark corner where i can sleep behind my fan." "there are no dark corners--except in the gallery for lovers and dowagers--and i pledge myself nobody under forty shall have any disposition for slumber," protested sir joseph, as he ran off to give her orders. she passed under the lamp-lit portico on lord dunkeld's arm. "_that_ is the man she will marry," stobart thought, as he walked away, hurrying from the crowd and the lights, and noise and laughter, and past a tavern a little way off, in front of which an army of footmen and links were gathered, and where they and the crowd were being served with beer and gin. he was glad to get into a dark lane that led towards westminster bridge, skirting the river, and to be able to think quietly. she would marry dunkeld. was it not the best thing she could do--her best chance for the saving of that immortal soul which he had tried in vain to save? dunkeld was no idle pleasure-lover, though he mixed in the diversions of his time. he was a politician, had written more than one pamphlet that had commanded the attention of the town. he was a good churchman, a regular attendant at the chapel royal. he was rich enough to be above suspicion of mercenary views. he had never been a gambler or a profligate. he was seven and thirty, antonia's senior by about twelve years. assuredly she would be safer from the evil of the time as dunkeld's wife than in her present unprotected position. he repeated these arguments with unending iteration throughout his homeward walk. it was perhaps his duty to urge this union upon her. she had never spoken to him of dunkeld, or in so casual a tone that he had suspected her of no uncommon friendship for that excellent man; yet he could hardly doubt that she favoured his suit. dunkeld was handsome, accomplished, of an ancient scottish family, had made his mark in the english house of commons. stobart could scarcely believe it possible that such a suitor had failed to engage antonia's affections. at any rate, it was his duty--his duty as a friend, as a christian--to persuade her to this marriage. he found his wife sitting up for him, and the supper untouched, though it was midnight when he got home. the supper was but a frugal meal of bread and cheese, a spring salad, and small beer; but the table was neatly laid with a clean damask cloth, and adorned with a lowestoft bowl of wallflowers. lucy had a genius for small things, and was quick to learn any art that light hands and perseverance could accomplish. "how late you are, george!" she exclaimed. "i was almost frightened. have you been teaching your night class all these hours?" "no, 'tis not a class night. i have been roaming the streets, full of thought, but idle of purpose. i let myself drift with the crowd, and went to stare at the fine people going into ranelagh." "you! well, 'tis a wonder. but why didn't you take me? i should have loved to see the fancy dresses and masks and dominos. indeed, i should have asked you many a time to let me see the quality going to court, only i fancied you thought all such shows wicked." "a wicked waste of time. i doubt i have been wickedly wasting my time to-night, lucy; yet perhaps some good may come of my idleness. god can turn even our errors to profit." "oh, george, i have done very wrong," his wife said, with sudden seriousness. "i have forgotten something." "nay, child, 'tis not the first time. thy genius never showed strongest in remembering things." "but this was a serious thing, and you'll scold me when you know it." "be brief, dear, and i promise to be indulgent." "you know sally dormer, the poor woman that's in a consumption, and that you and her ladyship are concerned about?" "yes." "her young brother called the day you came home, and told me the doctor had given her over, and she wanted to see you--she was pining and fretting because you was away; and she had been a terrible sinner, the boy said, and was afeared to meet her god. i meant to tell you the first minute i saw you, george; and then i was so glad to see you, and that put everything out of my head." "and kept it out of your head for a week, lucy--the prayer of a dying woman?" "ah, now you are angry with me." "no, no; but i am sorry--very sorry. the poor soul is dead, perhaps. i might have been with her at the last hour, and might have given her hope and comfort. you should not forget such things as those, lucy; your heart should serve instead of memory when a dying penitent's peace is in question." "oh, i am a hateful wretch, and i'd sooner you scolded me than not. but you had been away so long, and i had fretted about you, and was so glad to have you again." she was in tears, and he held out his hand to her across the table. "don't cry, lucy. perhaps i do ill to leave you--even in god's service; but the call is strong." he left his thought unspoken. he had been thinking that the man who gave himself to the service of christ should have neither wife nor child. the earthly and the heavenly love were not compatible. "i will go to sally's garret the first thing to-morrow morning," he said. "please god i may not be too late!" he was silent for the rest of the meal, and his slumbers were brief and perturbed, his fitful sleep haunted by visions of splendour and beauty: the brazen duchess, erstwhile maid-of-honour, wife of two husbands, radiant and half-naked as the goddess of chastity, with a diamond crescent on her brow; and that other woman, whose modest bearing gave the grace of purity even to the splendour of her jewels and glittering silver gown. dream faces followed him through the labyrinth of sleep, and his last dream was of the nightmare kind. he was in the retreat at fontenoy, fighting at close quarters with a french dragoon, whom he knew of a sudden for the foul fiend in person, and that the stake for which he fought was antonia's soul. "he shall not have her," he cried. "i'd sooner see her another man's wife than the devil's prize." he was awakened by his own voice, in a hoarse, gasping cry, and starting up in the broad light of a may morning, looked at his watch, and found it was half-past five. he rose quietly, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, and made his morning toilet in a little back room that served as his dressing-closet--a spartan chamber, in which an abundance of cold water was his only luxury. he left the house soon after six, and walked quickly through the quiet morning streets to the pestiferous alley where sally dormer lay dying or dead. she was one of his penitents, a woman who was still young, and had once been beautiful, steeped in sin in the very morning of life, in the company of thieves and highwaymen, grown prematurely old in a profligate career, a courtesan's neglected offspring, and carrying the seeds of consumption from her cradle. her mother had been dead ten years; her father had never been known to her; her only relative was a boy of eleven, her mother's sole legacy. a sermon of whitefield's preached to thousands of hearers on kennington common, in the sultry stillness of an august night, had awakened her to the knowledge of sin. she was one of the many who went to hear the famous preacher, prompted by idle curiosity, and who left him changed and exalted, shuddering at the sins of the past, horrified at the perils of the future. that wave of penitent feeling might have ebbed as quickly as it rose but for george stobart, who found the sinner while the effect of whitefield's eloquence was new, and completed the work of conversion--a work more easily accomplished, perhaps, by reason of sally dormer's broken health. she had been marked for death before that sultry night when she had stood under the summer stars, trembling at whitefield's picture of the sinner's doom, pale to the lips as he dwelt on the terrors of hell, and god's curse upon the stubborn unbeliever. "all the curses of the law belong to you, oh, ye adamantine hearts, that melt not at the name of jesus. cursed are you when you go out; cursed are you when you come in; cursed are your thoughts; cursed are your words; cursed are your deeds! everything you do, say, or think, from morning to night, is only one continued series of sin. awake, awake, thou that sleepest, melt and tremble, heart of stone. look to him whom thou hast pierced! look and love; look and mourn; look and praise. though thou art stained with sin, and black with iniquity, thy god is yet thy god!" stobart had told antonia of sally dormer's condition, and had provided by her means for the penitent's comfort in her lingering illness, the fatal end of which was obvious, however much her state varied from week to week. but he had opposed antonia's desire to visit the invalid, shrinking with actual pain from the idea of any contact between the spotless woman and the castaway, who in her remorse for her past life was apt to expatiate upon vile experiences. five minutes' walk brought mr. stobart to a narrow street on the edge of the river, a street long given over to the dregs of humanity. the houses were old and dilapidated, and several of those on the water-side had been shored up at the back with timber supports, moss-grown and slimy from the river fog, yet a favourite climbing place for vagabond boys, as well as for a colony of starveling rats. sally's lodging was on the third story of a corner house, one of the oldest and most tumble-down, but also one of the most spacious, having formed part of a nobleman's mansion under the tudor kings, when all the river-side was pleasaunce and garden. the garret occupied the whole of the top floor, under a steeply sloping roof, and had two windows, one looking to the street, the other to the river. here sally had been slowly dying for near half a year, in charge of her little brother, and under the supervision of the dispensary doctor, who saw her daily. the house was quiet in the summer morning. the men who had work to do had gone about it; the idlers were still in bed; the more respectable among the women were occupied with their children or their housework. stobart met no one in the gloom of the rickety staircase, where the rotten boards offered numerous pitfalls for the unwary. he was used to ruin and decay in that water-side region, and trod carefully. the last flight was little better than a ladder, at the top of which he saw the garret door ajar, and heard a voice he knew speaking in tones so low and gentle that speech seemed a caress. it was antonia's voice. she was sitting by sally dormer's pillow, in all the splendour of white and silver brocade, diamond tiara and jewelled stomacher. her right arm was round the sick woman, and sally's dishevelled head leant against her shoulder. "great heaven, what a change of scene!" he said, as he bent down and took sally's hand. "'tis not many hours since i saw you at ranelagh." "were _you_ at ranelagh?" "at the gate only. i do not enter such paradises. i went there last night, after your door was shut in my face for the third time. it seemed my only chance of seeing you; and the sight was worth a journey. but what madness to come here alone in your finery, to flash jewels worth a king's ransom before starving desperadoes! sure 'twas wilfully to provoke danger." "i am not afraid. my coach brought me to the end of the street, and my chair is to fetch me presently. i shall be taken care of, sir, be sure. this foolish sally had set her heart on seeing me in my masquerade finery, so i came straight from ranelagh; and i have been telling sally about the ball and the beauties." "an edifying discourse, truly!" "oh, you shall edify her to your heart's content when i am gone. i have been trying to amuse her. i stole those sweetmeats for harry from the royal table"--smiling at the boy, who was sitting on the end of the bed, with his mouth full of bonbons. "i smuggled them into my pocket while the duke was talking to me." "i was at ranelagh once, your ladyship," said sally, touching the gems on antonia's stomacher one by one with her attenuated finger-tips, as if she were counting them, and as if their brilliancy gave her pleasure. "'twas when i was young and lived like a lady. my first sweetheart took me there. he was a gentleman then. 'twas before he took to the road. i dream of him often as he was in those days, seven years ago. he is changed now, and so am i. sometimes i can scarce believe we are the same flesh and blood. 'twas a handsome face, a dear face! i see it in my dreams every night." "sally, sally, is this the spirit in which to remember your sins?" exclaimed stobart, reprovingly. "see, madam, what mischief your mistaken kindness has done." "no, no, no! my poor sally is no less a true penitent because her thoughts turn for a few moments to the days that are gone. 'tis a fault in your religion, sir, that it is all gloom. your master took a kinder view of life, and was indulgent to human affections as he was pitiful to human pains. sally has made her peace with god, and believes in a happy world where her sins will be forgiven, and she will wear the white robe of innocence, and hear the songs of angels round the heavenly throne." "if thou hast indeed assurance of salvation, sally, thou art happier than the great ones of the earth, who wilfully refuse their portion in christ's atoning blood, who can neither realize their own iniquity, nor the redeemer's power to take away their sins," stobart said gravely. "'though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,'" murmured sally, her fingers still wandering about antonia's jewels, touching necklace and tiara, and the raven hair that fell in heavy curls about the full white throat. "how beautiful you are!" she murmured. "if the angels are like you, and as kind, how dearly i shall love them! poor hell-deserving me! _will_ they be kind, and never cast my sins in my face, nor draw their skirts away from me, and quicken their steps, as i have seen modest women do in the streets?" "we are told that god's angels are much kinder than modest women, sally," antonia answered, smiling at her as she offered a cup of cooling drink to the parched lips. she had been teaching the eleven-year-old harry to make lemonade for his sick sister. one of the ladies from the infant nursery came in every day to make sally's bed and clean her room, and for the rest the precocious little brother, reared in muddle, idleness, and intermittent starvation, was much more helpful than a happier child would have been. "shall i read to you, sally?" stobart asked in his grave voice, seating himself in an old rush-bottomed chair at the foot of the bed. "oh, sir, pray with me, pray for me! i would rather hear your prayers than the book. they do me more good." antonia gently withdrew her arm from the sick woman's waist, and arranged the pillows at her back--luxurious down pillows supplied from the _trop-plein_ of st. james's square--and rose from her seat by the bed. "good-bye, sally," she said, putting on her black domino, which she had thrown off at the invalid's request, to exhibit the splendours beneath. "i shall come and see you soon again; and i leave you with a good friend." "oh, my lady, do stop for a bit. i love to have you by my bed; and, oh, i want you to hear his prayers. i want you to be justified by faith, you who have never sinned." "hush, hush, sally!" "who know not sin--like mine. i want you to believe as i do. i want to meet you in heaven among the happy souls washed white in the blood of the lamb. stay and hear him pray." "i'll stay for a little to please you, sally; but indeed i am out of place here," antonia said gravely, as she resumed her seat. stobart was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his face bent upon his clasped hands, and the women had been speaking in almost whispers, sally's voice being weak from illness, and antonia's lowered in sympathy. he looked up presently after a long silence and began his prayer. he had been struggling against earthly thoughts, striving for that detachment of mind and senses which he had found more and more difficult of late, striving to concentrate all his forces of heart and intellect upon the dying woman--the newly awakened soul hovering on the threshold of eternity. could there be a more enthralling theme, a subject more removed from earthly desires and earthly temptations? antonia looked at him with something of awe in her gaze. she had never heard him pray. he had argued with her; he had striven his hardest to make her think as he thought; but he had never prayed for her. into that holier region, that nearer approach to the god he worshipped, she had never passed. the temple doors were shut against so obstinate an unbeliever, so hardened a scorner. his face seemed the face of a stranger, transfigured by that rapture of faith in the spirit world, made like to the angels in whose actual and everlasting existence this man--this rational, educated englishman, of an over-civilized epoch--firmly believed. he believed, and was made happy by his belief. this present life was of no more value to him than the dull brown husk of the worm that knows it is to be a butterfly. to the voltairean this thing was wonderful. the very strangeness of it fascinated her, and she listened with deepest interest to george stobart's prayer. his opening invocation had a formal tone. the words came slowly, and for some minutes his prayer was woven out of those familiar and moving texts he loved, while the thoughts and feelings of the man himself rose slowly from the depths of a heart that seemed ice-bound; but the man believed in him to whom he prayed, and presently the ice melted, and the fire came, and the speaker forgot all surrounding things--the lovely eyes watching him in a grave wonder, the feelings and doubts and apprehensions of last night. the earthly fetters fell away from his liberated soul, and he was alone with his god, as much alone as moses on the mountain, as christ in the garden. then, and then only, the man became eloquent. moving words came from the heart so deeply moved, burning words from the spirit on fire with an exalted faith. sally dormer sobbed upon antonia's breast, the unbeliever looking down upon her with a tender pity, glad that the slow and painful passage to the grave should be soothed by beautiful fables, by dreams that took the sting from death. perhaps the thing that moved antonia most was the unspeakable pity and compassion, the love that this man felt for the castaway. she had been told that the oxford methodists were a sanctimonious, pragmatical sect, whose heaven was an exclusive freehold, and who delighted in consigning their fellow-creatures to everlasting flames. but here she found sympathy with the sinner stronger than abhorrence of the sin. and her reason--that reason of which she was so proud--told her that with such a sinner none but an enthusiast could have prevailed. it needed the fiery speech of a whitefield, the passionate appeal of an impassioned orator, to awaken a soul so dead. "'awake, thou that sleepest,'" cries the church to the heathen; but if the church that calls is a formal, unloving, half-somnolent church, what chance of awakening? the great revival had been the work of a handful of young men--men whom the church might have kept had her rulers been able to gauge their power, but who had been sent into the fields to carry on their work of conversion as their master was sent before them. antonia was no nearer belief in stobart's creed than she had been yesterday; but she was impressed by the sincerity of the man, the vitality of an unquestioning faith. he was interrupted in the midst of an impassioned sentence by a startling appearance. the lattice facing the river had been left open to the balmy morning air. the casement rattled suddenly, and a pair of hands appeared clutching the sill, followed almost instantly by the vision of a ghastly face with starting eyeballs and panting mouth; and then a slenderly built man scrambled through the opening, and dropped head foremost into the room, breathless, and speechless for the moment. george stobart started to his feet. "what are you doing here, fellow?" he exclaimed angrily. the man took no notice of the question, but flung himself on his knees by the bed, and grasped sally's hand. his clothes were torn and mud-stained, one of his coat-sleeves was ripped from wrist to shoulder. great beads of sweat rolled down his ashen face. "hide me, hide me, sally," he gasped hoarsely. "if ever you loved me, save me from the gallows. hide me somewhere behind your bed--in your closet--anywhere. the constables are after me. it's a hanging business." "oh, jack, i thought you was in georgia--safe, and leading an honest life." "i've come back. i'm one of them that can't be honest. they're after me. i gave them the slip on the bridge--ran for my life--climbed the old timbers. hell, how slippery they are! they'll be round the corner directly. they'll search every house in the street." he was looking about the room with strained eyes, searching for some hole to hide in. there was a curious kind of closet in the slope of the rafters, filling an acute angle. he was making for this, then stopped and ran to the window facing the river. "get out of this, fellow," said stobart. "this woman has done with the companions of sin. go!" "no, no," cried antonia; "you shall not give him over to those bloodhounds." "what, madam, would you make yourself the abettor of crime--come between a felon and the law which protects honest people from thieves and murderers?" "i hate your laws--your inexorable judges, your murdering laws, which will hang a child that never knew right from wrong for a stolen sixpence." "they are round the corner; they are looking at the house," gasped the fugitive, moving from the window and looking round the room in a wild despair. he had been caught in that very house years before, when he and sally dormer lodged there together, and when he was one of the luckiest professionals on the dover road, with a couple of good horses, and a genius for getting clear off after a job. he had escaped by the skin of his teeth on that occasion, the witnesses for identification breaking down in the inquiry before the magistrate. he had saved his neck and some of the profits from an audacious attack on the dover mail, and had gone to america in a shipload of mixed company, swearing to turn honest and cheat jack ketch. but he could as easily have turned wild indian; and after a spirited career in georgia he had got himself back to london, and being in low water, without means to buy himself a good horse, had sunk to the meaner status of foot-pad, and this morning had been concerned with three others in an attempt to stop a great lady's coach on the way from ranelagh. a chosen few among the most dissipated of the company had kept the ball going till seven o'clock, and had gone to breakfast and cards after seven--and it was one of these great ladies whose chariot had been stopped in the loneliest part of the road, between chelsea and the five fields. antonia was looking out of the window that overhung the street. the thief made a rush towards the same window, and stopped midway, staring at this queen-like figure in mute surprise. her beauty, her sumptuous dress and jewels made him almost think this dazzling appearance the hallucination of his own distraught brain. "is it real?" he muttered, and then went back to the other casement, and looked out again. "they are coming," he said in a dull voice. "'tis no use to hide in that rat-hole. they'd have me out in a trice. the game's up, sally. i shall dance upon nothing at tyburn before the month is out." he looked to the priming of a pair of pistols which he carried in a leather belt. they were ready for work. he took his stand behind the garret door. the first man who entered that room would be accounted for. they would not risk an ascent upon those slippery old beams which he had climbed for sport many a time in his boyhood; they would make their entrance from the street. well, there was some hope of giving them trouble on the top flight of stairs, almost as steep as a ladder, and rotten enough to let them down headlong with a little extra impetus from above. "they are not round yet," cried antonia, snatching up her black silk domino from the chair where it hung. "put on this, sir. so, so"--wrapping the voluminous cloak round the thief's thin frame. "don't cry, sally; we'll save him if we can, for your sake; and he'll turn honest for your sake. so; the cloak covers your feet. why, i doubt i am the taller. now for the mask," adjusting the little loup, which fastened with a spring, over the man's face, and the silk hood over his head. "come, mr. stobart, my chair is at the door," she said breathlessly. "take this poor wretch downstairs, bundle him into the chair, and bid my servants carry him to my house, and hide him there. they can send a hackney coach to fetch me. quick, quick!" she cried, stamping her foot; "quick, sir, if you would save a life." stobart looked from the masked figure to antonia irresolutely, and then looked out of the river window. there was a mob hurrying along the muddy shore at the heels of three bow street runners, who were nearing the network of timbers below. there was no time for scruples. five minutes would give the pursuers time to come round to the front of the house. a wailing voice came from the bed-- "oh, sir, save him, for christ's sake! he was my first sweetheart; and he has always been kind to me. give him this one chance." the fugitive had not waited, but had scrambled downstairs in his strange disguise, stumbling every now and then when his feet caught in the trailing domino. antonia, watching from the window, saw him dash into the street, open the door of the sedan--'twas not the first he had opened as violently--and disappear inside it. the chairmen stood dumbfounded; and had not stobart appeared on the instant to give them their lady's orders, might have raised an alarm. drilled to obedience, however, the men took up their load in prompt and orderly style, and the sedan, with two running footmen guarding it, turned one corner of the street a minute before the constables came round the other. it was an unspeakable mortification for these gentlemen when they found their bird flown, how they knew not, or, indeed, whether he had ever been in the house, which they searched from cellar to garret, giving as much trouble as they could to all its inhabitants. it was in vain that they questioned sally dormer, who swore it was years since she had set eyes on her old friend jack parsons. it shocked stobart to see that this brand plucked from the burning could be so ready with a lie, and that the two women rejoiced in the escape of mr. parsons almost as if he had been a christian martyr saved from the lions. "he is a man; and 'twas a life--a life like yours or mine--that we were saving," antonia said by-and-by, when he expressed surprise at her conduct. "'tis a thing a woman does instinctively. i think i would do as much to save a sheep from the slaughter-house. 'twas a happy thought that brought the sedan to my mind. i remembered lord nithisdale's escape in ' ." "lady nithisdale was saving her husband's life by that stratagem." "and i was saving a thief whose face i had never seen till five minutes before i fastened my mask upon it. but i saw a man trembling for his life, like a bird in a net; and i remembered how savage our law is, and how light judge and jury make of a fellow-creature's doom. i shall pack the rascal off to america again, and dare him to do ill there after his escape. you must help me to get him down the river this night, mr. stobart, and stowed away upon the first ship that sails from gravesend." "i must, must i?" "if you refuse, i must employ goodwin, and that might be dangerous." "i cannot refuse you. can you doubt that i admire your kindness, your generous sympathy with creatures that suffer? but i tremble at the thought of a nature so impulsive, a heart so easily melted." "oh, it can be hard on occasion," she said proudly, remembering the lovers who had sighed at her feet and been sent away despairing, since her reign in london had begun, her supremacy as a beauty and a fortune. having consented to help in her work of mercy, stobart performed his task faithfully. he had allies among the vagabond classes whose honour he could rely on, and with the help of two stalwart boatmen he conveyed jack parsons to erith, and saw him on board a trading vessel, carrying a score or so of emigrants and a freight of miscellaneous merchandise to boston, which by good luck was to sail with the next favourable wind. he provided the fugitive with proper clothing and necessaries for the voyage, which might last months, and took pains to clothe him like a small tradesman's son; and as such he was shipped, with his passage paid, and the promise of a five-pound note, to be given him by the captain before he landed in america, to maintain him till he got work. "if the lady who saved you from the gallows should hear of you by-and-by as leading an honest life, i dare say she will help you to better yourself out yonder; but if you fall back into sin you will deserve the worst that can happen to a hardened reprobate;" and with these words of counsel, a new testament, and charles wesley's hymn book, mr. stobart took leave of antonia's _protégé_, who sobbed out broken words of gratitude to him and to the good lady, which sounded as if they came from the heart. "i had my chance before, sir, and i threw it away--but god's curse blight me if i forget what that woman did for me." stobart wrote to lady kilrush, with an account of what he had done, but it was some days before he saw her. he had to take up the thread of his mission work, and had to wait upon mr. wesley more than once--to discuss his philanthropic labours--at his house by the foundery. he saw sally dormer every day, and was touched by the poor creature's adoration of antonia, whom she now regarded as a heaven-sent angel. "oh, sir, you told me once that her ladyship was an infidel; but, indeed, sir, whatever she says, whatever she thinks, you cannot believe that such a creature will be shut out from heaven. sure, sir, heaven must be full of women like her, and god must love them, because they are good." "no, sally, god cannot love those who deny christ." "but indeed she does not. while you was away, when i was so ill, i asked her to read the bible to me, and she let me choose the chapters--the sermon on the mount, and those chapters you love in st. john's gospel--and she told me she loved jesus--loved his words of kindness and mercy, his goodness to the sick and the poor, and to the little children." "all that is no use, sally, without faith in his atoning blood, without the conviction of sin, or the belief in saving grace. yet i can scarce think that so good a woman as lady kilrush will be left for ever under the dominion of satan. faith will come to her some day--with the coming of sorrow." "yes, yes, it will come; and she will shine like a star in heaven. god cannot do without such angels round his throne." stobart reproved her gently for words that went too near blasphemy. he was melted by her affection for the generous friend who had done so much to brighten her declining days. "she came to see me very often while you was away," sally said; "and she paid the nurse-keeper to come every day, and sent me soups and jellies and all sorts of good things by a light-porter every morning. and she talks to me as if i was an honest woman. she never reminds me what a sinner i have been--or even that i'm not a lady." * * * * * it was more than a week after the scene in sally dormer's garret, and the ship that carried mr. john parsons was beating round the start point, when george stobart called in st. james's square early in the afternoon. the dining-room door stood wide open as he crossed the hall, and he saw a long table strewed with roses and covered with gold plate, and the _débris_ of a fashionable breakfast, chocolate-pots, champagne-glasses, carbonadoed hams, chickens and salads, jellies and junkets and creams. "her ladyship has been entertaining company," he said, with a sense of displeasure of which he felt ashamed, knowing how unreasonable it was. had she not a right to live her own life, she who had never professed christianity, least of all his kind of christianity, which meant total renunciation of all self-indulgence, purple and fine linen, banquets and dances, splendid furniture and rich food? "yes, sir, her ladyship has been giving a breakfast-party to the duke of cumberland," replied the footman, swelling with pride. "eight and twenty sat down--mostly dukes and duchesses--and mr. handel played on the 'arpsikon for an hour after breakfast. his royal 'ighness loves music," added the lackey, condescendingly, as he ushered mr. stobart into the library. "was lord dunkeld among the company?" stobart asked. "yes, sir." stobart had come there charged with a mission, a self-imposed duty, which had been in his mind--paramount over all other considerations--ever since that night at ranelagh, when he had seen antonia and lord dunkeld together. again and again he went over the same chain of reasoning, with always the same result. he saw her in the flower of youth, beautiful and impulsive, with a wild courage that scorned consequences, ready to break the law if her heart prompted; and he told himself that for such a woman marriage with a good man was the only safeguard from the innumerable perils of a woman's life. in her case marriage was inevitable. the worldlings would not cease from striving for so rich a prize. if she did not marry dunkeld, she would marry some one else, his inferior, perhaps, in every virtue. it was his duty--his, as her friend, her earnest well-wisher--to persuade her to so suitable an alliance. having marked out this duty to be done, he was in a fever of anxiety to get his task accomplished. he was like a martyr, who knows death inevitable, and is eager for the faggot and the stake. that poignant eagerness was so strange a feeling--a fire of enthusiasm that was almost agony. he walked up and down the library, agitated and impatient, his hands clasped above his head. he was wondering how she would receive his advice. she would be angry, perhaps; and would resent the impertinence of unsought counsel. the windows were open, and the room was full of flowers and soft vernal air. a kirkman harpsichord stood near the fireplace, scattered with loose sheets of music from the newest opera and oratorio. a guitar hung by a broad blue ribbon across an armchair. light and trivial romances and modish magazines lay about the table; and another table was covered with baskets of shells and a half-finished picture-frame in shell-work. a white cockatoo cackled and screamed on his perch by a window. nothing was wanting to mark the lady of fashion. she came in, beaming with smiles, in the splendour of gala clothes, a sky-blue poplin sacque, covered with irish lace, over a primrose satin petticoat powdered with silver shamrocks. her hair was rolled back from her forehead, a little cap like a gauze butterfly was perched on the top of her head, and gauze lappets were crossed under her chin, and pinned with a single brilliant. the little cap gave a piquancy to her beauty, a dainty touch of the _soubrette_, which boucher has immortalized in his portrait of the pompadour. "well, sir," she cried gaily, making him a low curtsey, "we have broken the law between us, and i thank you heartily for your share in the offence against its majesty. would to god that admiral byng could have been saved as easily!" "you have a generous heart, madam--a heart too easily moved, perhaps, by human miseries, and i tremble for its impulses, while i admire its warmth and courage. you have never been absent from my thoughts since that morning in sally's garret. indeed, what man living could forget a scene so incongruous--yet--so beautiful?" his voice faltered towards the end, and he leant against the late lord's tall armchair. "you have not been kind in keeping away from me so long, when i was dying to give expression to my gratitude." "be sure my recompense was having obliged you. 'twas superfluous to thank me. i have been very busy. i had arrears of work, and i knew all _your_ hours were engaged." "sure there must always be something to do in a town full of people." she was playing with the great white bird, smoothing his fluffy topknot, ruffling the soft saffron feathers round his neck, tempting him with the pink tips of taper fingers, flashing rose-coloured light from her diamond rings, whose splendour covered the slender hoop of gold with which kilrush married her. "you have been entertaining the duke of cumberland, i hear." "billy the butcher! that's what my father and i used to call him, when we concocted jacobite paragraphs for _lloyd's evening post_. yes, mr. stobart, i have been entertaining royalty for the first time in my life. the honour was not my own seeking either, for his royal highness challenged me to invite him." "he would not be so much out of the fashion as not to be among your adorers." "that is too prettily said for an oxford methodist. 'tis a reminiscence of the soldier's manners. when the duke led me out for the second dance at the duchess of norfolk's ball he was pleased to compliment my housekeeping. 'i hear your ladyship's is the pleasantest house in town,' he said, 'but am i never to know more of it than hearsay?' on which i dropped my best curtsey, and told him that my house with all it contained was at his feet, and i had not finished my chocolate next morning before his royal highness's aide-de-camp was announced, who came to tell me his master would accept any invitation i was civil enough to send him." "and this trivial conquest made you happy?" "sure it pleased me as any other toy would have done. 'twas something to think about--whom i should invite--how i should dress my table. i strewed it from end to end with cut roses, brought up from essex this morning, with the dew on their petals. their perfume had a flavour of the east--some valley in cashmere--till a succession of smoking roasts polluted the atmosphere. i had a mind to imitate mediæval feasts, and give the prince a pie full of live singing birds, but one hardly knows how the birds might behave when the pie was cut." "you had one sensible man among your guests, i doubt." "_merci du compliment--pour les autres_. pray who was this paragon?" "lord dunkeld." "you know lord dunkeld?" "he was my intimate friend some years ago." "before you left off having any friends but methodists?" "before i knew that life was too serious a thing for trifling friendships." "i am glad you approve of dunkeld. of all my modish friends he is the one i like best." "is it not something better than liking? dear lady kilrush, accept the counsel of a friend whose heart is tortured by the consciousness of your unprotected position, the infinite perils that surround youth and beauty in a world given over to folly--a world which the most appalling convulsion of nature and the sudden death of thousands of unprepared sinners could not awaken from its dream of pleasure. i see you in your grace and loveliness, of a character too generous to suspect evil, hemmed round with profligates, the companion of unfaithful wives and damaged misses. and since i cannot win you for christ, since you are deaf and cold to the saviour's voice, i would at least see you guarded by a man of honour--a man who knows the world he lives in, and would know how to protect an adored wife from its worst dangers." "i hardly follow the drift of this harangue, sir." "marry dunkeld. you could not choose a better man, and i know that he adores you." "you are vastly kind, sir, to interest yourself in my matrimonial projects. but there is more of the old woman--the spinster aunt--in this unasked advice than i expected from so serious a person as mr. stobart." "i fear you are offended." he had grown pale to the lips as he talked to her. his whole countenance, and the thrilling note in his voice betrayed the intensity of his feeling. "no, i am only amused. but i regret that you should have wasted trouble on my affairs. it is true that lord dunkeld has honoured me with the offer of his hand on more than one occasion, but he has had his answer; and he is so sensible a man that in rejecting him as a lover i have not lost him as a friend." "he will offer again, and you will accept him." "never!" she exclaimed with sudden energy, dropping her light, half-mocking tone, and looking at him with flashing eyes. "i shall never take a second husband, sir. you may be sure of that." a crimson fire flashed across his pallid face, and slowly faded. he drew a deep breath, and there was a silence of moments that seemed long. "you--you--must have some reason for such a strange resolve." "yes, i have my reason." "may i know it?" he asked, trembling with emotion. "no, sir, neither you nor any one else. 'tis my own secret. and now let us talk of other matters. it was on your conscience to give me a spinster aunt's advice. you have done your duty very prettily, and your conscience can be at rest." he stood looking at her in a strange silence. the beautiful face which had fired with a transient passion was now only pensive. she seated herself in her favourite chair by the open window, took up a tapestry-frame, and began to work in minute stitches that needed exquisite precision of eye and hand. how much of his future life or earthly happiness he would have given to fathom her thoughts! he had come there to persuade her to marry; he had convinced himself that she ought to marry; and yet his heart was beating with a wild gladness. he felt like a wretch who had escaped the gallows. the rope had been round his neck when the reprieve came. "tell me about your night-school," she said, without looking up from her work. "do the numbers go on increasing?" "i--i--can't talk of the school to-day," he said. "i have a world of business on my hands. good-bye." he left her on the instant without offering his hand, hurried through the hall, and opened the great door before the porter, somnolent after the morning's bustle, could struggle out of his leathern chair. "never, never, never more must i cross that threshold," he told himself as he walked away. he stopped on the other side of the road, and looked back at the great handsome house, so dull externally, with its long rows of uniform windows, its massive pediment and heavy iron railings, with the tall extinguishers on each side of the door in a flourish of hammered iron. "if i ever enter that house again i shall deserve to perish everlastingly," he thought. 'twas four o'clock, and the sun was blazing, a midsummer afternoon in early may. he walked to his house in lambeth like a man in a dream, from which he seemed to wake with a startled air when his wife ran out into the passage to welcome him. "how pale you look," she said. "is it one of your old headaches?" "no, no; 'tis nothing but the sudden heat. you are pale enough yourself, poor little woman! come, lucy, give me an early tea, and i'll take you and the boy for a jaunt up the river." "oh, george, how good you are! 'tis near a year since you gave us a treat, or yourself a holiday." "i have worked too hard, perhaps, and might have given you more pleasure. 'tis difficult not to be selfish, even in trying to do good." "i'll have tea ready in a jiffy, and georgie dressed. i've been sitting at the window watching the boats, and wishing ever so to be on the river." "thou shalt have thy wish for this once, love," he said gently. he was silent all through the simple meal, eating hardly anything, though 'twas the first food he had tasted since a seven-o'clock breakfast. he found himself wondering at the sunshine and the brightness of things, like a man who has come away from a newly filled grave--a grave where all his hopes and affections lie buried. lucy and her boy sat opposite him, and in the gaiety of their own prattle were unaware of his silence. the boy was three years old, and of an inexhaustible loquacity, having been encouraged to babble in lucy's lonely hours. the sweet little voice ran on like a ripple of music, his mother hushing him every now and then, while stobart sat with his head leaning on his hand, thinking, thinking, thinking. they went up the river to putney in a skiff, stobart rowing, and it was one of the happiest evenings in lucy's life. she had occupation enough for all the way in pointing out the houses and churches and gardens to georgie, who asked incessant questions. she did not see the rower's pallid brow, with its look of infinite pain. they landed at fulham, moored the boat at the bottom of some wooden steps, and sat on a green bank, while georgie picked the flowers off the blossoming sedges. stobart sat with his elbows on his knees, gazing at the opposite shore, the rustic street climbing up the hill, and white cottages scattered far apart against a background of meadowland golden with marsh marigolds. "has rowing made your head worse, george?" his wife asked timidly. "no, dear, no! there is nothing the matter"--holding out his hand to her. "only i have been thinking--thinking of you and the boy, and of your lives in that dull house by the river. it is dull, i'm afraid." "never, when you are at home," she answered quickly. "you are very studious, and you don't talk much; but i am happy, quite happy, when you are sitting there. to have your company is all i desire." "i have been a neglectful husband of late, lucy. those poor wretches in the marsh have taken too much of my time and thought. whatever a man's work in the world may be, he ought to remember his home." "it is only when you are away--quite away, on those long journeys with mr. wesley." "i will give up those journeys. let the men who have neither wives nor children carry on _that_ work. would you like me to take orders, lucy?" "take orders?" "enter the church of england as an ordained priest. i might settle down then, get a london living. i have friends who could help me. it would not be to break with wesley; he is a staunch churchman." "yes, yes, i should love to see you in a real pulpit in a handsome black gown. i should love you to be a clergyman. all the town would flock to hear you, and people would talk of you as they do of mr. whitefield." "no, no. i have not the metal to forge his thunderbolts. but we can think about it. i mean to be a kinder husband, lucy. yes, my poor girl, a kinder husband. sure ours was a love match, was it not?" "i loved you from the moment i heard your voice, that night at the foundery chapel, when i woke out of a swoon and heard you speaking to me. and in all those happy days at clapham, when i used to tremble at the sound of your footstep, and when you taught me to read good books, an ignorant girl like me, and to behave like a lady. oh, george, you have always, always been good to me." the sun set, and the stars shone out of the deep serene as they went home, and a profound peace fell upon george stobart's melancholy soul. to do his duty! that was the only thing that remained to be done. he understood john wesley's warning better now. his soul had been in peril unspeakable. he loved her, he loved her, that queen among women--loved her with a passion measured by her own perfections. as she outshone every woman he had ever seen in loveliness, mental and physical, so his love for her surpassed any love he had ever imagined. and to-day, when she had looked at him with so glorious a light in her eyes, when she had declared she would never marry, and confessed that she had a secret--a secret she would tell to none--he had trembled with an exquisite joy, an overpowering fear, as the conviction that she loved him flashed into his mind. why not? 'twas hardly strange that the flame which had kindled in his breast had found a responsive warmth in hers. they had been so much to each other, had lived in such harmony of desires and hopes, each equally earnest in the endeavour to redress some of the manifold wrongs of the world. she had flung herself heart and soul into his philanthropic work, and here they had ever been at one. her presence, her voice, her sweetness and grace had become the first necessity of his life, the one thing without which life was worthless. was it strange if he had become more to her than a common friend? was it strange if, after giving him her friendship, she had given him her heart? but, oh, how deep a fall for the man who had set his hopes on high things, who had put on the whole armour of faith, had called himself a soldier and servant of christ, who had looked back with loathing at the folly and the impiety of his boyhood and youth, and had set his face towards the city of the saints, scorning earthly things! how deep a fall for the man who had cried with st. paul, "for me to live is christ, to die is gain"! how deep a fall to know himself the slave of a forbidden love, possessed heart and brain and in every fibre of his being by a passion stronger than any feeling of his unregenerate youth! well, he had to fight the good fight, and to conquer man's most implacable enemy, sin. a year ago he had thought himself so safe, so far advanced on the narrow path, having only to reproach himself sometimes for a certain coldness in private prayer; successful in his mission work; happy in a humble marriage; having surrendered all things that worldlings care for in order to lead the christian life, and having found a passionless peace as his reward. never more, of his free will, would he see this daughter of babylon, this enchanting heathen, who had cast her fatal spell around his life. it might not be possible to avoid chance meetings in those miserable abodes where it was her whim to play the angel of pity; but doubtless that caprice of a fine lady would pass, and lambeth marsh would know her no more. she wrote to him about a week after his last visit to st. james's square. "why do you not come to take a dish of tea with me? my friends are leaving for their country seats, and i have been alone several afternoons, expecting you. were you affronted with me for calling you a spinster aunt? sure our friendship, and my esteem for your goodness, should excuse that careless impertinence. i enclose a bank bill which i pray you to spend as quickly as possible in buying clothing and shoes for the little ragged wretches i met coming out of your school yesterday. ah, when will there be such schools all over england, in every city, in every village? sure some day the country will take a lesson from such men as you and mr. wesley, and the poor will be better cared for than they are now." the easy assurance of her letter surprised him. every line indicated the woman of the world, the finished coquette. he replied coldly, thanking her for her bounty, and giving his absorbing occupations as a reason for not waiting upon her. they met a week later in sally dormer's garret; but antonia was leaving as he entered, and he did nothing to detain her. he had a brief vision of her beauty, more simply dressed than usual, in a black silk mantle and hood over a grey tabinet gown. he came upon her some days after in a shed at the back of the vauxhall pottery, entertaining a large party of pottery girls at supper, herself the merriest of the band. she had her woman sophy to help her, and mrs. patty granger, and he had never seen a more jovial feast. there was a long table upon trestles, loaded with joints and poultry, pies and puddings, and great copper tankards of small beer; at which feast two reluctant footmen, with disgusted countenances, assisted in undress livery, while an old blind fiddler sat in a corner playing the gayest tunes in his _répertoire_. antonia begged mr. stobart to stay and keep them company, but he declined. it was his class night, he told her, and he had his adult scholars waiting for him hard by. he carried away the vision of her radiant countenance, supremely happy in the happiness she had made for others. was it possible better to realize the lessons of the divine altruist? and yet she was no more a christian than the profligate bolingbroke or the cynic voltaire. he was consistent and conscientious in his determination to avoid her, so far as possible without incivility. the town was beginning to thin, and he heard with relief that she was going on a visit to the duchess of portland at bulstrode, near maidenhead. in the autumn she was to be at tunbridge wells, to drink the waters, a business of six weeks. "my physician orders it, though i swear i have nothing the matter with me," she told him, at one of their chance meetings in the marsh. "'tis good for my nerves to waste six weeks in a place where there is a dance every night, and where i shall spend every day in a crowd." in another of these casual meetings she upbraided him for having deserted her. "i have been more than usually busy," he said. "my schools are growing, and the dispensary is daily becoming a more serious business." "everything with you is serious; but you cannot be so seriously busy as not to have leisure for a dish of tea in st. james's square once in a fortnight. sure you know my heart is with you in all your good works, and that i like to hear about them." "indeed, madam, i am eternally grateful for your sympathy and your help; but of late i have had no leisure. my wife's spirits were suffering from a close london house, and i devote every hour i can steal from my work to giving her change of air." "i am glad to hear it. yes, mrs. stobart must miss your pretty garden at sheen." * * * * * that month of may seemed to george stobart to contain the longest and weariest days and hours he had ever known. the weather was close and oppressive, the rank odours of the marsh were at their worst; jail fever, small-pox, putrid throats, all the most dreaded forms of infectious sickness hung heavy over the dwellers in that poverty-stricken settlement--the pottery hands, the glass-polishers, the lace-workers, the industrious and the idle, the honest and the criminal classes whom fate had herded together, unwilling neighbours in an equality of poverty. he worked among the sick and the dying with unflagging zeal; he gave them the best of himself, all that he had of faith in god and christ, sustaining their spirits in the last awful hours of consciousness by his own exaltation. he gave them inexhaustible pity and love, the compassion that is only possible to a man of keen imagination and quick sympathies. he understood their inarticulate sorrows, and was able to lift their minds above the actual to the unseen, and to convince them of an eternity of bliss that should pay them for a life of misery--promise more easy to believe now that all life's miseries belonged to the past, and the long agony of living was dwarfed by the nearness of death. he followed sally dormer to her last resting-place in an obscure graveyard, and he provided for her brother's maintenance in the family of a hard-working carpenter, to whom the boy was to be apprenticed in due time. he had a more personal interest in this little lad than in his other scholars, remembering antonia's interest in the dead woman, her almost sisterly affection for that fallen sister. the boy was intelligent, and took kindly to the simple tasks set him at mr. stobart's school, where the teaching went no further than reading, writing, and cyphering, and where the founder's sole ambition was to rear a generation of believing christians, steeped, from the very dawn of intelligence, in the knowledge of christ's life and example. he relied on those gospel lessons of universal charity and brotherly love, as an enduring influence over the minds and actions of his pupils, and hoped that from his school-rooms--some of them no better than an outhouse or a roomy garret, the humble predecessors of those ragged schools which were to begin their blessed work half a century later--the gospel light would radiate far and wide across the gloom of outcast lives and homes now ruled by satan. in his devotion to his mission work mr. stobart had not forgotten his promise to make his wife's life happier. he spent all the finest afternoons in rural airings with lucy and little george; sometimes on the river, sometimes taking a little journey by coach as far as sutton, or ewell, or to hampton court; sometimes walking to clapham common, or as far as dulwich, through lanes where the hedgerow oaks and elms hung a canopy of translucent green over the grassy path, and where they came every now and then on a patch of copse or a little wood, in which it was pleasant to sit and rest while the boy played about among the young fern in a rapture of delight. he lavished kindness upon his wife and child. never had there been a more indulgent father or a more attentive husband. lucy, whose flower-like prettiness had faded a little in the smoke from the potteries and the vauxhall glass-works, recovered her rose-and-lily tints in these excursions, and was full of grateful affection which touched her husband's heart. there was something pathetic in her accepting kindness as a favour which another woman would have claimed by the divine right of a wife. it pleased him to see her happy; and his conscience, which had been cruelly disturbed of late, was now at rest. but even that inward peace could not cure the dull aching of his heart, which ached he scarce knew why; or it might be that he stubbornly refused to know. he would have told himself, if he could, that the pain was physical, and that the weariness of life which followed him through every scene, and most of all in this sweet summer _idlesse_, was a question of bodily health, a lassitude for which a modish physician would have ordered "the bath" or "the wells." oh, the mental oppression of those may afternoons, the dull misery, vague, undefined, but intolerable, in which every sound jarred, even the silver-sweet of his child's joyous voice, in which every sight was steeped in gloom, even the lovely river, rose-flushed and smiling in the evening light! he was miserable, and he tried to find the cause of his misery in things which lay remote from the one image he dared not contemplate. he told himself that the burden under which he ached was only the monotonous quiet of his days--the want of strong interests and active efforts such as kept john wesley's mind in the freshness of a perpetual youth. _that_ was the true fountain of jouvence--action, progress, the consciousness of struggle and victory. he had tasted the joy of successful effort in his itinerant preaching--the uncouth mob crowding as to a show at a fair, the insulting assaults of semi-savages, the triumph when he had subjugated those rough natures, when by the mere force of his eloquence, by the magnetism of his own strong faith, he compelled the railers to listen, and saw ribald jokes change to eager interest, scorn give place to awe, and tears roll down the faces that sin had stained and blemished. all this had been to him as the wine of life; and this he had promised to renounce in order that he might do his duty as that commonplace domestic animal, a kind husband. sitting on the river bank in the summer quiet, in the rosy afterglow, amidst tall sedges and wild flowers that love the river, with his child prattling at his knee, playing with his watch-ribbon, asking questions that were never answered, and his wife seated at his side supremely content in having won him to give her so much of his company, george stobart meditated upon the great mistake of his life--his marriage! he remembered how lovely a creature the printer's daughter had seemed to him in her ecstasy of faith, how divine a thing the soul newly awakened to a sense of sin, and a desire for saving grace. his heart had gone out to her in an overwhelming wave of enthusiasm, a feeling so exalted, so different from any passion of his unregenerate years, that he had welcomed it as the one pure and perfect love of his life. he thought god had given him this friendless, ill-used girl to be his helpmeet, the sharer of all his aspirations, his lifelong labours in the service of christ, as of that impassioned hour in wesley's chapel. soon, too soon, he had discovered the shallow nature behind that hysterical emotion, the tepid piety which alone remained after the fervour of newly awakened feelings. too soon he had found that petty interests and trivial domestic cares and joys filled the measure of his wife's mind; that she thought more of her tea-trays and her sofa-covers than of thousands of kingswood miners won from satan to christ; that he must never look to her for sympathy with his highest aspirations, hardly for interest in his everyday work among the poor. when he suggested that she should help in his day nurseries or his infant schools, she refused with a shudder, lest she should bring home small-pox or scarlet fever to little georgie. that fear of pestilence hung like a funeral pall over lambeth marsh; and all his efforts to popularize inoculation could do very little against dense ignorance, and terror of a preventive measure that seemed as bad as the disease. "if i've got to have the small-pox anyhow, i'd sooner leave it to providence," was the usual argument. his marriage, so gravely resolved, with such generous disdain of worldly advantage, had not brought him happiness. the fellowship in thought and feeling, which is the soul of marriage, was wanting in a union that had yet every appearance of domestic affection, and which sufficed for the wife's content. she was happy, looking no deeper than the surface of things, and finding content in the calm prosperity of her life, the absence of poverty and ill-usage. his marriage was a mistake, and to the man who had taken upon himself, as he had done, the service of christ's poor, any marriage must needs be a mistake. for the itinerant preacher, for the man with a suffering populace depending on his care, home ties were fetters that needs must gall. he could not serve two masters. he must be a half-hearted philanthropist or a neglectful husband; only an occasional preacher or a deserter of his home. he remembered the priests he had met and conversed with in france, men who had no claims, no interests outside their church and their parish; and it seemed to him that he had bound himself with a servitude that made his service of christ a dead letter. his mission work must end if he was to do his duty at home. his career as john wesley's helper had been the most absorbing episode in his life--a source of unbounded satisfaction to mind and conscience. he had gloried in the result of his labours, never questioning, in his own fervid faith, whether conversions so sudden would stand the test of time. he had counted every convert as a gain for ever, every flood of tears as a cleansing stream. but, precious though this work had been to him, conscience urged him to renounce it. his first duty was to make a home for the woman he had sworn to love and cherish. to this end he would try to become a priest of the established church, strive to obtain a london living, however small, and confine his service of christ within a narrow radius, till fortune should widen his area of work. he had loved his freedom hitherto, the power to work for his own hand; but for lucy's sake he would bend his shoulders to the episcopal yoke, and enter on a phase of humble obedience to authority, prepared at any hour to be called to account for his opinions, and to be hampered and constrained in his gospel teaching. he would have to suffer, as others of the oxford methodists and their disciples had suffered, from the tyranny of ecclesiastical intolerance; but he would face all difficulties, submit to many restrictions, to make a home for his wife. and then there was always the hope that the church of england would be swept from the great dismal swamp of formalism on the strong tide of the great revival, which ran higher and wider with every year of wesley's and whitefield's life. the teaching begun by whitefield among the prisoners in gloucester jail, by wesley in the humble meeting-house in fetter lane, had spread over england, scotland, and ireland with an irresistible force, and must finally make its power felt in the established church. from the market cross and the country side, from the colliers of bristol and the miners of cornwall, from the wild fervour of services and sermons under starlit skies, from congregations numbered by thousands, george stobart was prepared to restrict the scope of his work to an obscure london pulpit or a poverty-stricken parish, content if in so doing his conscience could be at rest. but the outlook was dreary, and he began to measure the length of his earthly pilgrimage, and foresaw the long progress of eventless years, some little good done, perhaps, some souls gained for christ, many small sorrows alleviated, but all his work shut within a narrow space, controlled by other people's opinions. one agony which other men of deep religious feeling have suffered was spared to john wesley's helper. his faith knew no shadow of change. his absolute belief in his god and his saviour remained to him in the lowest depth of mental depression. he might feel himself a creature of sinful impulses, an outcast from god, but he never doubted the existence of that god, or the reality of that hereafter the hope of which lies at the root of all religion. the paradise of saints, the infinite joys of eternity, hung on the balance of good and evil, a stupendous stake, which most men played for with such wild recklessness, till the lights of this life began to fade, and the awful possibilities of that other life beyond the veil flashed on their troubled souls. he was startled from the automatic monotony of his life by a letter whose superscription so agitated him that his shaking hand could scarcely break the seal. indeed, he did not break it for some moments, but sat with the letter in his hand, staring at the familiar writing--antonia's writing, a strong and firm penmanship, every letter definite and upright, somewhat resembling joseph addison's. oh, how embued with sin, how trapped and entangled in satan's net, must his soul be when only the sight of antonia's writing could so move him! he was alone. the letter had been brought him by the little maid-servant. his wife was upstairs, busy with her son, whose footsteps might be heard running across the floor above. he broke the seal at last, and unfolded her letter. * * * * * "st. james's square, monday night. "dear sir, "i believe it is near a month since you have honoured me with a visit, nor was i so fortunate as to meet you on saturday afternoon, when i spent some hours among our poor friends in the marsh, and went to look at sally's grave in the baptist burial-ground. i must impose on your goodness to order a neat headstone, with the dear creature's name and age, and one of those scripture texts which so consoled her last hours. i doubt, since the afternoon was so fine, you were treating yourself to a rustic holiday with mrs. stobart, to whom i beg you to present my affectionate compliments. "well, sir, since you are too busy to visit me, i must needs thrust my company upon you, at the risk of being thought troublesome. in one of my conversations with sally dormer the poor soul entreated me, with tearful urgency, to hear the famous preacher who converted her, believing that even my stubborn mind must yield to his invincible arguments, must be touched and melted by his heavenly eloquence. to soothe her agitated spirits i promised to hear mr. whitefield preach, a promise which i gave the more readily as my curiosity had been aroused by the reports i had heard of his genius. "i am told that he is to preach at kennington common to-morrow night, to a vaster audience than his new tabernacle, large as it is, could contain, and i should like better to hear him under the starry vault of a june evening than in the sultry fustiness of a crowded meeting-house. i have ever been interested in your description of those open-air meetings where you yourself have been the preacher. there is something romantic and heart-stirring in your picture of the rugged heath, the throng of humanity huddled together under a wild night sky, seeing not each other's faces, but hearing the beating of each other's hearts, the quickened breath of agitated feeling, and in the midst of that listening silence the shrill cry of some overwrought creature falling to the ground in a transport of agitation, which you and mr. wesley take to be the visitation of a divine power. "i have not courage to go alone to such a meeting, and i do not care to ask any of my modish friends to go with me, though there are several among my acquaintance who are admirers of mr. whitefield, and occasional attendants at lady huntingdon's pious assemblies. to them, did i express this desire, i might seem a hypocrite. you who have sounded the depths of my mind, and who know that although i am an unbeliever i have never been a scoffer, will think more indulgently of me. "the service is to begin at ten o'clock. i shall call at your door at nine, and ask you to accompany me to kennington in my coach. "i remain, dear sir, with heartfelt respect, "your very sincere and humble servant, "antonia kilrush." "what has happened, george?" asked his wife, who had come into the room unheard by him, while he was reading his letter. "you look as pleased as if you had come into a fortune." he looked up at her with a bewildered air, and for the moment could not answer. "what does she say, george? 'tis from lady kilrush, i know, for her footman is waiting in the passage." "yes, 'tis from lady kilrush. she desires to hear whitefield preach to-morrow night, and asks me to accompany her." "what, is she coming round, after all? i doubt you will be monstrous proud if you convert her." "i should be monstrous happy--but it will be god's work, not mine. my words have been like the idle wind. whitefield's influence might do something; but, alas! i fear even he will fail to touch that proud heart, that resolute mind, so strong in the sense of intellectual power. will you go with us to-morrow?" "mr. whitefield's sermons are so long, and the heat at the tabernacle always makes my head ache." "'tis not at the tabernacle, but at kennington, in the open air." "and we may have to stand all the time. i think i'd rather stay at home with georgie." "her ladyship will call for me at nine. the boy will be in bed and asleep hours before." "i love to sit by his bed sewing. he wakes sometimes, and likes to find me there; and sometimes he has bad dreams, and wakes in a fright." "and wants his mother's hand and voice to soothe his spirits. happy child, who knows not the burden of sin, and has but shadowy fears that vanish at a word of comfort! well, you must do as you please, lucy; but there will be room for you in her ladyship's coach." "oh, she is always kind, and i should love the ride; but mr. whitefield's sermons are so long." stobart wrote briefly to assure lady kilrush of his pleasure in being her escort to kennington, with the customary formal conclusion, protesting himself her ladyship's "most obliged and most devoted humble servant." when his letter was despatched he went out to the marsh, and walked for an hour in that waste region outside the streets and alleys where his work lay. his wife's parlour had grown too small for him. he felt stifled within those four walls. he would see her again, spend some hours in her company, her trusted friend and protector, permitted to guard her amidst that rabble throng which was likely to assemble on the common. his heart beat with a fierce rapture at the thought of those coming hours. only to stand by her side under the summer stars, hemmed round, half suffocated by the crowd; only to see her, and to hear the adored music of her voice, the voice which had so haunted him of late, that he had started up out of sleep sometimes, hearing her call his name. vain delusion, that betrayed the drift of his dreams! her coach was at his door five minutes before the hour. the night was sultry, and the two parlour windows were wide open. he had been leaning with folded arms upon the window-sill watching for her, while lucy sat at the table sewing by the light of two candles in tall brass candlesticks. she had thought the pair of tallow candles a mark of gentility in the beginning of her married life, when the remembrance of the slum near moorfields was fresh; but she knew better now, having seen the splendours of st. james's square, and wax candles reckoned by the hundred. her ladyship had four horses to her chariot, and a couple of postillions. the lamps flamed through the summer darkness. "i may be late," stobart said hurriedly. "don't sit up for me, lucy." he saw antonia's face at the coach door, and the sight of it so moved him that he could scarcely speak. his wife ran to bid him good-bye, with her customary childlike kiss, standing on tip-toe to offer him her fresh young lips, but he waved her aside. "we shall be late. good-night." his heart was beating furiously. on the threshold of his door he had half a mind to excuse himself to antonia, and to go back. he felt as if the devil was tugging him into some dark labyrinth of doom. this man believed in the devil as firmly as he believed in god--believed in an actual omnipresent satan, ubiquitous, ever on the watch to decoy sinners, ever eager to people hell with renegades from christ. and he felt, with a thrill of agony, that he was in the devil's clutch to-night. satan was spreading his choicest lure to catch the sinner's soul--a woman's ineffable beauty. she was alone, and welcomed him with her sweetest smile. "i am turning my back on handel's new oratorio to hear your mr. whitefield," she said, as they shook hands; "but now the hour is approaching i feel as eager as if i were going to see a new romeo as seducing as spranger barry." "ah, madam, dared i hope that whitefield's eloquence could change this frivolous humour to a beginning of belief! could your stubborn mind once bend itself to understand the mysteries of god's redeeming grace you would not long remain in darkness. could but one ray of divine truth stream in upon your soul, like the shaft of sunshine through newton's shutter, you would soon be drowned in light, dazzled by the prismatic glory of the heavenly sun." "and blinded, as i doubt you are, sir. i will not impose upon you. i do not go to kennington to be assured of free grace, or to be convinced of sin; but first to keep a promise to the dead, and next to follow the fashion, which is to hear and criticize mr. whitefield. some of my friends swear he is a finer orator than mr. pitt." after this they remained silent for the greater part of the way, antonia watching the road, where the houses were set back behind long gardens, and where the countrified inns had ample space in front for a horse-trough and rustic tables and benches, with here and there a row of fine elms. that sense of space and air which is so sadly wanting now in the mighty wilderness of brick and stone gave a rural charm to the suburbs when george ii. was king. ten minutes' walk took a man from town to country, from streets and alleys to meadow and cornfield, hedgerow and thicket. the perfume of summer flowers was in the air through which they drove, and the village that hemmed the fatal common, so recently a scene of ignominious death, was as rustic as a hamlet in buckinghamshire. the crowd had gathered thickly, and had spread itself over the greater part of the common when lady kilrush's chariot drew up on the outskirts of the assembly. stobart alighted and went to reconnoitre. a platform had been erected about six feet from the ground, and on this there had been placed a row of chairs, and a table for the preacher, with a brass lantern standing on each side of the large quarto bible. whitefield was there, with one of his helpers, a member of parliament, his devoted adherent, and two ladies, one of whom was the countess of yarmouth's daughter, lady chesterfield, dowered with the blood of the guelfs, and a fine fortune from the royal coffers, whitefield's most illustrious convert, and a shining light in lady huntingdon's saintly circle. stobart was on terms of friendship with the orator, and had no difficulty in obtaining a seat for lady kilrush. indeed, her ladyship's name would have obtained the favour as easily had she sent it by her footman, for george whitefield loved to melt patrician hearts, and draw tears from proud eyes. enthusiast as he was, there is a something in his familiar letters which suggests that aristocratic converts counted double. they were the _écarté_ kings, the trump-aces in the game he played against satan. stobart brought antonia through the crowd, and placed her in a chair at the end of the platform, farthest from the preacher, lest the thunder of his tremendous voice should sound too close to her ear. there was a chair to spare for himself, and he took his seat at her side, in the silence of that vast audience, waiting for the giving out of the hymn with which these open-air services usually began. never before had antonia seen so vast an assemblage hushed in a serious expectancy, with faces all turned to one point, that central spot above the heads of the crowd where the lanterns made an atmosphere of faint yellow light around george whitefield's black figure standing beside the table, with one hand resting upon an open bible, and the other uplifted to command silence and attention. from the preacher's platform, almost to the edge of the common the crowd extended, black and dense, a company gathered from all over london, and compounded of classes so various that almost every metropolitan type might be found there, from the churchman of highest dignity, come to criticize and condemn, to the street-hawker, the professional mendicant, come to taste an excitement scarcely inferior to gin. whitefield's helper gave out the number of the hymn, and recited the first two lines in slow and distinct tones. then, with a burst of sound loud as the stormy breakers rolling over a rock-bound beach, there rose the voices of a multitude that none could number, harsh and sweet, loud and low, soprano and contralto, bass and tenor, mingled in one vast chorus of praise. the effect was stupendous, and antonia felt a catching of her breath, that was almost a sob. did those words mean nothing, after all? was that cry of a believing throng only empty air? a short extempore prayer followed from the helper. george whitefield's voice had not yet been heard. the influence of his presence was enough, and it may have been that his dramatic instinct led him to keep himself in reserve till that moment of hush and expectancy in which he pronounced the first words of his text. he stood there, supreme in a force that is rare in the history of mankind, the force that rules multitudes. 'twas no commanding grace of person that impressed this prodigious assembly. he stood there, the central point in that tremendous throng, a very common figure, short, fat, in a black gown with huge sleeves, and a ridiculous white wig, features without beauty or grandeur, eyes with a decided squint; and that vast concourse thrilled at his presence, as at a messenger from the throne of god. this was the heaven-born orator, the man who at two-and-twenty years of age had held assembled thousands spell-bound by his eloquence, the man gifted with a voice of surpassing beauty, and with a dramatic genius which enabled him to clothe abstract ideas with flesh and blood, and make them live and move before his awestruck hearers. it was this dramatic genius that made whitefield supreme over the masses. those of his admirers who had leisure to read and weigh his published sermons might discover that he had no message to deliver, that those trumpet tones were but reverberations in the air, that of all who flocked to hear the famous preacher, none ever carried home a convincing and practicable scheme of religious life; yet none could doubt the power of the man to stir the feelings, to excite, awaken and alarm the ignorant and unenlightened, to melt and to startle even his superiors in education and refinement. none could deny that the man who began life as a pot-boy in a gloucester tavern was the greatest preacher of his time. antonia watched and listened with a keen interest, enduring the heated atmosphere of the crowd as best she might. she had thrown off her mantle, and the starlight shone upon the marble of her throat and the diamond heart that fastened her gauze kerchief. one large ruby set in the midst of the diamonds enhanced their whiteness; and it seemed to stobart as he looked at her that the vivid crimson spot symbolized his own heart's blood, always bleeding for her, drop by drop. absorbed by her interest in the preacher, she was unconscious of those eyes that gazed at her with an unspeakable love, knew not that for this man it was happiness only to sit by her side, to watch every change in the lovely face, every grace of the perfect form, oblivious of the crowd, the orator, of everything upon earth except her. to-night whitefield was in one of his gloomy moods, the preacher of unmitigated calvinism. it may be that his late quarrel with the bishop of bangor, and the persecution he had suffered at his west end chapel had soured him, and that he was unconsciously influenced by the hardness of a world in which a mighty hunter of souls was the mark for narrow-minded opposition and vulgar ridicule. his purpose to-night seemed rather to appal than to convince, to instil despair rather than hope. his text from the epistle of st. jude was pronounced in solemn tones that reached wide across that closely packed mass of humanity-- "for there are certain men crept in unawares, who were before of old ordained to this condemnation, ungodly men, turning the grace of our god into lasciviousness, and denying the only lord god, and our lord jesus christ.... clouds they are without water, carried about of winds; trees whose fruit withereth, without fruit, twice dead, plucked up by the roots; raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame; wandering stars, to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever." in an oration that lasted nearly two hours the preacher rang the changes on these tremendous words. through every phase of sin, through every stage of the downward journey, his imagination followed the sinner, "of old ordained" to perish everlastingly. his vivid words described a soul inevitably lost; and again and again the melancholy music of those phrases, "raging waves of the sea, foaming out their own shame; wandering stars; clouds without water," rang out over the awe-stricken throng, moved by this picture of an imagined doom, with an emotion scarcely less intense than the thrill of agony that ran through the crowd at tyburn when the doomed sinner swung into eternity. it was with the picture of judas, his final example of sin and death, that the preacher closed his discourse. "let those who tell you there is no such thing as predestination turn their eyes upon judas," he said, his voice falling to that grave note which preluded terror. "let them consider the arch-apostate, the son of perdition. oh, my brethren, had ever mortal man such opportunities of salvation as judas had? have the angels who stand about the throne of god, his worshippers and subordinates, half such privileges as judas had? to be the friend and companion of his saviour, in daily and familiar association with the redeemer of souls; to walk by his side through the fields of palestine; to sit at meat with him; to be with him in sadness and in joy, in prayer and praise; to journey over the wild sea with him, and behold his power to still the tempest; to be his bosom friend; to live on an equality with god! think of him, oh, you sinners who have never seen your saviour's face, think of judas! think of those three years of sweet converse! think of that divine condescension which received sinful man in the brotherhood of friendship! think of those journeys by the lake of gennesaret, those pilgrimages of prayer and praise, the daily, the hourly companionship with divinity, the affectionate familiarity with ineffable wisdom! "and, o god, great god of sinners, to think what came of such unutterable privileges! the disciple, the companion, bartered all that glory and delight, flung away those inestimable joys for a handful of silver. which of you dare disbelieve in predestined damnation when he contemplates this hideous fall, when he sees the chosen brother of jesus sink to the base huckstering of a jonathan wild, one of the sacred twelve reduced to the level of informers and thief-catchers, trucking his soul's salvation against thirty pieces of silver? "'twas the inexorable destiny of the foredoomed sinner, the appointed end to which those footsteps beside the lake, those footsteps across the mountain, those footsteps through the temple, and in the market-place, fast or slow, were always moving. god had sentenced this man to the most awful doom the mind can conceive, created to betray, the foredoomed destroyer of his saviour. who can question that he was marked for hell? how else account for such a fall? i despise that shallow reasoner who will tell you that the fall of judas was a gradual descent, beginning in avarice, ending in murder. i laugh at that fond theorizer who will tell you that judas was an ambitious dreamer, longing to behold the kingdom of christ triumphant on earth, and thinking to realize that dazzling dream by bringing about the conflict between his master and earthly authority. i laugh at him who tells me that judas expected to see the power of the synagogue and the forum shrivel like a burning scroll before the face of the messiah; and that it was on the failure of that hope he rushed to the field of blood. "no, dear sinners, a thousand and a thousand times no! over that guilty head the fiat of the eternal had gone forth, 'this is the son of perdition, this is he who shall betray the son of god.'" then, after a long pause, sinking his mighty voice almost to a whisper, the preacher asked-- "is there any son of perdition here to-night? is there one among you whose stubborn heart answers not to his saviour's call--a wretch in love with vice, who would rather have sensual pleasures on earth than everlasting bliss in heaven--a modern judas who sells his redeemer's love for thirty pieces of the devil's money, thirty profligate raptures, thirty vicious indulgences, thirty debauches in filthy taverns, thirty nights of riot and wantonness among gamesters and loose women? "if there be any such, cast him from you. however near, however dear--father, brother, husband, son, flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. cast him out; oh, you who value your eternal happiness! you cannot mistake the mark of the lost soul. the son of perdition bears a brand of sin that no eye can fail to recognize. 'tis satan's broad-arrow, and stamps the wretch foredoomed to hell. you who would taste the joys of heaven, hold no fellowship with such on earth." the great throng heard those concluding phrases in a profound silence. the heavy stillness of a sultry night, the muffled roll of distant thunder, the fitful lightning, now faint, now vivid, that flashed across the scene, intensified the dramatic effect of the sermon, and the crowds that had gathered noisily with much talk and some jeering, dwindled and melted away subdued and thoughtful. like many other of whitefield's sermons which moved multitudes, there was little left after the last resonance of the mighty voice had sunk into silence. but the immediate effect of his oration was tremendous. garrick had said that he would give a hundred pounds if he could say "oh!" like whitefield; and what garrick could not do must have been something of exceptional power. antonia had given her whole mind to the preacher; yet for her his sermon was but a dramatic effort, and she went back to her coach full of wonder at that vast influence which a fine voice and a cultivated elocution had exercised over the multitude in england and america. upon george stobart the preacher's influence was stronger. "the man makes me believe against my own reason," he said, "which has ever striven against the idea of a fatal necessity. come, lady kilrush, confess that his eloquence moved you." "i confess as much with all my heart; and i am very glad to have heard him. he is a finer actor--an unconscious actor, of course--than garrick; at least, he has a greater power to appal an ignorant crowd." "i see you are as stubborn as ever." "my mind is not a weather-cock, to be driven by changing winds. i doubt mr. whitefield may do good by such a discourse as we have heard to-night. he may scare feeble sinners, and teach them to believe that, weak and wicked as they are, god has marked them for salvation. but what of the sinner deeply sunk in guilt--will not he see only the hopelessness of any struggle to escape from satan? 'so be it,' he will cry; 'if i am the son of perdition, let me drown my soul in sin, and forget the injustice of god.'" george stobart's only answer was a despairing sigh. "let me drown my soul in sin, and forget god." those awful words too well depicted the condition of his own mind to-night, sitting by her side in the roomy chariot, apart from her, with his face turned to the open window, his eyes looking into the summer stillness, unseeing, his heart beating with the fierce throb of passion held in check. was not whitefield right, after all? were there not men whose names were written in the book of doom, wretches not born to be judged, but judged before they were born? to-night that religion of despair seemed to him the only possible creed. he had looked back and remembered the sins of his youth--his life at eton--his life in the army. and he had believed the stain of those sins washed away in one ineffable hour of spiritual anguish and spiritual joy, the conviction of sin followed by the assurance of free grace. he had believed his past life annihilated, and himself made a new creature, pure as adam before the fall. and in the years that had followed that day of grace he had walked with head erect, and eyes looking up to heaven, strong in his belief in christ, but strongest in his reliance upon his own good works. o god, what availed his labour in the service of humanity, his sacrifice of worldly gain, his preaching, his prayers, his faithful study of god's word? a wave of passion surged across his soul, and all of good that there had been in him was swept away. the original man, foredoomed to evil, appeared again. a soul drowned in sin! her words, so carelessly spoken, had denounced him. the silence lasted long, and they were nearing the lights of london when antonia spoke. "you are very silent, mr. stobart," she said; "i hope you have not any trouble on your mind to-night." "no, no." "then 'tis that hideous doctrine troubles you." "perhaps. what if it be the only true key to god's mysteries? yes, i believe there are souls given over to satan." "oh, if you believe in satan you can believe anything." "can you look round the world you live in and doubt the power of evil?" "of the evil within us, no. 'tis in ourselves, in our own hearts and minds the devil lives. we have to fight him there. oh, i believe in that devil, the devil of many names. envy, hatred, malice, jealousy, vanity, self-love, discontent. i know the fiend under most of his aliases. but our part is to be stronger than our own evil inclinations. i am not afraid of the devil." "he speaks for you in that arrogant speech, and his name is pride." "well, perhaps i spoke with too much assurance; but i believe pride is a virtue in women, as courage is in men. or, perhaps, pride in women is only courage by another name." he did not reply for some moments; and then an irrepressible impulse made him touch on a perilous subject. "have you changed your mind about lord dunkeld?" "as how, sir?" she asked, with a chilling air. "have you resolved to accept him as a husband? surely you could not be for ever adamant against so noble a suitor." "you are vastly impertinent, to repeat a question that i answered some time ago. no, sir, i shall never accept lord dunkeld, nor any other suitor--had he the highest rank in the kingdom." "you must have some strong reason." "i have my reason, an all-sufficient reason; and now, sir, no more, i beg you. indeed, i wonder that you can distress me by renewing this argument." "oh, madam, if you but knew the motive of my impertinence, the anguish of heart that speaks in those words! i would have you happily mated, antonia. i--_i_--who adore you. yes, though my jealous soul could scarce contemplate the image of your husband without the murderer's impulse--though to think of you belonging to another would be a torment worse than hell-fire. could you know how i have wrestled with satan; how when i urged you to marry dunkeld every word i spoke was like a knife driven through my heart; how i longed to fling myself at your feet, to tell you, as i tell you now, at the peril of my salvation, that i love you, with all the strength of my soul, my soul drowned in sin, the unpardonable sin of loving you, the sin for which i must lose heaven and reckon with satan, my darling sin, the sin unto death, never to be repented of." he was on his knees, and his arms were about her, drawing her averted face towards his own with a wild violence, till her brow touched his, and his lips were pressed against her burning cheek. she felt the passion of his kiss, and his tears upon her face, before she wrenched herself from his arms, and dashed down the glass in front of her. "stop!" she called out to the postillions. startled at her authoritative cry, they pulled up their horses suddenly, with a loud clattering on the stones, a hundred yards from the bridge. "you devil!" she said to stobart, between her set teeth. "you that i took for a saint! i will not breathe the same air with you." the carriage had hardly stopped when she opened the door and sprang out, not waiting for her footman to let down the steps. he had been asleep in the rumble, and only alighted a moment before his mistress. she walked towards the bridge in a tumult of agitation, stobart at her side, while her carriage and horses stood still, and her servants waited for orders, wondering at this strange caprice of their lady's. "hypocrite! hypocrite!" she repeated. "you--the christian, the preacher who calls sinners to repentance; the man who sacrificed fortune to marry the girl he loved." "i knew not what love meant." "you chose a simple girl for your wife, and tired of her; pretended friendship for me, and under that mask of friendship nursed your profligate dreams; and now you dare insult me with your unholy love." "i should not have so dared, madam--indeed, i believe i might have conquered my passion--so far as to remain for ever silent--if--if your own words----" "my words? when have i ever spoken a word that could warrant such an affront?" "when i advised you to accept dunkeld--you refused with such impassioned vehemence--you confessed you had a reason." "and you thought 'twas because i loved another woman's husband--that 'twas your saintly self i cared for? no, sir, 'twas because i swore to kilrush on his death-bed that i would never belong to another, that our union, of but one tragical hour, should be all i would ever know of wedlock. i belong to him now as i belonged to him then. i love his memory now as i loved him then. that, sir, was my reason. are you not ashamed of your fatuous self-esteem, which took it for a confession of love? love for you, the methodist preacher, the man of god!" "yes, i am ashamed--i am drinking the cup of shame." "you have tricked me, sir. you have deceived me very cruelly. i trusted you--i thought that i had a friend--one man in the world who treated me like a woman of sense--who dared to disapprove, where all the world basely flattered me. and you are the worst of all--the snake in the grass. but do you think i fear you? i had a better man than you at my feet--the man i loved--my first love--a man with sovereign power over the hearts of women. do you think i fear you? no, sir, 'twas then the tempter tried me. if there is a devil who assails women, i met him then, and vanquished him." she trembled from head to foot in the excess of her feeling. she was leaning against the balustrade in one of the semicircular recesses on the bridge. he was sitting at the furthest end of the stone bench, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden. "you have made me hate myself," he said. "'tis useless to ask you to forgive me; but you can forget that so base a worm crawls upon this earth. _that_ will cost you but a slight effort." "yes, i will try to forget you; and to forget how much i valued your friendship, or the friendship of the honourable man i took you for." "i was that man, madam. our friendship did not begin in treachery. i was your true and honourable friend--till--till the devil saw me in my foolish pride, my arrogant confidence in good works." "well, sir, 'tis a dream ended," she said, in those grave contralto tones that had ever been like music in his ear--the lower key to which her voice dropped when she was deeply moved; "and from to-night be good enough to remember that we are strangers." "i shall not forget, madam, nor shall my presence make the future troublesome to you." something in his words scared her. "you will do nothing violent--nothing desperately wicked?" "no, madam, whatever the tempter whispers, however sweetly the river murmurs of rest and oblivion, i shall not kill myself. for me there is the 'something after death'!" "will you tell them to bring my coach?" he rose and obeyed without a word, and stood by bareheaded till she drove away, not even offering to assist her as she stepped into the carriage, attended by her footman. stobart stood watching till the chariot vanished in the darkness of the street beyond the bridge, then flung himself on the bench in the recess, and sat with his arms folded on the stone parapet, and his forehead leaning upon them, lost in despairing thoughts. judas, judas, the companion of christ, foredoomed to everlasting misery--judas, the son of perdition! and what of him who six years ago gave himself to god--convinced of sin, sincerely repenting of the errors of his youth, resolved to lead a new life, to live in christ and for christ? how confident he had been, how happy in the assurance of grace--all his thoughts, all his desires in subjection to the divine will, living not by the strict letter of christ's law, but by every counsel of perfection, deeming no sacrifice of self too severe, no labour too exacting, in that heavenly service. and now, after that holy apprenticeship, after all those years of duty and obedience, after mounting so high upon the ladder of life, to find himself lying in the mire at the foot of it, caught in the toils of satan, and again the slave of sin! the slave of sin--yes--for though he hated the sin, he went on sinning. he loved her--he loved her with a passion that the water of life could not quench. how vain were those supplications for grace, those confessions of guilt which broke from his convulsed lips, while her image filled his heart. how vain his cry to christ for help, while _her_ voice sounded in his ears, and the thought of her indignation, her scorn, her icy indifference, reigned supreme in the fiery tumult of his brain. oh, how he loathed himself for his folly; how he writhed under a proud man's agony of humiliation at the thought of his fatuous self-delusion! something in her look, something in her tone when she protested against a second marriage, had thrilled him with the conviction that his love had found its answer in her heart. when did that fatal love begin? he knew not how the insidious poison stole into his senses; but he could recall his first consciousness of that blissful slavery, his first lapse from honour. he could remember the hour and the moment, they two walking through the squalid street in the winter twilight, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, her eyes looking up at him, sapphire-blue under the long dark lashes, her low voice murmuring words of pity for the dying child that she had nursed in her lap, for the broken-hearted mother they had just left, and in his heart a wild rapture that was new and sweet. "i love her, i love her," he had told himself in that moment. "but she will never know. it is as if i loved an angel. she is as far from me. my conscience can suffer no stain from so pure, so distant a love." self-deluded sinner! hypocrite to himself! he knew now that this moment marked the beginning of apostasy, the law of sin warring against the inward light. he knew now that this woman--noble-minded, chaste, charitable, a creature of kindly impulses and generous acts, for him represented antichrist, and that from the hour in which he proved her stubborn in unbelief, he should have renounced her friendship. he had paltered with truth, had tried to reconcile the kingdom of darkness with the kingdom of light, had been satisfied with the vague hope of a deferred conversion, and had made his bosom friend of the woman who denied his master. he loved her--with a love not to be repented of--a love that ran in his veins and moved his heart, and seemed as much a part of his being as the nerves and bones and flesh and blood that made him a man. he might lie in dust and ashes at the foot of the cross, scourge himself to death with the penitent's whip; but while the heart beat and the brain could think the wicked love would be there; and he would die adoring her, die and perish everlastingly, lost to salvation, cut off from christ's compassion, by that unhallowed love. there was the agony for him, the believer. to abhor sin, to believe in everlasting punishment, and to feel the impossibility of a saving repentance, to know himself a son of perdition; since what could avail the pangs of remorse for the man who went on sinning, whose whole life was coloured by a guilty passion? the divine teacher's stern denunciation of such sin rang in his ears, as he crouched with folded arms on the stone parapet, alone in the summer darkness, an outcast from god. "he that looketh upon a woman!" on his adulterous heart that sentence burnt like vitriol upon tender flesh. only by ceasing to love her could he cease to sin; and, looking forward through the long vista of the coming years, he saw no possibility of change in his guilty heart, no hope of respite from yearning and regret. six years of repentance for the sins and follies of his youth; six years of faithful service; six years of peace and self-approval; and now behold him thrust outside the gate, a soul more lost than in those unregenerate days when the consciousness of sin was first awakened in his mind, when remorse for a youthful intrigue, in which he had been the victim and sport of a vile woman, and for a duel that had ended fatally, first became intolerable. for him, the earnest believer, to whom religion was a terrible reality, the fall from a state of grace meant the loss of that great hope which alone can make life worth living, that "hope of eternal life, which god, that cannot lie, promised before the world began." for him sin unrepented of meant everlasting despair, the pains of hell, the companionship of devils. he left the bridge, and wandered along the river bank, past his own house, past the archbishop's palace, to the dreary marshes between lambeth and battersea--wandered like a man hunted by evil spirits; and it was not till daylight that he turned his steps slowly homeward, dejected and forlorn. chapter xv. "my lady and my love." antonia was wounded to the quick by a revelation that lost her the one friend whom she had counted as changeless amidst the fickle herd. she knew of how airy a substance the friendship of the many is made; and, pleasant as she found the polite world, she had as yet discovered no kindred spirit, no woman of her own age, and tastes, and inclinations, whom she could choose for her bosom friend. lady margaret laroche was, indeed, her only intimate friend amidst the multitude of her admiring acquaintance. but in george stobart, the man who dared to be uncivil, who gave her vinegar and wormwood when she was satiated with the honey and roses of modish society, she had found a closer sympathy, a quicker appreciation of her ideas and aspirations, than in any one she had known since those old days in rupert buildings, where she discussed every thought and every dream with kilrush. and stormily as that former friendship had ended, she had never contemplated the possibility of evil passions here, in that stern ascetic, the man who had renounced the world, with all its pleasures, follies, and temptations. an infidel herself, she had honoured stobart for his steadfast faith, his self-surrender. she was troubled, shocked, distressed by the discovery that her friend was unworthy. his absence made a blank in her life, in spite of her innumerable distractions. the memory of his sin haunted her. she tried in vain to banish the offender's image from her mind, and the thought of him came upon her at strange seasons, and sometimes kept her awake at night, like the hot and cold fits of an indian fever. she was not the woman to cherish weak sentimentalism, vain regrets for an unworthy friend. she had lost him, and must endure her loss, knowing that henceforward friendship was impossible. she could never again admit him to her presence, never confide in him, never esteem and honour him. the man she had trusted was dead to her for ever. it was less than a week after the parting on westminster bridge when she received a letter which removed all fear of any chance encounter with the man who had offended her. "the george inn, portsmouth. "the wretch who writes these lines would scarce presume to address you were it not to bid a farewell that is to be eternal. i have gone back to my old trade of soldiering, and am to sail from this place at the first favourable wind, to serve in north america under general amherst, with a company of grenadiers, mostly volunteers like myself. 'tis beginning life again at the bottom of the ladder; but the lowest rank in his majesty's service is too high for the deserter from christ. the chances of savage warfare may bring me that peace which i can never know in this world, and should i fall i shall expire in the hope of salvation, trusting that the great judge will be merciful to a sinner who dies in the service of his king and country. "if you ever think of me, madam, let it be with kindness, as of one tempted beyond his strength, and not a willing sinner. "george stobart." she put the letter away in a secret drawer of her bureau, but she did not read it a second time. the lines were engraved upon her memory. she was angry with him. she was sorry for him. the friend was lost, but the world remained; and lady kilrush flung herself with a new zest and eagerness into the modish whirlpool. london was empty, but tunbridge wells was at the zenith. she took the handsomest lodging in the little town, a stone's throw from the pantiles, with drawing-room windows looking over the common, and commanding all the gaiety of the place. she invited patty granger and her general to spend the season with her, having an idea that her old friend's joyous trifling would help her to be light-hearted and prevent her brooding upon the past. she had not omitted mrs. granger's name last season when sending out cards for her drums and dances; but this invitation to tunbridge was a more intimate thing, and patty was overwhelmed by her kindness. in the cosmopolitan crowd at the wells, in a company where german princes and english dukes rubbed shoulders with tradesmen's wives from smock-alley, and pickpockets newly released from the counter, antonia's beauty and reckless expenditure secured her a numerous following, and made her conspicuous everywhere. she could not saunter across the common with mrs. granger or sophy potter without attracting a crowd of acquaintance, who hung upon her steps like the court about the old king or the princess of wales. miss potter declared that the wells was like heaven. in london she saw very little fine company, and only went abroad with her mistress when her ladyship visited the poor, or drove on shopping expeditions to the city. but manners were less formal at the wells; and sophy went to picnics and frisked up and down the long perspective of country dances hand in hand with persons of quality. never had sophy known her mistress so eager for amusement as during this particular season. she was ready to join in every festivity, however trivial, however foolish, and diversions that had a spice of eccentricity, like lady caroline petersham's minced-chicken supper at vauxhall, seemed to please her most. she entertained lavishly, gave breakfasts, picnics, dances, suppers--had a crowd at her tea-table every evening; and mr. pitt being at the wells that year, she gave several entertainments in his honour, notably an excursion to bayham abbey, in a dozen coaches and four, and a picnic dinner among the ruins, at which the great minister--who had but lately grasped the sceptre of supreme power--flung off the burden of public care, forgot his gout and the dark cloud of war in europe and america, frederick's reverses, misfortunes in canada, while he sunned himself in antonia's beauty, and absorbed her claret and champagne. "i could almost wish for another earthquake that would bury me under these antique walls," he said gaily. "sure, madam, to expire at your feet were a death more illustrious than the assyrian funeral pile." "sardanapalus was a worthless sybarite, sir, and the world could spare him. england without mr. pitt must cease to be a nation." "nay, but think how glad newcastle would be, and how the old king would chuckle if a falling pillar despatched me. 'twould be the one pleasing episode in my history. his majesty would order me a public funeral, in his gratitude for my civility in dying. death is a prime minister's ace of trumps, and his reputation with posterity sometimes hangs on that last card." the minister's visit to tunbridge was shortened by the news of the taking of cape breton and the siege of louisbourg, the first substantial victory that english arms had won in america since braddock's disastrous rout on the monongahela. amherst and his dragoons had landed on that storm-beaten coast in the nick of time. the aristocratic water-drinkers and the little shopkeepers at the wells rejoiced as one man. bonfires blazed on the common, every window was illuminated, martial music was heard on every side, toasts were drunk, glasses broken, and a general flutter of excitement pervaded the wells, while in london a train of french standards were being carried to westminster abbey, to the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums, and the wild huzzas of the populace. antonia wondered whether george stobart had fallen among the english dragoons fighting in the trenches, of whose desperate courage old general granger talked so glibly. she heard of heavy losses on both sides. she pictured him lying among the unconsidered dead, while the cross of st. george waved above the shattered ramparts, and the guns roared their triumphant thunder. she read the newspapers, half in hope, half in fear of finding stobart's name; but it was not till general amherst's despatches were made public some time later that her mind was set at rest, and she knew that he lived and had done well. that little season at tunbridge, where people had to stay six weeks for a water-cure, was a crowning triumph for antonia as a woman of _ton_. never till now had she so concentrated her thoughts upon the futilities of pleasure, never so studied every bill of fare, or so carefully planned every entertainment. her originality and her lavish outlay made her the cynosure of that smaller great world at the wells. everybody applauded her taste, and anticipated her ruin. "the woman has a genius for spending, which is much rarer than a genius for saving," said a distinguished gourmand, who dined twice a week at antonia's lodgings. "a fool can waste money; but to scatter gold with both hands and make every guinea flash requires a great mind. i doubt lady kilrush will die a pauper; but she will have squandered her fortune like a gentlewoman." lady peggy laroche was at the wells, and spent most of her leisure with antonia. while approving her _protégée's_ taste she urged the necessity of prudence. "prythee, child, do not fancy your income inexhaustible. remember, there is a bottom to every well." "dear lady peggy, goodwin could tell you that i am a woman of business, and have a head for figures. i am spending lavishly here, but when the season is over i shall go to kilrush with sophy and a footman, and mope through the winter with my books and my harpsichord; and if your ladyship would condescend to share my solitude i should need no more for happiness." "you are vastly kind, child, to offer to bury me before my time; but i am too old to hibernate, and must make the most of my few remaining winters in london or paris." "if you knew the romance and wild grandeur of that granite coast." "bond street is romantic enough for me, _ma douce_. i depend upon living faces, not granite rocks, for my amusement, and would rather have the trumpery gossip of st. james's than the roar of the atlantic." after having sparkled at the wells and lived in a perpetual _va et vient_ of modish company, lady kilrush found life on the shores of the atlantic somewhat monotonous. her nearest neighbours were ten miles off. dean delany's clever wife could find hourly diversions in a country seat near dublin, where she could give a dance or a big dinner every week, and had all the court people from the castle running in upon her; but at kilrush the solitude was only broken by visits from irish squires and their wives, who had nothing in common with the mistress of the house. antonia could have endured an unbroken isolation better than the strain of trying to please uninteresting acquaintance. she devoted a good deal of her leisure to visiting the cottagers on her own estate, and ministered to every case of distress that came within her knowledge, whether on her own soil or an absentee neighbour's. she took very kindly to the peasantry, accepted their redundant flattery with a smile, and lavished gifts on old and young. to the old, the _invalides du travail_, her heart went out with generous emotion. to have laboured for a lifetime, patient as a horse in the shafts, and to be satisfied with so little in the end; just the winter seat by the smouldering turf, by courtesy a fire; just to lie in front of the hut and bask in the summer sunshine; just not to die of starvation. the gaffers and gammers fared well while antonia was at kilrush; and before leaving she arranged with her steward for tiny pensions to be paid regularly until her return. "you are not to be worse off for my going to england," she told one of her old men, when she bade him good-bye. "sure, me lady, we should be the worse off for want of your beautiful face, if you was to lave us the bank of ireland," replied gaffer. she went back to london in december, in a government yacht that narrowly escaped calamity, after waiting at waterford over a week for favourable weather. but antonia enjoyed the storm; it thrilled in every nerve, and set her pulses beating, and gave her something to think of, after the emptiness of a life too free from worldly cares. she could return to her house in st. james's square without fear of being troubled by the presence of the man who had made the word friendship a sound that sickened her. that traitor was far away. assured of his absence, she went back to the slums by lambeth marsh, where she was received with rapture. her pensioners had not been forgotten while she was away, since she had provided for all the most pressing cases; but her return was like the coming of april warmth after a bitter winter. everywhere she heard lamentations at mr. stobart's departure, although wesley had filled his place with another of his helpers, an indefatigable worker, but a raw youth of unsympathetic manners and uncompromising doctrine. he was barely civil to lady kilrush when they happened to meet, having been told that she was an unbeliever, and did all in his power to discourage her ministrations among his people. "if your ladyship came to them with the bible in your hand they might be the better for your kindness," he said severely; "but the carnal comforts of food and drink, which your generosity provides for them, only serve to make them careless of everlasting bliss." "what, sir, would you starve them into piety? do you think 'tis only because they are miserable upon earth that christians long for the joys of heaven? that is to hold the everlasting kingdom mighty cheap. your great exemplar had a broader philosophy, and did not disdain to feed as well as to teach his followers." antonia's heart was moved at the thought of the pretty young wife deserted by her husband, and living in solitude, without the distractions of fine company, or the delight in books and music which filled the blank spaces in her own life. impelled by this compassionate feeling, she called on mrs. stobart one wintry afternoon, soon after her return from ireland, and was received with gratification which was mainly due to the splendour of her coach, and the effect it would have on the neighbours. "your ladyship has doubtless heard that my husband has gone back to the army?" said lucy, when her visitor was seated in the prim front parlour, where the mahogany furniture shone with an increased polish, and where there prevailed that chilling primness which marks a room that nobody uses. "it was a sad blow to me and to mr. wesley; but george always hankered after his old profession, though he knew it was satan's choicest trade." "nay, mrs. stobart, i cannot think that satan has any part in the calling of men who fight and die for their country. i doubt your husband's life in america will be as unselfish as his life in lambeth." "'he has taken his hand from the plough.' that is what mr. wesley said. 'he was the best of my helpers, and he has deserted me,' he said. and mr. wesley was sorry for my trouble in being forsaken by my husband." she shed a few feeble tears as she dwelt upon her own dull life; but she did not seem deeply impressed by the thought of her husband's peril, or the chance that he might never come back to her. "it was a cruel disappointment for me," she complained. "he had promised to join the church of england, and then we might have had a vicarage, and he would have stayed at home, and only preached in his parish church. he had promised to be a kinder husband." "kinder? oh, mrs. stobart, was he ever unkind?" exclaimed antonia, kindling with the sense of injustice. she had noted his gentleness--his supreme patience with the unsympathetic wife; so inferior to him in mind and heart--a pink and white nullity. "it was unkind to leave me while he went about the country preaching; it was unkind to go back to the army and leave me alone for years, more like a widow than a wife. and father comes and teases me for money now that george is away. he dursn't ask for more than his allowance while george was here." "your father is--a troublesome person?" inquired antonia. "i should think he was indeed. he kept himself tolerably sober while mother was alive. she used to spend every penny on drink, and he used to beat her for it, and both of them used to beat me. it was a miserable life. mother died in the hospital three years ago; and when she was gone the thought of his unkindness to her seemed to prey upon father's mind, and he was always at the gin-shop, and lost his situation in the printing-office where he had worked half his life; and then he came to us with a pitiful story, and my husband gave him ten shillings a week, which was more than he could afford, without denying himself, only george never minded. i don't think he would have minded if he had been obliged to live like john the baptist in the wilderness." "and now mr. stobart is gone your father troubles you?" "indeed he does, madam. he comes for his money on a saturday, looking such an object that i'm ashamed for the servant to see him; and then he comes again on tuesday or wednesday, and tells me he's starving, and sheds tears if i refuse to give him money. and i'm obliged to refuse him, or he wouldn't leave me a sixpence to keep the house. and then father goes down the steps abusing me, and using the wickedest language, on purpose for the neighbours to hear him. and he comes again and again, sometimes before the week is out." the idea of this sordid trouble oppressed antonia like a nightmare. she thought of her own father--so kind, so pleasant a comrade, yet unprincipled and self-indulgent. it needed perhaps only the lower grade to have made him as lost a creature. "let me give you some money for him," she said eagerly. "it will be a pleasure for me to help you." "oh, no, no, madam. i know how generous you are; but george would never forgive me if i took your ladyship's money. besides, it would only do father harm. he would spend it upon drink. there's no help for it. father is my cross, and i must just bear it. he has come to live in the marsh, on purpose to be near me; and he makes believe that he's likely to get work as a book-keeper at the glass works. as if anybody would employ a man that's never sober! and he's a clever man too, your ladyship, and has read more books than most gentlemen. but he never went to a place of worship, and he never believed in anything but his own cleverness. and see where that has brought him! sure i beg your ladyship's pardon," concluded lucy, hastily, "i forgot that you was of father's way of thinking." "you have at least the consolation of your son's affection, mrs. stobart, and it must be pleasant for you to watch the growth of his intelligence. is he as healthy and as handsome as when i saw him last?" "handsomer, i think, your ladyship." "will he be home from school presently? i should love to see him." "nay, madam, that's impossible, for he is living at the bath with his grandmother, lady lanigan. mr. stobart wrote to her before he left portsmouth, a farewell letter that melted her hard heart. 'twas after the news of the taking of louisburg, when her ladyship came here in a terrible fantig, and almost swooned when she saw the boy, and swore he was the image of his father at the same age." "and she carried him away with her on a visit?" "yes, madam. she begged so hard that i could not deny her. for you see, madam, he is her only grandson; and there's a fortune going begging, as you may say. his father was too proud to try and bring her round; but if georgie behaves prettily, who knows but she may send him to eton--where his father was bred--and leave him the whole of her fortune?" "true, madam. no doubt you have done best for your boy. but i fear you must feel lonely without him." "oh, i missed him sadly for the first week or two, madam; but a child in a house, where there's but one servant, is a constant trouble. in and out, in and out with muddy shoes, morning, noon, and night. 'tis clean, clean, clean after them all day long, and it makes one's girl cross and impudent. he has his grandma's own woman to wash and dress him, and a footman to change his shoes when he comes in from the street." "is the visit to last long?" "that depends upon his behaviour, and if her ladyship cottons to him." "well, so long as you can do without him, of course 'tis best," said antonia, in a dull voice. her mind was wandering to that exile whose name she would not pronounce. to have sacrificed station and fortune for such a wife as this--for a woman without heart or brains, who had not enough natural feeling to tremble for a husband in danger, or to grieve at the absence of an only child! * * * * * after a few visits to her lambeth pensioners, lady kilrush wearied of the work, and allowed herself to be charitable by deputy. she hated the starched prig who had taken stobart's place in the parish. she missed the quick sympathy, the strength and earnestness of the man who had helped her to understand the world's outcasts; and as her social engagements were more numerous than last winter, she abandoned the attempt to combine philanthropy with fashion, and made sophy her deputy in the marsh. sophy had a tender heart, and loved to distribute her ladyship's bounty. she liked the priggish wesleyan, mr. samson barker, who lectured and domineered over her, but who was a conscientious youth, and innocent of all evil, the outcome of nonconformist ancestors, a feeble specimen of humanity, with a high narrow forehead, pale protuberant eyes, and a receding chin. impressed by his mental and moral superiority, sophy, who began by ridiculing him, soon thought him beautiful, and held it one of her highest privileges to sit under his favourite preacher, mr. william romaine, at st. olave's, southwark, and to be allowed to invite mr. barker to antonia's tea-table now and then, where his appearance was a source of amusement to the rest of the company, who declared that her ladyship was at heart a methodist, though she read tindal and toland, and affected liberal ideas. "before next season we shall hear of you among the lady bettys and lady fannys who throng lady huntingdon's drawing-room, and intoxicate their senses with whitefield's raving," said one of her adorers; "and then there will be no more dinners and suppers, no more dances and drums--only gruel and flannel petticoats for old women." lady kilrush drained the cup of london pleasures that winter, and was a leader in every aristocratic dissipation, shining like a star in all the choicest assemblies, but so erratic in her movements as to win for herself the sobriquet of "the comet." "the last spot of earth where 'twould seem reasonable to expect you is the place where one is most likely to find you," mr. walpole told her one night, at a dinner of hard-drinking and hard-playing politicians, where antonia, lady coventry, and a couple of duchesses were the only women in a party of twenty. she had adorers of every age, from octogenarian peers, and generals who had fought under marlborough, to beardless boys just of age and squandering their twenty thousands a year at white's and the cocoa tree. the fact that she kept every admirer at the same distance made her irresistible. to be adamant where other women were wax; to receive the flatteries of trifling fops, the ardent worship of souls of flame, with the same goddess air, smiling at her victims, kind to all, but particular to none! that deliberate and stately north briton, lord dunkeld, hung upon her footsteps with an untiring devotion that was the despair of a score of young women of quality, who wanted to marry him, and thought they had pretensions for the place. 'twas a season of unusual gaiety, as if the thirst for pleasure were intensified by the news of the war, and the consciousness of fellow countrymen starving, perishing, massacred, scalped, or burnt alive, in the pathless forests across the atlantic. the taking of louisburg had set all england in a tumult of pride and delight, to the forgetfulness of the catastrophe at ticonderoga, where there had been terrible losses under abercromby, and of the death of lord howe, the young, the ardent, the born leader of men, slain by the enemy's first volley. george stobart's name figured in amherst's despatches. he had fought in the trenches with his old regiment; he had been with wolfe in the storming of gallows hill; and had been recommended for a commission on account of his gallant behaviour. people complimented antonia about her "pious friend." the king was near dying at the beginning of the winter, and the lion at the tower happening to expire of old age, while his majesty lay ill, the royal beast's dissolution was taken as a fatal augury, and his master was given over by the gossips. but king george recovered, and sunday parties, drums and masquerades, auctions, ridottos, oratorios, operas, plays, and little suppers, went on again merrily all through the cold weather. in the summer of lady kilrush carried out a long-cherished design of revisiting italy. when last in that country her father's critical state of health had been a drag upon her movements. she would go there now a free agent, with ample leisure to explore the region in which she was most keenly interested, those romantic hills above the lake of como, where her mother's birthplace was to be found. she took sophy, her french maid, rodolphine, and her first footman, who was an italian, and travelled by ostend and the hague and the rhine to basle, then by lucerne and fluellen, to the rugged steeps of the st. gothard, loitering on the road, and seeing all the churches and picture-galleries that were worth looking at, her travelling carriage half full of books, and her maid and footman following in a post-chaise with the luggage, which was a lighter load of trunks and imperials than a woman of _ton_ might have been supposed to require, her ladyship's travelling toilette being of a severe simplicity. when george ii. was king there was a luxury of travelling, which made amends for the want of the _train de luxe_ and the _wagon-lit_. it was the luxury of slowness; the delicious leisure of long days in the midst of exquisite scenery--by lake, and river, and mountain pass--that had time to grow into the mind and memory of the traveller; journeys in which there were long oases of rest; perfumed summer nights in quiet places, where the church bell was the only sound; mornings in obscure galleries where one picture in a catalogue of a hundred was a gem to be remembered ever after; glimpses of humble lives, saunterings in market-places, adventures, perils perhaps, an alarm of brigands, ears listening for a sudden shot ringing sharp among snow-clad hills--all the terrors, joys, chances, surprises of a difficult road; and at one's inn a warmth of welcome and a deferential service that in some wise atoned for bad cooking and ill-furnished rooms. to antonia that italian journey offered a delicious repose from the fever of london pleasures. after george stobart's departure for america there had been a jarring note in the harmony of life--a note that had to be drowned somehow; and hence had come that craving for excitement, that hastening from one trivial pleasure to another, which had made her so conspicuous a figure in the london of last winter. in the solemn silence of everlasting hills, in a solitude that to sophy seemed a thing of horror, antonia thought of her last season; the crowded rooms, reeking with odours of pulvilio and melting wax, the painted faces, the atmosphere of heat and hair-powder, the diamonds; the haggard looks and burning eyes, round the tables where play ran high; the hatred and malice; the jests that wounded like daggers; the smiles that murdered reputations. "shall i ever go back to it all, and think a london season life's supreme felicity?" she wondered, standing in front of the capuchins' hospice, among the granite peaks of the st. gothard, in the chill mountain air, while the mules were being saddled for the descent into italy. they had ridden yesterday morning through the urnerloch--that wonderful passage of two hundred feet through the solid rock, which had been made early in the century--by the green meadows of andermatt, and across the ursern valley; they had wound slowly upward through a wild and barren region to the friendly hospice where there was always welcome and shelter. lady kilrush had left her english travelling carriage at lucerne, and the journey from airolo to como would be made in an italian post-chaise. her footman was a native of bellinzona, and was able to arrange all the details of their route. at como she hired one of the country boats, new from the builders, and engaged four stalwart italian boatmen, who were to be in her service while she made a leisurely tour of the lake, stopping wherever the scene pleased her fancy, and putting up with the most primitive accommodation, provided the inn were clean, and the prospect beautiful. that year of , remarkable for the success of british arms in europe, hindostan, and america, the "great year," as horace walpole calls it, was also a year of golden weather, a summer of sunshine and cloudless skies, and antonia revelled in the warmth and light of that lovely scene. it seemed as if every drop of blood in her veins rejoiced in the glory of her mother's birthplace. here, in what spot she knew not, but somewhere along these sunlit hills that sloped gently to the lake, her mother's early years had been spent. she would have given much to find the spot; and in her long rambles with sophy, or alone, she rarely passed a church without entering it, and if she could find the village priest rarely left him till he had searched the register of marriages for her father's name. but no such name appeared in those humble records; and she thought that her father might have carried his fugitive bride to milan, or even into switzerland, before the marriage ceremony was possible; the girl being under age, and the bridegroom a heretic. she looked with interest at every villa that sheltered a noble family, and questioned the peasants, and the people of the inn, about all the important inhabitants of their neighbourhood, hoping to hear in such or such a patrician family of a runaway marriage with a wandering englishman. but the old people to whom she chiefly addressed herself had no memory of such an event. it was the beginning of september, and the scene and atmosphere had lost nothing of their charm by familiarity, so having made the tour of the lake villages, and being somewhat tired of rough fare, ill-furnished rooms, and most of all of sophy's repinings for the comforts of st. james's square, lady kilrush hired a villa near the quaint little town of bellagio, a villa perched almost at the point of the wooded promontory, with a garden that sloped to the water's edge. the villa belonged to one of antonia's fashionable friends--a certain lady despard, a banker's widow, who gave herself more airs than an empress, and preferred rome or florence to london, because of the superior consequence her wealth gave her in cities where the measure of her rank was not too precisely known. this lady--after trying to imitate lady mary wortley montagu, and live among a peasant population--had wearied of her villa and the little town at her gates, the church bells, the voices of the fishermen, the feasts and processions, and lack of modish company; and her house was to be let furnished with all its amenities. antonia engaged the villa for a month, at a liberal rent, and established herself, with giuseppe, the italian footman, as her major-domo, and a modest household of his selection; not a household of much polish or experience, but of willing hands, smiling faces, eyes that sparkled and danced with the golden light of italy. antonia was at home and happy among these people, who served her as it were upon their knees, and whose voices had a note that was like a caress. "i can understand how my mother loved her garden of roses, her chestnut woods, and long terraces where the vines make a roof of shade, and how she must have pined in a dull english village--a lincolnshire village, dismal flats without a tree, straight roads, and church steeples, with the lead-coloured sea making a level line in the distance, that seems like the end of the world. alas, to her eyes, accustomed to this golden land, these mountains climbing up to heaven, how heart-breaking it must all have been!" summer in italy, summer on the lake of como. never till now had antonia known what summer means--that perfect glory of sunlight, that magical atmosphere, half golden light and half azure haze, in which earthly things put on the glory of a dream. never before had she enjoyed the restfulness of a land where the atmosphere and the light are enough for happiness, a sensuous happiness, perhaps, but leaving the spirit wings free for flight. after the stress and tumult of a london winter, the strife of paltry ambitions, the malevolence that called itself wit, the aching sense of loneliness in a crowd, what bliss to loll at ease in the spacious country boat, under the arched awning, while the oars dipped, and the water rippled, and life went by like a sleep! she had almost left off remembering the days of the week, the passage of time. she only knew that the moon was waning. that great golden disk which had bathed the hills in light and tempted her to loiter on the lake till midnight, was no more. there was only a ragged crescent that rose in the dead of night and filled her with melancholy. she stood at her open window, in the dark hour before dawn, drinking the cool sweet air, and full of sorrowful thoughts. where was george stobart under that dwindling moon? in what grim and frowning wilderness, amidst what desolate waste of mountains, in what wild scene of savage warfare, hemmed round by painted foes, deafened by war cries more hideous than the howling of the wolves in the midnight woods, done to death by the ingenious cruelties of human fiends, or dying of famine and neglected wounds, crawling on bleeding feet till the wearied body dropped across the narrow track that the tramp of soldiers had worn through the wilderness, dying forsaken and alone, perhaps, in the pitilessness of a panic flight. her heart ached as she thought of him. alas, why had he been false to his own convictions, to his own faith? she knew that he had once been sincere, had once been strong in a hope that she could not share. when first she knew him he had been a good man. she looked back, and recalled the domestic picture--the rustic lawn basking in the june sunshine, the warm air perfumed with pinks and southernwood, and the husband seated in his garden reading to his wife. she had looked down at him from the proud height of her philosophy, had scorned his unquestioning belief in things unseen; but she had respected him for his renunciation of all the luxuries and pleasures the common herd love. of the progress of the american campaign since the victory at cape breton she knew very little. the posts between italy and england were of a hopeless irregularity, and the newspapers which she had ordered to be sent her were more than half of them lost or stopped on the way, while an occasional gossiping letter from a fashionable friend told her more of the new clothes at the birthday than the triumphs or reverses of british arms. the london papers were at this time more concerned about prince ferdinand's victory over the french at minden, and lord george sackville's strange backwardness in following up the prince's success, than about the fortunes of amherst or forbes, and the wild warfare of the west. it was perhaps from the desire to be better informed that antonia was glad to see lord dunkeld, who surprised her by alighting from a boat at the landing stage of her villa, in the first week of her residence. he found her sitting in her garden, dreaming over a book. he had arrived at varenna on the previous evening, he told her, and meant to stop some time at the inn, which commanded a fine view of the two lakes, and had better accommodation than was usual in out-of-the-way places. "may one ask what brings your lordship to italy, when most of the fine gentlemen i know are shooting partridges in norfolk?" antonia asked, when they were seated on a marble bench in front of the lake. there was a fountain on the lawn near them, and oleanders white and red, masses of blossom and delicate lance-shaped leaves, made a screen against wind and sun, and there were red roses trailing all along the marble balustrade above the lake, and poppies pink, and red, and white, and pale pink cyclamen, filled a circular bed at the base of a statue of flora, and all the garden seemed alive with colour and light. a double flight of steps, broad and shallow, went down to the water, and dunkeld's boat was moored there, with his two boatmen lounging under the awning, idle and contented. it is a stiff pull from varenna to the point, when the wind is blowing from lecco. "will your ladyship scorn me if i confess that i love better to sit in an italian garden than to tramp over a norfolk stubble? there is a delicate freshness in the scent of a turnip field at early morning; but i prefer roses, and the company of one woman in the world." "oh, my lord, keep your compliments for st. james's. they are out of harmony with my life here." "am i to have no license to say foolish things, after having crossed the alps to see you?" "oh, sir, i am very credulous, but i cannot believe you have been so simple as to travel over a thousand miles for a pleasure that you could enjoy next month in london." "i should have died of that other month. i bore your absence as long as i could, and questioned all your friends and your hall-porter to discover any hope of your return. but no one would satisfy me, and my heart sickened of uncertainty. so ten days ago i ordered my chaise for dover, and have scarce drawn rein till last night at varenna, where i heard of your ladyship. nay, spare me that vexed look. i come as a friend, not as an importunate suitor. do you suppose i forget that i am forbid all ecstatic hopes?" she gave a troubled sigh, and rose from the bench, with an agitated air. "lady kilrush, cannot you believe in friendship?" he asked, following her. "hardly. i have believed, and have had my confidence betrayed." "when you told me that i could never be your husband, that a life's devotion, the adoration of the indian for his god, could not move your heart to love me, i swore to school myself to indifference, thought it was possible to live contentedly without you. i have not learnt that lesson, madam; but i have taught myself to think of your merits, your perfections, as i might of a sister's; and i ask you to give me something of a sister's regard. you need not fear me, madam. youth and the ardour of youth have gone by. i doubt you know that i was unhappy in an early attachment, and that the exquisite creature who was to have been my wife died in my arms in her father's park, struck by lightning. she was but eighteen, and i less than three years older. the stroke that should have taken us both, and sealed our love for eternity, left me to mourn her, and to doubt god's goodness, till time chastened my rebellious thoughts." "i have heard that sad story, my lord, and have understood why you were more serious than other men of your age and circumstances. you have been happy in finding the consolations of religion." "alas, madam, to be without a fixed hope in a better world is to live in the midst of chaos. a christian's faith is like a lamp burning at the end of a long dark passage. no matter if it seem but an infinitesimal point of light in the distance, 'twill serve to guide his footsteps through the gloom." "would not duty, honour, conscience do as much for him?" "perhaps, madam, since conscience is but another name for the fear of god. be sure the time will come when a mind so superior as yours will be awakened to the truth; but i doubt the christian religion has suffered in your esteem by your acquaintance with mr. stobart. the conversation of a fanatical methodist, the jargon of wesley and whitefield, their unctuous cant repeated parrot-wise by a tyro, could but move your disgust." "indeed, my lord, you wrong my cousin, george stobart," antonia answered eagerly. "he is no canter--no parrot-echo of another man's words. his sacrifice of fortune and station should vouch for his sincerity." "oh, we will say he is of the stuff that makes martyrs, if your ladyship pleases; but 'tis a pity that a gentleman of birth and breeding--a soldier--should have taken up with the methodist crew. some one told me he has the gift of preaching. i doubt he expounds the doctrine of irresistible grace in lady huntingdon's kitchen, for the vulgar, while whitefield thumps a cushion in her ladyship's drawing-room." "my cousin has left off preaching for these two years last past, sir, and is fighting for his king in north america." "gad's life! then he is a better man than i took him for, when his puritan countenance and grey suit passed me in your ladyship's hall. the american campaign is no child's play. even our sturdy highlanders have been panic-struck at the cruelties of those indian fiends, whose war-whoops surpass the scottish yell as a tiger outroars an ox." "can your lordship tell me the latest news of the war?" "'tis a tale of barren victories and heavy losses. englishmen and colonials have fought like heroes, and endured like martyrs; but i doubt the end of the campaign is still far off. the effect of last year's victory at louisburg, at which we in england made such an uproar, was weakened by abercromby's defeat at ticonderoga, and by amherst's refusal to risk an immediate attack upon quebec. had he taken wolfe's advice canada would have been ours before now; but amherst ever erred on the side of caution. he is all for forts and block-houses, deliberation and defence--wolfe all for the glorious hazards of attack." "then i doubt my cousin, mr. stobart, would sooner be with wolfe than with amherst." "is the gentleman such a fire-eater?" "i believe he loves war, and would hate shilly-shally no less than mr. wolfe," antonia answered, with a deep blush, and a sudden embarrassment. the desperate mood in which stobart left england had been in her mind as she spoke. "well, if he is with amherst he has not seen much fighting since he left cape breton. does he not write to you occasionally?" "no, he writes only to his wife, and not often to her." "'tis not easy for a soldier on the march through a wilderness to despatch a letter--or even to write one," said lord dunkeld. after this his lordship's boat was moored by the villa landing-stage in some hour of every day. his society was not unpleasant to antonia in her italian solitude. he had sworn to be her friend; and she thought she had at last discovered a man capable of friendship. she had no fear of being taken off her guard, shocked and insulted, as she had been by george stobart. here was no slumbering volcano, no snake in the grass, only a grave and dignified gentleman, of unimpeachable honour, and an old-fashioned piety, fully impressed by his own importance, who would fain have won her for his wife, but who, disappointed in that desire, wished to keep her for his friend. he was six-and-thirty years of age, and that tragedy of his youth had exercised a sobering influence over all his after-life. he was a fine classical scholar, and had read much, and travelled much, but showed himself a true briton by his ignorance of every living language except his own. a courier and a french valet saved him all communication with innkeepers and their kind, and a smile or a stately wave of the hand sufficed to make his wishes known to his varenna boatmen. he loved italy as a picture, without wanting to get any nearer the living figures in the foreground. there was a festa at bellagio on the sunday after his arrival--a festa of thanksgiving for the fruits of the year, and he attended antonia and sophy to the church, where there was to be a solemn service, and the priestly benediction upon gifts provided by the faithful, which were afterwards to be sold by auction for the benefit of church and poor. the piazza in front of the church was dazzling in the fierce afternoon sunshine when antonia and sophy climbed the steep street, and found themselves among the populace standing about the square, the women with babies in their arms, and little children at their knees, and the maimed and halt and blind and deaf and dumb, who seem to make up half the population of an italian town on a sunday afternoon. the natives gazed in admiring wonder at the beautiful face under the broad leghorn hat, with white ostrich feathers and diamond buckle, the tall figure in the straight simplicity of white muslin and a long blue sash, that almost touched the points of the blue kid shoes, the beautiful throat and pearl necklace showing above the modest muslin kerchief. sophy was in white muslin also, but sophy being low in figure, must needs affect a triple frilled skirt and a frilled muslin cape, which gave her the shape of a penwiper. "did i not know you superior to all petty arts i might say you dressed your waiting-woman to be a foil to your beauty," lord dunkeld told antonia, when sophy was out of earshot. "miss potter chooses her own clothes, and i can never persuade her to wear anything but the latest fashion. she has but to see the picture of a new mode in the _ladies' magazine_, and she is miserable till she tries it on her own person." they went into the church, where the hot sunlight was intensified by the pervading decoration, and the high altar glowed like a furnace. the marble pillars were covered with crimson brocade, and long crimson curtains hung from the roof, making a tent of warm rich red, the scarlet vestments of the acolytes striking a harsher note against the crimson glow. three priests in richly embroidered copes officiated at the altar, and between the rolling thunder of the organ came the sound of loud strident voices chanting without accompaniment, while children's treble pipes shrilled out alternate versicles. the congregation consisted mostly of women, wearing veils, white or black. antonia stood by a pillar near the door, enduring the heated atmosphere as long as she could, but she had to leave the church before the end of the service, followed by sophy. lord dunkeld found them seated in the piazza, where they could wait for the procession, and watch the tributes of the pious being carried into the church by a side door--huge cakes, castles and temples in ornamental pastry, baskets of fruit, a dead hare, live fowls, birds in a cage, a fir tree with grapes and peaches tied to the branches, a family of white kittens mewing and struggling in a basket. the train of priests and acolytes came pouring out into the sunshine, gorgeous in gold and brocade, the band playing a triumphal march. after the officiating priests came a procession of men in monkish robes, some struggling under the weight of massive crosses, the rest carrying tapers that burnt pale in the vivid light; some with upright form and raven hair, others the veterans of toil, with silvery locks and dark olive faces, strong and rugged features, withered hands seamed with the scars of labour; and following these came women of every age, from fifteen to ninety, their heads draped with white or black veils, but their faces uncovered. lord dunkeld surveyed them with a critical eye. "upon my soul, i did not think italy could show so much ugliness," he said. "oh, but most of the girls are pretty." "the girls, yes--but the women! they grow out of their good looks before they are thirty, and are hags and witches when an englishwoman's mature charms are at the zenith. stay, there is a pretty roguish face--and--look, look, madam, the girl next her--the tall girl--great heaven, what a likeness!" he ran forward a few paces to get a second look at a face that had startled him out of his scottish phlegm--a face that was like antonia's in feature and expression, though the colouring was darker and less delicate. "did you see that tall girl with the blue bead necklace?" dunkeld asked antonia, excitedly. "i could not help seeing her, when you made such a fuss." "she is your living image--she ought to be your younger sister." "i have no sisters." "oh, 'tis a chance likeness, no doubt. such resemblances are often stronger than any you can find in a gallery of family portraits." antonia turned to a little group of women close by, whom she had already questioned about the people in the procession. did they know the girl in the blue necklace? yes, she was francesca bari. she lived with her grandfather, who had a little vineyard on the hill yonder, about a mile from the piazza where they were standing. the signorina had noticed her? she was accounted the prettiest girl in the district, and she was as good as she was pretty. her mother and father were dead, and she worked hard to keep her grandfather's house in order, and to bring up her brother and sisters. dunkeld's interest in the girl began and ended in her likeness to the woman he loved; but antonia was keenly interested, and early next morning was on her way to the hill above the lecco lake, alone and on foot, to search for the dwelling of the baris. she was ever on the alert to discover any trace of her mother's kindred; and it was possible that some branch of her race had sunk to the peasant class, and that the type which sometimes marks a long line of ancestry might be repeated here. antonia was not going to shut her eyes to such a possibility, however humiliating it might be. offshoots of the greatest families may be found in humble circumstances. she passed a few scattered houses along the crest of the hill, and some women picking grapes in a vineyard close to the road told her the way to bari's house. his vineyard was on the slope of the hill facing lierna. less than half an hour's walk by steep and rugged paths, up and down hill, brought her to a house with bright ochre walls and dilapidated blue shutters, standing in a patch of garden, where great golden pumpkins sprawled between rows of cabbages and celery, under fig-trees covered with purple fruit, and apple and pear trees bent with age and the weight of their rosy and russet crop. a straggling hedge of roses and oleander divided the garden from the narrow lane, while beyond, the vines joined hands in green alleys along the terraced slope of the hill, sheltered by a little olive wood. the girl with the blue necklace was digging in the garden. antonia could see her across the red roses where the hedge was lowest. a child of three or four years old was sitting on a basket close by, and two older children were on their knees, weeding a cabbage bed. they were poorly clad, but they looked clean, healthy, and happy. the girl heard the flutter of antonia's muslin gown, and looked up, with her foot upon her spade. she wiped the perspiration from her forehead with a gaudy cotton handkerchief. "may i take one of your roses?" antonia asked, smiling at her across the gap in the hedge. "si, si," cried francesca, "as many as the signorina likes. there are plenty of them." she ran to the hedge and began to pluck the roses, in an eager hospitality. she was dazzled by the vision of the beautiful face, the yellow hat and snowy plumes, the diamond buckle flashing in the sun, and something in the smile that puzzled her. without being conscious of the likeness between the stranger's face and that one she saw every morning unflatteringly reflected in the dusky little glass under her bedroom window, she had a feeling of familiarity with the violet eyes, the sunny smile. antonia thanked her for her roses, admired her garden, questioned her about her brother and sisters, and was at once on easy terms with her. yes, they were motherless, and she had taken care of them ever since etta, the baby, was a fortnight old. yes, she worked hard every day; but she loved work, and when the vintage was good they were all happy. grandfather had not been able to work for over a year; he was very old--"_vecchio vecchio_"--and very weak. "i hope you have relations who help you," said antonia, "distant relations, perhaps, who are richer than your grandfather?" "no, there is no one. we had an aunt, but she is dead. she died before i was born. grandfather says i am like her. it makes him cry sometimes to look at me, and to remember that he will never see her again! she was his favourite daughter." "and was your grandfather always poor--always living here, on this little vineyard and garden?" antonia asked, pale, and with an intent look in her eyes. had she found them, the kindred for whom she had been looking, in these simple peasants, these sons and daughters of toil, so humbly born, without a history, the very off-scouring of the earth? was this the end of her father's fairy tale, this the lowly birthplace of the italian bride, the daughter of a noble house, who had fled with the english tutor, who had stooped from her high estate to make a love match? she remembered her father's reluctance to take her to her mother's home, or even to tell her the locality. she remembered how he had shuffled and prevaricated, and put off the subject, and she thought with bitter shame of his falsehoods, his sophistications. alas, why had he feared to tell her the truth? would she have thought less lovingly of her dead mother because of her humble lineage? surely not! but she had been fooled by lies, had thought of herself as the daughter of a patrician race, and had cherished romantic dreams of a line of soldiers and statesmen, whose ambitions and aspirations, whose courage and genius, were in her blood. the dilapidated walls yonder, the painted shutters rotten with age, the gaudy daub of virgin and child on the plastered façade, the garden of cabbages and pumpkins, and the patch of tall indian corn! what a disillusion! how sorry an end of her dreams! "sicuro!" the girl answered, wondering at the fine lady's keen look. she had been questioned often about herself, often noticed by people of quality, on account of her beauty; but this lady had such an earnest air. "si, si, signorina," she said; "grandfather has always lived here. he was born in our cottage. his father was gardener to the marchese" (the grand seigneur of the district, name understood). "and he bought the vineyard with his savings when he was an old man. he was a very good gardener." "may i see your grandfather?" "sicuro! he will be pleased to see the signorina," the girl answered readily, accustomed to be patronized by wandering strangers, and to receive little gifts from them. antonia followed her into the cottage. an old man was sitting in an armchair by the hearth, where an iron pot hung over a few smouldering sticks and a heap of grey ashes. he looked up at antonia with eyes that saw all things dimly. the sunshine streamed into the room from the open door and window; but her face was in shadow as she went towards him with outstretched hand, francesca explaining that the english lady wished to see him. the patriarch tried to rise from his chair, but antonia stopped him, seating herself by his side. "i saw your grand-daughter at the festa," she said, "and i wanted to see more of her, if i could. can you guess why i was anxious about her, and anxious to be her friend?" she took off her hat, while the old man looked at her with a slow wonder, his worn-out eyes gradually realizing the lines in the splendid face. "i have been told that your francesca is like me," she said. "can you see any resemblance?" "_santo e santissimo!_ si, si, the signorina is like francesca, as two peaches side by side on the wall yonder; and she is like my daughter, my tonia, my beloved, who died more than twenty years ago. but she is not dead to me--no, not to me. i see her face in my dreams. i hear her voice sometimes as i wake out of sleep, and then i look round, and call her, and she is not there; and i remember that i am an old man, and that she left me many, many years ago." "you had a daughter called antonia?" "_si, signorina_. it was her mother's name also. i called her tonia. she was the handsomest girl between the two lakes. everybody praised her, a good girl, as industrious as she was virtuous. a good and dutiful daughter till the englishman stole her from us." "your antonia married an englishman?" "si, signorina! 'twas thought a fine marriage for her. he wore a velvet coat, and he called himself a gentleman; but he was only a schoolmaster, and he came to varenna in a coach and six with a young english milord." "what was the tutor's name?" "_non posso pronunziar' il suo nome._ tonton, tonton, guilliamo." "thornton! william thornton?" "_ecco!_" cried the old man, nodding assent. "we had a dairy then, my wife and i," he continued, "and the young lord and his governor used to leave their boat and walk up the hill to get a drink of milk. they paid us handsomely, and we got to look for them every day, and they would stop and talk and laugh with my two girls. the governor could speak italian almost like one of us; and the young milord was trying to learn; and they used all of them to laugh at his mistakes, and make a fool of him. well, well, 'twas a merry time for us all." "did you consent to your daughter's marriage?" "_chi lo sa? forse! non diceva nè si nè no._ he was a gentleman, and i was proud that she should marry above her station. but he told me a bundle of lies. he pretended to be a rich man, and promised that he would bring her to italy once a year. and then he took her away, in milord's coach, and they were married at chiavenna, where he lied to the priest, as he had lied to me, and swore he was a good catholic. he sent me the certificate of their marriage, so that i might know my daughter was an honest woman; but he never let me see her again." he paused in a tearful mood. "perhaps it was not his own fault that he did not keep his promise," antonia pleaded. "he may have been too poor to make such a journey." "yes, he was as poor as job. tonia wrote to me sometimes, and she told me they were very poor, and that she hated her english home, and pined for the garden and the vineyard, and the hills and lakes. she was afraid she would die without ever seeing us again. her letters were full of sorrow. i could see her tears upon the page. and then there came a letter from him, with a great black seal. she was dead--_ma non si muove foglia che iddio non voglia_. 'tis not for me to complain!" the feeble frame was shaken by the old man's sobs. antonia knelt on the brick floor by his chair, and soothed him with gentle touches and soft words. she was full of tender pity; but there was the feeling that she was stooping from her natural level to comfort a creature of a lower race, another order of being, with whom she could have no sympathy. and he was her grandfather. his blood was in her veins. from him she inherited some of the qualities of her heart and brain: not from statesmen or heroes, but from a peasant, whose hands were gnarled and roughened by a lifetime's drudgery, whose thoughts and desires had never travelled beyond his vineyard and patch of indian corn. her grandfather, living in this tumble-down old house, where the rotten shutters offered so poor a defence against foul weather, the floods and winds of autumn and winter, where the crumbling brick floor had sunk below the level of the soil outside: living as peasants live, and suffering all the deprivations and hardships of extreme poverty, while she, his own flesh and blood, had squandered thousands upon the caprices of a woman of fashion. and she found him worn out with toil, old and weak, on the brink of the grave perhaps. her wealth could do but little for him. she had no doubt of his identity. the story of his daughter's marriage was her mother's story. there was no room for doubt, yet she shrank with a curious restraint from revealing the tie that bound her to him. she was full of generous pity for a long life that had known so few of this world's joys; but the feeling of caste was stronger than love or pity. she was ashamed of herself for feeling such bitter mortification, such a cruel disappointment. oh, foolish pride which she had taken for an instinct of good birth! because she was beautiful and admired, high-spirited and courageous, she must needs believe that she sprang from a noble line, and could claim all the honour due to race. her father had lied to her, and she had believed the flattering fable. she could not reconcile herself to the humiliating truth so far as to claim her new-found kindred. but she was bent upon showing them all possible kindness short of that revelation. they were so poor, so humble, that she might safely play the part of benefactress. they had no pride to be crushed by her favours. she questioned the old man about his health, while the girl stood by the doorway listening, and the children's silvery voices sounded in the garden outside. had he been ill long; did he suffer much; had he a doctor? he had been ailing a long time, but as for suffering, well, he had pains in his limbs, the house was damp in winter, but there was more weakness than suffering. "also the ass when he is tired lies down in the middle of the road, and can go no farther," he said resignedly. as for a doctor; no, he had no need of one. the doctor would only bleed him; and he had too little blood as it was. one of his neighbours--an old woman that some folks counted a witch, but a good catholic for all that--had given him medicine of her own making that had done him good. "i think a doctor would do you more good, if you would see one. there is a doctor at bellagio who came to see my woman the other day when she had a touch of fever. he seemed a clever man." "_si signorina, ma senza denari non si canta messa._ clever men want to be paid. your doctor would cost me the eyes of the head." "you shall have as much money as ever you want," answered antonia, pulling a long netted purse from her pocket. the gold showed through the silken meshes, and the old man's eyes glittered with greed as he looked at it. she filled his tremulous hands with guineas, emptying both ends of the purse into his hollowed palms. he had never seen so much gold. the strangers who came to sit under his _pergola_, and drink great bowls of new milk from the fawn-coloured cows that were his best source of income, thought themselves generous if they gave him a _scudo_ at parting: but here was a visitor from fairyland raining gold into his hands. "they are english guineas, and you will gain by the exchange," she said, "so you can have the physician to see you every day. he will not want to bleed you when he sees how weak you are." the old man shook his head doubtfully. they were so ready with the lancet, those doctors! his eyes were fixed on the guineas, as he tried to reckon them. the coins lay in too close a heap to be counted easily. he broke into a rapture of gratitude, invoking every saint in the calendar, and antonia shivered with pain at the exaggeration of his acknowledgments. he thanked her as a wayside beggar would have done. his benedictions were the same as the professional mendicants, the maimed and halt and blind, gave her when she dropped a coin into a basket or a hat. he belonged to the race which is accustomed to taking favours from strangers. he belonged to the sons of bondage, poverty's hereditary slaves. she appealed to francesca. "would it not be better for your grandfather if he lived at bellagio, where he would have a comfortable house in a street, and plenty of neighbours?" she asked. "i don't think he would like to leave the vineyard, signorina; though it would be very pleasant to live in the town," answered francesca. her dark eyes sparkled at the thought. it was lonely on the hill, where she had only the children to talk to, and her grandfather, whose conversation was one long lamentation. the old man looked up with a scared expression. "_ohime! non posso!_" he exclaimed, "i could not leave the villino. i shall die as i have lived, in the villino!" "well, you must do what is best pleasing to yourself," antonia said. "all i desire is that you should be happy, and enjoy every comfort that money can buy." she bent down and kissed the sunburnt forehead, so wrinkled and weather-beaten after the long life of toil. she asked francesca to walk a little way with her; and they went out into the lane together. "your house looks comfortless even in sunshine," antonia said. "it must be worse in winter!" "_si, signorina._ it is very cold in bad weather, but grandfather loves the villino." "you might get a carpenter to mend the windows and put new hinges on the shutters. they look as if they would hardly shut." "indeed, signorina, 'tis long since our shutters have been shut. grandfather is too poor to pay a carpenter. nothing in the house has been mended since i can remember." "but you have your cows and your vineyard. how is it that he is so poor?" the girl shrugged her shoulders. she knew nothing. "is it you who keeps the purse?" "no, no, _signorina, non so niente_. grandfather gives me money to pay the baker----" "and the butcher?" "we do not buy meat. i kill a fowl sometimes, or a rabbit; but for the most part we have cabbage soup and polenta." "well, you will have plenty of money in future. i shall see to that; and you must take care that your grandfather has good food every day, and a doctor when he is ailing, and warm blankets for winter. i want you both to be happy and well cared for. and you must get a man to dig in the garden and carry water for you. i don't like to see a girl work as you do." francesca stared at the beautiful lady in open wonder. she was doubtless mad as a march hare, la poverina; but what a delightful form her madness had taken. it might be that the blessed virgin had inspired this madness, and sent this lovely lunatic wandering from house to house among the deserving poor, scattering gold wherever she found want and piety. it was almost a miracle. indeed, who could be sure that this benign lady was not the blessed one herself, who could appear in any manner she pleased, even arrayed in the latest fashion of plumed hats and india muslin _négligées?_ antonia left the girl a little way from the villino, and walked slowly down the hill to bellagio, deep in thought. alas, alas, to have found her mother's kindred, and to feel no thrill of love, no yearning to take them to her heart, only the same kind of pity she had felt for those poor wretches in lambeth marsh, only an eager desire to make their lot happier, to give them all good things that money can buy. "should i grow to love that old man if i knew him better?" she wondered. "is there some dormant affection in my heart, some hereditary love that needs but to be warmed into life by time and custom? god knows what i am made of. i do not feel as if i could ever care for that poor old man as grandfathers are cared for. my mother's father, and he loved her dearly! it is base ingratitude in me not to love him." she recalled the greedy look that came into the withered old face at sight of the gold. a painter need have asked no better model for harpagon. she would have given much not to have seen that look. she would visit them often, she thought, and would win him to softer moods. she would question him about her mother's girlhood, beguile him into fond memories of the long-lost daughter, memories of his younger days, before grinding poverty had made him so eager for gold. she would make herself familiar with bari and his granddaughter, find out all their wants, all their desires, and provide for the welfare of the old life that was waning, and the young life with a long future before it. she would make age and youth happy, if it were possible. but she would not tell them of the relationship that made it her duty to care for them. she would let them remember her as the eccentric stranger, who had found them in poverty, and left them in easy circumstances; the benefactress dropped from the clouds. to what end should she tell them of kinship if she could not give them a kinswoman's love? and she could not. the girl was a beautiful creature, kindly, gentle, caressing; but she was a peasant, a peasant whose thoughts had never travelled beyond the narrow circle of her hills, whose rough knuckles and thick fingers told of years of toil, who had not one feeling in common with the cousin bred upon books, and plunged in the morning of youth into the most enlightened society in christendom, the london of walpoles and herveys, carterets and st. johns, pitts and foxes. she would not tell them. she could not imagine her lips framing the words. she could not say to francesca, "we are first cousins, the next thing to sisters." but she could make them happy. that was possible. she could take all needful measures to provide them with a substantial income; a competence which should enable them to rebuild the rotten old villa, and spend the rest of their days in ease and plenty. lord dunkeld called on her in the evening, and took a dish of tea with the two ladies in their garden betwixt sunset and moonrise. he found antonia looking pale and tired. "she started on one of her solitary rambles early this morning," sophy said; "as if any one ought to walk in this climate, and she was as white as her muslin gown when she came home. she had much better have idled with me in the boat." "i did not go far," antonia said, "but i found some interesting people--only peasants. the girl your lordship noticed yesterday in the procession." "the girl who is so like you?" exclaimed dunkeld. "i thought your ladyship was a stranger to at least one of the deadly sins, and knew no touch of vanity. but i find you are mortal, and that you had a fancy to see a face like your own." "yes, i had a fancy to see the girl. and now i want to help her, if i can. she is desperately poor." "is anybody poor in italy? i have always thought that italian peasants live upon sunshine and a few ripe figs, and have no use for money." "they are very poor. the grandfather is old, and ailing. can you find me an honest lawyer here, or at varenna?" "for your ladyship i would attempt miracles. i will do my best." "and as quickly as you can, my lord, for i want to go back to england." "grant me the felicity of escorting you when you go, and make me your slave in the mean time; though, as i am always that, madam, 'tis a one-sided bargain." "oh, pray come in our coach with us, my lord," cried sophy. "i was in a panic all the way here, on account of the brigands." "heavens! was your coach attacked?" "no, no, sir," said antonia, laughing. "the brigands came no nearer than a vague rumour that some of their calling had been heard of above andermatt." "but who knows what may happen when we are going home, now that the days are so much shorter?" protested sophy. "if one strong arm and a pair of pistols can help you, miss potter----" "oh, i shall feel ever so much safer with your lordship in our coach. i know if those wretches came--with black masks, perhaps--giuseppe would run away." giuseppe was the italian footman, whom sophy suspected of being a poor-spirited creature, in spite of a figure which would have delighted the late king of prussia. antonia went to the villino on the following afternoon, and being unable to shake off lord dunkeld, allowed him to accompany her. she liked his conversation, which diverted her thoughts from brooding upon the past, and on george stobart's peril in the wild world across the atlantic. he filled the place of that brilliant society which had been her anodyne for every grief; and she was grateful to him for a steadfastness in friendship which promised to last for a lifetime. his colder temperament had allowed him to put off the lover and assume the friend. he had been strong as a granite pillar where george stobart had proved a broken reed. they found the girl tying up the vine branches in a long berceau, and the old man sitting by the smouldering ashes as he had sat yesterday, in a monotony of idleness. the windows had not been mended, and the shutters still hung forlornly upon broken hinges. antonia asked the girl if she had not been able to find a carpenter to do the work. "grandfather would not let a carpenter come. he is afraid of the noise." "and when bad weather comes the rain will come in." "_si, signorina;_ the rain always comes in." "and your broken shutters cannot keep out the cold winds." "no, signorina; the wind almost blows grandfather out of his chair sometimes." "then he really ought to let a carpenter come." the old man was listening intently, and dunkeld was watching his face. "they are brigands, those carpenters," he said. "'tis a waste of money to employ them. i don't mind the wind, signorina. francia can hang up a curtain." "oh, grandfather, the curtain is an old rag! and the signorina gave you money to pay the carpenter." "_andiamo adagio, carissima._ i am not going to waste the signorina's money on idlers and cheats, nor yet upon doctors. i hate doctors! they are knaves, bloodthirsty rogues that want to be paid for sticking a knife into a man as if he were a pig!" antonia did not argue the point, and left the old man after a few kindly words. she was disgusted at his obstinacy, which made it so hard a matter to improve his circumstances. she walked some way in silence, dunkeld at her side. "i fear your new _protégé_ is a troublesome subject," he said, "and that you will find a difficulty in helping him." "i cannot understand his objection to having that wretched old barn made wind and weather tight." "i can. the man is a miser. you have given him money, and he wants to keep it, to hide it under his mattress, perhaps, and gloat over it in the dead of the night. the miser has a keener joy in the touch of a guinea than in any indulgence of meat or drink, warmth and comfort, that money can buy." "i fear your lordship has guessed the riddle," antonia answered, wounded to the quick. "i gave him all the gold in my purse yesterday. 'twas at least twenty guineas. well, i must take other means. i will send a carpenter to do all the work that is wanted, and take the bellagio doctor to the villino to-morrow morning." "will your ladyship be offended if i presume to advise?" "offended! i shall think you vastly kind." "leave these people alone. the old man is unworthy of your protection. the girl is happy in her present condition. your bounty will but administer to her grandfather's avarice, and will not better her life." "but i must help them--i must, i must," antonia protested. "it is my duty. i cannot let them suffer the ills of poverty while i am rich. i must find some way to make their lives easy." dunkeld wondered at her vehemence, and pursued the argument no further. this passion of charity was but an instinct of her generous nature, the desire to share fortune's gifts with the unfortunate. she returned from this second visit dispirited and unhappy. was she doomed never to be able to esteem those whom she was bound to love? she had loved her father fondly, though she had known him unprincipled and shifty; but what affection could she feel for this old man against whom her class instinct revolted, unless she could find in him humble virtues that could atone for humble birth? and she found him sordid, untruthful, avaricious. she called on the local doctor next morning, and went with him to the villino, where he diagnosed the old man's ailments as only old age, the weakness induced by poor food, and the rheumatic symptoms that were the natural result of living in a draughty house. he recommended warmth and a generous diet, and promised to call once a week through the coming winter, his fee for each visit being something less than an english shilling. after he had gone antonia sat in the garden with baptisto bari and his granddaughter for an hour. she had his chair carried into the sunshine, and out of the way of the noise, while a couple of workmen mended the windows and shutters. she had found a builder in bellagio, and had instructed him to do all that could be done to make the house comfortable before winter. he was to get the work done with the least possible inconvenience to the family. sitting in the quiet garden, while francesca gathered beans for the soup, and while the children sprawled in the sun, playing with some toys antonia had brought them, bari was easily lured into talking of the past, and of the daughter he had loved. all that was best in his nature revealed itself when he talked of his sorrow; and antonia thought that the miser's despicable passion had only grown upon him after the loss that had, perhaps, blighted his life. and then, when he was an old man, death had taken his remaining daughter; and he had been left, lonely and heart-broken, with his orphan grandchildren. he had begun to scrape and pinch for their support, most likely; and then the miser's insane love of money had grown upon him, like some insidious disease. antonia tried to interest him, and to make excuses for him, and she spoke to him very plainly upon the money question. she appealed even to his selfishness. "when i give you money, it is that you may have all the good things that money can buy," she said; "good wine and strengthening food, warm clothes, a comfortable bed. what is the use of a few guineas in a cracked teacup, or hidden in a corner of your mattress?"--baptisto almost jumped out of his chair, and she knew she had hit upon the place of his treasure. "what is the use of hoarding money that other people will spend and waste, perhaps, when you are dead?" "no, no, she will not waste it. _che diavolo!_ she will give me a handsome funeral, and spend all the rest on masses for the good of my soul. that is what she will have to do." "you need not save money for that. if you live comfortably your life will be prolonged, most likely; and i promise that you shall have a handsome funeral, and the--the masses." she went again next day, and on the day after, always alone; and the old man became more and more at his ease with her; but all that she did was done for duty's sake, and she found it harder work to talk to him than it had been to talk with poor dying sally dormer, by whose bedside she had spent many quiet hours. the abyss between them was wider. but she felt more affectionately towards francesca, who adored her almost as if she were indeed the celestial lady whose miraculous presence every good catholic is prepared to meet at any solemn crisis of life. antonia did not rest till, with the assistance of a banker and lawyer at varenna, she had settled an income of three hundred pounds a year upon baptisto, with reversion to his grandchildren, she herself acting as trustee in conjunction with the banker, who was partner in an old-established banking house at milan, of which the varenna bank--in a pavilion in an angle of a garden wall--was a branch. this done, her mind was at ease, and she prepared for her journey to england. she would return, as she had come, by the low countries, avoiding france on account of the war. lord dunkeld had advised and assisted her in making the settlement on the baris, but she knew that he thought her foolish and quixotic in her determination to provide for this particular family. "i could find you a score of claimants for your bounty, far more pathetic cases than baptisto, if you are so set upon playing the good angel," he said. "'tis a mercy you do not want to provide for the whole pauper population upon the same magnificent scale. three hundred a year for an italian peasant! but a woman's charity is ever a romantic impulse; and one can but admire her tenderness, though one may question her discretion." "i may have a reason you cannot fathom," antonia said gravely. "oh, 'tis the heart moves you to this act, not the reason! this world would be happier if all women were as unreasonable." she despised herself for suppressing the motive of her bounty. to be praised for generosity, while she was ashamed to acknowledge her own kindred, ashamed of her own lowly origin! what could be meaner or more degrading? but she thought of dunkeld's thousand years' pedigree, the pride of birth, the instinct of race, which he had so often revealed unconsciously in their familiar talk; and it was difficult to sink her own pride before so proud a man. the last day came, and he insisted on accompanying her in her farewell visit. she had given him the privileges of a trusted friend, and had no excuse for refusing his company. she told baptisto bari what she had done for him. "you will have seventy-five pounds paid you every quarter," she said; "and all you have to do is to spend your money freely, and let francesca buy everything that is wanted for you, and the children, and herself. i shall come back next year, and i shall be very sorry and very angry if i do not find you living in comfort, and the villino looking as handsome as a nobleman's villa." the old man protested his gratitude, with tears. yes, he would spend his money. he had been spending it. see, there was the magnificent new curtain; and he had a pillow for his bed; and a barrel of oil for the lamp. they had the lamp lighted every night. and he had coffee--a dish of coffee on sunday--and they had been drinking their milk, and making butter for themselves, instead of selling all the milk to the _negozio_ in bellagio. indeed, he had discovered that money was a very useful thing when one spent it; though it was also useful to keep it against the day of misfortune or death. "true, m'amico; but it is bad economy to keep your money under your pillow, and let your house fall over your ears for want of mending," answered antonia; and then she bade him good-bye--good-bye till next year, and bent down to kiss the withered forehead, above white pent-house eyebrows. the keen old eyes clouded over with tears as her lips touched him, and the tremulous old hands were joined in prayer that god and the saints might reward her piety. she opened her arms to francesca, who fell upon her breast, sobbing. "ah, sweetest lady, had the poor ever such a friend, ever such a benefactor? heaven sent you to us. we pray for you night and day, for your happiness on earth, for your soul's bliss in heaven," cried the girl, in her melodious italian. antonia could scarcely drag herself away from the clinging arms, the tears and benedictions; but she left francesca at the garden gate, and amid all those tears and kisses had not revealed herself to her kindred. she crossed the hill in silence, dunkeld at her side, watching her thoughtful countenance, and perplexed by its almost tragic gloom. "you are a wonderful woman," he said lightly, by-and-by, to break the spell of silence. "you take these italian peasants to your heart as if they were your own flesh and blood. is it the italian blood in your veins that opens your heart to beings of so different a race?" "perhaps." "i could understand your letting the girl hug you--a creature so lovely, and in the bloom and freshness of youth. but that wrinkled old miser! well, 'twas a divine charity that moved you to squander a kiss upon that parchment brow." antonia turned to him in a sudden tumult of feeling, remorse, shame, self-disparagement. "oh, stop, stop!" she cried. "your words scald me like molten lead. divine charity! why, i am the most despicable of women. i hate myself for my paltry pride. i can bear the shame of it no longer. 'twill be your lordship's turn to scorn me as i scorn myself. that old man is my mother's father. i came to italy to hunt for her kindred, to find in what palace she was reared, from what princely race i inherited my haughty spirit. and a chance, the chance likeness between francesca and me, resulted in the discovery that i came of a long line of peasants, servants, the tillers of the ground, the race that lives by submissive toil, that has never known independence. and i was ashamed of them--bitterly ashamed. it was anguish to me to know that i sprang from that humble stock, most of all when i thought of you, your warriors, and statesmen, bishops, judges--all the long line of rulers and master minds, stretching back into the dark night of history, part of yourself; for if they had never lived you could not be what you are." "oh, madam, you own a more noble lineage than scottish thanes can boast of. the seaborn venus had no ancestors, but was queen of the earth by the divine right of beauty. you are a daughter of the gods, and may easily dispense with a parchment pedigree." "oh, pray, sir, no idle compliments! i would rather suffer your contempt than your mocking praise. i can scarcely be more despicable in your esteem than i am in my own." "i could never think ill of you, my sweet friend; never doubt the nobility of your heart and mind. the test has been a severe one; for to a woman the death of a romantic dream means much; but the gold rings true. you had a right to keep this secret from me if you pleased." "and from them?" "that is a nicer question. i doubt it is your duty to make them happier by the knowledge that they have a legitimate claim to your bounty. i think you would do well to disclose your relationship to them before you leave italy. the old man may not live till your return; and the thought that pride had come between you and one so near in blood might be a lasting regret." "yes, yes, your lordship is right. i will see them again this evening. i will tell my grandfather who and what i am. yes, it was odious of me to play the lady bountiful, to let him praise me for generosity--me, his daughter's child. sure i am glad i made my confession to you, for now i know that you are my true friend." "i will never advise you ill, if i can help it, madam," he said, stooping to kiss her hand. "and doubt not that you can trust me with every secret of your heart and mind, for there can exist no feeling or thought in either that is not common to generous natures." * * * * * lady kilrush spent the sunset hour with her kindred, and was touched by the old man's delight when he clasped to his heart the child of that daughter he had loved and mourned. she knelt beside him with uncovered head as she told him the story of her childhood, her love for the mother she had lost before memory began. he turned her face to the sunset glow, and gazed at her with eyes drowned in tears. he was no longer the money-grubber, keenly expectant of a stranger's bounty. the whole nature of the man seemed changed by the awakening of an unforgotten love. "yes, it is tonia's face," he cried. "i knew you were beautiful; i knew you were like her; but not how like. your brow has the same lines, your lips have the same curves. yes, now, as you smile at me, i see my beloved one again." there was nothing sordid or vulgar in the peasant now. his countenance shone with the pure light of love, and antonia's heart went out to him with some touch of filial affection. before they parted he gave her a letter--the ink dim with age--her mother's last letter, written from the lincolnshire homestead where she died; and antonia read of the love that had hung over her cradle, that tender maternal love she had been fated never to know. she deferred her journey for a few days, at her grandfather's entreaty, and spent many hours at the villino. she encouraged baptisto and francesca to talk to her of all the details of their lives. she drew nearer to them in thought and feeling, and made new plans for their happiness, promising to come to bellagio every autumn, and offering to build them a new house next year at the other end of their garden where the view was finer. but the old man protested that the villino would last his time, and that he would never like any house as well. "then the new house must be built for francesca when she marries," antonia told him gaily. "we will wait till she has a suitor she loves." chapter xvi. death and victory. it was late in october when lady kilrush arrived at her house in st. james's square. what a gloomy splendour, what an unromantic luxury the spacious mansion presented after the lake and mountains, the chestnut woods and rose gardens of lombardy. yet this old english comfort within doors, while the grey mists of autumn brooded over the square where the oil lamps made spots of quivering golden light amidst the deepening gloom, had a certain charm, and antonia was not ill pleased to find herself taking a dish of tea by the fire in the library with her old friend patty granger, who brought her the news of the town, the weddings and elopements, the duels and law-suits, the beauties who had lost their looks, and the prodigals who had anticipated their majority and ruined an estate by a single cast at hazard. "and so lord dunkeld travelled all the way from como with you and mrs. potter?" said patty, when she had emptied her budget. "you must have been vastly tired of him by the time you got home, after being boxed in a travelling chariot for over a se'nnight." "there are people of whose company one does not easily tire, patty." "then my old general ain't one of 'em; for i yawn till my jaws ache whenever we spend an evening together, and he sits and proses over marlborough's wars and the two chargers he had shot under him at malplaquet. sure i knew all his stories by heart long before we were married; and 'tain't likely i'll listen to 'em now. but if you can relish lord dunkeld's conversation for a week in a chaise, perhaps you'll be able to endure it from year's end to year's end when you're his wife." "what are you thinking of, child? i am not going to marry lord dunkeld, or any other man living." "then i think you ought to have put the poor wretch out of his pain a year ago, and not let him dance attendance on you half over europe." "his lordship has known my mind for a long time, and is pleased to honour me with his friendship." "ah, you have a knack of turning lovers into friends. you was friends with mr. stobart till you quarrelled with him and sent him off to the wars. and i doubt he's killed by this time, if he was with wolfe; for the general tells me our soldiers haven't a chance against the french." "does the general say that, patty?" antonia asked anxiously. she had read all the newspapers on her home-coming. there was no fresh news from america; but the tone about the war was despondent. wolfe's army before quebec was but nine thousand, the enemy's force nearly double. amherst was at a distance, winter approaching, the outlook of a universal blackness. "the general has hardly any hopes," said patty. "he has seen wolfe's last letter, such a down-hearted letter; and the poor man is fitter to lie a-bed in a hospital than to storm a city. he has always been a sickly wretch; never could abide the sea, and suffers more on a voyage than a delicate young woman." * * * * * antonia lay awake half that night, despondent and uneasy, and in her troubled morning sleep dreamt of george stobart, in a grenadier's uniform, with an ashen countenance, the blood streaming from a sabre cut on his forehead. he looked at her with fading eyes, and reproached her for her cruelty. 'twas her unkindness had sent him to his doom. she woke out of this nightmare vision to hear news-boys yelling in the square. "taking of quebec. a glorious victory. death of general wolfe. death of general montcalm." she sprang from her bed, threw up a window, and looked down into the square. it was hardly light. the news-boys were bawling as if they were mad, and street doors and area gates were opening, and eager hands were stretched out to snatch the papers. a ragamuffin crowd was following the news-boys, the crowd that is afoot at all hours, and comes from nowhere. "great english victory--slaughter of the enemy. death of general wolfe on the field of battle. death of general montcalm. destruction of the french. quebec taken." mr. pitt had received the news late last night, and this morning 'twas in all the papers. the shouting of the news-vendors made a confusion of harsh noises, each trying to bawl louder than his fellows. and then came the sound of trumpet and drum in pall mall, as the guard marched to the palace, and anon loud hurrahs from the excited crowd in the square, in pall mall, everywhere, filling the air with vociferous exultation. death and victory! the words reached antonia's ear together. victory purchased at what cost of blood, what sacrifice of lives that were dear? she had met old general wolfe and his handsome wife, now a widow, the hero's proud mother; and it was sad to think of that lady's agony to-day, while all england was rejoicing, all who had not lost their dearest as she had. both generals slain! and how many of those they led to battle? were george stobart's bones lying on the heights of abraham, the prey of eagles and wolves, or buried hastily by some friendly hand, hidden for ever under that far-off soil, which the winter snow would soon cover? her heart ached at the thought that she would see him no more, she who had desired, or thought she desired, never to look upon his face. she sent her woman for the newspapers, and turned them over with trembling hands, standing by the open window in the chill autumnal air, too much discomposed even to sit down. the _daily advertiser_ had a letter with a description of the siege; all the wonder of it; the boats creeping up the river under the midnight stars; the ascent of that grim height through the darkness, the soldiers clambering with uncertain foothold, clutching at bushes, struggling through trees, their muskets slung at their backs, the _qui vive?_ of the french sentinel above, the courage, the address, the presence of mind of leaders and men. there had been great losses; but there was no list of the killed; and stobart might be among them. she ordered her coach to be at the door in an hour, and waited only to dress and take a cup of chocolate before she went to see mrs. stobart, who, if her husband had survived the siege, might have had a letter by the ship that brought england the news from quebec. a stranger opened the door at crown place. instead of mrs. stobart's handmaiden, in white apron and mob cap, antonia saw an old woman, of dejected aspect, who stared at the footman and coach as at some appalling vision. yes, mrs. stobart was at home, but she was very ill, the woman said, and it might be dangerous for the lady to see her. the lady, who had alighted at the opening of the door, took no heed of this warning. the wife was ill, struck down perhaps by the shock of fatal news. antonia instantly associated lucy's illness with the fate of her husband. "where is she?" she asked, and ran upstairs without waiting to be answered. in an eight-roomed house it was not difficult to find the mistress's chamber. she opened the door of the front room softly, and found herself in darkness, an obscurity made horrible by the stifling heat of the room, where the red cinders of what had been a fierce fire made a lurid glow behind the high brass fender. the dimity curtains were closed round the bed. antonia drew one of them aside and looked at the sick woman. she was asleep, and breathing heavily, her forehead bound with a linen cloth, and the hand lying on the coverlet burnt like a hot coal under antonia's touch. the old woman came panting up the stairs, and after stopping to recover her normal breathing power, which was but feeble, she addressed the visitor in a voice of alarm. "oh, madam, you had best come away from the bed. 'tis the small-pox, a bad case, and if you have never had the disease----" "i have been inoculated. i am not afraid," antonia answered quickly, thinking only of the patient. alas, poor soul, to be seized with that hateful sickness, which she so feared. "how did she come by this horrible malady, ma'am?" "she caught it from an old gentleman, my lady--i believe he was a relation--who died in the house. she was taken ill the night after his funeral, a fortnight ago. 'tis the worst kind of small-pox. she was quite sensible two days ago, and then the fever came back, the secondary fever, the doctor calls it. even if she gets over it she will be disfigured for life, poor lady, and may lose her eyesight. 'tis as bad a case as i ever nursed, and if your honour hadn't been inoculated----" "but i have, woman, and i have no fear. pray tell me where is this lady's son? was he in the house when she was taken ill?" "no, my lady. the little master is living with his gran'ma, the servant girl told me." "that is fortunate. are you mrs. stobart's only nurse?" "yes, my lady." "and at night when you are asleep, who attends upon her?" "i am a very light sleeper, ma'am. i mostly hears her when she calls me, if she calls loud enough." "she must have two nurses. i will get another woman to help you, and i shall come every day to see that she is attended properly. pray, who is her doctor?" the woman named a humble apothecary in lambeth, called morton, whom antonia had often met in her visits to the poor, a meek elderly man in whose skill and kindness she had confidence, in spite of his rusty coat and breeches, coarse cotton stockings and grubby hands. "i will send a physician to see her. tell mr. morton that i shall send dr. heberden, who will confer with him. do you know if mrs. stobart has had any trouble on her mind lately, any anxiety?" "only about her house, my lady. her slut of a maid ran away directly she heard 'twas small-pox." the apothecary came in while antonia was standing by the bed, and was aghast at the spectacle. "does your ladyship know what risk you run here? oh, madam, for god's sake, leave this infected air." "i am not afraid. i did not take the disease when the doctors tried to inoculate me. i doubt i am proof against the poison." "nay, madam, you must not count on that. i implore you to leave this room instantly, and never to re-enter it. 'tis a bad case of confluent small-pox, and i fear 'twill be fatal." "and this poor lady is alone, her husband fighting in america, killed in the late battle, perhaps. at whatever risk i shall do all i can for her. and i hope we may save her, sir, with care and good nursing." "your ladyship may be sure i will do my best," said morton. "i will go out into the air while you see to your patient. this room is stifling. you will find me below, waiting to talk to you." she walked on the footpath by the river till the apothecary came to her, and then gave him her instructions. dr. heberden was to see the patient that afternoon, if possible. antonia would wait upon him and persuade him to do so. and mr. morton was to be at hand to receive his instructions. and a nurse was to be found, more serviceable than the old woman on the premises, who seemed civil and obliging, and could be kept to help her. "and i shall see the patient every day," concluded antonia. "i must warn your ladyship once more, that you will do so at the peril of your life." "my good mr. morton, there are situations in which that hazard hardly counts. this poor lady's husband, for instance, has he not risked his life a hundred times in america? risked and lost it, perhaps!" there was a catch in her voice like a stifled sob, as she spoke the last sentence. "that is a vastly different matter, your ladyship," said morton gravely; but he ventured no farther remonstrance. * * * * * antonia saw the physician, and obtained his promise to see mrs. stobart that afternoon. she drove through streets that were in a tumult of rejoicing at the success of british arms. no one thought of the general who had fallen, the soldiers who had died. victory was on every lip, exultation in every mind. 'twas all the coachman could do to steer horses and chariot through the crowd. arrived at home safely, lady kilrush told the hall porter to deny her to all visitors, which would not be difficult, since her arrival in london had not been recorded in the newspapers, and lord dunkeld was on the road to scotland, to shoot grouse on his own moors. she ordered her chair for six o'clock, and in the meanwhile shut herself in her dressing-room, where sophy found her, to whom she related her morning's work. "if you are frightened don't come near me," she said. "i am frightened for you, madam, not for myself. i suppose after having had such a bout when i was inoculated i am safe to escape the small-pox for the rest of my life. sure i carry the marks on my face and neck, though they mayn't be so bad as to make me hideous." "then if you are not afraid, you can keep me company in this room of an evening, till mrs. stobart is well enough to be sent into the country; and you can drive and walk with me. i will admit no visitors, for i must see her every day if i would be sure that her nurses do their duty. poor soul, she is alone, and in great danger." sophy implored her mistress to run no such hazard, besought her with tears, and with the importunity of a warm affection. in her ladyship's case inoculation had been a failure. she would be mad to re-enter that infected house. sophy would herself visit mrs. stobart, and see that she was properly nursed. "no, child, no, it is i who must go. it is my duty." "why, i never knew you was so fond of her--a pretty simpleton, with scarce a word to say for herself." "don't argue with me, sophy. it is useless. if there is any risk, i have run it," antonia answered. she shivered as she recalled that darkened chamber, the tainted atmosphere, the oppressive heat of a fire that had been burning day and night through the mild october weather. she knew that there was poison in that pestilential air, and that she had inhaled it, knew and did not care. her eyes were shining with a feverish light. her heart ached with remorseful pity for the deserted wife, deserted by the man who had fled from his country, flung himself into a service of danger, flung away his life perhaps. it was because she had been unwise, had encouraged a close friendship that was but a mask for love, that yonder poor woman was lying on her sick bed deserted by her natural protector. he had sacrificed every tie, renounced every duty, on account of that guilty love. she hated herself when she thought that she had lured him from his home, had made him her friend and counsellor, at the expense of his young wife. every hour he had spent with her in st. james's square had been stolen from lucy and her boy. it was the wife who had a right to his thoughts, his counsels, his leisure; and she had filched them from her. he had lingered by the fireside in her library, reluctant to leave her, when he should have been brightening lucy's monotonous existence, elevating her mind by his conversation, continuing that education of heart and intellect in which he had been engaged before he lost himself in a fatal friendship. she had driven him from her with anger and contempt, driven him into exile and danger; but had she not as much need to be angry with herself, remembering her pleasure in his company, her forgetfulness of his wife's claims? this one thing remained for her to do, to watch over the lonely wife in her day of peril, to win her back to life and health if it were possible. this atoning act would ease her conscience, perhaps, and bring her peace of mind. if george stobart lived to come back to england he would know that she had done her duty, and, although not a christian, had fulfilled the christian's mission of mercy and love. and if that ghastly distemper struck her down--a possible result, though she did not apprehend it--what then? she had no keen love of life, and would not much regret to lay down the load of days that had lost their savour. she had tasted all the pleasures that the world, the flesh, and the devil can offer a beautiful woman, all the luxuries that gold can buy, all the homage that rank can claim, the adulation of high-born profligates, the envy of rival beauties, and every trivial diversion that satan can put into the minds of the idle rich. she had struck every note in the gamut of elegant pleasures; and had arrived at that period of satiety in which some women take to vice as the natural crescendo in the scale of emotion. what sacrifice would it be to die for her who feared no hereafter, had no account to render? she visited mrs. stobart every day, questioned nurses and doctors, and took infinite trouble to secure the patient's comfort. she sat by the sick-bed, endured the fetid atmosphere of a room carefully shut against the air of heaven, she listened to lucy's delirious ravings, her frantic appeals to her husband to come back to her. she, who in her right senses had seemed to grieve so little at his absence, in her wanderings was for ever recalling the happy hours of their courtship, acting over again that simple story of a girl's first love for a sweetheart of superior station. antonia listened with an aching heart. the love was there then; the woman was not the pink-and-white automaton she had once thought her. and she had come between george stobart and this idyllic affection, had spoiled two lives, unwittingly, but not without guilt. she had absorbed him, suffered him to squander all his leisure upon her company, sought his counsel, invited his sympathy, made herself a part of his life, as no woman has the right to do with another woman's husband. and now, sitting by what might be the bed of death, she could not forgive herself for that friendship which she had cherished without thought of the cost. she had courted his company, and reproached him when he absented himself. he had been her most cherished companion; those days had been blank on which they had not met. all the feverish pleasures of the great world had not been enough to make up for one lost hour of his society. their talk beside the firelit hearth, in the darkening twilight, their meetings in poverty-stricken garrets and loathsome alleys, had been more to her than all the rest of her life. "if she should die before he comes back to her it will be on my conscience for ever that i was the wretch who parted them," she thought. the doctors were not hopeful of mrs. stobart's recovery. she had very little strength, they told lady kilrush, very little power to fight against the disease, which had attacked her in its most virulent form. should she recover, she would be disfigured for life, and possibly blind. oh, the horror of it! if he came home to find the pretty childish face, the lily and rose complexion, so cruelly transformed! was not death almost better for the victim than such a resurrection? heaven was kinder to this weak soul than to spare her for such a cruel fate. after antonia had been visiting her for over a week, in which time there had been no improvement in the symptoms, there came a rally with some hours of consciousness; but this was only the prelude of approaching death. lucy recognized antonia, spoke of her husband and her son in a sage and matter-of-fact tone which was quite unlike her talk in delirium, was glad that the boy was safely out of the way when she was seized with the malady. "my father came here one night, in a raging fever," she told antonia. "i was frightened; but i hadn't the heart to drive him out of the house. he looked like a dying man. it was the small-pox. he had sent the disease inward by getting up from his bed and going out into the streets in the rain. he lay ill over a week, and i got an old woman to nurse him. i never went near him after i knew. but the infection was in the house, i suppose. i remember the night of his funeral, and my aching bones, and my burning head. i knew i was going to be ill. and then i remember nothing more--nothing more. was it last night--the funeral?" she spoke in a weak voice, in broken sentences, with long pauses between, antonia holding her hand as she talked. the poor wasted hand was icy cold now; the fever was gone--gone with the life of the patient. "you'll give mr. stobart my love," she said, "and please tell him i was very unhappy after he went to america. it was very kind of you to come to me; but then you like visiting sick people. i don't. mr. stobart used to tell me i was no dorcas." she lingered for a day and a night after this return of consciousness; but her last hours were passed in a stupor, and she died in her sleep, so quietly that the nurse who kept watch by her bed knew not the moment of her last sigh. chapter xvii. sword and bible. lady kilrush wrote to lady lanigan at the circus, bath, to inform her of her daughter-in-law's death. she had written some days before to acquaint that lady with poor lucy's sad condition; but there had been as yet no reply to the first letter, and there was no time to wait for an answer to the second, so she made all arrangements for the funeral, and chose lucy's last resting-place in the rural churchyard at mortlake, not very far from the cottage where she had first seen the methodist and his young wife. she was suffering from a chill and a touch of fever on the morning of the funeral, but bore up long enough to see george stobart's wife laid in earth, since there was no one else but the doctor and the nurse to perform that last office. she engaged the old woman whom she had found on the premises to remain in the house as caretaker, till mr. stobart's return. she had hardly strength to drag her aching limbs upstairs when her task was over; and, as the evening wore on, her illness increased, and although she made light of her symptoms to sophy, she could hardly doubt their dire significance. she stood in front of her glass for some minutes before she took to her bed. her head ached, and her throat was parched and swollen, but she was in full beauty still. a hectic crimson burned on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with fever. her hair, dark as midnight, fell in natural curls over the marble whiteness of a throat and bust that had been sung by a score of modish rhymesters, and declared to excel the charms of every venus in the vatican. would she ever see that face again, she wondered, after she lay down on yonder bed? would some strange disfigured image look at her from that familiar glass--the long cheval glass before which she had stood so often in her trivial moods to study the set of a mantua, the hang of a petticoat, a dazzling figure in a splendour of gold and silver, and colour that mocked the glory of an autumn sunset, or for a whim, perhaps, in back velvet, sable from head to foot, a sombre background for her tiara and rivière of diamonds, and her famous pearl necklace. she burst into a wild laugh as she thought of those gems. would she ever again wear pearls or diamonds on her neck? disfigured--blind, perhaps, a creature upon whose hideous form fine clothes and flashing jewels would seem more appalling than a shroud! "good-bye, beautiful lady kilrush," she said, making a low curtsey to the figure in the glass; and then all grew dim, and she could only totter to the bell-pull and ring for help. sophy came to her. the french maid had been banished after her mistress's first visit to mrs. stobart, antonia having taken pains to lessen the risk of contagion for her household. sophy had waited upon her, and had been her only means of communication with the servants. dr. heberden saw her next morning, and recognized the tokens of a disease not much less terrible than the plague. he was careful not to alarm the patient, but gave his instructions to miss potter, and promised to send a capable nurse. "if i am going to be ill let me have the little lambeth apothecary to attend me," antonia said to the physician. "i have seen him by the sick-beds of the poor, and i know what a kind soul it is." "let it be so, dear lady. he will make a good watch-dog. i shall see you every day till you are well." "that will not be for a long time, sir. i know what i have to expect," she answered calmly. "but if i am likely to be hideous, for pity's sake, don't try to save my life." "i protest, your ladyship takes alarm too soon. your sickness may be no more than a chill, with a touch of fever." "oh, i know, i know," she answered, her eyes searching his countenance. "you cannot deceive me, sir. i was prepared for this. i did not think it would come. i thought i was too strong. i hardly feared it; but i knew it was possible. i did what i had to do without counting the cost." she was in a high fever, but still in her right senses. she lay in a half stupor for the rest of the day, and her nurses, a comfortable looking middle-aged woman sent by dr. heberden, and sophy potter, had nothing to do but watch her and give her a cooling drink from time to time. it was growing dusk, and sophy and mrs. ball, the nurse, were taking tea in the dressing-room, when the door was opened and a lady appeared, struggling with a sheet steeped in vinegar that had been hung over the door by mr. morton's order. the intruder was mrs. granger, modishly dressed in a chintz silk tucked up over a black satin petticoat. "drat your vinegar," she cried. "i'll wager my new silk is done for." "oh, madam, you oughtn't to have come here," cried sophy, starting up in a fright. "her ladyship is taken with----" "yes, i know. i've had it, miss potter--had it rather bad when i was a child. you might have seen some marks on my forehead and chin if you'd ever looked close at me. i should have been marked much worse, and i should never have been mrs. general granger, if mother hadn't sat by the bed and held my hands day and night to stop me doing myself a mischief. and i'm going to keep watch over antonia, and save her beauty, if it's in human power to do it." "i am the nurse engaged for the case," said mrs. ball, rising from the tea-board with a stately air, "and your ladyship's services will not be required." "that's for my ladyship to judge, not you. lady kilrush and me was close friends before we married; and i'm not going to leave her at the mercy of any nurse in london, not if she was nurse to the princess of wales." "i think dr. heberden's favourite nurse may be trusted, madam," said mrs. ball, with growing indignation. sophy had gone back to the sick-room. "i wonder her ladyship's hall porter should have let you come upstairs, madam, when he had positive orders to admit nobody," continued mrs. ball. "i didn't wait for his permission when i had got the truth out of him. lions and tigers wouldn't have kept me from my friend, much less hired nurses and hall porters." she took off her hat and flung it on the sofa, and went into the next room with so resolute an air that mrs. ball could only stand staring at her. antonia looked up as she approached the bed, and held out her hand to her. "oh, patty, how glad i am to see you. your face always brings back my youth. but no, no, no, don't come near me. tell her, sophy--tell her! oh, what a racking headache." her head fell back upon the pillow. it was impossible to hold it up with that insufferable pain. patty reminded her friend of the pock marks on her temple and chin, and that she ran no risk in being with her; and from that moment till the peril was past, through a fortnight of keen anxiety, general granger's wife remained at antonia's bedside, watching over her with a devotion that never wearied. it was useless for mrs. ball to protest, or for sophy potter to show signs of jealousy. "i'm going to save her beautiful face for her," patty declared. "she shan't get up from her sick-bed to find herself a fright. she's the handsomest woman in london, and beauty like hers is worth fighting for." dr. heberden heard her, and approved. he had seen her clever management, her tender care of antonia, when the fever was raging, and the delirious sufferer would have done herself mischief in an agony of irritation. the famous doctor was vastly polite to this volunteer nurse, and complimented her on her skill and courage. "as for my courage, sir, 'tis nothing to boast of," patty answered frankly. "poor as my face is, i wouldn't have risked spoiling it, and shouldn't be here if i had not had the distemper when i was a child." * * * * * lady kilrush passed safely through the malady that had been fatal to lucy stobart; but her convalescence was very slow, and she suffered a depression of spirits from which neither her devoted sophy potter nor her lively friend patty could rouse her. she came back to life unwillingly, and felt as if she had nothing to live for. on the very first day that she was able to leave her bed for an hour or two, patty led her to the great cheval glass. "there!" she cried, "look at yourself as close as you please. you are not pitted as much as i am even. why, lord bless the woman! aren't you pleased with yourself, tonia? you stare as if you saw a ghost." "'tis a ghost i am looking at, patty, the ghost of my old self. oh, you have been an angel of goodness, dear; and it is a mercy not to be loathsome; but the past is past, and i shall never be the beautiful lady kilrush again. i hope i was not too proud of my kingdom while i had it. 'tis gone from me for ever." "why, you simpleton! all this fuss because you are hollow-cheeked and pale--and your beautiful hair has been cut off." "a wreck, patty! a haggard ghost! don't think i am going to weep for the loss of a complexion. i had grown tired of the world before i fell ill. it will give me little pain to leave it altogether--only there is nothing else--nothing left but to sit by the fire with a book, and wait for the slow years to roll by. and the years are so slow. it seems a century since i came into this house for the first time, and found the man i loved lying on his death-bed." "oh, how foolish this sadness is! if i was a peeress, with such jewels as yours, a young widow, my own mistress, free to do what i liked for the rest of my days, or to pick and choose a new tyrant if i liked--i should jump for joy. you will be as handsome as ever you was after six weeks at the wells. and you ought to marry a duke, like your friend miss gunning that was, who would never have been thought your equal for looks if there had not been two of her." "dear patty, i have done with vanities. but never doubt my gratitude for the kindness that saved me from being a hideous spectacle." "nay, 'tis but the lion and the mouse over again. you took me in hand and made a lady of me, and how could i do less than jump at the first chance of making a return? i used to be a little bit envious of your handsome face once, tonia, when you used to come to my lodgings in the piazza, in your shabby clothes, so careless and so lovely." * * * * * lady kilrush would see no one after her illness, putting off all visitors with polite little notes of apology, protesting that she was not yet in health to receive visits, and must defer the pleasures of friendship till she was stronger. on this the rumour went about that the disease had disfigured her beyond recognition, and all the envious women of her acquaintance were loud in their compassion. "'tis vastly sad to think she is too ugly to let anybody see her," said one. "i'm told she wears a thick veil even in her own house, for fear of frightening her footmen." "they say she offered a thousand pounds to any one who would invent a wash that would hide the spots," said another. "spots, my dear! 'tis vastly fine to talk of spots. the poor wretch has holes in her face as deep as your thimble." "and is as blind as samson agonistes," said a fourth. "and oh, dear, we are all so sorry for her," said the chorus, with sighs and uplifted hands; and then the fiddles began a country dance, and everybody was curtseying and simpering and setting to partners, down the long perspective of fine clothes and powdered heads, and lady kilrush was forgotten. not by lord dunkeld, who started post-haste for london directly he heard of her illness, and being informed that she was out of danger, and sitting up in her dressing-room every afternoon, pleaded hard to be admitted, but was resolutely refused. sophy wrote to him at her mistress's dictation, assuring him of her lady's unchanging esteem, but adding that she was too much out of spirits to see even her most valued friends. "most valued! i wonder what value she sets upon me?" questioned dunkeld, cruelly disappointed. "'tis the parson-soldier, or the soldier-parson she values. perhaps the loss of her beauty moves her most because she will be less fair in his eyes. i doubt that it is always of one man only that a woman thinks, when she rejoices in her beauty. it is for _his_ sake; to please _his_ eye! the fellow may be a caliban, perhaps, and yet he is the shrine at which she offers her charms." he tried to picture that glorious beauty changed to ugliness, tried and could not; for he could not banish her image as he had seen her in italy. her beauty sparkled and shone before him; and imagination could not conjure up the tragic transformation. "there is no change that could lessen my love," he thought. "she has grown into my heart, and is a part of my life. i may be appalled when i see her, may suffer tortures at a sight so piteous; but she will be dearer to me in her ruined beauty than the handsomest woman in london." he thought of one of the handsomest, the exquisite lady coventry, the younger of the gunning sisters, whose brief reign was hastening towards its melancholy close: a butterfly creature, inferior to antonia in all mental qualities, but with much grace and sparkle, and an irishwoman's high spirits. the ring in hyde park, the rotunda at ranelagh, the opera house and the pantheon, would be poorer for the loss of that brilliant figure. "and if antonia appears there no more 'twill be two stars dropped out of our firmament," thought dunkeld. * * * * * it was in vain that patty urged her friend to try the waters of bath or bristol, as dr. heberden had advised, seeing that his patient was slow to recover her strength. antonia refused to leave st. james's square. "if i went to drink the waters i should have a host of trivial acquaintances buzzing round me," she told patty. "and i have taken a hatred of all company, but yours and sophy's. indeed, i think i hate the world. here i am as safe as in a prison; for my fine friends will think the house infected, and will be afraid to trust their beauty in it." "sure there has been pains enough taken to drive away the contagion," said sophy, who had suffered some inconvenience from the stringent measures lady kilrush had insisted upon after her recovery. "but my friends do not know that, and till they forget my illness this house is my castle." mrs. granger dropped in at teatime two or three times a week, and brought the gossip of the town, and exercised all her wit to enliven her friend; but antonia seemed sunk in a hopeless languor and melancholy, and only affected an interest in the outside world to please her visitor. "i'll swear you are not listening, and have scarce heard a word of it," patty would exclaim, stopping midway in her account of the last event that had startled the town. a rich old mrs. somebody who was going to marry a boy; or a high-born iphigenia sacrificed to an octogenarian bridegroom. antonia had left off caring what people did, or what became of them. even the doings of her duchesses had ceased to interest. they had sent affectionate notes and messages, and she had responded civilly. the duke of cumberland had sent an equerry with his card, and tender inquiries. the princess had sent one of her ladies. and all that antonia desired in her present mood was to be forgotten. she was glad that lady margaret laroche, whom she liked best of all of her fashionable friends, was spending the winter in paris; since she could hardly have denied herself where she was under so many obligations. she read the papers every day, wondering whether she would ever come upon george stobart's name in the news from america; but the name had not appeared, nor had mr. stobart been heard of at his own house at the beginning of the year, when she sent a servant to inquire of the woman in charge there. it was a bitter cold winter; but london was full of movement and gaiety while antonia sat alone in the library at the back of the great solemn house, where the shutting of one of the massive doors reverberated from cellar to roof-tree in the silence. never had there been a gayer season. it seemed as if the noise of all the crackers and squibs that had been burnt after the news from quebec was still in the air. the cold weather killed a good many old people, and there were the usual number of putrid sore throats and typhus fevers in the fine west end mansions; but the herd went on their way rejoicing and illuminating, and praising god for the triumph of english arms on land and sea, since the victories of the great year ' were being briskly followed up in the year that had just begun--the thirty-third of his majesty's illustrious reign. his majesty was waxing old and feeble, and the hero of dettingen was soon to follow that other old lion in the tower; and most people's eyes were turned to the mild effulgence of the rising star, the young prince of wales, or to the prince's mother, and his guardian, my lord bute, who might be supposed to direct that youthful mind. soon, very soon, the great bell would be tolling, the muffled drums beating, and the pomp of a royal funeral would fill the night with torches and solemn music. * * * * * that bitter winter was over, and the river was running gaily under april skies, when george stobart came up the thames to the pool of london. what an insignificant river it seemed after the st. lawrence! what a poor little flat world lay all around him, as his eyes looked out upon his native land--melancholy eyes, that found no joy in anything, no pleasure in that aspect of familiar scenes which delights most wanderers in their home-coming. duty brought him home, while inclination would have kept him in georgia, whither he had made his way by a difficult and perilous journey, from the snow-fields and frozen rivers of canada to the orange groves and sunny sea of the south, after a weary time in the hospital at quebec. there had been much for him to see in the little colony established by the philanthropic oglethorpe five-and-twenty years before, a refuge and a home for poor debtors from the english prisons. he had preached several times in one of the school-rooms at savannah; and the fire and fervour of his exhortations had won him a numerous following, black and white. he had gone among whitefield's slaves; but although he found them for the most part well-used and contented, he loathed a condition which whitefield justified, and against which wesley had never lifted up his voice. to stobart this buying and selling of humanity was intolerable. true that in these pious communities the african was better off than many a slave of toil in spitalfields or whitechapel; but he lived under the fear of the lash, and he knew not when it might suit his owner's convenience to sell him into a worse bondage. it was with a willing heart that the soldier-priest laid down the sword and took up the bible. in his hours of despair, in all the longing and regret of a hopeless love, his faith had remained unshaken. there was still the terror, and there was still the hope: the fear of everlasting condemnation, the hope of life eternal. among the ignorant throng whom the great evangelist awakened to a sense of sin and a yearning for pardon, there were numerous backsliders; but the men of education and enlightenment who followed john wesley seldom fell away. to them the things unseen, the promise and the hope, were more real than the bustle and strife of the world that hemmed them round. they walked the streets of the city with their eyes looking afar off, their thoughts full of that heavenly kingdom where life would put on a loveliness unthinkable here below. sickening at the horrors of a world in which there were such things as the gallows at tyburn, with its batch of victims ten or a dozen at a time--men, women, boys and girls, children almost; the fleet prison; bedlam, with its manacles and scourges, and sunday promenades for the idle curious; bridewell, newgate. sickening at such a world as this, the methodist turned his ecstatic gaze towards that kingdom of christ the lord, where there should be no more tears, no more war, no more oppression, no more grinding poverty or foul disease, and where all the redeemed should be equals in one brotherhood of heavenly love. george stobart went back to his mission work as faithful a believer as in the day of his conversion. he had not been an idle servant while he was with his regiment. he had preached the gospel wherever he could find hearers, had been instant in season and out of season; but his persistence had not been of a noisy kind, and although his superior officers were disposed to docket him as a religious monomaniac, after the manner of methodists, they had never found him troublesome or insubordinate. "mr. stobart is a gentleman," said the major. "and if expounding the scriptures to a parcel of unbelieving rascals can console him for short rations, and keep him warm in a temperature ten degrees below zero--why, who the deuce would deny him that luxury? if he's a saint at his prayers, he's a devil in a _mêlée_; and he saved my scalp from the redskins when we were fighting in the dark in the marshes before louisburg." stobart landed at the docks, had his luggage put on a hackney coach, and drove to his house at lambeth, without a shadow of doubt that he would find all things as he had left them more than two years ago. lucy's last letter had been written in a cheerful spirit. she was elated at georgie's good luck in pleasing his grandmamma, and she prophesied that he would inherit lady lanigan's fortune and become a person of importance. her father's drunken habits and persecuting visits were her only trouble. her health was good, and her last maidservant was the best she had found since she began housekeeping. true that this letter had been written more than half a year ago; but the idea of change or misfortune in the quiet life at home hardly entered into the mind of the man who had so lately passed through all the perils of the siege of quebec, from the first disastrous attack on the heights of the montmorenci to the daring escalade and the battle on the plains of abraham, to say nothing of minor dangers and adventures which had made his life of the last two years a series of hairbreadth escapes. he counted on his wife's smiling welcome; and in the tediousness of the voyage he had been schooling himself to his duty as a husband, to give love for love with liberal measure, to make his wife's future years happy. "poor wesley's only mistake in life is to have made an unfortunate marriage, and not to be able to make the best of a bad bargain," he thought. "but my lucy is no such termagant as mrs. john; and i must be a wretch if i cannot live contentedly with her. she was fair, and gentle, and loving; and i chose her for the companion of my life. i must stand by my choice." in long, wakeful nights, when the ship was rolling in a stormy sea, he had ample leisure to travel again and again over the same ground, to make the same resolutions, to repeat the same prayers for strength within and guidance from above. there was one name he never breathed to himself, one face he tried to shut out of his memory; but such names and such faces have the sleeper at their mercy; and his dreams were often haunted by an image that his waking thoughts ever strove to banish. the spring afternoon was grey and cheerless; a fine rain was falling; and the narrow streets, muddy gutters, and smoky atmosphere of london were not attractive after the clear air and bright white light of georgia. he felt in worse spirits than before he left the ship--his prison of near six weeks--and the journey seemed interminable; but the coach rolled over westminster bridge at last, and drew up in front of his house. the outside shutters were closed over the parlour windows, though it was only five o'clock and broad daylight. lucy must be away from home; with his mother, perhaps, who, having melted to the grandson, might have made a further concession and extended her kindness to the daughter-in-law--her meek _protégée_ of days gone by. the suggestion seemed reasonable; but the aspect of those closed shutters chilled him. he knocked loudly at first; and knocked a second time before the door was opened by a decent old woman in clean white cap and apron. "is your mistress away from home?" the explanation was slow, disjointed, on the woman's part. his questioning was quick, impassioned, horror-stricken; but the story was told at last, the woman sparing him no ghastly particulars: the patient's sufferings; the disfiguring malady which had afterwards seized lady kilrush, who had come through it worse than mrs. stobart, and was said to be a terrible "objick." poor lady kilrush! who had been so kind, and had visited mrs. stobart at the risk of her life, although the doctors had warned her of her danger times and often. and now she was shut up in her house and would see no one, not even her own servants, without the black velvet mask which she wore day and night. stobart had gone into the parlour while they were talking. the grey day came in through the holes in the shutters, and made a twilight in the familiar room. everything was the same as when his wife used to dust and polish the furniture with indefatigable care, and place every chair and table with a prim correctness of line that had often irritated him. there was the bureau at which he used to write; and the little pembroke table was in its own place between the windows, with the big bible laid upon a patchwork mat. and she for whom he had made the home was lying yonder in mortlake churchyard, the place of rustic graves through which he had passed so often, crossing the meadows between sheen and the church, on his way to the river. she was gone! and all his schemes for making her life happy, all his remorseful thoughts of her, had been in vain. she was gone! his last irrevocable act had been an act of unkindness. he had left her to die alone. for his sins against god he might atone, and might feel the assurance of pardon; but for his sin against this weak mortal who had loved him, and whom he had sworn to cherish, there was no possibility of atonement. "not to _her_, not to _her_," he thought. "i may repent in sackcloth and ashes--i may rip the flesh from my bones with the penitent's scourge, like henry plantagenet. but could he make amends to the martyr becket? can i make amends to her? 'o god! o god! that it were possible to undo things done; to call back yesterday!'" he thought, recalling a passage in an old play that had burnt itself into his brain, by many a pang of regret for acts ill done or duties neglected. he wandered from room to room in the familiar house which seemed so strange in its blank emptiness, looking at everything with brooding gaze--the parlour where he had spent so many solitary hours in study and in prayer. his books were on the shelves as he had left them--the old puritan writers he loved--baxter, charnock, howe, bunyan. he had taken only three books on his voyage: his bible, a pocket milton, and charles wesley's hymns. his study looked as if he had left it yesterday. the trees and shrubs were budding in the long slip of garden, where he had paced the narrow pathway so often in troubled thought. he went upstairs, and stood beside the bed where his wife had lain in her last sleep. the curtains had been stripped from the tent-bedstead, the carpet taken up, and every scrap of drapery removed from the windows when the house was disinfected. the room looked poverty-stricken and grim. the caretaker followed him from room to room, praising herself for the cleanliness of the house, and keeping up a continuous stream of talk to which he gave the scantiest attention. in the bedchamber she was reminded of lady kilrush and her goodness, and began to dilate upon that theme. was there ever such a noble lady? she had thought of everything. he might make himself quite happy about his poor dear lady. never had a patient been better nursed. her ladyship never missed a day, and saw with her own eyes that everything was being done. and she was with his lady a long time on that last day when the fever left her and she was able to talk sensibly. and his lady was quite happy at the last--oh, so happy! and the old woman clasped her hands in a kind of ecstasy. "quite blind," she said, "and with a handkerchief bound over her poor eyes--but oh, so happy!" * * * * * he left the house, heavy-hearted, and walked across the bridge and by whitehall to st. james's square. he could not exist in uncertainty about antonia's fate. he must discover if there were any truth in what the woman had told him, if that resplendent beauty, nature's choicest dower given to one woman among thousands, had indeed been sacrificed. so great a sacrifice made by an infidel! a woman who had no hope in an everlasting reward for the renunciation of happiness here. he recalled the exquisite face that had lured him to sin, and pictured it scarred and blemished--as he had seen so many faces,--changed by that fatal disease which leaves ruin where it spares life. he shuddered and sickened at the vision his imagination evoked. would he honour her less, adore her less, so disfigured? he had told himself sometimes in his guilty reveries, when satan had got the better of him, that he would love her if she were a leper; that it was the soul, the noble, the daring, the generous nature of the woman that he idolized; that he was scarcely a sinner for loving the most perfect creature god had ever made. if she hid her blemished face from the world, would she consent to see him? or would he find his sin still unpardoned? would she hold him at a distance for ever because of one fatal hour in his life? she could scarcely forget their last parting, when she had prayed never to look upon his face again; but time might have mitigated her wrath, and she might have forgiven him. her ladyship saw no visitors, the porter told him, and was about to shut the door in his face; but mr. stobart pushed his way in, and scribbled a note at a writing-table in the hall. "pray be so kind as to see me. i want to thank you for your goodness to my wife. i landed in london two hours ago on my arrival from america." he walked up and down the hall while a footman carried the note to his mistress. his heart beat heavily, tortured with the anticipation of horror; to look upon the altered face; to have to tell himself that _this_ was antonia. the man came back, solemn and slow, in his rich livery and powdered head. her ladyship would see mr. stobart. she was sitting in a large armchair by the fire, her face showing dimly in the twilight. he could distinguish nothing but her pallor and the difference in the style of her hair. the flowing curls that he had admired were gone. he felt thankful for the darkness which spared him the immediate sight of her changed aspect. "i am glad you are back in england, mr. stobart, and have escaped the perils of that dreadful war," she said, in a low, grave voice. "but you have had a sorrowful welcome home." "yes, it was a heavy blow." "i hope you had received lady lanigan's letter, and that the blow was softened by foreknowledge." "no, i had no letter; i came home expecting to find all things as i left them. my mind was full of schemes for making my wife happier than i had made her in the past. but i doubt sins of omission are irrevocable. a man may sometimes undo what he has done, but he cannot make amends for what he has left undone." there was a silence. the shadows deepened. the wood fire burnt low and gave no light. "i have no words to thank you for your goodness to my wife," he said. "that you should go to her in her loneliness, that you should so brave all perils, be so compassionate, so self-sacrificing! what can i say to you? there is nothing nobler in the lives of the saints. there was never christian living more worthy to be called christ's disciple." "oh, sir, there needed no gospel light to show me so plain a course. your wife was alone, while you were fighting for your country. i promised years ago to be her friend. could there be any question as to my duty?" "'twill need all my future life to prove my gratitude." "you have left the army?" "yes. i resigned my commission after quebec." "you were at the taking of quebec, then? i thought you were with amherst when he recovered ticonderoga." "so i was, madam. but after we took the fort i was entrusted to carry a letter for general wolfe conveying general amherst's plans. 'twas a difficult journey, by a circuitous route, and i was more than a month on the way; but i was in time to be in the escalade and the battle. it was glorious--a glorious tragedy. england and france lost two of the finest leaders that ever soldier followed--montcalm and wolfe. alas! shall i ever forget james wolfe's spectral face in the grey of that fatal morning? he was fitter to be lying on a sick-bed than to be commanding an army. he looked a ghost, and fought like the god of war." "shall you go back to your work with mr. wesley?" "if he will have me--and, indeed, i think he will, for he needs helpers. 'tis in his army--the evangelical army--i shall fight henceforward. i stand alone in the world now, for my son's welfare could scarce be better assured than with his grandmother, who offers to provide his education, and is likely to make him her heir. my experience in georgia renewed my self-confidence, and i doubt i may yet be of some use to my fellow-creatures." "you could scarce fail in that," she answered gently. "i remember how those poor wretches at lambeth loved you." her voice was unaltered. it had all that grave music he remembered of old, when she spoke of serious things. it soothed him to sit in the darkness and hear her talk, and he dreaded the coming of light that would break the spell. did he love her as he had loved her before those slow years of severance? yes. her lightest word thrilled him. he thought of the change in her with unspeakable dread; but he knew that it would not change his heart. lovely or unlovely she would still be antonia, the woman he adored. a footman came in to light the candles. "this half darkness is very pleasant, madam," stobart said hurriedly. "do you desire more light?" "i am expecting a friend to take tea with me, and i can hardly receive her in the dark. you may light the candles, robert." there were six candles in each of two bronze candelabra on the mantelpiece, and two more in tall silver candlesticks on the writing-table. stobart sat looking down at the fading embers, and did not lift his eyes till the servant had left the room. then, as the door shut, he looked up and saw antonia watching him in the bright candlelight. he gave a sudden cry, in uncontrollable emotion, and burst into tears. "you--you are not changed!" he cried, as soon as he could control his speech. "oh, madam, i beseech you not to despise me for these unmanly tears! but--but i was told----" "you were told that the disease had used me very cruelly; that i should be better dead than such a horrid spectacle," she said. "i know that has been the talk of the town--and i let them talk. i have done with the town." "thank god!" he exclaimed, starting up from his chair and walking about the room in a tumult of emotion. "thank god, it was a lie that old woman told me. it would have broken my heart to know that your divine charity had cost you the loss of your beauty." his eyes shone with wonder and delight as he looked at her. she was greatly changed, but in his sight not less lovely. her bloom was gone. she could no longer dazzle the mob in hyde park by her vivid beauty. she was very pale, and her cheeks were hollow and thin. her eyes looked unnaturally large, and her hair, once so luxuriant, was clustered in short curls under a little lace cap. "oh, so far as that goes, sir, i renounce any claim i ever had to rank among beauties," she said, amused at his surprise. "through the devoted care of a friend i was spared the worst kind of disfigurement; but as i have lost my complexion, my figure, and my hair, i can no longer hope to take any place among the waldegraves and hamiltons. and i have done with the great world and its vanities." "then you will give yourself to that better world--the world of the true believer; you will be among the saved?" "alas, sir, i am no nearer the heavenly kingdom than i was before i sickened of the earthly one. i am very tired of the pomps and vanities, but i cannot entertain the hope of finding an alternative pleasure in sermons and long prayers, or the pious company lady huntingdon assembles every thursday evening." "if you have renounced the world of pleasure--the rest will follow." "you think a woman must live in some kind of fever? i own that lady fanny shirley seems always as busy and full of engagements as if she were at the top of the _ton_. she flies from one end of london to the other to hear a new preacher, and makes more fuss about the opening of some poor little chapel in the suburbs, than the duchess of buccleuch makes about an _al fresco_ ball that costs thousands. there is the chairman's knock. perhaps you will scarce care to meet my lively friend, mrs. granger, in your sad circumstances." "not for the world. adieu, madam. i shall go to mortlake to-morrow to look at my poor lucy's resting-place, and shall start the next day for bath to see my son; and thence to bristol, where i hope to find mr. wesley." he bent down to kiss her hand, so thin and so alabaster white, and said in a low voice, with his head still bent-- "dare i hope that my madness of the past is pardoned?" "the past is past," she answered coldly. "the world has changed for both of us. adieu." he left her, passing mrs. granger in the hall. "you have admitted a sneaking methodist," cried patty, "after denying yourself to all the people of fashion in london." * * * * * mr. wesley received the returning prodigal with kindness. in that vast enterprise of one who said "my parish is the world," loyal adherents were of unspeakable value. the few churchmen who served under his banner were but a sprinkling compared with his lay itinerants; and stobart was among the best of these. he was too manly a man to think the worse of his helper for having changed gown for sword during a troubled interval of his life; for he divined that stobart must have been in some bitter strait before he went back to the soldier's trade. he listened with interest to stobart's american adventures, and congratulated him upon having been with wolfe at quebec. "'twas a glorious victory," he said; "but i doubt the french may yet prove too strong for us in canada, and that we are still far from a peaceful settlement." "they are strong in numbers, sir, but weak in leaders. lévis is a poor substitute for montcalm, and, if the governor vaudreuil harasses him and ties his hands, as he harassed the late marquis, whom he hated, his work will be difficult. i should not have left the regiment while there was a chance of more fighting, if i had not been disabled by my wounds." "you were badly wounded?" "i had a bullet through my ribs that looked like making an end of me; and i walk lame still from a ball in my left hip. i spent eight weeks in the general hospital at quebec, where the nuns tended me with an angelic kindness; and i was still but a feeble specimen of humanity when i set out on the journey to georgia, through a country beset by indians." "i honour those good women for their charity, stobart; but i hope you did not let them instil their pernicious doctrine into your mind while it was enfeebled by sickness." "no, sir. yet there was one pious enthusiast whom i could not silence; and be not offended if i say that her fervent discourse about spiritual things reminded me of your own teaching." "surely that's not possible!" "extremes meet, sir; and, i doubt, had you not been a high-church methodist you would have been a roman catholic of the most exalted type." * * * * * stobart accompanied mr. wesley from bristol to st. ives, then back to bristol by a different route, taking the south coast of cornwall and devonshire. from bristol they crossed to ireland; and returned by milford haven through wales to london, a tour that lasted till the first days of october. wesley was then fifty-seven years of age, in the zenith of his renown as the founder of a sect that had spread itself abroad with amazing power since the day when a handful of young men at oxford, poor, obscure, unpretending, had met together in each other's rooms to pray and expound the scriptures, and by their orderly habits, and the method with which they conducted all their spiritual exercises, had won for themselves the name of "methodists." from those quiet rooms at oxford had arisen a power that had shaken the church of england, and which might have reinforced and strengthened that church with an infinite access of vigour, enthusiasm, and piety, had english churchmen so willed. but the methodists had been driven from the fold and cast upon their own resources. they were shut out of the churches; but, as one of the society protested, the fields were open to them, and they had the hills for their pulpit, the heavens for their sounding board. george stobart flung himself heart and soul into his work as an itinerant preacher, riding through the country with mr. wesley, preaching at any of the smaller towns and outlying villages to which his leader sent him, and confronting the malice of "baptized barbarians" with a courage as imperturbable as wesley's. to be welcomed with pious enthusiasm, or to be assailed with the vilest abuse, seemed a matter of indifference to the methodist itinerants. their mission was to carry the tidings of salvation to the lost sheep of israel; and more or less of ill usage suffered on their way counted for little in the sum of their lives. 'twas a miracle, considering the violence of the mob and the inefficiency of rustic constables, that not one of these enthusiasts lost his life at the hands of enemies scarce less ferocious than the indians on the banks of the monongahela. but in those savage scenes it seemed ever as if a special providence guarded john wesley and his followers. many and many a time the rabble rout seemed possessed by moloch, and the storm of stones and clods flew fast around the preacher's head; and again and again he passed unharmed out of the demoniac herd. missiles often glanced aside and wounded the enemy, for the aim of blind hate was seldom true; and if wesley did not escape injury on every occasion, his wounds were never serious enough to drive him from the stand he had taken by the market cross or in the churchyard, in outhouse or street, on common or hillside. he might finish his discourse while a stream of blood trickled down his face, or the arm that he would fain have raised in exhortation hung powerless from a blow; but in none of his wanderings had he been silenced or acknowledged defeat. it was john wesley's privilege, or his misfortune, at this time to stand alone in the world, unfettered by any tie that could hamper him in his life's labour. he was childless; and hard fate had given him a wife so uncongenial, so tormenting in her causeless jealousy and petty tyranny, that 'twas but an act of self-defence to leave her. in the earlier years of their marriage she accompanied him on his journeys; but as she quarrelled with his sister-in-law, charles wesley's amiable helpmeet, and insulted every woman he called his friend, her companionship must have been a thorn in the flesh rather than a blessing. his brother charles--once the other half of his soul--was now estranged. their opinions differed upon many points, and john, as the bolder spirit, had gone far beyond the order-loving and placable poet, who deemed no misfortune so terrible for the methodists as to stand outside the pale of the church, albeit they might be strong enough in their own unaided power to gather half the protestant world within their fold. charles thought of himself and his brother methodists only as more fervent members of the church of england, never as the founders of an independent establishment, primitive in the simplicity of its doctrine and observances, modern in its fitness to the needs of modern life. john wesley was now almost at the height of his power, and strong enough in the number of his followers, and in their profound affection for his person, to laugh at insult, and to defy even so formidable an assailant as dr. lavington, bishop of exeter, with whom he was carrying on a pamphlet war. george stobart loved the man and honoured the teacher. it was a pleasure to him to share the rough and smooth of wesley's pilgrimage, to ride a sorry jade, even, for the privilege of riding at the side of one of the worst and boldest horsemen in england, who was not unlikely to come by a bad fall before the end of his journey. in those long stages there was ample leisure for the two friends to share their burden of sorrows and perplexities, and for heart to converse with heart. wesley was too profound a student of his fellow men not to have fathomed george stobart's mind in past years, when antonia's lover was himself but half conscious of the passion that enslaved him; and, remembering this, he was careful not to say too much of the young wife who was gone, or the love-match which had ended so sadly. he knew that in heart, at least, stobart had been unfaithful to that sacred tie; but although he deplored the sin he could not withhold his compassion from the sinner. the methodist leader had been singularly unlucky in affairs of the heart, from the day when at savannah he allowed himself to be persuaded out of an engagement with a girl he loved, to the hour when he took a zantippe for his spouse; and it may be that his own unfortunate marriage, and the memory of grace murray, that other woman once so dearly loved and once his plighted wife, made him better able to sympathise with the victim of a misplaced affection. it was after stobart had been working with him all through the summer and autumn, and when that eventful year of was waning, that wesley for the first time spoke of antonia. "your kinswoman lady kilrush?" he inquired. "what has become of so much beauty and fashion? i have not seen the lady's name in the evening papers for an age." "lady kilrush has withdrawn herself from society. she has discovered how poor a thing a life of pleasure is when the bloom of novelty is off it." "aye, aye. fashion's child has cut open the top of her drum and found nothing but emptiness in the toy. did i not hear, by-the-bye, when i was last in london, that the poor lady had come through an attack of confluent smallpox with the loss of her beauty? if it be so, i hope she may awaken to the expectation of a kingdom where all faces are beautiful in the light that shines around the throne of god." "no, sir, her ladyship has lost but little of her beauty. and it is not because she can no longer excel there that she has left the world of fashion." and then stobart took courage for the first time to speak freely of the woman he loved, and told mr. wesley the story of his wife's death-bed and antonia's devotion. but when questioned as to the lady's spiritual state, he had to confess that her opinions had undergone no change. "and can this presumptuous worm still deny her maker? can this heart which melts at a sister's distress remain adamant against christ? it is a mystery! i know that the man atheist is common enough--an arrogant wretch, like david hume, who thinks himself wiser than god who made the universe. but can a woman, a being that should be all softness and humility, set up her shallow reason against the light of nature and revelation, the light that comes to the savage in the wilderness and tells him there is an avenging god; the light that shows the child, as soon as he can think, that there is something better and higher than the erring mortals he knows, somewhere a world more beautiful than the garden where he plays? stobart, i grieve that there should be such a woman, and that you should be her friend." "the fabric of our friendship was torn asunder before i went to america, sir. i doubt if the ravelled edges will ever meet again." "and you heave a sigh as you say it! you regret the loss of a friendship that might have shipwrecked your immortal soul." "oh, sir, why must my soul be the forfeit? might it not be my happiness to save hers?" "you were her friend and companion for years. did you bring her nearer god?" "alas, no!" "abjure her company then for ever. i warned you of your peril when you had a wife, when i feared your spirit hovered on the brink of hell--for remember, stobart, there is no such height of holiness as it is impossible to fall from. i adjured you to renounce that woman's company as you would avoid companionship with satan. i warn you even more solemnly to-day; for at that time it was a sin to love her, and your conscience might have been your safeguard. you are a free man now; and you may account it no sin to love an infidel." "is it a sin, sir, even when that love goes hand in hand with the desire to bring her into christ's fold?" "it is a sin, george. it is the way to everlasting perdition, it is the choice of evil instead of good, lucifer instead of christ. do you know what would happen if you were to marry this woman?" "you would cease to be my friend, perhaps?" "no, my son. i could not cease to love you and to pity you; but you could be no more my fellow worker. this pleasant communion in work and hope would be at an end for ever. at our last conference we resolved to expel any member of our society who should marry an unbeliever. we have all seen the evil of such unions, the confusion worse confounded when the cloven foot crosses the threshold of a christian's home, the uselessness of a teacher whose heart is divided between fidelity to christ and affection for a wicked wife. we resolved that no member of our society must marry without first taking counsel with some of our most serious members, and being governed by their advice." "oh, sir, this is tyranny!" "it is the upshot of long experience. he who is not with me is against me. we can have no half-hearted helpers. you must choose whom you will serve, george: christ or satan." "ah, sir, my fortitude will not be put to the test. the lady for whom i would lay down my life looks upon me with a chilling disdain. 'tis half a year since i forced myself upon her presence to acknowledge her goodness to my wife; and in all that time she has given me no sign that she remembers my existence." "shun her, my friend; walk not in the way of sinners; and thank god on your knees that your delilah scorns you." george stobart spent many a bitter hour after that conversation with his leader. to be forbidden to think of the woman he worshipped now, when no moral law came between him and her love, when from the worldling's standpoint it was the most natural thing that he should try to win her; he, who for her sake had been disinherited, and who had by his life of self-denial proved himself above all mercenary views. why should he not pursue her, with a love so sincere and so ardent that it might prevail even over indifference, might conquer disdain? there was not a man in his late regiment, not a man in the london clubs, who would not laugh him to scorn for letting spiritual things stand between him and that earthly bliss. and yet for him who had taken up the cross of christ, who had given his best years and all the power of heart and brain to preaching christ's law of self-surrender and submission, how horrible a falling away would it be if he were to abandon his beloved leader, turn deserter while the society was still on its trial before the sight of men, and while every fervent voice was an element of strength. he thought of wesley's other helpers, and recalled those ardent enthusiasts who had broken all family ties, parted from father and mother, sisters and brothers and plighted wife, renounced the comforts of home, and suffered the opprobrium of the world, in order to spend and be spent in the task of converting the english heathen, the toilers in the copper mine or the coal pit, the weavers of somerset and yorkshire, the black faces, the crooked backs, the forgotten sheep of episcopal shepherds. but had any man living given up more than he was called upon to surrender, he asked himself? who among those soldiers and servants of christ had loved a woman as beautiful, loved with a passion as fervent? he went back to london discouraged, yet not despairing. there was still the hope, faint perhaps, that he might lead that bright spirit out of darkness into light; win her for christ, and so win her for himself. ah, what an ecstatic dream, what an ineffable hope! to kneel by her side at the altar, to know her among the redeemed, the chosen of god! for that end what labour could be too difficult? but, alas! between him and that hope there came the cloud of a terrible fear. he knew the tempter's power over senses and soul, knew that to be in antonia's company was to forget the world present and the world to come, to remember nothing, value nothing, but her, to become a worse idolator than they of old who worshipped moloch and gave their children to the fire. wesley had warned him. should he, in defiance of that warning from the best and wisest friend he ever had, enter the house where the tempter lay in wait to destroy him, where he must meet the enemy of man? call that enemy by what name he would, satan, or love, he knew himself incapable of resistance. he resolved to abide by wesley's advice. he went back to his desolate home, and resumed his work in lambeth marsh, where he was welcomed with an affection that touched him deeply. his many converts, the awakened and believing christians, flocked to his chapel and his schools; but that which moved him most was the welcome of the sinners and reprobates, whom he had taught to love him, though he could not teach them to forsake sin. before resuming his mission work in the old district he had ascertained that lady kilrush no longer went there. she still ministered to the lambeth poor by deputy, and mrs. sophy potter came among them often. he was weak enough to think with rapture of conversing with sophy, from whom he would hear of antonia. and so in the long dark winter he took up the old drudgery, teaching and exhorting, strenuous in good works, but with a leaden heart. chapter xviii. "as a grain of mustard seed." john wesley was not without compassion for a friend and disciple for whom he had something of a fatherly affection. he too had been called upon to renounce the woman he loved, the excellent, gifted, enthusiastic grace murray, whose humble origin was forgotten in the force and purity of her character. he had been her affianced husband, had thought of her for a long time as his future wife, lived in daily companionship with her on his pious pilgrimages, made her his helpmeet in good works; and yet, on the assertion of a superior claim, he had given her to another. that bitter experience enabled him to measure the pain of stobart's renunciation. he watched his friend's course with anxious care, lest heart should fail and feet stumble on the stony road of self-sacrifice; and their intercourse, while the great itinerant remained in london, was even closer than it had been before. mr. wesley had much to do that winter at his home by the foundery chapel. he had his literary work, the preparation of his books for the press, since each year of his life added to the list of those religious works, some of them written, others only edited, by himself, which were published at his risk, and which for several years resulted in pecuniary loss, though they were afterwards a revenue. he had the services of the chapel, which were numerous and at different hours, and he had his work abroad, preaching in many other parts of london. it was in the early morning after one of his five-o'clock services at the foundery that he was told a lady desired to see him. he had but just come in from the chapel, and his breakfast was on the table in the neat parlour where he lived and worked, a spartan breakfast of oatmeal porridge, with the luxury of a small pot of tea and a little dry toast. it was only half-past six, and mrs. wesley had not left her chamber--a fortunate circumstance, perhaps, since the visitor was young and beautiful. mr. wesley had many uninvited visitors, and it was nothing new for him to be intruded on even at so early an hour. he rose to receive the lady, and motioned her to a seat with a stately graciousness. he was a small man, attired with an exquisite neatness in a stuff cassock and breeches, and black silk stockings, and shoes with large silver buckles. his benign countenance was framed in dark auburn hair that fell in waving masses, like john milton's, and at this period showed no touch of grey. "in what matter can i have the honour to serve you, madam?" he asked, scanning the pale face opposite him, and wondering at its beauty. it had not the bloom of health which should have gone with the lady's youth, but it was as perfect in every line as the belvidere apollo, and the eyes, with their look of mournful deprecation, were the loveliest he had ever seen--lovelier than grace murray's, which had once been _his_ loveliest. "i have come to you in great trouble of mind, sir," the lady began in a low voice, but with such perfect enunciation, such beauty of tone, that every syllable had full value. "i am a very unhappy woman." "many have come to me in the same sad plight, madam, and i have found but one way of helping them. 'tis to lead them to the foot of the cross. there alone can they find the friend who can make their sorrows here their education for heaven." "oh, sir, if i believed in heaven, and that i should meet the dead whom i love there, i should have no sorrows. i should only have to wait." "alas, madam, can it be that you are without that blessed hope--that this world, with its cruel inequalities and injustices, is the only world your mind can conceive? can you look upon the martyrdom of so many of your fellow creatures--diseased, deformed, blind, dumb, imbecile, or held for a lifetime in the bondage of abject poverty, never knowing respite from toil, or the possibility of comfort,--can you contemplate these outcasts, and yet believe there are no compensations hereafter, and that a god of infinite mercy can overlook their sufferings?" "you believe in a heaven for these--a land of beulah, where _they_ will have the fat things? but what if one of these be a blasphemer? what if he curse god and die? what will be his destiny then, sir? oh, i know your answer. the worm that dieth not--the fire that is not quenched. what of your scheme of compensations then, sir?" "did you come here to shake my faith, madam, or to ask for spiritual aid from me?" wesley asked severely. his searching gaze had taken in every detail of her appearance: the lovely face, whose ivory pallor was accentuated by a black silk hood; the grey lute-string gown, whose quaker hue could not disguise the richness of the fabric; the diamond hoop-rings that flashed from under a black silk mitten. dress, bearing, accent stamped the woman of quality. "i meant no affront, sir. i talk at random, as women mostly do. i came here in weariness of spirit, and i scarce know how you can help me. i came because i have heard much of your merits, your amiable character, your willingness to befriend sinners. and i have listened to your sermons at west street chapel in the month last past with admiration and respect." "but without belief in him whose message i bring? oh, madam, you might as well be at the playhouse laughing at that vulgar buffoon samuel foote. my sermons can do you no good." "nay, sir, if i thought that i should not be here this morning. i rose after a sleepless night and came through the darkness to hear you preach. if i cannot believe all that you believe, i can appreciate the wisdom and the purity of your discourse." "look into your heart, madam, and if you can find faith there; but as a grain of mustard seed----" "alas, sir, i look into my heart and find only emptiness. my sorrows are not such as the world pities. my heart aches with the monotony of life. i stand alone, unloved and unloving. i have tasted all the pleasures this world can offer, have enjoyed all, and wearied of all. i come to you in my weariness as the first preacher i have ever listened to with interest. mr. whitefield's discourse, whom i heard but once, only shocked me." "come, and come again, madam, and may my poor eloquence lead you to christ. i should rejoice for more reasons than i can tell you, if, among the many souls that i have been the means of snatching from the brink of hell, lady kilrush should be one." "what, mr. wesley, you know me?" "yes, madam, i remember the bartolozzi head which was in all the printsellers' windows two years ago; and i should be more a stranger to this town than i am if i had not heard of the beautiful lady kilrush and her infidel opinions." "you have heard of me from my lord's cousin, mr. stobart, perhaps." "mr. stobart has spoken of your ladyship, deploring, as i do, the gulf that yawns between you and him." "that gulf has widened, sir; for i have seen mr. stobart only once since he came from america." "he has been travelling about england with me--and only came to london last october. i know, madam, that his respect for your person is only less than his grief at your unhappy opinions." "we cannot change the fabric of our minds, sir." "_we_ cannot; but god can." "you believe in instantaneous conversions--in a single act of faith that can make a christian in a moment?" "the scriptures warrant that belief, madam. all the conversions related in the gospel were instantaneous. yet i will own that i was once unwilling to believe in the miracle of christian perfection attained by a single impulse of the soul. but in the long course of my ministry i have seen so many blessed examples that i can no longer doubt that the divine spirit works wonders as great in this degenerate age as on that day of pentecost, the birthday of the christian church. instead of the miracle of fiery tongues, we have the miracle of changed hearts." "and you think that christian perfection attained in a moment will stand the wear and tear of life, and be strong enough to resist the world, the flesh, and the devil?" antonia asked, with an incredulous smile. "nay, madam, i dare not affirm that all who think themselves justified are secure of salvation. these sudden recruits are sometimes deserters. i do not hold the tenets of the moravians, who declare that the converted sinner cannot fall away, whereas, after our justification by faith, we are every moment pleasing or displeasing unto god according to our works, according to the whole of our present inward tempers and outward behaviour. but i have never despaired of a sinner, madam; nor can i believe that a spirit so bright as yours will be lost eternally. long or late the hour of sanctifying grace must come." "perhaps, mr. wesley, had you been reared as i was--taught to doubt the existence of a god before i was old enough to read the gospel--you would be no less a sceptic than i am." "i was indeed more fortunate--for i was born into a household of faith. yet i have never hardened my heart against the man or woman whose education has only taught them to doubt, for i have sometimes thought, with unspeakable fear, that, had i given my mind to the study of mathematics or geometry, i too might have been one of those nice philosophers who will accept no creed that cannot be demonstrated like a proposition in euclid. i thank god that i learnt to love him, and to walk in his ways, before i learnt to pry into the mysteries of his being or to question his dealings with mankind." "no doubt that is happiest, sir--to shut one's mind against facts and believe in miracles." and then, gradually won to fullest confidence by his quick sympathy, antonia told john wesley much of her life story, only avoiding, with an exquisite delicacy, all those passages which touched the secrets of a woman's heart. she told him how she had been left alone in the world with all the power that riches can give to a young woman, how she had tried all the resources of wealth, and found all wanting, even her experience of mission work among the outcast poor. "i doubt you were happier engaged in that work than you have ever been in the mansions of the great," he said. "no, mr. wesley, i will not pretend as much. while the pleasures of the great world were new i loved them dearly; but a third season brought satiety, and i sickened of it all. i know not why i sickened of my visits to the poor, for my heart was ever touched by their sufferings, and sometimes by their patience. it may be that it was because i was alone, and without an adviser, after mr. stobart left england." "will you resume that work now, madam? i doubt you are familiar with the parable of the talents, and know that to have youth and wealth, intellect and energy, and not to use them for others' good----" "oh, it is hateful! be sure, sir, i know what a wretch i am. i spent last summer in ireland, where the poor love me; but i hardly ever went near them. i did not let them starve. my steward and my waiting-woman carried them all they wanted, while i dawdled in my rose-garden or yawned over a novel. i was discouraged somehow. those poor creatures are all roman catholics. they would talk to me of a creed which i had been taught to despise. there was a gulf between us." "but you will resume your charitable work in london, where the people's religion need not offend you, since they are mostly heathens." "not at lambeth! i cannot go back to lambeth marsh." she knew that stobart was spending all his days in the old places. not for worlds could she go back to the work which she had shared with him, and which had once been so full of innocent happiness. "your ladyship can choose your district. the field is wide enough. will you visit the sick poor in this neighbourhood, and will you accept my help and counsel?" "with a glad heart, sir. i sorely need a friend." "but you will not go as a heathen among heathens? you will carry the gospel with you." "yes, sir. if it will help your views that i should read the new testament to your people, i would as leave do so as not. indeed, i have read the gospel to those who have asked me; and be sure i have never been so foolish as to obtrude my opinions upon them. 'tis only by close questioning they have ever discovered my barren creed." and then she went on with a sigh, "ah, sir, if you knew how i envy you the faith which opens new worlds, now that i have lost all interest in this one." "do not despair of yourself, madam. i do not despair of you. the lady kilrush i had pictured to myself was an arrogant unbeliever, possessed by a devil of pride, and glorying in her infidelity. there is hope for the sceptic who has discovered how poor a thing this life is when we think it is all." she rose to take leave, and wesley conducted her to the street, where a hackney coach was in waiting. he begged her to call upon him as often as she pleased during his stay in london, which would not be long; and he promised to send her the names and addresses, and particulars as to character and necessities, of the invalids whom he would advise her to visit. "on second thoughts i will not send you amongst the unconverted," he said, "but to some faithful christians whose piety i doubt you will admire, however you may despise their simplicity." he went back to his study full of thought. antonia's conversation had surprised and interested him. unlucky as he had been in his own too hasty choice of a wife, he was a shrewd judge of women, and he felt assured that this was a good woman. would it not then be a hard measure were he to come between george stobart and an attachment which death had legitimatised? and what better chance could there be for this woman's conversion than her union with an honest, believing christian? the society's stringent rule had been inspired by the evil wrought by women of a very different stamp from this one. and yet was not this avowed infidel, so beautiful, so winning in her proud gentleness, only the philistine delilah in a new guise? the temptress, the lying spirit that betrayed the strong man of old, was there, perhaps, waiting to ensnare george stobart's soul. "i must see of what spirit she is," wesley told himself, "and if she may yet be numbered among the children of light." * * * * * a new phase of antonia's life began after her interview with john wesley. all that she had done in the past, in those dens of misery and crime by the marsh, was as nothing compared with her work under his direction. at lambeth she had but exercised a fine lady's capricious benevolence, obeying the whim of the moment: a creature of impulse, too lavish where her heart was touched, too easily revolted by the ugliness of vice. in the squalid regions that lay around the foundery her charities were administered upon a different system. one of mr. wesley's best gifts was the faculty of order, and all things done under his direction were done with an admirable method and proportion. his loan society, which made advances of twenty shillings and upwards to the respectable poor--to be repaid in weekly instalments--his dispensary, his day and night-classes all testified to his power of organization. from the days when a poor scholar at oxford, he lived like an anchorite of the desert in order that he might feed starving prisoners and rescue fallen women, he had been experienced in systematic charity. from him, in the hours he could spare her before starting on his northern pilgrimage, she learnt how to distribute her alms with an unfailing justice, and how to make the best use of her time. her visits in those homes of sickness and penury, which might have been hopelessly dreary without his directing spirit, became full of interest in the light of his all-comprehending mind. she sold three of her dress carriages and dismissed her second coachman. a hackney coach carried her to moorfields every day, and she employed the greater part of the day in visiting the poor. she was often among wesley's hearers at the evening service at the foundery. his sermons touched her heart and almost convinced her reason. his simplicity of style and force of argument impressed her more than whitefield's dramatic oratory. mr. wesley had no deep-drawn "oh!" for garrick to envy. his action was calm and pleasing, his voice clear and manly. he appealed to the heart and mind of his hearers by no studied effects, no flights of rhetoric, yet he never failed to hold them in the spell of that simple eloquence. antonia was interested in the congregation as well as in the preacher. she was moved by the spectacle of all those fervent worshippers--mostly in the lower ranks of life--men and women of scantiest leisure, who gave much when they spent their evenings in the chapel; instead of at the playhouse, or by the fireside in the cosy parlour with cards and congenial company. for the first time she began to understand what the religious life meant, the life in which all earthly things are secondary. the earnest faces, the voices of a vast concourse singing charles wesley's exquisite hymns, moved her deeply. her work took her mostly among the humble members of that methodist society which had begun twenty years before by the gathering together of eight or ten awakened souls, yearning for help and counsel, groaning under the burden of sin, and which was now so widespread a multitude. in the garrets and cellars, where she sat beside the bed of the sick and the dying, she found a fervour of unquestioning faith that startled and touched her. for these sufferers the gospel she read was no history of things long past and done with, no story of a vanished life. it was the message of a living friend, a redeemer waiting to give them welcome in the kingdom of the just made perfect, the world where there is no death. he who had promised the penitent thief a dwelling in paradise was at the door of the death chamber; and to die was to pass to a life more beautiful than a child's dream of heaven. as the days and weeks went by, that gospel story read so often under such solemn influences, with death hovering near, took a deeper hold upon antonia's imagination. the message that she carried to others was for her also. she learnt to love the wise teacher, the beneficent healer, the saviour of mankind. that name of saviour pleased her. from the theologian's point of view she was, perhaps, no more a christian than she had ever been. she dared not tell john wesley, whom she revered, and who now accepted her as a brand snatched from the burning, that her faith was not his faith, that she was neither convinced of sin nor assured of grace. her awakening had been no sudden act, like the descent of the spirit at pentecost, but a gradual change in her whole nature, the widening of her sympathies, the growth of pity and of love. it was not of christ the sacrifice she thought, not of his atoning blood; but of jesus the great exemplar, of jesus who went about doing good. she would not question how it came to pass, but she believed that, in the dim long-ago, divinity walked among mankind and wore the shape of man; to what end, except to make men better, she knew not. in all her conversation with wesley's converts, however exalted their ideas might be, that earthly image was in her mind, jesus, human and compassionate, the comforter of human sorrows, the sinless one who loved sinners. wesley rejoiced with exceeding joy in her conversion. he had met her from time to time in the dwellings of the poor, had sat with her beside the bed of the dying, had seen her often among his congregation; and he believed that the work of grace had begun, and that it needed but good influences to ensure her final perseverance and justification by faith. he wrote to george stobart the night before he left london for the north. * * * * * "you have passed through a fiery trial, dear friend, and i admire your fortitude in renouncing a passion that was stronger than all things, except your hope of salvation. the lady you love has become my friend and fellow-worker, and i dare venture to believe that she has escaped from darkness into light, and that you may now enjoy her society without peril to your soul. let me hear by-and-by how your suit prospers. her ladyship is a woman of rare gifts, and of a noble character. "yours in christ, "j. w." chapter xix. "choose of two loves." wesley's letter came upon george stobart like the sudden opening of a gate into paradise. it was a year since he had seen antonia's face. for a year he had been the martyr of obedience to his spiritual guide, had surrendered every hope of earthly happiness, and had submitted to regard his life on earth only as an apprenticeship to the life to come. and in a moment he was free, free to hope, free to behold the face, to hear the voice he loved. free to win her, if he could. there was the question! he had never yet presumed, in his more thoughtful moods, to believe his love returned. how coldly she had bidden him adieu when last they met! her manner had been without resentment, and without kindness. it seemed as if, when he offended her by his shameless addresses, he had ceased to exist. her goodness to his wife had no relation to her friendship for him. how could he approach her? not in her own house, till he had some ground for hoping that her door would not be closed against him. he would steal upon her path unawares, and endeavour to regain her confidence by gentle means. he hurried to the foundery to answer wesley's letter in person, and found that good man busy with his preparations for leaving london. from him he heard of antonia's progress in good works, and in her attendance at wesley's services. "that heart which you thought adamant has melted, george, and the redeemer's saving grace will be exemplified in this ransomed soul. she is so fine a creature, so generous, charitable, compassionate, that it wrung my heart to hear her, in this room, less than three months ago, boldly confess herself an infidel." he told stobart all that antonia had done for his poor, and, at his request, gave him the addresses of some of the people she visited. "they have all learnt to love her," he said, "which has not been always the case when i have sent women of exalted piety upon such missions. her high-bred manner has a genial charm that wins them unawares. she does not attempt to teach, but she reads the gospel to them; and i may tell you that she has an exquisite voice, and is a most accomplished reader. it was but the other day i approved of a female preacher, the first we have ever had, whose work so far has prospered. should lady kilrush continue in well-doing, i should like her occasionally to address a room full of working women. a woman should know best how to reach women's hearts." stobart smiled at the suggestion. antonia, the voltairean, the friend of lady bolingbroke, the avowed sceptic, the woman of fashion, preaching the gospel to a crowd of tatterdemalions in a whitechapel kitchen! if wesley could bring her to that pass he was indeed a miracle-worker. could it be that she had cast a spell around the leader of the methodists, and that his belief in her conversion was but the delusion of a kind heart, willing to think the best of so beautiful and gracious a creature? stobart was not an ardent believer in sudden conversions, though, in the course of his field preaching, it had been a common thing for him to see men and women fling themselves on their knees and declare that they were "saved," convinced of sin, justified, sanctified, on the instant, by one single operation of the holy spirit. he had seen something of the convulsionists of bristol. the miracle of pentecost had, in a lesser degree, been often repeated before his eyes; and among these instantaneous conversions he knew of some that had been the beginning of changed and holy lives. but he could not picture antonia amongst wesley's easily won converts. had he not wrestled again and again with that stubborn spirit of unbelief, in the days when they were friends, and when he never spared hard words? all his arguments, all his pleadings, had failed to change her. he did not allow for the influence of time, satiety, _weltschmerz_, the aching void of a life without love. he rode with wesley as far as barnet, on the first stage of his northern journey, heard him preach there in the evening to a closely-packed audience, and rode back to london next morning. it was late in the afternoon, a mild spring afternoon, when, after visiting several houses in the neighbourhood of moorfields, he discovered lady kilrush in an underground kitchen, seated by the sick-bed of a cobbler, a young man with a wife and two children, dying of a consumption. the wife sat on one side of the bed, her husband's hand clasped in hers, antonia on the other side reading the gospel of st. john, in those thrilling tones which wesley had noted. she looked up as stobart entered the kitchen, and her cheek crimsoned as she recognized him; but when she spoke her voice was cold as at their parting. "i thought it was mr. wesley," she said. "has he sent you to see our poor morris? this gentleman is one of mr. wesley's helpers, morris." the sick man smiled faintly, and held out a wasted hand to the visitor. "morris and i are old friends," stobart said gently. "no, lady kilrush, i was not sent here," and then seeing there was no vacant chair, he stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, waiting for antonia to go on reading. "'i am the true vine,'" she began, and read to the end of the chapter; then rose quietly, bent over the dying man, murmured a few kind words, pressed the wife's hand tenderly, and stole from the room, almost as noiselessly as if she had been indeed the good angel these people thought her. stobart's survey of the wretched room had shown him that her charity had provided the sufferer with every comfort and even luxury that could be administered in such a home. he followed her into the squalid street. the sky above the dilapidated red tile roofs was blue and bright, and the north-west wind blew the freshness of april flowers from the fields and gardens between finsbury and islington. antonia had no carriage waiting for her. "i forget that i am a fine lady when i come here," she said, smiling at him. "i walk from house to house, and take a hackney-coach when i have done my day's work." "shall i get you a coach now? it is nearly six o'clock. or will you walk a little way?" "i should like to walk. the fresh air is very pleasant after that warm room; that room which he will only leave for the grave, poor soul. but it is not of him one thinks most, but of the wife. she so loves him. happily she counts on being with him again--in a better world. she has what mr. wesley calls vital religion." "mr. wesley has told me something that has made me very happy," stobart said in a low voice that trembled ever so slightly. "he has told me that your heart is changed, that you do not think as you once thought." "oh, i am changed--heart, mind, desires, fancies--yes, all are changed. but i know not if it is for the better. i have left off caring for things. i feel ever so old. nothing in this life interests me, except sorrow and suffering. i went to mr. wesley when my spirits had sunk to despair, and he has been my good friend. i go home almost happy, after i have worked all day among his poor." "and he has taught you to believe in christ?" "one does not learn to believe. that must come from within, i think. i have come to feel the need of god, the need of a world after death; but i doubt i am no nearer believing in miracles than i was ten years ago when first i read voltaire. if to love jesus is to be a christian, why then i am a christian. but if a christian must think exactly as you do, or as mr. wesley does, i am outside the pale." "oh, but the fuller light will come! 'god is light.' he will not leave a soul so precious in darkness. i knew long ago, when i saw you among those wretched creatures at lambeth, i knew you could not be for ever lost." they walked on a little way in silence, facing towards the setting sun. they were crossing the public garden at moorfields, where the cits and their wives and families walked on fine evenings. "will you not resume your work in my district? our people long for you. miss potter is very kind--and your bounty is lavish--but they all want _you_, all those whom you visited three years ago, and who remember you with affection. cannot you spare a little time from these new pensioners for your old friends?" "oh, sir, i doubt they are well cared for, now they have you." "but will you not help me a little? ah, madam, could you but understand what your help means for me! if you avoid the old places, the old people, can i believe that you have pardoned my sin of the past? surely that one passionate hour has been expiated by the remorse of years." "i have long since pardoned your folly, sir. pray suffer me to forget it." her cold disdain stung him to the quick. she did not even account his passion worth her anger. how could he ever hope to break through that adamant, to melt that ice? he was persistent in spite of her coldness, and at last she promised to return occasionally to her old work at lambeth, and to visit the people he deemed most in need of her. "i can but give them my surplus hours," she said, "since the best part of my life is pledged to mr. wesley. and now, sir, be so obliging as to call a coach, and suffer me to bid you good evening." there was a stand of coaches close by, and he handed her to her seat in one. he stood bareheaded, watching her drive away. her serious manner, with that touch of hauteur, kept him at an immeasurable distance. the familiar confidence of her old friendship seemed irrecoverably lost. * * * * * nearly a year had gone since that meeting in the whitechapel kitchen. it was spring again, but early spring, and the days were still short, and the skies still grey and cold, when george stobart walked home with antonia after her visit to another dying bed, the bed of extreme old age this time, the gradual fading out of the vital flame, feebler, paler, day by day, the bed of boundless faith and ecstatic anticipation of a new and fairer life. she had seen the last sands of another life run down in the autumn of the past year. she had kept her promise, and had gone back to bellagio in september, and had watched by her italian grandfather's dying bed--a peaceful end, in the odour of sanctity. she had followed the old man to his last resting-place, and had stayed at bellagio long enough to make all arrangements for francesca's wedding, and her establishment as mistress of the old villino. she was married at the new year, handsomely dowered by her english cousin, and having chosen a worthy mate. antonia's obligations to her humble kinsfolk had been fulfilled. mr. stobart and lady kilrush were on friendliest terms now; but no word of love had been spoken. to be with her, to hear her voice, to know that she liked his company, was so much; and to declare himself might be the breaking of a spell. they had been together often among the homes of the poor, in the library at st. james's square, and sometimes in the churches and chapels where wesley, romaine, and other lights of the evangelical school were to be heard. but in all that time stobart had obtained no farther profession of faith from antonia. "if to love christ is to be a christian, i am one," she told him, when he tried to bring her to his own way of thinking, and that was all. final perseverance, sanctification, justification, conviction of sin! those phrases seemed to her only the shibboleth of a sect. but all the strength of her heart and intellect were engaged in those good works to which the methodists attached only a secondary merit. her compassion for human suffering was the dominating impulse of her life. she could feel for the thief in newgate, pity the slut in bridewell whose life had been one long disgrace. she had gone with stobart into the prisons of london, those dark places as yet unvisited by howard or elizabeth fry. she shrank from no form of suffering, so long as it was possible to help or to console. she had done with the world and its pleasures. the recluse is soon forgotten in the merry-go-round of society. her duchesses had long ceased to trouble themselves about her. the princes and princesses had forgotten her existence. the new reign had brought with it new interests, a new set. women were the top of the fashion who had been dowdies; men who had been blockheads were wits. lord dunkeld had married a rosy-cheeked damsel of eighteen summers, daughter and heiress of a lord of session, was settled on his scotch estate, and had come to think edinburgh the focus of intelligence and _ton_. the people who had courted and admired lady kilrush had long ceased to think of her, except as an eccentric, like lady huntingdon, who had caught the fever of piety that had been in the air for the last twenty years--the contagion of methodism, moravianism, predestinarianism--some boring and essentially middle-class form of religion which banished her from polite company. a woman who neither visits nor gives entertainments is socially dead. her female friends spoke of her sometimes with pity, as an unfortunate who was afraid to let the town see her altered face, and who had taken to religion as a substitute for beauty. the idea that she was disfigured having once got abroad, her old rivals were slow to believe her face unspoilt, though people who had seen her at one of lady huntingdon's thursdays swore that she was almost as handsome as ever. "if she had not a cold, proud look that keeps an old friend at a distance," said one of her admirers, who had suffered one of whitefield's sermons in order to meet her. "she would not have you near enough to discover the ravages of that horrid malady. i'll wager her countenance is plastered a quarter of an inch thick with white lead," retorted the rival belle. the library in st. james's square was in the half light of a spring evening, as it had been a year ago when stobart entered the room with so agonized an apprehension. he came in now with antonia, a privileged guest, coming and going as in the years gone by, taking his rest by her fireside, after the burden of the day. her only other visitors were lady margaret laroche--who was faithful to her in spite of what she called her "degeneracy," and who came now and then to pour out her complaints at the foolishness of a world whose follies were necessary to her existence--and patty granger, whose dog-like fidelity made her ever welcome, and who loved to talk of antonia's girlhood, and her own free and easy life in covent garden, when the general was a submissive lover, and not a peevish husband. stobart had been unusually silent during the walk from lambeth, and antonia had been full of thought, impressed as she ever was by that mystery of the passing spirit, that unanswerable question, "whither goest thou, oh, departing soul, or is thy journey for ever finished, and is man's instinctive belief in immortality a vain dream?" antonia sank into her fireside chair, weary after a long day in wretched rooms, hearing and seeing sad things. she was almost too tired to talk, and was glad of stobart's silence. sophy would come presently and make the tea--it being supposed that no man-servant's hand was delicate enough to brew that choice infusion--and their spirits would revive. but in the meantime rest was all they wanted. it startled her from this reposeful feeling when stobart rose abruptly and began to pace the room, for some minutes in silence, broken only by a sigh, then bursting into impassioned speech. "antonia, i can lock up my heart no longer! 'tis a year since i came from america to find a desolate home. for a year i have known myself a widower. dare i break the spell of silence? shall i lose all in asking for all? will you banish me in anger, as you did when it was so black a sin to speak of my love?" he flung himself on his knees beside her chair. "say you will be pitiful and kind, you who are all pity; and if you cannot give me what i ask, promise not to make me an outcast from your friendship." "i shall never again cease to be your friend, sir!" she answered gently. "i think we know each other too well to quarrel. we are neither of us perfect creatures; but i believe you are a good christian, and that your friendship will ever be precious to me." "make the bond something nearer than friendship, antonia. let it be the hallowed tie that makes two souls seem as one. ah, my angelic friend, seldom has woman been so worshipped as you are by me. the love that stole upon my mind and heart unawares, in this room, when it was so foul a sin to love you; the love purified by years of repentance; the love that haunted me in the wilderness, through long days and nights of toil and pain, when your following ghost was nearer and more real to me than the foe that hemmed us round or the storm that beat upon our heads--that love is with me still, antonia; time cannot change nor familiarity lessen it. will you be for ever cold, for ever deaf to my prayer?" she had heard him to the end. was it for the joy of hearing him, though she knew what her answer must be? she knew now that she loved him, and had always loved him, from those days of a so-called friendship. she knew that he took all the zest out of her life when he left her; and that the want of his company had been a dull pain, underlying all varieties of pleasure, a sense of loss coming on her on a sudden amidst the tempestuous gaiety of a masquerade, haunting her in some melody at the opera house, saddening her in the midst of a gay throng, where arrows of wit flashed fast to an accompaniment of joyous laughter. "can you forget what i told you years ago?" she said. "a marriage is impossible for me. i am married to the dead. i gave myself to my husband for ever. i swore in his dying moments to belong to none but him." "'twere madness to keep so wild a vow." "what! do the methodist christians think it no sin to break their oath?" "they would violate no vow made in their rational moments. but your promise was given in the delirium of grief, and he to whom you gave it could not be such a self-lover as to fetter youth and beauty to his coffin." "'twas he who claimed the promise, and i gave it in all seriousness. i loved him, sir. i would have given all the residue of my life for one year of happiness with him. i loved him; and our lives were severed by my act, severed for years, to unite in death. if there be that other world mr. wesley believes in, i may see him again, may be with him in eternity. that, sir, is indeed a great perhaps. i will not hazard such a chance of everlasting bliss." "'tis the pagan's heaven you picture, not the christian's--the resumption of human ties, not union with christ. oh, can you be so cruel as to make my life miserable, to deny the lover who adores you, for the sake of the dead man who lies in the quiet sleep that has no knowledge of you and me--must lie there unknowing, uncaring, till the day of judgment?" "if ever that day come he shall not find me forsworn; no, not even for you; not even to make you happy." he had watched the exalted look in her face as the firelight shone upon it. she had looked upward as she spoke, her eyes dilated, her lips tremulous with emotion, and a fever spot on her cheek. but now on a sudden her head drooped, and she burst into tears. "not even for you," she sobbed. it was her confession of love. in the next moment she was in his arms, and their lips had met. she let him hold her there, she let her head lie upon his shoulder, and suffered his impassioned kisses in the surprise of his wild vehemence. "you love me, antonia, you love me! no dead man shall stand between us. you must, you shall be mine!" she released herself from his arms, and sprang to her feet. "i am not so weak a thing as you fancy me, sir." "i will not let you go. shall a profligate's pale spectre stand between me and the woman i worship? a vow made under such conditions is no vow. can it better him that my life should be miserable, that lovers as true as you and i should pine in solitude, go down to the grave without ever having known happiness? it shall not be." "you are very imperious, mr. stobart; but i am the mistress of my own fate." "i am very resolute. you love me, antonia. your tears, your lips have told me that divine secret." "be it so. i love you, sir. but i will not break my promise to one i loved better, my first dear love, the man who brought sunshine into my life, and extinguished the sun when he left me. the man who loved me better than he thought." "antonia!" "leave me, mr. stobart. if we are still to be friends, you had best leave me." "it is no longer a question of friendship. i know now that you love me, and i swear i will not lose you." "leave me, sir," she exclaimed. "if you ever wish to see my face again, leave me this instant." "at least be merciful. do not send me from you in despair. antonia, be kind! i cannot live without you." "go, sir; your vehemence, your boldness, leave me no power to reason or even to think. go; and if after a night of thought i can bring myself to believe that i am not bound, body and soul, by my promise to the dead----" "you will be mine," he cried, with outstretched arms, trying to clasp her again to his heart, but she drew herself away from him indignantly. he grasped her unwilling hand, covered it with kisses and tears, and rushed from the room. * * * * * the watchmen were calling "half-past eleven, and a fine night," when lady kilrush left her dressing-room, carrying a lighted candle and a key, and crossed the gallery to that other side of the spacious house where the late lord's rooms were situated. the household had retired soon after ten, and the great well staircase lay like a pit of darkness below the massive oak banisters. an oppressive silence, an oppressive gloom, pervaded the house, as antonia unlocked the door that had seldom been opened since the coffin was carried out on the first stage of its long journey, on a summer night that memory recalled as if it had been yesterday. the atmosphere, the feelings of that night were in her mind as she crossed the threshold of the room which had never known the uses of human life since kilrush occupied it. the wainscot mouse, the spider on the wall, the moth lurking in the window drapery, had been its only inhabitants. the tall silver candlesticks, the portfolio and standish were on the table in the oak-panelled ante-room where antonia remembered the lawyer and the doctor talking beside the empty hearth. the vastness of the bed-chamber had an appalling air in the glimmer of a single candle. antonia's hand trembled as she lighted those other candles, the candles that had burnt beside the dying man when he spoke the words that made her a peeress. how near that night seemed, as she stood beside the bed, funereal under the dark velvet hangings, a catafalque rather than a bed. she could hear the bishop's full-mouthed tones, and that other voice, faltering and faint, but to her the world's best music. "oh, my beloved," she cried, falling on her knees beside the pillow on which his head had lain. "oh, my dearest, kindest, best, surely it is you i love and none other--you, only you, only you!" her arms were folded on the coverlet, her head resting on them. she remained thus on her knees, for a long time, dreaming back the past. she lived again through those hours in rupert buildings, those hours spent in endless talk with kilrush. they seemed to her now the most blissful hours of her life. she looked back and wondered at that happiness. perhaps there was some touch of illusion in that dream of the past, something of the light that never was on sea or land; but to her there was no shadow of doubt that the joy of those past days exceeded all she had known of gladness since her husband's death. she had made her night toilet and put on a loose silken _négligé_, meaning to spend the long hours in this room. her first night in a husband's chamber--her wedding night, she thought, with a melancholy smile. she had come here to solve the problem of the future, to determine whether she should or should not break her promise to the dead. for her, the free-thinker, it might seem a small thing to break a vow, when her keeping it would make a good man's life desolate. but despite the vagueness of her hope in the hereafter, despite that early teaching which had bidden her believe in nothing that her human intelligence could not comprehend, her husband's image was a living presence in that room, a living influence in her life, and she could not imagine him lying in the dust, unconscious and indifferent. somehow, somewhere, by some mysterious unthinkable means, the dead still lived, still loved her, still claimed her fidelity. "my first dear love," she cried, in a burst of hysterical sobs, "i am yours and yours only. i can never belong to another, never own any husband but you." her tears, her reiterated vow soothed her. she rose from her knees, by-and-by, and sat on the bed, as she had sat when she held her dying lover in her arms. gradually her head sank on the pillow where his head had lain, and she fell asleep. "past two o'clock, and a rainy night," called the watchman in the square. antonia did not wake till after five. the dead man was in her dreams through those three hours of deepest sleep. it was not george stobart's impassioned embrace that haunted her slumber. the arms that encircled her, the lips that kissed her, were the arms and lips of the lover irrevocably lost, and there was a poignant joy in that embrace. her wedding night! the words were repeated in her dreams. it was a night of dreams that ratified her promise to the dead. surely he was near her! the voice that sounded so close to her ear, that very voice she knew so well, the lips whose touch thrilled her, gave her the assurance of immortality; and in some dim land she could not picture, under conditions beyond the limit of human intelligence, they two would meet again, husband and wife, spirit or flesh, reunited for ever. * * * * * george stobart was at kilrush house before nine o'clock. his patience could endure no longer. he had spent the night as he spent that other and much more miserable night after whitefield's sermon, wandering about the waste places between lambeth palace and vauxhall. slumber or rest was out of the question. the hall porter was more awake than usual, and answered his inquiry briskly. "no, sir, not at home. her ladyship has left london. she will lie at devizes to-night, on her way to ireland." "gone! impossible!" "it was very sudden, sir, and as much as could be done. 'twas nearly six o'clock this morning when the servants had their orders. her ladyship takes only miss potter, her french waiting woman, and one footman, in her travelling carriage and a post-chaise." "what time did they leave?" "they may have been gone over half an hour, sir. i heard the clock strike eight after the coaches left the door. i have her ladyship's letter for you, sir." stobart took the letter, speechless with mortification, and left the house before he broke the seal. it was a miserable morning, and he stood in the rain, under the low grey sky, while he read her letter, her letter of one line-- "farewell for ever." chapter xx. "and cleave unto the best." _from the revd. john wesley to mr. george stobart._ "at mrs. berry's lodgings, bristol, "may th, . "my dear friend, "your letter surprised and grieved me; for i had hoped that lady kilrush would have smiled upon your suit, and that an union between two natures so ardent in christian charity would be not only for your happiness, but for the spiritual welfare of that dear lady, and for the greater glory of god. "yet though i regret your disappointment i can but honour her ladyship for the reverence in which she holds her promise to the dead; nor can i do other than admire that chaste and heavenly disposition which would dedicate a lifetime to the memory of a husband who was hers only in one dying hour. such widows are widows indeed! "you ask for my counsel at this so serious crisis of your life, when the nature of your future work for christ rests on your choice of action; first, whether you should take holy orders, before you go to america, a voyage upon which you tell me your mind is irrevocably fixed; and next whether you should accept her ladyship's munificent gift of the major portion of her funded property, and her mansion in st. james's square, she retaining only her irish estate, and the family seat on the shannon. this latter question i unhesitatingly answer in the affirmative. the fact that this noble lady had executed the deed of gift which transferred her property to you before she declared her intention, in the touching letter which you send me, would show that she had deliberately resolved upon this sacrifice, and was influenced by the desire of doing justice to her late husband's nearest kinsman. she has indeed honoured me with a letter to that effect, and has moreover told me that she intends to spend the rest of her life in ireland, where i hope occasionally to visit her. "i say to you, george, accept this fortune, even though, in your present temper, it may seem a burden. lady kilrush will be still a rich woman; and you will have a wider scope for the employment of money in the service of christ than any woman, not even that mother in israel, lady huntingdon, could find. "the more serious question of your ordination i must leave to your own heart and mind, and the spirit of god directing you. as an itinerant lay-preacher your ministry has borne good fruit, and if you transfer your labours to georgia i shall sorely miss your help; but as an ordained priest you will enter a higher sphere of usefulness, and feel yourself sent out upon a nobler mission: so, my dear brother in christ, i bid you go on and fear not. we desire to rivet the chains that bind us to the church of england, not to loosen them; and the idea that we are drifting apart from that church--_injusta noverca_ though she has been to us--is a source of fear and trembling to many weak spirits, most of all to my dear brother charles. "for myself i care but little whether we continue to belong to the established church or be cast out; for sure i am that we have kindled a flame which neither men nor devils will ever be able to quench. our fundamental principles are the fundamental principles of the church, and will suffer no change. i have no fear for the society, which, from so insignificant a beginning, has attained so vast an influence. i remember how, less than thirty years ago, two young men, without friends, without either power or fortune, set out from college to attempt a reformation, not of opinions, but of men's tempers and lives, of vice in every kind, of everything contrary to justice, mercy, or truth. for this we carried our lives in our hands, and were looked upon and treated as mad dogs. knowing this of me you cannot think that i should fear to stand alone, the untrammelled shepherd of my flock. your ordination, should you meet with a bishop of liberal mind, like whitefield's friend, that good bishop of gloucester, ought not to hang tediously on hand. but i hope i may have many occasions for conversing with you before you sail for america, where, supplied with ample fortune, and armed with the faith that can move mountains, you may do much to maintain those noble enterprises, the schools, the orphanages, and asylums, which mr. whitefield initiated, and to which he ever returns with fresh vigour. would that he had a more robust constitution, and that we might hope to see his ministry continued to a green old age; but i fear he cannot long stand against the inroads of disease, accelerated by strenuous toil, preaching three times a day, long journeys in all weathers, the rough usage of the mob, and that fiery spirit which has been always like the sword that wears out the scabbard. "on my return to the foundery in the autumn i shall seek for you in your house at lambeth. till then, esteemed friend and fellow labourer, farewell. "john wesley." _from the revd. john wesley to the revd. george stobart._ "at the george inn, limerick, ireland, "november th, . "my dear friend, "it is with poignant grief that i take up my pen to write the saddest tidings it has ever been my lot to send you. your last letter was full of enquiries about lady kilrush. alas, george, that noble being, whom we have both loved and revered, no longer inhabits this place of sin and sorrow, and i dare hope that her pure and gentle spirit has taken flight to a better world, and now enjoys the companionship of saints and angels. rarely have i met with a nature so free from earthly stain, nor have i often beheld a life so rich in good works; and although she may not even at the last have attained that unquestioning faith which i so desired to find in her, i would hazard my own hope of heaven against the certainty of her everlasting bliss; for never did i know a better christian. "her death was worthy to rank in the list of martyrs. you may have heard that this city--the filth and squalor of whose poorer streets and alleys no pen can depict--was lately visited by an outbreak of small-pox. lady kilrush was at her mansion by the atlantic, a delightful spot, where i once spent a reposeful week in her sweet company, preaching in the neighbouring villages, and narrowly escaping death at the hands of a wild mob, egged on by a bigot priest. in this healthful retreat she heard of the pestilence that was mowing down the poor of limerick, and at once hastened to the dreadful scene. secure from the disease herself, by past suffering, she spent her days and nights in ministering to the sick, aided in this pious work by a band of holy women of the roman catholic faith, and by such hired nurses as her purse could command. "for six weeks she laboured without respite, scarcely allowing herself time for food or sleep; and when my itinerant ministry brought me to limerick i found her marked for death. she had taken cold in passing from close and heated rooms into the windy street, had neglected her own ailments in her anxiety for others, and the result was a violent inflammation of the lungs, attended with a raging fever. "alas, dear sir, i can give you no message of affection from those once so lovely lips. she was delirious when i saw her, and though your name was mixed with her wild ravings, 'twas in disjointed sentences of no meaning; but on the day preceding her death the fever abated, and indeed it seemed for a short space as if my prayers had prevailed, and that she would be spared still to adorn a world where by her charities and inexhaustible beneficence she shone like a star. her senses came back to her within an hour of the last change. she knew me, and received the sacrament from my hand, and i dare hope that in those last moments perfect faith in her saviour was conjoined with that perfect love which had long been the ruling principle of her life. "i had been kneeling by her bedside in silent prayer for some time, her marble hand clasped in mine, when she cried out suddenly, 'husband, i have kept my vow,' and, looking upward with a seraphic smile, her spirit passed into eternity. i assisted in the funeral service, and saw her mortal remains laid in the family vault, where her coffin was placed beside that of the last lord kilrush. "yours in sorrow and affection, "john wesley." epilogue. thirty years later, on the anniversary of antonia's death, george stobart, bishop of northborough--the fighting bishop, as some of his admirers called him, a profound scholar, a fiery controversialist, a celibate and an ascetic, once famous as a methodist field-preacher, and now the leader of the extreme high church party--sat by the fireside in his library in the episcopal palace, a lofty and spacious room, where a pair of wax candles on the writing-table served but to accentuate the darkness. he sat leaning forward in the candlelight, with one elbow on the arm of his chair, looking at a long dark ringlet that lay in his open hand, bound with a black ribbon to which was attached a label in wesley's writing-- "antonia's hair, cut after death by her sorrowing friend, j. w." "only a woman's hair," murmured the bishop. "'tis said that swift spoke those words in pure cynicism over a ringlet of his ill-used stella. only a woman's hair! and for me the memorial of a life's love, the one earthly relic which reminds the priest that he was once a man. oh, thou who wert the idol of this heart, dost thou in some undiscovered region still live to pity thy desolate lover? shall we meet and know each other again, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage? or is it all a dream, nothing but a dream?" note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) prudence of the parsonage by ethel hueston with illustrations by arthur william brown [frontispiece: "what did you put in this soup, prudence?"] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company to my mother who devoted her life to rearing a whole parsonage-full of rollicking young methodists contents chapter i introducing her ii the rest of the family iii the ladies' aid iv a secret society v the twins stick up for the bible vi an admirer vii lessons in etiquette viii the first dark shadow of winter ix practising economy x a burglar's visit xi romance comes xii roused from her slumber xiii she orders her life xiv she comes to grief xv fate takes charge illustrations "what did you put in this soup, prudence?" . . . . _frontispiece_ "if you'll shut the door one minute, we'll have everything exactly as you left it." "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" "she predicted i'm to fall in love with you." prudence of the parsonage chapter i introducing her none but the residents consider mount mark, iowa, much of a town, and those who are honest among them admit, although reluctantly, that mount mark can boast of far more patriotism than good judgment! but the _very most_ patriotic of them all has no word of praise for the ugly little red c., b. & q. railway station. if pretty is as pretty does, as we have been told so unpleasantly often, then the station is handsome enough, but as an ornament to the commonwealth it is a dismal failure,--low, smoky and dust-grimed. in winter its bleakness and bareness add to the chill of the rigorous iowa temperature, and in summer the sap oozing through the boards is disagreeably suggestive of perspiration. the waiting-room itself is "cleaned" every day, and yet the same dust lies in the corners where it has lain for lo, these many years. and as for the cobwebs, their chief distinction lies in their ripe old age. if there were only seven spiders in the ark, after the subsiding of the waters, at least a majority of them must have found their way to mount mark station in south-eastern iowa. mount mark is anything but proud of the little station. it openly scoffs at it, and sniffs contemptuously at the ticket agent who bears the entire c., b. & q. reputation upon his humble shoulders. at the same time, it certainly does owe the railroad and the state a debt of gratitude for its presence there. it is the favorite social rendezvous for the community! only four passenger trains daily pass through mount mark,--not including the expresses, which rush haughtily by with no more than a scornful whistle for the sleepy town, and in return for this indignity, mount mark cherishes a most unchristian antipathy toward those demon fliers. but the "passengers"--ah, that is a different matter. the arrival of a passenger train in mount mark is an event--something in the nature of a c., b. & q. "at home," and is always attended by a large and enthusiastic gathering of "our best people." all that is lacking are the proverbial "light refreshments!" so it happened that one sultry morning, late in the month of august, there was the usual flutter of excitement and confusion on the platform and in the waiting-room of the station. the habitués were there in force. conspicuous among them were four gaily dressed young men, smoking cigarettes and gazing with lack-luster eyes upon the animated scene, which evidently bored them. all the same, they invariably appeared at the depot to witness this event, stirring to others no doubt, but incapable of arousing the interest of these life-weary youths. they comprised the slaughter-house quartette, and were the most familiar and notorious characters in all the town. _the daily news_ reporter, in a well-creased, light gray suit and tan shoes, and with eye-glasses scientifically balanced on his aquiline nose, was making pointed inquiries into the private plans of the travelers. _the daily news_ reporters in mount mark always wear well-creased, light gray suits and tan shoes, and always have eye-glasses scientifically balanced on aquiline noses. the uninitiated can not understand how it is managed, but there lies the fact. perhaps _the news_ includes these details in its requirements of applicants. possibly it furnishes the gray suits and the tan shoes, and even the eye-glasses. of course, the reporters can practise balancing them scientifically,--but how does it happen that they always have aquiline noses? at any rate, that is the mount mark type. it never varies. the young woman going to burlington to spend the week-end was surrounded with about fifteen other young women who had come to "see her off." she had relatives in burlington and went there very often, and she used to say she was glad she didn't have to exchange christmas presents with all the "friends" who witnessed her arrivals and departures at the station. mount mark is a very respectable town, be it understood, and girls do not go to the station without an excuse! the adams express wagon was drawn close to the track, and the agent was rushing about with a breathless energy which seemed all out of proportion to his accomplishments. the telegraph operator was gazing earnestly out of his open window, and his hands were busily moving papers from one pigeon-hole to another, and back again. old harvey reel, who drove the hotel bus, was discussing politics with the man who kept the restaurant, and the baggage master, superior and supremely dirty, was checking baggage with his almost unendurably lordly air. this was one of the four daily rejuvenations that gladdened the heart of mount mark. a man in a black business suit stood alone on the platform, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering from one to another of the strange faces about him. his plain white ready-made tie proclaimed his calling. "it's the new methodist preacher," volunteered the baggage master, crossing the platform, ostensibly on business bound, but really to see "who all" was there. "i know him. he's not a bad sort." "they say he's got five kids, and most of 'em girls," responded the adams express man. "i've ordered me a dress suit to pay my respects in when they get here. i want to be on hand early to pick me out a girl." "yah," mocked the telegraph operator, bobbing his head through the window, "you need to. they tell me every girl in mount mark has turned you down a'ready." but the methodist minister, gazing away down the track where a thin curl of smoke announced the coming of number nine, and prudence,--heard nothing of this conversation. he was not a handsome man. his hair was gray at the temples, his face was earnest, only saved from severity by the little clusters of lines at his eyes and mouth which proclaimed that he laughed often, and with relish. "train going east!" the minister stood back from the crowd, but when the train came pounding in a brightness leaped into his eyes that entirely changed the expression of his face. a slender girl stood in the vestibule, leaning dangerously outward, and waving wildly at him a small gloved hand. when the train stopped she leaped lightly from the steps, ignoring the stool placed for her feet by the conductor. "father!" she cried excitedly and small and slight as she was, she elbowed her way swiftly through the gaping crowd. "oh, father!" and she flung her arms about him joyously, unconscious of the admiring eyes of the adams express man, and the telegraph operator, and old harvey reel, whose eyes were always admiring when girls passed by. she did not even observe that the slaughterhouse quartette looked at her unanimously, with languid interest from out the wreaths of smoke they had created. her father kissed her warmly. "where is your baggage?" he asked, a hand held out to relieve her. "here!" and with a radiant smile she thrust upon him a box of candy and a gaudy-covered magazine. "your suit-case," he explained patiently. "oh!" she gasped. "run, father, run! i left it on the train!" father did run, but prudence, fleeter-footed, out-distanced him and clambered on board, panting. when she rejoined her father her face was flushed. "oh, father," she said quite snappily, "isn't that just like me?" "yes, very like," he agreed, and he smiled. "where is your umbrella?" prudence stopped abruptly. "i don't know," she said, with a stony face. "i can't remember a blessed thing about the old umbrella. oh, i guess i didn't bring it, at all." she breathed long in her relief. "yes, that's it, father, i left it at aunt grace's. don't you worry about it. fairy'll bring it to-morrow. isn't it nice that we can count on fairy's remembering?" "yes, very nice," he said, but his eyes were tender as he looked down at the little figure beside him. "and so this is mount mark! isn't it a funny name, father? why do they call it mount mark?" "i don't know. i hadn't thought to inquire. we turn here, prudence; we are going north now. this is main street. the city part of the town--the business part--is to the south." "it's a pretty street, isn't it?" she cried. "such nice big maples, and such shady, porchy houses. i love houses with porches, don't you? has the parsonage a porch?" "yes, a big one on the south, and a tiny one in front. the house faces west. that is the college there. it opens in three weeks, and fairy can make freshmen all right, they tell me. i wish you could go, too. you haven't had your share of anything--any good thing, prudence." "well, i have my share of you, father," she said comfortingly. "and i've always had my share of oatmeal and sorghum molasses,--though one wouldn't think it to look at me. fairy gained a whole inch last week at aunt grace's. she was so disgusted with herself. she says she'll not be able to look back on the visit with any pleasure at all, just because of that inch. carol said she ought to look back with more pleasure, because there's an inch more of her to do it! but fairy says she did not gain the inch in her eyes! aunt grace laughed every minute we were there. she says she is all sore up and down, from laughing so much." "we have the house fixed up pretty well, prudence, but of course you'll have to go over it yourself and arrange it as you like. but remember this: you are not allowed to move the heavy furniture. i forbid it emphatically. there isn't enough of you for that." "yes, i'll remember,--i think i will. i'm almost certain to remember some things, you know." "i must go to a trustees' meeting at two o'clock, but we can get a good deal done before then. mrs. adams is coming to help you this afternoon. she is one of our ladies, and very kind. there, that is the parsonage!" prudence gazed in silence. many would not have considered it a beautiful dwelling, but to prudence it was heavenly. fortunately the wide, grassy, shaded lawn greeted one first. great spreading maples bordered the street, and clustering rose-bushes lined the walk leading up to the house. the walk was badly worn and broken to be sure,--but the roses were lovely! the grass had been carefully cut,--the father-minister had seen to that. the parsonage, to prudence's gratified eyes, looked homey, and big, and inviting. in fact, it was very nearly gorgeous! it needed painting badly, it is true. the original color had been a peculiar drab, but most of it had disappeared long before, so it was no eyesore on account of the color. there were many windows, and the well-known lace curtains looked down upon prudence tripping happily up the little board walk,--or so it seemed to her. "two whole stories, and an attic besides! not to mention the bathroom! oh, father, the night after you wrote there was a bathroom, constance thanked god for it when she said her prayers. and i couldn't reprove her, for i felt the same way about it myself. it'll be so splendid to have a whole tub to bathe in! i spent half the time bathing this last week at aunt grace's. a tub is so bountiful! a pan is awfully insufficient, father, even for me! i often think what a trouble it must be to fairy! and a furnace, too! and electric lights! don't you think there is something awe-inspiring in the idea of just turning a little knob on the wall, and flooding a whole room with light? i do revel in electric lights, i tell you. oh, we have waited a long time for it, and we've been very patient indeed, but, between you and me, father, i am most mightily glad we've hit the luxury-land at last. i'm sure we'll all feel much more religious in a parsonage that has a bathroom and electric lights! oh, father!" he had thrown open the door, and prudence stood upon the threshold of her new home. it was not a fashionable building, by any means. the hall was narrow and long, and the staircase was just a plain businesslike staircase, with no room for cushions, and flowers, and books. the doors leading from the hall were open, and prudence caught a glimpse of three rooms furnished, rather scantily, in the old familiar furniture that had been in that other parsonage where prudence was born, nineteen years before. together she and her father went from room to room, up-stairs and down, moving a table to the left, a bed to the right,--according to her own good pleasure. afterward they had a cozy luncheon for two in the "dining-room." "oh, it is so elegant to have a dining-room," breathed prudence happily. "i always pretended it was rather fun, and a great saving of work, to eat and cook and study and live in one room, but inwardly the idea always outraged me. is that the school over there?" "yes, that's where connie will go. there is only one high school in mount mark, so the twins will have to go to the other side of town,--a long walk, but in good weather they can come home for dinner.--i'm afraid the kitchen will be too cold in winter, prudence,--it's hardly more than a shed, really. maybe we'd----" "oh, father, if you love me, don't suggest that we move the stove in here in winter! i'm perfectly willing to freeze out there, for the sake of having a dining-room. did i ever tell you what carol said about that kitchen-dining-room-living-room combination at exminster? well, she asked us a riddle, 'when is a dining-room not a dining-room?' and she answered it herself, 'when it's a little pig-pen.' and i felt so badly about it, but it did look like a pig-pen, with stove here, and cupboard there, and table yonder, and--oh, no, father, please let me freeze!" "i confess i do not see the connection between a roomful of furniture and a pig-pen, but carol's wit is often too subtle for me." "oh, that's a lovely place over there, father!" exclaimed prudence, looking from the living-room windows toward the south. "isn't it beautiful?" "yes. the avery family lives there. the parents are very old and feeble, and the daughters are all--elderly--and all school-teachers. there are four of them, and the youngest is forty-six. it is certainly a beautiful place. see the orchard out behind, and the vineyard. they are very wealthy, and they are not fond of children outside of school hours, i am told, so we must keep an eye on connie.--dear me, it is two o'clock already, and i must go at once. mrs. adams will be here in a few minutes, and you will not be lonely." but when mrs. adams arrived at the parsonage, she knocked repeatedly, and in vain, upon the front door. after that she went to the side door, with no better result. finally, she gathered her robes about her and went into the back yard. she peered into the woodshed, and saw no one. she went into the barn-lot, and found it empty. in despair, she plunged into the barn--and stopped abruptly. in a shadowy corner was a slender figure kneeling beside an overturned nail keg, her face buried in her hands. evidently this was prudence engaged in prayer,--and in the barn, of all places in the world! "a--a--a--hem!" stammered mrs. adams inquiringly. "amen!" this was spoken aloud and hurriedly, and prudence leaped to her feet. her fair hair clung about her face in damp babyish tendrils, and her face was flushed and dusty, but alight with friendly interest. she ran forward eagerly, thrusting forth a slim and grimy hand. "you are mrs. adams, aren't you? i am prudence starr. it is so kind of you to come the very first day," she cried. "it makes me love you right at the start." "ye--yes, i am mrs. adams." mrs. adams was embarrassed. she could not banish from her mental vision that kneeling figure by the nail keg. interrogation was written all over her ample face, and prudence promptly read it and hastened to reply. "i do not generally say my prayers in the barn, mrs. adams, i assure you. i suppose you were greatly surprised. i didn't expect to do it myself, when i came out here, but--well, when i found this grand, old, rambling barn, i was so thankful i couldn't resist praying about it. of course, i didn't specially designate the barn, but god knew what i meant, i am sure." "but a barn!" ejaculated the perplexed "member." "do you call that a blessing?" "yes, indeed i do," declared prudence. then she explained patiently: "oh, it is on the children's account, you know. they have always longed for a big romantic barn to play in. we've never had anything but a shed, and when father went to conference this year, the twins told him particularly to look out for a good big barn. they said we'd be willing to put up with any kind of a parsonage, if only we might draw a barn for once. you can't imagine how happy this dear old place will make them, and i was happy on their account. that's why i couldn't resist saying my prayers,--i was so happy i couldn't hold in." as they walked slowly toward the house, mrs. adams looked at this parsonage girl in frank curiosity and some dismay, which she strongly endeavored to conceal from the bright-eyed prudence. the ladies had said it would be so nice to have a grown girl in the parsonage! prudence was nineteen from all account, but she looked like a child and--well, it was not exactly grown-up to give thanks for a barn, to say the very least! yet this girl had full charge of four younger children, and was further burdened with the entire care of a minister-father! well, well! mrs. adams sighed a little. "you are tired," said prudence sympathetically. "it's so hot walking, isn't it? let's sit on the porch until you are nicely rested. isn't this a lovely yard? and the children will be so happy to have this delicious big porch. oh, i just adore mount mark already." "this is a fine chance for us to get acquainted," said the good woman with eagerness. now if the truth must be told, there had been some ill feeling in the ladies' aid society concerning the reception of prudence. after the session of conference, when the reverend mr. starr was assigned to mount mark, the ladies of the church had felt great interest in the man and his family. they inquired on every hand, and learned several interesting items. the mother had been taken from the family five years before, after a long illness, and prudence, the eldest daughter, had taken charge of the household. there were five children. so much was known, and being women, they looked forward with eager curiosity to the coming of prudence, the young mistress of the parsonage. mr. starr had arrived at mount mark a week ahead of his family. the furniture had been shipped from his previous charge, and he, with the assistance of a strong and willing negro, had "placed it" according to the written instructions of prudence, who had conscientiously outlined just what should go in every room. she and the other children had spent the week visiting at the home of their aunt, and prudence had come on a day in advance of the others to "wind everything up," as she had expressed it. but to return to the ladies,--the parsonage girls always capitalized the ladies of their father's church, and indeed italicized them, as well. and the irrepressible carol had been heard to remark, "i often feel like exclamation-pointing them, i promise you." but to return once more. "one of us should go and help the dear child," said mrs. scott, the president of the aids, when they assembled for their business meeting, "help her, and welcome her, and advise her." "i was thinking of going over," said one, and another, and several others. "oh, that will not do at all," said the president; "she would be excited meeting so many strangers, and could not properly attend to her work. that will never do, never, never! but one of us must go, of course." "i move that the president appoint a committee of one to help miss prudence get settled, and welcome her to our midst," said mrs. barnaby, secretly hoping that in respect for her making this suggestion honoring the president, the president would have appreciation enough to appoint mrs. barnaby herself as committee. the motion was seconded, and carried. "well," said mrs. scott slowly, "i think in a case like this the president herself should represent the society. therefore, i will undertake this duty for you." but this called forth a storm of protest and it became so clamorous that it was unofficially decided to draw cuts! which was done, and in consequence of that drawing of cuts, mrs. adams now sat on the front porch of the old gray parsonage, cheered by the knowledge that every other lady of the aid was envying her! "now, just be real sociable and tell me all about yourself, and the others, too," urged mrs. adams. "i want to know all about every one of you. tell me everything." "there isn't much to tell," said prudence, smiling. "there are five of us; i am the oldest, i am nineteen. then comes fairy, then the twins, and then the baby." "are the twins boys, or a boy and a girl?" "neither," said prudence, "they are both girls." "more girls!" gasped mrs. adams. "and the baby?" "she is a girl, too." and prudence laughed. "in short, we are all girls except father. he couldn't be, of course,--or i suppose he would, for our family does seem to run to girls." "prudence is a very nice name for a minister's daughter," said mrs. adams suggestively. "yes,--for some ministers' daughters," assented prudence. "but is sadly unsuitable for me. you see, father and mother were very enthusiastic about the first baby who hadn't arrived. they had two names all picked out months ahead,--prudence and john wesley. that's how i happen to be prudence. they thought, as you do, that it was an uplifting name for a parsonage baby.--i was only three years old when fairy was born, but already they realized that they had made a great mistake. so they decided to christen baby number two more appropriately. they chose frank and fairy,--both light-hearted, happy, cheerful names.--it's fairy," prudence smiled reflectively. "but things went badly again. they were very unlucky with their babies. fairy is prudence by nature, and i am fairy. she is tall and a little inclined to be fat. she is steady, and industrious, and reliable, and sensible, and clever. in fact, she is an all-round solid and worthwhile girl. she can do anything, and do it right, and is going to be a college professor. it is a sad thing to think of a college professor being called fairy all her life, isn't it? especially when she is so dignified and grand. but one simply can't tell beforehand what to expect, can one? "father and mother were quite discouraged by that time. they hardly knew what to do. but anyhow they were sure the next would be a boy. every one predicted a boy, and so they chose a good old methodist name,--charles. they hated to give it john wesley, for they had sort of dedicated that to me, you know,--only i happened to be prudence. but charles was second-best. and they were very happy about it, and--it was twin girls! it was quite a blow, i guess. but they rallied swiftly, and called them carol and lark. such nice musical names! father and mother were both good singers, and mother a splendid pianist. and fairy and i showed musical symptoms early in life, so they thought they couldn't be far wrong that time. it was a bitter mistake. it seemed to turn the twins against music right from the start. carol can carry a tune if there's a strong voice beside her, but lark can hardly tell the difference between _star spangled banner_ and _rock of ages_. "the neighbors were kind of amused by then, and mother was very sensitive about it. so the next time she determined to get ahead of fate. 'no more nonsense, now,' said mother. 'it's almost certain to be a boy, and we'll call him william after father,--and billy for short.' we all liked the name billy, mother especially. but she couldn't call father anything but william,--we being parsonage people, you know. but she kept looking forward to little billy,--and then they changed it in a hurry to constance. and after that, father and mother gave the whole thing up as a bad job. there aren't any more of us. connie settled the baby business in our family." mrs. adams wiped her eyes, and leaned weakly back in her chair, gasping for breath. "well, i swan!" was all she could say at that moment. while giving herself time to recover her mental poise she looked critically at this young daughter of the parsonage. then her eyes wandered down to her clothes, and lingered, in silent questioning, on prudence's dress. it was a very peculiar color. in fact, it was no color at all,--no named color. prudence's eyes had followed mrs. adams' glance, and she spoke frankly. "i suppose you're wondering if this dress is any color! well, i think it really is, but it isn't any of the regular shades. it is my own invention, but i've never named it. we couldn't think of anything appropriate. carol suggested 'prudence shade,' but i couldn't bring myself to accept that. of course, mrs. adams, you understand how parsonage people do with clothes,--handing them down from generation unto generation. well, i didn't mind it at first,--when i was the biggest. but all of a sudden fairy grew up and out and around, and one day when i was so nearly out of clothes i hardly felt that i could attend church any more, she suggested that i cut an old one of hers down for me! at first i laughed, and then i was insulted. fairy is three years younger than i, and before then she had got my handed-downs. but now the tables were turned. from that time on, whenever anything happened to fairy's clothes so a gore had to be cut out, or the bottom taken off,--they were cut down for me. i still feel bitter about it. fairy is dark, and dark blues are becoming to her. she handed down this dress,--it was dark blue then. but i was not wanting a dark blue, and i thought it would be less recognizable if i gave it a contrasting color. i chose lavender. i dyed it four times, and this was the result." "do the twins dress alike?" inquired mrs. adams, when she could control her voice. "yes,--unfortunately for connie. they do it on purpose to escape the handed-downs! they won't even have hair ribbons different. and the result is that poor connie never gets one new thing except shoes. she says she can not help thanking the lord in her prayers, that all of us outwear our shoes before we can outgrow them.--connie is only nine. fairy is sixteen, and the twins are thirteen. they are a very clever lot of girls. fairy, as i told you, is just naturally smart, and aims to be a college professor. lark is an intelligent studious girl, and is going to be an author. carol is pretty, and lovable, and kind-hearted, and witty,--but not deep. she is going to be a red cross nurse and go to war. the twins have it all planned out. carol is going to war as a red cross nurse, and lark is going, too, so she can write a book about it, and they are both going to marry soldiers,--preferably dashing young generals! now they can hardly wait for war to break out. connie is a sober, odd, sensitive little thing, and hasn't decided whether she wants to be a foreign missionary, or get married and have ten children.--but they are all clever, and i'm proud of every one of them." "and what are you going to be?" inquired mrs. adams, looking with real affection at the bright sweet face. but prudence laughed. "oh, dear me, mrs. adams, seems to me if i just get the others raised up properly, i'll have my hands full. i used to have aims, dozens of them. now i have just one, and i'm working at it every day." "you ought to go to school," declared mrs. adams. "you're just a girl yourself." "i don't want to go to school," laughed prudence. "not any more. i like it, just taking care of father and the girls,--with fairy to keep me balanced! i read, but i do not like to study.--no, you'll have to get along with me just the way i am, mrs. adams. it's all i can do to keep things going now, without spending half the time dreaming of big things to do in the future." "don't you have dreams?" gasped mrs. adams. "don't you have dreams of the future? girls in books nowadays dream----" "yes, i dream," interrupted prudence, "i dream lots,--but it's mostly of what fairy and the others will do when i get them properly raised. you'll like the girls, mrs. adams, i know you will. they really are a gifted little bunch,--except me. but i don't mind. it's a great honor for me to have the privilege of bringing up four clever girls to do great things,--don't you think? and i'm only nineteen myself! i don't see what more a body could want." "it seems to me," said mrs. adams, "that i know more about your sisters than i do about you. i feel more acquainted with them right now, than with you." "that's so, too," said prudence, nodding. "but they are the ones that really count, you know. i'm just common little prudence of the parsonage,--but the others!" and prudence flung out her hands dramatically. chapter ii the rest of the family it was saturday morning when the four young parsonage girls arrived in mount mark. the elderly misses avery, next door, looked out of their windows, pending their appearance on main street, with interest and concern. it was a serious matter, this having a whole parsonage-full of young girls so close to the old avery mansion. to be sure, the averys had a deep and profound respect for ministerial households, but they were episcopalians themselves, and in all their long lives they had never so much as heard of a widower-rector with five daughters, and no housekeeper. there was something blood-curdling in the bare idea. the misses avery considered prudence herself rather a sweet, silly little thing. "you have some real nice people in the methodist church," miss dora had told her. "i dare say you will find a few of them very likeable." "oh, i will like them all," said prudence quickly and seriously. "like them all!" echoed miss dora. "oh, impossible!" "not for us," said prudence. "we are used to it, you know. we always like people." "that is ridiculous," said miss dora. "it is absolutely impossible. one can't! of course, as christians, we must tolerate, and try to help every one. but christian tolerance and love are----" "oh, excuse me, but--really i can't believe there is such a thing as christian tolerance," said prudence firmly. "there is christian love, and--that is all we need." then leaning forward: "what do you do, miss avery, when you meet people you dislike at very first sight?" "keep away from them," was the grim reply. "exactly! and keep on disliking them," said prudence triumphantly. "it's very different with us. when we dislike people at first sight, we visit them, and talk to them, and invite them to the parsonage, and entertain them with our best linen and silverware, and keep on getting friendlier and friendlier, and--first thing you know, we like them fine! it's a perfectly splendid rule, and it has never failed us once. try it, miss avery, do! you will be enthusiastic about it, i know." so the misses avery concluded that prudence was very young, and couldn't seem to quite outgrow it! she was not entirely responsible. and they wondered, with something akin to an agony of fear, if the younger girls "had it, too!" therefore the misses avery kept watch at their respective windows, and when miss alice cried excitedly, "quick! quick! they are coming!" they trooped to miss alice's window with a speed that would have done credit to the parsonage girls themselves. first came the minister, whom they knew very well by this time, and considered quite respectable. he was lively, as was to be expected of a methodist minister, and told jokes, and laughed at them! now, a comical rector,--oh, a very different matter,--it wasn't done, that's all! at any rate, here came the methodist minister, laughing, and on one side of him tripped a small earnest-looking maiden, clasping his hand, and gazing alternately up into his face, and down at the stylish cement sidewalk beneath her feet. on the other side, was fairy. the misses avery knew the girls by name already,--having talked much with prudence. "such a fairy!" gasped miss millicent, and the others echoed the gasp, but wordlessly. for fairy for very nearly as tall as her father, built upon generous lines, rather commanding in appearance, a little splendid-looking. even from their windows they could discern something distinctly juno-like in this sixteen-year-old girl, with the easy elastic stride that matched her father's, and the graceful head, well carried. a young goddess,--named fairy! behind them, laughing and chattering, like three children, as they were,--came the twins with prudence, each with an arm around her waist. and prudence was very little taller than they. when they reached the fence that bordered the parsonage, the scene for a moment resembled a miniature riot. the smaller girls jumped and exclaimed, and clasped their hands. fairy leaned over the fence, and stared intently at this, their parsonage home. then the serious little girl scrambled under the fence, followed closely by the lithe-limbed twins. a pause, a very short one,--and then prudence, too, was wriggling beneath the fence. "hold the wire up for me, papa," cried fairy, "i'm too fat." and a second later she was running gracefully across the lawn toward the parsonage. the methodist minister laughed boyishly, and placing his hands on the fence-post, he vaulted lightly over, and reached the house with his daughters. then the misses avery, school-teachers, and elderly, looked at one another. "did you ever?" whispered the oldest miss avery, and the others slowly shook their heads. now, think! did you ever see a rector jumping a three-wire fence, and running full speed across his front yard, in pursuit of a flying family? it may possibly have occurred,--we have never seen it. neither had the misses avery. nor did they ever expect to. and if they had seen it, it is quite likely they would have joined the backsliders at that instant. but without wasting much time on this gruesome thought, they hurried to a window commanding the best view of the parsonage, and raised it. then they clustered behind the curtains, and watched, and listened. there was plenty to hear! from the parsonage windows came the sound of scampering feet and banging doors. once there was the unmistakable clatter of a chair overturned. with it all, there was a constant chorus of "oh, look!" "oh! oh!" "oh, how sweet!" "oh, papa!" "oh, prudence!" "look, larkie, look at this!" then the thud of many feet speeding down the stairs, and the slam of a door, and the slam of a gate. the whole parsonage-full had poured out into the back yard, and the barn-lot. into the chicken coop they raced, the minister ever close upon their heels. over the board fence they clambered to the big rambling barn, and the wide door swung closed after them. but in a few seconds they were out once more, by the back barn door, and over the fence, and on to the "field." there they closed ranks, with their arms recklessly around whoever was nearest, and made a thorough tour of the bit of pasture-land. for some moments they leaned upon the dividing fence and gazed admiringly into the rich orchard and vineyard of the avery estate. but soon they were skipping back to the parsonage again, and the kitchen door banged behind them. then the eldest miss avery closed the window overlooking the parsonage and confronted her sisters. "we must just make the best of it," she said quietly. but next door, the gray old ugly parsonage was full to overflowing with satisfaction and happiness and love. the starrs had never had an appointment like this before. they had just come from the village of exminster, of five hundred inhabitants. there the reverend mr. starr had filled the pulpits of three small methodist churches, scattered at random throughout the country,--consideration, five hundred dollars. but here,--why, mount mark had a population of fully three thousand, and a business academy, and the presbyterian college,--small, to be sure, but the name had a grand and inspiring sound. and mr. starr had to fill only one pulpit! it was heavenly, that's what it was. to be sure, many of his people lived out in the country, necessitating the upkeep of a horse for the sake of his pastoral work, but that was only an advantage. also to be sure, the methodists in mount mark were in a minority, and an inferiority,--mount mark being a presbyterian stronghold due to the homing there of the trim and orderly little college. but what of that? the salary was six hundred and fifty dollars and the parsonage was adorable! the parsonage family could see nothing at all wrong with the world that day, and the future was rainbow-tinted. every one has experienced the ecstatic creepy sensation of sleeping in a brand-new home. the parsonage girls reveled in the memory of that first night for many days. "it may be haunted for all we know," cried carol deliciously. "just think, connie, there may be seven ghosts camped on the head of your bed, waiting----" "carol!" when the family gathered for worship on that first sabbath morning, mr. starr said, as he turned the leaves of his well-worn bible, "i think it would be well for you girls to help with the morning worship now. you need practise in praying aloud, and--so we will begin to-day. connie and i will make the prayers this morning, prudence and carol to-morrow, and fairy and lark the next day. we will keep that system up for a while, anyhow. when i finish reading the chapter, connie, you will make the first prayer. just pray for whatever you wish as you do at night for yourself. i will follow you." connie's eyes were wide with responsibility during the reading of the chapter, but when she began to speak her voice did not falter. connie had nine years of good methodist experience back of her! "our father, who art in heaven, we bow ourselves before thy footstool in humility and reverence. thou art our god, our creator, our saviour. bless us this day, and cause thy face to shine upon us. blot out our transgressions, pardon our trespasses. wash us, that we may be whiter than snow. hide not thy face from the eyes of thy children, turn not upon us in wrath. pity us, lord, as we kneel here prostrate before thy majesty and glory. let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts, be acceptable in thy sight, o lord, our strength and our redeemer. and finally save us, an unbroken family around thy throne in heaven, for jesus' sake. amen." this was followed by an electric silence. prudence was biting her lips painfully, and counting by tens as fast as she could. fairy was mentally going over the prayer, sentence by sentence, and attributing each petition to the individual member in the old church at exminster to whom it belonged. the twins were a little amazed, and quite proud. connie was an honor to the parsonage,--but they were concerned lest they themselves should do not quite so well when their days came. but in less than a moment the minister-father began his prayer. his voice was a little subdued, and he prayed with less fervor and abandon than usual, but otherwise things went off quite nicely. when he said, "amen," prudence was on her feet and half-way up-stairs before the others were fairly risen. fairy stood gazing intently out of the window for a moment, and then went out to the barn to see if the horse was through eating. mr. starr walked gravely and soberly out the front door, and around the house. he ran into fairy coming out the kitchen door, and they glanced quickly at each other. "hurry, papa," she whispered, "you can't hold in much longer! neither can i!" and together, choking with laughter, they hurried into the barn and gave full vent to their feelings. so it was that the twins and connie were alone for a while. "you did a pretty good job, connie," said carol approvingly. "yes. i think i did myself," was the complacent answer. "but i intended to put in, 'keep us as the apple of thy eye, hold us in the hollow of thy hand,' and i forgot it until i had said 'amen.' i had a notion to put in a post-script, but i believe that isn't done." "never mind," said carol, "i'll use that in mine, to-morrow." it can not be said that this form of family worship was a great success. the twins were invariably stereotyped, cut and dried. they thanked the lord for the beautiful morning, for kind friends, for health, and family, and parsonage. connie always prayed in sentences extracted from the prayers of others she had often heard, and every time with nearly disastrous effect. but the days passed around, and prudence and carol's turn came again. carol was a thoughtless, impetuous, impulsive girl, and her prayers were as nearly "verbal repetitions" as any prayers could be. so on this morning, after the reading of the chapter, carol knelt by her chair, and began in her customary solemn voice: "oh, our father, we thank thee for this beautiful morning." then intense silence. for carol remembered with horror and shame that it was a dreary, dismal morning, cloudy, ugly and all unlovely. in her despair, the rest of her petition scattered to the four winds of heaven. she couldn't think of another word, so she gulped, and stammered out a faint "amen." but prudence could not begin. prudence was red in the face, and nearly suffocated. she felt all swollen inside,--she couldn't speak. the silence continued. "oh, why doesn't father do it?" she wondered. as a matter of fact, father couldn't. but prudence did not know that. one who laughs often gets in the habit of laughter,--and sometimes laughs out of season, as well as in. finally, prudence plunged in desperately, "dear father"--as she usually began her sweet, intimate little talks with god,--and then she paused. before her eyes flashed a picture of the "beautiful morning," for which carol had just been thankful! she tried again. "dear father,"--and then she whirled around on the floor, and laughed. mr. starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and literally shook. fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment. even sober little connie giggled and squealed. but carol could not get up. she was disgraced. she had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic thing. she had insulted god! she could never face the family again. her shoulders rose and fell convulsively. lark did not laugh either. with a rush she was on her knees beside carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders. "don't you care, carrie," she whispered. "don't you care. it was just a mistake,--don't cry, carrie." but carol would not be comforted. she tried to sneak unobserved from the room, but her father stopped her. "don't feel so badly about it, carol," he said kindly, really sorry for the stricken child,--though his eyes still twinkled, "it was just a mistake. but remember after this, my child, to speak to god when you pray. remember that you are talking to him. then you will not make such a blunder.--so many of us," he said reflectively, "ministers as well as others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to god." after that, the morning worship went better. the prayers of the children changed,--became more personal, less flowery. they remembered from that time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of god, and speaking direct to him. it was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking turns about with the washing. this time was always given up to story-telling, for lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight. even connie found dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at the young story-teller. now, some of lark's stories were such weird and fearful things that they had seriously interfered with connie's slumbers, and prudence had sternly prohibited them. but this evening, just as she opened the kitchen door, she heard lark say in thrilling tones: "she crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly over the rail. suddenly she stopped. her hand was arrested in its movement. ice-cold fingers gripped hers tightly. then with one piercing shriek, she plunged forward, and fell to the bottom of the stairs with a terrific crash, while a mocking laugh----" the kitchen door slammed sharply behind prudence as she stepped into the kitchen, and connie's piercing shriek would surely have rivaled that of lark's unfortunate heroine. even carol started nervously, and let the plate she had been solemnly wiping for nine minutes, fall to the floor. lark gasped, and then began sheepishly washing dishes as though her life depended on it. the water was cold, and little masses of grease clung to the edges of the pan and floated about on the surface of the water. "get fresh hot water, lark, and finish the dishes. connie, go right up-stairs to bed. you twins can come in to me as soon as you finish." but connie was afraid to go to bed alone, and prudence was obliged to accompany her. so it was in their own room that the twins finally faced an indignant prudence. "carol, you may go right straight to bed. and lark--i do not know what in the world to do with you. why don't you mind me, and do as i tell you? how many times have i told you not to tell weird stories like that? can't you tell nice, interesting, mild stories?" "prudence, as sure as you live, i can't! i start them just as mild and proper as can be, but before i get half-way through, a murder, or death, or mystery crops in, and i can't help it." "but you must help it, lark. or i shall forbid your telling stories of any kind. they are so silly, those wild things, and they make you all nervous, and excitable, and-- now, think, larkie, and tell me how i shall punish you." lark applied all the resources of her wonderful brain to this task, and presently suggested reluctantly: "well, you might keep me home from the ice-cream social to-morrow night." but her face was wistful. "no," said prudence decidedly, to lark's intense relief. "i can't do that. you've been looking forward to it so long, and your class is to help with the serving. no, not that, larkie. that would be too mean. think of something else." "well,--you might make me wash and dry the dishes all alone--for a week, prudence, and that will be a bad punishment, too, for i just despise washing dishes by myself. telling stories makes it so much--livelier." "all right, then," said prudence, relieved in turn, "that is what i will do. and carol and connie must not even stay in the kitchen with you." "i believe i'll go to bed now, too," said lark, with a thoughtful glance at her two sisters, already curled up snugly and waiting for the conclusion of the administering of justice. "if you don't mind, prudence." prudence smiled a bit ruefully. "oh, i suppose you might as well, if you like. but remember this, lark: no more deaths, and murders, and mysteries, and highway robberies." "all right, prudence," said lark with determination. and as prudence walked slowly down-stairs she heard lark starting in on her next story: "once there was a handsome young man, named archibald tremaine,--a very respectable young fellow. he wouldn't so much as dream of robbing, or murdering, or dying." then prudence smiled to herself in the dark and hurried down. the family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a visiting minister called on them. it was about ten minutes before the luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. mr. starr was in the country, visiting, so the girls received him alone. it was an unfortunate day for the starrs. fairy had been at college all morning, and prudence had been rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter playroom for the younger girls. she was dusty, perspirey and tired. the luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be up and away again. still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon serious topics with the fidgety prudence,--and in spite of dust and perspiration, she was good to look upon. the reverend mr. morgan realized that, and could not tear himself away. the twins came in, shook hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did so. connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? still mr. morgan remained in his chair, gazing at prudence with frank appreciation. finally prudence sighed. "do you like sweet corn, mr. morgan?" this was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment he faltered. "sweet corn?" he repeated. "yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob." then he smiled. "oh, yes indeed. very much," he said. "well," she began her explanation rather drearily, "i was busy this morning and did not prepare much luncheon. we are very fond of sweet corn, and i cooked an enormous panful. but that's all we have for luncheon,--sweet corn and butter. we haven't even bread, because i am going to bake this afternoon, and we never eat it with sweet corn, anyhow. now, if you care to eat sweet corn and butter, and canned peaches, we'd just love to have you stay for luncheon with us." the reverend mr. morgan was charmed, and said so. so prudence rushed to the kitchen, opened the peaches in a hurry, and fished out a clean napkin for their guest. then they gathered about the table, five girls and the visiting minister. it was really a curious sight, that table. in the center stood a tall vase of goldenrod. on either side of the vase was a great platter piled high with sweet corn, on the cob! around the table were six plates, with the necessary silverware, and a glass of water for each. there was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an individual plate of butter. that was all,--except the napkins. but prudence made no apologies. she was a daughter of the parsonage! she showed the reverend mr. morgan to his place as graciously and sweetly as though she were ushering him in to a twenty-seven course banquet. "will you return thanks, mr. morgan?" she said. and the girls bowed their heads. the reverend mr. morgan cleared his throat, and began, "our father, we thank thee for this table." there was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one additional phrase,--except connie, who followed him conscientiously through every word. by the time he had finished, prudence and fairy, and even lark, had composed their faces. but carol burst into merry laughter, close upon his reverent "amen,"--and after one awful glare at her sister, prudence joined in. this gaiety communicated itself to the others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table. mr. morgan himself smiled uncertainly. he was puzzled. more, he was embarrassed. but as soon as carol could get her breath, she gasped out an explanation. "you were just--right, mr. morgan,--to give thanks--for the table! there's nothing--on it--to be thankful for!" and the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter. mr. morgan had very little appetite that day. he did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had assured prudence. he talked very little, too. and as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away. he did not call at the parsonage again. "oh, carol," said prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, "how could you start us all off like that?" "for the table, for the table!" shrieked carol, and prudence joined in perforce. "it was awful," she gasped, "but it was funny! i believe even father would have laughed." a few weeks after this, carol distinguished herself again, and to her lasting mortification. the parsonage pasture had been rented out during the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing incumbent having kept neither horse nor cow. as may be imagined, the little pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived, he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little jersey. but a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had generously offered mr. starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the offer was gratefully accepted. this meant that every evening the twins must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her back for the day's grazing. one evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the docile animal, carol stopped and gazed at blinkie reflectively. "lark," she said, "i just believe to my soul that i could ride this cow. she's so gentle, and i'm such a good hand at sticking on." "carol!" ejaculated lark. "think how it would look for a parsonage girl to go down the street riding a cow." "but there's no one to see," protested carol. and this was true. for the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls passed only five houses on their way home from the meadow,--and all of them were well back from the road. and carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at "sticking on." she had ridden a great deal while they were at exminster, a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was passionately fond of the sport. to be sure, she had never ridden a cow, but she was sure it would be easy. lark argued and pleaded, but carol was firm. "i must try it," she insisted, "and if it doesn't go well i can slide off. you can lead her, lark." the obliging lark boosted her sister up, and carol nimbly scrambled into place, riding astride. "i've got to ride this way," she said; "cows have such funny backs i couldn't keep on any other way. if i see any one coming, i'll slide for it." for a while all went well. lark led blinkie carefully, gazing about anxiously to see that no one approached. carol gained confidence as they proceeded, and chatted with her sister nonchalantly, waving her hands about to show her perfect balance and lack of fear. so they advanced to within two blocks of the parsonage. "it's very nice," said carol, "very nice indeed,--but her backbone is rather--well, rather penetrating. i think i need a saddle." by this time, blinkie concluded that she was being imposed upon. she shook her head violently, and twitched the rope from lark's hand,--for lark now shared her sister's confidence, and held it loosely. with a little cry she tried to catch the end of it, but blinkie was too quick for her. she gave a scornful toss of her dainty head, and struck out madly for home. with great presence of mind, carol fell flat upon the cow's neck, and hung on for dear life, while lark, in terror, started out in pursuit. "help! help!" she cried loudly. "papa! papa! papa!" in this way, they turned in at the parsonage gate, which happily stood open,--otherwise blinkie would undoubtedly have gone through, or over. as luck would have it, mr. starr was standing at the door with two men who had been calling on him, and hearing lark's frantic cries, they rushed to meet the wild procession, and had the unique experience of seeing a parsonage girl riding flat on her stomach on the neck of a galloping jersey, with another parsonage girl in mad pursuit. blinkie stopped beside the barn, and turned her head about inquiringly. carol slid to the ground, and buried her face in her hands at sight of the two men with her father. then with never a word, she lit out for the house at top speed. seeing that she was not hurt, and that no harm had been done, the three men sat down on the ground and burst into hearty laughter. lark came upon them as they sat thus, and lark was angry. she stamped her foot with a violence that must have hurt her. "i don't see anything to laugh at," she cried passionately, "it was awful, it was just awful! carrie might have been killed! it--it----" "tell us all about it, lark," gasped her father. and lark did so, smiling a little herself, now that her fears were relieved. "poor carol," she said, "she'll never live down the humiliation. i must go and console her." and a little later, the twins were weeping on each other's shoulders. "i wouldn't have cared," sobbed carol, "if it had been anybody else in the world! but--the presiding elder,--and--the president of the presbyterian college! and i know the presbyterians look down on us methodists anyhow, though they wouldn't admit it! and riding a cow! oh, larkie, if you love me, go down-stairs and get me the carbolic acid, so i can die and be out of disgrace." this, however, lark stoutly refused to do, and in a little while carol felt much better. but she talked it over with prudence very seriously. "i hope you understand, prudence, that i shall never have anything more to do with blinkie! she can die of starvation for all i care. i'll never take her to and from the pasture again. i couldn't do it! such rank ingratitude as that cow displayed was never equaled, i am certain." "i suppose you'll quit using milk and cream, too," suggested prudence. "oh, well," said carol more tolerantly, "i don't want to be too hard on blinkie, for after all it was partly my own fault. so i won't go that far. but i must draw the line somewhere! hereafter, blinkie and i meet as strangers!" chapter iii the ladies' aid "it's perfectly disgusting, i admit, father," said prudence sweetly, "but you know yourself that it very seldom happens. and i am sure the kitchen is perfectly clean, and the soup is very nice indeed,--if it is canned soup! twins, this is four slices of bread apiece for you! you see, father, i really feel that this is a crisis in the life of the parsonage----" "how long does a parsonage usually live?" demanded carol. "it wouldn't live long if the ministers had many twins," said fairy quickly. "ouch!" grinned connie, plagiarizing, for that expressive word belonged exclusively to the twins, and it was double impertinence to apply it to one of its very possessors. "and you understand, don't you, father, that if everything does not go just exactly right, i shall feel i am disgraced for life? i know the ladies disapprove of me, and look on me with suspicion. i know they think it wicked and ridiculous to leave the raising of four bright spirits in the unworthy hands of a girl like me. i know they will all sniff and smile and--of course, twins, they have a perfect right to feel, and act, so. i am not complaining. but i want to show them for once in their lives that the parsonage runs smoothly and sweetly. if you would just stay at home with us, father, it would be a big help. you are such a tower of strength." "but unfortunately i can not. people do not get married every day in the week, and when they are all ready for it they do not allow even ladies' aids to stand in their way. it is a long drive, ten miles at least, and i must start at once. and it will likely be very late when i get back. but if you are all good, and help prudence, and uphold the reputation of the parsonage, i will divide the wedding fee with you,--share and share alike." this was met with such enthusiasm that he added hastily, "but wait! it may be only a dollar!" then kissing the various members of the parsonage family, he went out the back door, barnward. "now," said prudence briskly, "i want to make a bargain with you, girls. if you'll stay clear away from the ladies, and be very good and orderly, i'll give you all the lemonade and cake you can drink afterward." "oh, prudence, i'm sure i can't drink much cake," cried carol tragically, "i just can't imagine myself doing it!" "i mean, eat the cake, of course," said prudence, blushing. "and let us make taffy after supper?" wheedled carol. prudence hesitated, and the three young faces hardened. then prudence relented and hastily agreed. "you won't need to appear at all, you know. you can just stay outdoors and play as though you were model children." "yes," said carol tartly, "the kind the members used to have,--which are all grown up, now! and all moved out of mount mark, too!" "carol! that sounds malicious, and malice isn't tolerated here for a minute. now,--oh, fairy, did you remember to dust the back of the dresser in our bedroom?" "mercy! what in the world do you want the back of the dresser dusted for? do you expect the ladies to look right through it?" "no, but some one might drop something behind it, and it would have to be pulled out and they would all see it. this house has got to be absolutely spotless for once,--i am sure it will be the first time." "and the last, i hope," added carol sepulchrally. "we have an hour and a half yet," continued prudence. "that will give us plenty of time for the last touches. twins and connie, you'd better go right out in the field and play. i'll call you a little before two, and then you must go quietly upstairs, and dress--just wear your plain little ginghams, the clean ones of course! then if they do catch a glimpse of you, you will be presentable.--yes, you can take some bread and sugar, but hurry." "you may take," said fairy. "yes, of course, may take is what i mean.--now hurry." then prudence and fairy set to work again in good earnest. the house was already well cleaned. the sandwiches were made. but there were the last "rites," and every detail must be religiously attended to. it must be remembered that the three main down-stairs rooms of the parsonage were connected by double doors,--double doors, you understand, not portières! the front room, seldom used by the parsonage family, opened on the right of the narrow hallway. beyond it was the living-room, which it must be confessed the parsonage girls only called "living-room" when they were on their sunday behavior,--ordinarily it was the sitting-room, and a cheery, homey, attractive place it was, with a great bay window looking out upon the stately mansion of the averys. to the left of the living-room was the dining-room. the double doors between them were always open. the other pair was closed, except on occasions of importance. now, this really was a crisis in the life of the parsonage family,--if not of the parsonage itself. the girls had met, separately, every member of the ladies' aid. but this was their first combined movement upon the parsonage, and prudence and fairy realized that much depended on the success of the day. as girls, the whole methodist church pronounced the young starrs charming. but as parsonage people,--well, they were obliged to reserve judgment. and as for prudence having entire charge of the household, it must be acknowledged that every individual lady looked forward to this meeting with eagerness,--they wanted to "size up" the situation. they were coming to see for themselves! yes, it was undoubtedly a crisis. "there'll be a crowd, of course," said fairy. "we'll just leave the doors between the front rooms open." "yes, but we'll close the dining-room doors. then we'll have the refreshments all out on the table, and when we are ready we'll just fling back the doors carelessly and--there you are!" so the table was prettily decorated with flowers, and great plates of sandwiches and cake were placed upon it. in the center was an enormous punch-bowl, borrowed from the averys, full of lemonade. glasses were properly arranged on the trays, and piles of nicely home-laundered napkins were scattered here and there. the girls felt that the dining-room was a credit to them, and to the methodist church entire. from every nook and corner of the house they hunted out chairs and stools, anticipating a real run upon the parsonage. nor were they disappointed. the twins and connie were not even arrayed in their plain little ginghams, clean, before the first arrivals were ushered up into the front bedroom, ordinarily occupied by prudence and fairy. "there's mrs. adams, and mrs. prentiss, and mrs.----," began connie, listening intently to the voices in the next room. "yes," whispered carol, "peek through the keyhole, lark, and see if mrs. prentiss is looking under the bed for dust. they say she----" "you'd better not let prudence catch you repeating----" "there's mrs. stone, and mrs. davis, and----" "they say mrs. davis only belongs to the ladies' aid for the sake of the refreshments, and----" "carol! prudence will punish you." "well, i don't believe it," protested carol. "i'm just telling you what i've heard other people say." "we aren't allowed to repeat gossip," urged lark. "no, and i think it's a shame, too, for it's awfully funny. minnie drake told me that miss varne joined the methodist church as soon as she heard the new minister was a widower so she----" "carol!" carol whirled around sharply, and flushed, and swallowed hard. for prudence was just behind her. "i--i--i--" but she could get no further. upon occasion, prudence was quite terrible. "so i heard," she said dryly, but her eyes were hard. "now run down-stairs and out to the field, or to the barn, and play. and, carol, be sure and remind me of that speech to-night. i might forget it." the girls ran quickly out, carol well in the lead. "no wedding fee for me," she mumbled bitterly. "do you suppose there can be seven devils in my tongue, lark, like there are in the bible?" "i don't remember there being seven devils in the bible," said lark. "oh, i mean the--the possessed people it tells about in the bible,--crazy, i suppose it means. somehow i just can't help repeating----" "you don't want to," said lark, not without sympathy. "you think it's such fun, you know." "well, anyhow, i'm sure i won't get any wedding fee to-night. it seems to me prudence is very--harsh sometimes." "you can appeal to father, if you like." "not on your life," said carol promptly and emphatically; "he's worse than prudence. like as not he'd give me a good thrashing into the bargain. no,--i'm strong for prudence when it comes to punishment,--in preference to father, i mean. i can't seem to be fond of any kind of punishment from anybody." for a while carol was much depressed, but by nature she was a buoyant soul and her spirits were presently soaring again. in the meantime, the ladies of the aid society continued to arrive. prudence and fairy, freshly gowned and smiling-faced, received them with cordiality and many merry words. it was not difficult for them, they had been reared in the hospitable atmosphere of methodist parsonages, where, if you have but two dishes of oatmeal, the outsider is welcome to one. that is carol's description of parsonage life. but prudence was concerned to observe that a big easy chair placed well back in a secluded corner, seemed to be giving dissatisfaction. it was mrs. adams who sat there first. she squirmed quite a little, and seemed to be gripping the arms of the chair with unnecessary fervor. presently she stammered an excuse, and rising, went into the other room. after that, mrs. miller tried the corner chair, and soon moved away. then mrs. jack, mrs. norey, and mrs. beed, in turn, sat there,--and did not stay. prudence was quite agonized. had the awful twins filled it with needles for the reception of the poor ladies? at first opportunity, she hurried into the secluded corner, intent upon trying the chair for herself. she sat down anxiously. then she gasped, and clutched frantically at the arms of the chair. for she discovered at once to her dismay that the chair was bottomless, and that only by hanging on for her life could she keep from dropping through. she thought hard for a moment,--but thinking did not interfere with her grasp on the chair-arms,--and then she realized that the wisest thing would be to discuss it publicly. anything would be better than leaving it unexplained, for the ladies to comment upon privately. so up rose prudence, conscientiously pulling after her the thin cushion which had concealed the chair's shortcoming. "look, fairy!" she cried. "did you take the bottom out of this chair?--it must have been horribly uncomfortable for those who have sat there!--however did it happen?" fairy was frankly amazed, and a little inclined to be amused. "ask the twins," she said tersely, "i know nothing about it." at that moment, the luckless carol went running through the hall. prudence knew it was she, without seeing, because she had a peculiar skipping run that was quite characteristic and unmistakable. "carol!" she called. and carol paused. "carol!" more imperatively. then carol slowly opened the door,--she was a parsonage girl and rose to the occasion. she smiled winsomely,--carol was nearly always winsome. "how do you do?" she said brightly. "isn't it a lovely day? did you call me, prudence?" "yes. do you know where the bottom of that chair has gone?" "why, no, prudence--gracious! that chair!--why, i didn't know you were going to bring that chair in here--why,--oh, i am so sorry! why in the world didn't you tell us beforehand?" some of the ladies smiled. others lifted their brows and shoulders in a mildly suggestive way, that prudence, after nineteen years in the parsonage, had learned to know and dread. "and where is the chair-bottom now?" she inquired. "and why did you take it?" "why we wanted to make----" "you and lark?" "well, yes,--but it was really all my fault, you know. we wanted to make a seat up high in the peach tree, and we couldn't find a board the right shape. so she discovered--i mean, i did--that by pulling out two tiny nails we could get the bottom off the chair, and it was just fine. it's a perfectly adorable seat," brightening, but sobering again as she realized the gravity of the occasion. "and we put the cushion in the chair so that it wouldn't be noticed. we never use that chair, you know, and we didn't think of your needing it to-day. we put it away back in the cold corner of the sitting--er, living-room where no one ever sits. i'm so sorry about it." carol was really quite crushed, but true to her parsonage training, she struggled valiantly and presently brought forth a crumpled and sickly smile. but prudence smiled at her kindly. "that wasn't very naughty, carol," she said frankly. "it's true that we seldom use that chair. and we ought to have looked." she glanced reproachfully at fairy. "it is strange that in dusting it, fairy--but never mind. you may go now, carol. it is all right." then she apologized gently to the ladies, and the conversation went on, but prudence was uncomfortably conscious of keen and quizzical eyes turned her way. evidently they thought she was too lenient. "well, it wasn't very naughty," she thought wretchedly. "how can i pretend it was terribly bad, when i feel in my heart that it wasn't!" before long, the meeting was called to order, and the secretary instructed to read the minutes. "oh," fluttered miss carr excitedly, "i forgot to bring the book. i haven't been secretary very long, you know." "only six months," interrupted mrs. adams tartly. "how do you expect to keep to-day's minutes?" demanded the president. "oh, i am sure miss prudence will give me a pencil and paper, and i'll copy them in the book as soon as ever i get home." "yes, indeed," said prudence. "there is a tablet on that table beside you, and pencils, too. i thought we might need them." then the president made a few remarks, but while she talked, miss carr was excitedly opening the tablet. miss carr was always excited, and always fluttering, and always giggling girlishly. carol called her a sweet old simpering soul, and so she was. but now, right in the midst of the president's serious remarks, she quite giggled out. the president stared at her in amazement. the ladies looked up curiously. miss carr was bending low over the tablet, and laughing gaily to herself. "oh, this is very cute," she said. "who wrote it? oh, it is just real cunning." fairy sprang up, suddenly scarlet. "oh, perhaps you have one of the twins' books, and they're always scribbling and----" "no, it is yours, fairy. i got it from among your school-books." fairy sank back, intensely mortified, and miss carr chirped brightly: "oh, fairy, dear, did you write this little poem? how perfectly sweet! and what a queer, sentimental little creature you are. i never dreamed you were so romantic. mayn't i read it aloud?" fairy was speechless, but the ladies, including the president, were impatiently waiting. so miss carr began reading in a sentimental, dreamy voice that must have been very fetching fifty years before. at the first suggestion of poetry, prudence sat up with conscious pride,--fairy was so clever! but before miss carr had finished the second verse, she too was literally drowned in humiliation. "my love rode out of the glooming night, into the glare of the morning light. my love rode out of the dim unknown, into my heart to claim his own. my love rode out of the yesterday, into the now,--and he came to stay. oh, love that is rich, and pure, and true, the love in my heart leaps out to you. oh, love, at last you have found your part,-- to come and dwell in my empty heart." miss carr sat down, giggling delightedly, and the younger ladies laughed, and the older ladies smiled. but mrs. prentiss turned to fairy gravely. "how old are you, my dear?" and with a too-apparent effort, fairy answered, "sixteen!" "indeed!" a simple word, but so suggestively uttered. "shall we continue the meeting, ladies?" this aroused prudence's ire on her sister's behalf, and she squared her shoulders defiantly. for a while, fairy was utterly subdued. but thinking it over to herself, she decided that after all there was nothing absolutely shameful in a sixteen-year-old girl writing sentimental verses. silly, to be sure! but all sixteen-year-olds are silly. we love them for it! and fairy's good nature and really good judgment came to her rescue, and she smiled at prudence with her old serenity. the meeting progressed, and the business was presently disposed of. so far, things were not too seriously bad, and prudence sighed in great relief. then the ladies took out their sewing, and began industriously working at many unmentionable articles, designed for the intimate clothing of a lot of young methodists confined in an orphans' home in chicago. and they talked together pleasantly and gaily. and prudence and fairy felt that the cloud was lifted. but soon it settled again, dark and lowering. prudence heard lark running through the hall and her soul misgave her. why was lark going upstairs? what was her errand? and she remembered the wraps of the ladies, up-stairs, alone and unprotected. dare she trust lark in such a crisis? perhaps the very sight of prudence and the ladies' aid would arouse her better nature, and prevent catastrophe. to be sure, her mission might be innocent, but prudence dared not run the risk. fortunately she was sitting near the door. "lark!" she called softly. lark stopped abruptly, and something fell to the floor. "lark!" there was a muttered exclamation from without, and lark began fumbling rapidly around on the floor talking incoherently to herself. "lark!" the ladies smiled, and miss carr, laughing lightly, said, "she is an attentive creature, isn't she?" prudence would gladly have flown out into the hall to settle this matter, but she realized that she was on exhibition. had she done so, the ladies would have set her down forever after as thoroughly incompetent,--she could not go! but lark must come to her. "lark!" this was prudence's most awful voice, and lark was bound to heed. "oh, prue," she said plaintively, "i'll be there in a minute. can't you wait just five minutes? let me run up-stairs first, won't you? then i'll come gladly! won't that do?" her voice was hopeful. but prudence replied with dangerous calm: "come at once, lark." "all right, then," and added threateningly, "but you'll wish i hadn't." then lark opened the door,--a woeful figure! in one hand she carried an empty shoe box. and her face was streaked with good rich iowa mud. her clothes were plastered with it. one shoe was caked from the sole to the very top button, and a great gash in her stocking revealed a generous portion of round white leg. poor prudence! at that moment, she would have exchanged the whole parsonage, bathroom, electric lights and all, for a tiny log cabin in the heart of a great forest where she and lark might be alone together. and fairy laughed. prudence looked at her with tears in her eyes, and then turned to the wretched girl. "what have you been doing, lark?" the heart-break expressed in the face of lark would have made the angels weep. beneath the smudges of mud on her cheeks she was pallid, and try as she would, she could not keep her chin from trembling ominously. her eyes were fastened on the floor for the most part, but occasionally she raised them hurriedly, appealingly, to her sister's face, and dropped them again. not for worlds would she have faced the ladies! prudence was obliged to repeat her question before lark could articulate a reply. she gulped painfully a few times,--making meanwhile a desperate effort to hide the gash in one stocking by placing the other across it, rubbing it up and down in great embarrassment, and balancing herself with apparent difficulty. her voice, when she was able to speak, was barely recognizable. "we--we--we are making--mud images, prudence. it--it was awfully messy, i know, but--they say--it is such a good--and useful thing to do. we--we didn't expect--the--the ladies to see us." "mud images!" gasped prudence, and even fairy stared incredulously. "where in the world did you get hold of an idea like that?" "it--it was in that--that mother's home friend paper you take, prudence." prudence blushed guiltily. "it--it was modeling in clay, but--we haven't any clay, and--the mud is very nice, but--oh, i know i look just--horrible. i--i--connie pushed me in the--puddle--for fun. i--i was vexed about it, prudence, honestly. i--i was chasing her, and i fell, and tore my stocking,--and--and--but, prudence, the papers do say children ought to model, and we didn't think of--getting caught." another appealing glance into her sister's face, and lark plunged on, bent on smoothing matters if she could. "carol is--is just fine at it, really. she--she's making a venus de milo, and it's good. but we can't remember whether her arm is off at the elbow or below the shoulder----" an enormous gulp, and by furious blinking lark managed to crowd back the tears that would slip to the edge of her lashes. "i--i'm very sorry, prudence." "very well, lark, you may go. i do not really object to your modeling in mud, i am sure. i am sorry you look so disreputable. you must change your shoes and stockings at once, and then you can go on with your modeling. but there must be no more pushing and chasing. i'll see connie about that to-night. now----" "oh! oh! oh! what in the world is that?" this was a chorus of several ladies' aid voices,--a double quartette at the very least. lark gave a sharp exclamation and began looking hurriedly about her on the floor. "it's got in here,--just as i expected," she exclaimed. "i said you would be sorry, prue,--oh, there it is under your chair, mrs. prentiss. just wait,--maybe i can shove it back in the box again." this was greeted with a fresh chorus of shrieks. there was a hurried and absolute vacation of that corner of the front room. the ladies fled, dropping their cherished sewing, shoving one another in a most unladies-aid-like way. and there, beneath a chair, squatted the cause of the confusion, an innocent, unhappy, blinking toad! "oh, larkie!" this was a prolonged wail. "it's all right, prue, honestly it is," urged lark with pathetic solemnity. "we didn't do it for a joke. we're keeping him for a good purpose. connie found him in the garden,--and--carol said we ought to keep him for professor duke,--he asked us to bring him things to cut up in science, you remember. so we just shoved him into this shoe box, and--we thought we'd keep him in the bath-tub until morning. we did it for a good purpose, don't you see we did? oh, prudence!" prudence was horribly outraged, but even in that critical moment, justice insisted that lark's arguments were sound. the professor had certainly asked the scholars to bring him "things to cut up." but a toad! a live one!--and the ladies' aid! prudence shivered. "i am sure you meant well, larkie," she said in a low voice, striving hard to keep down the bitter resentment in her heart, "i know you did. but you should not have brought that--that thing--into the house. pick him up at once, and take him out-of-doors and let him go." but this was not readily done. in spite of her shame and deep dismay, lark refused to touch the toad with her fingers. "i can't touch him, prudence,--i simply can't," she whimpered. "we shoved him in with the broom handle before." and as no one else was willing to touch it, and as the ladies clustered together in confusion, and with much laughter, in the far corner of the other room, prudence brought the broom and the not unwilling toad was helped to other quarters. "now go," said prudence quickly, and lark was swift to avail herself of the permission. followed a quiet hour, and then the ladies put aside their sewing and walked about the room, chatting in little groups. with a significant glance to fairy, prudence walked calmly to the double doors between the dining-room and the sitting-room. the eyes of the ladies followed her with interest and even enthusiasm. they were hungry. prudence slowly opened wide the doors, and--stood amazed! the ladies clustered about her, and stood amazed also. the dining-room was there, and the table! but the appearance of the place was vastly different! the snowy cloth was draped artistically over a picture on the wall, the lowest edges well above the floor. the plates and trays, napkin-covered, were safely stowed away on the floor in distant corners. the kitchen scrub bucket had been brought in and turned upside down, to afford a fitting resting place for the borrowed punch bowl, full to overflowing with fragrant lemonade. and at the table were three dirty, disheveled little figures, bending seriously over piles of mud. a not-unrecognizable venus de milo occupied the center of the table. connie was painstakingly at work on some animal, a dog perhaps, or possibly an elephant. and---- the three young modelers looked up in exclamatory consternation as the doors opened. "oh, are you ready?" cried carol. "how the time has flown! we had no idea you'd be ready so soon. oh, we are sorry, prudence. we intended to have everything fixed properly for you again. we needed a flat place for our modeling. it's a shame, that's what it is. isn't that a handsome venus? i did that!--if you'll just shut the door one minute, prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it. and we're as sorry as we can be. you can have my venus for a centerpiece, if you like." [illustration: "if you'll just shut the door one minute, prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it."] prudence silently closed the doors, and the ladies, laughing significantly, drew away. "don't you think, my dear," began mrs. prentiss too sweetly, "that they are a little more than you can manage? don't you really think an older woman is needed?" "i do not think so," cried fairy, before her sister could speak, "no older woman could be kinder, or sweeter, or more patient and helpful than prue." "undoubtedly true! but something more is needed, i am afraid! it appears that girls are a little more disorderly than in my own young days! perhaps i do not judge advisedly, but it seems to me they are a little--unmanageable." "indeed they are not," cried prudence loyally. "they are young, lively, mischievous, i know,--and i am glad of it. but i have lived with them ever since they were born, and i ought to know them. they are unselfish, they are sympathetic, they are always generous. they do foolish and irritating things,--but never things that are hateful and mean. they are all right at heart, and that is all that counts. they are not bad girls! what have they done to-day? they were exasperating, and humiliating, too, but what did they do that was really mean? they embarrassed and mortified me, but not intentionally! i can't punish them for the effect on me, you know! would that be just or fair? at heart, they meant no harm." it must be confessed that there were many serious faces among the ladies. some cheeks were flushed, some eyes were downcast, some lips were compressed and some were trembling. every mother there was asking in her heart, "did i punish my children just for the effect on me? did i judge my children by what was in their hearts, or just by the trouble they made me?" and the silence lasted so long that it became awkward. finally mrs. prentiss crossed the room and stood by prudence's side. she laid a hand tenderly on the young girl's arm, and said in a voice that was slightly tremulous: "i believe you are right, my dear. it is what girls are at heart that really counts. i believe your sisters are all you say they are. and one thing i am very sure of,--they are happy girls to have a sister so patient, and loving, and just. not all real mothers have as much to their credit!" chapter iv a secret society carol and lark, in keeping with their twin-ship, were the dearest of chums and comrades. they resembled each other closely in build, being of the same height and size. they were slender, yet gave a suggestion of sturdiness. carol's face was a delicately tinted oval, brightened by clear and sparkling eyes of blue. she was really beautiful, bright, attractive and vivacious. she made friends readily, and was always considered the "most popular girl in our crowd"--whatever carol's crowd at the time might be. but she was not extremely clever, caring little for study, and with no especial talent in any direction. lark was as nearly contrasting as any sister could be. her face was pale, her eyes were dark brown and full of shadows, and she was a brilliant and earnest student. for each other the twins felt a passionate devotion that was very beautiful, but ludicrous as well. to them, the great rambling barn back of the parsonage was a most delightful place. it had a big cow-shed on one side, and horse stalls on the other, with a "heavenly" haymow over all, and with "chutes" for the descent of hay,--and twins! in one corner was a high dark crib for corn, with an open window looking down into the horse stalls adjoining. when the crib was newly filled, the twins could clamber painfully up on the corn, struggle backward through the narrow window, and holding to the ledge of it with their hands, drop down into the nearest stall. to be sure they were likely to fall,--more likely than not,--and their hands were splinter-filled and their heads blue-bumped most of the time. but splinters and bumps did not interfere with their pursuit of pleasure. now the twins had a secret society,--of which they were the founders, the officers and the membership body. its name was skull and crossbones. why that name was chosen perhaps even the twins themselves could not explain, but it sounded deep, dark and bloody,--and so was the society. lark furnished the brain power for the organization but her sister was an enthusiastic and energetic second. carol's club name was lady gwendolyn, and lark's was sir alfred angelcourt ordinarily, although subject to frequent change. sometimes she was lord beveling, the villain of the plot, and chased poor gwendolyn madly through corn-crib, horse stalls and haymow. again she was the dark-browed indian silently stalking his unconscious prey. then she was a fierce lion lying in wait for the approaching damsel. the old barn saw stirring times after the coming of the new parsonage family. "hark! hark!" sounded a hissing whisper from the corn-crib, and connie, eavesdropping outside the barn, shivered sympathetically. "what is it! oh, what is it?" wailed the unfortunate lady. "look! look! run for your life!" then while connie clutched the barn door in a frenzy, there was a sound of rattling corn as the twins scrambled upward, a silence, a low thud, and an unromantic "ouch!" as carol bumped her head and stumbled. "are you assaulted?" shouted the bold sir alfred, and connie heard a wild scuffle as he rescued his companion from the clutches of the old halter on which she had stumbled. up the haymow ladder they hurried, and then slid recklessly down the hay-chutes. presently the barn door was flung open, and the "society" knocked connie flying backward, ran madly around the barn a few times, and scurried under the fence and into the chicken coop. a little later, connie, assailed with shots of corncobs, ran bitterly toward the house. "peaking" was strictly forbidden when the twins were engaged in skull and crossbones activities. and connie's soul burned with desire. she felt that this secret society was threatening not only her happiness, but also her health, for she could not sleep for horrid dreams of skulls and crossbones at night, and could not eat for envying the twins their secret and mysterious joys. therefore, with unwonted humility, she applied for entrance. she had applied many times previously, without effect. but this time she enforced her application with a nickel's worth of red peppermint drops, bought for the very purpose. the twins accepted the drops gravely, and told connie she must make formal application. then they marched solemnly off to the barn with the peppermint drops, without offering connie a share. this hurt, but she did not long grieve over it, she was so busy wondering what on earth they meant by "formal application." finally she applied to prudence, and received assistance. the afternoon mail brought to the parsonage an envelope addressed to "misses carol and lark starr, the methodist parsonage, mount mark, iowa," and in the lower left-hand corner was a suggestive drawing of a skull and crossbones. the eyes of the mischievous twins twinkled with delight when they saw it, and they carried it to the barn for prompt perusal. it read as follows: "miss constance starr humbly and respectfully craves admittance into the ancient and honorable organization of skull and crossbones." the twins pondered long on a fitting reply, and the next afternoon the postman brought a letter for connie, waiting impatiently for it. she had approached the twins about it at noon that day. "did you get my application?" she had whispered nervously. but the twins had stared her out of countenance, and connie realized that she had committed a serious breach of secret society etiquette. but here was the letter! her fingers trembled as she opened it. it was decorated lavishly with skulls and crossbones, splashed with red ink, supposedly blood, and written in the same suggestive color. "skull and crossbones has heard the plea of miss constance starr. if she present herself at the parsonage haymow this evening, at eight o'clock, she shall learn the will of the society regarding her petition." connie was jubilant! in a flash, she saw herself admitted to the mysterious barnyard order, and began working out a name for her own designation after entrance. it was a proud day for her. by the time the twins had finished washing the supper dishes, it was dark. constance glanced out of the window apprehensively. she now remembered that eight o'clock was very, very late, and that the barn was a long way from the house! and up in the haymow, too! and such a mysterious bloody society! her heart quaked within her. so she approached the twins respectfully, and said in an offhand way: "i can go any time now. just let me know when you're ready, and i'll go right along with you." but the twins stared at her again in an amazing and overbearing fashion, and vouchsafed no reply. connie, however, determined to keep a watchful eye upon them, and when they started barnward, she would trail closely along in their rear. it was a quarter to eight, and fearfully dark, when she suddenly remembered that they had been up-stairs an unnaturally long time. she rushed up in a panic. they were not there. she ran through the house. they were not to be found. the dreadful truth overwhelmed her,--the twins were already in the haymow, the hour had come, and she must go forth. breathlessly, she slipped out of the back door, and closed it softly behind her. she could not distinguish the dark outlines of the barn in the equal darkness of the autumn night. she gave a long sobbing gasp as she groped her way forward. as she neared the barn, she was startled to hear from the haymow over her head, deep groans as of a soul in mortal agony. something had happened to the twins! "girls! girls!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own sorry state. "what is the matter? twins!" sepulchral silence! and connie knew that this was the dreadful skull and bones. her teeth chattered as she stood there, irresolute in the intense and throbbing darkness. "it's only the twins," she assured herself over and over, and began fumbling with the latch of the barn door,--but her fingers were stiff and cold. suddenly from directly above her, there came the hideous clanking of iron chains. connie had read ghost stories, and she knew the significance of clanking chains, but she stood her ground in spite of the almost irresistible impulse to fly. after the clanking, the loud and clamorous peal of a bell rang out. "it's that old cow bell they found in the field," she whispered practically, but found it none the less horrifying. finally she stepped into the blackness of the barn, found the ladder leading to the haymow and began slowly climbing. but her own weight seemed a tremendous thing, and she had difficulty in raising herself from step to step. she comforted herself with the reflection that at the top were the twins,--company and triumph hand in hand. but when she reached the top, and peered around her, she found little comfort,--and no desirable company? a small barrel draped in black stood in the center of the mow, and on it a lighted candle gave out a feeble flickering ray which emphasized the darkness around it. on either side of the black-draped barrel stood a motionless figure, clothed in somber black. on the head of one was a skull,--not a really skull, just a pasteboard imitation, but it was just as awful to connie. on the head of the other were crossbones. "kneel," commanded the hoarse voice of skull, in which connie could faintly distinguish the tone of lark. she knelt,--an abject quivering neophyte. "hear the will of skull and crossbones," chanted crossbones in a shrill monotone. then skull took up the strain once more. "skull and crossbones, great in mercy and in condescension, has listened graciously to the prayer of constance, the seeker. hear the will of the great spirit! if the seeker will, for the length of two weeks, submit herself to the will of skull and crossbones, she shall be admitted into the ancient and honorable order. if the seeker accepts this condition, she must bow herself to the ground three times, in token of submission." "there's no ground here," came a small faint voice from the kneeling seeker. "the floor, madam," skull explained sternly. "if the seeker accepts the condition,--to submit herself absolutely to the will of skull and crossbones for two entire weeks,--she shall bow herself three times." constance hesitated. it was so grandly expressed that she hardly understood what they wanted. carol came to her rescue. "that means you've got to do everything lark and i tell you for two weeks," she said in her natural voice. then constance bowed herself three times,--although she lost her balance in the act, and carol forgot her dignity and gave way to laughter, swiftly subdued, however. "arise and approach the altar," she commanded in the shrill voice, which yet gave signs of laughter. constance arose and approached. "upon the altar, before the eternal light, you will find a small black bow, with a drop of human blood in the center. this is the badge of your pledgedom. you must wear it day and night, during the entire two weeks. after that, if all is well; you shall be received into full membership. if you break your pledge to the order, it must be restored at once to skull and crossbones. take it, and pin it upon your breast." constance did so,--and her breast heaved with rapture and awe in mingling. then a horrible thing happened. the flame of the "eternal light" was suddenly extinguished, and carol exclaimed, "the ceremony is ended. return, damsel, to thine abode." a sound of scampering feet,--and constance knew that the grand officials had fled, and she was alone in the dreadful darkness. she called after them pitifully, but she heard the slam of the kitchen door before she had even reached the ladder. it was a sobbing and miserable neophyte who stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later. the twins were bending earnestly over their latin grammars by the side of the kitchen fire, and did not raise their eyes as the seeker burst into the room. constance sat down, and gasped and quivered for a while. then she looked down complacently at the little black bow with its smudge of red ink, and sighed contentedly. the week that followed was a gala one for the twins of skull and crossbones. constance swept their room, made their bed, washed their dishes, did their chores, and in every way behaved as a model pledge of the ancient and honorable. the twins were gracious but firm. there was no arguing, and no faltering. "it is the will of skull and crossbones that the damsel do this," they would say. and the damsel did it. prudence did not feel it was a case that called for her interference. so she sat back and watched, while the twins told stories, read and frolicked, and constance did their daily tasks. so eight days passed, and then came waterloo. constance returned home after an errand downtown, and in her hand she carried a great golden pear. perhaps constance would have preferred that she escape the notice of the twins on this occasion, but as luck would have it, she passed carol in the hall. "gracious! what a pear! where did you get it?" demanded carol covetously. "i met mr. arnold down-town, and he bought it for me. he's very fond of me. it cost him a dime, too, for just this one. isn't it a beauty?" and connie licked her lips suggestively. carol licked hers, too, thoughtfully. then she called up the stairs, "lark, come here, quick!" lark did so, and duly exclaimed and admired. then she said significantly, "i suppose you are going to divide with us?" "of course," said connie with some indignation. "i'm going to cut it in five pieces so prudence and fairy can have some, too." a pause, while carol and lark gazed at each other soberly. mentally, each twin was figuring how big her share would be when the pear was divided in fives. then lark spoke. "it is the will of skull and crossbones that this luscious fruit be turned over to them immediately." constance faltered, held it out, drew it back. "if i do, i suppose you'll give me part of it, anyhow," she said, and her eyes glittered. "not so, damsel," said carol ominously. "the ancient and honorable takes,--it never gives." for a moment constance wavered. then she flamed into sudden anger. "i won't do it, so there!" she cried. "i think you're mean selfish pigs, that's what i think! taking my very own pear, and--but you won't get it! i don't care if i never get into your silly old society,--you don't get a bite of this pear, i can tell you that!" and constance rushed up-stairs and slammed a door. a few seconds later the door opened again, and her cherished badge was flung down upon skull and crossbones. "there's your old black string smeared up with red ink!" she yelled at them wildly. and again the door slammed. carol picked up the insulted badge, and studied it thoughtfully. lark spoke first. "it occurs to me, fair gwendolyn, that we would do well to keep this little scene from the ears of the just and righteous prudence." "right, as always, brave knight," was the womanly retort. and the twins betook themselves to the haymow in thoughtful mood. a little later, when prudence and fairy came laughing into the down-stairs hall, a white-faced constance met them. "look," she said, holding out a pear, divided into three parts, just like gaul. "mr. arnold gave me this pear, and here's a piece for each of you." the girls thanked her warmly, but prudence paused with her third almost touching her lips. "how about the twins?" she inquired. "aren't they at home? won't they break your pledge if you leave them out?" constance looked up sternly. "i offered them some half an hour ago, and they refused it," she said. "and they have already put me out of the society!" there was tragedy in the childish face, and prudence put her arms around this baby-sister. "tell prue all about it, connie," she said. but constance shook her head. "it can't be talked about. go on and eat your pear. it is good." "was it all right?" questioned prudence. "did the twins play fair, connie?" "yes," said constance. "it was all right. don't talk about it." but in two days constance repented of her rashness. in three days she was pleading for forgiveness. and in four days she was starting in on another two weeks of pledgedom, and the desecrated ribbon with its drop of blood reposed once more on her ambitious breast. for three days her service was sore indeed, for the twins informed her, with sympathy, that she must be punished for insubordination. "but after that, we'll be just as easy on you as anything, connie," they told her. "so don't you get sore now. in three days, we'll let up on you." a week passed, ten days, and twelve. then came a golden october afternoon when the twins sat in the haymow looking out upon a mellow world. constance was in the yard, reading a fairy story. the situation was a tense one, for the twins were hungry, and time was heavy on their hands. "the apple trees in avery's orchard are just loaded," said lark aimlessly. "and there are lots on the ground, too. i saw them when i was out in the field this morning." "some of the trees are close to our fence, too," said carol slowly. "very close." lark glanced up with sudden interest. "that's so," she said. "and the wires on the fence are awfully loose." carol gazed down into the yard where constance was absorbed in her book. "constance oughtn't to read as much as she does," she argued. "it's so bad for the eyes." "yes, and what's more, she's been getting off too easy the last few days. the time is nearly up." "that's so," said lark. "let's call her up here." this was done at once, and the unfortunate constance walked reluctantly toward the barn, her fascinating story still in her hand. "you see, they've got more apples than they need, and those on the ground are just going to waste," continued carol, pending the arrival of the little pledge. "the chickens are pecking at them, and ruining them." "it's criminal destruction, that's what it is," declared lark. connie stood before them respectfully, as they had instructed her to stand. the twins hesitated, each secretly hoping the other would voice the order. but lark as usual was obliged to be the spokesman. "damsel," she said, "it is the will of skull and crossbones that you hie ye to yonder orchard,--avery's, i mean,--and bring hither some of the golden apples basking in the sun." "what!" ejaculated connie, startled out of her respect. carol frowned. connie hastened to modify her tone. "did they say you might have them?" she inquired politely. "that concerns thee not, 'tis for thee only to render obedience to the orders of the society. go out through our field and sneak under the fence where the wires are loose, and hurry back. we're awfully hungry. the trees are near the fence. there isn't any danger." "but it's stealing," objected connie. "what will prudence----" "damsel!" and connie turned to obey with despair in her heart. "bring twelve," carol called after her, "that'll be four apiece. and hurry, connie. and see they don't catch you while you're about it." after she had gone, the twins lay back thoughtfully on the hay and stared at the cobwebby roof above them. "it's a good thing prudence and fairy are downtown," said lark sagely. "yes, or we'd catch it," assented carol. "but i don't see why! the averys have too many apples, and they are going to waste. i'm sure mrs. avery would rather let us have them than the chickens." they lay in silence for a while. something was hurting them, but whether it was their fear of the wrath of prudence, or the twinges of tender consciences,--who can say? "she's an unearthly long time about it," exclaimed lark, at last. "do you suppose they caught her?" this was an awful thought, and the girls were temporarily suffocated. but they heard the barn door swinging beneath them, and sighed with relief. it was connie! she climbed the ladder skilfully, and poured her golden treasure before the arch thieves, skull and crossbones. there were eight big tempting apples. "hum! eight," said carol sternly. "i said twelve." "yes, but i was afraid some one was coming. i heard such a noise through the grapevines, so i got what i could and ran for it. there's three apiece for you, and two for me," said connie, sitting down sociably beside them on the hay. but carol rose. "damsel, begone," she ordered. "when skull and crossbones feast, thou canst not yet share the festive board. rise thee, and speed." connie rose, and walked soberly toward the ladder. but before she disappeared she fired this parting shot, "i don't want any of them. stolen apples don't taste very good, i reckon." carol and lark had the grace to flush a little at this, but however the stolen apples tasted, the twins had no difficulty in disposing of them. then, full almost beyond the point of comfort, they slid down the hay-chutes, went out the back way, climbed over the chicken coops,--not because it was necessary, but because it was their idea of amusement,--and went for a walk in the field. at the farthest corner of the field they crawled under the fence, cut through a neighboring potato patch, and came out on the street. then they walked respectably down the sidewalk, turned the corner and came quietly in through the front door of the parsonage. prudence was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. fairy was in the sitting-room, busy with her books. the twins set the table conscientiously, filled the wood-box, and in every way labored irreproachably. but prudence had no word of praise for them that evening. she hardly seemed to know they were about the place. she went about her work with a pale face, and never a smile to be seen. supper was nearly ready when connie sauntered in from the barn. after leaving the haymow, she had found a cozy corner in the com-crib, with two heavy lap robes discarded by the twins in their flight from wolves, and had settled down there to finish her story. as she stepped into the kitchen, prudence turned to her with such a sorry, reproachful gaze that connie was frightened. "are you sick, prue?" she gasped. prudence did not answer. she went to the door and called fairy. "finish getting supper, will you, fairy? and when you are all ready, you and the twins go right on eating. don't wait for father,--he isn't coming home until evening. come up-stairs with me, connie; i want to talk to you." connie followed her sister soberly, and the twins flashed at each other startled and questioning looks. the three girls were at the table when prudence came into the dining-room alone. she fixed a tray-supper quietly and carried it off up-stairs. then she came back and sat down by the table. but her face bore marks of tears, and she had no appetite. the twins had felt small liking for their food before, now each mouthful seemed to choke them. but they dared not ask a question. they were devoutly thankful when fairy finally voiced their interest. "what is the matter? has connie been in mischief?" "it's worse than that," faltered prudence, tears rushing to her eyes again. "why, prudence! what in the world has she done?" "i may as well tell you, i suppose,--you'll have to know it sooner or later. she--went out into avery's orchard and stole some apples this afternoon. i was back in the alley seeing if mrs. moon could do the washing, and i saw her from the other side. she went from tree to tree, and when she got through the fence she ran. there's no mistake about it,--she confessed." the twins looked up in agony, but prudence's face reassured them. constance had told no tales. "i have told her she must spend all of her time up-stairs alone for a week, taking her meals there, too. she will go to school, of course, but that is all. i want her to see the awfulness of it. i told her i didn't think we wanted to eat with--a thief--just yet! i said we must get used to the idea of it first. she is heartbroken, but--i must make her see it!" that was the end of supper. no one attempted to eat another bite. after the older girls had gone into the sitting-room, carol and lark went about their work with stricken faces. "she's a little brick not to tell," whispered lark. "i'm going to give her that pearl pin of mine she always liked," said carol in a hushed voice. "i'll give her my blue ribbon, too,--she loves blue so. and to-morrow i'll take that quarter i've saved and buy her a whole quarter's worth of candy." but that night when the twins went up to bed, they were doomed to disappointment. they had no chance of making it up with constance. for prudence had moved her small bed out of the twins' room, and had placed it in the front room occupied by herself and fairy. they asked if they might speak to constance, but prudence went in with them to say good night to her. the twins broke down and cried as they saw the pitiful little figure with the wan and tear-stained face. they threw their arms around her passionately and kissed her many times. but they went to bed without saying anything. hours later, lark whispered, "carol! are you asleep?" "no. i can't go to sleep somehow." "neither can i. do you think we'd better tell prudence all about it?" carol squirmed in the bed. "i--suppose we had," she said reluctantly. "but--it'll be lots worse for us than for connie," lark added. "we're so much older, and we made her do it." "yes, and we ate all the apples," mourned carol. "maybe we'd better just let it go," suggested lark. "and we'll make it up to connie afterwards," said carol. "now, you be careful and not give it away, carol." "you see that you don't." but it was a sorry night for the twins. the next morning they set off to school, with no chance for anything but a brief good morning with connie,--given in the presence of prudence. half-way down the parsonage walk, carol said: "oh, wait a minute, lark. i left my note-book on the table." and lark walked slowly while carol went rushing back. she found prudence in the kitchen, and whispered: "here--here's a note, prudence. don't read it until after i've gone to school,--at ten o'clock you may read it. will you promise?" prudence laughed a little, but she promised, and laid the note carefully away to wait the appointed hour for its perusal. as the clock struck ten she went to the mantle, and took it down. this is what carol had written: "oh, prudence, do please forgive me, and don't punish connie any more. you can punish me any way you like, and i'll be glad of it. it was all my fault. i made her go and get the apples for me, and i ate them. connie didn't eat one of them. she said stolen apples would not taste very good. it was all my fault, and i'm so sorry. i was such a coward i didn't dare tell you last night. will you forgive me? but you must punish me as hard as ever you can. but please, prudence, won't you punish me some way without letting lark know about it? please, please, prudence, don't let larkie know. you can tell papa and fairy so they will despise me, but keep it from my twin. if you love me, prudence, don't let larkie know." as prudence read this her face grew very stern. carol's fault! and she was ashamed to have her much-loved twin know of her disgrace. at that moment, prudence heard some one running through the hall, and thrust the note hastily into her dress. it was lark, and she flung herself wildly upon prudence, sobbing bitterly. "what is the matter, lark?" she tried, really frightened. "are you sick?" "heartsick, that's all," wailed lark. "i told the teacher i was sick so i could come home, but i'm not. oh, prudence, i know you'll despise and abominate me all the rest of your life, and everybody will, and i deserve it. for i stole those apples myself. that is, i made connie go and get them for me. she didn't want to. she begged not to. but i made her. she didn't eat one of them,--i did it. and she felt very badly about it. oh, prudence, you can do anything in the world to me,--i don't care how horrible it is; i only hope you will. but, prudence, you won't let carol know, will you? oh, spare me that, prudence, please. that's my last request, that you keep it from carol." prudence was surprised and puzzled. she drew the note from her pocket, and gave it to lark. "carol gave me that before she went to school," she explained. "read it, and tell me what you are driving at. i think you are both crazy. or maybe you are just trying to shield poor connie." lark read carol's note, and gasped, and--burst out laughing! the shame, and bitter weeping, and nervousness, had rendered her hysterical, and now she laughed and cried until prudence was alarmed again. in time, however, lark was able to explain. "we both did it," she gasped, "the skull and crossbones. and we both told the truth about it. we made her go and get them for us, and we ate them, and she didn't want to go. i advised carol not to tell, and she advised me not to. all the way to school this morning, we kept advising each other not to say a word about it. but i intended all the time to pretend i was sick, so i could come and confess alone. i wanted to take the punishment for both of us, so carol could get out. i guess that's what she thought, too. bless her little old heart, as if i'd let her he punished for my fault. and it was mostly my fault, too, prue, for i mentioned the apples first of all." prudence laughed,--it was really ludicrous. but when she thought of loyal little connie, sobbing all through the long night, the tears came to her eyes again. she went quickly to the telephone, and called up the school building next door to the parsonage. "may i speak to constance starr, mr. imes?" she asked. "it is very important. this is prudence, her sister." and when connie came to the telephone, she cried, "oh, you blessed little child, why didn't you tell me? will you forgive me, connie? i ought to have made you tell me all about it, but i was so sorry, i couldn't bear to talk much about it. the twins have told me. you're a dear, sweet, good little darling, that's what you are." "oh, prudence!" that was all connie said, but something in her voice made prudence hang up the receiver quickly, and cry bitterly! that noon prudence pronounced judgment on the sinners, but her eyes twinkled, for carol and lark had scolded each other roundly for giving things away! "connie should have refused to obey you," she said gently, holding connie in her arms. "she knew it was wrong. but she has been punished more than enough. but you twins! in the first place, i right now abolish the skull and crossbones forever and ever. and you can not play in the barn again for a month. and you must go over to the averys this afternoon, and tell them about it, and pay for the apples. and you must send all of your spending money for the next month to that woman who is gathering up things for the bad little children in the reform school,--that will help you remember what happens to boys and girls who get in the habit of taking things on the spur of the moment!" the twins accepted all of this graciously, except that which referred to confessing their sin to their neighbors. that did hurt! the twins were so superior, and admirable! they couldn't bear to ruin their reputations. but prudence stood firm, in spite of their weeping and wailing. and that afternoon two shamefaced sorry girls crept meekly in at the averys' door to make their peace. "but about the skull and crossbones, it's mostly punishment for me, prue," said connie regretfully, "for the twins have been in it ever since we came to mount mark, and i never got in at all! and i wanted them to call me lady magdalina featheringale." and connie sighed. chapter v the twins stick up for the bible prudence had been calling on a "sick member." whenever circumstances permitted she gladly served as pastoral assistant for her father, but she always felt that raising the family was her one big job, and nothing was allowed to take precedence of it. as she walked that afternoon down maple street,--seemingly so-called because it was bordered with grand old elms,--she felt at peace with all the world. the very sunshine beaming down upon her through the huge skeletons of the leafless elms, was not more care-free than the daughter of the parsonage. parsonage life had been running smoothly for as much as ten days past, and prudence, in view of that ten days' immunity, was beginning to feel that the twins, if not connie also, were practically reared! "mount mark is a dear old place,--a duck of a place, as the twins would say,--and i'm quite sorry there's a five-year limit for methodist preachers. i should truly like to live right here until i am old and dead." then she paused, and bowed, and smiled. she did not recognize the bright-faced young woman approaching, but she remembered just in time that parsonage people are marked characters. so she greeted the stranger cordially. "you are miss starr, aren't you?" the bright-faced woman was saying. "i am miss allen,--the principal of the high school, you know." "oh, yes," cried prudence, thrusting forth her hand impulsively, "oh, yes, i know. i am so glad to meet you." miss allen was a young woman of twenty-six, with clear kind eyes and a strong sweet mouth. she had about her that charm of manner which can only be described as winsome womanliness. prudence gazed at her with open and honest admiration. such a young woman to be the principal of a high school in a city the size of mount mark! she must be tremendously clever. but prudence did not sigh. we can't all be clever, you know. there must be some of us to admire the rest of us! the two walked along together, chatting sociably on subjects that meant nothing to either of them. presently miss allen stopped, and with a graceful wave of her hand, said lightly: "this is where i am rooming. are you in a very great hurry this afternoon? i should like to talk to you about the twins. will you come in?" the spirits of prudence fell earthward with a clatter! the twins! whatever had they been doing now? she followed miss allen into the house and up the stairs with the joy quite quenched in her heart. she did not notice the dainty room into which she was conducted. she ignored the offered chair, and with a dismal face turned toward miss allen. "oh, please! what have they been doing? is it very awful?" miss allen laughed gaily. "oh, sit down and don't look so distressed. it's nothing at all. they haven't been doing anything. i just want to discuss them on general principles, you know. it's my duty to confer with the parents and guardians of my scholars." immensely relieved, prudence sank down in the chair, and rocked comfortably to and fro a few times. general principles,--ah, blessed words! "i suppose you know that carol is quite the idol of the high school already. she is the adored one of the place. you see, she is not mixed up in any scholastic rivalry. lark is one of the very best in her class, and there is intense rivalry between a few of the freshmen. but carol is out of all that, and every one is free to worship at her shrine. she makes no pretensions to stand first." "is she very stupid?" prudence was disappointed. she did so want both of her twins to shine. "stupid! not a bit of it. she is a very good scholar, much better than the average. our first pupils, including lark, average around ninety-six and seven. then there are others ranging between ninety and ninety-four. carol is one of them. the fairly good ones are over eighty-five, and the fairly bad ones are over seventy-five, and the hopeless ones are below that. this is a rough way of showing how they stand. lark is a very fine scholar, really the best in the class. she not only makes good grades, she grasps the underlying significance of her studies. very few freshmen, even among the best, do that. she is quite exceptional. we hope to make something very big and fine of larkie." prudence's eyes shone with motherly pride. she nodded, striving to make her voice natural and matter-of-fact as she answered, "yes, she is bright." "she certainly is! carol is quite different, but she is so sweet-spirited, and vivacious, and--un-snobbish, if you know what that means--that every one in high school, and even the grammar-grade children, idolize her. she is very witty, but her wit is always innocent and kind. she never hurts any one's feelings. and she is never impertinent. the professors are as crazy about her as the scholars,--forgive the slang. did the twins ever tell you what happened the first day of school?" "no,--tell me." prudence was clearly very anxious. "i shall never forget it. the freshmen were sent into the recitation room to confer with professor duke about text-books, etc. carol was one of the first in the line, as they came out. she sat down in her seat in the first aisle, with one foot out at the side. one of the boys tripped over it. 'carol,' said miss adams gently, 'you forgot yourself, didn't you?' and carol's eyes twinkled as she said, 'oh, no, miss adams, if i had i'd still be in the recitation room.'" miss allen laughed, but prudence's eyes were agonized. "how hateful of her!" "don't the twins tell you little things that happen at school,--like that, for instance?" "never! i supposed they were perfectly all right." "well, here's another. twice a week we have talks on first aid to the injured. professor duke conducts them. one day he asked carol what she would do if she had a very severe cold, and carol said, 'i'd soak my feet in hot water and go to bed. my sister makes me.'" miss allen laughed again, but prudence was speechless. "sometimes we have talks on normal work, practical informal discussions. many of our scholars will be country school-teachers, you know. miss adams conducts these normal hours. one day she asked carol what she would do if she had applied for a school, and was asked by the directors to write a thesis on student discipline, that they might judge of her and her ability by it? carol said, 'i'd get lark to write it for me.'" even prudence laughed a little at this, but she said, "why don't you scold her?" "we talked it all over shortly after she entered school. miss adams did not understand carol at first, and thought she was a little impertinent. but professor duke and i stood firm against even mentioning it to her. she is perfectly good-natured about it. you know, of course, miss starr, that we really try to make individuals of our scholars. so many, many hundreds are turned out of the public schools all cut on one pattern. we do not like it. we fight against it. carol is different from others by nature, and we're going to keep her different if possible. if we crush her individuality, she will come out just like thousands of others,--all one pattern! miss adams is as fond of carol now as any one of us. you understand that we could not let impudence or impertinence pass unreproved, but carol is never guilty of that. she is always respectful and courteous. but she is spontaneous and quick-witted, and we are glad of it. do you know what the scholars call professor duke?" "professor duck," said prudence humbly. "but they mean it for a compliment. they really admire and like him very much. i hope he does not know what they call him." "he does! one day he was talking about the nobility system in england. he explained the difference between dukes, and earls, and lords, etc., and told them who is to be addressed as your majesty, your highness, your grace and so on. then he said, 'now, carol, if i was the king's eldest son, what would you call me?' and carol said, 'i'd still call you a duck, professor,--it wouldn't make any difference to me.'" prudence could only sigh. "one other time he was illustrating phenomena. he explained the idea, and tried to get one of the boys to mention the word,--phenomenon, you know. the boy couldn't think of it. professor gave three or four illustrations, and still the boy couldn't remember it. 'oh, come now,' professor said, finally, 'something unusual, something very much out of the ordinary! suppose you should see a blackbird running a race down the street with a sparrow, what would you call it?' the boy couldn't imagine, and professor said, 'what would you call that, carol?' carol said, 'a bad dream.'" prudence smiled wearily. "sometimes we have discussions of moral points. we take turns about conducting them, and try to stimulate their interest in such things. we want to make them think, every one for himself. one day professor duke said, 'suppose a boy in this town has a grudge against you,--unjust and unfair. you have tried one thing after another to change his attitude. but he continues to annoy and inconvenience and even hurt you, on every occasion. remember that you have tried every ordinary way of winning his good will. now what are you going to do as a last resort?' carol said, 'i'll tell papa on him.'" miss allen laughed again, heartily. "it does have a disturbing effect on the class, i admit, and often spoils a good point, but professor duke calls on carol every time he sees her eyes twinkle! he does it on purpose. and miss adams is nearly as bad as he. one day she said, 'suppose you have unintentionally done something to greatly irritate and inconvenience a prominent man in town. he knows you did it, and he is very angry. he is a man of sharp temper and disagreeable manners. you know that he will be extremely unpleasant and insulting if you go to him with explanations and apologies. what are you going to do?' 'i think i'll just keep out of his way for a few weeks,' said carol soberly." "i hope she doesn't talk like that to you, miss allen." instantly miss allen was grave. "no, she does not, i am so sorry." leaning forward suddenly, she said, "miss starr, why do the twins dislike me?" "dislike you!" echoed prudence. "why, they do not dislike you! what in the world makes you think----" "oh, yes indeed they do,--both of them. now, why? people generally like me. i have always been popular with my students. this is my second year here. last year the whole high school stood by me as one man. this year, the freshmen started as usual. after one week, the twins changed. i knew it instantly. then other freshmen changed. now the whole class comes as near snubbing me as they dare. do you mean to say they have never told you about it?" "indeed they have not. and i am sure you are mistaken. they do like you. they like everybody." "christian tolerance, perhaps," smiled miss allen ruefully. "but i want them to like me personally and intimately. i can help the twins. i can do them good, i know i can. but they won't let me. they keep me at arm's length. they are both dear, and i love them. but they freeze me to death! why?" "i can't believe it!" "but it is true. don't they talk of their professors at home at all?" "oh, often." "what do they say of us?" "why, they say miss adams is a perfectly sweet old lamb,--they do not mean to be disrespectful. and they say professor duke is the dearest duck! they almost swear by 'professor duck'!" "and what do they say of me?" prudence hesitated, thinking hard. "come now, what do they say? we must get to the bottom of this." "why, they have said that you are very pretty, and most unbelievably smart." "oh! quite a difference between sweet old lamb, and the dearest duck, and being very pretty and smart! do you see it?" "yes," confessed prudence reluctantly, "but i hadn't thought of it before." "now, what is wrong? what have i done? why, look here. the twins think everything of professor duke, and i am sure carol deliberately neglects her science lessons in order to be kept in after school by him. but though she hates mathematics,--my subject,--she works at it desperately so i can't keep her in. she sits on mr. duke's table and chats with him by the hour. but she passes me up with a curt, 'good night, miss allen.'" "and larkie, too?" "lark is worse than carol. her dislike is deeper-seated. i believe i could win carol in time. sometimes i waylay her when she is leaving after school, and try my best. but just as she begins to thaw, lark invariably comes up to see if she is ready to go home, and she looks at both of us with superior icy eyes. and carol freezes in a second. ordinarily, she looks at me with a sort of sympathetic pity and wonder, but lark is always haughty and nearly contemptuous. it is different with the rest of the class. it is nothing important to them. the twins are popular in the class, you know, and the others, realizing that they dislike me, hold aloof on their account." "i can't fathom it," said prudence. "now, professor duke is very brilliant and clever and interesting. and he does like carol tremendously,--larkie, too. he says she is the cleverest girl he ever knew. but carol is his favorite. but he does not like teaching, and he has not the real interests of the scholars at heart. next year, he is to begin some very wonderful research work at a big salary. that is what he loves. that is where his interests lie. but this year, being idle, and his uncle being on the school board here, he accepted this place as a sort of vacation in the meanwhile. that is all it means to him. but i love teaching, it is my life-work. i love the young people, and i want to help them. why won't the twins give me a chance? surely i am as attractive as professor duke. they are even fond of miss adams, whom most people consider rather a sour old maid. but they have no use for me. i want you to find out the reason, and tell me. will you do it? they will tell you if you ask them, won't they?" "i think so. it is partly my fault. i am very strict with them about saying hateful things about people. i do not allow it. and i insist that they like everybody,--if they don't, i make them. so they have just kept it to themselves. but i will do my best." one would have thought that prudence carried the responsibility for the entire public-school system of the united states upon her shoulders that night, so anxious were her eyes, so grave her face. supper over, she quietly suggested to fairy that she would appreciate the absence of herself and connie for a time. and fairy instantly realized that the twins must be dealt with seriously for something. so she went in search of connie, and the two set out for a long walk. then prudence went to the kitchen where the twins were washing the dishes, and as usual, laughing immoderately over something. prudence sat down and leaned her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms. "i met miss allen to-day," she said, closely observing the faces of the twins. a significant glance flashed between them, and they stiffened instantly. "she's very pretty and sweet, isn't she?" continued prudence. "yes, very," agreed lark without any enthusiasm. "such pretty hair," added carol dispassionately. "she must be very popular with the scholars," suggested prudence. "yes, most of them are fond of her," assented lark. "she has rather winsome manners, i think," said carol. "which of your professors do you like best?" queried prudence. "duck," they answered unanimously, and with brightening faces. "why?" "because he is a duck," said carol, and they all laughed. but prudence returned to the charge without delay. "do you like miss allen?" she was going through these questions with such solemnity that the twins' suspicions had been aroused right at the start. what had miss allen told their sister? again that significant flash from twin to twin. "she certainly has very likeable ways," said lark shrewdly. "but do you like her?" insisted prudence. "i would like her very much under ordinary circumstances," admitted carol. "what is unusual about the circumstances?" prudence wanted to know. "look here, prudence, what did miss allen tell you? was she complaining about us? we've been very nice and orderly, i'm sure." lark was aggrieved. "she wasn't complaining. she likes you both. but she says you do not like her. i want to know why." "well, if you must know, miss allen is a heretic," snapped lark. then prudence leaned back in her chair and gazed at the flushed faces of the twins for two full minutes. "a--a--a what?" she ejaculated, when power of speech returned to her. "heretic," said carol with some relish. "a heretic! you know what heresy is, don't you? we'll tell you all about it if you like, now you've got things started." "we didn't tell you before because we thought you and father would feel badly about sending us to school to a heretic. but don't you worry,--miss allen hasn't influenced us any." "we haven't given her a chance," said carol, with her impish smile. "go on," begged prudence. "tell me. you're both crazy, i see that. but tell me!" "well," began lark, for carol always relegated the story-telling to her more gifted twin, "we've suspected miss allen right from the start. they used to have bible reading every morning in school, one chapter, you know, and then the lord's prayer. after the first week, miss allen dropped it. we thought that was a--a suspicious circumstance." "phenomenally so," said carol darkly. "but we kept our suspicions to ourselves, and we didn't come across anything else for several days. we wouldn't condemn anybody on--on circumstantial evidence, prue. we're very fair-minded, you know." "in spite of being twins," added carol. "what's that got to do with it?" prudence inquired, frowning at carol. "oh, nothing," admitted carol, driven into a corner. "i just wanted to make it emphatic." "go on, lark." "well, there's a girl at school named hattie simpson. you do not know her, prue. we don't associate with her. oh, yes, we like her very well, but she isn't parsonage material." "she's a goat," put in carol. "you needn't frown, prue, that's bible! don't you remember the sheep and the goats? i don't know now just what it was they did, but i know the goats were very--very disreputable characters!" "go on, lark." "well, her folks are atheists, and she's an atheist, too. you know what an atheist is, don't you? you know, prue, mount mark is a very religious town, on account of the presbyterian college, and all, and it seems the simpsons are the only atheists here. hattie says people look down on her terribly because of it. she says the church folks consider them, the simpsons, that is, the dust on their shoes, and the crumbs off the rich man's table. she got that terribly mixed up, but i didn't correct her." "i think she did very well for an atheist," said carol, determined not to be totally overlooked in this discussion. "what has all this to do with miss allen?" "well, one day hattie was walking home from school with us, and she was telling us about it,--the dust on their shoes, etc.,--and she said she liked miss allen better than anybody else in town. i asked why. she said miss allen believed the same things the simpsons believe, only miss allen daren't say so publicly, or they would put her out of the school. she said miss allen said that most church members were hypocrites and drunkards and--and just generally bad, and the ones outside the church are nearly always good and moral and kind. she said miss allen joined the presbyterian church here because most of the school board are presbyterians. she said miss allen said she didn't care if people were catholics or jews or atheists or--or just ordinary protestants, so long as they were kind to one another, and went about the world doing good works. and that's why miss allen wouldn't read the bible and say the lord's prayer in school." "what do you think of that?" demanded carol. "isn't that heresy? she's as bad as the priest and levite, isn't she?" "did you ask miss allen about it?" "no, indeed, we've just ignored miss allen ever since. we have watched her as closely as we could since then, to see if we could catch her up again. of course she has to be careful what she says in school, but we found several strong points against her. it's a perfectly plain case, no doubt about it." "and so you went among the other freshmen influencing them, and telling tales, and criticizing your----" "no indeed, prue, we wouldn't! but you know it says in the bible to beware of false doctrines and the sowers of bad seed,--or something like that--" "and we bewared as hard as we could!" grinned carol. "we have tried to explain these things to the other freshmen so miss allen could not lead them into--into error. oh, that's christian science, isn't it? well, minnie carlson is a christian scientist and she talks so much about falling into error that--honestly----" "we can't tell error from truth any more," interjected carol neatly. "and so i hope you won't punish us if we accidentally vary from the truth once in a while." this was quite beyond prudence's depth. she knew little of christian science save that it was a widely accepted creed of recent origin. so she brought the twins back to miss allen again. "but, twins, do you think it was kind, and christian, and--and like parsonage girls, to accept all this against miss allen without giving her a chance to defend herself?" "as i told you, prue, we have watched her very close since then. she has never come right out in the open,--she wouldn't dare,--but she has given herself away several times. nothing can get by us when we're on the watch, you know!" prudence knew. "what did miss allen say?" the twins thought seriously for a while. "oh, yes, lark," suggested carol finally, "don't you remember she said the bible was an allegory?" "what?" "yes, she did. she was explaining to the english class what was meant by allegory, and she said the purpose of using allegory was to teach an important truth in a homely impressive way that could be remembered. she mentioned several prominent allegories, and said the bible was one. and you know yourself prue, that the bible is gospel truth, and--i mean, it is so! i mean----" "what she means," said lark helpfully, "is that the bible is not just a pretty way of teaching people to be good, but it's solid fact clear through." "that's very well expressed, lark,"--prudence herself could not have expressed it half so well! "but how do you twins understand all these things so thoroughly?" "oh, you know mrs. sears is our sunday-school teacher, and she's always hot on the trail of the higher critics and heretics. she explained all about the--the nefarious system to us one sunday. she says the higher critics try to explain away the bible by calling it allegory. so we were ready for miss allen there. and whenever anything came up at school, we would ask mrs. sears about it on sunday,--without mentioning names of course. she's very much gratified that we are so much interested in such things. she thinks we're sure to be deaconesses, at the very least. but carol said she wouldn't be a deaconess,--she was going to be a red cross nurse and go to war. that stumped mrs. sears for a while, and then she said we could be red cross deaconess nurses." "i won't," said carol, "because the deaconess uniforms aren't as stylish as the red cross nurses'. i think i'll look pretty fine in a white uniform with a stiff little cap and a red cross on my arm. red crosses make a very pretty decoration, don't you think they do, lark?" "what else did miss allen say at school?" prudence demanded, leading the twins back to the subject. "well, one day she said,--you know she gives uplifting little moral talks quite often, prue. sometimes she tells us stories with inspiring points. she's really a moral person, i believe." "and i'm honestly sorry she's a heretic," said carol, "for i do want to be friendly enough with her to ask if she uses anything on her complexion to keep it so rose-leafy. if she does, i'll have some of it, if it takes all my next year's clothes!" lark laughed. "a rose-leaf complexion will be a poor substitute for----" "oh, for goodness' sake, twins, come back to miss allen. i am going right up to her house this minute, to ask her about it, and explain----" "she's the one to do the explaining, seems to me," said carol belligerently. "we've got to stick up for the bible, prue,--it's our business." "and i don't think you should tell her,--it may hurt her feelings," urged lark. "have heretics feelings?" queried carol. "i suppose it's a feeling of----" "carol! will you quit talking for a minute! this is a serious matter. if she believes all that nonsense, she's no proper teacher and--and she'll have to be put out of the high school. and if she doesn't believe it, she's a martyr! i'm going to find out about it at once. do you want to come with me?" "i should say not," said the twins promptly. "i think you're very foolish to go at all," added lark. "i wouldn't go for a dollar," declared carol. "it'd be very interesting to see how a heretic feels, but i don't care to know how ordinary christians feel when they fall into their hands. i'm not aching to see miss allen to-night." so prudence set forth, conscientiously, in the darkness. a brave and heroic thing for prudence to do, for she was a cowardly creature at heart. miss allen heard her voice in the lower hall, and came running down-stairs to meet her. "come up," she cried eagerly, "come on up." and before prudence was fairly inside the door, she demanded, "what is it? did you find out? is it my fault?" then prudence blushed and stammered, "why--it sounds--silly but--they think you are a--heretic." miss allen gasped. then she laughed. then she walked to her dressing-table and picked up a long hatpin. "will you kindly jab this into me?" she said. "i'm having a nightmare." prudence explained in detail. at first miss allen laughed, it must be confessed. then she grew very sober. "it is really my fault," she said, "for i should have remembered that young people read a ton of meaning into a pound of words. of course, i am not guilty, miss starr. professor duke and miss adams can swear to that. they call me goody-goody. they say i am an old-fashioned apostle, and they accuse me of wanting to burn them both at the stake! now, sit down and let me explain." prudence sat down. she was glad, so glad, that this sweet-faced, bright-eyed woman was an "ordinary christian," and not a "priest and a levite!" "about the allegory business, it is very simple. what i said was this,--'the bible is full of allegory.' i did not say, 'the bible is allegory.' i said the bible is full of allegory, and so it is. the parables, for instance,--what are they? do you see the difference?--but it is really more serious about poor little hattie simpson. as the twins told you, her parents are atheists. her father is a loud-voiced, bragging, boastful, coarse-hearted fellow. hattie herself does not know what her parents believe, and what they do not. she simply follows blindly after them. she thinks she is an eyesore in mount mark because of it. she resents it bitterly, but she feels the only decent thing for her to do is to stand by her folks. let me tell you about our conversation. i tried to make friends with her, for i truly pity her. she has no friends, she slinks about as though constantly ashamed of herself. she trusts no one, herself least of all. i tried to draw her out, and with partial success. she told me how she feels about it all. i said, 'hattie, won't you let some one--some minister, who knows how--tell you about christianity, and explain to you what christians really believe?' 'no,' she said passionately, 'i'll stand by my folks.' then i saw she was not ready yet. i said, 'well, perhaps it is just as well for the present, for you are too young now to take any definite stand for yourself. it is true,' i told her, 'that many church members are not christians, and are bad immoral people,--as your father says. they are not christians. and it is true that many outside of the church are good moral people,--but they are not christians, either.' and then i said, 'don't worry your head just now about whether people are catholics or jews or protestants, or what they are. just try to love everybody, and try to grow up to be such a sweet, kind, loving woman that you will be a blessing to the world. and what is more,' i said, 'do not puzzle your head now about why some believe the bible, and some do not. just wait. when you are older, you shall go into things for yourself, and make your own decision.'" prudence nodded. "i think you were very sweet about it," she said. "i wanted to win her confidence in the hope that some time, a little later, i myself may show her what christ is to us, and why we love the bible. but i did fight shy of the real point, for fear i might anger her and put a barrier between us. i just tried to win her confidence and her love, to pave the way for what i may be able to do later on. do you see? i have had several talks with her, but she is not ready. she is just a child, stubbornly determined to stand with her folks, right or wrong. i am trying now to cultivate the ground, i say nothing to make her dislike or distrust me. i did not think of her telling it to others,--and telling it wrong! surely no one but the twins could have read so much into it!" "well," and prudence smiled, "you know we are parsonage people! we have to stick up for the bible, as carol says." "oh, and about the bible reading," said miss allen suddenly, "i have nothing to do with that. as you know, there are jews and catholics and christian scientists and every branch of protestant represented in our little school. the jews and christian scientists are in a minority. the jews, have always objected to bible reading, but they were too few to be influential. with a catholic teacher, the catholics were quite willing to have it. with a protestant teacher, the protestants were strong for it. but there was always friction--one side objecting--so the school board ruled it out entirely. i did not explain this to the scholars. i did not want our young people to know of the petty bickering and scrapping going on among the elders in the town. so i simply said that hereafter we would dispense with the bible reading. but it was the direct order of the board. i argued against it, so did professor duke, so did miss adams. but as it happens, we are all three presbyterians! it did no good." then as prudence rose to go home, she asked eagerly, "do you think the twins will like me now?" "i don't see how in the world they can help it," declared prudence, smiling; "indeed, they admitted they were only too anxious to love you, but couldn't honestly do so because they had to stick up for the bible! i am so glad and relieved! this is the first time i have gone heresy-hunting, and i was quite bowed down with the weight of it. and if ever i can help with poor little hattie, will you let me know? i must have the twins invite her to spend some saturday with us. that's the way i make the girls like people,--by being with them a great, great deal." just before she said good night, prudence murmured hopefully, "i am sorry it happened, but it will be a good lesson for the twins. i am sure that after this, they will be less ready to listen to gossip, and more ready to give one the benefit of a doubt. it's a great responsibility, this raising a family, miss allen--and especially twins!" chapter vi an admirer it must be remembered that prudence did not live in a sheltered and exclusive city home, where girls are rigidly withheld from all unchaperoned intercourse with young men and old. we know how things are managed in the "best homes" of the big cities,--girls are sheltered from innocent open things, and, too often, indulge in really serious amusements on the quiet. but this was the middle west, where girls are to be trusted. not all girls, of course, but as a matter of fact, the girls who need watching, seldom get enough of it to keep them out of mischief. out in iowa, girls and boys are allowed to like each other, and revel in each other's company. and it is good for both. prudence was not a sentimental girl. perhaps this was partly due to the fact that at the age when most girls are head-full of boy, prudence was hands-full of younger sisters! and when hands are full to overflowing, there is small likelihood of heads being full of nonsense. prudence liked boys as she liked girls,--that was the end of it. romance was to her a closed book, and she felt no inclination to peep between the covers. soul-stirring had not come to her yet. but prudence was attractive. she had that indescribable charm that carries a deep appeal to the eyes, and the lips, and the hearts of men. happily prudence herself did not realize this. the first young man of mount mark to yield to the charms of prudence was a serious-minded lawyer, nearly ten years her senior. this was just the type of man to become enraptured with prudence. he gazed across at her solemnly during the church service. he waited patiently after the benediction until she finished her methodist practise of hand-shaking, and then walked joyously home with her. he said little, but he gazed in frank enchantment at the small womanly girl beside him. "he's not half bad, fairy," prudence would confide to her sister when they were snug in their bed. "he's not half bad at all. but at heart, he doesn't approve of me. he doesn't know that himself, and i certainly can't believe it is my duty to tell him. but i am convinced that it is true. for instance, he thinks every one, especially women, should have a mission in life, a serious, earnest mission. i told him i didn't believe anything of the kind,--i think we are just supposed to live along from day to day and do what we can, and be happy, and not say mean things about one another. but he said he considered that i was fulfilling the noblest mission a woman could have. now what do you reckon he meant by that, fairy? i've been puzzling my brain over it for days and days. anybody can tell i am not the sort of girl to have a mission! maybe he just said it to encourage me,--he's a very encouraging sort of man. he's very nice,--oh, very nice, indeed! but isn't it a nuisance to have him tagging along home with me, when i might be having such a good time with you and the twins, or father? can a girl tell a man she prefers to go home with her family, without hurting his feelings? is there any way to turn a person down without letting him know it? he's so nice i wouldn't hurt his feelings for anything, but--it's such a bother! i'm too young for beaus, and since i'm never going to get married it's just a waste of time." and fairy screamed with laughter, but told prudence she must solve her own love problems! and prudence, unwilling to give offense, and preferring self-sacrifice, endured his company until a gay young college lad slipped in ahead of him. "first come, first served," was the motto of heartless prudence, and so she tripped comfortably away with "jimmy," laughing at his silly college stories, and never thinking to give more than a parting smile at the solemn face she left behind. after jimmy came a grocery clerk named byron poe smith, and after him somebody else, and somebody else, and somebody else. and prudence continued to laugh, and thought it "awfully amusing, fairy, but i keep wondering what you and the twins are laughing about!" but it was fairy herself who brought a real disturbing element into the life of prudence. one of the lightest-minded of the many light-minded college men, had been deeply smitten by the charms of dignified fairy. he walked with her, and talked with her,--this young man was a great deal of a talker, as so pathetically many college men are! he planned many little expeditions and entertainments for her amusement, and his own happiness. his name was eugene babler. "oh, he talks a lot," said fairy coolly, "but he certainly shows one a good time, and that's the point, you know!" she came in from college one afternoon and rattled off this little tale to prudence. "a few of us were on the campus to-day, and we decided to go down the creek to-morrow afternoon and take our suppers. there'll be ellen stark, and georgia prentiss, and myself. and the boys will be tom angell, and frank morris, and eugene babler. and professor rayburn was there when we were talking about it, and so we asked him to go along, but we told him he must take a girl. and he said, 'i wonder if your sister wouldn't go? i have only met her once, but perhaps on your recommendation, miss fairy----' and he paused with his breath in the air, inquiringly. so i said, 'do you mean prudence, or one of the twins?' he smiled very kindly and said, 'i mean prudence.' i said i was sure you would go, and so you'll have to do it. it's a great honor, prue, for all the upper-class girls, and even the unmarried women on the fac. are crazy about him. he's so aloof, you know, and very intelligent. i swelled with pride at the public tribute to the parsonage!" "professor rayburn! of the fac.!" gasped prudence. "oh, i'm sure he didn't mean me, fairy. you must have misunderstood him. why, i wouldn't know what to say to a professor, you know! what is his line?" "bugs!" cried fairy. "he's the biology man. and this is his first year here, and he's very brilliant,--they say! i'm no authority on bugs myself. but anyhow every one just raves about him, and he showed very plainly that he was anxious to get acquainted with you, so you'll have to go." "but bugs!" wailed prudence. "what do i know about bugs! will he expect me to know how to divide them,--separate them, you know--" "i suppose you mean dissect them, you poor child," screamed fairy. "divide bugs! if professor could hear you now, prue, he would be sadly disillusioned. you must just trot up-stairs and get one of the twins' biology books and cram up a little. he won't expect you to be an advanced buggist. he can give you points himself. men do love to have girls appeal to their superior knowledge, and be admiring and deferent. maybe he will 'divide one' for you if you ask him 'please.'" "i won't do it," declared prudence. "i don't like bugs anyhow, and--why, the very pictures of them in the twins' books make me nervous. i won't do it. you can just tell him i don't feel qualified to go." "you've got to go," said fairy sternly, "for i said you would, and he's counting on it. he's going to phone you this afternoon and ask you himself. you've got to go." at that instant, the telephone rang. "there's professor!" cried fairy. "you tell him you are just delighted to go, and that you are so interested in bugs!" with a flushed face, prudence took down the receiver. "hello," she said, "this is the parsonage." and then, a second later, she said, "yes, this is prudence." after that she stood silent for some little time, with fairy crouched beside her, trying to hear. then spoke prudence. "yes, fairy has been telling me. and it's very kind of you, indeed, and i know i would enjoy it. but as i was telling fairy, i don't know a thing about bugs, and i don't like them anyhow, so i'm afraid you would find me rather stupid." fairy was striving to get a hand over her sister's lips to stem the words, but prudence eluded her. they were both somewhat astounded at the great peal of laughter which came over the telephone. "good! that's just what i was hoping for! you couldn't have said anything that would give me greater pleasure. then shall i come around with babler, for you and your sister, about one o'clock?--oh, that is very kind of you, miss starr. good-by! don't cultivate an interest in bugs between now and to-morrow, for my sake!" the girls looked at each other doubtfully when the receiver was once more on its hook. "i'm afraid he's laughing at me," said prudence questioningly. "i should hope so," cried fairy. "what in the world did you say that for? couldn't you have pretended to be interested? professor likes women to be dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "then why on earth did he ask me to go?" demanded prudence. "any one could tell to look at me that i'm not dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "and i know he admired you, for he was so eager when he asked about you. think how grand it would be to speak of 'my sister, mrs. professor rayburn,' and----" "don't be silly, fairy. if i was going to marry anybody, which i am not, i hope you do not think for one minute that i'd marry a buggist! gracious! goodness! i've a notion not to go a step! i'll call him up and----" but fairy only laughed. and after all, prudence looked forward to the little outing in the glorious october woods with eager anticipation. it was seldom indeed that she indulged in merry-making away from the parsonage. yet she was fond of gaiety. long before one o'clock on that eventful day, she was ready. and her face was so bright, and her eyes so starry, that placid self-satisfied fairy felt a twinge of something like envy. "you look like a creature from another world, prue," she said. "if professor rayburn has any sense in his bones, he will fall dead in love with you,--bugs or no bugs!" "people do not have sense in their bones, fairy, and--and--shall i say professor, or just plain mister?" "professor, i suppose,--every one calls him professor." "then i shall say mister," said prudence. "it will be so hard to enjoy myself if i keep remembering that he teaches bugs! i might as well be at school. i shall say mister." and she did say "mister," and she said it so sweetly, and looked up into professor rayburn's face so brightly, and with happiness so evident and so girlish, that the staid professor felt a quick unaccountable throbbing down somewhere beneath his coat. he did look eager! there was no doubt of it. and he looked at prudence, continuously. "just like ordinary men, isn't he?" whispered fairy to eugene babler,--called "babbie," for short and for humiliation,--for he enjoyed the reputation of being a "talker" even among college men! the three young couples struck off briskly down the road, creek-ward, and prudence followed sedately with her professor. "fairy says it was perfectly disgusting of me to tell you i didn't know anything about bugs," she said comfortably. "but i thought maybe, you were one of those professors who like one thing so much they can't be interested in anything else. and i wanted to warn you. but i guess you aren't that kind, after all?" "oh, no, indeed," he assured her fervently, looking deep into her blue eyes. "i like bugs, it is true. but really i like other things, one thing at least, much better." "is it a riddle?" she inquired. "am i supposed to guess?" "it isn't a riddle, but you may guess. think hard, now! it's a serious matter. please don't say 'food.'" "if i get below seventy will i be put down a grade?" she asked. then with intense solemnity, "i guess girls." they laughed together, youthfully. "you are right," he said. and with a sigh of relief, prudence answered, "that's the first time i ever got a hundred in anything in my life. i was very much accustomed to eighties when i was in school. i am very common and unbrilliant," she assured him. "fairy says you are perfectly horribly clever----" she glanced up when she heard his exclamation, and laughed at his rueful face. "oh, that isn't fairy's expression. she thinks brilliant and clever people are just adorable. it is only i who think them horrible." even prudence could see that this did not help matters. "i--i do not mean that," she stammered. "i am sure you are very nice indeed, and we are going to be good friends, aren't we? but i am such a dunce myself that i am afraid of real clever people. they are so superior. and so uninteresting, and--oh, i do not mean that either." then prudence laughed at her predicament. "i may as well give it up. what i really mean is that you are so nice and friendly and interesting, that i can hardly believe you are so clever. you are the nicest smart person i ever saw,--except my own family, i mean." she smiled up at him deliciously. "does that make it square?" "more than square," he said. "you are too complimentary. but the only thing that really counts to-day is whether we are going to be real good friends, as you suggested. we are, aren't we? the very best and closest of friends?" "yes," agreed prudence, dimpling. "i like men to be my friends,--nice men, i mean. but it isn't always safe. so many start out to be good friends, and then want to be silly. so a girl has to be very careful. but it's perfectly safe with you, and so we can be the very best of friends. i won't need to be watchful for bad symptoms." "do you think me so unmanly that i couldn't fall in love?" he asked, and his voice was curious, as though she had hurt him. "oh, of course, you'll fall in love," laughed prudence. "all nice men do.--but not with me,--that was what i meant i couldn't imagine a buggy professor--oh, i beg your pardon! but the twins are so silly and disrespectful, and they thought it was such a joke that i should even look at a professor of biology that they began calling you the buggy professor. but they do not mean any harm by it, not the least in the world. they're such nice sweet girls, but--young, you know. are your feelings hurt?" she asked anxiously. "not a bit! i think the twins and i will be tremendously good friends. i'm quite willing to be known as the buggy professor. but you were trying to explain why i couldn't fall in love with you. i suppose you mean that you do not want me to." "oh, not that at all," she hastened to assure him. then she stopped. "yes," she said honestly, "that is true, too. but that isn't what i was trying to say. i was just saying that no one realizes any more than i how perfectly impossible it would be for a clever, grown-up, brilliant professor to fall in love with such an idiot as i am. that's all. i meant it for a compliment," she added, seeing he was not well pleased. he smiled, but it was a sober smile. "you said it was true that you did not wish me to be--fond of you. why? don't you like me then, after all?" now, he realized that this was a perfectly insane conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn't help it. prudence was so alluring, and the sky was so warmly blue, the sunshine so mild and hazy, and the roadside so gloriously gay with colors! who could have sense on such a day, with such a girl as this? "oh, i do like you very much indeed," declared prudence. "it's a big relief, too, for i didn't expect to--oh, i beg your pardon again, but--well, i was scared when fairy told me how remarkable you are. i didn't want to disgrace the parsonage, and i knew i would. but--why, the reason i do not want you to fall in love with me,--that's very different from being fond of me, i do want you to be that,--but when people fall in love, they get married. i'm not going to get married, so it would be silly to fall in love, wouldn't it?" he laughed heartily at the matter-of-factness with which this nineteen-year-old girl disposed of love and marriage. "why aren't you going to be married?" he inquired, foolishly happy, and showing more foolishness than happiness, just as we all do on such occasions. "well, it will be ten or eleven years before connie is fairly raised." "yes, but you won't be a methuselah, in eleven years," he smiled. "no, but you forget father." "forget father! are you raising him, too?" "no, i'm not raising him, but i'm managing him." but when he laughed, she hastened to add, "that is, i take care of him, and keep house for him, and remind him of things he forgets." then with girlish honesty, she added, "though i must confess that he has to remind me of things i forget, oftener than i do him. i inherited my forgetfulness from father. i asked him once if he inherited his from grandfather, and he said he forgot whether grandfather was forgetful or not! father is very clever. so's fairy. and the twins are the smartest little things you ever saw,--and connie, too. connie is the oddest, keenest child. she's wonderful. they all are,--but me. it's kind of humiliating to be the only stupid one in a family of smart folks. i suppose you've no idea how it feels, and i can't explain it. but sometimes i think maybe i ought to go off and die, so the whole family can shine and sparkle together. as it is, there's just a dull glow from my corner, quite pale and ugly compared with the brilliant gleams the others are sending out." said professor rayburn, "ah, prudence, the faint, sweet mellow glows are always beautiful. not sparkling, perhaps, not brilliant! but comforting, and cheering, and--always to be trusted. it's just these little corner-glows, like yours, that make life worth living." this was rather deep for prudence, but she felt instinctively that he was complimenting her. she thanked him sweetly, and said, "and after all, i do not really mind being the stupid one. i think it's rather fun, for then i can just live along comfortably, and people do not expect much of me. it would wear me all out to be as clever as fairy, or as witty as carol, or as studious as lark. but i am most tremendously proud of them, i assure you." if professor rayburn had continued along this interesting and fruitful line of conversation, all would have been well. "but it came just like a clap of thunder in the sunshine," said prudence to fairy dramatically, as they sat in their room talking things over that night. "we were having a perfectly grand time, and i was just thinking he was as nice and interesting as if he didn't know one thing to his name, when--crash! that's how it happened." fairy wiped her eyes, and lay back weakly on the bed. "go on," she urged. "what happened?" "he stopped right in the middle of a sentence about me, something real nice, too, that i was awfully interested in, and said, 'look, miss starr!' then he got down on his knees and began cautiously scraping away the sticks and leaves. then he fished out the most horrible, woolly, many-legged little animal i ever saw in my life. he said it was a giminythoraticus billyancibus, and he was as tickled over it as though he had just picked up a million-dollar diamond. and what do you suppose the weird creature did with it? he wrapped it in a couple of leaves, and put his handkerchief around it and put it in his pocket!--do you remember when we were eating by the creek, and i got jam on my fingers? he offered me his handkerchief to wipe it off? do you remember how i shoved him away, and shuddered? i saw you look reprovingly at me! that's why! do you suppose i could wipe my fingers with a handkerchief that had been in one of his pockets?" "it wasn't the one that had the giminy billibus, was it?" "no, but goodness only knows what had been in this one,--an alligator, maybe, or a snake. he's very fond of snakes. he says some of them are so useful. i try to be charitable, fairy, and i believe i would give even satan credit for any good there was in him,--but it is too much to ask me to be fond of a man who is fond of snakes. but that is not the worst. he put the giminy thing in his pocket,--his left pocket! then he came on walking with me, on my right side. on my right side, fairy, do you understand what that means? it means that the giminy billibus, as you call it--oh, i wouldn't swear to the name, fairy, i do not claim to be smart, but i know how it looked! well, anyhow, name and all, it was on the side next to me. i stopped to look at a little stick, and switched around on the other side. then he stooped to look at a bunch of dirt, and got on the wrong side again. then i stopped, and then he did, and so we kept zig-zagging down the road. a body would have thought we were drunk, i suppose. four times that man stopped to pick up some wriggling little animal, and four times he deposited his treasure in one of his various pockets. don't ask why it is impossible for me to be friends with such a being,--spare me that humiliation!" but the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside. he forsook the presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the methodist meetings with commendable assiduity. after each service, he accompanied prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to "come in a minute." he called as often during the week as propriety, in the voice of prudence, deemed fitting. it was wholly unnatural for prudence to cater to propriety, but professor rayburn did not know this. weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another. professor rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage. "i can't just blurt out that i think he's a nuisance," she mourned to fairy. "oh, if he'd just do something disgusting so i could fire him off,--pop! just like that. wouldn't it be glorious?" but the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and prudence continued to worry and fret. then came a blessed evening when the minister and fairy were away from home, and the twins and connie were safely in their beds. professor rayburn sat with prudence in the cozy living-room, and prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human. prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table. laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer. then when it was safely disposed of, prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,--very alluring, very winsome. and mr. rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. he was aghast at himself, once it was over, and prudence,--well, let us say frankly that prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the "disgusting thing" for which she had so fervently longed. "mr. rayburn!" "that was very stupid and unpardonable of me, prudence," he said quickly, "i really did not think what i was doing. but you were so sweet, and--i'm awfully fond of you, prudence, you know that." prudence looked at him thoughtfully. she felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening. so she waited, hoping he would commit himself further. more humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on. "you know, prudence, when a man cares for a girl as i care for you, it isn't always easy for him to be sober and sensible. you shouldn't have been so--so dear." prudence sighed happily. she was content. this gave her the long-desired cue. "mr. rayburn," she said gently but decidedly, "i think you ought not to come here any more." he walked over to her quickly, and stood beside the chair into which she had dropped when he kissed her. "don't say that, prudence," he said in a hurried low voice. "it is true," she persisted, feeling somehow sorry, though she did not understand why she should feel so. "i--i--well, you know i--you remember what i told you that first day, don't you? about getting married, and falling in love, and such things. it is true. i don't want to love anybody, and i don't want to get married, and fairy says--it is--remotely possible--that you might get--very fond of me." he smiled rather grimly. "yes, i think it is--remotely possible." "then that settles it," she said comfortably. "and besides, i have such a lot to do that i can't--well, bother--spending so much time outside as i have with you. i've been neglecting my work, and it isn't right. i haven't the time." "which is your way of saying that you do not like me, isn't it?" prudence stood up impulsively. "oh, i like you, but--" she threw out her hands expressively. he took them in his, tenderly, firmly. "but, prudence," he argued, "that is because the woman in you isn't awake. you may never love me--a dismal possibility, but it is true. but don't you think it only fair that you should give me a chance to try?" "oh, but that's just the point," she cried. "i do not want you to try. i do not want to run any risk, at all. i wouldn't marry you if i did love you--i told you that right in the beginning." he still held her hands in one of his, caressing them slowly with the other. "what is there about me that you do not like?" he demanded suddenly. "there is something, i know." and with her awful unbelievable honesty. prudence told him. "yes," she said, "that is true. i hated to mention it, but there is something! mr. rayburn, i just can't stand the bugs!" "good heavens! the what?" "the bugs! i can't bear for you to be near me, because i keep wondering if there are bugs and things in your pocket. i'm afraid they'll get over on me. even now it makes me shiver when you hold my hands, because i know you've been handling the horrible little creatures with yours." he dropped her hands abruptly, and stared at her. "and after you leave, i get down on my hands and knees and look over the floor, and examine the chairs, to see if any have crawled off! it's a terrible feeling, mr. rayburn. you know i told you i hated bugs.--i'm afraid i've hurt your feelings," she said sadly. "where in the world did you get such an idea as that?" he demanded rather angrily. "do you think i have pet bugs to carry around with me for company?" "no,--but don't you remember the picnic,--and how you kept gathering them up in your handkerchiefs and putting them in your pockets? and how i kept squirming around to get on the other side,--i was trying to get away from the bugs!" "but, my heavens, prudence, those were my field clothes. i don't put bugs in these pockets,--these are my sunday togs!" he smiled a little. "and i always wash my hands, you know." he found it humorous, and yet it hurt him. such a little thing to prejudice a girl so strongly,--and one he liked so marvelously well! "you might forget, and put them in these pockets,--it's a kind of habit with you, i suppose. and just plain washing won't take the idea of bugs off your hands." "prudence, you are only a girl,--a childish girl, but a very sweet one. i want you to like me. when you grow up, you are going to be a wonderfully good and lovely woman. i--i am going to want you then. i know it. let's just be friends now, can't we--until later--for a long time yet? i'll promise on my word of honor never to put another bug in my pockets, or my handkerchiefs. but i can't promise not to touch them, for i have to do it in class. that's how i earn my living! but i will wash my hands with ivory soap and sapolio, and rub them with cold cream, and powder them, and perfume them, before i ever come near you again. won't that do?" prudence shook her head. "i know you are laughing at me," she said, "but i always told you i was just a silly simpleton. and--it isn't the bugs altogether. i--i like it better to be with my sisters than----" "than with me? i see. as i said, the woman of you is still sleeping. well, we are young, and i will wait. i won't bother you any more for a long time, prudence, but i shan't forget you. and some day i will come back to you again." he stared at her moodily. then he put his hands beneath her elbows, and looked into her eyes searchingly. "you are a strange girl, prudence. in some ways, you are so womanly, and in other ways so--pitifully girlish! all the woman in your heart seems to be given to your sisters and your father, and-- but you will waken, and i won't hurry you." then he put his arms around her again, and whispered in her ear, "but i love you, prudence, and--if some one else should do the awakening--it would hurt!" then he kissed her, and went away. but prudence ran up-stairs, singing happily. "oh, i feel like a caged-up bird that has broken loose," she cried to her reflection in the mirror jubilantly. "oh, what fun it will be to come home from church with fairy and the twins, the way i used to do!" chapter vii lessons in etiquette connie was lying flat on her back near the register. the twins were sitting on the floor near her, hearing each other conjugate latin verbs. and prudence, with her darning basket, was earnestly trying to solve a domestic problem,--how to get three pairs of wearable stockings out of eleven hosiery remnants. so fairy found them as she came in, radiant and glowing. "glorious day," she said, glancing impartially at her sisters. "just glorious! why are you all hugging the register, may i ask? it is perfect weather. connie, you should be out-of-doors this minute, by all means. twins, aren't you grown-up enough to sit on chairs, or won't your footies reach the floor?--babbie, eugene babler, you know, is coming to spend the evening, prudence." "what is going on to-night?" queried prudence. "nothing is going on. that's why he is coming. it's too cold to meander around outdoors these nights, and so we shall have to amuse ourselves inside as best we can." the whole family came to attention at this. "oh, goody!" cried connie. "let's make taffy, shall we, fairy?" "certainly not. this isn't a children's party. you'll go to bed at eight o'clock as usual, connie mine.--now, we must have something to eat. the question is, what shall it be?" "yes," agreed carol with enthusiasm,--carol was always enthusiastic on the subject of something to eat. "yes, indeed, that is the question. what shall we have?" "you will likely have pleasant dreams, carol," was the cool retort. "babbie did not invite himself to spend the evening with you, i believe." "do you mean to suggest," demanded lark with withering scorn, "that it is your intention to shut yourself up alone with this--this creature, excluding the rest of us?" "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" cried carol. [illustration: "yes, and have refreshments for just you two?"] "that is my intention most certainly. the twins and connie will not put in appearance at all. prue will serve the refreshments, and will eat with us. babbie and i shall spend the evening in the front room." "the front room?" echoed prudence. "this room is much cheerier, and more homelike." "well, babbie isn't a member of the family, you know," said fairy. "you are doing your best," sniffed carol. "now, you girls must understand right off, that things are different here from what they were at exminster. when boys came to the house there they came to have a good time with the whole family. but here it is very different. i've been looking around, and i've got on to the system. the proper thing is to receive callers privately, without the family en masse sitting by and superintending. that's etiquette, you know. and one must always serve refreshments. more etiquette. men are such greedy animals, they do not care to go places where the eats aren't forthcoming." "men! are you referring to this babbling creature now?" interposed carol. "ouch!" said lark. "but won't it be rather--poky--just sitting in the front room by yourselves all evening?" asked prudence doubtfully, ignoring the offended twins. "oh, i dare say it will. but it's the proper thing to do," said fairy complacently. "what are you going to do all evening?" connie wanted to know. "just sit and look at each other and admire yourselves?" the twins thought this very clever of connie, so they both said "ouch!" approvingly. "why, no, baby dear," said fairy good-naturedly. "we shall talk. feast our souls with a flow of reason, you know. we shall converse. we shall hold pleasant intercourse." "wouldn't it be more fun to have the girls in for a little while?" this from prudence. "oh, it might,--but it wouldn't be the proper thing at all. college men do not care to be entertained by babies." "no," snapped lark, "the wisdom of babies is too deep for these--these--these men in embryo." this was so exquisitely said that lark was quite restored to amiability by it. "in embryo," had been added to her vocabulary that very day in the biology class. it was only the sheerest good fortune which gave her the opportunity of utilizing it so soon. and carol said "ouch!" with such whole-souled admiration that lark's spirit soared among the clouds. she had scored! "and what shall we serve them?" urged prudence. "i suppose it would hardly do to--pop corn, would it?" "no, indeed. popping corn is very nice for the twins and the little boys in the neighborhood." fairy smiled with relish as she saw the twins wince at this thrust. "but babbie and i-- oh, never! it wouldn't do at all. now, oyster stew and crackers,--i mean wafers,----" "oysters are fearfully expensive, fairy," objected the frugal prudence. "oh, we can stand it for once," said fairy easily. "this is the first time, and we must do something extra. babbie is all the rage at school, and the girls are frantic with jealousy because i have cut everybody else out. to be honest about it, i can't understand it myself. babbie's such a giddy scatter-brained youngster, you'd think he'd prefer----" "do you like him, fairy? don't you think he's tiresome? he talks so much, it seems to me." "to be sure i like him. he's great fun. he's always joking and never has a sensible thought, and hates study. he's an amusing soul, i must say. he's going to attend here a couple of years, and then study pharmacy. his father is a druggist in ottumwa, and quite well off. the only reason babbie came here instead of going to a big college in the east is because his father is a trustee. trustees are in honor bound to send their offspring to the college they trustee,--just as ministers are obliged to trade with the members when possible." "even if they short-weight and long-charge you," put in carol. "carol!" exclaimed prudence reprovingly. "well, we'll serve oyster stew then. will you eat in the dining-room?" "no, we'll eat on the little table in the front room,--informally, you know. you must get it ready, and arrange it nicely on the big tray. then you must come to the door and say, 'wouldn't you like a little oyster stew?' say it carelessly, as if we always have something to eat before going to bed. and i'll say, 'oh, yes, prudence, bring it right in.' then you bring it in, and we'll all eat together.--that's the way to do it! babbie's had dates with the very swellest girls in school, and he knows about such things. we must do it up brown!" "swell!" mocked lark. "do it up brown! oh, you'll be a record-breaker of a college professor all right. i'm sure this young babler is just the type of man to interest the modern college professor! swell! do it up brown!" "ouch!" grinned carol. "now, will you twins run down-town for the oysters?" asked prudence briskly. "who? us?" demanded lark, indignantly and ungrammatically. "do you think we can carry home oysters for the--the--personal consumption of this babbling young prince? not so! let fairy go after the oysters! she can carry them home tenderly and appreciatively. carol and i can't! we don't grasp the beauty of that man's nature." "oh, yes, twinnies, i think you'll go, all right. hurry now, for you must be back in time to help me get supper. fairy'll have to straighten the front room, and we won't have time. run along, and be quick." for a few seconds the twins gazed at each other studiously. neither spoke. without a word, they went up-stairs to prepare for their errand. they whispered softly going through the upper hall. "we'd better make a list," said carol softly. so with heads close together they wrote out several items on a piece of paper. "it'll cost quite a lot," objected carol. "thirty cents, anyhow. and prudence'll make us pay for the oysters, sure. remember that." "we'd better let connie in, too," suggested lark. connie was hastily summoned, and the twins whispered explanations in her willing ears. "good!" she said approvingly. "it'll serve 'em right." "but it'll cost money," said carol. "how much have you got?" then connie understood why she had been consulted. the twins always invited her to join their enterprises when money was required. "a quarter," she faltered. "well, we'll go shares," said lark generously. "we'll pay a dime apiece. it may not take that much. but if prudence makes us pay for the oysters, you'll have to pay a third. will you do that?" "yes, indeed." connie was relieved. she did not always get off so easily! "twins! you must hurry!" this was prudence at the bottom of the stairs. and the twins set off quite hurriedly. their first tall was at the meat market. "a pint of oysters," said lark briefly. when he brought them to her, she smelled them suspiciously. then carol smelled. "are these rotten oysters?" she demanded hopefully. "no," he answered, laughing. "certainly not." "have you got any rotten ones?" "no, we don't keep that kind." he was still laughing. the twins sighed and hurried next door to the grocer's. "a nickel's worth of pepper--the strongest you have." this was quickly settled--and the grave-faced twins betook themselves to the corner drug store. "we--we want something with a perfectly awful smell," lark explained soberly. "what kind of a smell?" "we don't care what kind, but it must be perfectly sickening. like something rotten, or dead, if you have it. something that will stay smelly for several hours,--but it mustn't be dangerous, of course." "what do you want it for?" "we want it to put in a room to give it a horrible smell for an hour or so." lark winked at him solemnly. "it's a joke," she further elucidated. "i see." his eyes twinkled. "i think i can fix you up." a moment later he handed her a small bottle. "just sprinkle this over the carpet. it won't do any harm, and it smells like thunder. it costs a quarter." carol frowned. "i suppose we'll have to take it," she said, "but it's pretty expensive. i hate to have druggists get such a lot of money." he laughed aloud. "i hate to have you get a good licking to-morrow, too,--but you'll get it just the same, or i miss my guess." when the twins arrived home, fairy was just cutting the candy she had made. "it's delicious," she said to prudence. "here's a nice dishful for you and the girls.--pitch in, twins, and help yourselves. it's very nice." the twins waved her haughtily away. "no, thank you," they said. "we couldn't eat that candy with relish. we are unworthy." "all right," prudence put in quickly, as fairy only laughed. "i'll put it in the cupboard, and fairy and i will eat it to-morrow. it's perfectly fine,--simply delicious." but the twins were not to be tempted. before they went up-stairs, lark inquired sarcastically: "i suppose, fairy, you'll don your best blue silk in honor of this event?" "oh, no," was the ready answer, "i'll just wear my little green muslin. it's old, but very nice and comfortable--just right for an evening at home." "yes," scoffed carol, "and of course you are remembering that every one says it is the most becoming dress you have." "oh, yes," laughed fairy, "i'm remembering that, all right." then the twins went up-stairs, but not to their own room at once. instead they slipped noiselessly into the front bedroom, and a little later carol came out into the hall and stood listening at the head of the stairs, as though on guard. "be sure and leave quite a few stitches in, lark," she whispered once. "we want it to hang together until babbie gets here." that was all. presently lark emerged, and their own door closed behind them. "it's a good thing father has to go to the trustees' meeting to-night, isn't it?" asked carol. and lark agreed, absently. she was thinking of the oysters. as soon as they finished supper, lark said, "don't you think we'd better go right to bed, prue? we don't want to taint the atmosphere of the parsonage. of course, fairy will want to wash the dishes herself to make sure they are clean and shining." "oh, no," disclaimed fairy, still good-naturedly. "i can give an extra rub to the ones we want to use,--that is enough. i do appreciate the thought, though, thanks very much." so the twins plunged in, carefully keeping connie beside them. "she has such a full-to-overflowing look," said carol. "if we don't keep hold of her, she'll let something bubble over." connie had a dismal propensity for giving things away,--the twins had often suffered from it. to-night, they were determined to forestall such a calamity. then they all three went to bed. to be sure it was ridiculously early, but they were all determined. "we feel weak under this unusual strain. our nerves can't stand the tension. we really must retire to rest. maybe a good night's sleep will restore us to normal," lark explained gravely. fairy only laughed. "good!" she cried. "do go to bed. the only time i am sure of you is when you are in your beds. do you mind if i tie you in, to make assurance doubly sure?" but the twins and connie had disappeared. "you keep your eyes open, fairy," prudence whispered melodramatically. "those girls do not look right. something is hanging over our heads." and she added anxiously, "oh, i'll be so disappointed if things go badly. this is the first time we've ever lived up to etiquette, and i feel it is really a crisis." fairy was a little late getting up-stairs to dress, but she took time to drop into her sisters' room. they were all in bed, breathing heavily. she walked from one to another, and stood above them majestically. "asleep!" she cried. "ah, fortune is kind. they are asleep. how i love these darling little twinnies,--in their sleep!" an audible sniff from beneath the covers, and fairy, smiling mischievously, went into the front room to prepare for her caller. the bell rang as she was dressing. prudence went to the door, preternaturally ceremonious, and ushered mr. babler into the front room. she turned on the electric switch as she opened the door. she was too much impressed with the solemnity of the occasion to take much note of her surroundings, and she did not observe that the young man sniffed in a peculiar manner as he entered the room. "i'll call fairy," she said demurely. "tell her she needn't primp for me," he answered, laughing. "i know just how she looks already." but prudence was too heavily burdened to laugh. she smiled hospitably, and closed the door upon him. fairy was tripping down the stairs, very tall, very handsome, very gay. she pinched her sister's arm as she passed, and the front room door swung behind. but she did not greet her friend. she stood erect by the door, her head tilted on one side, sniffing, sniffing. "what in the world?" she wondered. then she blushed. perhaps it was something he had used on his hair! or perhaps he had been having his suit cleaned! "oh, i guess it's nothing, after all," she stammered. but eugene babler was strangely quiet. he looked about the room in a peculiar questioning way. "shall i raise a window?" he suggested finally. "it's rather--er--hot in here." "yes, do," she urged. "raise all of them. it's--do you--do you notice a--a funny smell in here? or am i imagining it? it--it almost makes me sick!" "yes, there is a smell," he said, in evident relief. "i thought maybe you'd been cleaning the carpet with something. it's ghastly. can't we go somewhere else?" "come on." she opened the door into the sitting-room. "we're coming out here if you do not mind, prue." and fairy explained the difficulty. "why, that's very strange," said prudence, knitting her brows. "i was in there right after supper, and i didn't notice anything. what does it smell like?" "it's a new smell to me," laughed fairy, "but something about it is strangely suggestive of our angel-twins." prudence went to investigate, and fairy shoved a big chair near the table, waving her hand toward it lightly with a smile at babbie. then she sank into a low rocker, and leaned one arm on the table. she wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. "that smell," she began. "i am very suspicious about it. it was not at all natural----" "excuse me, fairy," he said, ill at ease for the first time in her knowledge of him. "did you know your sleeve was coming out?" fairy gasped, and raised her arm. "both arms, apparently," he continued, smiling, but his face was flushed. "excuse me just a minute, will you?" fairy was unruffled. she sought her sister. "look here, prue,--what do you make of this? i'm coming to pieces! i'm hanging by a single thread, as it were." her sleeves were undoubtedly ready to drop off at a second's notice! prudence was shocked. she grew positively white in the face. "oh, fairy," she wailed. "we are disgraced." "not a bit of it," said fairy coolly. "i remember now that lark was looking for the scissors before supper. aren't those twins unique? this is almost bordering on talent, isn't it? don't look so distressed, prue. etiquette itself must be subservient to twins, it seems. don't forget to bring in the stew at a quarter past nine, and have it as good as possible,--please, dear." "i will," vowed prudence, "i'll--i'll use cream. oh, those horrible twins!" "go in and entertain babbie till i come down, won't you?" and fairy ran lightly up the stairs, humming a snatch of song. but prudence did a poor job of entertaining babbie during her sister's absence. she felt really dizzy! such a way to introduce etiquette into the parsonage life. she was glad to make her escape from the room when fairy returned, a graceful figure in the fine blue silk! she went back to the dining-room, and painstakingly arranged the big tray for the designated moment of its entrance,--according to etiquette. fairy and babbie in the next room talked incessantly, laughing often and long, and prudence, hearing, smiled in sympathy. she herself thought it would be altogether stupid to be shut up in a room alone with "just a man" for a whole evening,--but etiquette required it. fairy knew about such things, of course. a little after nine, she called out dismally, "fairy!" and fairy, fearing fresh disaster, came running out. "what now? what----" "i forget what you told me to say," whispered prudence wretchedly, "what was it? the soup is ready, and piping hot,--but what is it you want me to say?" fairy screamed with laughter. "you goose!" she cried. "say anything you like. i was just giving you a tip, that was all. it doesn't make any difference what you say." "oh, i am determined to do my part just right," vowed prudence fervently, "according to etiquette and all. what was it you said?" fairy stifled her laughter with difficulty, and said in a low voice, "wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" prudence repeated it after her breathlessly. so fairy returned once more, and soon after prudence tapped on the door. then she opened it, and thrust her curly head inside. "wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" she chirped methodically. and fairy said, "oh, yes indeed, prudence,--this is so nice of you." the stew was steaming hot, and the three gathered sociably about the table. prudence was talking. fairy was passing the "crackers,"--prudence kicked her foot gently beneath the table, to remind her that etiquette calls them "wafers." so it happened that babbie was first to taste the steaming stew. he gasped, and gulped, and swallowed some water with more haste than grace. then he toyed idly with spoon and wafer until prudence tasted also. prudence did not gasp. she did not cry out. she looked up at her sister with wide hurt eyes,--a world of pathos in the glance. but fairy did not notice. "now, please do not ask me to talk until i have finished my soup," she was saying brightly, "i simply can not think and appreciate oyster stew at the same time." then she appreciated it! she dropped her spoon with a great clatter, and jumped up from the table. "mercy!" she shrieked. "it is poisoned!" babbie leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes were wet. prudence's eyes were wet, too, but not from laughter! what would etiquette think of her, after this? "what did you do to this soup, prudence?" demanded fairy. "i made it,--nothing else," faltered poor prudence, quite crushed by this blow. and oysters forty cents a pint! "it's pepper, i think," gasped babbie. "my insides bear startling testimony to the presence of pepper." and he roared again, while prudence began a critical examination of the oysters. she found them literally stuffed with pepper, there was no doubt of it. the twins had done deadly work! their patience, at least, was commendable,--it seemed that not one oyster had escaped their attention. the entire pint had been ruined by the pepper. "revenge, ye gods, how sweet," chanted fairy. "the twins are getting even with a vengeance,--the same twins you said were adorable, babbie." it must be said for fairy that her good nature could stand almost anything. even this did not seriously disturb her. "do you suppose you can find us some milk, prue? and crackers! i'm so fond of crackers and milk, aren't you, babbie?" "oh, i adore it. but serve a microscope with it, please. i want to examine it for microbes before i taste." but prudence did better than that. she made some delicious cocoa, and opened a can of pear preserves, donated to the parsonage by the amiable mrs. adams. the twins were very fond of pear preserves, and had been looking forward to eating these on their approaching birthday. they were doomed to disappointment! the three had a merry little feast, after all, and their laughter rang out so often and so unrestrainedly that the twins shook in their beds with rage and disappointment. mr. starr came in while they were eating, and joined them genially. but afterward, when prudence realized that etiquette called for their retirement, her father still sat complacently by the register, talking and laughing. prudence fastened her eyes upon him. "well, i must honestly go to bed," she said, gazing hypnotically at her father. "i know you will excuse me. i must store up my strength to deal with the twins in the morning." she got up from her chair, and moved restlessly about the room, still boring her father with her eyes. he did not move. she paused beside him, and slipped her hand under his elbow. "now, father," she said gaily, "we must put our heads together, and think out a proper punishment for the awful creatures." her hand was uplifting, and mr. starr rose with it. together they left the room with cordial good nights, and inviting mr. babler to "try the parsonage again." prudence listened outside the twins' door, and heard them breathing loudly. then she went to her own room, and snuggling down beneath the covers, laughed softly to herself. "etiquette!" she gurgled. "etiquette! there's no room for such a thing in a parsonage,--i see that!" it speaks well for the courage of babbie, and the attractions of fairy, that he came to the parsonage again and again. in time he became the best of friends with the twins themselves, but he always called them "the adorables," and they never asked him why. the punishment inflicted upon them by prudence rankled in their memories for many months. indeed, upon that occasion, prudence fairly surpassed herself in the ingenuity she displayed. the twins considered themselves very nearly as grown-up as fairy, and the fact that she was a young lady, and they were children, filled their hearts with bitterness. they never lost an opportunity of showing their independence where she was concerned. and with marvelous insight, prudence used fairy as her weapon of punishment,--in fact, the twins called fairy the "ducking-stool" for many days. "the offense was against fairy," said prudence, with a solemnity she did not feel, "and the reparation must be done to her. for three weeks, you must do all of her bedroom work, and run every errand she requires. moreover, you must keep her shoes well cleaned and nicely polished, and must do every bit of her darning!" the twins would have preferred whipping a thousand times. they felt they had got a whipping's worth of pleasure out of their mischief! but a punishment like this sat heavily upon their proud young shoulders, and from that time on they held fairy practically immune from their pranks. but prudence did not bother her head about etiquette after that experience. "i'm strong for comfort," she declared, "and since the two can not live together in our family, i say we do without etiquette." and fairy nodded in agreement, smiling good-naturedly. chapter viii the first dark shadow of winter prudence and fairy stood in the bay window of the sitting-room, and looked out at the thickly falling snow. already the ground was whitely carpeted, and the low-branched peach trees just outside the parsonage windows were beginning to bow down beneath their burdens. "isn't it beautiful, prudence?" whispered fairy. "isn't it beautiful? oh, i love it when it snows." "yes, and you love it when the sun shines, too," said prudence, "and when it rains, and when the wind is blowing. you have the soul of a poet, that's what is the matter with you. you are a nature-fiend, as carol would say." fairy turned abruptly from the window. "don't talk for a minute, prue,--i want to write." so prudence stood quietly in the window, listening to the pencil scratching behind her. "listen now, prue,--how is this?" fairy had a clear expressive voice, "a bright voice," prudence called it. and as she read her simple lines aloud, the heart of prudence swelled with pride. to prudence, fairy was a wonderful girl. "good night, little baby earth, going to sleep, tucked in your blankets, all woolly and deep. close your tired eyelids, droop your tired head, nestle down sweetly within your white bed. kind mother sky, bending softly above, is holding you close in her bosom of love. closely she draws the white coverlets warm, she will be near you to shield you from harm. soon she will set all her candles alight, to scatter the darkness, and save you from fright. then she will leave her cloud-doorway ajar, to watch you, that nothing your slumbers may mar. rest, little baby earth, rest and sleep tight, the winter has come, and we bid you good night." fairy laughed, but her face was flushed. "how is that?" she demanded. "oh, fairy," cried prudence, "it is wonderful! how can you think of such sweet little things? may i have it? may i keep it? oh, i think it is perfectly dear--i wish i could do that! i never in the world would have thought of baby earth going to sleep and mother sky tucking her in white blankets.--i think you are just wonderful, fairy!" fairy's eyes were bright at the praise, but she laughed as she answered. "you always think me and my scribbles perfection, prue,--even the love verses that shocked the ladies' aid. you are a bad critic. but doesn't the snow make you think--pretty things, prudence? come now, as you stood at the window there, what were you thinking?" "i was just wondering if connie wore her rubbers to school, and if father remembered to take his muffler." fairy burst into renewed laughter. "oh, you precious, old, practical prudence," she gurgled. "rubbers and mufflers, with such a delicious snowfall as this! oh, prudence, shame upon you." prudence was ashamed. "oh, i know i am a perfect idiot, fairy," she said. "i know it better than anybody else. i am so ashamed of myself, all the time." then she added rather shyly, "fairy, are you ashamed of me sometimes? when the college girls are here, and you are all talking so brilliantly, aren't you kind of mortified that i am so stupid and dull? i do not care if outsiders do think i am inferior to the rest of you, but--really i do not want you to be ashamed of me! i--oh, i know it myself,--that i do not amount to anything, and never will, but--it would hurt if i thought you and the twins were going to find me--humiliating." prudence was looking at her sister hungrily, her lips drooping, her eyes dark. for a long instant fairy stared at her incredulously. then she sprang to her feet, her face white, her eyes blazing. "prudence starr," she cried furiously, "how dare you say such things of us? do you think we are as despicable as all that? oh, prudence, i never was so insulted in all my life! ashamed of you! ashamed--why, we are proud of you, every one of us, daddy, too! we think you are the finest and dearest girl that ever lived. we think--oh, i think god himself must be proud of a girl like you, prudence starr! ashamed of you!" and fairy, bursting into tears, rushed wildly out of the room. for all her poetical nature, fairy was usually self-restrained and calm. only twice before in all her life had prudence seen her so tempest-tossed, and now, greatly disturbed, yet pleased at the passionate avowals, she hurried away in search of her sister. she needed no more assurance of her attitude. so the twins and connie came into an empty room, and chattered away to themselves abstractedly for an hour. then prudence came down. instantly connie was asked the all-important question: "are your feet wet?" connie solemnly took three steps across the room. "hear me sqush," she said proudly. she did sqush, too! "constance starr, i am ashamed of you! this is positively wicked. you know it is a law of the medes and persians that you change your shoes and stockings as soon as you come in when your feet are wet. do it at once. i'll get some hot water so you can soak your feet, too. and you shall drink some good hot peppermint tea, into the bargain. i'll teach you to sit around in wet clothes! do you think i want an invalid on my hands?" "oh, don't be so fussy," said connie fretfully, "wet feet don't do any harm." but she obligingly soaked her feet, and drank the peppermint. "are your feet wet, twins?" "no," said lark, "we have better judgment than to go splashing through the wet old snow.--what's the matter with you, carol? why don't you sit still? are your feet wet?" "no, but it's too hot in this room. my clothes feel sticky. may i open the door, prudence?" "mercy, no! the snow is blowing a hurricane now. it isn't very hot in here, carol. you've been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes it seem hot. you must peel the potatoes now, twins, it's time to get supper. carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet. between him and connie, i do not have a minute's peace in the winter time!" "you go, lark," said carol. "my head aches." "do you want me to rub it?" asked prudence, as lark skipped up-stairs for her twin. "no, it's just the closeness in here. it doesn't ache very bad. if we don't have more fresh air, we'll all get something and die, prudence.--i tell you that. this room is perfectly stuffy.--i do not want to talk any more." and carol got up from her chair and walked restlessly about the room. but carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern, prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. "papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton, and--oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, prue? oh, goody! carrie, come on out! look,--she made cinnamon rolls." connie, too, hastened out to the kitchen in her bare feet, and was promptly driven back by the watchful prudence. "i just know you are going to be sick, connie,--i feel it in my bones. and walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet! you can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now." "well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it," urged connie. "peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself." lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls. "no, wait until supper is ready. you do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, carol. run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches. you read too much anyhow. i'll help lark with the potatoes. no, do not take the paper, carol,--i said you must not read." then lark and prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family. when they gathered about the table, prudence looked critically at connie. "are you beginning to feel sick? do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?--connie's awfully naughty, papa. her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.--aren't you going to eat any supper, carol? are you sick? what is the matter? does your head still ache?" "oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but i do not feel hungry. no, i am not sick, prudence, so don't stew about it. i'm just not hungry. the meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. i think i'll take a cinnamon roll." but she only picked it to pieces idly. prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird. "there are some canned oysters out there, carol. if i make you some soup, will you eat it?" this was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in anticipation of unexpected company. but carol shook her head impatiently. "i am not hungry at all," she said. "i'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches mrs. adams gave us, or--or anything, if you'll just eat something, carrie." still carol shook her head. "i said i wasn't hungry, prudence." but her face was growing very red, and her eyes were strangely bright. she moved her hands with unnatural restless motions, and frequently lifted her shoulders in a peculiar manner. "do your shoulders hurt, carol?" asked her father, who was also watching her anxiously. "oh, it feels kind of--well--tight, i guess, in my chest. but it doesn't hurt. it hurts a little when i breathe deep." "is your throat still sore, carol?" inquired lark. "don't you remember saying you couldn't swallow when we were coming home from school?" "it isn't sore now," said carol. and as though intolerant of further questioning, she left the dining-room quickly. "shall i put flannel on her chest and throat, father?" asked prudence nervously. "yes, and if she gets worse we will call the doctor. it's probably just a cold, but we must----" "it isn't diphtheria, papa, you know that," cried prudence passionately. for there were four reported cases of that dread disease in mount mark. but the pain in carol's chest did grow worse, and she became so feverish that she began talking in quick broken sentences. "it was too hot!--don't go away, larkie!--her feet were wet, and it kept squshing out.--i guess i'm kind of sick, prue.--don't put that thing on my head, it is strangling me!--oh, i can't get my breath!" and she flung her hand out sharply, as though to push something away from her face. then mr. starr went to the telephone and hurriedly called the doctor. prudence meanwhile had undressed carol, and put on her little pink flannel nightgown. "go out in the kitchen, girls, and shut the door," she said to her sisters, who stood close around the precious twin, so suddenly stricken. "fairy!" she cried. "go at once. it may be catching. take the others with you. and keep the door shut." but lark flung herself on her knees beside her twin, and burst into choking sobs. "i won't go," she cried. "i won't leave carrie. i will not, prudence!" "oh, it is too hot," moaned carol. "oh, give me a drink! give me some snow, prudence. oh, it hurts!" and she pressed her burning hands against her chest. "lark," said her father, stepping quickly to her side, "go out to the kitchen at once. do you want to make carrie worse?" and lark, cowed and quivering, rushed into the kitchen and closed the door. "i'll carry her up-stairs to bed, prue," said her father, striving to render his voice natural for the sake of the suffering oldest daughter, whose tense white face was frightening. together they carried the child up the stairs. "put her in our bed," said prudence. "i'll--i'll--if it's diphtheria, daddy, she and i will stay upstairs here, and the rest of you must stay down. you can bring our food up to the head of the stairs, and i'll come out and get it. they can't take carol away from the parsonage." "we will get a nurse, prudence. we couldn't let you run a risk like that. it would not be right. if i could take care of her properly myself, i----" "you couldn't, father, and it would be wicked for you to take such chances. what would the--others do without you? but it would not make any difference about me. i'm not important. he can give me anti-toxin, and i'm such a healthy girl there will be no danger. but she must not be shut alone with a nurse. she would die!" and carol took up the words, screaming, "i will die! i will die! don't leave me, prudence. don't shut me up alone. prudence! prudence!" down-stairs in the kitchen, three frightened girls clung to one another, crying bitterly as they heard poor carol's piercing screams. "it is pneumonia," said the doctor, after an examination. and he looked at prudence critically. "i think we must have a nurse for a few days. it may be a little severe, and you are not quite strong enough." then, as prudence remonstrated, "oh, yes," he granted, "you shall stay with her, but if it is very serious a nurse will be of great service. i will have one come at once." then he paused, and listened to the indistinct sobbing that floated up from the kitchen. "can't you send those girls away for the night,--to some of the neighbors? it will be much better." but this the younger girls stubbornly refused to do. "if you send me out of the house when carol is sick, i will kill myself," said lark, in such a strange voice that the doctor eyed her sharply. "well, if you will all stay down-stairs and keep quiet, so as not to annoy your sister," he consented grudgingly. "the least sobbing, or confusion, or excitement, may make her much worse. fix up a bed on the floor down here, all of you, and go to sleep." "i won't go to bed," said lark, looking up at the doctor with agonized eyes. "i won't go to bed while carol is sick." "give her a cup of something hot to drink," he said to fairy curtly. "i won't drink anything," said lark. "i won't drink anything, and i won't eat a bite of anything until carol is well. i won't sleep, either." the doctor took her hand in his, and deftly pushed the sleeve above the elbow. "you can twist my arm if you like, but i won't eat, and i won't drink, and i won't sleep." the doctor smiled. swiftly inserting the point of his needle in her arm, he released her. "i won't hurt you, but i am pretty sure you will be sleeping in a few minutes." he turned to fairy. "get her ready for bed at once. the little one can wait." an hour later, he came down-stairs again. "is she sleeping?" he asked of fairy in a low voice. "that is good. you have your work cut out for you, my girl. the little one here will be all right, but this twin is in nearly as bad shape as the one up-stairs." "oh! doctor! larkie, too!" "oh, she is not sick. but she is too intense. she is taking this too hard. her system is not well enough developed to stand such a strain very long. something would give way,--maybe her brain. she must be watched. she must eat and sleep. there is school to-morrow, isn't there?" "but i am sure lark will not go, doctor. she has never been to school a day in her life without carol. i am sure she will not go!" "let her stay at home, then. don't get her excited. but make her work. keep her doing little tasks about the house, and send her on errands. talk to her a good deal. prudence will have her hands full with the other twin, and you'll have all you can do with this one. i'm depending on you, my girl. you mustn't fail me." that was the beginning of an anxious week. for two days carol was in delirium most of the time, calling out, crying, screaming affrightedly. and lark crouched at the foot of the stairs, hands clenched passionately, her slender form tense and motionless. it was four in the afternoon, as the doctor was coming down from the sick room, that fairy called him into the dining-room with a suggestive glance. "she won't eat," she said. "i have done everything possible, and i had the nurse try. but she will not eat a bite. i--i'm sorry, doctor, but i can't make her." "what has she been doing?" "she's been at the foot of the stairs all day. she won't do a thing i tell her. she won't mind the nurse. father told her to keep away, too, but she does not pay any attention. when i speak to her, she does not answer. when she hears you coming down, she runs away and hides, but she goes right back again." "can your father make her eat? if he commands her?" "i do not know. i doubt it. but we can try. here's some hot soup,--i'll call father." so lark was brought into the dining-room, and her father came down the stairs. the doctor whispered an explanation to him in the hall. "lark," said her father, gently but very firmly, "you must eat, or you will be sick, too. we need all of our time to look after carol to-day. do you want to keep us away from her to attend to you?" "no, father, of course not. i wish you would all go right straight back to carrie this minute and leave me alone. i'm all right. but i can't eat until carol is well." her father drew a chair to the table and said, "sit down and eat that soup at once, larkie." lark's face quivered, but she turned away. "i can't, father. you don't understand. i can't eat,--i really can't. carrie's my twin, and--oh, father, don't you see how it is?" he stood for a moment, frowning at her thoughtfully. then he left the room, signing for the doctor to follow. "i'll send prudence down," he said. "she'll manage some way." "i must stay here until i see her eat it," said the doctor. "if she won't do it, she must be kept under morphine for a few days. but it's better not. try prudence, by all means." so prudence, white-faced, eyes black-circled, came down from the room where she had served her sister many weary hours. the doctor was standing in the center of the room. fairy was hovering anxiously near lark, rigid at the window. "larkie," whispered prudence, and with a bitter cry the young girl leaped into her sister's arms. prudence caressed and soothed her tenderly. "poor little larkie," she murmured, "poor little twinnie!--but carol is resting pretty well now, lark. she's coming through all right. she was conscious several times to-day. the first time she just looked up at me and smiled and whispered, 'hard luck, prue.' then a little later she said, 'tell larkie i'm doing fine, and don't let her worry.' pretty soon she spoke again, 'you make lark be sensible, prue, or she'll be sick, too.' once again she started to say something about you, but she was too sick to finish. 'larkie is such a--,' but that was as far as she could go. she was thinking of you all the time, lark. she is so afraid you'll worry and make yourself sick, too. she would be heartbroken if she was able to see you, and you were too sick to come to her. you must keep up your strength for carol's sake. if she is conscious to-morrow, we're going to bring you up a while to see her. she can hardly stand being away from you, i know. but you must get out-of-doors, and bring some color to your cheeks, first. it would make her miserable to see you like this." lark was still sobbing, but more gently now, and she still clung to her sister. "to-morrow, prudence? honestly, may i go up to-morrow? you're not just fooling me, are you? you wouldn't do that!" "of course i wouldn't. yes, you really may, if you'll be good and make yourself look better. it would be very bad for carrie to see you so white and wan. she would worry. have you been eating? you must eat lots, and then take a good run out-of-doors toward bedtime, so you will sleep well. it will be a good tonic for carol to see you bright and fresh and rosy." "oh, i can't bear to be fresh and rosy when carrie is sick!" "it hurts,--but you are willing to be hurt for carol's sake! you will do it on her account. it will do her so much good. now sit down and eat your soup, and i'll stay here a while and tell you all about her. i gave her the pansies you bought her,--it was so sweet of you, too, larkie. it must have taken every cent of your money, didn't it? i suppose you ordered them over the telephone, since you wouldn't leave the house. when i told carol you got them for her, she took them in her hand and held them under the covers. of course, they wilted right away, but i knew you would like carrie to have them close to her.'--oh, you must eat it all, lark. it looks very good. i must take a little of it up to carol,--maybe she can eat some.--and you will do your very best to be strong and bright and rosy--for carol--won't you?" "yes, i will,--i'll go and run across the field a few times before i go to bed. yes, i'll try my very best." then she looked up at the doctor, and added: "but i wouldn't do it for you, or anybody else, either." but the doctor only smiled oddly, and went away up-stairs again, wondering at the wisdom that god has placed in the hearts of women! dreary miserable days and nights followed after that. and prudence, to whom carol, even in delirium, clung with such wildness that they dare not deny her, grew weary-eyed and wan. but when the doctor, putting his hand on her shoulder, said, "it's all right now, my dear. she'll soon be as well as ever,"--then prudence dropped limply to the floor, trembling weakly with the great happiness. good methodist friends from all over mount mark came to the assistance of the parsonage family, and many gifts and delicacies and knick-knacks were sent in to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and the others as well. "you all need toning up," said mrs. adams crossly, "you've all gone clear under. a body would think the whole family had been down with something!" carol's friends at the high school, and the members of the faculty also, took advantage of this opportunity to show their love for her. and professor duke sent clear to burlington for a great basket of violets and lilies-of-the-valley, "for our little high-school song-bird," as he wrote on the card. and carol dimpled with delight as she read it. "now you see for yourself, prudence," she declared. "isn't he a duck?" when the little parsonage group, entire, gathered once more around the table in the "real dining-room," they were joyful indeed. it was a gala occasion! the very best china and silverware were brought out in carol's honor. the supper was one that would have gratified the heart of a bishop, at the very least! "apple pie, with pure cream, carol," said lark ecstatically, for apple pie with pure cream was the favorite dessert of the sweet-toothed twins. and lark added earnestly, "and i don't seem to be very hungry to-night, carol,--i don't want any pie. you shall have my piece, too!" "i said i felt it in my bones, you remember," said prudence, smiling at carol, "but my mental compass indicated connie when it should have pointed to carol! and i do hope, connie dear, that this will be a lesson to you, and impress upon you that you must always change your shoes and stockings when your feet are wet!" and for the first time in many days, clear, happy-hearted laughter rang out in the parsonage. chapter ix practising economy it was a dull dreary day early in december. prudence and fairy were sewing in the bay window of the sitting-room. "we must be sure to have all the scraps out of the way before connie gets home," said prudence, carefully fitting together pieces of a dark, warm, furry material. "it has been so long since father wore this coat, i am sure she will not recognize it." "but she will ask where we got it, and what shall we say?" "we must tell her it is goods we have had in the house for a long time. that is true. and i made this fudge on purpose to distract her attention. if she begins to ask questions, we must urge her to have more candy. poor child!" she added very sympathetically. "her heart is just set on a brand-new coat. i know she will be bitterly disappointed. if the members would just pay up we could get her one. november and december are such bad months for parsonage people. coal to buy, feed for the cow and the horse and the chickens, and carol's sickness, and larkie's teeth! of course, those last are not regular winter expenses, but they took a lot of money this year. every one is getting ready for christmas now, and forgets that parsonage people need christmas money, too. november and december are always my bitter months, fairy,--bitter months!" fairy took a pin from her mouth. "the velvet collar and cuffs will brighten it up a good bit. it's really a pretty material. i have honestly been ashamed of connie the last few sundays. it was so cold, and she wore only that little thin summer jacket. she must have been half frozen." "oh, i had her dressed warmly underneath, very warmly indeed," declared prudence. "but no matter how warm you are underneath, you look cold if you aren't visibly prepared for winter weather. it's a fortunate thing the real cold weather was so slow in coming. i kept hoping enough money would come in to buy her a coat for once in her life." "she has been looking forward to one long enough," put in fairy. "this will be a bitter blow to her. and yet it is not such a bad-looking coat, after all." and she quickly ran up a seam on the machine. "here comes connie!" prudence hastily swept a pile of scraps out of sight, and turned to greet her little sister with a cheery smile. "come on in, connie," she cried, with a brightness she did not feel. "fairy and i are making you a new coat. isn't it pretty? and so warm! see the nice velvet collar and cuffs. we want to fit it on you right away, dear." connie picked up a piece of the goods and examined it intently. "don't you want some fudge, connie?" exclaimed fairy, shoving the dish toward her hurriedly. connie took a piece from the plate, and thrust it between her teeth. her eyes were still fastened upon the brown furry cloth. "where did you get this stuff?" she inquired, as soon as she was able to speak. "oh, we've had it in the house quite a while," said prudence, adding swiftly, "isn't it warm, connie? oh, it does look nice, doesn't it, fairy? do you want it a little shorter, connie, or is that about right?" "about right, i guess. did you ever have a coat like this, prudence? i don't seem to remember it.'" "oh, no, it wasn't mine. take some more candy, connie. isn't it good?--let's put a little more fullness in the sleeves, fairy. it's more stylish this year.--the collar fits very nicely. the velvet gives it such a rich tone. and brown is so becoming to you." "thanks," said connie patiently. "was this something of yours, fairy?" "oh, no, we've just had it in the house quite a while. it comes in very handy right now, doesn't it? it'll make you such a serviceable, stylish coat. isn't it about time for the twins to get here, prudence? i'm afraid they are playing along the road. those girls get more careless every day of their lives." "well, if this didn't belong to one of you, whose was it?" demanded connie. "i know the twins never had anything like this. it looks kind of familiar to me. where did it come from?" "out of the trunk in the garret, connie. don't you want some more fudge? i put a lot of nuts in, especially on your account." "it's good," said connie, taking another piece. she examined the cloth very closely. "say, prudence, isn't this that old brown coat of father's?" fairy shoved her chair back from the machine, and ran to the window. "look, prue," she cried. "isn't that mrs. adams coming this way? i wonder----" "no, it isn't," answered connie gravely. "it's just miss avery getting home from school.--isn't it, prudence? father's coat, i mean?" "yes, connie, it is," said prudence, very, very gently. "but no one here has seen it, and it is such nice cloth,--just exactly what girls are wearing now." "but i wanted a new coat!" connie did not cry. she stood looking at prudence with her wide hurt eyes. "oh, connie, i'm just as sorry as you are," cried prudence, with starting tears. "i know just how you feel about it, dearest. but the people didn't pay father up last month, and nothing has come in for this month yet, and we've had so much extra expense.--i will have to wear my old shoes, too, connie, and you know how they look! the shoemaker says they aren't worth fixing, so i must wear them as they are.--but maybe after christmas we can get you a coat. they pay up better then." "i think i'd rather wear my summer coat until then," said connie soberly. "oh, but you can't, dearest. it is too cold. won't you be a good girl now, and not make sister feel badly about it? it really is becoming to you, and it is nice and warm. you know parsonage people just have to practise economy, connie,--it can't be helped. take some more fudge, dear, and run out-of-doors a while. you'll feel better about it presently, i'm sure." connie stood solemnly beside the table, her eyes still fastened on the coat, cut down from her father's. "can i go and take a walk?" she asked finally. "may i, you mean," suggested fairy. "yes, may i? maybe i can reconcile myself to it." "yes, do go and take a walk," urged prudence promptly, eager to get the small sober face beyond her range of vision. "if i am not back when the twins get home, go right on and eat without me. i'll come back when i get things straightened out in my mind." when connie was quite beyond hearing, prudence dropped her head on the table and wept. "oh, fairy, if the members just knew how such things hurt, maybe they'd pay up a little better. how do they expect parsonage people to keep up appearances when they haven't any money?" "oh, now, prue, you're worse than connie! there's no use to cry about it. parsonage people have to find happiness in spite of financial misery. money isn't the first thing with folks like us." "no, but they have pledged it," protested prudence, lifting her tear-stained face. "they must know we are counting on the money. why don't they keep their pledges? they pay their meat bills, and grocery bills, and house rent! why don't they pay for their religion?" "now, prue, you know how things go. mrs. adams is having a lot of christmas expense, and she thinks her four dollars a month won't really be missed. she thinks she will make it up along in february, when christmas is over. but she forgets that mrs. barnaby with two dollars, and mrs. scott with five, and mr. walter with seven, and mr. holmes with three, and about thirty others with one dollar each, are thinking the same thing! each member thinks for himself, and takes no account of the others. that's how it happens." prudence squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "i wish you wouldn't mention names, fairy," she begged. "i do not object to lumping them in a body and wondering about them. but i can't feel right about calling them out by name, and criticizing them.--besides, we do not really know which ones they are who did not pay." "i was just giving names for illustrative purposes," said fairy quickly. "like as not, the very ones i named are the ones who did pay." "well, get this stuff out of the way, and let's set the table. somehow i can't bear to touch it any more. poor little connie! if she had cried about it, i wouldn't have cared so much. but she looked so--heartsick, didn't she, fairy?" connie certainly was heartsick. more than that, she was a little disgusted. she felt herself aroused to take action. things had gone too far! go to church in her father's coat she could not! but they hadn't the money. if connie's father had been at home, perhaps they might have reasoned it out together. but he had left town that morning, and would not be home until saturday evening,--too late to get a coat in time for sunday, and prudence had said that connie must be coated by sunday! she walked sturdily down the street toward the "city,"--ironically so called. her face was stony, her hands were clenched. but finally she brightened. her lagging steps quickened. she skipped along quite cheerfully. she turned westward as she reached the corner of the square, and walked along that business street with shining eyes. in front of the first national bank she paused, but after a few seconds she passed by. on the opposite corner was another bank. when she reached it, she walked in without pausing, and the massive door swung behind her. standing on tiptoe, she confronted the cashier with a grave face. "is mr. harold in?" she asked politely. mr. harold was the president of the bank! it was a little unusual. "yes, he is in," said the cashier doubtfully, "but he is very busy." "will you tell him that constance starr wishes to speak to him, privately, and that it is very important?" the cashier smiled. "the methodist minister's little girl, isn't it? yes, i will tell him." mr. harold looked up impatiently at the interruption. "it's the methodist minister's little daughter, and she says it is important for her to speak to you privately." "oh! probably a message from her father. bring her in." mr. harold was one of the trustees of the methodist church, and prominent among them. his keen eyes were intent upon connie as she walked in, but she did not falter. "how do you do, mr. harold?" she said, and shook hands with him in the good old methodist way. his eyes twinkled, but he spoke briskly. "did your father send you on an errand?" "no, father is out of town. i came on business,--personal business, mr. harold. it is my own affair." "oh, i see," and he smiled at the earnest little face. "well, what can i do for you, miss constance?" "i want to borrow five dollars from the bank, mr. harold?" "you--did prudence send you?" "oh, no, it is my own affair as i told you. i came on my own account. i thought of stopping at the other bank as i passed, but then i remembered that parsonage people must always do business with their own members if possible. and of course, i would rather come to you than to a perfect stranger." "thank you,--thank you very much. five dollars you say you want?" "i suppose i had better tell you all about it. you see, i need a winter coat, very badly. oh, very badly, indeed! the girls were ashamed of me last sunday, i looked so cold outside, though i was dressed plenty warm enough inside. i've been looking forward to a new coat, mr. harold. i've never had one yet. there was always something to cut down for me, from prudence, or fairy, or the twins. but this time there wasn't anything to hand down, and so i just naturally counted on a new one." connie paused, and looked embarrassed. "yes?" his voice was encouraging. "well, i'll tell you the rest, but i hope you won't say anything about it, for i'd feel pretty cheap if i thought all the sunday-school folks knew about it.--you see, the members need such a lot of money now just before christmas, and so they didn't pay us up last month, and they haven't paid anything this month. and we had to get coal, and feed, and larkie's teeth had to be fixed, and carol was sick, you remember. seems to me lark's teeth might have been put off until after christmas, but prudence says not.--and so there isn't any money left, and i can't have a coat. but prudence and fairy are making me one,--out of an old coat of father's!" constance paused dramatically. mr. harold never even smiled. he just nodded understandingly. "i don't think i could wear a coat of father's to church,--it's cut down of course, but--there's something painful about the idea. i wouldn't expect father to wear any of my clothes! you can see how it is, mr. harold. just imagine how you would feel wearing your wife's coat!--i don't think i could listen to the sermons. i don't believe i could be thankful for the mercy of wearing father's coat! i don't see anything merciful about it. do you?" mr. harold did not speak. he gazed at connie sympathetically, and shook his head. "it's too much, that's what it is. and so i thought i'd just have to take things into my own hands and borrow the money. i can get a good coat for five dollars. but if the bank is a little short right now, i can get along with four, or even three. i'd rather have the cheapest coat in town, than one made out of father's. do you think you can let me have it?" "yes, indeed we can." he seemed to find his voice with an effort. "of course we can. we are very glad to lend our money to responsible people. we are proud to have your trade." "but i must tell you, that it may take me quite a while to pay it back. father gives me a nickel a week, and i generally spend it for candy. there's another nickel, but it has to go in the collection, so i can't really count that. i don't believe father would let me neglect the heathen, even to pay for a winter coat! but i will give you the nickel every week, and at that rate i can pay it back in a couple of years easy enough. but i'd rather give the nickels as fast as i get them. it's so hard to keep money when you can get your hand on it, you know. sometimes i have quite a lot of money,--as much as a quarter at a time, from doing errands for the neighbors and things like that. i'll pay you as fast as i can. will that be all right? and the interest, too, of course. how much will the interest be on five dollars?" "well, that depends on how soon you repay the money, connie. but i'll figure it out, and tell you later." "all right. i know i can trust you not to cheat me, since you're a trustee. so i won't worry about that." mr. harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed connie a crisp new bill. her eyes sparkled as she received it. "but, connie," he continued, "i feel that i ought to give you this. we methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our november payments, and i will just give you this bill to make up for it." but connie shook her head decidedly. "oh, no! i'll have to give it back, then. father would not stand that,--not for one minute. of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. and it's a good thing, too, i must say! but we don't hint for them, mr. harold. that wouldn't be right." she held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance. "keep it,--we'll call it a loan then, connie," he said. "and you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient." the four older girls were at the table when connie arrived. she exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "she has reconciled herself," she thought. dinner was half over before constance burst her bomb. she had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep! "are you going to be busy this afternoon, prudence?" she asked quietly. "we are going to sew a little," said prudence. "why?" "i wanted you to go down-town with me after school." "well, perhaps i can do that. fairy will be able to finish the coat alone." "you needn't finish the coat!--i can't wear father's coat to church, prudence. it's a--it's a--physical impossibility." the twins laughed. fairy smiled, but prudence gazed at "the baby" with tender pity. "i'm so sorry, dearest, but we haven't the money to buy one now." "will five dollars be enough?" inquired connie, and she placed her crisp new bill beside her plate. the twins gasped! they gazed at connie with new respect. they were just wishing they could handle five-dollar bills so recklessly. "will you loan me twenty dollars until after christmas, connie?" queried fairy. but prudence asked, "where did you get this money, connie?" "i borrowed it,--from the bank," connie replied with proper gravity. "i have two years to pay it back. mr. harold says they are proud to have my trade." prudence was silent for several long seconds. then she inquired in a low voice, "did you tell him why you wanted it?" "yes, i explained the whole situation." "what did he say?" "he said he knew just how i felt, because he knew he couldn't go to church in his wife's coat.--no, i said that myself, but he agreed with me. he did not say very much, but he looked sympathetic. he said he anticipated great pleasure in seeing me in my new coat at church next sunday." "go on with your luncheon, twins," said prudence sternly. "you'll be late to school.--we'll see about going down-town when you get home to-night, connie. now, eat your luncheon, and don't talk about coats any more." when connie had gone back to school, prudence went straight to mr. harold's bank. flushed and embarrassed, she explained the situation frankly. "my sympathies are all with connie," she said candidly. "but i am afraid father would not like it. we are dead set against borrowing. after--our mother was taken, we were crowded pretty close for money. so we had to go in debt. it took us two years to get it paid. father and fairy and i talked it over then, and decided we would starve rather than borrow again. even the twins understood it, but connie was too little. she doesn't know how heartbreaking it is to keep handing over every cent for debt, when one is just yearning for other things.--i do wish she might have the coat, but i'm afraid father would not like it. she gave me the five dollars for safekeeping, and i have brought it back." mr. harold shook his head. "no, connie must have her coat. this will be a good lesson for her. it will teach her the bitterness of living under debt! besides, prudence, i think in my heart that she is right this time. this is a case where borrowing is justified. get her the coat, and i'll square the account with your father." then he added, "and i'll look after this salary business myself after this. i'll arrange with the trustees that i am to pay your father his full salary the first of every month, and that the church receipts are to be turned in to me. and if they do not pay up, my lawyer can do a little investigating! little connie earned that five dollars, for she taught one trustee a sorry lesson. and he will have to pass it on to the others in self-defense! now, run along and get the coat, and if five dollars isn't enough you can have as much more as you need. your father will get his salary after this, my dear, if we have to mortgage the parsonage!" chapter x a burglar's visit "prue!" a small hand gripped prudence's shoulder, and again came a hoarsely whispered: "prue!" prudence sat up in bed with a bounce. "what in the world?" she began, gazing out into the room, half-lighted by the moonshine, and seeing carol and lark shivering beside her bed. "sh! sh! hush!" whispered lark. "there's a burglar in our room!" by this time, even sound-sleeping fairy was awake. "oh, there is!" she scoffed. "yes, there is," declared carol with some heat. "we heard him, plain as day. he stepped into the closet, didn't he, lark?" "he certainly did," agreed lark. "did you see him?" "no, we heard him. carol heard him first, and she spoke, and nudged me. then i heard him, too. he was at our dresser, but he shot across the room and into the closet. he closed the door after him. he's there now." "you've been dreaming," said fairy, lying down again. "we don't generally dream the same thing at the same minute," said carol stormily. "i tell you he's in there." "and you two great big girls came off and left poor little connie in there alone with a burglar, did you? well, you are nice ones, i must say." and prudence leaped out of bed and started for the door, followed by fairy, with the twins creeping fearfully along in the rear. "she was asleep," muttered carol. "we didn't want to scare her," added lark. prudence was careful to turn the switch by the door, so that the room was in full light before she entered. the closet door was wide open. connie was soundly sleeping. there was no one else in the room. "you see?" said prudence sternly. "i'll bet he took our ruby rings," declared lark, and the twins and fairy ran to the dresser to look. but a sickening realization had come home to prudence. in the lower hall, under the staircase, was a small dark closet which they called the dungeon. the dungeon door was big and solid, and was equipped with a heavy catch-lock. in this dungeon, prudence kept the family silverware, and all the money she had on hand, as it could there be safely locked away. but more often than not, prudence forgot to lock it. mr. starr had gone to burlington that morning to attend special revival services for three days, and prudence had fifty whole dollars in the house, an unwonted sum in that parsonage! and the dungeon was not locked. without a word, she slipped softly out of the room, ran down the stairs, making never a sound in her bare feet, and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that the dungeon door was open. quickly she flung it shut, pushed the tiny key that moved the "catch," and was rushing up the stairs again with never a pause for breath. a strange sight met her eyes in the twins' room. the twins themselves were in each other's arms, sobbing bitterly. fairy was still looking hurriedly through the dresser drawers. "they are gone," wailed carol, "our beautiful ruby rings that belonged to grandmother." "nonsense," cried prue with nervous anger, "you've left them in the bathroom, or on the kitchen shelves. you're always leaving them somewhere over the place. come on, and we'll search the house just to convince you." "no, no," shrieked the twins. "let's lock the door and get under the bed." the rings were really valuable. their grandmother, their mother's mother, whom they had never seen, had divided her "real jewelry" between her two daughters. and the mother of these parsonage girls, had further divided her portion to make it reach through her own family of girls! prudence had a small but beautiful chain of tiny pearls. fairy's share consisted of a handsome brooch, with a "sure-enough diamond" in the center! the twin rubies of another brooch had been reset in rings for carol and lark, and were the priceless treasures of their lives! and in the dungeon was a solid gold bracelet, waiting until connie's arm should be sufficiently developed to do it justice. "our rings! our rings!" the twins were wailing, and connie, awakened by the noise, was crying beneath the covers of her bed. "maybe we'd better phone for mr. allan," suggested fairy. "the girls are so nervous they will be hysterical by the time we finish searching the house." "well, let's do the up-stairs then," said prudence. "get your slippers and kimonos, and we'll go into daddy's room." but inside the door of daddy's room, with the younger girls clinging to her, and fairy looking odd and disturbed, prudence stopped abruptly and stared about the room curiously. "fairy, didn't father leave his watch hanging on that nail by the table? seems to me i saw it there this morning. i remember thinking i would tease him for being forgetful." and the watch was not there. "i think it was sunday he left it," answered fairy in a low voice. "i remember seeing it on the nail, and thinking he would need it,--but i believe it was sunday." prudence looked under the bed, and in the closet, but their father's room was empty. should they go farther? for a moment, the girls stood looking at one another questioningly. then--they heard a loud thud down-stairs, as of some one pounding on a door. there was no longer any doubt. some one was in the house! connie and the twins screamed again and clung to prudence frantically. and fairy said, "i think we'd better lock the door and stay right here until morning, prue." but prudence faced them stubbornly. "if you think i'm going to let any one steal that fifty dollars, you are mistaken. fifty dollars does not come often enough for that, i can tell you." "it's probably stolen already," objected fairy. "well, if it is, we'll find out who did it, and have them arrested. i'm going down to telephone to the police. you girls must lock the door after me, and stay right here." the little ones screamed again, and fairy said: "don't be silly, prue, if you go i'm going with you, of course. we'll leave the kiddies here and they can lock the door. they'll be perfectly safe in here." but the children loudly objected to this. if prue and fairy went, they would go! so down the stairs they trooped, a timorous trembling crowd. prudence went at once to the telephone, and called up the residence of the allans, their neighbors across the street. after a seemingly never-ending wait, the kind-hearted neighbor left his bed to answer the insistent telephone. falteringly prudence explained their predicament, and asked him to come and search the house. he promised to be there in five minutes, with his son to help. "now," said prudence more cheerfully, "we'll just go out to the kitchen and wait. it's quiet there, and away from the rest of the house, and we'll be perfectly safe." to the kitchen, then, they hurried, and found real comfort in its smallness and secureness. prudence raked up the dying embers of the fire, and fairy drew the blinds to their lowest limits. the twins and connie trailed them fearfully at every step. when the fire was burning brightly, prudence spoke with great assurance. "i'll just run in to the dungeon and see for sure if the money is there. i do not honestly believe there is a soul in the house, but i can't rest until i know that money is safe." "you'll do nothing of the sort," said fairy, "you'll stay right here and wait with us. i do not believe there's any one in the house, either, but if there is, you shan't run into him by yourself. you stay right where you are, and don't be silly. mr. allan will do the investigating." every breath of wind against the windows drew startled cries from the younger girls, and both fairy and prudence were white with anxiety when they heard the loud voices of the allans outside the kitchen door. prudence began crying nervously the moment the two angels of mercy appeared before her, and fairy told their tale of woe. "well, there now," mr. allan said with rough sympathy, "you just got scared, that's all. everything's suspicious when folks get scared. i told my wife the other day i bet you girls would get a good fright some time left here alone. come on, jim, and we'll go over the house in a jiffy." he was standing near the dining-room door. he lifted his head suddenly, and seemed to sniff a little. there was undoubtedly a faint odor of tobacco in the house. "been any men in here to-night?" he asked. "or this afternoon? think, now!" "no one," answered prudence. "i was alone all afternoon, and there has been no one in this evening." he passed slowly through the dining-room into the hall, closely followed by his son and the five girls, already much reassured. as he passed the dungeon door he paused for a moment, listening intently, his head bent. "oh, mr. allan," cried prudence, "let's look in the dungeon first. i want to see if the money is safe." her hand was already on the lock, but he shoved her away quickly. "is there any way out of that closet besides this door?" he asked. "no. we call it the dungeon," laughed prudence, her self-possession quite recovered. "it is right under the stairs, and not even a mouse could gnaw its way out, with this door shut." "who shut that door?" he inquired, still holding prudence's hand from the lock. then without waiting for an answer, he went on, "let's go back in the other room a minute. come on, all of you." in the living-room, he hurried to the telephone, and spoke to the operator in a low voice. "call the police headquarters, and have them send two or three men to the methodist parsonage, right away. we've got a burglar locked in a closet, and they'll have to get him out. please hurry." at this, the girls crowded around him again in renewed fear. "don't be scared," he said calmly, "we're all right. he's in there safe enough and can't get out for a while. now, tell me about it. how did you get him in the closet? begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it." carol began the story with keen relish. "i woke up, and thought i heard some one in the room. i supposed it was prudence. i said, 'prudence,' and nobody answered, and everything was quiet.' but i felt there was some one in there. i nudged lark, and she woke up. he moved then, and we both heard him. he was fumbling at the dresser, and our ruby rings are gone. we heard him step across the room and into the closet. he closed the door after him, didn't he, lark?" "yes, he did," agreed lark. "his hand was on the knob." "so we sneaked out of bed, and went into prudence's room and woke her and fairy." she looked at connie, and blushed. "connie was asleep, and we didn't waken her because we didn't want to frighten her. we woke the girls,--and you tell the rest, prudence." "we didn't believe her, of course. we went back into their room and there was no one there. but the rings were gone. while they were looking at the dresser, i remembered that i forgot to lock the dungeon door, where we keep the money and the silverware, and i ran down-stairs and slammed the door and locked it, and went back up. i didn't hear a sound down-stairs." mr. allan laughed heartily. "well, your burglar was in that closet after the money, no doubt, and he didn't hear you coming, and got locked in. did you make any noise coming down the stairs?" "no. i was in my bare feet, and i tried to be quiet because if there was any one in the house, i did not want him coming at me in the dark. i ran back up-stairs, and we looked in father's room. i thought father had forgotten to take his watch with him, but it wasn't there.--do you really think it was sunday he forgot it, fairy?" "no," said fairy, "it was there this afternoon. the burglar's got it in the dungeon with him, of course.--i just said it was sunday to keep from scaring the twins." in a few minutes, they heard footsteps around the house and knew the officers had arrived. mr. allan let them into the house, four of them, and led them out to the hall. there could be no doubt whatever that the burglar was in the dungeon. he had been busy with his knife, and the lock was nearly removed. if the officers had been two minutes later, the dungeon would have been empty. the girls were sent up-stairs at once, with the allan boy as guard,--as guard, without regard for the fact that he was probably more frightened than any one of them. the chief officer rapped briskly on the dungeon door. then he clicked his revolver. "there are enough of us to overpower three of you," he said curtly. "and we have men outside the house, too. if you make any disturbance, we shall all fire the instant the door is opened. if you put your firearms on the floor, and hold both hands over your head, you'll be well treated. if your hands are not up, we fire on sight. get your revolvers ready, boys." then the officer opened the door. evidently the burglar was wise enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. perhaps he did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery. certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. at any rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was securely manacled. the chief officer had been eying him closely. "say!" he exclaimed. "aren't you limber-limb grant?" the burglar grinned, but did not answer. "by jove!" shouted the officer. "it is! call the girls down here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with considerable excitement. "it's limber-limb grant," he explained. "there's a reward of five hundred dollars for him. you'll get the money, as sure as you're born." then he turned again to the burglar. "say, grant, what's a fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? a methodist parsonage is not just in your line, is it?" limber-limb laughed sheepishly. "well," he explained good-naturedly, "chicago got too hot for me. i had to get out in a hurry, and i couldn't get my hands on any money. i had a fine lot of jewels, but i was so pushed i couldn't use them. i came here and loafed around town for a while, because folks said mount mark was so fast asleep it did not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. i heard about this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more religion. this afternoon at the station i saw a detective from chicago get off the train, and i knew what that meant. but i needed some cash, and so i wasn't above a little job on the side. i never dreamed of getting done up by a bunch of preacher's kids. i went upstairs to get those family jewels i've heard about, and one of the little ones gave the alarm. i already had some of them, so i came down at once. i stopped in the dungeon to get that money, and first thing i knew the door banged shut. that's all. you're welcome to the five hundred dollars, ladies. some one was bound to get it sooner or later, and i'm partial to the ladies, every time." limber-limb grant was a modern thief of the new class. at that moment, in chicago, he had in storage, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, which he could not dispose of on the pressure of the moment. the law was crowding him close, and he was obliged to choose between meeting the law, or running away from it. he ran. he reached mount mark, and trusted to its drowsiness for concealment for a few weeks. but that afternoon the arrival of a detective gave him warning, and he planned his departure promptly. a parsonage occupied by only five girls held no terrors for him, and with fifty dollars and a few fairly good jewels, a man of his talent could accomplish wonders. but mount mark had aroused from its lethargy. limber-limb grant was in the hands of the law. mr. starr had been greatly interested in the accounts of the evangelistic services being held in burlington. the workers were meeting with marked success, and mr. starr felt he should get in touch with them. so on thursday morning he took the early east-bound train to burlington. there he sought out a conveniently located second-class hotel, and took up residence. he attended the services at the tabernacle in the afternoon and evening, and then went to bed at the hotel. he slept late the next morning. when he finally appeared, he noticed casually, without giving it thought, that the clerk behind the desk looked at him with marked interest. mr. starr nodded cheerfully, and the clerk came at once from behind the desk to speak to him. two or three other guests, who had been lounging about, drew near. "we've just been reading about your girls, sir," said the clerk respectfully. "it's a pretty nervy little bunch! you must be proud of them!" "my girls!" ejaculated mr. starr. "haven't you seen the morning paper? you're mr. starr, the methodist minister at mount mark, aren't you?" "i am! but what has happened to my girls? is anything wrong? give me the paper!" mr. starr was greatly agitated. he showed it. but the clerk could not lose this opportunity to create a sensation. it was a chance of a life-time. "why, a burglar got in the parsonage last night," he began, almost licking his lips with satisfaction. "the twins heard him at their dresser, and when he stepped into the closet they locked him in there, and yelled for the rest of the family. but he broke away from them, and went, down-stairs and climbed down into the dungeon to get the money. then prudence, she ran down-stairs alone in the dark, and locked him in the dungeon,--pushed him down-stairs or something like that, i believe,--and then telephoned for the police. and she stayed on guard outside the dungeon until the police got there, so he couldn't get away. and the police got him, and found it was limber-limb grant, a famous gentleman thief, and your girls are going to get five hundred dollars reward for catching him." five minutes later, mr. starr and his suit-case were in a taxicab speeding toward union station, and within eight minutes he was en route for mount mark,--white in the face, shaky in the knees, but tremendously proud in spirit. arriving at mount mark, he was instantly surrounded by an exclamatory crowd of station loungers. "ride, sir? glad to take you home for nothing," urged harvey reel. mount mark was enjoying more notoriety than ever before in the two hundred years of its existence. the name of prudence was upon every tongue, and her father heard it with satisfaction. in the parsonage he found at least two-thirds of the ladies' aid society, the trustees and the sunday-school superintendent, along with a miscellaneous assortment of ordinary members, mixed up with presbyterians, baptists and a few unclassified outsiders. and prudence was the center of attraction. she was telling the "whole story," for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, but she broke off when her father hurried in and flung her arms about him. "oh, papa," she cried, "they mustn't praise me. i had no idea there was a burglar in the house when i ran down the stairs, and if i hadn't been careless and left the dungeon unlocked the money would have been in no danger, and if the twins hadn't wakened me i wouldn't have known there was a burglar about the place, and if fairy hadn't kept me from rushing out to the dungeon to see if the money was safe, he would have got away, and--it took the policemen to get him out. oh, i know that is not very grammatical, father, but it's just as true as if it were! and i honestly can't see that much credit is due me." but mount mark did not take it so calmly. and as for the methodist church,--well, the presbyterian people used to say there was "no living with those methodists, since the girls caught a burglar in the parsonage." of course, it was important, from the methodist point of view. pictures of the parsonage and the church were in all the papers for miles around, and at their very next meeting the trustees decided to get the piano the sunday-school had been needing for the last hundred years! when the five hundred dollars arrived from chicago, prudence felt that personally she had no real right to the money. "we must divide it," she insisted, "for i didn't earn it a bit more than any of the others. but it is perfectly glorious to have five hundred dollars, isn't it? did you ever have five hundred dollars before? just take it, father, and use it for whatever we need. it's family money." but he would not hear of this. "no," he said, "put it in the bank, prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. then you will have it." "let's divide it then,--a hundred for each of us," she urged. neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. but when prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it. "i will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much." so it was settled, and prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank. "we can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "it's such a comfort to know it's there! i feel just like a millionaire, i am sure. do you think it would be all right to send limber-limb grant a letter of thanks for it? we were horribly scared, but--well, i for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!" chapter xi romance comes sometimes, methodists, or presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! however slight the cause,--still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. a girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,--an irritating incident. but as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. and that stranger,--ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid. even so with prudence, good methodist daughter that she was. we ask her, "what if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" and prudence, laughing, answers, "oh, but i had to go, you see." "well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, i suppose." "oh, no," declares prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way." after all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. in this cottage lived a girl named mattie moore,--a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. mattie moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle. years before, when prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. but as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a parsonage damsel. one evening, early in june, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as mattie moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with prudence. they talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for mattie and the younger parsonage girls. then said prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling providence, "isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle? i love it. sometime will you let me ride your wheel?" "why, certainly. you may ride now if you like." "no," said prudence slowly, "i am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. some of the members might see me, and--well, i am very grown up, you know.--of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. you ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. i want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? it is saturday, and you won't be going to school." "yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "you may stay out as long as you like. i'm going to sew to-morrow. you make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. i always sleep late on saturdays." so prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. she hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. but after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to fairy. "i'm going at six o'clock, and i'll be back in time to get breakfast. but as you know, fairy, my plans do not always work out as i intend, so if i am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?" fairy promised. and early the next morning, prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. it was a magnificent morning, and prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. the country was simply irresistible. it was almost intoxicating. and prudence rode farther than she had intended. east and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. she knew it was growing late, "but fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably. finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves. dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her. no one was in sight. the nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep. prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. this was not the new and modern model of bicycle. the pedals on mattie moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not. it seemed safe. the road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. what more could one desire. the only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill. prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. she never laughed again in exactly that way. this was the last appearance of the old irresponsible prudence. the curtain was just ready to drop. "here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position. the pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way. but as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. the placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. she did not linger there, however. she bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. the bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing. prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. she heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. the next instant, a man was leaning over her. "it's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak. "are you hurt?" he cried. "you poor child!" prudence smiled pluckily. "my ankle is hurt a little, but i am not a child." the young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and prudence joined him rather faintly. "i'm afraid i can not walk," she said. "i believe i've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all i know. it--hurts--pretty badly!" "lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. may i examine your foot?" she shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake. "i believe it is sprained. i am sure the bone is not broken. but how in the world will you get home? how far is it to mount mark? is that where you live?" "yes," considering, "yes, i live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. what shall i do?" in answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the grass. then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. then he turned again to prudence. "i'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as i can. then i'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home." prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "i think i can walk if you lift me up." but the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "it hurts," she cried, "don't touch me." without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it. "yes," nodded prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat. "i'll run. do you know which way is nearest to a house? it's been a long time since i passed one coming this way." "the way i came is the nearest, but it's two miles, i think." "i'll go as fast as i can, and you will be all right this confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, i suppose. now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. i'm going to run." off he started, but prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened. "please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel. "i'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "i do not wish to be left alone here. a snake might come, or a tramp." he sat down beside her. "you're nervous. i'll stay with you until you feel better. some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. a man i passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove and i would save a mile of travel. that's how i happened to come through the woods, and find you." he smiled a little, and prudence, remembering the nature of her accident, flushed. then, being prudence, she laughed. "it was my own fault. i had no business to go coasting down like that. but the mule was so stationary. it never occurred to me that he contemplated moving for the next century at least. he was a bitter disappointment." she looked down the roadside where the mule was contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward his victim. "i'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up." "oh,--whatever will mattie moore say to me? it's borrowed. oh, i see now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during decent hours. what a dunce i was,--as usual." he looked at her curiously. this was beyond his comprehension. "the bicycle belongs to mattie moore. she lives across the street from the parsonage, and i wanted to ride. she said i could. but i was ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so i got up at six o'clock this morning to do it on the sly. somehow i never can remember that it is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. it doesn't seem so bad, does it? but of course it is. but i never think of that when i need to be thinking of it. maybe i'll remember after this." she was silent a while. "fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always gets father's eggs too hard." silence again. "maybe papa'll worry. but then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so they'll be prepared." she turned gravely to the young man beside her. he was looking down at her, too. and as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark color rose in his face. prudence felt a curious breathlessness,--caused by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly. "my name is prudence starr,--i am the methodist minister's oldest daughter." "and my name is jerrold harmer." he was looking away into the hickory grove now. "my home is in des moines." "oh, des moines is quite a city, isn't it? i've heard quite a lot about it. it isn't so large as chicago, though, of course. i know a man who lives in chicago. we used to be great chums, and he told me all about the city. some day i must really go there,--when the methodists get rich enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." then she added thoughtfully, "still, i couldn't go even if i had the money, because i couldn't leave the parsonage. so it's just as well about the money, after all. but chicago must be very nice. he told me about the white city, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty restaurants and hotels. i love pretty places to eat. you might tell me about des moines. is it very nice? are there lots of rich people there?--of course, i do not really care any more about the rich people than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of rich citizens, i think. don't you?" so he told her about des moines, and prudence lay with her eyes half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his voice than in most voices. her ankle did not hurt very badly. she did not mind it at all. in fact, she never gave it a thought. from beneath her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on jerrold harmer's long brown hands, clasped loosely about his knees. and whenever she could, she looked up into his face. and always there was that curious catching in her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too long was dangerous. "i have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself, and the parsonage, and your family. and who is fairy? and do you attend the college at mount mark? you look like a college girl." "oh, i am not," said prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the first time in her life. "i am too stupid to be a college girl. our mother is not living, and i left high school five years ago and have been keeping house for my father and sisters since then. i am twenty years old. how old are you?" "i am twenty-seven," and he smiled. "jerrold harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "it is such a nice name. do your friends call you jerry?" "the boys at school called me roldie, and sometimes hammie. but my mother always called me jerry. she isn't living now, either. you call me jerry, will you?" "yes, i will, but it won't be proper. but that never makes any difference to me,--except when it might shock the members! you want me to call you jerry, don't you?" "yes, i do. and when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you prudence?" "call me that now.--i can't be too particular, you see, when i am lying on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. you might get cross, and take them away from me.--did you go to college?" "yes, to harvard, but i was not much of a student. then i knocked around a while, looking at the world, and two years ago i went home to des moines. i have been there ever since except for little runs once in a while." prudence sighed. "to harvard!--i am sorry now that i did not go to college myself." "why? there doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. what do you care about college?" "well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "my sister fairy is going now. she's very clever,--oh, very. you'll like her, i am sure,--much better than you do me, of course." prudence was strangely downcast. "i am sure i won't," said jerrold harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "i don't care a thing for college girls. i know a lot of them, and--aw, they make a fellow tired. i like home girls,--the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that." jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face. they were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging. "your eyes are brown, aren't they?" prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery. "yes. yours are blue. i noticed that, first thing." "did you? do you like blue eyes? they aren't as--well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes. fairy's are brown." "i like blue eyes best. they are so much brighter and deeper. you can't see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,--you have to keep looking." and he did keep looking. "did you play football at college? you are so tall. fairy's tall, too. fairy's very grand-looking. i've tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but--i am a fizzle." "yes, i played football.--but girls do not need to be so tall as men. don't you remember what orlando said about rosalind,--'just as tall as my heart'? i imagine you come about to my shoulder. we'll measure as soon as you are on your feet again." "are you going to live in mount mark now? are you coming to stay?" prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. it was of vital importance. "no, i will only be there a few days, but i shall probably be back every week or so. is your father very strict? maybe he would object to your writing to me." "oh, he isn't strict at all. and he will be glad for me to write to you, i know. i write to two or three men when they are away. but they are--oh, i do not know exactly what it is, but i do not really like to write to them. i believe i'll quit. it's such a bother." "yes, it is, that's so. i think i would quit, if i were you. i was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls i used to know. don't care two cents about 'em. i'm going to cut it out as soon as i get home. but you will write to me, won't you?" "yes, of course." prudence laughed shyly. "it seems so--well, nice,--to think of getting letters from you." "i'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in mount mark, aren't there?" "why, no. i can't think of any real nice ones! oh, they are all right. i have lots of friends here, but they are--i do not know what! they do not seem very nice. i wouldn't care if i never saw them again. but they are good to me." "yes, i can grasp that," he said with feeling. "is des moines just full of beautiful girls?" "i should say not. i never saw a real beautiful girl in des moines in my life. or any place else, for that matter,--until i came--you know when you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look--just the way you want them to look." prudence nodded. "that's the way with men, too. of all the men i have seen in my life, i never saw one before that looked just the way i wanted him to." "before?" he questioned eagerly. "yes," said prudence frankly. "you look just as i wish you to." and in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, fairy was patiently getting breakfast. "prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,--so the members wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "and she isn't back yet. she'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by the grocery store where the ladies have their saturday sale. that's prudence, all over. oh, father, i did forget your eggs again, i am afraid they are too hard. here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we will eat. no use to wait for prudence,--it would be like waiting for the next comet." indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove into the parsonage yard. mr. starr was in his study with a book, but he heard a piercing shriek from connie, and a shrill "prudence!" from one of the twins. he was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to the little rickety wagon. and there was prudence! "don't be frightened, father. i've just sprained my ankle, and it doesn't hurt hardly any. but the bicycle is broken,--we'll have to pay for it. you can use my own money in the bank. poor mr. davis had to walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the wagon with me lying down like this. will you carry me in?" connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and prudence deposited upon it. "there's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured them. "i won't stay there. i want to be down here where i can boss the girls." the doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. then they had dinner,--they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded! after that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single bed in the cheery sitting-room. "whose coat is this, prudence?" asked connie. "and where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added fairy. prudence blushed most exquisitely. "they are mr. harmer's," she said, and glanced nervously at her father. "whose?" chorused the family. and it was plain to be seen that lark was ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories. "if you will sit down and keep still, i will tell you all about it. but you must not interrupt me. what time is it, fairy?" "two o'clock." "oh, two. then i have plenty of time. well, when i got to that little cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, i thought i would coast down the long hill. do you remember that hill, father? there was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old mule, grazing at the bottom. it was irresistible, absolutely irresistible. so i coasted. but you know yourself, father, there is no trusting a mule. they are the most undependable animals." prudence looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly, "still, i have no hard feelings against the mule. in fact, i kind of like him.--well, anyway, just as i got to the critical place in the hill, that mule skipped right out in front of me. it looked as though he did it on purpose. i did not have time to get out of his way, and it never occurred to him to get out of mine, and so i went bang! right into him. and it broke mattie moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. but that mule never budged! jerry--er harmer,--mr. harmer, you know,--said he believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without seriously inconveniencing him. i was hurt a little, and couldn't get up. and so he jumped over the fence,--no, connie, not the mule, of course! mr. harmer! he jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground, and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and carried me over. then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but i was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. then mr. davis came along with his cart, and jerry--er--harmer, you know, helped put me in, and the cart was so small they both had to walk." "where is he now?" "is he young?" "is he handsome?" "did he look rich?" "don't be silly, girls. he went to the hotel, i suppose. anyhow, he left us as soon as we reached town. he said he was in a hurry, and had something to look after. his coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves." already, in the eyes of the girls, this jerry--er--harmer, had taken unto himself all the interest of the affair. "he'll have to come for his coat," said lark. "we're bound to see him." "where does he live? what was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired mr. starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with new and wonderful radiance. "he lives in des moines. he was just walking into town, and took a short cut through the grove." "walking! from des moines?" prudence flushed uncomfortably. "i didn't think of that," she said. "but i do not see why he should not walk if he likes. he's strong and athletic, and fond of exercise. i guess he's plenty able to walk if he wants to. i'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are thinking." "i am not thinking anything of the kind, prudence," he said with dignity. "but i do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk from des moines to mount mark. and why should he be at it so early in the morning? doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?" "how should i know? i guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it is fresh and sweet, it is all right. i like the morning myself. he had as much right out early as i had. his clothes were nice, and he is a harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn. anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. if you want to ask if he is a tramp, you can do it." and prudence burst into tears. dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! then fairy began bustling about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little prudence," and her father said sympathetically: "you're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement, prudence. i'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness. it was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? a harvard graduate! yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at harvard. you'd better straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets here," said father starr, with great diplomacy. and he was rewarded, and startled, by observing that prudence brightened wonderfully at his words. "yes, do," she urged eagerly. "get some of the roses from the corner bush, and put them on the table there. and when you go up-stairs, fairy, you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of our dresser. it'll look very nice on this bed.--work hard, girls, and get everything looking fine. he'll be here at four, he said. you twins may wear your white dresses, and connie must put on her blue and wear her blue bows.--fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear your silk dress? of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you do look so beautiful in it. father, will you put on your black suit, or are you too busy? and don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons aunt grace sent you." he went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. but to the girls, there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of prudence. jerrold harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him honor. he was probably a prince in disguise. jerrold harmer was a perfectly thrilling name. it was really a shame that america allows no titles,--lord jerrold did sound so noble, and lady prudence was very effective, too. he and prudence were married, and had a family of four children, named for the various starrs, before one hour had passed. "i'll begin my book right away," lark was saying. she and carol were in the dining-room madly polishing their sunday shoes,--what time they were not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and the hero. "yes, do! but for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! seems to me even prudence could have done better than that." "i'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and prudence can run into it. the carbureter came off, and of course the car wouldn't run an inch without it." "yes, that's good," said carol approvingly. "it must be a sixty cylinder, eight horsepower--er--ford, or something real big and costly." "twins! you won't be ready," warned prudence, and this dire possibility sent them flying upstairs in a panic. while the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the great event, mr. starr went down-stairs to sit with prudence. carol called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up at her. "lark and i are going to use some of fairy's powder, father," she said. "we feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. and for goodness' sake, don't mention it before him! it doesn't happen very often, you know, but to-day we simply must. now, don't you say anything about falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever else you do. we'd be so mortified, father." mr. starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the worldly-minded young twins. "father," began prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? i need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly. you know, mother said i was to have it, and--i'm twenty now. do you think it would be all right? but if you do not want me to wear it----" "i do want you to," was the prompt reply. "yes, it is quite time you were wearing it. i'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send fairy down to help you." then as he turned toward the door, he asked carelessly, "is he very good-looking, prudence?" and prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "oh, i really didn't notice, father." he went on up-stairs then, and presently fairy came down with the dainty silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "i brought my lavender ribbon for your hair, prudence. it will match the gown so nicely. oh, you do look sweet, dearest. i pity jerrold harmer, i can tell you that. now i must hurry and finish my own dressing." but with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. her sister was calling after her. "send father down here, quick, fairy." father ran down quickly, and prudence, catching hold of his hands, whispered wretchedly, "oh, father, he--he is good-looking. i--i did notice it. i didn't really mean to lie to you." "there, now, prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get excited again. i'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. you must lie very quietly until he comes. that was no lie, child. you are so upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. be quiet now, prudence,--it's nearly time for him to come." "you are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately, "but it was a lie. i did know what i was saying. i did it on purpose." and mr. starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized. chapter xii roused from her slumber at twenty minutes to four, the parsonage family clustered excitedly in the sitting-room, which the sunshine flooded cheerily. they were waiting for the hero of prudence's romance. "oh, larkie, will you run up-stairs and bring my lace handkerchief? it's on our dresser, in the burnt-wood box." and after lark had departed, she went on, "the flowers are not quite in the center of the table, fairy,--a little to the right.--if you would move the curtains the least little bit, those torn places would not show." then she sighed. "how nice you all look. oh, connie, won't you turn the clock a little this way, so i can see it? that's better, thank you, precious. thank you, lark,--isn't it a pretty handkerchief? i've only carried it three times, and i have never really used it. would you keep these pearls on, fairy, or would you take them off?" "i would keep them on, prue,--they catch the color of the gown a little, and are just beautiful. you do look so sweet, but your face is very flushed. i am afraid you are feverish. maybe we had better not let him see prue to-day, father. perhaps he can come back to-morrow." "fairy!" exclaimed prudence. "besides, he must come in to get his coat. we can't expect him to go coatless over sunday. listen,--listen, girls! look, fairy, and see if that is he! yes, it is, i know,--i can tell by his walk." warm rich color dyed her face and throat, and she clasped her hands over her heart, wondering if connie beside her could hear its tumult. "i'll go to the door," said father starr, and prudence looked at him beseechingly. "i--i am sure he is all right, father. i--you will be nice to him, won't you?" without answering, mr. starr left the room. he could not trust his voice. "listen, girls, i want to hear," whispered prudence. and she smiled as she heard her father's cordial voice. "you are mr. harmer, aren't you? i am prudence's father. come right in. the whole family is assembled to do you honor. the girls have already made you a prince in disguise. come back this way. prudence is resting very nicely." when the two men stepped into the sitting-room, prudence, for once, quite overlooked her father. she lifted her eyes to jerrold harmer's face, and waited, breathless. nor was he long in finding her among the bevy of girls. he walked at once to the bed, and took her hand. "my little comrade of the road," he said gaily, but with tenderness, "i am afraid you are not feeling well enough for callers to-day." "oh, yes, i am," protested prudence with strange shyness. he turned to the other girls, and greeted them easily. he was entirely self-possessed. "miss starr told me so much about you that i know you all to begin with." he smiled at fairy as he added, "in fact, she predicted that i am to fall in love with you. and so, very likely, i should,--if i hadn't met your sister first." they all laughed at that, and then he walked back and stood by prudence once more. "was it a bad sprain? does it pain you very badly? you look tired. i am afraid it was an imposition for me to come this afternoon." [illustration: "she predicted i'm to fall in love with you."] "oh, don't worry about that," put in connie anxiously. "she wanted you to come. she's been getting us ready for you ever since the doctor left. i think it was kind of silly for me to wear my blue just for one caller." the twins glared at her, realizing that she was discrediting the parsonage, but jerrold harmer laughed, and prudence joined him. "it is quite true," she admitted frankly. "the mule and i disgraced the parsonage this morning, and i wanted the rest of you to redeem it this afternoon." she looked at him inquiringly. "then you had another coat?" "no, i didn't. i saw this one in a window this morning, and couldn't resist it. was the ride very hard on your ankle?" mr. starr was puzzled. evidently it was not lack of funds which brought this man on foot from des moines to mount mark,--half-way across the state! he did not look like a man fleeing from justice. what, then, was the explanation? "you must have found it rather a long walk," he began tentatively, his eyes on the young man's face. "yes, i think my feet are a little blistered. i have walked farther than that many times, but i am out of practise now. sometimes, however, walking is a painful necessity." "how long did it take you coming from des moines to mount mark?" inquired carol in a subdued and respectful voice,--and curious, withal. "i did not come directly to mount mark. i stopped several places on business. i hardly know how long it would take coming straight, through. it would depend on one's luck, i suppose." "well," said lark, "taking it a little at a time it might be done, but for myself, i should never dream of undertaking so much exercise." "could you walk from here to burlington at one stretch?" asked connie. he looked rather surprised. "why, perhaps i could if i was in shape, but--seven miles was all i cared about this morning." "well, i think it was mighty brave of you to walk that far,--i don't care why you did it," announced connie with emphasis. "brave!" he repeated. "i have walked three times seven miles, often, when i was in school." "oh, i mean the whole thing--clear from des moines," explained connie. "from des moines," he gasped. "good heavens! i did not walk from des moines! did you--" he turned to prudence questioningly. "did you think i walked clear from des moines?" "yes." and added hastily, "but i did not care if you did. it did not make any difference how you came." for a moment he was puzzled. then he burst out laughing. "i am afraid we had too much to talk about this morning. i thought i had explained my situation, but evidently i did not. i drove from des moines in the car, and----" "the automobile!" gasped carol, with a triumphant look at lark. "yes, just so. i stopped several places on business as i came through. i drove from burlington this morning, but i got off the road. the car broke down on me, and i couldn't fix it,--broke an axle. so i had to walk in. that is what i was seeing about to-day,--sending a man out for the car and arranging about the repairs." he smiled again. "what in the world did you think i would walk from des moines for?" he asked prudence, more inquisitive than grammatical. "i did not think anything about it until they asked, and--i did not know about the car. you did not mention it." "no. i remember now. we were talking of other things all the time." he turned frankly to mr. starr. "perhaps you have heard of the harmer automobile company, of des moines. my father was harvey harmer. two years ago, when i was running around in europe, he died. it was his desire that i should personally take charge of the business. so i hurried home, and have had charge of the company since then. we are establishing sales agencies here, and in burlington, and several other towns. i came out for a little trip, and took advantage of the opportunity to discuss the business with our new men. that's what brought me to mount mark." to connie he added laughingly, "so i must sacrifice myself, and do without your praise. i did not walk until the car broke down and compelled me to do so." for the first time in her life, prudence distinctly triumphed over her father. she flashed him the glance of a conqueror, and he nodded, understandingly. he liked jerrold harmer,--as much as he could like any man who stepped seriously into the life of prudence. he was glad that things were well. but--they would excuse him, he must look after his sunday's sermons. a little later the twins and connie grew restless, and finally connie blurted out, "say, prue, don't you think we've upheld the parsonage long enough? i want to get some fresh air." the twins would never have been guilty of such social indiscretion as this, but they gladly availed themselves of connie's "break," and followed her out-of-doors. then fairy got up, laughing. "i have done my share, too. i think we'll leave the parsonage in your hands now, prue. i want to write to aunt grace. i'll be just at the head of the stairs, and if prudence wants me, you will call, won't you, mr. harmer? and won't you stay for dinner with us? i'm sure to disgrace the parsonage again, for i am no cook, but you can get along for once, surely. we spend more time laughing when the food is bad, and laughter is very healthful. you will stay, won't you?" jerrold harmer looked very eager, and yet he looked somewhat doubtfully at prudence. her eyes were eloquent with entreaties. finally he laughed, and said, "i should certainly like to stay, but you see i want to come back to-morrow. now, will i dare to come back to-morrow if i stay for dinner to-night? wouldn't connie say that was disgracing the parsonage?" fairy laughed delightedly. "that is very good," she said. "then you will stay. i'll try to fix it up with connie to save the reputation of the house. now, do not talk too much, prue, and--what shall we have for dinner? we only say dinner when we have company, mr. harmer. what we have is supper." prudence contracted her brows in the earnest endeavor to compose a menu suitable for this occasion. "mashed potatoes, and--use cream, fairy. you'd better let lark do the mashing, for you always leave lumps. and breaded veal cutlet," with a significant glance, "and creamed peas, and radishes, and fruit. will that be enough for you, mr. harmer?" "oceans," he said contentedly. "well, i'll collect the twins and connie and we will try to think up a few additions. where's the money?" "in the dungeon, and the key is on the nail above the door. and the silverware is there, too," with another significant glance. after that, prudence lay back happily on the pillows and smoothed the lace on her mother's silk dressing gown. "talk to me," she said, "tell me about where you live, and what you do,--your work, you know, and how you amuse yourself. i want you to amuse me now, mr. harmer." "you called me jerry this morning." "yes, i know. do you want me to call you jerry still?" "yes, prudence, i do. do you mind if i move my chair a little closer?" "no, put it right here. now, i am ready." "but there's nothing interesting about me. let's talk of----" "it's interesting to me. tell me about your business." "you don't care anything about business, i am sure." "i care about your business." "do you, prudence?--you look so sweet this afternoon. i nearly blurted it out before the whole family. wouldn't the twins have laughed? it would have disgraced the parsonage. i think mr. starr is awfully lucky to have five girls, and all of them pretty. but isn't it strange that the prettiest and dearest one of them all should be the oldest daughter?" "oh, but i'm not really--" prudence began earnestly. then she stopped, and added honestly, "but i am glad you think so." no, they did not quote poetry, they did not discuss the psychological intricacies of spontaneous attraction, they did not say anything deep, or wise, or learned. but they smiled at each other, with pleased investigating eyes. he put his hand on the coverlet, just near enough to touch the lace on the sleeve of her silk dressing gown. and together they found paradise in the shabby sitting-room of the old methodist parsonage that afternoon. "must you prepare meat for breading half an hour before cooking, or when?" demanded fairy, from the dining-room door. "what?--oh!--fifteen minutes before. don't forget to salt and pepper the crumbs, fairy." "perhaps some time your father will let you and a couple of the others come to des moines with me in the car. you would enjoy a few days there, i know. i live with my aunt, a dear, motherly little old soul. she will adore you, prudence, and you will like her, too. would your father let you spend a week? we can easily drive back and forth in the car." "maybe he will,--but who will keep the parsonage while i am away?" "fairy, to be sure. she must be a good fairy once in a while. we can take the twins with us, connie, too, if you like, and then fairy will only have to mother your father. do you like riding in a car?" "oh, i love it. but i have not ridden very much. willard morley took me quite often when he was here, but he is in chicago now." "when's he coming back?" suspiciously. "prudence, shall we have tea or coffee?" this was lark from the doorway. "fairy wants to know." "what?--oh!--which do you want, jerry?" "which does your father prefer?" "he doesn't drink either except for breakfast." "i generally drink coffee, but i do not care much for it, so do not bother----" "coffee, lark." "when's that morley chap coming back?" "i do not know." and then, "he is never coming back as far as i am concerned." jerrold relented promptly. "you are why he went away, i suppose." "at any rate, he is gone." "did you ever have a lover, prudence? a real lover, i mean." "no, i, never did." "i'm awfully glad of that. i'll----" "prudence, do you use half milk and half water for creamed tomato soup, or all milk?" "what?--oh!--all milk, connie, and tell fairy not to salt it until it is entirely done, or it may curdle." "what in the world would they ever do without you, prudence? you are the soul of the parsonage, aren't you?" "no, i am just the cook and the chambermaid," she answered, laughing. "but don't you see how hard it will be for me to go away?" "but it isn't fair! vacation is coming now, and fairy ought to take a turn. what will they do when you get married?" "i have always said i would not get married." "but don't you want to get married,--some time?" "oh, that isn't it. i just can't because i must take care of the parsonage, and raise the girls. i can't." "but you will," he whispered, and his hand touched hers for just a second. prudence did not answer. she lifted her eyes to his face, and caught in her breath once more. a little later he said, "do you mind if i go upstairs and talk to your father a few minutes? maybe i'd better." "but do not stay very long," she urged, and she wondered why the brightness and sunshine vanished from the room when he went out. "first door to the right," she called after him. mr. starr arose to greet him, and welcomed him to his combination study and bedroom with great friendliness. but jerrold went straight to the point. "mr. starr, it's very kind of you to receive a perfect stranger as you have me. but i understand that with a girl like prudence, you will want to be careful. i can give you the names of several prominent men in des moines, christians, who know me well, and can tell you all about me." "it isn't necessary. we are parsonage people, and we are accustomed to receiving men and women as worthy of our trust, until we find them different. we are glad to count you among our friends." "thank you, but--you see, mr. starr, this is a little different. some day, prudence and i will want to be married, and you will wish to be sure about me." "does prudence know about that?" "no," with a smile, "we haven't got that far yet. but i am sure she feels it. she hasn't--well, you know what i mean. she has been asleep, but i believe she is waking up now." "yes, i think so. do you mind if i ask you a few questions?" "no, indeed. anything you like." "well, first, are you a christian?" "not the kind you are, mr. starr. my parents were christians, but i've never thought much about it myself because i was young and full of fun. i have never been especially directed to religion. i go to church, and i believe the bible,--though i don't know much about it. i seldom read it. but i'll get busy now, if you like, and really study it and--try to come around your way. i know prudence would make me do that." and he smiled again. "do you drink?" "i did a little, but i promised prudence this morning i would quit it. i never got--drunk, and i have not formed the habit. but sometimes with the boys, i drink a little. but i do not care for it, and i swore off this morning.--i smoke, too,--not cigarettes, of course. prudence knows it, but she did not make me promise to quit that?" his voice was raised, inquiringly. "would you have promised, if she had asked it?" this was sheer curiosity. "i suppose i would." he flushed a little. "i know i was pretty hard hit, and it was such a new experience that i would have promised anything she asked. but i like smoking, and--i don't think it is wicked." "never mind the smoking. i only asked that question out of curiosity. we're not as strait-laced as we might be perhaps. the only things i would really object to, are those things that might seriously menace your happiness, yours and hers, if the time does come. but the next question,--can you pass a strict physical examination?" "yes, i can. i'll go with you to your physician to-night if you like. i'm all right physically, i know." "tell me about your relations with your mother when she was living." "she has been dead four years." jerrold spoke with some emotion. "we were great chums, though her health was always poor. i wrote her three times a week when i was away from home, and she wrote me a note every day. when i was in school, i spent all my vacations at home to be with her. and i never went abroad until after her death because she did not like the idea of my going so far from her." "jerrold, my boy, i do not want to seem too severe, but--tell me, has there been anything in your life, about women, that could come out and hurt prudence later on?" jerrold hesitated. "mr. starr, i have been young, and headstrong, and impulsive. i have done some things i wish now i hadn't. but i believe there is nothing that i could not explain to prudence so she would understand. if i had thought beforehand of a girl like her, there are things i would not have done. but there is nothing, i think, that would really hurt, after i had a chance to talk it over with her." "all right. if you are the man, god bless you. i don't suppose you are worthy of prudence, for she is a good, pure-hearted, unselfish girl,--there could be none better. but the real point is just whether you will love each other enough!--i like your coming up here like this. i think that was very decent and manly of you. and, do you mind if i just suggest that you go a little slow with prudence? remember that she has been sound asleep, until this morning. i do not want her awakened too rudely." "neither do i," said jerrold quickly. "shall i go down now? the girls have invited me to stay for supper, and prudence says i am to come back to-morrow, too. is that all right? remember, i'll be going home on monday!" "it is all right, certainly. spend as much time here as you like. you will either get worse, or get cured, and--whichever it is, you've got to have a chance. i like you, jerrold. prudence judges by instinct, but it does not often fail her." prudence heard him running down the stairs boyishly, and when he came in, before she could speak, he whispered, "shut your eyes tight, prudence. and do not scold me, for i can't help it." then he put his hands over hers, and kissed her on the lips. they were both breathless after that. prudence lifted her lashes slowly, and gazed at him seriously. it was she who spoke first. "i was never really kissed before," she whispered, "not really." then they sat in silence until fairy announced that supper was ready. "but i won't promise it is eatable," she assured them, laughing. "i wish i could go to the table, too," said prudence, looking at her father wistfully, "i could lie on the old lounge out there." "and have your supper on a tray, of course. can you carry her, father?" "i can!" volunteered jerrold promptly. "i have done it." "i think between us we can manage. we'll try it." and prudence heroically endured the pain of being moved, for the sake of seeing jerrold at the table with her parsonage family. for to her surprise, she realized that she could not bear that even a few minutes should pass, when she could not see the manly young face with the boyish mouth and the tender eyes! prudence, at last, was aroused from her slumber. chapter xiii she orders her life "prudence, are you going to aunt grace's early in the summer, or late?" demanded fairy. "oh, let's not talk of that now. there's plenty of time." "no, there isn't. school will be out in a week, and babbie wants to give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days this summer. he wants to set the date, and i can't tell him when because i do not know when you are going to auntie's." they sat around the breakfast table, prudence and fairy and their father, talking of the summer. the twins and connie had long since excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the field beyond the old red barn. prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister insisted upon an answer. "why," she began, "i've about decided not to go to aunt grace's this summer." fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "don't be silly! you have to go. you've never had a vacation in your life, and father promised aunt grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't you, papa?" "yes, i promised all right." "but, papa! i do not have to go, do i? a whole month,--oh, honestly, i do not want to." "why don't you? last fall you were wild about it. don't you remember dreaming----" "oh, but that was last fall," said prudence, smiling softly, and unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled inside her dress. "i didn't know i was going to sprain my ankle, and be so useless. it may be two weeks yet before i can walk on it." "what has that got to do with it?" "do you really prefer to stay at home, prudence?" queried her father. "the whole summer?" prudence blushed most gloriously. "oh, well," she began slowly. then she took the plunge recklessly. "why, you see, father, jerry lives with his aunt in des moines,--he told you that, didn't he? and they have quite a big house, and--he wants to take me and the twinnies to des moines in the car for a week or ten days. and fairy will take care of you and connie. and--if i can do that--i do not want any more vacation. i couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from you and the parsonage." she felt very guilty, for she did not add, as she was thinking, "besides, jerry is coming every two weeks, and if i were away, we would miss a visit!" fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but mr. starr only nodded. "i am sure you will not mind that, will you father? his aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and--such a long drive in the auto, and--to see all over des moines." but prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, "with jerry!" although the words were singing in her heart. "that will be very nice indeed, and of course i do not object. it will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! yes, i will be glad to have you go. but you can still have your month at grace's if you wish." "but i do not wish," protested prudence promptly. "honestly, father, i'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but--oh, please do not make me go!" "of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said fairy, "but i think you are very foolish." "and you can go, fairy," cried prudence hospitably. "aunt grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,--oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you." prudence wished she might add, "and that will let me out," but she hardly dare say it. "well, when does your des moines tour come off? i must know, so i can tell babbie about the house party." "let babbie choose his own date. jerry says we shall go whenever i say--i mean whenever you say, father,--and we can decide later on. give babbie first choice, by all means." that was the beginning of prudence's golden summer. she was not given to self-analysis. she did what seemed good to her always,--she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. she hadn't the time. she took things as they came. she could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of jerrold's letters. but she never asked herself the reason. it seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. it was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. but prudence did not wonder why. the days when jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,--she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. but she took it as a matter of course. the nights when jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. but she never asked herself why she could not sleep! she knew that jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. she knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. she knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. she knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes. but why? ah, prudence never thought of that. she just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content. so the vacation passed, and indian summer came. and the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. it is always that way with students,--real students. they regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of "going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation. it was saturday evening. the early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered. prudence and jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful babbie. connie and the twins had evidently vanished. ah--not quite that! carol and lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage. "good evening," said lark politely, and prudence sat up abruptly. the twins never wasted politeness! they wanted something. "do you mind if we take jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, prue?" "i'll come along," said prudence, rising. "oh, no," protested lark, "we do not want you,--just jerry, and only for a little while." prudence sniffed suspiciously. "what are you going to do to him?" she demanded. "we won't hurt him," grinned carol impishly. "we had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. but since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping." "maybe he's afraid to come," said lark, "for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor." "that's all right," prudence answered defensively. "i'd sooner face a tribe of wild indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent." "oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said carol impatiently. "upon our honor, as christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head." "oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," jerry broke in, laughing. "i'll be back in two minutes, prue. they probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. or maybe the cat has been chasing them." once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics. "we knew you weren't afraid," said lark artistically, "we were just teasing prudence. we know we couldn't hurt you." "of course," emphasized carol. "we want to ask a favor of you, that's all. it's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right." jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "i see! i'm paid in advance for my service. what's the job?" then the twins led him to the woodshed. this woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. the lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the massive limbs branched out. the twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. more than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. these branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help. "do you see this board?" began lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid board about two feet in length. "my eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered jerry, for he knew his twins. "well, we found this over by the avery barn. they have a big scrap pile out there. we couldn't find anything around here that would suit, so we looked, over there. it's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew they wouldn't mind." "else you would not have taken it, eh? anything like apples, for instance, is quite under the ban." "yes, indeed," smiled lark. "we're too old to steal apples." "of course," added carol. "when we need our neighbor's apples, we send connie. and get nicely punished for it, too, i promise you." "quite so! and this exquisite board?" "well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where we can make a seat. it's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the wind blows it swings splendidly. but it isn't very comfortable sitting on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. it's a fine place, i tell you. we thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,--there are two right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. see what dandy big nails we have!" "from the avery's woodshed, i suppose," he suggested, smiling again. "oh, they are quite rusty. we found them in a sack in an old barrel. it was in the scrap heap. we're very good friends with the averys, very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "they allow us to rummage around at will--in the barn." "and see this rope," cried carol. "isn't it a dandy?" "ah! the avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources." "how suspicious you are, jerry," mourned lark. "i wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful. maybe we would get rich, too. this is the first time i ever really understood how you came to be a success in business." "but you are quite wrong this time," said lark seriously. "old mr. avery gave me this rope." "yes, he did! lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly like this one, and then he gave it to her. he caught the idea of philanthropy right away. he's a very nice old gentleman, i tell you. he's so trusting and unsuspicious. i'm very fond of people like that." "we thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it securely to the limbs above. they are in very good position, and that will make it absolutely safe. do you suppose you can do that, jerry? do you get seasick when you climb high?" "oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. i've a very good head for such purposes." "then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. we're in a great hurry. and we do not want connie to catch us putting it up. it'll be such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. she can't see the seat from the ground. won't it be a good joke on her?" "oh, very,---yes, indeed.--well, let's begin.--now, observe! i will just loop this end of the rope lightly about my--er--middle. the other end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. observe also that i bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer here. then with the admirable board beneath my arm, i mount to the heights of--say, twins, didn't i see an old buggy seat out in the barn to-day? seems to me----" "oh, jerry!" the twins fairly smothered him. "oh, you darling. you are the nicest old thing.--now we can understand why prudence seems to like you. we never once thought of the old buggy seat! oh, jerry!" then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. from there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. then it was lifted again, and again he followed,--up, and up, and up,--the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. the twins promptly,--as promptly as possible, that is,--followed him into the tree. "oh, yes, we'll come along. we're used to climbing and we're very agile. and you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer." and jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake. it was a delightful location, as they had said. so heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. the big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. the twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage. "oh, jerry," exclaimed carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!" "now, we'll just----" "hush!" hissed lark. "here comes connie. hold your breath, jerry, and don't budge." "isn't she in on this?" he whispered. he could hear connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. she was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme. connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling. "sh! she's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife." "i'm the lovely wife," interrupted carol complacently. "but connie does not know about it. she is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. when we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. she would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would----" connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. then she gave a gleeful scream. right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the gods. she did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was. she just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "prudence! look at my rope!" prudence rushed around the parsonage. the twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then--a crashing of branches and leaves. jerry was gone! it did look horrible, from above as well as below. but jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and was ready for it. as he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held again. on the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. connie had dropped the rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. he saw prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him. "o. k., prue," he called, and then he dropped. he landed on his feet, a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall. he ran at once to prudence. "i'm all right," he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. "prudence! prudence!" then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. jerry took her in his arms. "sweetheart!" he whispered. "little sweetheart! do--do you love me so much, my dearest?" prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. and jerry kissed her. the twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror,--and saw prudence and jerry! then they saw connie, staring at them with interest and amusement. "i think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared lark sturdily. and they set off heroically around the house. but at the corner carol turned. "take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the averys are looking out of their windows." prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. and there was nothing for prudence to sit on, that jerry might kneel at her feet. so they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. it may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,--and history repeated itself once more! at twelve, jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. at one o'clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "she is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my wife! oh, god, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves." at two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. and he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. at three o'clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. with the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. it was after four o'clock. a little later,--just a few minutes later,--he heard a light tap on his door. it came again, and he bounded out of bed. "prudence! is anything wrong?" "hush, jerry, not so loud!" and what a strange and weary voice. "come down-stairs, will you? i want to tell you something. i'll wait at the foot of the stairs. be quiet,--do not wake father and the girls. will you be down soon?" "in two minutes!" and in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately. "jerry," she whispered, "i--forgive me--i honestly-- oh, i didn't think what i was saying last night. you were so dear, and i was so happy, and for a while i really believed we could belong to each other. but i can't, you know. i've promised papa and the girls a dozen times that i would never marry. don't you see how it is? i must take it back." jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. this was so like his conscientious little prudence! "dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not awake. you did not love. but you are awake now. you love me. your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. the girls would not hear of it. they want you to be happy. and you can't be happy without me, can you?" suddenly she crushed close to him. "oh, jerry," she sobbed, "i will never be happy again, i know. but--it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage. it is wicked of me to want you more than all of them. don't you see it is? they haven't any mother. they haven't any one but me. of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. i must do it myself. and father especially must never know. i want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and--never come again." she clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "and you must not write to me any more. for, oh, jerry, if i see you again i can never let you go, i know it. will you do this for me?" "you've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?" "yes,--i remembered, and then i couldn't sleep." "what have you been doing all night? it is morning now." "i walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile. "you are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "let's wait until after breakfast. then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. won't that be better?" "oh, no. for father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. he must not know a thing about it. promise, jerry, that you will never tell him one word." "i promise, of course, prudence. i will let you tell him." but she shook her head. "he will never know. oh, jerry! i can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and-- it seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it." "sit down here in my lap. put your head on my shoulder, like that. let me rub your face a little. you're feverish. you are sick. go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? we can settle this later on." "you must go right away, or i can not let you go at all!" "do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?" "yes." she buried her face in his shoulder. "if--if you stay in your room until breakfast time, i will lock you in, so you can not leave me again. i know it. i am crazy to-day." "don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? didn't god bring us together, and make us love each other? don't you think he intended us for each other? do you wish you had never met me?" "jerry!" "then, sweetheart, be reasonable. your father loved your mother, and married her. that is god's plan for all of us. you have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, i know. but surely fairy is old enough to take your place now." "fairy's going to be a professor, and--the girls do not mind her very well. and she isn't as much comfort to father as i am.--it's just because i am most like mother, you see. but anyhow, i promised. i can't leave them." "your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. i told him about it myself, long ago. and he was perfectly willing. he didn't say a word against it." "of course he wouldn't. that's just like father. but still, i promised. and what would the girls say if i should go back on them? they have trusted me, always. if i fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? if you love me, jerry, please go, and stay away." but her arm tightened about his neck. "i'll wait here until you get your things, and we can--say good-by. and don't forget your promise." "oh, very well, prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist on ordering me away from the house like this, i can only go. but----" "let's not talk any more about it, jerry. please. i'll wait until you come down." when he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white and strained. she put her arms around his neck. "jerry," she whispered, "i want to tell you that i love you so much that--i could go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still feel rich, if i just had you! you--everything in me seems to be all yours. i--love you." her tremulous lips were pressed against his. "oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. but i can't make you see it. it is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but----" "but i am all they have, jerry, and--i promised." "whenever you want me, prudence, just send. i'll never change. i'll always be just the same. god intended you for me, i know, and--i'll be waiting." "jerry! jerry! jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in his arms. it was he who drew away. "good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong. "good-by, sweetheart. remember, i will be waiting. whenever you send, i will come." he stepped outside, and closed the door. prudence stood motionless, her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard fairy moving in her room up-stairs. then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast. chapter xiv she comes to grief fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. she slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. and every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back. "you are the little mousey, prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "i didn't hear you come to bed last night, and i didn't hear you getting out this morning. i am an abominably solid sleeper, am i not? shall i get the maple sirup for the pancakes? i wonder if jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. i'm constantly expecting connie to give it away. why am i always so ravenously hungry in the morning? goodness knows i eat enough--why, what is the matter?" for prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that fairy was shocked. "prudence! you are sick! go to bed and let me get breakfast. why didn't you call me? i'm real angry at you, prudence starr! here, get out of this, and i will----" "there's nothing the matter with me. i had a headache, and did not sleep, but i am all right now. yes, bring the sirup, fairy. are the girls up yet?" fairy eyed her suspiciously. "jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? his door is open. i didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. he generally has to be called twice." "jerry has gone, fairy." prudence's back was presented to view once more, and prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "he left early this morning,--i suppose he is half-way to des moines by now." "oh!" fairy's voice was non-committal. "will you get the sirup now?" "yes, of course.--when is he coming back?" "he isn't coming back. please hurry, fairy, and then call the others. the oatmeal is ready." fairy went soberly down cellar, and brought up the golden sirup. then, ostensibly to call her sisters, she hurried up the stairs. "girls," she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. "jerry has gone, and isn't coming back any more. and for goodness' sake, don't keep asking questions about it. just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact." "gone!" "yes." "a lovers' quarrel," suggested lark, and her eyes glittered greedily. "nothing of the sort. and don't keep staring at prue, either. and do not keep talking about jerry all the time. you mind me, or i will tell papa." "that's funny," said carol thoughtfully. "we left them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night,--and this morning he has gone to return no more. they are crazy." "kissing! in the back yard! what are you talking about?" carol explained, and fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed. she opened the door, and called out to them in a loud and breezy voice, "hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there's no time to waste in a parsonage on sunday morning." then she added in a whisper, "and don't you mention jerry, and don't ask prudence what makes her so pale, or you'll catch it!" then she went to her father's door. "breakfast is ready, papa," she called clearly. she turned the knob softly, and peeped in. "may i come in a minute?" standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened. "prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. and she can't talk about it yet, so be careful what you say, will you?" and it was due to fairy's kindly admonitions that the parsonage family took the departure of jerry so calmly. "fairy says jerry took the morning train," said mr. starr, as they were passing the cream and sugar for the oatmeal. "that is too bad! but it is just the worst of being a business man,--one never knows when one must be up and away. and of course, one can not neglect business interests.--the oatmeal is unusually good this morning, prudence." this was nothing short of heroic on his part, for her eyes upon her father's face were so wide and dark that the lump in his throat would not stay down. that was the beginning of prudence's bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sisters smote harshly upon her ears. she tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. she remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows. fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed. "you are a darling, fairy, but i really do not want to talk about it.--oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. i told him to go, and not come again.--no, you are wrong, fairy, i do not regret it. i do not want him to come any more." and fairy worried. what in the world had happened to separate in the morning these two who had been kissing so frankly in the back yard the evening before? mr. starr, too, had tried. "prudence," he said gently, "you know very often men do things that to women seem wrong and wicked. and maybe they are! but men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. i have satisfied myself that jerry is good, and clean, and manly. i do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past, come between you now." "you are mistaken, father. jerry is all right, and always was, i am sure. it is nothing like that. i told him to go, and not to come again. that is all." "but if he should come back now----" "it would be just the same. don't worry about it, father. it's all right." "prudence," he said, more tenderly, "we have been the closest of friends and companions, you and i, from the very beginning. always you have come to me with your troubles and worries. have i ever failed you? why, then, do you go back on me now, when you really need me?" prudence patted his shoulder affectionately, but her eyes did not meet his. "i do not really need you now, father. it is all settled, and i am quite satisfied. things are all right with me just as they are." then he took a serious step, without her knowledge. he went to des moines, and had a visit with jerry. he found him thinner, his face sterner, his eyes darker. when the office boy announced "mr. starr," jerry ran quickly out to greet him. "is she all right?" he cried eagerly, almost before he was within hailing distance. mr. starr did not mince matters. "jerry," he said abruptly, "did you and prudence have a quarrel? she declines to tell me anything about it, and after the conversations you and i have had, i think i have a right to know what has happened." "does she miss me? does she seem sorry that i am away? does----" his voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward prudence. "look here, jerry, i want to know. why are you staying away?" "won't prudence tell you?" "no." "then i can not. she made me promise not to tell you a word. but it is not my fault, mr. starr. i can tell you that. it is nothing i have done or said. she sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and--you know prudence! it is wrong, i know. i knew it all the time. but i couldn't make her see it. and she made me promise not to tell." in the end mr. starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice. the ladies of the methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. they went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." but when they sat with prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,---they could only sigh with her and go their ways. the twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "it's a dandy place, i tell you, prudence," cried carol. "jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. you can go up and swing any time you like,--unless your joints are too stiff! it's a very serious matter getting up there,---for stiff joints, of course, i mean. lark and i get up easy enough." for a moment, prudence sat silent with quivering lips. then she burst out with unusual passion, "don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! mind what i say!" lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and carol swallowed hard. it was she who said gently, "why, of course, prue,--just as you say." for the first time, prudence had dealt with them harshly and unfairly. they knew it. there was neither sense nor justice in her command. but they did not argue the point. they kept their eyes considerately away from her, and buried themselves in _julius caesar_,--it must be remembered the twins are sophomores now. five minutes later prudence spoke again, humbly. "i beg you pardon, twins,--that was a perfectly idiotic thing for me to say. of course, you may play in the maple whenever you like. but be careful. you couldn't save yourselves in falling as--as men can." "we won't play there if you want us not to," said carol kindly. "i do want you to play there," she answered. "it's a very nice place, and great fun, i know. i might try it myself if--my joints weren't so stiff! now, go on with your latin." but prudence did not pass under the maple for many weeks without clenching her hands, and shuddering. the twins were not satisfied. they marveled, and wondered, and pondered over the subject of jerry's disappearance. finally they felt it was more than human flesh could stand. they would approach prudence on the subject themselves. but they bided their time. they must wait until fairy was safely out of the house. fairy these days had an infuriating way of saying, "that will do, twins. you'd better go and play now." it enraged and distracted the twins almost to the point of committing crime. they had made several artistic moves already. professor duke, of their freshman biology class, had written carol a gay long letter. and carol was enthusiastic about it. she and lark talked of "dear old duck" for two weeks, almost without pausing for sleep. "i'm sure you would fall in love with him on the spot," carol had said to prudence suggestively. prudence had only smiled, evidently in sarcasm! "jerry was very nice,--oh, very nice,--but you ought to see our little duck!" carol rattled rashly. "i'm sure you wouldn't regret jerry any more if you could just get hold of duckie. of course, his being in new york is an obstacle, but i could introduce you by mail." "i do not care for ducks," said prudence. "of course, they look very nice swimming around on the water, but when it comes to eating,--i'll take spring chicken every time." carol did not mention "duck" again for three days. but there came a day when fairy was out in the country. connie had gone driving with her father. the moment had arrived. the twins had their plan of campaign memorized, and they sauntered in to prudence with a nonchalance that was all assumed. "prudence," lark began, "we're writing a book." "that's nice," said prudence. conversation languished. the subject seemed exhausted. carol came to the rescue. "it's a very nice book. it's a love-story, and perfectly thrilling. larkie does the writing, but i criticize and offer suggestions." "that's kind of you." a pause. "i'm going to dedicate it to carol,--to my beloved sister, to whose kindness and sympathy, i owe all that i am,--or something like that," lark explained hopefully. "how proud carol will be!" a long pause. "we're in a very critical place just now, though," lark seemed to be commencing at the beginning once more. "we have our heroine in a very peculiar situation, and we can't think what to do with her next." "how sad." another pause. "we thought maybe you could help us out." "i'm afraid not," prudence smiled a little. "i haven't any imagination. ask fairy. she's strong on love-stories." "maybe if we explain the situation to you, you could give us a suggestion. it is like this: the young people have had all kinds of thrilling experiences, but they are not yet betrothed. but they are just on the point of getting there,--and something crops up all of a sudden! the hero goes dashing away, and returns no more. the heroine lies upon her silken couch, weeping, weeping. and no one knows what to do about it, because no one knows what has happened. what do you suppose could have sent the lover away like that?" "maybe he hasn't enough money for the heroine." "oh, yes,--he's very rich." "maybe he is already married." "no, indeed. he's a bachelor." "maybe he didn't love her, after all." here carol chimed in helpfully. "oh, yes, he did, for we left him kissing her all over the back yard, and he wouldn't have done that if he hadn't loved her, you know." prudence's eyes twinkled a little, but her smile was sad. "now, what would you advise us to do?" inquired lark briskly, feeling instinctively that carol had explained too much. prudence rose slowly. "i think," she said very gently, "i think i would burn the book if i were you, and pay a little more attention to my studies." then she went up-stairs, and carol told lark sympathetically that they did not deserve an authoress in the parsonage when they didn't give her any more encouragement than that! on the day before christmas, an insured package was delivered at the parsonage for prudence. a letter was with it, and she read that first. "my dearest little sweetheart: i chose this gift for you long before i had the right to do it. i was keeping it until the proper moment. but the moment came, and went again. still i want you to have the gift. please wear it, for my sake, for i shall be happy knowing it is where it ought to be, even though i myself am banished. i love you, prudence. whenever you send for me, i am ready to come. entirely and always yours. jerry." with trembling fingers she opened the little package. it contained a ring, with a brilliant diamond flashing myriad colors before her eyes. and prudence kissed it passionately, many times. two hours later, she went quietly down-stairs to where the rest of the family were decorating a christmas tree. she showed the ring to them gravely. "jerry sent it to me," she said. "do you think it is all right for me to wear it, father?" a thrill of hopeful expectancy ran through the little group. "yes, indeed," declared her father. "how beautiful it is! is jerry coming to spend christmas with us?" "why, no, father,--he is not coming at all any more. i thought you understood that." an awkward silence, and carol came brightly to the rescue. "it certainly is a beauty! i thought it was very kind of professor duckie to send lark and me a five-pound box of chocolates, but of course this is ever so much nicer. jerry's a bird, i say." "a bird!" mocked fairy. "such language." lark came to her twin's defense. "yes, a bird,--that's just what he is." carol smiled. "we saw him use his wings when connie yanked him out of the big maple, didn't we, lark?" then, "did you send him anything, prue?" prudence hesitated, and answered without the slightest accession of color, "yes, carol. i had my picture taken when i was in burlington, and sent it to him." "your picture! oh, prudence! where are they? aren't you going to give us one?" "no, carol. i had only one made,--for jerry. there aren't any more." "well," sighed lark resignedly, "it's a pretty idea for my book, anyhow." from that day on, prudence always wore the sparkling ring,--and the women of the methodist church nearly had mental paralysis marveling over a man who gave a diamond ring, and never came a-wooing! and a girl who accepted and wore his offering, with nothing to say for the man! and it was the consensus of opinion in mount mark that modern lovers were mostly crazy, anyhow! and springtime came again. now the twins were always original in their amusements. they never followed blindly after the dictates of custom. when other girls were playing dolls, the twins were a tribe of wild indians. when other girls were jumping the rope, the twins were conducting a circus. and when other girls played "catch" with dainty rubber balls, the twins took unto themselves a big and heavy croquet ball,--found in the avery woodshed. to be sure, it stung and bruised their hands. what matter? at any rate, they continued endangering their lives and beauties by reckless pitching of the ungainly plaything. one friday evening after school, they were amusing themselves on the parsonage lawn with this huge ball. when their father turned in, they ran up to him with a sporting proposition. "bet you a nickel, papa," cried carol, "that you can't throw this ball as far as the schoolhouse woodshed!--by the way, will you lend me a nickel, papa?" he took the ball, and weighed it lightly in his hand. "i'm an anti-betting society," he declared, laughing, "but i very strongly believe it will carry to the schoolhouse woodshed. if it does not, i'll give you five cents' worth of candy to-morrow. and if it does, you shall put an extra nickel in the collection next sunday." then he drew back his arm, and carefully sighted across the lawn. "i'll send it right between the corner of the house and that little cedar," he said, and then, bending low, it whizzed from his hand. lark screamed, and carol sank fainting to the ground. for an instant, mr. starr himself stood swaying. then he rushed across the lawn. for prudence had opened the front door, and stepped quickly out on the walk by the corner of the house. the heavy ball struck her on the forehead, and she fell heavily, without a moan. chapter xv fate takes charge four hours prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close attendance. fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service. it is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, christians find comfort and peace in prayer. outsiders, as well as christians, pray in times of danger and mental stress. but here is the big difference between the prayers of christians and the prayers of "others." "others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still in the agony and passion of grief and fear. and yet they pray. but christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. sorrow may remain, but anguish is stilled. mount mark considered this a unique parsonage family. their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a methodist parsonage. "they ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old harvey reel, the bus driver, "but, by jings! i tell you they are dandies!" but as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart. when they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed. fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, "keep on praying, father. i can't stop now, because they need me. but i'm praying every minute between errands!" and mr. starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,--and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm. connie had been unfortunate. in seeking a secluded corner to "pray for prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. a fitting place! so she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep. fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push. the lock snapped into place, but connie did not waken. lark remained loyally with carol until consciousness returned to her. as soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow. there they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying fervently. after a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until fairy came down on one of her numerous errands. "is she better?" they whispered. and fairy answered gently, "i think she is a little better." then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again. fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table. she drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "go and eat, dadsie," she urged. but he shook his head. "i am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once." on their next trip into the house, fairy stopped the twins. "get connie, and eat your supper. it's just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table. you must help yourselves,--i can't come now." the twins did not speak, and fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more. "i do not think i can eat," said carol. "i know i can't," was lark's reply. "won't fairy make us? she'll tell papa." "we'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. then she will think we have already eaten." this novel plan was acted upon with promptitude. "where's connie? she ought to eat something. we must make her do it." "she probably cried herself to sleep somewhere. we'd better let her alone. she'll feel much better asleep and hungry, than awake and sorry for prue." so the twins went back to the haymow. when it grew dark, they slipped into the kitchen, and huddled together on, the woodbox beside the stove. and down to them presently came fairy, smiling, her eyes tear-brightened. "she is better!" cried carol, springing to her feet. "yes," said fairy, dropping on her knees and burying her face in lark's lap, as she still sat on the woodbox. "she's better. she is better." lark patted the heaving shoulders in a motherly way, and when fairy lifted her face again it was all serene, though her lashes were wet. "she is conscious," said fairy, still on her knees, but with her head thrown back, and smiling. "she regained consciousness a little while ago. there is nothing really serious the matter. it was a hard knock, but it missed the temple. when she became conscious, she looked up at father and smiled. father looked perfectly awful, twins, so pale, and his lips were trembling. and prudence said, 'now, father, on your word of honor, did you knock me down with that ball on purpose?' she spoke very low, and weak, but--just like prudence! father couldn't say a word, he just nodded, and gulped. she has a little fever, and the doctors say we may need to work with her part of the night. father said to ask if you would go to bed now, so you can get up early in the morning and help us. i am to stay with prudence to-night, but you may have to take turns in the morning. and you'll have to get breakfast, too. so father thinks you would better go to bed. will you do that, twinnies?" "will we!" and carol added, "will you kiss prudence good night for us, and tell her we kept praying all the time? prudence is such a great hand for praying, you know." fairy promised, and the twins crept up-stairs. it was dark in their room. "we'll undress in the dark so as not to awake poor little connie," whispered lark. "it's nice she can sleep like that, isn't it?" and the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never doubting that connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and happy in the oblivion of slumber. but poor connie! she had not wakened when fairy closed the dungeon door. it was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her eyes. she did not know where she was. then she remembered! she wondered if prudence-- she scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to the dungeon door. it was locked, she could not turn the knob. at first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door. "but that will arouse prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her," she thought wretchedly. "i'll just keep still until some one passes." but no one passed for a long time, and connie stretched her aching little body and sobbed, worrying about prudence, fearful on her own account. she had no idea of the time. she supposed it was still early. and the parsonage was deathly quiet. maybe prudence had died! connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. still she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door. up-stairs, in the front room, prudence was at that time wrestling with fever. higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very anxious. they held a brief consultation in the corner of the room. then they beckoned to mr. starr. "has prudence been worrying about something this winter?" "yes." "has she been grieving, and fretting for something?" "yes, she has." "it is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,--a methodist "member." "yes." "can you bring him here?" "yes,--as soon as he can get here from des moines." "you'd better do it. she has worn herself down nearly to the point of prostration. we think we can break this fever without serious consequences, but get the young man as soon as possible. she can not relax and rest, until she gets relief." so he went down-stairs and over the telephone dictated a short message to jerry. "please come,--prudence." when he entered the front bedroom again, prudence was muttering unintelligible words under her breath. he kneeled down beside the bed, and put his arms around her. she clung to him with sudden passion. "jerry! jerry!" she cried. her father caressed and petted her, but did not speak. "oh, i can't," she cried again. "i can't, jerry, i can't!" again her voice fell to low mumbling. "yes, go. go at once. i promised, you know.--they haven't any mother.--i promised. jerry! jerry!" her voice rang out so wildly that connie, down in the dungeon, heard her cries and sobbed anew, relieved that prudence was living, frightened at the wildness of her voice. "oh, i do want you--more than anybody. don't go!--oh, yes, go at once. i promised.--father needs me." and then a piercing shriek, "he is falling! connie, drop that rope!" she struggled up in the bed, and gazed wildly about her,--then, panting, she fell back on the pillows. but mr. starr smiled gently to himself. so that was the answer! oh, foolish little prudence! oh, sweet-hearted little martyr girl! hours later the fever broke, and prudence drifted into a deep sleep. then the doctors went downstairs with mr. starr, talking in quiet ordinary tones. "oh, she is all right now, no danger at all. she'll do fine. let her sleep. send fairy to bed, too. keep prudence quiet a few days,--that's all. she's all right." they did not hear the timid knock at the dungeon door. but after they had gone out, mr. starr locked the door behind them, and started back through the hall to see if the kitchen doors were locked. he distinctly heard a soft tapping, and he smiled. "mice!" he thought. then he heard something else,--a faintly whispered "father!" with a sharp exclamation he unlocked and opened the dungeon door, and connie fell into his arms, sobbing piteously. and he did the only wise thing to do under such circumstances. he sat down on the hall floor and cuddled the child against his breast. he talked to her soothingly until the sobs quieted, and her voice was under control. "now, tell father," he urged, "how did you get in the dungeon? the twins----" "oh, no, father, of course not, the twins wouldn't do such a thing as that. i went into the dungeon to pray that prudence would get well. and i prayed myself to sleep. when i woke up the door was locked." "but you precious child," he whispered, "why didn't you call out, or pound on the door?" "i was afraid it would excite prue and make her worse," she answered simply. and her father's kiss was unwontedly tender as he carried her upstairs to bed. prudence slept late the next morning, and when she opened her eyes her father was sitting beside her. "all right this morning, father," she said, smiling. "are the girls at school?" "no,--this is saturday." "oh, of course. well, bring them up, i want to see them." just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. she nodded up at him again, and repeated, "i want to see my girls." her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her. "say something," whispered carol, kicking lark suggestively on the foot. but lark was dumb. it was carol who broke the silence. "oh, prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch them bandage your head? i want to begin practising up, so as to be ready for the next war." then they laughed, and the girls realized that prudence was really alive and quite as always. they told her of connie's sad experience, and prudence comforted her sweetly. "it just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after you. would i ever go to bed without making sure that connie was safe and sound?" down-stairs, meanwhile, mr. starr was plotting with fairy, a willing assistant. "he'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here until i get through with prudence. i want to tell her a few things before she sees him. bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak loudly. i do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes. explain it to the girls, will you?" after sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door of prudence's room, and sat down beside her. "prudence, i can't tell you how bitterly disappointed i am in you." "father!" "yes, i thought you loved us,--the girls and me. it never occurred to me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful animals!" "father!" "is that your idea of love? is that----" "oh, father!" "it really did hurt me, prudence. my dear little girl, how could you send jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,--just because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you any happiness of your own? don't you think our love for you is big enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? you used to say you would never marry. we did not expect you to marry, then. but we knew the time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to you. we were waiting for that time. we were hoping for it. we were happy when you loved jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of life--that i can never give my children. but you thought we were too selfish to let you go, and you sent him away." "but father! who would raise the girls? who would keep the parsonage? who would look after you?" "aunt grace, to be sure. we talked it over two years ago, when her husband died. before that, she was not free to come to us. but she said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. we both felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls, it was better that way for a while. but she said that when your flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. we had it all arranged. you won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. you'll want to have some happy sweetheart days first. and you'll want to make a lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when they marry. that's why i advised you to save your burglar money,--so you would have it for this. we'll have aunt grace come right away, so you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. and you can initiate aunt grace into the mysteries of parsonage housekeeping." a bright strange light had flashed over prudence's face. but her eyes clouded a little as she asked, "do you think they would rather have aunt grace than me?" "of course not. but what has that to do with it? we love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. we love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,--just knowing that you are happy. but you--you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that----" "oh, father, i didn't! you know i didn't!--but--maybe jerry won't forgive me now?" "why didn't you talk it over with me, prudence?" "i knew you too well, father. i knew it would be useless. but--doesn't it seem wrong, father, that--a girl--that i--should love jerry more than--you and the girls? that he should come first? doesn't it seem--wicked?" "no, prudence, it is not wicked. after all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. you were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! but it is a different love. it is the love of woman for man,--that is very different from sister-love and father-love. and it is right. and it is beautiful." "i am sure jerry will forgive me. maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil--i can write him a note now? there's no use waiting, is there? fairy will bring it, i am sure." but when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until jerry was there to see. she heard the door open, and close again. "put them on the table, fairy dearest, and--leave me for a little while, will you? thank you." and her face was still hidden. then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face. "jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. then joyously, "oh, jerry!" she gazed anxiously into his face. "have you been sick? how thin you are, and so pale! jerry harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?" but jerry did not speak. he looked earnestly and steadily into the joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers.